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 POEMS
 
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 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 AETHUE HUGH CL(3UGH 
 
 SO.MKTl.MK FELM)W UF OlUEr, COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 
 TENTH EDITION 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1883 
 
 f'/Vic ;■/;//(/ of triinsldtion is ;•?.«■/•(•«/]
 
 LONDON : PRINTEIl BY 
 
 Si'OTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQl'AKR 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STRKET
 
 PR 
 
 
 <^ .-V 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MEMOIR ix 
 
 EAKLY POEMS. 
 
 The Higher Counige • •■ . 3 
 
 Revival 5 
 
 The Shady Lane 5 
 
 Written on a Bridi;e 6 
 
 A River Pool 6 
 
 In a Lecture-Room 7 
 
 ' Blank Misgivings of a Creature moving about iu Worlds not 
 
 realised' 8 
 
 A Song of Autumn 14 
 
 TO KoXov ■^'^ 
 
 Xpva-fci Kkrjs eVi yXacrcra l" 
 
 The Music of the World and of the Soul 16 
 
 Love, not Duty . 18 
 
 Love and Reason 19 
 
 ' O Qeos fiera crov ! 22 
 
 Wirkung in der Feme 23 
 
 eVi AdrfMO) 24 
 
 A Protest' 28 
 
 Sic itur 29 
 
 Parting SO 
 
 Qua cursura ventus 31 
 
 ' There are more things in Heaven and Earth ' . . . .32 
 
 POEMS ON RELIGIOUS AND BIBLICAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 ^ The Song of Lamcch 37 
 
 Jacob 40 
 
 The new Sinai 43 
 
 Qui laborat, orat 47 
 
 Vjjiuos avfivos ........... 48 
 
 * With Whom is no Variableness, neither Shadow of Turnin<j " . 49
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 ' O thou of little Faith ' 50 
 
 ' Through a Glass darkly ' 50 
 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! . . . . . . . . . 52 
 
 _ ' What went ye out for to see ? ' 52 
 
 Epi-strauss-ium 53 
 
 The Shadow (a Fragment) 54 
 
 Easter Day (Naples, 1849) 57 
 
 Easter Day, ii. 62 
 
 DIPSYCHUS 65 
 
 Prologue 66 
 
 Parti 67 
 
 Part II 83 
 
 Epilogue 125 
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 Duty 131 
 
 Life is Struggle -132 
 
 In the Great Metropolis 133 
 
 The Latest Decalogue 134 
 
 - The Questioning Spirit 135 
 
 Bethesda (a Sequel) 136 
 
 Hope evermore and believe ! 138 
 
 ' Whence are ye, vague desires ? ' 139 
 
 -The Stream of Life 141 
 
 In a London Square 142 
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEK-NA-VUOLICH : a Long- Vacation Pastoral 147 
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 
 
 Elegiacs 205 
 
 Alcaics 206 
 
 Actffion 206 
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE 211 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 263 
 
 MARI MAGNO; ok, TALES ON BOARD 273 
 
 The Lawyer's First Tale : Love is Fellow-service . • • 279 
 
 The Clergyman's Tale 288 
 
 The Lawyer's Second Tale : Christian 298
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 315 
 
 Ite Domum Saturos, venit Hesperus ' . 316 
 
 A London Idyll 318 
 
 Uranus 820 
 
 Selene 321 
 
 Peschiera 323 
 
 -Alteram Partem 825 
 
 _ Say not the struggle nought availeth 326
 
 MEMOIE 
 
 OP 
 
 AETHUE HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough was born at Liverpool, January 
 1 , 1819. He was tlie second son of James Butler Clough. 
 His father belonged to an old Welsh family, who trace 
 themselves back to Sir Eichard Clough, known as agent 
 at Antwerp to Sir Thomas Gresham. His mother's 
 name was Anne Perfect. She was the daughter of 
 John Perfect, a banker at Pontefract in Yorkshire. 
 
 When Arthur was four years old, his father migrated 
 to Charleston in the United States, where he passed 
 several years, and this was the home of Arthur's child- 
 hood till he went to school. A thoughtful and studious 
 child, he soon showed a taste for reading. This he in- 
 herited from his mother, who early made him familiar 
 with the stories of the old Greek heroes and statesmen, 
 with the Odyssey and Iliad, with some of Walter Scott's 
 novels, and waked his enthusiasm by the accounts of 
 the sufferings of the early martyrs and the struggles of 
 the Protestants.
 
 X MEMOIR OF AETHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 In November 1828, Arthur was sent to school at 
 Chester, and in the summer of 1829 he was removed to 
 Eugby and came under the influence of Dr. Arnold. 
 There he prospered. He gained a scholarship, open to 
 the whole school under fourteen, and the only one 
 which then existed. He was at the head of the fifth 
 form at fifteen ; and as sixteen was the earliest age at 
 which boys were then admitted into the sixth, he had 
 to wait a whole year for this. For a considerable time 
 he was also the editor of the ' Rugby Magazine,' a 
 periodical which absorbed much of the writing powers 
 of the cleverer boys and to which he contributed 
 constantly, chiefly poetry. Besides this he took an 
 active part in some of the school games, and his name 
 is handed down in William Arnold's ' Rules of Football,' 
 as the best goal-keeper on record. He was also one of 
 the first swimmers in the school, and was a very good 
 runner. Among his schoolfellows, in general, he 
 gained a very high character ; a sign of which is given 
 by the story told by some of them at the time, that, 
 when he left school for college, almost every boy at 
 Rugby contrived to shake hands with him at parting. 
 Dr. Arnold also regarded him with increasing interest 
 and satisfaction ; and at the yearl}^ speeches, in the 
 last year of Clough's residence, he broke the rule of 
 silence, to which he almost invariably adhered in the 
 delivery of prizes, and congratulated him on having 
 gained every honour which Rugby could bestow and
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XI 
 
 done the highest credit to his school at the University. 
 This was in allusion to his having gained the Balliol 
 scholarship, then and now the highest honour which a 
 schoolboy could obtain. 
 
 In November 1836 he gained the scholarship, and 
 the October following he went into residence at Oxford, 
 when began the time which was essentially the turning 
 point of his life. The University was then stirred to 
 its depths by the great Tractarian movement. Mr. 
 Ward, one of Clough's first friends at Oxford, was, as is 
 well known, among the foremost of the party ; and he 
 was thus, at once, thrown into the very vortex of dis- 
 cussion. The accident of his passing from the Eugby 
 of Arnold to the Oxford of Newman and Ward, drove 
 him, while he ought to have been devoting himself to 
 the ordinary work of an undergraduate reading for 
 honours, and before he had attained his full intellectual 
 development, to examine the deepest subjects that can 
 occupy the human mind. 
 
 It is not difficult to understand into what trouble of 
 spirit an impressionable nature must have been thrown 
 by the storm that was raging round him and by contact 
 with such powerful leaders. He himself said afterwards 
 that for two years he had been ' like a straw drawn up 
 the draught of a chimney.' But his was not a character 
 to accept any merely external system of authority, and 
 the reaction which necessarily followed drove him to 
 start afresh in the search after truth. The spirit of
 
 Xll MEMOIR OF ARTHUE HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 doubt and struggle, yet of unshaken assurance in the 
 final conquest of truth and good, comes out strongly 
 in his poems written about this time. 
 
 The result of his disturbance of mind was naturally 
 to distract his attention from his immediate studies, 
 and to make his labour less productive, lie disclosed 
 but little to any one of the mental struggle within him, 
 but his family were aware that some great change was 
 going on in him, and were anxious about his health, 
 which evidently suffered. Yet he did read hard, even 
 more so, perhaps, than most men of his time ; and one 
 of his friends records that the only bet he ever re- 
 members making in his life was seven to one that 
 Clough would get a first. His habits were at this 
 time of Spartan simplicity : he had very cold rooms in 
 Balliol on the ground floor ; he is said to have passed 
 a whole winter without a fire. He had a very high 
 reputation as an undergraduate ; and among his con- 
 temporaries and those immediately succeeding him, 
 many were found to say that they owed more to him 
 than to any other man. 
 
 From whatever cause, to the sm'prise both of under- 
 graduates and of tutors, Clough missed his first class, 
 which was a serious distress to his parents and friends, 
 especially Dr. Arnold, who had looked forward to his 
 achieving great distinction, and whose well-known 
 dislike of the Tractarian movement made him doubly 
 grieve at what he regarded as indirectly one of its
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XUl 
 
 consequences. Clough himself seems always to have 
 felt a solid confidence in his own powers, and perhaps 
 to have too little regarded the outward means of dis- 
 playing them. Perhaps, too, he was somewhat con- 
 scious of that inaptitude to put himself forward to the 
 best advantage, which many of his friends have noticed, 
 and accepted it with his usual stoic philosophy. At 
 any rate, his failure did not long produce the effects he 
 most feared, of want of pupils ; for through Dr. Arnold's 
 kindness he was soon provided with profitable employ- 
 ment. In the autumn he tried unsuccessfully for a 
 fellowship at Balliol. He continued, however, to reside 
 at Oxford, and supported himself on the exhibition and 
 scholarship which he still held. In the spring of 1842 
 he was elected fellow of Oriel, which was in every way 
 a great and cheering success to him. He had as yet 
 formed no definite views at variance with the principles 
 of the Church. Though he had come to see the unim- 
 portance of many things commonly insisted on, he was 
 not provided with any other scheme to set up ; his 
 habits and his affections all clung to the old ways ; then 
 and many years afterwards, he continued to feel that 
 real liberality, width of view, and mental and moral 
 cultivation were more commonly found among those 
 nursed in the Anglican Church than in any exclusive 
 sect; and probably the idea of any violent move, 
 of quitting the home in which he had been reared, had 
 never yet crossed his mind. His pleasure in his
 
 XIV MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 success in obtaining the fellowship was much enhanced 
 by the satisfaction which it gave to Dr. Arnold, and in 
 a practical way it was doubly valuable, because more 
 troubles were now thickening round him and his family. 
 Money difficulties pressed hard on his parents at this 
 time ; his help was much needed, and was unsparingly 
 given. Other troubles soon came. The sudden death 
 of his youngest and much loved brother, when alone in 
 Charleston, was followed within a year by that of his 
 father. 
 
 The death of Dr. Arnold in June 1842 was a severe 
 shock as well as a great grief to Clough, from its 
 suddenness as well as fi-om the intense reverence and 
 affection he felt for him. 'He was for a long time 
 more than a father to me,' were his own words. 
 
 In 1843 he was appointed tutor as well as fellow of 
 Oriel, and especially endeared himself to his younger 
 friends and pupils in this capacity. He took a warm 
 and increasing interest in all social questions, and 
 during this time also most of the poems in the littU 
 volume called ' Ambarvalia ' were written. 
 
 Though his life passed on thus with much ol 
 cheerful and active interest and work, it would seem, 
 from his letters, that he was living at Oxford under a 
 sense of intellectual repression. He evidently regarded 
 teaching as his natural vocation, and had great enjoy- 
 ment in it ; but the sense of being bound by his 
 position to silence on many important subjects probably
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XV 
 
 oppressed him. Though everything in his outward 
 circumstances combined to make it desirable for him to 
 remain in his present position, yet by degrees his dis- 
 satisfaction with it became too strong to be endured. 
 His was a nature ' which moveth altogether, if it move 
 at all ; ' and, once entered upon the course of free 
 inquiry, nothing could stop the expansion of his 
 thought in that direction. His absolute conscientious- 
 ness and intense unworldliness prevented the usual 
 influences which slacken men's movements from 
 telling upon his. 
 
 It is not very obvious what eventually decided him 
 to quit Oxford at the precise moment when he did so. 
 In the year 1847 he was powerfully stirred by the 
 distress in Ireland at the time of the potato famine, 
 as may be seen from the pamphlet on ' Retrenchment ; ' 
 and the general ferment of his nature, as well as the 
 ripening of opinions in his own mind, probably tended 
 to make him more open to change. Emerson also 
 visited England in this year. Clough became intimate 
 with him, and his influence must have tended to urge 
 him on in the direction in which he was already moving. 
 Probably it was some half accidental confirmation of 
 his own doubts as to the honesty and usefulness of his 
 own course, which brought him at last almost suddenly 
 face to face with the question whether he ought to 
 resign his tutorship. After a correspondence with the 
 head of his college — in speaking of whom he always
 
 XVI MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 expressed a strong sense of the uniform kindness which 
 he had received from him under these trying circum- 
 stances — he eventually gave up his tutorship in 1848 ; 
 and this done, though his fellowship had not yet 
 expired, he began to feel his whole position hollow ; 
 and six months later (in October 1848), he resigned 
 this hkewise, and thus left himself unprovided with 
 any present means of making a livelihood, and burdened 
 besides with the payment of an annuity to which he 
 had made himself liable for the sake of a friend. The 
 sacrifice was greater to him than to many men, because 
 he had no natural aptitude for making money. His 
 power of literary production was always uncertain, and 
 very little within his own control. His conscientious 
 scruples interfered with his writing casually, as many 
 would have done ; for instance, we are told that he 
 would not contribute to any paper or review with whose 
 general principles he did not agree. He was, therefore, 
 constrained to look out for some definite post in the 
 line of education ; and from the best chances in this 
 department he had cut himself adrift by resigning his 
 fellowship. He did, nevertheless, take this step, 
 apparently with a certain lightness of heart and buoy- 
 ancy, in singular contrast with what might be expected 
 to be the feeling of a man taking a decision so important 
 to his future life. It is clear that he ' broke away with 
 delight' from what he felt to be the thraldom of his 
 position in Oxford.
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XVU 
 
 Immediately after laying down his tutorship, he 
 made use of his leisure to go to Paris, in company with 
 Emerson, where he spent a month in seeing the sights 
 of the Ee volution. 
 
 It was in September of this year (1848), when 
 staying at home with his mother and sister in Liverpool, 
 that he wrote his first long poem, the ' Bothie of Tober- 
 na-Vuolich.' This was his utterance to the world on 
 quitting Oxford, and not the theological pamphlet 
 which was expected from him. 
 
 In the winter of 1848 he received an invitation to 
 take the Headship of University Hall, London, an 
 institution professing entirely unsectarian principles, 
 founded for the purpose of receiving students attending 
 the lectures at University College. His tenure of 
 office was to date from October 1849, and he deter- 
 mined before this to take his first long holiday of 
 travel, and go to Eome. Thus his visit coincided 
 accidentally with the siege of Eome by the French. 
 At this time he wrote his second long poem, the 
 ' Amours de Voyage.' 
 
 In October 1849 he returned to enter on his duties 
 at University Hall. His new circumstances were, of 
 course, very different from those of his Oxford life, and 
 the change was in many respects painful to him. The 
 step he had taken in resigning his fellowship, isolated 
 him greatly ; many of his old friends looked coldly on 
 him, and the new acquaintances among whom he was 
 
 a2
 
 XVm MEMOIR OF AETHUE HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 thrown were often uncongenial to him. The transition 
 from the intimate and highly refined society of Oxford 
 to the bustling miscellaneous external life of London, 
 to one not well furnished with friends, and without a 
 home of his own, could hardly fail to be depressing. 
 He had hoped for liberty of thought and action; he 
 had found solitude, but not perfect freedom. Though 
 not bound by any verbal obligations, he found himself 
 expected to express agreement with the opinions of 
 the new set among whom he had fallen, and this was 
 no more possible to him here than it had been at 
 Oxford. This was without doubt the dreariest, loneliest 
 period of his life, and he became compressed and 
 reserved to a degree quite unusual with him, both 
 before and afterwards. He shut himself up, and went 
 through his life in silence. 
 
 Yet here too he gradually formed some new and 
 valuable friendships. Among these, his acquaintance 
 with JNIr. Carlyle was one of the most important; and 
 to the end of his life he continued to entertain the 
 warmest feeling for that great man. It was part of the 
 sensitiveness of his character to shrink from going back 
 on old impressions ; and though he always retained his 
 affection for his early friends, yet intercourse with 
 fresh minds was often easier to him than with those to 
 whom his former phases of life and thought were more 
 familiar. In the autumn of 1850 he took advantage of 
 his vacation to make a hasty journey to Venice, and
 
 MEMOIR OP AETHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XIX 
 
 during this interval lie began his third long poem of 
 
 * Dipsychus,' which bears the mark of Venice in all its 
 framework and its local colouring. 
 
 We have now mentioned, at the dates at which 
 they were composed, all his longest works — the 
 
 * Bothie,' the * Amom-s de Voyage,' and ' Dipsychus.' 
 No other long work of his remains except the ' Man 
 Magno,' which is properly a collection of short poems, 
 more or less united by one central idea, and bound 
 together by their setting, as a series of tales related to 
 each other by a party of companions on a sea voyage. 
 The * Ambarvalia,' poems written between 1840 and 
 1847, chiefly at Oxford, though without any setting at 
 all, have something of the same inward coherence. 
 They are all poems of the inner life, while the ' Marl 
 Magno ' poems deal with the social problems connected 
 with the questions of love and marriage. His voyage 
 to America, again, produced a cluster of little sea 
 poems, closely linked together by one or two main 
 thoughts. 
 
 It has often been a subject of surprise, that with 
 such evident powers and even facility of production, 
 Clough should have left so little behind him, even con- 
 sidering the shortness of his life, and that for such long 
 periods he should have been entirely silent. We 
 think the best explanation is to be found in his pecu- 
 liar temper of mind, and we might say physical con- 
 formation of brain, which could not work unless under
 
 XX MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 a combination of favourable circumstances. His brain 
 though powerful was slow to concentrate itself, and 
 could not carry on several occupations at once. Soli- 
 tude and repose were necessary for production. This, 
 combined with a certain inertia, a certain slowness of 
 movement, constantly made it hard for him to get over 
 the initial difficulties of self-expression, and would 
 often, no doubt, cause him to delay too long and lose 
 the passing inspiration or opportunity. But, once 
 started, his very weight carried him on, as it did in the 
 ' Bothie,' ' Amours,' ' Dipsychus,' and ' Mari Magno.' 
 
 After two years at University Hall, he was induced 
 by several considerations to resign his post. He then 
 went to America, and settled in October 1852 at Cam- 
 bridge, Massachusetts. There he was welcomed with 
 remarkable cordiality, and formed many friendships 
 which lasted to the end of his life. 
 
 He wrote several articles at this time in the 'North 
 American Review,' and in ' Putnam's Magazine,' and 
 other magazines, and before long undertook a revision 
 of the translation, known as Dryden's, of Plutarch's 
 * Lives,' for an American publisher. Thus he carried 
 on a great deal of work, and was gradually making him- 
 self an assured position ; and he would probably have 
 felt no difficulty in settling down in America as his 
 home, had not the offer of an examinership in the 
 Education Office, which his friends obtained for him, 
 come to draw him homewards again. The certainty of
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XXI 
 
 a permanent, though small income, the prospect of im- 
 mediate marriage, and his natural affection for his own 
 country, decided him to accept the place, and give up 
 his chances in America, not without some regret, after 
 he had gradually brought his mind to the idea of 
 adopting a new country. His genuine democratic feel- 
 ing rejoiced in the wider diffusion of prosperity and 
 substantial comforts which he found in America ; but 
 he felt strongly the want of what he calls ' the deeper 
 waters of ancient knowledge and experience ' to be 
 found in the old country. 
 
 In July 1853 he returned to England, and at once 
 entered on the duties of his office. Henceforth his 
 career was decided for him. He was freed from per- 
 plexing questions as to choice of occupation. His 
 business life was simple, straightforward, and hard- 
 working ; but it was made up of little beyond official 
 drudgery, and the fact of his entering the public 
 service so late diminished his prospect of reaching 
 higher posts. His immediate objects, however, were 
 answered; and in June 1854 he married. For the 
 next seven years he lived quietly at home ; and during 
 this time three children were born to him, who formed 
 his chief and unfailing delight. No events of any 
 moment marked this period ; but it was one of real 
 contentment. But, unfortunately, he was too willing 
 and too anxious to take work of every sort, and to 
 spend himself for others. Therefore he soon became
 
 XXll MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 involved in labours too exciting for a constitution 
 already somewhat overtasked, nor was he ever able to 
 yield himself wholly to the healthful indolence of 
 private life. To a period of wasting thought and soli- 
 tude succeeded one of over-strenuous exertion ; bracing 
 indeed, but, for a man of his sympathetic temperament 
 and laborious past life, too absorbing and engrossing. 
 
 Besides the work of the office, the translation of 
 Plutarch, begun in America, absorbed a great part of 
 his scanty leisure during five years after his return 
 from America. In the spring of 1856 he was ap- 
 pointed secretary to a commission for examining the 
 scientific mihtary schools on the Continent. He 
 visited, in consequence, the great schools for artillery 
 and engineers in France, Prussia, and Austria. The 
 travelling lasted about three months, and afforded him 
 much occupation afterwards. But the work in which 
 he took the deepest interest was that of his friend and 
 relation, Miss Nightingale. He watched over every 
 step in her various undertakings, affording her assist- 
 ance not merely with advice, and little in his life gave 
 him greater satisfaction than to be her active and 
 trusted friend. 
 
 We see that his life, though uneventful, was full of 
 work, and we can also imderstand why this period of 
 his life produced no poetical result. The conditions 
 under which he could create were at this time wholly 
 wanting. He had not time or strength or leisure of
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XXIU 
 
 mind to spend on his natural gift of writing ; and to 
 his friends it must ever be a source of sorrow that his 
 natural vocation, what he himself felt as such, was 
 unfulfilled. He himself always looked forward to 
 some time when greater opportunity might be granted 
 him, when the various experiences of later life, the re- 
 sults of his later thought, might ' assort themselves 
 upon the brain,' and be given out in some definite 
 form. In the meantime he waited, not impatiently or 
 unwillingly, for he was slow to draw conclusions, as he 
 was also patient in hearing the views of others, and 
 ready in his appreciation of them. Yet his mind did 
 not fail to exercise a powerful influence upon others. 
 All who knew him well will bear witness to the strong 
 impression left by his character, and by the force and 
 originality of his intellect. To describe his character 
 would be impossible. Its charm was so personal that 
 it seems to evaporate when translated into words. He 
 was a singular combination of enthusiasm and calmness, 
 of thoughtfulness and imagination, of speech and 
 silence, of seriousness and humour. 
 
 But now this happy and peaceful though laborious 
 life was approaching a too early close. There was 
 never to be any complete opportunity given here for 
 showing to the full what his best friends believed to be 
 in him, and what his poems partly reveal. Probably 
 ever since very early youth he had been subjected to a 
 too severe moral and intellectual strain. His health,
 
 XXIV MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 though good, had never been strong, and after 1859 it 
 began to cause anxiety to his family, when a series of 
 small illnesses and accidents combined to weaken his 
 constitution. 
 
 In the autumn of 1860, finding himself seriously 
 out of health, he obtained six months' leave from the 
 Council Office. After several weeks' treatment at 
 Malvern, which appeared to improve his health, in 
 February 1861 he removed to Freshwater, in the Isle 
 of Wight. 
 
 Further change of air, and still more change of 
 scene, were ordered, and in the middle of April he 
 went alone to Greece and Constantinople. Apparently 
 he greatly enjoyed this journey, and no sooner was he 
 again at leisure and in solitude than the old fountain 
 of verse, so long dry within him, reopened afresh. 
 During this journey he wrote the first and perhaps the 
 second of the ' Mari Magno ' stories. In June he re- 
 turned for a few weeks to England ; he seemed unable 
 to bear any protracted absence, and to long for his 
 home ; yet he consented to quit it again in July and 
 to go to Auvergne and the Pyrenees. There he was 
 fortunate enough to join, though but for a short time, 
 his friends Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson, whose companion- 
 ship made his solitary wanderings pleasant, and to it he 
 owed probably more than pleasm-e, some of the stimulus 
 which produced the poems which were his last crea- 
 tions. While travelling in Auvergne and the Pyrenees
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XXV 
 
 he composed all the remaining ' Mari Magno ' tales, 
 except the last, which was conceived and written 
 entirely during his last illness. In the south of 
 France he remained till the middle of September, 
 when he went to Paris to join his wife. In Paris he 
 spent a few days and then set out to travel through 
 Switzerland to the Italian lakes, intending to stay some 
 time at Florence, and reach Rome before the winter ; 
 but on the Italian lakes he caught a chill from which 
 he did not recover, but grew gradually worse on the 
 journey to Florence. Here they arrived on October 10, 
 and here he took to his bed, unable longer to resist the 
 fever. The fever, a sort of malaria, had its course, and 
 appeared to give way. During the first three weeks he 
 seemed perpetually occupied with a poem he was 
 writing, the last in the volume of his poems ; and 
 when he began apparently to recover, and was able to 
 sit up for several hours in the day, he insisted on try- 
 ing to write it out, and when this proved too great an 
 effort he begged to dictate it. But he broke down 
 before it was finished, and returned to bed never to leave 
 it again. A few days before his death he begged for 
 a pencil and contrived to write down two verses, and 
 quite to the end his thoughts kept hold of his poem. 
 Fortunately it had all been completed and written out 
 in pencil in the first stage of his illness, and was found 
 after his death in his note-book. 
 
 The fever left him worn out, and then paralysis.
 
 XXVI MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 with wliicli he had been threatened, struck him down. 
 On the 13th of November he died, in his forty- third 
 year. 
 
 He lies buried in the little Protestant cemetery, 
 just outside the walls of Florence, looking towards 
 Fiesole and the hills. ' Tall cypresses wave over the 
 graves, and the beautiful hills keep guard around ; ' 
 nowhere could there be a lovelier resting-place.
 
 EAELY POEMS.
 
 THE HIGHER COURAGE. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! — 
 
 All, fickle spirit and untrue, 
 I bade the only guide depart 
 
 "Whose faithfulness I surely knew : 
 I said. My heart is all too soft ; 
 He who would climb and soar aloft 
 Must needs keep ever at his side 
 The tonic of a wholesome pride. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heai t ! — 
 
 Alas, I called not then for thee ; 
 I called for Courage, and apart 
 
 From Pride if Courage could not be, 
 Then welcome Pride ! and I shall find 
 In thee a power to lift the mind 
 This low and grovelling joy above — 
 'Tis but the proud can truly love. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! — 
 
 With incrustations of the years 
 Uncased as yet, — as then thou wert, 
 
 Pull-filled with shame and coward fears 
 Wherewith amidst a jostling throng 
 Of deeds, that each and all were wi'ong, 
 The doubting soul, from day to day, 
 Uneasy, paralytic lay. 
 b2
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! — 
 
 I Ksaid, Perceptions contradict, 
 Convictions come, anon depart, 
 
 And but themselves as false convict. 
 Assumptions hasty, crude, and vain. 
 Full oft to use will Science deign ; 
 The corks the novice plies to-day 
 The swimmer soon shall cast away. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! — 
 
 I said. Behold, I perish quite. 
 Unless to give me strength to start, 
 I make myself my rule of right : 
 It must be, if I act at all, 
 To save my shame I have at call 
 The plea of all men understood, — 
 Because I willed it, it is good. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! — 
 
 I know not if in very deed 
 This means alone could aid impart 
 
 To serve my sickly spirit's need ; 
 But clear alike of wild self-will, 
 And fear that faltered, paltered still, 
 Hemorseful thoughts of after days 
 A way espy betwixt the ways. 
 
 Come back again, old heart ! — Ah me ! 
 
 jMethinks in those thy coward fears 
 There might, perchance, a courage be, 
 
 That fails in these the manlier years ; 
 Courage to let the courage sink. 
 Itself a coward base to think, 
 Rather than not for heavenly light 
 Wait on to show the truly right. 
 
 1840
 
 EAELY POEMS. 
 
 REVIVAL. 
 
 So I went wrong, 
 Gi'ievoiTsly wrong, but folly crushed itself, 
 And vanity o'ertoppling fell, and time 
 And healthy discipline and some neglect, 
 Labour and solitary hours revived 
 Somewhat, at least, of that original frame. 
 Oh, well do I remember then the days 
 When on some grassy slope (what time the sun 
 Was sinking, and the solemn eve came down 
 With its blue vapour upon field and wood 
 And elm-embosomed spire) once more again 
 I fed on sweet emotion, and my heart 
 With love o'erflowed, or hushed itself in fear 
 Unearthly, yea celestial. Once again 
 My heart was hot within me, and meseemed, 
 I too had in my body breath to wind 
 The magic horn of song ; I too possessed 
 Up- welling in my being's depths a fount 
 Of the true poet-nectar whence to fill 
 The golden urns of verse. 
 1839 
 
 THE SHADY LANE. 
 
 Whence comest thou, shady lane 1 and why and how 1 
 Thou, where with idle heart, ten years ago, 
 I wandered, and with childhood's paces slow 
 So lonff unthousht of, and remembered now !
 
 EAELY POEMS. 
 
 Again in vision clear tliy pathwayed side 
 I tread, and view thy orchard plots again 
 With yellow fruitage hung, — and glimmering grain 
 Standing or shocked through the thick hedge espied. 
 This hot still noon of August brings the sight ; 
 This quelling silence as of eve or night, 
 Wherein Earth (feeling as a mother may 
 After her travail's latest bitterest throes) 
 Looks up, so seemeth it, one half repose, 
 One half in eifort, straining, suffering still. 
 1839 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BRIDGE. 
 
 When soft September brings again 
 To yonder gorse its golden glow. 
 And Snowdon sends its autumn rain 
 
 To bid thy current livelier flow ; 
 Amid that ashen foliage light 
 When scarlet beads are glistering bright, 
 While alder boughs unchanged are seen 
 In summer livery of green ; 
 When clouds before the cooler breeze 
 Are flying, white and large ; with these 
 Returning, so may I return, 
 And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern. 
 1840 
 
 A RIVER POOL. 
 
 Sweet streamlet bason ! at thy side 
 Weary and faint within me cried 
 My longing heart, — In such pure deep 
 How sweet it were to sit and sleep ;
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 To feel eacli passage from without 
 Close up, — above me and about, 
 Those circling waters crystal clear, 
 That calm impervious atmosphere ! 
 There on thy pearly pavement pure, 
 To lean, and feel myself secure, 
 Or through the dim-lit inter-space, 
 Afar at whiles upgazing trace 
 The dimpling bubbles dance around 
 Upon thy smooth exterior face ; 
 Or idly list the dreamy sound 
 Of ripples lightly flung, above 
 That home, of peace, if not of love. 
 1840 
 
 IN A LECTURE-ROOM. 
 
 Away, haunt thou not me, 
 Thou vain Philosophy ! 
 Little hast thou bestead, 
 Save to perplex the head, 
 And leave the spirit dead. 
 Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go. 
 While from the secret treasure-depths below, 
 Fed by the skiey shower. 
 
 And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high. 
 Wisdom at once, and Power, 
 Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly ? 
 Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, 
 When the fresh breeze is blowing, 
 And the strong current flowing. 
 Right onward to the Eternal Shore 1 
 1810
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 ' Blank Misgivings of a creatwe moving about in worlds not 
 realised.' 
 
 Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent, 
 One- third departed of the mortal span. 
 Carrying on the child into the man, 
 Nothing into reality. Sails rent, 
 And rudder broken, — reason impotent, — 
 Affections all unfixed ; so forth I fare 
 On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare 
 To do and to be done by, well content. 
 So was it from the first, so is it yet ; 
 Yea, the first kiss that by these lij^s was set 
 On any human lips, methinks was sin — 
 Sin, cowardice, and falsehood ; for the will 
 Into a deed e'en then advanced, wherein 
 God, unidentified, was thought-of still. 
 
 II 
 
 Though to the vilest things beneath the moon 
 For poor Ease' sake I give away my heart, 
 And for the moment's sympathy let part 
 My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon. 
 My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon, 
 Almost, as gained ; and though aside I start, 
 Belie Thee daily, hourly, — still Thou art. 
 Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon ; 
 How much so e'er I sin, whate'er I do 
 Of evil, still the sky above is blue,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 The stars look down in beauty as before : 
 It is enough to walk as best we may, 
 To walk, and, sighing, dream of that blest day 
 When ill we cannot quell shall be no more. 
 
 in 
 Well, well, — Heaven bless you all from day to day I 
 Forgiveness too, or e'er we part, from each. 
 As I do give it, so must I beseech : 
 I owe all much, much more than I can pay ; 
 Therefore it is I go ; how could I stay 
 Where every look commits me to fresh debt. 
 And to pay little I must boiTOW yet 1 
 Enough of this already, now away ! 
 With silent woods and hills untenanted 
 Let me go commune ; under thy sweet gloom, 
 O kind maternal Darkness, hide my head : 
 The day may come I yet may re-assume 
 My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek 
 The task for which I now am all too weak. 
 
 Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way, 
 
 Bearing the liar's curse upon my head ; 
 
 Letting my weak and sickly heart be fed 
 
 On food which does the present craving stay. 
 
 But may be clean-denied me e'en to-day. 
 
 And tho' 'twere certain, yet were ought but bread ; 
 
 Letting — for so they say, it seems, I said, 
 
 And I am all too weak to disobey ! 
 
 Therefore for me sweet Nature's scenes reveal not 
 
 Their charm ; sweet Music greets me and I feel not
 
 10 EAKLY POEMS. 
 
 Sweet eyes pass off me uninspii*ed ; yea, more, 
 The golden tide of opportunity 
 Flows wafting-in friendships and better, — I 
 Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore. 
 
 How often sit I, poring o'er 
 
 My strange distorted youth, 
 Seeking in vain, in all my store, 
 
 One feeling based on truth; 
 Amid the maze of petty life 
 
 A clue whereby to move, 
 A spot whereon in toil and strife 
 
 To dare to rest and love. 
 So constant as my heart would be, 
 
 So fickle as it must, 
 'Twere well for others as for me 
 
 'Twere dry as summer dust. 
 Excitements come, and act and speech 
 
 Flow freely forth ; — but no. 
 Nor they, nor ought beside can reach 
 
 The buried world below. 
 
 1841 
 
 VI 
 -Like a child 
 
 In some strange garden left awhile alone, 
 I pace about the pathways of the world, 
 Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem, 
 With qualms of vague misgiving in my heart 
 That payment at the last will be required, 
 Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred, 
 And shame to be endured. 
 
 1841
 
 EARLY POE.^IS. 11 
 
 Roiised by importunate knocks 
 
 I rose, I turned the key, and let them in, 
 First one, anon another, and at length 
 In troops they came ; for how could I, who once 
 Had let in one, nor looked him in the face. 
 Show scruples e'er again 1 So in they came, 
 A noisy band of revellers, — vain hopes, 
 Wild fancies, fitful joys ; and there they sit 
 In my heart's holy place, and through the night 
 Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn 
 Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time 
 For watching and for thought bestowed is gone. 
 1841 
 
 O kind protecting Darkness ! as a child 
 Flies back to bury in its mother's lap 
 His shame and his confusion, so to thee, 
 O Mother Night, come I ! within the folds 
 Of thy dark robe hide thou me close ; for I 
 So long, so heedless, with external things 
 Have played the liar, that whate'er I see, 
 E'en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars, 
 Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me 
 Smiling those smiles, which I may not retvirn, 
 Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice, 
 As angry claimants or expectants sure 
 Of that I promised and may not perform. 
 Look me in the face ! hide me, Mother Night ! 
 1841
 
 12 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 IX 
 
 Once more the wonted road I tread, 
 Once more dark heavens above me spread. 
 Upon the windy down I stand, 
 My station whence the circling land 
 Lies mapped and pictured wide below ; — 
 Such as it was, such e'en again, 
 Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain 
 By hedge or tree unbroken : — lo ! 
 A few grey woods can only show 
 How vain their aid, and in the sense 
 Of one unaltering impotence, 
 Kelieving not, meseems enhance 
 The sovereign dulness of the expanse. 
 Yet marks where human hand hath been, 
 Bare house, unsheltered village, space 
 Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between 
 (Such aspect as methinks may be 
 In some half-settled colony). 
 From Nature vindicate the scene; 
 A wide, and yet disheartening view, 
 A melancholy world. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 Most true ; and yet, like those strange smiles 
 By fervent hope or tender thought 
 From distant happy regions brought. 
 Which upon some sick bed are seen 
 To glorify a pale worn face 
 With sudden beauty, — so at whiles 
 Lights have descended, hues have been. 
 To clothe with half-celestial grace 
 The bareness of the desert place.
 
 EAELY POEMS. 13 
 
 Since so it is, so be it still ! 
 
 Could only thou, my heart, be taught 
 
 To treasure, and in act fulfil 
 
 The lesson which the sight has brought; 
 
 In thine own dull and dreary state 
 
 To work and patiently to wait : 
 
 Little thou think'st in thy despair 
 
 How soon the o'ershaded sun may shine, 
 
 And e'en the dulling clouds combine 
 
 To bless with lights and hues divine 
 
 That region desolate and bare. 
 
 Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine ! 
 
 Still doth the coward heart complain ; 
 The hour may come, and come in vain ; 
 The branch that withered lies and dead 
 No suns can force to lift its head. 
 True ! — yet how little thou canst tell 
 How much in thee is ill or well ; 
 Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee, 
 Be sure, was life designed to be 
 A draught of dull complacency. 
 One Power too is it, who doth give 
 The food without us, and within 
 The strength that makes it nutritive : 
 He bids the dry bones rise and live, 
 And e'en in hearts depraved to sin 
 Some sudden, gracious influence. 
 May give the long-lost good again, 
 And wake within the dormant sense 
 And love of good ; — for mortal men. 
 So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see 
 Defeat itself is victory.
 
 14 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 So be it : yet, Good and Great, 
 In whom in this bedarkened state 
 I fain am struggling to believe, 
 Let me not ever cease to gi-ieve, 
 Nor lose the consciousness of ill 
 "Within me ; — and refusing still 
 To recognise in things aroimd 
 What cannot truly there be found, 
 Let me not feel, nor be it true, 
 That, while each daily task I do, 
 I still am giving day by day 
 My precious things within away 
 (Those thou didst give to keep as thine), 
 And casting, do whate'er I may, 
 My heavenly pearls to earthly swine. 
 1841 
 
 A SONG OF AUTUMN. 
 
 My wind is tui'ned to bitter north, 
 
 That was so soft a south before ; 
 My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 
 
 "With foggy gloom is clouded o'er : 
 My gay green leaves are yellow-black. 
 
 Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 
 For love, departed once, comes back 
 
 No more again, no more. 
 
 A roofless ruin lies my home. 
 
 For winds to blow and rains to pour ; 
 One frosty night befell, and lo ! 
 
 I find my summer da}'s are o'er :
 
 EARLY rOEMS. 15 
 
 The heart bereaved, of why and how 
 Unknowing, knows that yet before 
 
 It had what e'en to jMemory now 
 Returns no more, no more. 
 
 TO KaXov. 
 
 I HAVE seen higher, holier things than these, 
 And therefore must to these refuse my heait, 
 
 Yet am I panting for a little ease ; 
 I'll take, and so depart. 
 
 Ah, hold ! the heart is prone to fall away. 
 Her high and cherished visions to forget, 
 
 And if thou takest, how wilt thou repay 
 So vast, so dread a debt 1 
 
 How will the heart, whicli now thou trustest, then 
 Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet. 
 
 Turn with sharp stings upon itself ! Again, 
 Bethink thee of the debt ! 
 
 — Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these, 
 And therefore must to these thy heart refuse ? 
 
 With the true best, alack, how ill agrees 
 That best that thou would'st choose ! 
 
 The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above ; 
 
 Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do : 
 Amid the things allowed thee live and love ; 
 
 Some day thou shalt it view. 
 1841
 
 16 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 '^^pvcTsa kXtjs sttI jXcocraa. 
 
 If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold, 
 A sense of human kindliness hath found us, 
 We seem to have around us 
 An atmosphere all gold, 
 'Midst darkest shades a halo rich of shine. 
 An element, that while the bleak wind bloweth, 
 On the rich heart bestoweth 
 Imbreath^d draughts of wine ; 
 Heaven guide, the cup be not, as chance may be. 
 To some vain mate given up as soon as tasted ! 
 No, nor on thee be wasted, 
 Thou tritler, Poesy ! 
 Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere 
 Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping ; 
 The fruit of dreamy hoping 
 Is, waking, blank despair. 
 
 1841 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD AND OF THE 
 
 SOUL. 
 
 Why should I say I see the things I see not 1 
 
 Why be and be not 1 
 Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not ? 
 And dance about to music that I hear not ? 
 
 Who standeth still i' the street 
 
 Shall be hustled and justled about;
 
 EARLY POEMS. 17 
 
 And he that stops i' the dance shall be spurned by the dancei^s' 
 
 feet, — 
 Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet, 
 And shall raise up an outcry and rout ; 
 And the partner, too, — 
 What's the partner to do 1 
 While all the while 'tis but, perchance, an humming in mine 
 ear, 
 That yet anon shall hear. 
 And I anon, the music in my soul, 
 In a moment read the whole 3 
 The music in my heart, 
 Joyously take my part, 
 And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these retreat, 
 advance ; 
 And borne on wings of wavy sound. 
 Whirl with these around, around. 
 Who here are living in the living dance ! 
 Why forfeit that fair chance 1 
 Till that arrive, till thou awake. 
 Of these, my soul, thy music make, 
 And keep amid the throng. 
 And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are bounding — 
 Alas ! alas ! alas ! and what if all along 
 The music is not sounding 1 
 
 II 
 
 Are there not, then, two musics unto men 1 — 
 One loud and bold and coarse. 
 And overpowering still perforce 
 All tone and tvine beside ; 
 Yet in despite its pride 
 Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred, 
 And sounding solely in the sounding head : 
 
 c
 
 18 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 The other, soft and low, 
 Stealing whence we not know, 
 Painfully heard, and easily forgot, 
 "With pauses oft and many a silence strange 
 {And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not), 
 Revivals too of unexpected change : 
 Haply thou think'st 'twill never be begun, 
 Or that 't has come, and been, and passed away : 
 Yet turn to other none, — 
 Turn not, oh, turn not thou ! 
 But listen, listen, listen, — if haply be heard it may ; 
 Listen, listen, listen, — is it not sounding now ? 
 
 Yea, and as thought of some departed friend 
 By death or distance parted will descend. 
 Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light. 
 As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight 
 (Palsying the nerves that intei-vene 
 The eye and central sense between) ; 
 
 So may the ear. 
 
 Hearing not hear, 
 Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals ring ; 
 So the bare conscience of the better thing 
 Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown, 
 May fix the entranced soul 'mid multitudes alone. 
 
 LOVE NOT DUTY. 
 
 Thought may well be ever ranging, 
 And opinion ever changing. 
 Task- work be, though ill begun. 
 Dealt with by experience better ;
 
 1841 
 
 EAELY POEMS. 19 
 
 By tlie law and by the letter 
 Duty done is duty done : 
 Do it, Time is on the wing ! 
 
 Hearts, 'tis quite another thing, 
 Must or once for all be given, 
 Or must not at all be given ; 
 Hearts, 'tis quite another thing ! 
 
 To bestow the soul away 
 
 Is an idle duty-play ! — 
 
 Why, to trust a life-long bliss 
 
 To capi-ices of a day, 
 
 Scarce were more depraved than this! 
 
 Men and maidens, see you mind it ; 
 Show of love, where'er you find it, 
 Look if duty Ivirk behind it ! 
 Duty-fancies, urging on 
 Whither love had never gone ! 
 
 Loving — if the answering breast 
 Seem not to be thus possessed. 
 Still in hoping have a care ; 
 If it do, beware, beware ! 
 But if in yourself you find it. 
 Above all things — mind it, mind it ! 
 
 LOVE AND REASON. 
 
 When panting sighs the bosom fill, 
 And hands by chance united thrill 
 At once with one delicious pain 
 The pulses and the nerves of twain ; 
 c2
 
 20 EAELY POEMS. 
 
 When eyes that erst could meet with ease, 
 
 Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun 
 
 Extatic conscious unison, — 
 
 The sure beginnings, say, be these 
 
 Prelusive to the strain of love 
 
 Which angels sing in heaven above 1 
 
 Or is it but the vulgar tune. 
 
 Which all that breathe beneath the moou 
 
 So accurately learn — so soon 1 
 
 With variations duly blent ; 
 
 Yet that same song to all intent. 
 
 Set for the finer instrument ; 
 
 It is ; and it would sound the same 
 
 In beasts, were not the bestial frame. 
 
 Less subtly organised, to blame ; 
 
 And but that soul and spirit add 
 
 To pleasures, even base and bad, 
 
 A zest the soulless never had. 
 
 It may be — well indeed I deem ; 
 But what if sympathy, it seem. 
 And admiration and esteem. 
 Commingling therewithal, do make 
 The passion prized for Reason's sake 1 
 Yet, when my heart would fain rejoice, 
 A small expostulating voice 
 Falls in ; Of this thou wilt not take 
 Thy one irrevocable choice 1 
 In accent tremulous and thin 
 I hear high Prudence deep within, 
 Pleading the bitter, bitter sting. 
 Should slow-maturing seasons bring, 
 Too late, the veritable thing.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 21 
 
 For if (the Poet's tale of bliss) 
 
 A love, wherewith commeasured this 
 
 Is weak and beggarly, and none. 
 
 Exist a treasure to be won, 
 
 And if the vision, though it stay. 
 
 Be yet for an appointed day, — 
 
 This choice, if made, this deed, if done. 
 
 The memory of this present past, 
 
 With vague foreboding might o'ercast. 
 
 The heart, or madden it at last. 
 
 Let Heason first her office ply ; 
 
 Esteem, and admiration high. 
 
 And mental, moral sympathy, 
 
 Exist they first, nor be they brought. 
 
 By self-deceiving afterthought, — 
 
 What if an halo interfuse 
 
 With these again its opal hues. 
 
 That all o'erspreading and o'erlying, 
 
 Transmuting, mingling, glorifying. 
 
 About the beauteous various whole, 
 
 With beaming smile do dance and quiver ; 
 
 Yet, is that halo of the soul 1 — 
 
 Or is it, as may sure be said, 
 
 Phosphoric exhalation bred 
 
 Of vapour, steaming from the bed 
 
 Of Fancy's brook, or Passion's river 1 
 
 So when, as will be by-and-by. 
 
 The stream is waterless and dry. 
 
 This halo and its hues will die ; 
 
 And though the soul contented rest 
 
 With those substantial blessings blest, 
 
 Will not a longing, half confest, 
 
 Betray that this is not the love, 
 
 The gift for which all gifts above 
 
 Him praise we, Who is Love, the Giver 1
 
 22 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 I cannot say — the things are good : 
 Bread is it, if not angels' food ; 
 But Love ? Alas ! I cannot say ; 
 A glory on the vision lay ; 
 A light of more than mortal day 
 About it played, upon it rested ; 
 It did not, faltering and weak, 
 Beg Reason on its side to speak : 
 Itself was reason, or, if not. 
 Such substitvite as is, I wot, 
 Of seraph-kind the loftier lot ; — 
 Itself was of itself attested ; — 
 To processes that, hard and dry. 
 Elaborate truth from fallacy, 
 With modes intuitive succeeding, 
 Including those and superseding ; 
 Reason sublimed and Love most high 
 It was, a life that cannot die, 
 A dream of glory most exceeding. 
 1844 
 
 'O ©SOS fjisra crov ! f 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Farewell, my Highland lassie ! when the year returns around, 
 Be it Greece, or be it Norway, where my vagrant feet are 
 
 found, 
 I shall call to mind the place, I shall call to mind the day. 
 The day that's gone for ever, and the glen that's far away ; 
 I shall mind me, be it Rhine or Rhone, Italian land or France, 
 Of the laughings and the whispers, of the pipings and the 
 
 dance ; 
 
 t IIo Theos meta sou ! — God he with you.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 23 
 
 I shall see thy soft brown eyes dilate to wakening woman 
 
 thought, 
 And whiter still the white cheek grow to which the blush 
 
 was brought ; 
 And oh, with mine commixing I thy breath of life shall feel, 
 And clasp thy shyly passive hands in joyous Highland reel ; 
 I shall hear, and see, and feel, and in sequence sadly true, 
 Shall repeat the bitter-sweet of the lingering last adieu ; 
 I shall seem as now to leave thee, with the kiss upon the brow, 
 And the fervent benediction of — 'O ©eos jnera crov ! 
 
 Ah me, my Highland lassie ! though in winter drear and long 
 Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were 
 
 strong, 
 Though the rain, in summer's brightest, it were raining every 
 
 day. 
 With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to stay ! 
 I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie spent. 
 Coarse poortith's ware thoii changing there to gold of pure 
 
 content, 
 With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery 
 
 wife, 
 In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life ; 
 But I wake — to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon the 
 
 brow, 
 And the peaceful benediction of — 'O ©eos yuera a-ov ! 
 
 WIBKUNG IN DEB FEBNE. 
 
 When the dews are earliest falling, 
 When the evening glen is grey, 
 Ere thou lookest, ere thou speakest. 
 My beloved,
 
 24 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 I depart, and I return to thee, — 
 Return, return, return. 
 
 Dost tliou watcli me while I traverse 
 Haunts of men, beneath the sun — 
 Dost thou list while I bespeak them 
 With a voice whose cheer is thine 1 
 
 my brothers ! men, my brothers, 
 You are mine, and I am yours ; 
 
 1 am yours to cheer and succoui", 
 I am yours for hope and aid : 
 
 Lo, my hand to raise and stay you, 
 Lo, my arm to guard and keep. 
 My voice to rouse and warn you, 
 And my heart to warm and calm : 
 My heart to lend the life it owes 
 To her that is not here, 
 In the power of her that dwelleth 
 Where you know not — no, nor guess not- 
 Whom you see not ; unto whom, — 
 Ere the evening star hath sunken. 
 Ere the glow-worm lights its lamp. 
 Ere the wearied workman slumbers, — 
 I return, return, return. 
 
 STtI KcLTfJbW. 
 
 On the mountain, in the woodland, 
 
 In the shaded secret dell, 
 
 I have seen thee, I have met thee ! 
 
 In the soft ambrosial hours of night, 
 
 En darkness silent sweet 
 
 I beheld thee, I was with thee, 
 I was thine, and thou wert mine !
 
 EARLY POEMS. 25 
 
 When I gazed in palace-chambers, 
 When I trod the rustic dance, 
 Earthly maids were fair to look on, 
 Earthly maidens' hearts were kind : 
 Fair to look on, fair to love : 
 But the life, the life to me, 
 'Twas the death, the death to them, 
 In the spying, prying, prating 
 Of a curious cruel world. 
 
 At a touch, a breath they fade, 
 They languish, droop, and die ; 
 Yea, the j uices change to sourness, 
 And the tints to clammy brown ; 
 And the softness unto foulness. 
 And the odour unto stench. 
 Let alone and leave to bloom ; 
 Pass aside, nor make to die, 
 — In the woodland, on the mountain, 
 Thou art mine, and I am thine. 
 
 So I passed. — Amid the uplands. 
 
 In the forests, on whose skirts 
 
 Pace unstartled, feed unfeariug 
 
 Do the roe-deer and the red. 
 
 While I hungered, while I thirsted, 
 
 While the night was deepest dark, 
 
 Who was I, that thou should'st meet me ? 
 
 Who was I, thou didst not pass 1 
 
 Who was I, that I should say to thee. 
 
 Thou ai't mine, and I am thine 1 
 
 To the air from whence thou camest 
 Thou returnest, thou art gone ; 
 Self-created, discreated,
 
 26 EAELY POEMS. 
 
 Re-created, ever fresh, 
 
 Ever young ! 
 
 As a lake its mirrored mountains 
 At a moment, unregretting. 
 Unresisting, unreclaiming, 
 Without preface, without question, 
 On the silent shifting levels 
 Lets depart, 
 
 Shows, effaces and replaces ! 
 For what is, anon is not ; 
 What has been, again 's to be ; 
 Ever new and ever young 
 Thou art mine, and I am thine. 
 
 Art thou she that walks the skies, 
 That rides the starry night ? 
 
 I know not- 
 
 For my meanness dares not claim the truth 
 
 Thy loveliness declares. 
 
 But the face thou show'st the world is not 
 
 The face thou show'st to me ; 
 
 And the look that I have looked in 
 
 Is of none but me beheld. 
 
 I know not ; but I know 
 
 I am thine, and thou art mine. 
 
 And I watch : the orb behind 
 As it fleeteth, faint and fair 
 In the depth of azure night. 
 In the violet blank, I trace 
 By an outline faint and fair 
 Her whom none but I beheld. 
 By her orb she moveth slow, 
 Graceful-slow, serenely firm,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 27 
 
 Maiden-Goddess ! while her robe 
 
 The adoring planets kiss. 
 
 And I too cower and ask, 
 
 Wert thou mine, and was I thine 1 
 
 Hath a cloud o'ercast the sky 1 
 
 Is it cloud upon the mountain-sides 
 
 Or haze of dewy river-banks 
 
 Below ?— 
 
 Or around me. 
 
 To enfold me, to conceal, 
 
 Doth a mystic magic veil, 
 
 A celestial separation. 
 
 As of curtains hymeneal, 
 
 TJndiscerned yet all excluding, 
 
 Interpose 1 
 
 For the pine-tree boles are dimmer, 
 
 And the stars bedimmed above ; 
 
 In perspective bi-ief, uncertain, 
 
 Are the forest-alleys closed, 
 
 And to whispers indistinctest 
 
 The resounding torrents lulled. 
 
 Can it be, and can it be 1 
 
 Upon Earth and here below, 
 
 In the woodland at my side 
 
 Thou art with me, thou art here. 
 
 'Twas the vapour of the perfume 
 
 Of the presence that should be. 
 
 That enwrapt me ! 
 
 That enwraps us, 
 
 O my Goddess, my Queen ! 
 
 And I turn 
 
 At thy feet to fall before thee ; 
 
 And thou wilt not :
 
 28 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 At thy feet to kneel and reach and kiss thy finger-tips ; 
 
 And thou wilt not : 
 
 And I feel thine arms that stay me, 
 
 And I feel • 
 
 mine own, mine own, mine own, 
 
 1 am thine, and thou art mine ! 
 
 A PROTEST. 
 
 Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said : 
 
 She heard them, and she started, — and she rose, 
 
 As in the act to speak ; the sudden thought 
 
 And unconsidered impulse led her on. 
 
 In act to speak she rose, but with the sense 
 
 Of all the eyes of that mixed company 
 
 Now suddenly turned upon her, some with age 
 
 Hardened and dulled, some cold and critical ; 
 
 Some in whom vapours of their own conceit. 
 
 As moist malarious mists the heavenly stars. 
 
 Still blotted out their good, the best at best 
 
 By frivolous laugh and prate conventional 
 
 All too untuned for all she thought to ssij — 
 
 With such a thought the mantling blood to her cheek 
 
 Flushed-up, and o'er-flushed itself, blank night her soul 
 
 Made dark, and in her all her purpose swooned. 
 
 She stood as if for sinking. Yet anon 
 
 With recollections clear, august, sublime, 
 
 Of God's great truth, and right immutable, 
 
 Which, as obedient vassals, to her mind 
 
 Came summoned of her wUl, in self-negation 
 
 Quelling her troublous earthy consciousness. 
 
 She queened it o'er her weakness. At the spell
 
 EARLY POEMS. 29 
 
 Back rolled the ruddy tide, and leaves her cheek 
 Paler than erst, and yet not ebbs so far 
 But that one pulse of one indignant thought 
 Might hurry it hither in flood. So as she stood 
 She spoke. God in her spoke and made her heard. 
 1845 
 
 Sic itur. 
 
 As, at a railway junction, men 
 Who came together, taking then 
 One the train up, one down, again 
 
 Meet never ! Ah, much more as they 
 Who take one street's two sides, and say 
 Hard parting words, but walk one way : 
 
 Though moving other mates between, 
 While carts and coaches intervene. 
 Each to the other goes unseen; 
 
 Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack 
 Knowledge they walk not back to back, 
 But with an unity of ti-ack, 
 
 Where common dangers each attend, 
 And common hopes their guidance lend 
 To light them to the self- same end. 
 
 Whether he then shall cross to thee, 
 
 Or thou go thither, or it be 
 
 Some midway point, ye yet shall see
 
 30 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Each other, yet again shall meet. 
 Ah, joy ! when with the closing street, 
 Forgivingly at last ye greet ! 
 1845 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 O TELL me, friends, while yet we part, 
 And heart can yet be heard of heart, 
 O tell me then, for what is it 
 Our early plan of life we quit ; 
 From all our own intentions range. 
 And why does all so wholly change 1 
 O tell me, friends, while yet we part ! 
 
 tell me, friends, while yet we part, — 
 The rays that from the centre start 
 Within the orb of one warm sun, 
 Unless I err, have once begun, — 
 "Why is it thus they still diverge 1 
 And whither tends the course they urge ? 
 O tell me, friends, while yet we part ! 
 
 O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear, — 
 May it not be, some coming year, 
 These ancient paths that here divide 
 Shall yet again run side by side. 
 And you from there, and I from here, 
 All on a sudden reappear ? 
 tell me, friends, while yet ye hear ! 
 
 O tell me, friends, ye hardly hear, — 
 And if indeed ye did, I fear
 
 EARLY POEMS. 31 
 
 Ye would not say, ye would not speak, — 
 Are you so strong, am I so weak, 
 And yet, how much so e'er I yearn, 
 Can I not follow, nor you turn 1 
 O tell me, friends, ye hardly hear ! 
 
 tell me, friends, ere words are o'er, — 
 There 's something in me sad and sore 
 Repines, and underneath my eyes 
 
 1 feel a somewhat that would rise, — 
 tell me, my friends, and you, 
 Do you feel nothing like it too 1 
 
 O tell me, friends, ere words are o'er ! 
 
 O tell me, friends that are no more. 
 Do you, too, think ere it is o'er 
 Old times shall yet come round as erst. 
 And we be friends, as we were first ? 
 Or do you judge that all is vain. 
 Except that rule that none complain 1 
 tell me, friends that are no more ! 
 
 Qua cursum ventus. 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side. 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied, 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side ;
 
 32 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged 1 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks ! In light, in dai-kness too. 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides- 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But blithe breeze ! and great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there 
 
 ' There are more things in lieaven and earth.' 
 
 Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 
 As the gambling fool is treated ; 
 O ye, who ever cheat us. 
 And let us feel we're cheated ! 
 Is it true that poetical power, 
 The gift of heaven, the dower
 
 EARLY POEMS. 33 
 
 Of Apollo and the Nine, 
 
 The inborn sense, ' the vision and the faculty divine,' 
 
 All we glorify and bless 
 
 In our rapturous exaltation. 
 
 All invention, and creation, 
 
 Exuberance of fancy, and subHme imagination, 
 
 All a poet's fame is built on, 
 
 The fame of Shakespeare, Milton, 
 
 Of "Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, 
 
 Is in reason's grave precision, 
 
 Nothing more, nothing less. 
 
 Than a peculiar conformation. 
 
 Constitution, and condition 
 
 Of the brain and of the belly 1 
 
 Is it true, ye gods who cheat us 1 
 
 And that 's the way ye treat us ? 
 
 Oh say it, all who think it. 
 
 Look straight, and never blink it. 
 
 If it is so, let it be so. 
 
 And we will all agree so ; 
 
 But the plot has counterplot, 
 
 It may be, and yet be not.
 
 POEMS ON EELIGIOUS AND 
 BIBLICAL SUBJECTS.
 
 THE SONG OF LAMEGH. 
 
 Hearken to me, ye mothers of my tent : 
 Ye wives of Lamech, hearken to my sp eech : 
 Adah, let Jubal hither lead his goats : 
 And Tubal Cain, Zillah, hush the forge ; 
 Naamah her wheel shall ply beside, and thou, 
 My Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string. 
 Yea, Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string. 
 Hear ye my voice, beloved of my tent, 
 Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 For Eve made answer, Cain, my son, my own, 
 O, if I cursed thee, my child, I sinned, 
 And He that heard me, heard, and said me nay : 
 My first, my only one, thou shalt not go ; — 
 And Adam answered also, Cain, my son, 
 He that is gone forgiveth, we forgive : 
 Rob not thy mother of two sons at once ; 
 My child, abide with us and comfort us. 
 
 Hear ye my voice ; Adah and Zillah, near ; 
 Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 For Cain replied not. But, an hour more, sat 
 "Where the night through he sat ; his knit brows seen, 
 Scarce seen, amid the foldings of his limbs. 
 But when the sun was bright upon the field. 
 To Adam still, and Eve still waiting by, 
 And weeping, lift he up his voice and spake.
 
 38 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Cain said, The sun is risen upon the earth ; 
 
 The day demands my going, and I go. — 
 
 As you from Paradise, so I from you : 
 
 As you to exile, into exile I : 
 
 My father and my mother, I depart. 
 
 As betwixt you and Paradise of old, 
 
 So betwixt me, my parents, now, and you, 
 
 Cherubim I discei'n, and in their hand 
 
 A flaming swoi'd that turneth every way. 
 
 To keep the way of my one tree of life, 
 
 The way my spirit yearns to, of my love. 
 
 Yet not, O Adam and O Eve, fear not. 
 
 For He that asked me, Where is Abel 1 He 
 
 Who called me cursed from the earth, and said 
 
 A fugitive and vagabond thou art. 
 
 He also said, when fear had slain my soul. 
 
 There shall not touch thee man nor beast. Fear not. 
 
 Lo, I have spoke with God, and He hath said. 
 
 Fear not ; — and let me go as He hath said. 
 
 Cain, also said (0 Jubal, touch thy string), — 
 
 Moreover, in the darkness of my mind. 
 
 When the night's night of misery was most black, 
 
 A little star came twinkling up within, 
 
 And in myself I had a guide that led. 
 
 And in myself had knowledge of a soul. 
 
 Fear not, Adam and O Eve : I go. 
 
 Children of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 For when the years were multiplied, and Cain 
 
 Eastward of Eden, in this land of Nod, 
 
 Had sons, and sons of sons, and sons of them, 
 
 Enoch and Irad and Mehujael 
 
 (My father, and my children's gi-andsire he), 
 
 It came to pass, that Cain, who dwelt alone,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 39 
 
 Met Adam, at the nightfall, in the field : 
 
 Who fell upon his neck, and wept, and said, 
 
 My son, has not God spoken to thee, Cain 1 
 
 And Cain replied, when weeping loosed his voice, 
 
 My dreams are double, O my father, good 
 
 And evil. Terror to my soul by night, 
 
 And agony by day, when Abel stands 
 
 A dead, black shade, and speaks not, neither looks. 
 
 Nor makes me any answer when I cry — 
 
 Curse me, but let me know thou ai-t alive. 
 
 But comfort also, like a whisper, comes, 
 
 In visions of a deeper sleep, when he, 
 
 Abel, as him we knew, yours once and mine. 
 
 Comes with a free forgiveness in his face. 
 
 Seeming to speak, sohcitous for words. 
 
 And wearing ere he go the old, first look 
 
 Of unsuspecting, unforeboding love. 
 
 Three nights are gone I saw him thus, my Sire. 
 
 Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 For Adam said. Three nights ago to me 
 Came Abel, in my sleep, as thou hast said. 
 And spake, and bade, — Arise my father, go 
 Where in the land of exile dwells thy son ; 
 Say to my brother, Abel bids thee come, 
 Abel would have thee ; and lay thou thy hand. 
 My father, on his head, that he may come ; 
 Am I not weary, father, for this hour 1 
 Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear ; 
 Children of Lamech, listen to my speech : 
 And, son of Zillah, sound thy solemn string. 
 
 For Adam laid upon the head of Cain 
 
 His hand, and Cain bowed down, and slept, and died.
 
 40 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 . And a deep sleep on Adam also fell, 
 And, in his slumber's deepest, he beheld. 
 Standing before the gate of Paradise, 
 With Abel, hand in hand, our father Cain. 
 Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear ; 
 Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 Though to his wounding he did slay a man. 
 Yea, and a young man to his hurt he slew. 
 Fear not, ye wives, nor sons of Lamech fear 
 If unto Cain was safety given and rest. 
 Shall Lamech surely and his people die 1 
 
 JACOB. 
 
 My sons, and ye the children of my sons, 
 Jacob your father goes upon his way, 
 His pilgrimage is being accomplished. 
 Come near and hear him ere his words are o'er. 
 
 Not as my father's or his father's days, 
 As Isaac's days or Abraham's, have been mine ; 
 Not as the days of those that in the field 
 Walked at the eventide to meditate, 
 And haply, to the tent returning, found 
 Angels at nightfall waiting at their door. 
 They communed, Israel wrestled with the Lord. 
 No, not as Abraham's or as Isaac's days, 
 My sons, have been Jacob your father's days. 
 Evil and few, attaining not to theirs 
 In number, and in woi^th inferior much. 
 As a man with his friend, walked they with God, 
 In His abiding presence they abode.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 41 
 
 And all their acts were open to His face. 
 
 But I have had to force mine eyes away, 
 
 To lose, almost to shun, the thoughts I loved, 
 
 To bend down to the work, to bare the breast. 
 
 And struggle, feet and hands, with enemies ; 
 
 To buffet and to battle with hard men, 
 
 "With men of selfishness and violence ; 
 
 To watch by day, and calculate by night, 
 
 To plot and think of plots, and through a land 
 
 Ambushed with guile, and with strong foes beset, 
 
 To win with art safe wisdom's peaceful way. 
 
 Alas ! I know, and from the onset knew, 
 
 The first-born faith, the singleness of soul, 
 
 The antique pure simplicity with which 
 
 God and good angels communed undispleased, 
 
 Is not ; it shall not any more be said, 
 
 That of a blameless and a holy kind. 
 
 The chosen race, the seed of promise, comes. 
 
 The royal, high prerogatives, the dower 
 
 Of innocence and perfectness of life. 
 
 Pass not unto my children from their sire. 
 
 As unto me they came of mine ; they fit 
 
 Neither to Jacob nor to Jacob's race. 
 
 Think ye, my sons, in this extreme old age 
 
 And in this failing breath, that I forget 
 
 How on the day when from my father's dooi\ 
 
 In bitterness and ruefulness of heart, 
 
 I from my parents set my face, and felt 
 
 I never more again should look on theirs, 
 
 How on that day I seemed unto myself 
 
 Another Adam from his home cast out, 
 
 And driven abroad unto a barren land. 
 
 Cursed for his sake, and mocking still with thorns 
 
 And briers that labour and that sweat of brow 
 
 He still must spend to hve 1 Sick of my days,
 
 42 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 I wished not life, but cried out, Let me die ; 
 But at Luz God came to me ; in my heart 
 He put a better mmd, and showed me how. 
 While we discern it not, and least believe, 
 On stairs invisible betwixt His heaven 
 And our unholy, sinful, toilsome eai-th 
 Celestial messengers of loftiest good 
 Upward and downward pass continually. 
 Many, since I upon the field of Luz 
 Set up the stone I slept on, unto God, 
 Many have been the troubles of my life ; 
 Sins in the field and sorrows in the tent, 
 In mine own household anguish and despair. 
 And gall and wormwood mingled with my love. 
 The time would fail me should I seek to tell 
 Of a child wronged and cruelly revenged 
 (Accursed was that anger, it was fierce, 
 That wrath, for it was cruel) ; or of strife 
 And jealousy and cowardice, with lies 
 Mocking a father's misery ; deeds of blood, 
 Pollutions, sicknesses, and sudden deaths. 
 These many things against me many times, 
 The ploughers have ploughed deep upon my back, 
 And made deep furrows ; blessed be His name 
 Who hath delivered Jacob out of all. 
 And left within his spirit hope of good. 
 
 Come near to me, my sons : your father goes. 
 The hour of his departure draweth nigh. 
 Ah me ! this eager rivahy of life. 
 This cruel conflict for pre-eminence. 
 This keen supplanting of the dearest kin, 
 Quick seizure and fast unrelaxing hold 
 Of vantage- place ; the stony hard resolve, 
 The chase, the competition, and the craft
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 43 
 
 Which seems to be the poison of oiu- life, 
 
 And yet is the condition of our life ! 
 
 To have done things on which the eye with shame 
 
 Looks back, the closed hand clutching still the prize ! — 
 
 Alas ! what of all these things shall I say ! 
 
 Take me away unto Thy sleep, O God ! 
 
 I thank Thee it is over, yet I think 
 
 It was a work appointed me of Thee. 
 
 How is it ? I have striven all my days 
 
 To do my duty to my house and hearth, 
 
 And to the purpose of my father's race, 
 
 Yet is my heart therewith not satisfied. 
 
 THE NEW SINAI. 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God. 
 
 Believe it not, Man ; 
 In such vain sort to this and that 
 
 The ancient heathen ran : 
 Though old Religion shake her head, 
 
 And say in bitter grief, 
 The day behold, at first foretold, 
 
 Of atheist unbelief : 
 Take better part, with manly heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 Receive it not, believe it not, 
 
 Believe it not, Man ! 
 
 As men at dead of night awaked 
 With cries, ' The king is here,' 
 
 Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet, 
 Whoe'er shall first appear ; 
 
 And still repeat, to all the street, 
 * 'Tis he, — the king is here ; '
 
 44 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 The long procession moveth on , 
 
 Each nobler form they see, 
 With changeful suit they still salute, 
 
 And cry, ' 'Tis he, 'tis he ! ' 
 
 So, even so, when men were young, 
 
 And earth and heaven were new, 
 And His immediate presence He 
 
 From human hearts withdrew, 
 The soul perplexed and daily vexed 
 
 With sensuous False and True, 
 Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 
 
 And fain would see Him too : 
 
 * He is ! ' the prophet-tongues proclaimed ; 
 
 In joy and hasty fear, 
 ' He is ! ' aloud replied the crowd, 
 * Is here, and here, and here.' 
 
 ' He is ! They are ! ' in distance seen 
 
 On yon Olympus high. 
 In those Avernian woods abide, 
 
 And walk this azure sky : 
 
 * They are ! They are ! ' to every show 
 
 Its eyes the baby turned. 
 And blazes sacrificial, tall. 
 
 On thousand altars burned : 
 ' They are ! They are ! ' — On Sinai's top 
 
 Far seen the lightnings shone, 
 The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, 
 
 And God said, ' I am One.* 
 
 God spake it out, ' I, God, am One ; ' 
 
 The unheeding ages ran, 
 And baby-thoughts again, again 
 
 Have dogged the growing man :
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 45 
 
 And as of old from Sinai's top 
 
 God said that God is One, 
 By Science strict so speaks He now 
 
 To tell us, There is None ! 
 Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's 
 
 A JNIecanique Celeste ! 
 And heart and mind of human kind 
 
 A watch-work as the rest ! 
 
 Is this a Voice, as was the Voice, 
 
 Whose speaking told abroad, 
 When thunder pealed, and mountain reeled, 
 
 The ancient truth of God 1 
 Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 
 
 The outer darkness dense. 
 Where image none, nor e'er was seen 
 
 Similitude of sense. 
 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense 
 
 That wrapt the Mount around ; 
 While in amaze the people stays, 
 
 To hear the Coming Sound. 
 
 Is there no pro^ihet-soul the while 
 
 To dare, sublimely meek, 
 Within the shroud of blackest cloud 
 
 The Deity to seekl 
 'Midst atheistic systems dark, 
 
 And darker hearts' despair. 
 That soul has heard perchance His word, 
 
 And on the dusky air 
 His skirts, as passed He by, to see 
 
 Hath strained on their behalf. 
 Who on the plain, with dance amain. 
 
 Adore the Golden Calf.
 
 46 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; 
 
 Though blank the tale it tells, 
 No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 
 
 Is there — within it dwells ; 
 Within the sceptic darkness deep 
 
 He dwells that none may see. 
 Till idol forms and idol thoughts 
 
 Have passed and ceased to be : 
 No God, no Truth ! ah, though, in sooth, 
 
 So stand the doctrine's half : 
 On Egyjit's track return not back, 
 
 Nor own the Golden Calf. 
 
 Take better par-t, with manlier heai't, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 No God, no Truth ! receive it ne'er — 
 
 Believe it ne'er — man ! 
 But turn not then to seek again 
 
 What first the ill began; 
 No Grod, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 
 
 God's self-completing plan ; 
 Receive it not, but leave it not, 
 
 And wait i* out, O Man ! 
 
 ' The Man that went the cloud within 
 
 Is gone and vanished quite ; 
 He cometh not,' the people ciies, 
 
 ' Nor bringeth God to sight : 
 Lo these thy gods, that safety give; 
 
 Adore and keep the feast ! ' 
 Deluding and deluded cries, 
 
 The Prophet's brother-Priest : 
 And Israel all bows down to fall 
 
 Before the gilded beast.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 47 
 
 Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 
 
 O Man, reject as sin; 
 The clouded hill attend thou still, 
 
 And him that went within. 
 He yet shall bring some woi'thy thing 
 
 For waiting souls to see : 
 Some sacred word that he hath heard 
 
 Their light and life shall be ; 
 Some lofty part, than which the heart 
 
 Adopt no nobler can, 
 Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe, 
 
 And thou shalt do, JMan ! 
 
 Qui laborat, orat. 
 
 ONLY Source of all our light and life. 
 
 Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 
 But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
 
 Alone aright reveal ! 
 
 Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought. 
 
 Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 
 Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought, 
 
 My will adoreth Thine. 
 
 With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind 
 Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depait 
 
 Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind 
 Can see Thee as Thou art 1 — 
 
 If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 
 
 In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 
 
 It dai-e not dare the dread communion hold 
 In ways unworthy Thee,
 
 48 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
 In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 
 
 And if in work its life it seem to live, 
 Shalt make that work be prayer. 
 
 Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
 TJnsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, 
 
 And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
 In recognition start. 
 
 But, as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 
 
 The beatific supersensual sight. 
 So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer 
 
 Approach Thee morn and night. 
 
 Vfjbvos av/xvos. 
 
 O Thou whose image in the shrine 
 Of human spirits dwells divine ; 
 Which from that precinct once conveyed, 
 To be to outer day displayed, 
 Doth vanish, part, and leave behind 
 Mere blank and void of empty mind, 
 Which wilful fancy seeks in vain 
 With casual shapes to fill again ! 
 
 Thou that in our bosom's shrine 
 Dost dwell, unknown because divine ! 
 
 1 thought to speak, I thought to say, 
 ' The light is here,' ' behold the way,' 
 
 ' The voice was thus,' and ' thus the word,' 
 And ' thus I saw,' and ' that I heard,' — 
 But from the lips that half essayed 
 The imperfect utterance fell unmade.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 49 
 
 Thou, in that mysterious shi'ine 
 Enthroned, as I must say, divine ! 
 
 1 will not frame one thought of what 
 Thou mayest either be or not. 
 
 I will not prate of ' thus ' and ' so,' 
 And be profane with ' yes ' and ' no,' 
 Enough that in our soul and heart 
 Thou, whatso'er Thou may'st be, art. 
 
 Unseen, secure in that high shrine 
 Acknowledged present and divine, 
 I will not ask some upper air, 
 Some future day to place Thee there ; 
 Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
 And women saw Thee thus and then • 
 Thy name was such, and there or here 
 To him or her Thou didst appear. 
 
 Do only Thou in that dim shrine. 
 Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 
 There, or if not, at least in eyes 
 That scan the fact that round them lies, 
 The hand to sway, the judgment guide. 
 In sight and sense. Thyself divide : 
 Be Thou but there, — in soul and heart, 
 I will not ask to feel Thou art. 
 
 ' With whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' 
 
 It fortifies my soul to know 
 That, though I perish. Truth is so : 
 That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
 Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. 
 T steadier step when I recall 
 That, if I slip Thou dost not fall. 
 
 E
 
 50 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 ' thoxi of little faith.' 
 
 It may be true 
 That while we walk the troublous tossing sea, 
 That when we see the o'ertopping waves advance, 
 And when we feel oui* feet beneath us sink, 
 There ai-e who walk beside us ; and the cry 
 That rises so spontaneous to the lips. 
 The ' Help us or we perish,' is not novight, 
 An evanescent spectrum of disease. 
 It may be that indeed and not in fancy, 
 A hand that is not oui's upstays our steps, 
 A voice that is not ours commands the waves ; 
 Commands the waves, and whispers in our ear, 
 
 thou of Little faith, why didst thou doubt 1 
 At any rate, 
 
 That there are beings above us, I believe, 
 And when we lift up holy hands of prayer, 
 
 1 will not say they will not give us aid. 
 
 ' Hirough a glass darhhj.' 
 
 What we, when face to face we see 
 The Father of our souls, shall be, 
 John tells us, does not yet appear ; 
 Ah ! did he tell what we are here ! 
 
 A mind for thoughts to pass into, 
 A heart for loves to travel through. 
 Five senses to detect things near, 
 Is this the whole that we are here 1
 
 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 51 
 
 Rules baffle instincts — instincts rules, 
 Wise men are bad — and good are fools, 
 Facts evil — wishes vain appear, 
 We cannot go, why are we here 1 
 
 O may we for assurance sake, 
 Some arbitrary judgment take, 
 And wilfully pronounce it clear. 
 For this or that 'tis we are here 1 
 
 Or is it right, and will it do. 
 To pace the sad confusion through, 
 And say : — It doth not yet appear, 
 What we shall be, what we are here. 
 
 Ah yet, when all is thought and said, 
 The heart still overrules the head ; 
 Still what we hope we must believe. 
 And what is given us receive ; 
 
 Must still believe, for still we hope 
 That in a world of larger scope, 
 What here is faithfully begun 
 Will be completed, not undone. 
 
 My child, we still must think, when we 
 That ampler life together see, 
 Some true result will yet appear 
 Of what we are, together, here. 
 
 b2
 
 S2 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 AH, YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN! 
 
 ' Old things need not be therefore true,' 
 O brother men, nor yet the new ; 
 Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain, 
 And yet consider it again ! 
 
 The souls of now two thousand years. 
 Have laid up here their toils and fears. 
 And all the earnings of their pain, — 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 "We ! what do we see ? each a space 
 Of some few yards before his face ; 
 Does that the whole wide plan explain? 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 Alas ! the great world goes its way, 
 And takes its truth from each new day ; 
 They do not quit, nor can retain, 
 Far less consider it again. 
 
 1851 
 
 * What went ye out for to see ? ' 
 
 Across the sea, along the shore, 
 
 In numbers more and ever more, 
 
 From lonely hut and busy town. 
 
 The valley through, the mountain down, 
 
 What was it ye went out to see, 
 
 Ye silly folk of Galilee 1
 
 KELIGIOUS POEMS. 53 
 
 The reed that in the wind doth shake ? 
 The weed that washes in the lake ? 
 The reeds that waver, the weeds that float 1 — 
 A young man preaching in a boat. 
 
 What was it ye went out to hear 
 By sea and land, from far and near 1 
 A teacher 1 Rather seek the feet 
 Of those who sit in Moses' seat. 
 Go humbly seek, and bow to them, 
 Far off in great Jerusalem. 
 From them that in her courts she saw, 
 Her perfect doctors of the law, 
 What is it came ye here to note ? — 
 A young man preaching in a boat. 
 
 A prophet ! Boys and women weak ! 
 
 Declare, or cease to rave ; 
 Whence is it he hath learned to speak 1 
 
 Say, who his doctrine gave 1 
 A prophet 1 Prophet wherefore he 
 
 Of all in Israel tribes 1 — 
 He teacheth with authority, 
 
 And not as do the Scribes. 
 
 EPI-8TBA USS-IUM. 
 
 Matthew and Mark and Luke and holy John 
 
 Evanished all and gone ! 
 
 Yea, he that erst his dusky curtains quitting. 
 
 Thro' Eastern pictured panes his level beams transmitting, 
 
 With gorgeous portraits blent. 
 
 On them his glories intercepted spent.
 
 64 KELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Southwesterrng now, thro' windows plainly glassed, 
 
 On the inside face his radiance keen hath cast, 
 
 And in the lustre lost, invisible and gone, 
 
 Are, say you, Matthew, Mark and Luke and holy Johii 1 
 
 Lost, is it, lost, to be recovered never 1 
 
 However, 
 
 The place of worship the meantime with light 
 
 Is, if less richly, more sincerely bright, 
 
 And in blue skies the Orb is manifest to sight. 
 
 THE SHADOW. {A Fragment.) 
 
 I DREAMED a dream : I di^eamt that I espied. 
 
 Upon a stone that was not rolled aside, 
 
 A Shadow sit upon a grave — a Shade, 
 
 As thin, as unsubstantial, as of old 
 
 Came, the Greek poet told, 
 
 To lick the life-blood in the trench Ulysses made — 
 
 As pale, as thin, and said : 
 
 * I am the Resurrection of the Dead. 
 
 The night is past, the morning is at hand, 
 
 And I must in my proper semblance stand, 
 
 Appear brief space and vanish, — listen, this is true, 
 
 I am that Jesus whom they slew.' 
 
 And shadows dim, I dreamed, the dead apostles came, 
 And bent their heads for sorrow and for shame — 
 SoiTow for their great loss, and shame 
 For what they did in that vain name. 
 
 And in long ranges fai- behind there seemed 
 
 Pale vapoury angel forms ; or was it cloud 1 that kept 
 
 Strange watch ; the women also stood beside and wept.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 55 
 
 And Peter spoke the word : 
 ' my own Lord, 
 What is it we must do ? 
 Is it then all untrue ? 
 
 Did we not see, and hear, and handle Thee, 
 Yea, for whole hours 
 Upon the Mount in Galilee, 
 On the lake shore, and here at Bethany, 
 When thou ascended to Thy God and ours 1 ' 
 
 And paler still became the distant cloud, 
 And at the word the women wept aloud. 
 
 And the Shade answered, ' What ye say I know not : 
 
 But it is true 
 
 I am that Jesus whom they slew, 
 Whom ye have preached, but in what way I know not.' 
 
 ^ su ^ .afe ^ 4jf> 
 
 And the great World, it chanced, came by that way, 
 
 And stopped, and looked, and spoke to the police. 
 
 And said the thing, for order's sake and peace. 
 
 Most certainly must be suppressed, the nuisance cease. 
 
 His wife and daughter must have where to pray, 
 
 And whom to pray to, at the least one day 
 
 In seven, and something sensible to say. 
 
 Whether the fact so many yeai-s ago 
 
 Had, or not, happened, how was he to know ? 
 
 Yet he had always heard that it was so. 
 
 As for himself, perhaps it was all one ; 
 
 And yet he found it not unpleasant, too. 
 
 On Sunday morning in the roomy pew. 
 
 To see the thing with such decorum done 
 
 As for himself, perhaps it was all one ; 
 
 Yet on one's death-bed all men always said 
 
 It was a comfortable thing to think upon 
 
 The atonement and the resurrection of the dead.
 
 56 EELIGIOUS TOEilS. 
 
 So the great World as having said his say, 
 Unto his country-house pursued his way. 
 And on the grave the Shadow sat all day. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And the poor Pope was sure it must be so, 
 
 Else wherefore did the people kiss his toe 1 
 
 The subtle Jesuit cardinal shook his head, 
 
 And mildly looked and said, 
 
 It mattered not a jot 
 
 Whether the thing, indeetl, were so or not ; 
 
 Religion mnst be kept up, and the Church ]Dreserved, 
 
 And for the people this bett served. 
 
 And then he turned, and added most demurely, 
 
 ' Whatever may befall, 
 
 We Catholics need no evidence at all. 
 
 The holy father is infallible, surely ! ' 
 
 And EngKsh canons heard, 
 
 And quietly demurred. 
 
 Religion rests on evidence, of course. 
 
 And on inquiiy we must put no force. 
 
 Difficulties still, npon whatever ground. 
 
 Are likely, almost certain, to be found. 
 
 The Theist scheme, the Pantheist, one and all, 
 
 Must with, or e'en before, the Christian fall. 
 
 And till the thing were plainer to our eyes, 
 
 To disturb faith was surely most unwise. 
 
 As for the Shade, who trusted such narration 1 
 
 Except, of course, in ancient revelation. 
 
 And dignitaries of the Church came by. 
 It had been worth to some of them, they said. 
 Some hundred thousand pounds a year a head. 
 If it fetched so much in the market, truly, 
 'Twas not a thing to be given up unduly.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 57 
 
 It Lad been proved by Butler in one way, 
 By Paley better in a later day; 
 It had been proved in twenty ways at once, 
 By many a doctor plain to many a dunce ; 
 There was no question but it must be so. 
 
 And the Shade answered, that He did not know : 
 He had no reading, and might be deceived, 
 But still He was the Christ, as He believed. 
 
 And women, mild and pure, 
 
 Forth from still homes and village schools did pass, 
 And asked, if this indeed were thus, alas ! 
 What should they teach their children and the poor 1 
 The Shade replied. He could not know. 
 
 But it was truth, the fact was so. 
 
 ****** 
 
 EASTER DAY. 
 
 NAPLES, 1849. 
 
 Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past, 
 With fiercer heat than flamed above my head 
 
 My heart was hot within me ; till at last 
 
 My brain was lightened when my tongue had said^ 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Christ is not risen, no — 
 He lies and mouldei's low ; 
 Christ is not lisen ! 
 What though the stone were rolled away, and though 
 The grave found empty there 1 — 
 If not there, then elsewhere ;
 
 58 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 If not where Joseph laid Him first, why then 
 
 Where other men 
 Translaid Him after, in some humbler clay. 
 
 Long ere to-day 
 Corruption that sad perfect work hath done, 
 Which here she scarcely, lightly had begun : 
 
 The foul engendered worm 
 Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form 
 Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 
 
 He is not risen, no — 
 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 What if the women, ere the dawn was grey, 
 Saw one or more great angels, as they say 
 (Angels, or Him himself) 1 Yet neither there, nor then, 
 Not afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at all. 
 Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten ; 
 Nor, save in thunderous terror, to bind Saul ; 
 Save in an after Gospel and late Creed, 
 He is not risen, indeed, — 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Or, what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten 
 
 Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet again 1 
 
 What if at Emmaiis inn, and by Capernaum's Lake, 
 
 Came One, the bread that brake — 
 Came One that spake as never mortal spake. 
 And with them ate, and drank,and stood, and walked about 1 
 
 Ah ! ' some ' did well to ' doubt ! ' 
 Ah ! the true Christ, while these things came to pass, 
 Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor lived, alas ! 
 
 He was not I'isen, no — 
 
 He lay and mouldered low, 
 Christ was not risen !
 
 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 59 
 
 As circulates in some great city crowd 
 A rumour changeful, vague, importunate, and loud. 
 From no determined centre, or of fact 
 Or authorsLip exact. 
 Which no man can deny 
 
 Nor verify ; 
 So spread the wondrous fame : 
 
 He all the same 
 Lay senseless, mouldering, low : 
 He was not risen, no — 
 Christ was not risen ! 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just — 
 Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
 This is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Is He not risen, and shall we not rise 1 
 
 Oh, we unwise ! 
 What did we dream, what wake we to discover 1 
 Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, cover ! 
 
 In darkness and great gloom 
 Come ere we thought it is our day of doom ; 
 From the cursed world, which is one tomb, 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Eat, drink, and play, and think that this is bliss : 
 There is no heaven but this ; 
 
 There is no hell, 
 Save earth, which serves the purpose doubly well. 
 
 Seeing it visits still 
 With equalest apportionment of ill 
 Both good and bad alike, and brings to one same dust 
 
 The unjust and the just 
 
 With Christ, who is not risen.
 
 60 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved : 
 Of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope 
 We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, 
 And most beliefless, that had most believed. 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just — 
 Yea, of that Just One too ! 
 It is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 "Weep not beside the tomb. 
 
 Ye women, unto whom 
 He was great solace while ye tended Him ; 
 
 Ye who with napkin o'er the head 
 And folds of linen round each wounded limb 
 
 Laid out the Sacred Dead ; 
 And thou that bar'st Him in thy wondering womb ; 
 Yea, Daughters of Jerusalem, depart, 
 Bind up as best ye may your own sad bleeding heart : 
 Go to your homes, your living children, tend, 
 
 Your earthly spouses love ; 
 
 Set your affections not on things above, 
 Which moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest come to end : 
 Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can. 
 For death ; since dead is He whom ye deemed more than 
 man. 
 
 Who is not risen : no — 
 
 But lies and moulders low — 
 Who is not risen ! 
 
 Ye men of Galilee ! 
 Why stand ye looking up to heaven, where Him ye ne'er 
 
 may see. 
 Neither ascending hence, nor returning hither again 
 
 Ye ignorant and idle fishermen !
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. Gl 
 
 Hence to youx- huts, and boats, and inland native shore, 
 
 And catch not men, but fish ; 
 
 Whate'er things ye might wish, 
 Him neither here nor there ye e'er shall meet with more. 
 
 Ye poor deluded youths, go home. 
 
 Mend the old nets ye left to roam. 
 
 Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail : 
 
 It was indeed an ' idle tale ' — 
 He was not risen! 
 
 And, oh, good men of ages yet to be, 
 Who shall believe because ye did not see — 
 
 Oh, be ye warned, be wise ! 
 
 No more wdth pleading eyes, 
 
 And sobs of strong desire. 
 
 Unto the empty vacant void aspire. 
 Seeking another and impossible birth 
 That is not of youi' own, and only mother earth. 
 But if there is no other life for you. 
 Sit down and be content, since this must even do : 
 He is not risen ! 
 
 One look, and then depart. 
 
 Ye humble and ye holy men of heart ; 
 And ye ! ye ministers and stewards of a Word 
 Which ye would preach, because another heard — 
 
 Ye worshippers of that ye do not know, 
 
 Take these things hence and go : — 
 He is not risen ! 
 
 Here, on our Easter Day 
 We rise, we come, and lo ! we find Him not. 
 Gardener nor other, on the sacred spot : 
 Where they have laid him there is none to say ;
 
 62 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 No sound, nor in, nor out — no word 
 Of where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord. 
 There is no glistering of an angel's wing.s. 
 There is no voice of heavenly clear behest : 
 Let us go hence, and think upon these things 
 Li silence, which is best. 
 Is He not risen 1 No — 
 But lies and moulders low 1 
 Christ is not risen 1 
 
 EASTER DAY. 
 
 II 
 
 So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone, 
 
 I with my secret self held communing of mine own. 
 
 So in the southern city spake the tongue 
 Of one that somewhat overwildly sung, 
 But in a later hour I sat and heard 
 Another voice that spake — another graver word. 
 Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said. 
 Though He be dead. He is not dead. 
 
 In the true creed 
 
 He is yet risen indeed; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Weep not beside His tomb, 
 
 Ye women unto whom 
 
 He was great comfort and yet greater grief; 
 
 Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with him to roam, 
 
 Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to your home ; 
 
 Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief ;
 
 EELIGIOUS POEMS. 63 
 
 Though He be dead, He is not dead, 
 Nor gone, though fled, 
 Not lost, though vanished ; 
 Though He return not, though 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 In the true creed 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Sit if ye -will, sit down upon the ground, 
 
 Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around. 
 
 Whate'er befell. 
 
 Earth is not hell ; 
 Now, too, as when it first began. 
 Life is yet life, and man is man. 
 For all that breathe beneath the heaven's high cope, 
 Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope. 
 Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief; 
 Or at least, faith unbelief. 
 
 Though dead, not dead ; 
 
 Not gone, though fled ; 
 
 Not lost, though vanished. 
 
 In the great Gospel and true creed, 
 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen.
 
 DIPSYCHUS.
 
 PROLOGUE TO DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 ' I HOPE it is in good plain verse,' said my uncle, — ' none of 
 your hurry-scurry anapaests, as you call them, in lines 
 which sober people read for plain heroics. Nothing is more 
 disagreeable than to say a line over two, or, it may be, three 
 or four times, and at last not be sure that there are not 
 three or four ways of reading, each as good and as much 
 intended as another. iSimjjlex duntaxat et umitn. But you 
 young people think Horace and your uncles old fools.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear sir,' said I ; ' that is, I mean, 
 Horace and my uncle are perfectly right. Still, there is an 
 instructed ear and an uninstructed, A rude taste for 
 identical recurrences would exact sing-song from " Paradise 
 Lost," and grumble because '' II Penseroso " doesn't run like 
 a nursery rhyme.' ' Well, well,' said my uncle, ' su7it certi 
 denique fines, no doubt. So commence, my young Piso, 
 while Ai'istarchus is tolerably wakeful, and do not waste by 
 your logic the fund you will want for your poetry.
 
 67 
 
 DIPSYCHUS* 
 
 Part I. — Scene I. 
 The Piazza at Venice, 9 p.m. Dipsyckus and the Spirit. 
 
 Di. The scene is different, and the place, tlie air 
 Tastes of the nearer north ; the people 
 Not perfect southern lightness; wherefore, then, 
 Should those old verses come into my mind 
 I made last year at Naples % Oh, poor fool ! 
 Still resting on thyself — a thing ill-worked — 
 A moment's thought committed on the moment 
 To unripe words and rugged verse : — 
 ' Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past, 
 
 With fiercer heat than flamed above my head 
 My heart was hot within me ; till at last 
 
 My brain was lightened when my tongue had said — 
 Christ is not risen ! ' 
 
 Sp. Christ is not risen % Oh, indeed, 
 I didn't know that was your creed. 
 
 Bi. So it went on, too lengthy to repeat — 
 ' Christ is not risen.' 
 
 Sp. Dear, how odd ! 
 
 He'll tell us next there is no God. 
 
 * This poem, as well as the ' Mari Magno,' was not published during the 
 author's lifetime, and should not be regarded iis having received his linish- 
 ing touches. 
 
 P2
 
 68 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 I thought 'twas in the Bible plain, 
 On the third day He rose again. 
 
 Di. ' Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the tmjust, also of the just — 
 
 Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
 Is He not risen, and shall we not rise 1 
 Oh, we unwise ! ' 
 
 Sp. H'm ! and the tone, then, after all, 
 Something of the ironical] 
 Sarcastic, say ; or were it fitter 
 To style it the religious bitter 1 
 
 Di. Interpret it I cannot. I but wrote it — 
 At Naples, truly, as the preface tells. 
 Last year, in the Toledo ; it came on me, 
 And did me good at once. At Naples then. 
 At Yenice now. Ah ! and I think at Yenice 
 Christ is not risen either. 
 
 Sj). Nay, 
 
 Such things don't fall out every day : 
 Having once happened, as we knoAv, 
 In Palestine so long ago. 
 How should it now at Yenice here 
 Wliere people, true enough, appear 
 To appreciate more and understand 
 Their ices, and their Austrian band 
 And dark-eyed girls. 
 
 J)i. The whole great square they fill 
 
 From the red flaunting streamers on the staffs. 
 And that barbaric portal of St. Mark's, 
 To where, unnoticed, at the darker end.
 
 DIPSTCHUS. 69 
 
 I sit upon my step — one great gay crowd- 
 The Campanile to the silent stars 
 Goes up, above— its apex lost in aii' — 
 While these do what 1 
 
 iSp. Enjoy the minute, 
 
 And the substantial blessings in it : 
 Ices, par exemjjle ; evening air, 
 Company, and this handsome sqiiare; 
 And all the sweets in perfect plenty 
 Of the old dolcefar niente. 
 Music ! Up, up ; it isn't fit 
 With beggars here on steps to sit. 
 Up, to the caffe ! take a chair, 
 And join the wiser idlers there. 
 And see that fellow singing yonder ; 
 Singing, ye gods, and dancing too — 
 Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo — 
 Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di ; 
 Figaro su, Figaro giu— 
 Figaro qua, Figaro la ! 
 How he Hkes doing it — Ha, ha ! 
 
 Di. While these do what ? Ali, heaven ! too true, at 
 Venice 
 Christ is not risen either. 
 
 Scene II. — The Public Garden. 
 
 Di. Assuredly, a lively scene ! 
 And, ah, how pleasant something gi-een ! 
 With circling heavens one perfect rose 
 Each smoother patch of water glows. 
 Hence to where, o'er the fuU tide's face, 
 We see the Palace and the Place,
 
 70 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 And the white dome ; beauteous, but hot. 
 Where in the meantime is the spot — 
 My favourite — where by masses blue, 
 And white cloud-folds, I follow true 
 The great Alps, rounding gi-andly o'er, 
 Huge arc, to the Dalmatian shore 1 
 
 jS]}. This rather stupid place, to-day, 
 It's true, is most extremely gay ; 
 And rightly — the Assunzione 
 Was always a gran' /unzione. 
 
 Di. What is this persecuting voice that haunts me ? 
 What 1 whence ? of whom 1 How am I to detect 1 
 Myself or not myself 1 My own bad thoughts, 
 Or some external agency at work, 
 To lead me who knows whither 1 
 
 Sp. Eh? 
 
 We're certainly in luck to-day : 
 What crowds of boats before us plying — 
 Gay parties, singing, shouting, crying — 
 Saluting others past them flying ! 
 What numbei-s at the causeway lying ! 
 What lots of pretty girls, too, hieing 
 Hither and thither — coming, going, 
 And with what satisfaction showing 
 Their dark exuberance of hair, 
 Black eyes, rich tints, and sundry graces 
 Of classic pure Italian faces ! 
 
 Di. Ah me, me ! 
 
 Clear stars above, thou roseate westward sky. 
 Take up my being into yours ; assume 
 My sense to know you only ; steep my brain
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 71 
 
 In your essential purity ; or, great Alps, i 
 
 That wrapping round your heads in solemn clouds 
 Seem sternly to sweep past our vanities, 
 Lead me with you — take me away, preserve me ! 
 
 moon and stars, forgive ! and thou, clear heaven, 
 Look pureness back into me. Oh, great God ! 
 Why, why, in wisdom and in grace's name, 
 And in the name of saiats and saintly thoughts, 
 Of mothers, and of sisters, and chaste wives, 
 And angel woman-faces we have seen. 
 And angel woman-spirits we have guessed, 
 And innocent sweet children, and pure love, 
 Why did I ever one brief moment's space 1 
 
 But parley with this filthy Belial ? 
 
 Was it the fear 
 
 Of being behind the world, which is the wicked 1 
 
 Scene III. — At the Hotel. 
 
 Sp. Come, then. 
 
 And with my aid go into good society. 
 Life little loves, 'tis true, this peevish piety ; 
 E'en they with whom it thinks to be securest — 
 Your most religious, delicatest, purest — 
 Discern, and show as pious people can 
 Their feeling that you are not quite a man. 
 Still the thing has its place ; and with sagacity, 
 Much might be done by one of your capacity. 
 A virtuous attachment formed judiciously 
 Would come, one sees, uncommonly propitiously : 
 Turn you but your affections the right way, 
 And what mayn't happen none of vis can say ; 
 For in despite of devUs and of mothers. 
 Your good young men make catches, too, like others.
 
 72 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 I Di. To hei-d with people that one owns no care for ; 
 
 Friend it Avith strangers that one sees but once ; 
 
 To drain the heart with endless complaisance ; 
 I To wai'p the unfinished diction on the lip, 
 
 And twist one's mouth to counterfeit ; enforce 
 I Reluctant looks to falsehood ; base-alloy 
 ; The ingenuous golden frankness of the past ; 
 ' To calculate and plot ; be rough and smooth, 
 
 Forward and silent, deferential, cool, 
 
 Not by one's humour, which is the safe truth, 
 
 But on consideration. 
 
 Sp. That is, act 
 
 On a dispassionate judgment of the fact ; 
 Look all the data fairly in the face. 
 And rule your judgment simply by the case. 
 
 Di. On vile consideration. At the best, 
 With pallid hotbed courtesies to forestall 
 The green and vernal spontaneity. 
 And waste the priceless moments of the man 
 In regulating manner. Whether these things 
 Be right, I do not know : I only know 'tis 
 To lose one's youth too early. Oh, not yet — 
 , Not yet I make the sacrifice. 
 
 Sp. Du tout ! 
 
 To give up nature's just what would not do. 
 By all means keep your sweet ingenuous graces, 
 And use them at the proper times and places. 
 For work, for play, for business, talk and love, 
 I own as wisdom truly from above, 
 That scrij)ture of the serpent and the dove ; 
 Nor's aught so perfect for the world's affairs 
 As the old parable of wheat and tares j
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 73 
 
 What we all love is good touched up with evil — 
 Religion's self must have a spice of devil. 
 
 Di. Let it be enough, 
 
 That in our needful mixture with the world, 
 On each new morning with the rising sun, 
 Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep, 
 Scarce o'er the level lifts his purer orb 
 Ere lost and sullied with polluting smoke — - 
 A noon-day coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth. 
 Some vagrant miscreant meets, and with a look 
 Transmutes me his, and for a whole sick day 
 Lepers me. 
 
 Sp. Just the one thing, I assure you. 
 
 From which good company can't but secure you. 
 About the individual's not so clear, 
 But who can doubt the general atmosphere ? 
 
 Di. Ay truly, who at first? but in a while 
 
 Sp. O dear, this o'er-discernment makes me smile. 
 You don't pretend to tell me you can see 
 Without one touch of melting sympathy 
 Those lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloom 
 The brilliant season's gay parterre-like room. 
 Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances ; 
 Those graceful forms and pei'fect countenances, 
 Whose every fold and line in all their dresses 
 Something refined and exquisite expresses. 
 To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly, 
 In me destroys all lower thoughts completely; 
 I really seem, without exaggeration. 
 To experience the ti'ue regeneration. 
 One's own dress, too — one's manner, what one's doing 
 And saying, all assist to one's renewing.
 
 74 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 I love to see, in these their fitting places, 
 The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces. 
 I heartily could wish we'd kept some more of them, 
 However much we talk about the bore of them. 
 Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it, 
 Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it. 
 'Tis sad to what democracy is leading- 
 Give me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding. 
 Thovigh I can put up gladly with the present. 
 And quite can think our modern parties pleasant. 
 One shouldn't analyse the thing too nearly : 
 The main effect is admii-able clearly. 
 * Good manners,' said our great-aunts, ' next to piety : 
 And so my friend, hurrah for good society ! 
 
 Scene IV. — On the Piazza. 
 
 Sp. Insulted ! by the living Lox*d ! 
 He laid his hand upon his sword. 
 ' Fo7-t,' did he say ? a German brute. 
 With neither heart nor brains to shoot. 
 
 Di. What does he mean? he's wrong, I had doue 
 nothing. 
 'Twas a mistake — more his, I am sure, than mine. 
 He is quite wrong — I feel it. Come, let us go. 
 
 K^p. Go up to him ! — you must, that's flat. 
 Be threatened by a beast like that ! 
 
 JJi. He's \T[olent : what can I do against him ? 
 I neither wish to be killed nor to kill : 
 What's more, I never yet have touched a sword, 
 Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 75 
 
 Sp. Oh, never iiiind, 'twon't come to fighting — 
 Only some verbal small requiting ; 
 Or give your card — we'll do't by writing. 
 He'll not stick to it. Soldiers too 
 Are cowards, just like me or you. 
 What ! not a single word to throw at 
 This snarling dog of a d d Croat 1 
 
 Di. My heavens ! why should I carel he does not 
 hurt me. 
 If he is wrong, it is the worst for him, 
 I certainly did nothing : I shall go. 
 
 Sp. Did nothing ! I should think not ; no, 
 Nor ever will, 1 dare be sworn ! 
 But, my friend, well-bred, well-born — 
 You to behave so in these quarrels 
 Makes me half doubtful of your morals ! 
 
 It were all one, 
 
 You had been some shopkeeper's son, 
 
 Whose childhood ne'er was shown aught better 
 
 Than bills of creditor and del:)tor, 
 
 Di. By heaven, it falls from off me like the rain 
 From the oil-coat, I seem in spirit to see 
 How he and I at some great day shall meet 
 Before some awful judgment-seat of truth ; 
 And I could deem that I behold him tliere 
 Come praying for the pardon I give now, 
 Did I not think these matters too, too small 
 For any record on the leaves of time. 
 O thou great Watcher of this noisy world, 
 Wliat are they in Thy sight % or what in his 
 Who finds some end of action in his life 1 
 What e'en in his whoso sole permitted course
 
 76 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Is to pursue his peaceful byway walk, 
 And live his brief life purely in Thy sight, 
 And righteously towards his brother-men 1 
 
 Sp. And whether, so you're just and fair, 
 Other folks are so, you don't care; 
 You who profess more love than others 
 For your poor sinful human brothers. 
 
 I)i. For grosser evils their gross remedies 
 The laws afford us ; let us be content ; 
 For finer wounds the law would, if it could, 
 Find medicine too ; it cannot, let us bear ; 
 For sufferance is the badge of all men's tribes. 
 
 /Sjj. Because we can't do all we would. 
 Does it follow, to do nothing's good '? 
 No Avay to help the law's rough sense 
 By equities of self-defence 1 
 Well, for yourself it may be nice 
 To serve vulgarity and vice : 
 Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers, 
 Fare like their patient sons and brothers 1 
 
 Di. He that loves sister, mother, more than me 
 
 S2'). But the injustice — the gross wrong ! 
 To whom on earth does it belong 
 If not to you, to whom 'twas done. 
 Who saw it plain as any sun, 
 To make the base and foul offender 
 Confess, and satisfaction render 1 
 At least before the termination of it 
 Prove your own lofty reprobation of it. 
 Though gentleness, I know, was born in you, 
 Surely you have a little scorn in you ?
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 77 
 
 Di. Heaven ! to pollute one's fingers to pick up 
 The fallen coin of honour from the dirt — 
 Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie ! 
 To take up any ofience, Avhere't may be said 
 That temper, vanity — I know not what — 
 Had led me on ! 
 
 To have so much as e'en half felt of one 
 That ever one was angered for oneself ! 
 Beyond suspicion Caesar's wife should be, 
 Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall. 
 Did he say scorn 1 I have some scorn, thank God. 
 
 Sp. Certainly. Only if it's so, 
 Let us leave Italy, and go 
 
 Post haste, to attend — you're ripe and rank foi't— 
 The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort. 
 Joy to the Croat ! Take our lives, 
 Sweet friends, and please respect our wives ; 
 Joy to the Croat ! Some fine day, 
 He'll see the ei-ror of his way, 
 No doubt, and will repent and pray. 
 At any rate he'll open his eyes, 
 If not before, at the Last Assize. 
 Not, if I rightly understood you. 
 That even then you'd punish, would you ? 
 Nay, let the hapless soul go free — 
 Mei"e murder, crime, or robbery. 
 In whate'er station, age, or sex, 
 Your sacred spirit scarce can vex : 
 De minimis non curat lex. 
 To the Peace Congress ! ring the bell ! 
 Horses to Frankfort and to ! 
 
 Di. I am not quite in union with myself 
 On this stranjre matter, I must needs confess
 
 78 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Instinct turns instinct out, and thought 
 Wheels round on thought. To bleed for others' wrongs 
 In vindication of a cause, to draw 
 The sword of the Lord and Gideon— oh, that seeins 
 I The flower and top of life ! But fight because 
 Some poor misconstruing trifler haps to say 
 I lie, when I do not lie, 
 
 Why should 1 1 Call you thLs a cause 1 I can't. 
 Oh, he is wT.'ong, no doubt ; he misbehaves — 
 But it is worth so much as speaking loud ? 
 And things so merely personal to myself 
 Of all earth's things do least affect myself. 
 
 ^S"^;. Sweet eloquence ! at next May Meeting 
 How it would tell in the repeating ! 
 I recognise, and kiss the rod — 
 The methodistic ' voice of God ; ' 
 I catch contrite that angel whine. 
 That snuffle human, yet di^dne. 
 
 Bi. It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon ; 
 I never fought at school ; whether it be 
 Some native poorness in my spirit's blood, 
 Or that the holy doctrine of our faith 
 In too exclusive fervency possessed 
 My heart with feelings, with ideas my brain. 
 
 S'p. Yes ; you would argue that it goes 
 Against the Bible, I suppose ; 
 But our revered religion — yes, 
 Our common faith — seems, I confess, 
 On these points to propose to address 
 The people more than you or me — 
 At best the vulgar bourgeoisie. 
 The sacred writers don't keep count, ' 
 But still the Sei'mon on the Mount
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 79 
 
 Must have been spoken, by what's stated, 
 To hearers by the thousands rated. 
 I cufF some fellow ; mild and meek 
 He should turn round the other cheek. 
 For him it may be right and good ; 
 We are not all of gentle blood 
 Really, or as such understood. 
 
 Di. There are two kindreds upon earth, I know — 
 The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me. 
 If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept, 
 May my last end, and life too, be with these. 
 Yes ; whatsoe'er the reason, want of blood. 
 Lymphatic humours, or my childhood's faith, 
 So is the thing, and be it well or ill, 
 I have no choice. I am a man of peace. 
 And the old Adam of the gentleman 
 Dares seldom in my bosom stir against 
 The mild plebeian Christian seated there. 
 
 Sj). Forgive me, if I name my doubt, 
 Whether yov; know ^fort ' means ' get out! 
 
 Scene Y. — The Lido. 
 
 Sp. What now 1 the Lido shall it be 1 
 That none may say we didn't see 
 The ground which Byron used to ride on, 
 And do I don't know what beside on. 
 Ho, bai'ca ! here ! and this light gale 
 Will let us run it with a sail. 
 
 Di. I dreamt a dream : till morning light 
 A bell rang in my head all night,
 
 80 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Tinkling and tinkling first, and then 
 Tolling and tinkling, tolling again, 
 So bi'isk and gay, and then so slow ! 
 O joy and terror ! mirth and woe ! 
 Ting, ting, there is no God ; ting, ting, — 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 There is no God ; dong, dong. 
 
 Ting, ting, there is no God ; ting, ting. 
 Come, dance and play, and merrily sing. 
 Staid Englishman, who toil and slave 
 From your first childhood to your grave, 
 And seldom spend and always save — 
 And do your duty all your life 
 By your young family and wife ; 
 Come, be't not said you ne'er had known 
 What eai'th can furnish you alone. 
 The Italian, Frenchman, German even, 
 Have given up all thoughts of heaven : 
 And you still linger — oh, you fool ! — 
 Because of what you learnt at school. 
 You should have gone at least to college, 
 And got a little ampler knowledge. 
 Ah well, and yet — dong, dong, dong : 
 Do as you like, as now you do ; 
 If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too. 
 And nothing's new and nothing's true : 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 0, in our nook unknown, unseen, 
 
 We'll hold our fancy like a screen 
 
 Us and the dreadful fact between ; 
 
 And it shall yet l)e long — ay, long — 
 
 The quiet notes of our low song 
 
 Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong. —
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 81 
 
 Hark, hark, hark ! voice of fear, 
 It reaches us here, even here ! 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 Hing ding, ring ding, tara, tara. 
 
 To battle, to battle — haste, haste — 
 
 To battle, to battle — aha, aha ! 
 
 On, on, to the conqneror's feast. 
 
 From east to west, and south and north. 
 
 Ye men of valour and of worth. 
 
 Ye mighty men of arms come forth. 
 
 And work your will, for that is just ; 
 
 And in your impulse put your trust, 
 
 Beneath your feet the fools are dust. 
 
 Alas, alas ! grief and wrong. 
 
 The good are weak, the wicked strong ; 
 
 And my God, how long, how long ! 
 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 Ring, ting ; to bow before the strong, 
 
 There is a rapture too in this ; 
 
 Work for thy master, work, thou slave — 
 
 He is not merciful, but brave. 
 
 Be't joy to serve, who free and proud 
 
 Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd ; 
 
 Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed. 
 
 Except the snaky hope that they 
 
 May sometime serve who rule to-day. 
 
 When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay 1 
 
 wickedness, shame and grief. 
 
 And heavy load, and no relief ! 
 
 God, O God ! and which is worst, 
 
 To be the curser or the curst. 
 
 The victim or the murderer 1 Dong. 
 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 G
 
 82 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara, 
 Aw^ay, and hush that preaching— fagh ! 
 Ye vulgar dreamers about peace, 
 Who offer noblest hearts, to heal 
 The tenderest hurts honour can feel, 
 Paid magistrates and the police ! 
 
 peddling merchant-justice, go, 
 Exacter rules than yours we know ; 
 Resentment's rule, and that high law 
 Of whoso best the sword can draw. 
 Ah well, and yet — dong, dong, dong. 
 Go on, my friends, as now you do ; 
 Lawyers are villains, soldiers too ; 
 And nothing's new and nothing's true. 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 1 had a di^eam, from eve to light 
 
 A bell went sounding all the night. 
 
 Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain: 
 
 I tried to stop it, but in vain. 
 
 It ran right on, and never broke ; 
 
 Only when day began to stream 
 
 Through the -white curtains to my bed. 
 
 And like an angel at my head 
 
 Light stood and touched me — I awoke. 
 
 And looked, and said, ' It is a dream.' 
 
 Sp. Ah ! not so bad. You've read, I see, 
 Your Beranger, and thought of me. 
 But really you owe some apology 
 For harping thus upon theology. 
 I'm not a judge, I own ; in short. 
 Religion may not be my forte. 
 The Church of England I belong to, 
 And think Dissenters not far wi'ong too ;
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 83 
 
 They're vulgar dogs ; but for Ms creed 
 
 I hold that no man will be d d. 
 
 But come and listen in your turn, 
 
 And you shall hear and mark and learn. 
 
 ' There is no God,' the wicked saith, 
 
 ' And truly it's a blessing, 
 For what He might have done with us 
 
 It's better only guessmg.' 
 
 ' There is no God,' a youngster thinks, 
 
 ' Or really, if there may be, 
 He surely didn't mean a man 
 
 Always to be a baby.' 
 
 * There is no God, or if there is,' 
 
 The tradesman thinks, ' 'twere funny 
 
 If He should take it ill in me 
 To make a little money.' 
 
 ' Whether there be,' the rich man says, 
 
 ' It matters very little, 
 For I and mine, thank somebody, 
 
 Are not in want of victual.' 
 
 Some others, also, to themselves. 
 
 Who scarce so much as doubt it. 
 Think there is none, when they are well, 
 
 And do not think about it. 
 
 But country folks who live beneath 
 
 The shadow of the steeple ; 
 The parson and the parson's wife. 
 
 And mostly married people ; 
 
 G2
 
 84 DIPSYCHUS 
 
 Youths green aud happy in first love, 
 
 So thankful for illusion ; 
 And men caught out in what the world 
 
 Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 
 
 And almost every one when age, 
 
 Disease, or sorrows strike him. 
 Inclines to think there is a God, 
 
 Or something very like Him. 
 
 Bvit eccoci ! with our harchetta, 
 Here at the Sant' Elisabetta. 
 
 Di. Vineyards and maize, that's pleasant for sore eyes. 
 
 Sp. And on the island's otlier side, 
 The place where Murray's faithful Guide 
 Informs us Byron used to ride. 
 
 Di. The trellised vines ! enchanting ! Sandhills, ho ! 
 The sea, at last the sea — the real broad sea — 
 Beautiful ! and a glorious breeze upon it. 
 
 Sp. Look back ; one catches at this station 
 Lagoon and sea in combination. 
 
 Di. On her still lake the city sits. 
 Where bark and boat around her flits, 
 Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking, 
 Of Adriatic billows breaking. 
 I do ; I see and hear them. Come ! to the sea ! 
 Oh, a grand surge! we'll bathe; quick, quick! — undress! 
 Quick, quick ! — in, in ! 
 
 We'll take the crested billows by their backs 
 And shake them. Quick ! in, in I
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 85 
 
 And I will taste again the old joy 
 I gloried in so when a boy ; 
 Aha ! come, come — great waters, roll ! 
 Accept me, take me, body and soul ! 
 That's done me good. It grieves me though, 
 I never came here long ago. 
 
 Sjy- Pleasant, perhaps ; however, no offence, 
 Animal spirits are not common sense ; 
 Tliey're good enough as an assistance, 
 But in themselves a poor existence. 
 But you, with this one bathe, no doubt, 
 Have solved all questions out and out. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 Scene I. — Tlie interior Arcade of the Doge's Palace. 
 
 Sp. Thunder and rain ! O dear, dear ! 
 But see, a noble shelter here. 
 This grand arcade where our Venetian 
 Has formed of Gothic and of Grecian 
 A combination strange, but striking. 
 And singularly to my liking ! 
 Let moderns reap where ancients sowed, 
 I at least make it my abode. 
 And now let's hear your famous Ode : 
 * Through the great sinful ' — how did it go on 1 
 For pi'inciples of Art and so on 
 1 cai-e perhaps about three curses. 
 But hold myself a judge of verses. 
 
 Di. ' My brain was lightened when my tongue 
 had said, " Christ is not risen." '
 
 86 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Sp. Well, now it's anything but clear 
 What is the tone that's taken here : 
 What is yonr logic ? what's your theology? 
 Is it, or is it not, neology ? 
 That's a great fault ; you're this and that, 
 And here and there, and nothing flat ; 
 Yet writing's golden word what is it. 
 But the thi'ee syllables ' explicit ' ? 
 Say, if you cannot help it, less, 
 But what you do put, put express. 
 I fear that rule won't meet your feeling : 
 You think half showing, half concealing. 
 Is God's own method of revealing. 
 
 Di. To please my own poor mind ! to find repose; 
 To physic the sick soul ; to furnish vent 
 To diseased humours in the moral frame ! 
 
 Sp. A sort of seton, I suppose, 
 A moral bleeding at the nose : 
 H'm ; — and the tone too after all, 
 Something of the ironical ] 
 Sarcastic, say ; or were it fitter 
 To style it the religious bitter ? 
 
 Di. Interpret it I camaot, I but wrote it. 
 
 Sp. Perhaps ; but none that read can doubt it, 
 There is a strong Strauss-smell about it. 
 Heavens ! at your years your time to fritter 
 Upon a critical hair-splitter ! 
 Take larger views (and quit your Germans) 
 From the Analogy and sermons ; 
 I fancied — you must doubtless know — 
 Butler had proved an age ago,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 87 
 
 That in religious as profane things 
 'Twas useless trying to explain things ; 
 Men's business-wits, the only sane things, 
 These and compliance are the main things. 
 God, Revelation, and the rest of it, 
 Bad at the best, we make the best of it. 
 Like a good subject and wise man, 
 Believe whatever tilings you can. 
 ! Take your religion as 'twas found you. 
 And say no more of it, confound you ! 
 And now I think the rain has ended ; 
 And the less said, the soonest mended. 
 
 Scene II. — In a Gondola. 
 
 Sjy. Per ora. To the Grand Canal. 
 Afterwards e'en as fancy shall. 
 
 Di. Afloat ; we move. Delicious ! Ah, 
 What else is like the gondola % 
 This level floor of liquid glass 
 Begins beneath us swift to pass. 
 It goes as though it went alone 
 By some impulsion of its own. 
 (How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were all things like the gondola !) 
 
 How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, 
 Could life, as does our gondola, 
 XJnvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares. 
 And moral duties and afiairs, 
 Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong, 
 For ever thus — thus glide along ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !)
 
 88 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 With no more motion than should bear 
 A freshness to the languid air ; 
 With no more effort than exprest 
 The need and naturalness of rest, 
 Which we beneath a grateful shade 
 Should take on peaceful pillows laid ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were Life but as the gondola !) 
 
 In one unbroken passage borne 
 To closing night from opening morn, 
 UpHft at whiles slow eyes to mark 
 Some palace front, some passing bark ; 
 Through windows catch the vai-ying shore, 
 And hear the soft tui-ns of the oar ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 
 So live, nor need to call to mind 
 Our slaving brother here behind ! 
 
 Sj)- Pooh ! Nature meant him for no better 
 Than our most humble menial debtor : 
 Who thanks us for his day's employment 
 As we our purse for our enjoyment. 
 
 Di. To make one's fellow-man an instrument 
 
 Sp. Is jiTst the thing that makes him most content. 
 
 Di. Our gaieties, our luxuries. 
 
 Our pleasures and our glee, 
 Mere insolence and wantonness, 
 A las ! they feel to me.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 89 
 
 How shall I laugh and sing and dance ] 
 
 My veiy heart recoils, 
 While here to give my mii-th a chance 
 
 A hungry brother toils. 
 
 The joy that does not spring from joy 
 
 "Which I in others see, 
 How can I venture to employ, 
 
 Or find it joy for me ? 
 
 Sjy. Oh come, come, come ! By Him that sent us hei'O, 
 Who's to enjoy at all, pray let us hear % 
 You won't ; he can't ! Oh, no more fuss ! 
 What's it to him, or he to us ? 
 Sing, sing away, be glad and gay, 
 And don't forget that we shall pay. 
 
 Di. Yes, it is beautifiil ever, let foolish men I'ail at it 
 never. 
 Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly. 
 Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can 
 
 use it. 
 ' Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate only 
 This interfering, enslaving, o'ermastering demon of craving. 
 This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to gviide us, 
 ^ Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction. 
 
 Sp. (Hexameters, by all that's odious, 
 Beshod with rhyme to run melodious !) 
 
 Di. All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and 
 
 coupling ; 
 Faithful it seemeth, and fund ; very fond, very possibly 
 
 faithful ; 
 All as I go on my way with a pleasiue sincere and nn- 
 
 mingled.
 
 90 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Life it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly , 
 But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining; 
 Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we 
 could so. 
 
 . Sp. Bravo, bravissimo ! this time though 
 You rather were run short for rhyme though ; 
 Not that on that account your verse 
 Could be much better or much worse. 
 
 This world is very odd we see. 
 
 We do not comprehend it ; 
 But in one fact we all agree, 
 
 God won't, and we can't mend it. 
 
 Being common sense, it can't be sin 
 
 To take it as I find it ; 
 The pleasure to take pleasvire in ; 
 
 The pain, try not to mind it. 
 
 Di. O let me love my love unto myself alone, 
 And know my knowledge to the world unknown; 
 No witness to the vision call. 
 Beholding, unbeheld of all ; 
 And worship thee, Avith thee withdrawn, apart. 
 Whoe'er, whate'er thou art. 
 Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart 
 
 Better it were, thou sayest, to consent. 
 
 Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent ; 
 
 Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure. 
 
 The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure ; 
 
 In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll, 
 
 And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul. 
 
 Nay, better far to mark off thus much air. 
 And call it heaven ; place bliss and glory thei-e ;
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 91 
 
 Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky, 
 And say, what is not, will be by-and-by ; 
 What here exists not must exist elsewhere. 
 But play no ti-icks upon thy soul, man ; 
 Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can. 
 
 Sp. To these remarks so sage and clerkly, 
 Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley, 
 I trust it won't be deemed a sin 
 If I too answer ' with a grin.' 
 
 These juicy meats, this flashing wine, 
 May be an unreal mere appearance ; 
 
 Only — for my inside, in fine, 
 They have a singular coherence. 
 
 Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain ; 
 
 And any empty sick sensation, 
 Remember, anything like pain 
 
 Is only your imagination. 
 
 Trust me, I've read your German sage 
 To far more purpose e'er than you did ; 
 
 You find it in his wisest page. 
 
 Whom God deludes is well deluded. 
 
 Di. Where are the gi-eat, whom thou would'st wish to 
 pi'aise thee ? 
 Where are the pure, whom thoti would'st choose to love 
 
 thee? 
 Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee. 
 Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise 
 thee? 
 Seek, seeker, in thyself ; submit to find 
 In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.
 
 92 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 (Written in London, standing in the Park, 
 One evening in July, just before dark,) 
 
 iSp. As I sat at tbe cafe, 1 said to myself, 
 They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, 
 They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, 
 But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking. 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I sit at my table en grand seigneur, 
 And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor ; 
 Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good living. 
 But also the pleasure of now and then giving. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money,, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 It was but last winter I came up to town. 
 But already I'm getting a little renown ; 
 I make new acquaintance where'er I appear ; 
 I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I drive through the streets, and I care not a d n ; 
 
 The people they stare, and they ask who I am • 
 And if I should chance to run over a cad, 
 I can pay for the damage if ever so bad. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 We stroll to our box and look down on the pit. 
 And if it weren't low should be tempted to spit ; 
 We loll and we talk until people look up. 
 And when it's half over we go out to sup. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money.
 
 DIPSYCHUS 93 
 
 The best of the tables and the best of the fare — 
 And as for the others, the devil may cave ; 
 It isn't our fault if they dare not afford 
 To sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 We sit at our tables and tipple champagne ; 
 Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
 The waiters they skip and the}^ scuttle about. 
 And the landlord attends us so civilly out. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 It was but last winter I came up to town, 
 But already I'm getting a little renown ; 
 I get to good houses without much ado, 
 Am beginning to see the nobility too. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh lio ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 O dear ! what a pity they ever should lose it ! 
 For they are the gentry that know how to use it ; 
 So grand and so graceful, such manners, such dinners. 
 But yet, after all, it is we are the winners. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Thus I sat at my table en (jrand seignetir, 
 And when I had done threw a crust to the poor ; 
 Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good eating. 
 But also the pleasure of now and then treating. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money.
 
 94 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 They may talk as they please about what they call pelf. 
 
 And how one ought never to think of one's self, 
 
 And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and 
 
 drinking — 
 My pleasure of thought is the pleasiu-e of thinking 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 (Written in Venice, but for all parts true, 
 'Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sou.) 
 
 A gondola here, and a gondola there, 
 'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air. 
 To right and to left ; stop, turn, and go yonder. 
 And let us repeat, o'er the tide as we wander. 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story, 
 
 San Gioi-gio and the Redentore ; 
 
 I from no building, gay or solemn, 
 
 Can spare the shapely Grecian column. 
 
 'Tis not, these centuries four, for nought 
 
 Our European world of thought 
 
 Hath made familiar to its home 
 
 The classic mind of Greece and Rome ; 
 
 In all new work that would look forth 
 
 To more than antiquarian worth, 
 
 Palladio's pediments and bases. 
 
 Or something such, will find their places : 
 
 Matvu-er optics don't delight 
 
 In childish dim religious light, 
 
 In evanescent vague eifects 
 
 That shii'k, not face, one's intellects ; 
 
 They love not fancies just betrayed, 
 
 And artful tricks of light and shade,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 95 
 
 But pure form nakedly displayed, 
 And all tilings absolutely made. 
 
 The Doge's palace though^ from hence, 
 In spite of doctrinaire pretence, 
 The tide now level with the quay. 
 Is certainly a thing to see. 
 We'll turn to the Rialto soon ; 
 One's told to see it by the moon. 
 
 A gondola here, and a gondola there, 
 'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the aii'. 
 To right and to left ; stop, turn, and go yonder, 
 And let us reiiect, o'er the flood as we wander. 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Di. How light we go, how soft we skim. 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 The south side rises o'er our bark, 
 A wall impenetrably dark ; 
 The north is seen profusely bright ; 
 The water, is it shade or light? 
 Say, gentle moon, which conquers now 
 The flood, those massy hulls, or thou 1 
 (How light we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Where hfe but as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 In moonlight is it now, or shade 1 
 In planes of sure division made, 
 By angles sharp of palace walls 
 The clear light and the shadow falls ; 
 O sight of glory, sight of wonder ! 
 Seen, a pictorial portent, under,
 
 96 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 great Rialto, the vast round 
 Of thy thrice-solid arch profound ! 
 (How hght we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Life should be as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how softly 
 
 823. Nay ; 
 
 'Fore heaven, enough of that to-day : 
 
 I'm deadly weary of your tune, 
 
 And half-ennuye with the moon ; 
 
 The shadows lie, the glories fall. 
 
 And are but moonshine after all. 
 
 It goes against my conscience really 
 
 To let myself feel so ideally. 
 
 Come, for the Piazzetta steer ; 
 
 'Tis nine o'clock or very near. 
 
 These airy blisses, skiey joys 
 
 Of vague romantic girls and boys, 
 
 Which melt the heart and the brain soften, 
 
 When not affected, as too often 
 
 They are, remind me, I protest. 
 
 Of notliing better at the best 
 Than Timon's feast to his ancient lovers, 
 Warm water under silver covers; 
 
 * Lap, dogs ! ' I think I hear him say ; 
 
 And lap who will, so I'm away. 
 
 Di. How light we go, how soft we skim. 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 Against bright clouds projected dark, 
 The white dome now, reclined I mark, 
 And, by o'er-brilliant lamps displayed, 
 The Doge's columns and arcade ; 
 Over still waters mildly come 
 The distant waters and the hum.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 97 
 
 (How light we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Life should be as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in open moonlight swim ! 
 Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow ! 
 We go ; but whei-efore thus should go 1 
 Ah, let not muscle all too strong 
 Beguile, betray thee to our wrong ! 
 On to the landing, onward. Nay, 
 Svveet dream, a little longer stay ! 
 On to the landing ; here. And, ah ! 
 Life is not as the gondola. 
 
 Sp. Tre ore. So. The Parthenone 
 Is it % you haunt for your limone. 
 Let me induce you to join me, 
 In gramolate persiche. 
 
 Scene III. — The Academy at Venice. 
 
 Di. A modern daub it was, perchance, 
 I know not : but the connoisseur 
 From Titian's hiies, I dare be sure. 
 Had never turned one kindly glance, 
 
 Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, draws 
 His sword, impatient long, and speaks 
 Unto a tribe of motley Greeks 
 His fealty to their good cause. 
 
 Not far, assumed to mystic bliss. 
 Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise ! 
 Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyes 
 That melted into tears for this 1 
 
 H
 
 98 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Yet if we must live, as would seem, 
 These peremptory heats to claim, 
 Ah, not for profit, not for fame. 
 And not for pleasure's giddy dream, 
 
 And not for piping empty reeds, 
 And not for colouring idle dust ; 
 If live we positively must, 
 God's name be blest for noble deeds. 
 
 Verses ! well, they are made, so let them go ; 
 Ko more if I can help. This is one way 
 The procreant heat and fervour of our youth 
 Escapes, in puif, in smoke, and shapeless words 
 Of mere ejaculation, nothing worth, 
 Unless to make maturer years content 
 To slave in base compliance to the wor-ld. 
 
 I have scarce spoken yet to this strange follower 
 
 Whom I picked up — ye great gods, tell me where ! 
 
 And when ! for I remember such long years, 
 
 And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself ; 
 
 He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself; 
 
 Whate'er I think, he adds his comments to ; 
 
 Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I know 
 
 If ever once directly I addressed him : 
 
 Let me essay it now ; for I have strength. 
 
 Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have, 
 
 Oh, I know all too surely ; not in vain, 
 
 Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear. 
 
 Come, we'll be definite, explicit, plain ; 
 
 I can resist, I know ; and 'twill be well 
 
 For colloquy to have used this manlier mood, 
 
 Which is to last, ye chances say how long 
 
 How shall I call him ? jNIephistophiles 1
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 99 
 
 S'p. I come, I come, 
 
 Di. So quick, so eager ; ha ! 
 
 Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought, 
 With something of an exultation too, methiuks. 
 Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait. 
 I doubt about it. Shall I do it 1 Oh ! oh ! 
 Shame on me ! come ! Shall I, my follower, 
 Should I conceive (not that at all I do, 
 'Tis curiosity that prompts my speech) — 
 But should I form, a thing to be supposed, 
 A wish to bargain for your merchandise. 
 Say what were your demands 1 what were your terms ? 
 What should I do ? what should I cease to do ? 
 What incense on what altars must I burn % 
 And what abandon 1 what unlearn, or learn ? 
 Religion goes, I take it. 
 
 6>. Oh, 
 
 You'll go to chiirch of course, you know ; 
 Or at the least will take a pew 
 To send your wife and servants to. 
 Trust me, I make a point of that ; 
 No infidelity, that 's flat. 
 
 Di. Religion is not in a pew, say some ; 
 Cucullus, yoit hold,yaci< monachum. 
 
 Sp. Why, as to feelings of devotion 
 I interdict all vague emotion ; 
 But if you will, for once and all 
 Compound with ancient Juvenal 
 Orandum est, one perfect prayer 
 For savoir-vivie and savoir-faire. 
 
 Theology — don't recommend you,
 
 TOO DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send you 
 
 In your profession's way a case 
 
 Of Baptism and prevenient grace ; 
 
 But that's not likely. I'm inclined, 
 
 All circumstances borne in mind, 
 
 To think (to keep you in due borders) 
 
 You 'd better enter holy orders. 
 
 Di. On that, my friend, you'd better not insist. 
 
 Sp. Well, well, 'tis but a good thing missed. 
 The item's optional, no doubt ; 
 But how to get you bread without ? 
 You'll marry ; I shall find the lady. 
 Make your proposal, and be steady. 
 
 Di. Marry, ill spirit ! and at your sole choice % 
 
 Sp. De rigueur ! can't give you a voice. 
 What matter % Oh, trust one who knows you. 
 You'll make an admirable sposo. 
 
 Di. Enough. But action — look to that well, mind me 
 See that some not unworthy work you find me; 
 If man I be, then g\\e the man expression. 
 
 S}}. Of course you'll enter a profession ; 
 If not the Church, why then the Law. 
 By Jove, we'll teach you how to draw ! 
 Besides, the best of the concern is 
 I'm hand and glove with the attorneys. 
 With them and me to help, don't doubt 
 But in due season you'll come out ; 
 Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch. 
 But yet, do think about the Church.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 101 
 
 Di. 'Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit ; 
 As for your wisdom, I shall think of it. 
 :Vnd now farewell. 
 
 Scene TV. — In St. 21ark''s. DipsychiLS alone. 
 
 The Law ! 'twere honester, if 'twere genteel, 
 
 To say the dung-cart. What ! shall I go about, 
 
 And like the walking shoeblack roam the flags 
 
 To see whose boots are dirtiest ] Oh, the luck 
 
 To stoop and clean a pair ! 
 
 Religion, if indeed it be in vain 
 
 To expect to find in this more modern time 
 
 That which the old world styled, in old-world phrase, 
 
 Walking with God. It seems His newer will 
 
 AVe should not think of Him at all, but trudge it, 
 
 And of the world He has assigned us make 
 
 What best we can. 
 
 Then love : I scarce can think 
 That these be-maddening discords of the mind 
 To pure melodious sequence could be changed. 
 And all the vext conundrums of our life 
 Solved to all time by this old pastoral 
 Of a new Adam and a second Eve 
 Set in a garden which no serpent seeks. 
 
 And yet I hold heai't can beat true to heart : 
 And to hew down the tree which bears this fruit, 
 To do a thing which cuts me off from hope. 
 To falsify the movement of Love's mind. 
 To seat some alien trifler on the throne 
 A queen may come to claim — that were ill done. 
 What ! to the close hand of the clutching Jew- 
 Hand up that rich reversion ! and for what 1 
 This would be hard, did I indeed believe ^ e. 
 
 k'^^ . ■e ■* . 
 
 s^ ' V 
 
 V
 
 102 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 'Twould ever fall. That love, the large repose 
 Restorative, not to mere outside needs 
 Skin-deep, but throughly to the total man, 
 Exists, I will believe, but so, so rare, 
 So doubtful, so exceptional, hard to guess ; 
 When guessed, so often counterfeit ; in brief, 
 A thing not possibly to be conceived 
 An item in the reckonings of the wise. 
 
 Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped, 
 'Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity. 
 Irresolution, still had hoj^ed : and this 
 Seems sacrificing hope. Better to wait : 
 The wise men wait ; it is the foolish haste. 
 And ere the scenes are in the slides would play, 
 And while the instruments are tuning, dance. 
 
 I see Napoleon on the heights intent 
 To ai'rest that one brief unit of loose time 
 Which hands high Victory's thi'ead ; his marshals fret, 
 His soldiers clamour low : the very guns 
 Seem going off of themselves ; the cannon strain 
 Like hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits ; 
 And lesser chances and inferior hopes 
 Meantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth ; 
 The very faithful have begun to doubt ; 
 But they molest not the calm eye that seeks 
 'Midst all this huddling silver little worth 
 The one thin piece that comes, pure gold ; he waits. 
 O me, when the great deed e'en now has broke 
 Like a man's hand the horizon's level line, 
 So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds ; 
 Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge. 
 This list and selvage of a glorious time. 
 To despair of" the great and sell unto the mean ! 
 thou of little faith, what hast thou done 1
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 103 
 
 "Yet if the occasion coming should find us 
 
 TJndextei'Ous, incapable? In light things 
 
 Prove thou the arms thou long'st to glorify, 
 
 Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranks 
 
 , Whence come great Nature's Captains. And high deeds 
 
 Haunt not the fringy edges of the fight, 
 
 But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and if 
 
 E'en now by lingering here I let them slip, 
 
 Like an unpractised spyer through a glass, 
 
 Still pointing to the blank, too high ! And yet, 
 
 In dead details to smother vital ends 
 
 Which would give life to them ; in the deft trick 
 
 Of prentice-handling to forget great art, 
 
 To base mechanical adroitness yield 
 
 The Inspiration and the Hope a slave ! 
 
 Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, though 
 
 Here it may seem a dull unopening bud, 
 
 May yet bloom freely in celestial cUme ! 
 
 Were it not better done, then, to keep off 
 
 And see, not share, the strife ; stand out the waltz 
 
 Which fools whirl dizzy in 1 Is it possible ? 
 
 Contamination taints the idler first ; 
 
 And without base compliance, e'en that same 
 
 AVhich buys bold hearts fi'ee course, Earth lends not theso 
 
 Their pent and miserable standing-room. 
 
 Life loves no lookers-on at his great game, 
 
 And with boy's malice still delights to turn 
 
 The tide of sport upon the sitters-by. 
 
 And set observers scampering with their notes. 
 
 Oh, it is great to do and know not what. 
 
 Nor let it e'er be known. The dashing stream 
 
 Stays not to pick his steps among the rocks. 
 
 Or let his water-breaks be chronicled. 
 
 And though the hunter looks before he leap,
 
 104 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 'Tia instinct rather than a shaped-ont thought 
 
 That lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail ! 
 
 And farewell hesitation. If I stay, 
 
 I am not innocent ; nor if I go — 
 
 E'en should I fall — beyond redemption lost. 
 
 Ah, if I had a course like a full stream. 
 If life were as the field of chase ! No, no ; 
 The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by, 
 And will not be forced back. And to live now 
 I must sluice out myself into canals, 
 And lose all force in ducts. The modern Hotspur 
 Shrills not his trumpet of ' To Horse, To Horse ! ' 
 
 ' But consults columns in a Railway Guide ; 
 A demigod of figures ; an Achilles 
 
 1 Of computation ; 
 A verier Mercury, express come down 
 To do the world with swift arithmetic. 
 Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours, 
 One's choice and the correlative of the soul ; 
 To drudge were then sweet service. But indeed 
 The earth moves slowly, if it move at all. 
 And by the general, not the single force 
 Of the linked members of the vast machine. 
 
 I In all these crowded rooms of industry, 
 
 , No individual soul has loftier leave 
 1 Than fiddling with a piston or a valve. 
 Well, one could bear that also : one would drudge 
 And do one's petty part, and be content 
 In base manipulation, solaced still 
 By thinking of the leagued fraternity, 
 And of co-operation, and the effect 
 Of the great engine. If indeed it work. 
 And is not a mere treadmill ! which it may be. 
 Who can confirm it is not 1 We ask action.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 105 
 
 And dream of arms and conflict ; and string up 
 All self-devotion's muscles ; and are set 
 To fold ujj papers. To what end 1 we know not. 
 Other folks do so ; it is always done ; 
 And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it, 
 For nothina; else we can be. He that eats 
 I Must serve ; and serve as other servants do : 
 And don the lacquey's livery of the house. 
 Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky, 
 A column of pure shape, for all to observe ! 
 But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm, 
 To build beneath the tide with excrement 
 What one day will be island, or be reef, 
 And will feed men, or wreck them. "Well, well, well. 
 Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit : it must be. 
 
 Action is what one must get, it is clear ; 
 And one could dream it better than one finds. 
 In its kind personal, in its motive not ; 
 Not selfish as it now is, nor as now 
 Maiming the individual. If we had that. 
 It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would then 
 These pitiful rebellions of the flesh. 
 These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart, 
 These hurts of self-imagined dignity, 
 Pass like the seaweed from about the bows 
 Of a great vessel speeding straight to sea ! 
 Yes, if we could have that; but I suj)pose 
 We shall not have it, and therefore I submit ! 
 
 S}}. (from within). Submit, submit ! 
 'Tis common sense, and human wit 
 Can claim no higher name than it. 
 Submit, submit !
 
 106 DIPSTCHUS. 
 
 Devotion, and ideas, and love, 
 And beauty claim their place above ; 
 But saint and sage and poet's dreams 
 Divide the light in coloui-ed streams, 
 Which this alone gives all combined. 
 The siccum lumen of the mind 
 Called common sense : and no high ■wit 
 Gives better counsel than does i^ 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 To see things simply as they are 
 
 Here at our elbows, transcends far 
 
 Trying to spy out at midday 
 
 Some * bright particular star,' whicli may, 
 
 Or not, be visible at night, 
 
 But clearly is not in daylight ; 
 
 No inspiration vague outweighs 
 
 The plain good common sense that says. 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 'Tis common sense, and human wit 
 
 Can ask no higher name tlian it. 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Scene A^. — The Piazza at Night. 
 
 Di. There have been times, not many, but enough 
 To qviiet all repinings of the heart ; 
 There have been times, in which ray tranquil soul. 
 No longer nebulous, sparse, eiTant, seemed 
 Upon its axis solidh^ to move. 
 Centred and fast : no mere elastic blank 
 For random rays to traverse unretained. 
 But rovinding luminous its fail' ellipse 
 Around its central sun. Ay, yet again,
 
 DTPSTCHUS. 107 
 
 As in more faint sensations I detect, 
 With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb, 
 Maybe with that too — this I dare not say — 
 Around, yet more, more central, more supreme, 
 Whate'er how numerous soe'er they be, 
 I am and feel myself, where'er I wind. 
 What vagrant chance soe'er I seem to obey 
 Communicably theirs. 
 
 O happy hours ! 
 compensation ample for long days 
 Of what impatient tongues call wretchedness ! 
 O beautiful, beneath the magic moon, 
 To walk the watery way of palaces ! 
 beautiful, o'ervaulted with gemmed blue. 
 This spacious court, with colour and with gold, 
 With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points. 
 And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls 
 (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, 
 Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused) ; 
 Fantastically perfect this low pile 
 Of Oriental glory ; these long ranges 
 Of classic chiselling, this gay ilickering crowd, 
 And the calm Campanile. Beautiful ! 
 beautiful ! and that seemed more profound. 
 This morning by the pillar when I sat 
 Under the great arcade, at the review. 
 And took, and held, and ordered on my brain 
 The faces, and the voices, and the whole mass 
 0' the motley facts of existence flowing by ! 
 O perfect, if 'twere all ! But it is not ; 
 Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond : 
 T am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete. 
 Of a completion over soon assumed, 
 lOf adding wp too soon. What we call sin,
 
 108 DIPSTCHUS. 
 
 I could believe a painful opening out 
 
 Of paths for ampler virtue. The bare field, 
 
 Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mocked 
 
 The vext laborious farmer ; came at length 
 
 The deep plough in the lazy undersoil 
 
 Down-driving ; with a cry earth's fibres crack, 
 
 And a few months, and lo ! the golden leas, 
 
 And autumn's crowded shocks and loaded wains. 
 
 Let us look back on life ; was any change, 
 
 And how blest expansion, but at first 
 
 A pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seats 
 
 Of moral being 1 To do anything, 
 
 Distinct on any one thing to decide. 
 
 To leave the habitual and the old, and quit 
 
 The easy-chair of use and wont, seetns crime 
 
 To the weak soul, forgetful how at first 
 
 Sitting down seemed so too. And, oh ! this woman' 
 
 heart, 
 Fain to be forced, increduious of choice. 
 And waiting a necessity for God. 
 
 Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect call 
 Should force the perfect answer. If the voice 
 Ought to receive its echo from the soul. 
 Wherefore this silence 1 If it shotdd rouse my being, 
 Why this reluctance 1 Have I not thought o'ermuch 
 Of other men, and of the ways of the world 1 
 But what they are, or have been, matters not. 
 To thine ow^n self be true, the wise man says. 
 Ai'e then my fears myself 1 O double self ! 
 And I untrue to both % Oh, there are hours. 
 When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties, 
 And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks, 
 Familiar faces, and familiar books. 
 Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer. 
 And admiration of the noblest things.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 109 
 
 Seem all ignoble only ; all is mean, 
 
 And nought as I would have it. Then at others, 
 
 ]My mind is in her rest ; my heart at home 
 
 In all around ; my soul secure in place, 
 
 And the vext needle perfect to her poles. 
 
 Aimless and hopeless in my life I seem 
 
 To thread the winding byways of the town. 
 
 Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence, 
 
 I All at cross-purpose even with myself, 
 
 Unknowing whence or whither. Thence at once. 
 
 At a step, I crown the Campanile's top, 
 
 And view all mapped below ; islands, lagoon, 
 
 A hundred steeples and a million roofs. 
 
 The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps, 
 
 And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough ; 
 
 If I lose this, how terrible ! No, no, 
 
 I am contented, and will not complain. 
 
 To the old paths, my soul ! Oh, be it so ! 
 
 I bear the workday burden of dull life 
 
 About these footsore flags of a weary world. 
 
 Heaven knows how long it has not been ; at once, 
 
 Lo ! I am in the spirit on the Lord's day 
 
 With John in Patmos. Is it not enough, 
 
 One day in seven 1 and if this should go. 
 
 If this pure solace should desert my mind. 
 
 What were all else 1 I dare not x-isk this loss. 
 
 To the old paths, my soul ! 
 
 Sp. yes. 
 
 To moon about religion ; to inhume 
 Your ripened age in solitary walks. 
 For self-discussion ; to debate in letters 
 Vext points with earnest friends ; past otner men 
 To cherish natural instincts, yet to fear them 
 And less than any use them ; oh, no doubt,
 
 110 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 In a corner sit and mope, and be consoled 
 
 "With, thinking one is clever, while the room 
 
 Rings through with animation and the dance. 
 
 Then talk of old examples ; to pervert 
 
 Ancient real facts to modern unreal dreams, 
 
 And build up baseless fabrics of romance 
 
 And heroism upon historic sand ; 
 
 To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despise 
 
 Its merest accidence and alphabet ; 
 
 Cry out for service, and at once rebel 
 
 At the application of its plainest rules : 
 
 This you call life, my friend, reality ; 
 
 Doing youi' duty unto God and man — 
 
 I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will ; 
 
 Sit musing in its churches hour on hoar 
 
 Cross-kneed upon a bench ; climb up at whiles 
 
 The neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering day 
 
 With old comparisons ; when night succeeds, 
 
 Evading, yet a little seeking, what 
 
 You would and would not, turn your doubtful eyes 
 
 On moon and stars to help morality ; 
 
 Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chance 
 
 Of happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven !) 
 
 A pious rapture : is it not enough 1 
 
 Di. 'Tis well : thou cursed spirit, go thy way ! 
 I am in higher hands than yours. 'Tis well ; 
 "Who taught you menaces ? Who told you, pray, 
 Because I asked you questions, and made show 
 Of hearing what you answered, therefore 
 
 Sp. Oh, 
 
 As if I didn't know ! 
 
 Di. Come, come, my friend,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. Ill 
 
 I may have wavered, but I have thought better. 
 We'll say no more of it. 
 
 Sp. Oh, I dare say : 
 
 But as you like ; 'tis your own loss ; once more, 
 Beware ! 
 
 Bi. (alone.) Must it be then? So quick upon my 
 thought 
 To follow the fulfilment and the deed ? 
 I counted not on this ; I counted ever 
 To hold and turn it over in my hands 
 Much longer, much : I took it up indeed, 
 For speculation rather ; to gain thought. 
 New data. Oh, and now to be goaded on 
 By menaces, entangled among tricks ; 
 That I won't suffer. Yet it is the law ; 
 'Tis this makes action always. But for this 
 We ne'er should act at all ; and act we must. 
 Why quarrel with the fashion of a fact 
 Which, one way, must be, one time, why not now ? 
 
 Sp. Submit, submit ! 
 For tell me then, in earth's great laws 
 Have you found any saving clause, 
 Exemption special granted you 
 From doing what the rest must do 1 
 Of common sense who made you quit, 
 And told you, you'd no need of it, 
 Nor to submit 1 
 
 To move on angels' wings were sweet ; 
 But who would therefore scorn his feet ? 
 It cannot walk up to the sky ; 
 It therefore will lie down and die.
 
 112 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Rich meats it don't obtain at call ; 
 It therefore will not eat at all. 
 Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit ! 
 But common sense, not much of it, 
 Or 'twould submit. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 As your good father did before you. 
 And as the mother who first bore you. 
 yes ! a child of heavenly birth ! 
 But yet it was born too on earth. 
 Keep your new birth for that far day 
 When in the grave your bones you lay. 
 All with your kindred and connection. 
 In hopes of happy resurrection. 
 But how meantime to live is fit, 
 Ask common sense ; and what says it 1- 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Scene YI. — On a Bridge. 
 
 JDi. 'Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire, 
 The burning thirst for action — utterly ; 
 Gone, like a ship that passes in the night 
 On the high seas : gone, yet will come again : 
 Gone, yet expresses something that exists. 
 Is it a thing ordained, then 1 is it a clue 
 For my life's conduct 1 is it a law for me 
 That opportunity shall breed distrust. 
 Not passing until that pass 1 Chance and resolve, 
 Like two loose comets wandering wide in space, 
 Crossing each other's orbits time on time, 
 Meet never. Void indifierence and doubt 
 Let through the present boon, which ne'er turns back 
 To await the after sure-arriving wish.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 113 
 
 How shall I then explain it to myself, 
 
 That in blank thought my purpose lives 1 
 
 The uncharged cannon mocking still the spark 
 
 TVIien come, which ere come it had loudly claimed. 
 
 Am I to let it be so still ? For truly 
 
 The need exists, I know ; the wish but sleeps 
 
 (Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food) ; 
 
 And to put by these unreturning gifts, 
 
 Because the feeling is not with me now, 
 
 Seems folly more than merest babyhood's. 
 
 But must I then do violence to myself. 
 
 And push on nature, force desire (that's ill), 
 
 Because of knowledge 1 which is great, but works 
 
 By rules of large excejotion ; to tell which 
 
 Nought is more fallible than mere caprice. 
 
 What need for action yet 1 I am happy now, 
 I feel no lack — what cause is there for haste 1 
 Am I not happy 1 is not that enough 1 
 Depart ! 
 
 Sj). O yes ! you thought you had escaped, no doubt. 
 This worldly fiend that follows you about. 
 This compoixnd of convention and impiety. 
 This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety. 
 What else were bad enough 1 but, let me say, 
 I too have my grandes manieres in my way ; 
 Could speak high sentiment as well as you, 
 And out-blank- verse you without much ado ; 
 Have my religion also in my kind. 
 For dreaming unfit, becavise not designed. 
 What ! you know not that I too can be serious, 
 Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious; 
 Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty. 
 But sternly of a something much like duty. 
 I
 
 114 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Oh, do you look surprised ] were never told, 
 Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold. 
 The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses, 
 But God can act the Devil when He chooses. 
 Farewell ! But, verbuTn sapienti satis — 
 I do not make this revelation gratis. 
 Farewell : beware ! 
 
 Di. Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew ; 
 What will they not say 1 what not dare to do ? 
 
 Sp. Beware, beware ! 
 
 I Di. What, loitering still ? Still, foul spii^it, there ? 
 ' Go hence, I tell thee, go ! I will beware. 
 
 {Alone.) It must be then. I feel it in my soul; 
 
 The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone. 
 
 And sharper than the two-edged sword of God. 
 
 I come into deep waters — hel^j, help ! 
 :j The floods run over me. 
 
 Therefore, farewell ! a long and last farewell. 
 
 Ye pious sweet simplicities of life, 
 
 Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and all 
 
 That lent rough life sweet Sunday- seeming rests. 
 
 Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world, 
 
 The hardening heart, the calculating brain 
 
 Narrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips, 
 
 The calm-dissembling eyes ; the greedy flesh, 
 
 The world, the Devil — welcome, welcome, welcome ! 
 
 >i^. {from within.) This stern necessity of tilings 
 On every side our being rings ; 
 Our sallying eager actions fall 
 Vainly against that iron wall.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 115 
 
 Where once her finger points the way, 
 The wise thinks only to obey ; 
 Take life as she has ordered it, 
 And come what may of it, submit, 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Who take implicitly her will, 
 For these her vassal chances still 
 Bring store of joys, successes, pleasures ; 
 But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures. 
 She calls her torturers up to goad 
 With spur and scoui'ges on the road ; 
 He does at last with pain whate'er 
 He spurned at first. Of such, beware, 
 Beware, beware ! 
 
 Di. God, God ! The great floods of the soul 
 Flow over me ! I come into deep waters 
 Where no ground is ! 
 
 Sp. Don't be the least afraid ; 
 There's not the slightest reason for alarm ; 
 I only meant by a perhaps rough shake 
 To rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep. 
 Up, then — up, and be going : the large world, 
 The thronged life waits us. 
 
 Come, my pretty boy, 
 You have been making mows to the blank sky 
 Quite long enough for good. We'll put you up 
 Into the higher form. 'Tis time you learn 
 The Second Reverence, for things around. 
 Up, then, and go amongst them ; don't be timid ; 
 Look at them quietly a bit : by -and- by 
 Respect will come, and healthy appetite. 
 So let us go. 
 
 I 2
 
 116 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 How now ! not yet awake 1 
 Oh, you will sleep yet, will you ! Oh, you shirk, 
 You try and slink away ! You cannot, eh 1 
 Nay now, what folly's this 1 Why will you fool yourself? 
 Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut 1 
 Treating for facts the self-made hues that flash 
 On tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts. 
 To use the undistorted light of the sun 
 Is not a crime ; to look straight out upon 
 The big plain things that stare one in the face 
 Does not contaminate ; to see pollutes not 
 What one must feel if one won't see, what is, 
 And will be too, howe'er we blink, and must 
 One way or other make itself observed. 
 Free walking's better than being led about ; and 
 What will the blind man do, I wonder, if 
 Some one should cut the string of his dog 1 Just think ! 
 What could you do. if I should go away 1 
 
 Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you ? 
 What shall it take to 1 literature, no doubt ] 
 Novels, reviews 1 or poems ! if you please ! 
 The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt, 
 The infl.ux of your mouthful of soft air. 
 Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledge 
 You've condescended to receive from me ; 
 That's your best chance. Oh, you despise that ! Oh. 
 Prate then of passions you have known in dreams. 
 Of huge experience gathered by the eye ; 
 Be large of aspiration, pure in hope, 
 Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague ; 
 Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relieved 
 By snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless. 
 Or will you write about philosophy 1 
 For a waste far-off maybe overlooking 
 The fruitful is close by, live in metaphysic.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 117 
 
 With transcendental logic fill your stomach, 
 
 Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink ; 
 
 Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume. 
 
 The Complemental of the inferior Kant, 
 
 The Critic of Pure Practice, based upon 
 
 The Antinomies of the Moral Sense : for, look you, 
 
 We cannot act without assuming x, 
 
 And at the same time y, its contradictory; 
 
 Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless. 
 
 Or you'll perhaps teach youth (I do not question 
 
 Some downward turn you may find, some evasion 
 
 Of the broad highway's glaring white ascent) ; 
 
 Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always, 
 
 So as to bave much time left you for yourself; 
 
 This you can't sacrifice, your leisure's precious. 
 
 Heartily you will not take to anything ; 
 
 Whatever happen, don't I see you still, 
 
 Li-ving no life at all 1 Even as now 
 
 An o'ei'grown baby, sucking at the dugs 
 
 Of instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old 
 
 enough 
 For spoon-meat surely. 
 
 Will you go on thus 
 Until death end you 1 if indeed it does. 
 For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you, 
 You'll hardly have the courage to die outiight ; 
 You'll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you. 
 Through everlasting limbos of void time, 
 Twirhng and twiddling ineffectively, 
 And indeterminately swaying for ever. 
 Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate. 
 
 Well, well, 
 I will not persecute you more, my friend. 
 Only do think, as I observed before. 
 What can you do, if I should go away 1
 
 118 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Di. Is the hour here, then? Is the nunute corne- 
 The irreprievable instant of stern time ? 
 O for a few, few grains in the running glass, 
 Or for some power to hold them ! for a few 
 Of all that went so wastefully before ! 
 It must be then, e'en now. 
 
 Sp. (from loithin.) It must, it must. 
 
 'Tis common sense ! and human wit 
 Can claim no' higher name than it. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Necessity ! and who shall dare 
 
 Bring to her feet excuse or prayer 1 
 
 Beware, beware ! 
 
 We must, we must. 
 
 Howe'er we turn, and pause and tremljle — 
 
 Howe'er we shrink, deceive, dissemble — 
 
 Whate'er ovir doubting, grief, disgust. 
 
 The hand is on us, and we must. 
 
 We must, we must. 
 
 'Tis common sense ! and human wit 
 
 Can find no better name than 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Scene YII. — At Tor cello. Dipsychus alone. 
 
 Di. I had a vision ; was it in my sleep 1 
 And if it were, what then 1 But sleep or wake, 
 I saw a great light open o'er my head ; 
 And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light, 
 Out of that hght proceeding heard a voice 
 Uttei'ing high words, which, whether sleep or wake. 
 In me were fixed, and in me must abide.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 119 
 
 Wlien the enemy is near thee, 
 
 Call on us ! 
 In our hands we will upbear thee, 
 He shall neither scathe nor scare thee, 
 He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee. 
 
 Call on us ! 
 Call when all good friends have left thee, 
 Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee ; 
 Call when hope and heart are sinking, 
 And the brain is sick with thinking, 
 
 Help, O help ! 
 Call, and following close behind thee 
 There shall haste, and there shall find thee, 
 
 Help, sure help. 
 
 When the panic comes upon thee, 
 When necessity seems on thee, 
 Hope and choice have all foi'egone thee, 
 Fate and force are closing o'er thee. 
 And but one way stands before thee — 
 
 Call on us ! 
 Oh, and if thou dost not call, 
 Be but faithful, that is all. 
 Go right on, and close behind thee 
 There shall follow still and find thee, 
 Help, sure help. 
 
 Scene VIII. — In the Piazza. 
 
 Di. Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend, 
 Kot to do thy work, or the like of thine ; 
 Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit ! 
 But One Most High, Most True, whom without thee 
 It seems I cannot. 
 
 the misery 
 That one must truck and practise with the world
 
 120 DIPSTCHUS. 
 
 To gain the 'vantage-ground to assail it from ; 
 To set upon the Giant one must first, 
 
 perfidy ! have eat the Giant's bread. 
 If I submit, it is but to gain time 
 
 And arms and stature : 'tis but to lie safe 
 Until the hour strike to arise and slay : 
 'Tis the old story of the adder's brood 
 Feeding and nestling till the fangs be grown. 
 Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair, 
 To accept the service with the wages, do 
 Frankly the devil's work for the devil's pay ? 
 Oh, but another my allegiance holds 
 Inalienably his. How much soe'er 
 
 1 might submit, it must be to rebel. 
 Submit then sullenly, that's no dishonour. 
 Yet I could deem it better too to starve 
 
 And die uutraitored. 0, who sent me, though ? 
 
 Sent me, and to do something — O hard master ! — 
 
 To do a treachery. But indeed 'tis done ; 
 
 I have already taken of the pay 
 
 And curst the payer ; take I must, curse too. 
 
 Alas ! the little strength that I possess 
 
 Derives, I think, of him. So still it is, 
 
 The timid child that clung unto hev skirts, 
 
 A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man. 
 
 His father too. There's Scripture too for that ! 
 
 Do we owe fathers nothing — mothers nought 1 
 
 Is fiHal duty folly 1 Yet He says, 
 
 ' He that loves father, mother more than me; * 
 
 Yea, and * the man his parents shall desert,' 
 
 The Ordinance says, ' and cleave unto his wife. 
 
 O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world ; 
 
 Adam, accept thy Eve. 
 
 So still it is, 
 The tree exhausts the soil ; creepers kill it.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 121 
 
 Their insects them : the lever finds its fialcruru 
 
 On Avhat it then o'erthi-ows ; the homely spade 
 
 In labour's hand unscrupulously seeks 
 
 Its first momentum on the very clod 
 
 Which next will be upturned. It seems a law. 
 
 And am not I, though I but ill recall 
 
 My happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven, 
 
 Whom these uncircumcised Philistines 
 
 Have by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and kept 
 
 For what more glorious than to make them sport 1 
 
 Wait, then, wait, O my soul ! grow, grow, ye locks, 
 
 Then perish they, and if need is, I too. 
 
 Sp. {aside.) A truly admirable proceeding ! 
 Could there be finer special pleading 
 When scruples would be interceding 1 
 There's no occasion I should stay ; 
 He is working out, his own queer way. 
 The sum I set him ; and this day 
 Will bring it, neither less nor bigger. 
 Exact to my predestined figure. 
 
 Scene IX. — In the PiMic Garden. 
 
 Di. Twenty-one past — twenty-five coming on; 
 One-third of life departed, nothing done. 
 Out of the mammon of unrighteousness 
 That we make friends, the Scripture is express. 
 My Spirit, come, we wiU agree ; 
 Content, you'll take a moiety. 
 
 Sp. A moiety, ye gods, he, he ! 
 
 Di. Three-quarters then ? griping beast ; 
 Leave me a decimal at least.
 
 122 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Sp. Oh, one of ten ! to infect the nine 
 And make the devil a one be mine ! 
 Oh, one ! to jib all day, God wot, 
 When all the rest would go full trot ! 
 One very little one, eh 1 to doubt with. 
 Just to pause, think, and look about with ? 
 In course ! you counted on no less — 
 You thought it likely I'd say yes ! 
 
 Di. Be it then thus — since that it must, it seems. 
 Welcome, world, henceforth ; and farewell dreams ! 
 Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor I 
 Can in this matter either sell or buy ; 
 For the fee simple of this trilling lot 
 To you or me, trust me, pertaineth not. 
 I can but render what is of my will, 
 And behind it somewhat remaineth still. 
 Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mind 
 Whose darkness dreamed that vows like this could 
 
 bind ; 
 Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and brought 
 In fact the rviin which had been but thought. 
 Thank Heaven (or you) that's past these many years, 
 And we have knowledge wiser than our fears. 
 So your poor bargain take, my man. 
 And make the best of it you can. 
 
 Sp. With reservations ! oh, how treasonable ! 
 When I had let you off so reasonable. 
 However, I don't fear ; be it so ! 
 Brutus is honourable, I know ; 
 So mindful of the dues of others. 
 So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers. 
 So scrupulous, considerate, kind — 
 He wouldn't leave the devil behind
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 123 
 
 If he assured him he had claims 
 For his good company to hell-flames ! 
 No mattei", no matter, the bargain's made ; 
 And I for my part will not be afraid. 
 With reservations ! oh ! ho, ho ! 
 But time, my friend, has yet to show 
 Which of us two will closest fit 
 The proverb of the Biter Bit. 
 
 Di. Tell me thy name, now it is over. 
 
 Sp. Oh ! 
 
 Why, Mephistophiles, you know — 
 At least you've lately called me so ; 
 Belial it was some days ago. 
 But take your pick ; I've got a score — 
 Never a royal baby more. 
 For a brass plate upon a door 
 What think you of Cosmocrator 1 
 
 Di. ToOc KO(T[jLiJKpaT(ipag rod ciICjvoq tovtov. 
 And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you. 
 
 iSp. Ephesians, ain't it 1 near the end 
 You dropt a word to spare your friend. 
 What follows, too, in application 
 Would be absui'd exaggeration. 
 
 Di. The Power of this World ! hateful unto God. 
 
 S]). Cosmarchon's shorter, but sounds odd : 
 One wouldn't like, even if a true devil, 
 To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil. 
 
 Di. Yet in all these things we — 'tis Scripture too — 
 Are more than conquerors, even over you.
 
 124 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 Sp. Come, come, don't maunder any longer, 
 Time tests the weaker and the stronger ; 
 And we, without procrastination, 
 Must set, you know, to our vocation. 
 O goodness ; won't you find it pleasant 
 To own the positive and present ; 
 To see yourself like people round, 
 And feel your feet upon the ground ! {Exeunt. 
 
 END OF DIPSYCHUS.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 125 
 
 EPILOGUE TO DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 * I don't very well iiuderstand what it's all about,' said 
 my uncle. ' I won't say I didn't drop into a doze while the 
 young man was drivelling through his latter soliloquies. 
 But there was a great deal that was unmeaning, vague, and 
 involved ; and what was most plain, was least decent and 
 least moral,' 
 
 ' Dear sir,' said I, ' says the proverb — " Needs must when 
 the devil drives ; " and if the devil is to speak ' 
 
 ' Well,' said my uncle, ' why should he 1 Nobody asked 
 him. Not that he didn't say much which, if only it hadn't 
 been for the way he said it, and that it was he who said it, 
 would have been sensible enough.' 
 
 ' But, sir,' said I, ' perhaps he wasn't a devil after all. 
 That's the beauty of the poem ; nobody can say. You see, 
 dear sir, the thing which it is attempted to represent is the 
 conflict between the tender conscience and the world. Now 
 the over-tender conscience will, of course, exaggerate the 
 wickedness of the world ; and the Spir-it in my poem may l)e 
 merely the hypothesis or subjective imagination formed ' 
 
 ' Oh, for goodness' sake, my dear boy,' interrupted mj' 
 uncle, ' don't go into the theory of it. If you'ie wrong in it, 
 makes bad worse ; if you're right, you may be a critic, but 
 you can't be a poet. And then you know very well I don't 
 understand all those new words. But as for that, I quite 
 agree that consciences are much too tender in your generation 
 — schoolboys' consciences, too ! As my old friend the Canon 
 says of the Westminster stvidents, " They're all so pious." 
 It's all Arnold's doing ; he spoilt the pubhc schools,' 
 
 ' My dear uncle,' said I, ' how can so venerable a sexa-
 
 126 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 genaiian utter so juvenile a paradox 1 How often have I not 
 heard you lament the idleness and listlessness, the boorish- 
 ness and vulgar tyranny, the brutish manners alike, and 
 minds ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said my uncle, ' I may have fallen in occasionally 
 with the talk of the day ; but at seventy one begins to see 
 clearer into the bottom of one's mind. In middle life one 
 says so many things in the way of business. Not that I 
 mean that the old schools were perfect, any more than we 
 old boys that were there. But whatever else they were or 
 did, they certainly were in harmony with the world, and 
 they certainly did not disqualify the country's youth for 
 after-life and the country's service.' 
 
 ' But, my dear sir, this bringing the schools of the 
 country into harmony with pubhc opinion is exactly ' 
 
 * Don't interrupt me with public opinion, my dear 
 nephew ; you'll quote me a leading article next. " Young 
 men must be young men," as the worthy head of your college 
 said to me touching a case of rustication. " JNIy dear sir," 
 said I, " I only wish to heaven they would be ; but as for 
 my own nephews, they seem to me a sort of hobbadi-hoy 
 cherub, too big to be innocent, and too simple for anything 
 else. They're full of the notion of the world being so wicked 
 and of their taking a higher line, as they call it, I only 
 fear they'll never take any line at all." What is the true 
 purpose of education 1 Simply to make plain to the young 
 understanding the laws of the life they will have to enter. 
 For example — that lying won't do, thieving still less; that 
 idleness will get punished ; that if they are cowards, the 
 whole world will be against them ; that if they will have 
 their own way, they must fight for it. As for the conscience, 
 mamma, I take it — such as mammas are now-a-days, at any 
 rate — has probably set that agoing fast enough already. 
 What a blessing to see her good little child come back a 
 brave young devil-may-care ! '
 
 DIPSTCHUS. 127 
 
 ' Exactly, my dear sii\ As if at twelve or fourteen a 
 roundabout boy, with bis three meals a day inside him, is 
 likely to be over-troubled with scruples.' 
 
 ' Put him through a strong course of confirmation and 
 sacraments, backed up with sermons and private admonitions, 
 and what is much the same as auricular confession, and 
 really, my dear nephew, I can't answer for it but he mayn't 
 tm"n out as great a goose as you — pardon me — loere about 
 the age of eighteen or nineteen.' 
 
 ' But to have passed through that, my dear sir ! surely 
 that can be no harm.' 
 
 ' I don't know. Your constitutions don't seem to re- 
 cover it, quite. We did without these foolish measles well 
 enough in my time.' 
 
 ' Westminster had its Cowper, my dear sir ; and other 
 schools had theirs also, mute and inglorious, but surely not 
 few.' 
 
 ' Ah, ah ! tlie beginning of troubles ' 
 
 ' You see, my dear sir, you must not refer it to 
 Arnold, at all at all. Anything that Arnold did in this 
 direction ' 
 
 ' Why, my dear boy, how often have I not heard from 
 you, how he used to attack offences, not as oflfences — the 
 right view — against discipline, but as sin, heinous guilt, I 
 don't know what beside ! Why didn't he flog them and hold 
 his tongue 1 Flog them he did, but why preach ? ' 
 
 ' If he did err in this way, sir, which I hardly think, I 
 ascribe it to the spirit of the time. The real cause of the 
 evil you complain of, which to a certain extent I admit, was, 
 I take it, the religious movement of the last century, 
 beginning with Wesleyanism, and culminating at last in 
 Puseyism. This over- excitation of the religious sense, 
 resulting in this irrational, almost animal irritability of 
 consciences, was, in many ways, as foreign to Arnold as it is 
 proper to '
 
 128 DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 * Well, well, my dear nepliew, if you like to make a 
 theory of it, pray wi-ite it out for yourself nicely in fuU ; 
 but your jDoor old uncle does not Kke theories, and is more- 
 over sadly sleepy.' 
 
 ' Good night, dear uncle, good night. Only let me say 
 you six more verses.'
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 E
 
 DUTY. 
 
 Duty — that's to say, complying 
 
 With whate'er's expected here ; 
 On your unknown cousin's dying, 
 
 Straight be ready with the tear; 
 Upon etiquette relying. 
 Unto usage nought denying, 
 Lend your waist to be embraced, 
 
 Blush not even, never fear; 
 Claims of kith and kin connection. 
 Claims of manners honour still, 
 Ready money of affection 
 
 Pay, whoever drew the bill. 
 With the form conforming duly. 
 Senseless what it meaneth truly. 
 Go to church — the world require you, 
 To balls — the world reqviire you too, 
 A.nd marry — papa and mamma desire you. 
 
 And your sisters and schoolfellows do. 
 Duty — 'tis to take on trust 
 What things are good, and right, and just; 
 And whether indeed they be or be not. 
 Try not, test not, feel not, see not : 
 'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise 
 By leading, opening ne'er your eyes ; 
 Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, 
 And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 
 K 2
 
 132 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing, 
 
 As an obvious deadly sin, 
 All the questing and the guessing 
 Of the soul's own soul within : 
 'Tis the coward acquiescence 
 
 In a destiny's behest, 
 To a shade by terror made, 
 Sacrificing, aye, the essence 
 
 Of all that's truest, noblest, best : 
 'Tis the blind non-recognition 
 
 Or of goodness, truth, or beauty, 
 Save by precept and submission ; 
 Moral blank, and moral void, 
 Life at very birth destroyed. 
 Atrophy, exinanition ! 
 Duty! 
 
 Yea, by duty's prime condition 
 Pui'e nonentity of duty ! 
 
 LIFE IS STRUGGLE. 
 
 To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain. 
 And give oneself a world of pain ; 
 Be eager, angiy, fierce, and hot. 
 Imperious, supple — God knows what, 
 For what's all one to have or not ; 
 O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 For 'tis not joy, it is not gain, 
 It is not in itself a bliss. 
 Only it is precisely this 
 
 That keeps us all alive. 
 
 To say we truly feel the pain. 
 
 And quite are sinking with the strain ; —
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 133 
 
 Entirely, simply, tincleceived, 
 Believe, and say we ne'er believed 
 The object, e'en were it achieved, 
 A thing we e'er had cared to keep ; 
 With heart and soul to hold it cheap, 
 And then to go and try it again ; 
 O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 O, 'tis not joy, and 'tis not bliss. 
 Only it is precisely this 
 
 That keeps us still alive. 
 
 IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 
 
 Each for himself is still the rule ; 
 We learn it when we go to school — 
 The devil take the hindmost, O ! 
 
 And when the schoolboys grow to men, 
 In life they learn it o'er again — , 
 
 The devil take the hindmost, ! 
 
 For in the church, and at the bar. 
 On 'Change, at court, where'er they are. 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 Husband for husband, wife for wife. 
 Are careful that in married life 
 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 From youth to age, whate'er the game, 
 The unvarying practice is the same — 
 The devil takes the hindmost, !
 
 134 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 And after death, we do not know, 
 But scarce can doubt, where'er we go, 
 The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 
 
 Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro, 
 
 The devil take the hindmost, ! 
 
 THE LATEST DECALOGUE. 
 
 Thou shalt have one God only ; who 
 Would be at the expense of two 1 
 No graven images may be 
 Worshipped, except the currency : 
 Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse 
 Thine enemy is none the worse : 
 At church on Sunday to attend 
 Will serve to keep the world thy friend : 
 Honour thy parents ; that is, all 
 From whom advancement may befall ; 
 Thou shalt not kill ; but need'st not strive 
 Officiously to keep alive : 
 Do not adultery commit ; 
 Advantage rarely comes of it : 
 Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat. 
 When it's so lucrative to cheat : 
 Bear not false witness ; let the lie 
 Have time on its own wings to fly : 
 Thou shalt not covet, but tradition 
 Approves all forms of competition.
 
 POEMS OX LIFE AND DUTY. 135 
 
 THE QUESTIONING SPIBIT. 
 
 The human spirits saw I on a clay, 
 
 Sitting and looking each a different way ; 
 
 And hardly tasking, subtly questioning. 
 
 Another spirit went around the ring 
 
 To each and each : and as he ceased his say, 
 
 Each after each, I heard them singly sing. 
 
 Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, 
 
 We know not — what avails to know 1 
 
 We know not — wherefore need we know ] 
 
 This answer gave they still unto his suing, 
 
 We know not, let us do as we are doing. 
 
 Dost thou not know that these things only seem 1 — 
 
 I know not, let me dream my dream. 
 
 Are dust and ashes fit to make a treasure ? — 
 
 I know not, let me take my pleasure. 
 
 What shall avail the knowledge thou hast sought 1 — 
 
 I know not, let me think my thought. 
 
 What is the end of strife 1 — 
 
 I know not, let me live my life. 
 
 How many days or e'er thou mean'st to move ? — 
 
 I know not, let me love my love. 
 
 Were not things old once new 1 — 
 
 I knoAv not, let me do as others do. 
 
 And when the rest were over past, 
 
 I know not, I will do my duty, said the last. 
 
 Thy duty do ? rejoined the voice. 
 Ah, do it, do it, and rejoice ; 
 But shalt thou then, when all is done. 
 Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty
 
 136 POE^iIS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 Like these, that may be seen and won 
 In life, -whose course will then be run ; 
 Or wilt thou be where there is none 1 
 I know not, I will do my duty. 
 
 And taking up the word around, above, below, 
 Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low. 
 We know not, sang they all, nor ever need we know ; 
 "We know not, sang they, Avhat avails to know 1 
 Whereat the questioning spirit, some short space, 
 Though unabashed, stood quiet in his place. 
 But as the echoing chorus died away 
 And to their dreams the rest returned apace, 
 By the one spirit I saw him kneeling low. 
 And in a silvery whisper heard him say : 
 Truly, thou know'st not, and thou need'st not know ; 
 Hope only, hope thou, and believe alway ; 
 I also know not, and I need not know. 
 Only with questionings pass I to and fro, , 
 
 Perplexing these that sleep, and in their folly 
 Imbreeding doubt and sceptic melancholy ; 
 Till that, their dreams deserting, they with me 
 Come all to this true ignorance and thee, 
 1847 
 
 BETSESDA. 
 
 A SEQUEL. 
 
 I SAW again the spirits on a day. 
 Where on the earth in mournful case they lay ; 
 Five porches were there, and a pool, and round. 
 Huddling in blankets, strewn upon the gi'ound, 
 Tied-up and bandaged, weary, sore and spent. 
 The maimed and halt, diseased and impotent.
 
 POEMS OX LIFE AM) DUTY. 137 
 
 For a great angel came, 'twas said, and stirred 
 The pool at certain seasons, and the word 
 "Was, with this people of the sick, that they 
 Who in the waters here their limbs should lay- 
 Before the motion on the sin-face ceased 
 Shonld of their torment straightway be released. 
 So with shrunk bodies and with heads down-dropt, 
 Stretched on the steps, and at the pillars propt. 
 Watching by day and listening through the night, 
 They filled the place, a miserable sight. 
 
 And I belield that on the stony floor 
 He too, that spoke of duty once before, 
 No otherwise than others here to-day, 
 Foredone and sick and sadly muttering lay. 
 
 * I know not, I will do — what is it I would say ? 
 What was that word which once sufficed alone for all, 
 Which now I seek in vain, and never can recall 1 ' 
 And then, as weary of in vain renewing 
 
 His question, thus his mournful thought pvirsuiag, 
 
 * I know not, I must do as other men are doing.' 
 
 But what the waters of that pool might be, 
 Of Lethe were they, or Philosophy ; 
 And whether he, long waiting, did attain 
 Deliverance from the burden of his pain 
 There with the rest ; or whether, yet before. 
 Some more diviner stranger passed the door 
 With his smaU company into that sad place. 
 And breathing hope into the sick man's face, 
 Bade him take up his bed, and rise and go, 
 What the end were, and whether it were so, 
 Further than this I saw not, neither know. 
 1849
 
 138 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE! 
 
 Hope evermore and believe, man, for e'en as thy thought 
 So are the things that thou see'st ; e'en as thy hope and 
 belief. 
 Cowardly art thou and timid 1 they rise to provoke thee 
 
 against them ; 
 Hast thou courage ? enough, see them exulting to yield. 
 Yea, the rough rock, the dull earth, the wild sea's furying 
 Avaters 
 (Violent say'st thou and hard, mighty thou think'st to 
 destroy). 
 All with ineflEable longing are waiting their Invader, 
 
 All, with one varying voice, call to him. Come and subdue ; 
 Still for their Conqueror call, and, but for the joy of being 
 conquered 
 (Rapture they will not forego), dare to resist and rebel ; 
 Still, when resisting and raging, in soft undervoice say unto 
 him, 
 Fear not, retire not, O man; hope evermore and believe. 
 
 Go from the east to the west, as the sun and the stars direct 
 thee, 
 Go with the girdle of man, go and encompass the earth. 
 Not for the gain of the gold ; for the getting, the hoarding, 
 the having, 
 But for the joy of the deed ; but for the Duty to do. 
 Go with the spiritual life, the higher volition and action, 
 With the great girdle of God, go and encompass the earth. 
 
 Go ; say not in thy heart. And what then were it accom- 
 plished, 
 Were the wild impulse allayed, what were the use or the 
 good !
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 139 
 
 Go, when the instinct is stilled, and when the deed is accom- 
 plished, 
 What thon hast done and shalt do, shall be declared to 
 thee then. 
 Go ^vith the sun and the stars, and yet evermore in thy 
 spirit 
 Say to thyself : It is good : yet is there better than it. 
 This that I see is not all, and this that I do is but little ; 
 Nevertheless it is good, though there is better than it. 
 
 'WHENCE ABE YE, FAGUE DESIRES?' 
 
 Whence are ye, vague desires, 
 
 Which carry men along, 
 
 However proud and strong ; 
 
 Which, having ruled to-day, 
 
 To-morrow pass away ? 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye % 
 
 Which women, yielding to. 
 Find still so good and trvie ; 
 So true, so good to-day. 
 To-morrow gone away. 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye 1 
 
 From seats of bliss above. 
 Where angels sing of love ; 
 From subtle airs around. 
 Or from the vulgar gTOund, 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye ?
 
 140 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 A message from the blest, 
 Or bodily unrest ; 
 A call to heavenly good, 
 A fever in the blood : 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which men who know you best 
 Are proof against the least, 
 And rushing on to-day. 
 To-morrow cast away. 
 What are ye, vague desires 1 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which women, ever new, 
 Still warned, surrender to ; 
 Adored with you to-day. 
 Then cast with you away. 
 What are ye, vague desires 1 
 What are ye 1 
 
 WTiich unto boyhood's heart 
 The force of man impart, 
 And pass, and leave it cold, 
 And prematurely old. 
 What are ye, vague desires 1 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which, tremblingly confest, 
 Pour in the young gii-l's breast 
 Joy, joy — the like is none. 
 And leave her then undone — 
 What are ye, vague desires 1 
 What ai-e ye 1
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 141 
 
 Ah yet ! though man be marred, 
 Ignoble made, and hard ; 
 Though broken women lie 
 In anguish down to die ; 
 Ah yet ! ye vague desires, 
 Ah yet ! 
 
 By Him who gave you birth, 
 And blended you with earth, 
 Was some good end designed 
 For man and womankind ; 
 Ah yet ! ye vague desires. 
 Ah yet ! 
 
 The petals of to-day. 
 To-morrow fallen away. 
 Shall something leave instead, 
 To live when they are dead; 
 When you, ye vague desires, 
 Have vanished ; 
 
 A something to survive, 
 Of you though it derive 
 Apparent earthly birth, 
 But of far other worth 
 Than you, ye vague desires, 
 Than you. 
 
 TEE STREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 O STREAM descending to the sea. 
 Thy mossy banks between. 
 
 The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow, 
 The leafy tiees are green.
 
 142 POEMS OX LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 In garden plots tlie children play, 
 Tlie fields the labourers till, 
 
 And houses stand on either hand. 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 life descending unto death, 
 Our waking eyes behold, 
 
 Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our minds possess, 
 Our hearts affections fill, 
 
 We toil and earn, we seek and leai-n. 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 end to which our currents tend. 
 
 Inevitable sea. 
 To which we flow, what do we know. 
 
 What shall we guess of thee 1 
 
 A roar we hear upon thy shoi-e. 
 As we our course fulfil ; 
 
 Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
 And be above us still. 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUAEK 
 
 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, 
 East wind and frost are safely gone ; 
 
 With zephyr mild and balmy rain 
 The summer comes serenely on ;
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 143 
 
 Earth, air, and sun and skies combine 
 To promise all that's kind and fair : — 
 
 But thou, human heart of mine. 
 Be still, contain thyself, and bear. 
 
 December days were brief and chill, 
 
 The winds of March were wild and drear, 
 And, nearing and receding still. 
 
 Spring never would, we thought, be here. 
 The leaves that burst, the suns that shine. 
 
 Had, not the less, their certain date : — 
 And thou, human heart of mine. 
 
 Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.
 
 THE 
 
 BOTHIE OF TOBEE-NA-VUOLICH: 
 
 A LOXG-VACATION PASTORAL. 
 
 Nunc formosissimns annus 
 Itc inecc felix quondam jk'cus, ite cameiics.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLIGH. 
 
 I 
 
 / y / Socii cratei-a cornnant. 
 
 It was the afternqpn ; and tlie sports were now at the ending. 
 
 Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the hamnier ; 
 
 Up the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it. 
 
 Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility wondrous ; 
 
 Run too the course on the level had been ; the leaping was over : 
 
 Last in the show of dress, a novelty recently added, 
 
 Noble ladies theii" prizes adjudged for costume that was perfect, 
 
 Turning the clansmen about, as they stood with upraised elbows ; 
 
 Bowing their eye-glassed brows, and fingering kilt and sporran. 
 
 It was four of the clock, and the sports were come to the ending, 
 
 Therefore the Oxford party went off to adorn for the dinner. 
 
 Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, in dressing. 
 Hoj^e was first, black-tied, white-waistcoated, simple. His Honour ; 
 For the postman made out he was heir to the earldom of Hay 
 (Being the younger son of the younger brother, the Colonel), 
 Treated him therefore with special respect ; doffed bonnet, and ever 
 Called him His Honour : His Honoiu* he therefore was at the cottage ; 
 Always His Honour at least, sometimes the Viscount of Hay. 
 
 Hope was first, His Honour, and next to His Honour the Tutor. 
 Still more plain the Tutor, the grave man, nicknamed Adam, 
 White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waistcoat 
 Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense and feeling be- 
 neath it ; 
 Skilful in Ethics and Logic, in Pindar and Poets unrivalled ; 
 Shady in Latin, said Lindsay, but topping in Plays and Aldi'ich. 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII. 
 
 Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waistcoat work of a lady, 
 Lindsay succeeded ; the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving Lindsay, 
 Lindsay tlie ready of sjieech, the Piper, the Dialectician, 
 This was his title from Adam because of the words he invented, 
 Who in three weeks had created a dialect new for the party; 
 This was his title from Adam, but mostly they called him the Piper. 
 Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving Lindsay. 
 
 Hewson and Hobbes were down at the matutine bathing ; of course 
 
 too 
 Arthur, the bather of bathers, ^ar excellence, Audley by surname, 
 Arthur they called him for love and for euphony ; they had been 
 
 bathing, 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a ledge of granite 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended, 
 Only a step from the cottage, the road and larches between them. 
 Hewson and Hobbes followed quick ujjon Adam ; on them followed 
 
 Arthur. 
 Airlie descended the last, effulgent as god of Olympus ; 
 Blue, perceptibly blue, was the coat that had white silk facings, 
 Waistcoat blue, coral-buttoned, the white tie finely adjusted, 
 Coral moreover the studs on a shu-t as of crochet of women : 
 When the fourwheel for ten minutes already had stood at the gateway. 
 He, like a god, came leaving his ample Olympian chamber. 
 
 And in the fourwheel they drove to the place of the clansmen's 
 
 meeting. 
 So in the fourwheel they came ; and Donald the innkeeper showed 
 
 them 
 Up to the barn where the dinner should be. Four tables were in it ; 
 Two at the top and the bottom, a little upraised from the level, 
 These for Chairman and Croupier, and gentry fit to be with them. 
 Two lengthways in the midst for keeper and gillie and peasant. 
 Here were clansmen many in kilt and bonnet assembled, 
 Keepers a dozen at least ; the Marquis's targeted gillies ; 
 Pipers five or six, among them the young one, the drunkard ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-XA-YUOLICH. 149 
 
 Many with silver brooches, and some with those brilliant crystals 
 Found amid granite-dust on the frosty scalj) of the Cairn-Gorm ; 
 But with snuff-boxes all, and all of them using the boxes. 
 Here too were Catholic Priest, and Established Minister standing : 
 Catholic Priest ; for many still clung to the Ancient Worship, 
 And Sir Hector's father himself had built them a chapel ; 
 So stood Priest and Minister, near to each other, but silent, 
 One to say grace before, the other after the dinner. 
 Hither anon too came the shrewd, ever-ciphering Factor, 
 Hither anon the Attache, the Guardsman mute and stately. 
 Hither from lodge and bothie in all the adjoining shootings 
 Members of Parliament many, forgetful of votes and biuebooks, 
 Here, amid heathery hills, upon beast and bird of the forest 
 Venting the murderous spleen of the endless Railway Committee. 
 Hither the Marquis of Ayr, and Dalgarnish Earl and Croupier, 
 And at their side, amid murnmrs of welcome, long looked-for, himself 
 
 too 
 Eager, the grey, but boy-hearted Sir Hector, the Chief and the Cliair- 
 
 man. 
 Then was the dinner sei-ved, and the Minister prayed for a blessing. 
 And to the viands before them with knife and with fork they beset 
 
 them : 
 Yenison, the red and the roe, with mutton ; and grouse succeeding ; 
 Such was the feast, with whisky of course, and at top and bottom 
 Small decanters of sherry, not overchoice, for the gentry. 
 So to the viands before them with laughter and chat they beset them. 
 And, when on flesh and on fowl had appetite duly been sated, 
 Up rose the Catholic Priest and returned God thanks for the dinner. 
 Then on all tables were set black bottles of well-mixed toddy. 
 And, with the bottles and glasses before them, they sat, digesting. 
 Talking, enjoying, but chiefly awaiting the toasts and speeches. 
 
 Spare me, O great Recollection ! for words to the task were unequal, 
 Spare me, O mistress of Song I nor bid me remember minutely
 
 150 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 All that was said and done o'er the well-mixed tempting toddy ; 
 
 How were healths proposed and drunk ' with all the lionours,' 
 
 Glasses and bonnets waving, and three-times-tlu-ee thrice over, 
 
 Queen, and Prince, and Army, and Landlords all, and Keepers ; 
 
 Bid me not, grammar defying, repeat from grammar-defiers 
 
 Long constructions strange and plusquam-Thucydidean ; 
 
 Tell how, as sudden torrent in time of speat * in the mountain 
 
 Hurries six ways at once, and takes at last to the roughest. 
 
 Or as the practised rider at Astley's or Franconi's 
 
 Skilfully, boldly bestrides many steeds at once in the gallop. 
 
 Crossing from tliis to that, with one leg here, one yonder, 
 
 So, less skilful, but equally bold, and wild as the torrent. 
 
 All through sentences six at a time, unsuspecting of syntax. 
 
 Hurried the lively good- will and garrulous tale of Sir Hector. 
 
 Left to oblivion be it, the memory, faithful as ever. 
 
 How the Marquis of Ayr, with wonderful gesticulation. 
 
 Floundering on tlrrough game and mess-room recollections, 
 
 Gossip of neighbouring forest, praise of targeted gillies, 
 
 Anticipation of royal visit, skits at pedestrians, 
 
 Swore he would never abandon his country, nor give up deer-stalking ; 
 
 How, too, more brief, and plainer, in spite of the Gaelic accent. 
 
 Highland peasants gave courteous answer to flattering nobles. 
 
 Two orations alone the memorial song will render ; 
 
 For at the banquet's close spake thus the lively Sir Hector, 
 
 Somewhat husky with praises exuberant, often repeated, 
 
 Pleasant to him and to them, of the gallant Highland soldiers 
 
 Wliom he erst led in the fight ; — something husky, but ready, though 
 
 weary, 
 Up to them rose and spoke the grey but gladsome chieftain : — 
 
 Fill up your glasses, my friends, once more, — With all the honours ! 
 There was a toast I forgot, with which our gallant Highland homes have 
 Always welcomed the stranger, delighted, I may say, to see such 
 
 * Flood.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUGLICH 151 
 
 Fine young men at my table — My friends ! are you ready ? the 
 
 Strangers. 
 Gentlemen, here are your healths, — and I wish yovi — -Witli all the 
 
 honours ! 
 So he said, and the cheers ensued, and all the honours. 
 All our Collegians were bowed to, the Attache detecting His Honour, 
 Guardsman moving to Arthur, and Mai'quis sidling to Airlie, 
 And the small Piper below getting up and nodding to Lindsay. 
 
 But, while the healths were being drunk, was much tribulation and 
 trouble, 
 Nodding and beckoning across, observed of Attache' and Guardsman : 
 Adam wouldn't sjjeak, — indeed it was certain he couldn't ; 
 Hewson could, and would if they wished ; Philip Hewson a poet, 
 Hewson a radical hot, hating lords and scorning ladies. 
 Silent mostly, but often reviling in fire and fury 
 Feudal tenures, mercantile lords, competition and bishops. 
 Liveries, armorial bearings, amongst other matters the Game-laws : 
 He could speak, and was asked to by Adam ; but Lindsay aloud cried, 
 (Whisky was hot in his brain,) Confound it, no, not Hewson, 
 Ain't he cock-sure to bring in his eternal political humbug ? 
 However, so it must be, and after due pause of silence, 
 Waving his hand to Lindsay, and smiling oddly to Adam, 
 Up to them rose and spoke the poet and radical Hewson : — 
 
 I am, I think, perhaps the most perfect stranger present. 
 I have not, as have some of my friends, in my veins some tincture, 
 Some few ounces of Scottish blood ; no, nothing like it. 
 I am therefore perhaps the fittest to answer and thank you. 
 So I thank you, sir, for myself and for my companions. 
 Heartily thank you all for this unexpected greeting. 
 All the more welcome, as showing you do not account us intruders, 
 Are not unwilling to see the north and the south forgather. 
 And, surely, seldom have Scotchand English more thoroughly mingled; 
 Scarcely with warmer hearts, and clearer feeling of manhood, 
 Even in tourney, and foray, and fray, and regular battle.
 
 152 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Where the life and the strength came out in the tug and tussle, 
 
 Scarcely, where man met man, and soul encountered with soul, as 
 
 Close as do the bodies and twining limbs of the wrestlers, 
 
 When for a final bout are a day's two champions mated, — 
 
 In the grand old times of bows, and bills, and claymores, 
 
 At the old Flodden-field — ^or Bannockburn — or Culloden. 
 
 — (And he paused a moment, for breath, and because of some cheering,) 
 
 We are the better friends, I fancy, for that old fighting. 
 
 Better friends, inasmuch as we know each other the better, 
 
 We can now shake hands without pretending or shuffling. 
 
 On this passage followed a great tornado of cheering. 
 
 Tables were rapped, feet stamped, a glass or two got broken : 
 
 He, ere the cheers died wholly away, and while still there was stamping, 
 
 Added, in altered voice, with a smile, Ms doubtful conclusion. 
 
 I have, however, less claim than others perhaps to this honour, 
 For, let me say, I am neither game-keeper, nor game-preserver. 
 
 So he said, and sat down, but his satire had not been taken. 
 Only the men, who were all on their legs as concerned in the thanking, 
 AVere a trifle confused, but mostly sat down without laughing ; 
 Lindsay alone, close-facing the chair, shook his fist at the speaker. 
 Only a Liberal member, away at the end of the table, 
 Started, remembering sadly the cry of a coming election, 
 Only the Attach^ glanced at the Guardsman, who twirled his moustachio. 
 Only the Marquis faced round, but, not quite clear of the meaning. 
 Joined with the joyous Sir Hector, who lustily beat on the table. 
 
 And soon after the chairman arose, and the feast was over : 
 Now should the barn be cleared and forthwith adorned for the dancing. 
 And, to make way for this purpose, the Tutor and pupils retiring 
 Were by the chieftain addressed and invited to come to the castle. 
 But ere the door-way they quitted, a thin man clad as the Saxon, 
 Trouser and cap and jacket of homespun blue, hand-woven. 
 Singled out, and said with determined accent, to HeAvson, 
 Touching his arna : Young man, if ye pass through the Braes o' Lochaber, 
 See by the loch-side ye come to the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-IfA-VUOLICH. 153 
 
 II 
 
 Et ceriamen erat, Corydon cum Thyrside, magnum. 
 
 Morn, in yellow and -white, came broadening out from the mountains, 
 Long ere music and reel were hushed in the barn of the dancers. 
 Duly in matutine bathed, before eight some two of the party, 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a ledge of granite 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended. 
 There two plunges each took Pliilip and Arthur together. 
 Duly in mahdine bathed, and read, and waited for breakfast : 
 Breakfast commencing at nine, lingered lazily on to noon-day. 
 
 Tea and coffee were there ; a jug of water for Hewson ; 
 Tea and coffee ; and four cold grouse upon the sideboard ; 
 Gaily they talked, as they sat, some late and lazy at breakfast, 
 Some professing a book, some smoking outside at the window. 
 By an aurora soft-pouring a still sheeny tide to the zenith, 
 Hewson and Arthur, with Adam, had walked and got home by eleven ; 
 Hope and the others had stayed till the round sun lighted them bedward. 
 They of the lovely aurora, but these of the lovelier women 
 Spoke — of noble ladies and rustic girls, their partners. 
 
 Turned to them Hewson, the Chartist, the poet, the eloquent speaker. 
 Sick oi the very names of your Lady Augustas and Floras 
 Am I, as ever I was of the dreary botanical titles 
 Of the exotic plants, their antitypes in the hot-house : 
 Roses, violets, lilies for me ! the out-of-door beauties ; 
 Meadow and woodland sweets, forget-me-nots and hearts-ease ! 
 
 Pausing awhile, he proceeded anon, for none made answer. 
 Oh, if our high-born girls knew only the grace, the attraction, 
 Labour, and labour alone, can add to the beauty of women, 
 Truly the milliner's trade would quickly, I think, be at discount, 
 All the waste and loss in silk and satin be saved us. 
 
 Saved for purposes truly and widely productive 
 
 That's right,
 
 154 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Take off your coat to it, Philip, cried Lindsay, outside in the garden, 
 Take off your coat to it, Philip. 
 
 Well, then, said Hewson, resuming; 
 Laugh if you please at my novel economy ; listen to tliis, though ; 
 As for myself, and apart from economy wholly, believe me, 
 Never I properly felt the relation between men and women, 
 Though to the dancing-master I went perforce, for a quarter, 
 Wliere, in dismal quadrille, were good-looking girls in abundance. 
 Though, too, school-girl cousins were mine — a bevy of beauties — 
 Never (of course you will laugh, but of course all the same I shall say it), 
 Never, believe me, I knew of the feelings between men and women. 
 Till in some village fields in holidays now getting stupid. 
 One day sauntering ' long and listless,' as Tennyson has it, 
 Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbadehoyhood. 
 Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless, bonnetless maiden, 
 Bending with three-pronged fork in a garden uprooting potatoes . 
 Was it the air 1 who can say ? or herself, or the charm of tlie labour ? 
 But a new thing was in me ; and longing delicious possessed me. 
 Longing to take her and lift her, and put her away from her slaving. 
 Was it embracing or aiding was most in my mind ? hard question ! 
 But a new thing was in me ; I, too, was a youth among maidens : 
 Was it the air 1 who can say ! but in part 'twas the charm of the labour. 
 Still, though a new tiling was in me, the poets revealed themselves to me. 
 And in my dreams by IVliranda, her Ferdinand, often I wandered. 
 Though all the fuss about girls, the giggling and toying and coying, 
 Were not so strange as before, so incomprehensible purely ; 
 Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and evening parties, 
 Shooting with bows, going shopping together, and hearing them singing. 
 Dangling beside them, and turning the leaves on the dreary piano. 
 Offering unneeded arms, performing dull farces of escort, 
 Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air balloon-work 
 (Or what to me is as hateful, a riding about in a carriage), 
 Utter removal from work, mother earth, and the objects of living. 
 Hungry and fainting for food, you ask me to join you in snapping —
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 155 
 
 Wtat but a pink-paper comfit, with motto romantic inside it / 
 Wishing to stock me a garden, I'm sent to a table of nosegays ; 
 Better a crust of black bread than a mountain of paper confections, 
 Better a daisy in earth than a dahlia cut and gathered, 
 Better a cowslip with root than a prize carnation without it. 
 That I allow, said Adam. 
 
 But he, with the bit in his teeth, scarce 
 Breathed a brief moment, and hurried exultingly on with his rider, 
 Far over hillock, and runnel, and bramble, away in the champaign, 
 Snorting defiance and force, the white foam flecking his flanks, the 
 Bein hanging loose to his neck, and head projecting before him. 
 
 Oh, if they knew and considered, unhai^py ones ! oh, could they see, 
 could 
 But for a moment discern, how the blood of true gallantry kindles. 
 How the old knightly religion, the chivalry semi-quixotic 
 Stirs in the veins of a man at seeing some delicate woman 
 Serving him, toiling— for him, and the world ; some tenderest girl, now 
 Over-weighted, expectant, of him, is it ? who shall, if only 
 Duly her burden be lightened, not wholly removed from her, mind you. 
 Lightened if but by the love, the devotion man only can ofler. 
 Grand on her pedestal rise as urn-bearing statue of Hellas ; — 
 Oh, could they feel at such moments how man's heart, as into Eden 
 Carried anew, seems to see, like the gardener of earth uncorrupted. 
 Eve from the hand of her Maker advancing, an help meet for him, 
 Eve from his o^vn flesh taken, a spirit restoi^ed to his spirit, 
 Spirit but not spirit only, himself whatever himself is. 
 Unto the mystery's end sole helpmate meet to be with him ; — 
 Oh, if they saw it and knew it ; we soon should see them abandon 
 Boudoir, toilette, carriage, drawing-room, and ball-room. 
 Satin for worsted exchange, gros-de-naples for plain linsey-woolsey. 
 Sandals of silk for clogs, for health lackadaisical fancies ! 
 So, feel women, not dolls ; so feel the sap of existence 
 Circulate up through their roots from the far-away centre of all things.
 
 156 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Circulate uji from the depths to the bud on the twig that is topmost ! 
 Yes, we should see them delighted, delighted ourselves in the seeing. 
 Bending with blue cotton gown skirted up over striped linsey-woolsey. 
 Milking the kine in the field, like Rachel, watering cattle, 
 Rachel, when at the well the predestined beheld and kissed her. 
 Or, with pail uj^on head, like Dora beloved of Alexis, 
 Comely, with well-poised pail over neck arching soft to the shoulders, 
 Comely in gracefuUest act, one arm uplifted to stay it. 
 Home from the river or pump moving stately and calm to the laundry ; 
 Ay, doing household work, as many sweet girls I have looked at, 
 Needful household work, which some one, after all, must do, 
 Needful, graceful therefore, as washing, cooking, and scouring, 
 Or, if you please, with the fork in the garden uprooting potatoes. — 
 
 Or, — high-kilted perhaps, cried Lindsay, at last successful, 
 Lindsay this long time swelling with scorn and pent-up fury, 
 Or high-kilted perhaps, as once at Dundee I saw them, 
 Petticoats up to the knees, or even, it might be, above them. 
 Matching their lily-white legs with the clothes that they trod in the 
 wash-tub ! 
 
 Laughter ensued at this ; and seeing the Tutor embarrassed, 
 It was from them, I suppose, said Arthur, smiling sedately, 
 Lindsay learnt the tune we all have learnt from Lindsay, 
 For oh, he tvas a roguey, the Piper o' Dundee. 
 
 Laughter ensued again ; and the Tutor, recovering slowly, 
 Said, Are not these perhaps as doubtful as other attractions 1 
 
 There is a truth in your view, but I think extremely distorted ; 
 Still there is a truth, I own, I understand you entirely. 
 
 While the Tutor was gathering his purposes, Arthur continued. 
 Is not all this the same tliat one hears at common-room breakfasts, 
 Or perhaps Trinity wines, about Gothic buildings and Beauty ? 
 
 And with a start from the sofa came Hobbes ; with a cry from the 
 sofa, 
 Where he was laid, the great Hobbes, contemplative, corpulent, 
 witty,
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 157 
 
 Author forgotten and silent of currentest j)hrases and fancies, 
 Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing, 
 Mute and absti-acted, or strong and abundant as rain in the tropics ; 
 Studious ; careless of dress ; inobservant : by smooth persuasions 
 Lately decoyed into kilt on example of Hoi^e and the Piper, 
 Hope an Antinoiis mere, Hyj)erion of calves the Piper. 
 
 Beautiful ! cried he up- leaping, analogy perfect to madness ! 
 O inexhaustible source of thought, shall I call it, or fancy I 
 Wonderful spring, at whose touch doors fly, what a vista disclosing ! 
 Exquisite germ ; Ah no, crude fingers shall not soil thee ; 
 Rest, lovely pearl, in my brain, and slowly mature in the oyster. 
 
 While at the exquisite pearl they were laughing and corpulent oyster, 
 Ah, could they only be taught, he resumed, by a Pugin of women, 
 How even churning and washing, the dairy, the scullery duties, 
 Vv'ait but a touch to redeem and convert them to charms and at- 
 tractions. 
 Scrubbing requii-es for true grace but frank and artistical handling. 
 And the removal of slops to be ornamentally treated. 
 
 Philip who speaks like a book, (retiring and pausing he added,) 
 Philip, here, who speaks — like a folio say'st thou, Piper ? 
 Philip shall write us a book, a Treatise upon The Laivs of 
 Architectural Beauty in Application to Women ; 
 Illustrations, of course, and a Parker's Glossary pendent, 
 Where shall in specimen seen be the scuUiony stumpy-columnar 
 (Which to a reverent taste is perhaps the most moving of any). 
 Rising to grace of true woman in English the Early and Later, 
 Charming us still in fulfilling the Richer and Loftier stages, 
 Lost, ere we end, in the Lady-Debased and the Ladj'-Flamboyant : 
 Whence why in satire and spite too mercUess onward pursue her 
 Hither to hideous close, Modern-Florid, modern-fine-lady ? 
 No, I will leave it to you, my Philip, my Pugin of women. 
 
 Leave it to Arthur, said Adam, to think of, and not to play with. 
 You are young, you know, he said, resuming, to Philip, 
 You are young, he proceeded, with something of fervour to Hewson,
 
 158 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-XA-YUOLICH. 
 
 You are a boy ; when you grow to a man you'll find things alter. 
 
 You will then seek only the good, will scorn the attractive, 
 
 Scorn all mere cosmetics, as now of rank and f ashio 
 
 Delicate hands, and wealth, so then of poverty also, 
 
 Poverty truly attractive, more truly, I bear you witness. 
 
 Good, wherever it's found, you will choose, be it humble or stately, 
 
 Happy if only you find, and finding do not lose it. 
 
 Yes, we must seek what is good, it always and it only ; 
 
 Not indeed absolute good, good for us, as is said in the Ethics, 
 
 That which is good for ourselves, our proper selves, our best selves. 
 
 Ah, you have much to learn, we can't know all things at twen^.y. 
 
 Partly you rest on truth, old truth, the duty of Duty, 
 
 Partly on error, you long for equality. 
 
 Ay, cried the Piper, 
 That's what it is, that confounded egalitS, French manufacture, 
 He is the same as the Chartist who spoke at a meeting in Ireland, 
 What, and is not one man, feUotv-men, as good as anotJier 1 
 Faith, replied Pat, and a deal better too ! 
 
 So rattled the Piper : 
 But undisturbed in his tenor, the Tutor. 
 
 Partly in error 
 Seeking equality, is not one woman as good as another ? 
 I with the Irishman answer. Yes, better too ; the poorer 
 Better full oft than richer, than loftier better the lower. 
 Irrespective of wealth and of poverty, pain and enjoyment, 
 Women all have their duties, the one as well as the other ; 
 Are all duties alike 1 Do all alike fulfil them ] 
 However noble the dream of equality, mark you, Philip, 
 Nowhere equality reigns in all the world of creation. 
 Star is not equal to star, nor blossom the same as blossom ; 
 Herb is not equal to herb, any more than planet to planet. 
 There is a glory of daisies, a glory again of carnations ; 
 Were the carnation wise, in gay parterre by greenhouse, 
 Should it decHne to accept the nurture the gardener gives it.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 159 
 
 Should it refuse to expand to sun and genial summer, 
 
 Simply because the field-daisy that grows in the grass-plat beside it. 
 
 Cannot, for some cause or other, develop and be a carnation 1 
 
 Would not the daisy itself petition its scrupulous neighbour 1 
 
 Up, grow, bloom, and forget me ; be beautiful even to proudness, 
 
 E'en for the sake of myself and other poor daisies like me. 
 
 Education and manners, accomplishments and refinements, 
 
 Waltz, peradventure, and polka, the knowledge of music and drawing, 
 
 All these things are Nature's, to Nature dear and precious, 
 
 We have all something to do, man, woman alike, I own it ; 
 
 We all have something to do, and in my judgment should do it 
 
 In our station ; not thinking about it, but not disregarding ; 
 
 Holding it, not for enjoyment, but simply because we are in it. 
 
 Ah ! replied Philip, Alas ! the noted phrase of the Prayer-book, 
 Doing our duty in that state of life to ichich God has called us, 
 Seems to me always to mean, when the little rich boys say it, 
 Standing in velvet frock by mamma's brocaded flounces, 
 Eyeing her gold-fastened book and the watch and chain at her bosom, 
 Seems to me always to mean, Eat, drink, and never mind others. 
 
 Nay, replied Adam, smiling, so far your economy leads me, 
 Velvet and gold and brocade are nowise to my fancy. 
 Nay, he added, believe me, I like luxurious living 
 Even as little as you, and grieve in my soul not seldom, 
 More for the rich indeed than the poor, who are not so guilty. 
 
 So the discussion closed ; and, said Arthur, Now it is my turn, 
 How will my argument please you ? To-morrow we start on our 
 travel. 
 
 'And took up Hope the chorus, 
 
 To-morrow we start on our travel. 
 Lo, the weather is golden, the weather-glass, say they, rising ; 
 Four weeks here have Ave read ; four weeks will we read hereafter ; 
 Three weeks hence will return and think of classes and classics. 
 Fare ye well, meantime, forgotten, unnamed, midreamt of. 
 History, Science, and Poets ! lo, deep in dustiest cupbtjard.
 
 100 THE BOTHIE OP TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Thookydid, Oloros' son, Halimoosian, here lieth buried ! 
 Slumber in Liddell-and-Scott, musical chaff of old Athens, 
 Dishes, and fishes, bird, beast, and sesquijaedalian blackguard ! 
 Sleep, weary ghosts, be at peace and abide in your lexicon-limbo ! 
 Sleep, as in lava for ages your Herculanean kindred, 
 Sleep, for aught that I care, ' the sleep that knows no waking,' 
 ^schylus, Sophocles, Homer, Herodotus, Pindar, and Plato. 
 Three weeks hence be it time to exhume our dreary classics. 
 
 And in the chorus joined Lindsay, the Piper, the Dialectician, 
 Three weeks hence we return to the sho}) and the wash-hand- stand- 
 
 basin 
 (These are the Piper's names for the bathing-place and the cottage). 
 Three weeks hence unbury Thicksides and hairy Aldrich. 
 But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick -named Adam, 
 Who are they that go, and when do they promise returning ? 
 
 And a silence ensued, and the Tutor himself continued, 
 Airlie remains, I presume, he continued, and Hobbes and Hewson. 
 
 Answer was made him by Philip, the poet, the eloquent speaker : 
 Airlie remains, I presume, was the answer, and Hobbes, peradventure 
 Tarry let Airlie May-fairly, and Hobbes, brief -kilted hero, 
 Tarry let Hobbes in kilt, and Airlie ' abide in his breeches ; ' 
 Tarry let these, and read, four Pindars apiece an' it like them ! 
 Weary of reading am I, and weaiy of walks prescribed us ; 
 Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more weaiy. 
 Eager to range over heather unfettered of gillie and marquis, 
 I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics. 
 
 And to the Tutor rejoining, Be mindful ; you go up at Easter, 
 This was the answer returned by Philip, the Pugin of women. 
 Good are the Ethics I wis ; good absolute, not for me, though ; 
 Good, too. Logic, of course ; in itself, but not in fine weather. 
 Three weeks hence, with the rain, to Prudence, Temperance, Justice, 
 Yirtues Moral and Mental, with Latin prose included ; 
 Three weeks hence we return to cares of classes and classics. 
 I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-XA-YUOLICH. 161 
 
 But the Tutoi" inquired, the grave man, nick-named Adam, 
 Wliere do you mean to go, and whom do you mean to visit 1 
 
 And he was answered by Hope, the Viscount, His Honour, of 
 Hay. 
 Kitcat, a Trinity coach, has a party at Drumnadrochet, 
 Up on the side of Loch Ness, in the beautiful valley of Urquhart ; 
 Mainwaring says they will lodge us, and feed us, and give us a lift too : 
 Only they talk ere long to remove to Glenmorison. Then at 
 Castleton, high in Braemar, strange home, with his earliest party, 
 Harrison, fresh from the schools, has James and Jones and Lauder. 
 Thirdly, a Cambridge man I know, Smith, a senior wrangler. 
 With a mathematical score hangs-out at Inverary. 
 
 Finally, too, from the kilt and the sofa, said Hobbes in conclusion, 
 Finally, Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, 
 Hid in the braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of What-did-he-call-it. 
 Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless, 
 Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more weary, 
 There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potato-uprooter, 
 Study the question of sex in the Bothie of What-did-he-caU-it. 
 
 Namque canebut uti 
 
 So in the golden morning they parted and went to the westward. 
 And in the cottage with Airlie and Hobbes remained the Tutor ; 
 Reading nine hours a day with the Tutor, Hobbes and Airlie ; 
 One between bathing and breakfast, and six before it was dinner 
 (Breakfast at eight, at four, after bathing again, the dinner) ; 
 Finally, two after walking and tea, from nine to eleven. 
 Airlie and Adam at evening their quiet stroll together 
 Took on the terrace-road, with the western hills before them ; 
 Hobbes, only rarely a third, now and then in the cottage remaining, 
 E'en after dinner, eupeptic, would rush yet again to his reading ; 
 
 M
 
 1(32 THE BOTHIE OP TOBER-XA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Other times, stung by the oestrum of some swift-working conception. 
 Ranged, tearing on in his fury, an lo-cow through the mountains, 
 Heedless of scenery, heedless of bogs, and of perspiration. 
 On the high peaks, unwitting, the hares and ptarmigan starting. 
 
 And the three weeks past, the three weeks, three days over, 
 Nither letter had come, nor casual tidings any. 
 And the pupils grumbled, the Tutor became uneasy, 
 And in the golden weather they wondered, and watched to the west- 
 ward. 
 
 There is a stream (I name not its name, lest inquisitive tourist 
 Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide-books), 
 Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of great mountains. 
 Falling two miles through rowan and stunted alder, enveloped 
 Then for four more in a forest of pine, where broad and ample 
 Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heathery slopes on both sides : 
 Broad and fair the stream, with occasional falls and narrows ; 
 But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of the river. 
 Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite. 
 Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up, and raging onward. 
 Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would step it. 
 There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge goes. 
 Carrying a path to the forest ; below, three hundred yards, say, 
 Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats of shingle. 
 Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley. 
 
 But in the interval here the boiling pent-up water 
 Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin. 
 Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury 
 Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror ; 
 Beautiful there for the colour derived from green rocks under ; 
 Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising 
 Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. 
 Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch boughs. 
 Here it lies, nnthought of above at the bridge and pathway, 
 StUl more enclosed from below by wood and rocky projection.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 163 
 
 You are shut in, left alone witli yourself and perfection of water, 
 Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing. 
 
 Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the fall and clear it ; 
 Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded sparklings, 
 Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty ledges. 
 
 Hither, a month agone, they had come, and discovered it ; hither 
 (Long a design, but long unaccountably left unaccomplished), 
 Leaving the well-known bridge and pathway above to the forest, 
 Turning below from the track of the carts over stone and shingle, 
 Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and natural causeway 
 Under the rocky wall that hedges the bed of the streamlet. 
 Rounded a cragyy point, and saw on a sudden before them 
 Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and perfection of water. 
 Picture-like beauty, seclusion sublime, and the goddess of bathing. 
 There they bathed, of course, and Ai'thur, the Glory of headers, 
 Leapt from the ledges with Hope, he twenty feet, he thirty ; 
 There, overbold, great Hobbes from a ten-foot height descended. 
 Prone, as a quadruped, prone with hands and feet protending ; 
 There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic, they shrieked and shouted. 
 
 ' Hobbes's gutter ' the Piper entitles the spot, profanely, 
 Hope ' the Glory ' would have, after Arthur, the Glory of headers : 
 But, for before they departed, in shy and fugitive reflex. 
 Here in the eddies and there did the splendour of Jupiter glimmer ; 
 Adam adjudged it the name of Hesjierus, star of the evening. 
 
 Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star of evening above them. 
 Come in their lonelier walk the pupils twain and Tutor ; 
 Turned from the track of the carts, and passing the stone and shingle. 
 Piercing the wood, and skirting the stream by the natural causeway, 
 Rounded the craggy point, and now at their ease looked up ; and 
 Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, the Glory of headers, 
 Lo, on the beach, expecting the plunge, not cigarless, the Piper, — 
 
 And they looked, and wondered, incredulous, looking yet once more. 
 
 Yes, it was he, on the ledge, baro-limbed, an Apollo, down-gazing, 
 
 Eyeing one moment the beauty, the life, ere he flung himself in it, 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-XA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Eyeing tlirough eddying green waters the green-tinting floor underneath 
 
 them, 
 Eyeing the bead on the surface, the bead, like a cloud rising to it, 
 Drinking-in, deep in his soul, the beautiful hue and the clearness, 
 Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboasting, the Glory of headers ; 
 Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knapsack, spectator and critic. 
 Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. 
 
 Yes, they were come ; were restored to the party, its grace and it* 
 gladness, 
 Yes, were here, as of old ; the light-giving orb of the household, 
 Arthur, the shapely, the tranquil, the strength-and-contentment 
 
 diffusing, 
 Tn the pure presence of whom none could quarrel long, nor be pettish. 
 And, the gay fountain of mirth, their dearly beloved of Pipers ; 
 Yes, they were come, were here : but Hewson and Hope — where they 
 
 then ? 
 Are they behind, travel-sore, or ahead, going straight, by the pathway ? 
 
 And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. 
 Hope with the uncle abideth for shooting. Ah me, were I with him ! 
 Ah, good boy that I am, to have stuck to my word and my reading I 
 Good, good boy to be here, far away, who might be at Balloch ! 
 Only one day to have stayed who might have been welcome for seven, 
 Seven whole days in castle and forest — gay in the mazy 
 Moving, imbibing the rosy, and pointing a gun at the horny ! 
 
 And the Tutor impatient, expectant, interrupted. 
 Hope with the uncle, and Hewson — with him ? or where have you 
 left him? 
 
 And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. 
 Hope with the uncle, and Hewson — Why, Hewson we left in Rannoch, 
 By the lochside and the pines, in a farmer's house, — reflecting — 
 Helping to shear,* and dry clothes, and bring in peat from the peat-stack. 
 
 And the Tutor's countenance fell ; perplexed, dumb-foundered 
 Stood he, — slow and with pain disengaging jest from earnest. 
 
 * h'enp.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEK-XA-VUOLICIL 105 
 
 He is not far from home, said Arthur from the water, 
 He will be with us to-morrow, at latest, or the next day. 
 
 And he was even more reassured by the Piper's rejoinder. 
 €an he have come by the mail, and have got to the cottage before us ? 
 
 So to the cottage they went, and Philii^ was not at the cottage ; 
 But by the mail was a letter from Hoi^e, who himself was to follow 
 
 Two whole days and nights succeeding brought not Philip, 
 Two whole days and nights exhausted not question and story. 
 
 For it was told, the Piper narrating, corrected of Arthur, 
 Often by word corrected, more often by smile and motion, 
 How they had been to lona, to Staffa, to Skye, to CuUoden, 
 Seen Loch Awe, Loch Tay, Loch Fyne, Loch Ness, Loch Arkaig, 
 Been up Ben-nevis, Ben-more, Ben-cruachan, Ben-muick-dhui ; 
 How they had walked, and eaten, and drunken, and slej)t in kitchens, 
 Slept upon t.00TS of kitchens, and tasted the real Glenlivat, 
 Walked up perpendicular hills, and also down them. 
 Hither and thither had been, and this and that had witnessed, 
 Left not a thing to be done, and had not a copper remaining. 
 
 For it was told withal, he telling, and he correcting. 
 How in the race they had run, and beaten the gillies of Rannoch, 
 How in forbidden glens, in Mar and midmost Athol, 
 Philip insisted hotly, and Arthur and Hope compliant, 
 They had defied the keepers ; the Piper alone protesting. 
 Liking the fun, it was plain, in his heart, but tender of game-law ; 
 Yea, too, in Meiily glen, the heart of Lochiel's fair forest, 
 Wliere Scotch firs are darkest and amplest, and intermingle 
 Grandly with rowan and ash — in Mar you have no ashes. 
 There the pine is alone, or relieved by the birch and the alder — 
 How in Mealy glen, while stags were starting before, they 
 Made the watcher believe they were guests from Achnacarry. 
 
 And there was told moreover, he telling, the other correcting, 
 Often by word, more often by mute significant motion, 
 Much of the Cambridge coach and his pupils at Inverary, 
 Huge barbarian pupils, Expanded in Infinite Series,
 
 166 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Fii ing-ofF signal guns (great scandal) from window to window 
 (For they were lodging perforce in distant and numerous houses). 
 Signals, wlien, one retiring, another should go to the Tutor : — 
 Much too of Kitcat, of course, and the party at Drumnadrocliet, 
 Mainwaring, Foley, and Fraser, their idleness horrid and dog-cart ; 
 Drumnadrocliet was seedy, Glenmorison adequate, but at 
 Castleton, high in Brae'mar, were the dippingest places for bathing ; 
 One by the bridge in the village, indecent, the Toini Hall christened. 
 Where had Lauder howbeit been bathing, and Harrison also, 
 Harrison even, the Tutor ; another like Hesperus here, and 
 Up to the vfater of Eye half-a-dozen at least, all stunners. 
 
 And it was told, the Piper narrating and Arthur correcting, 
 Colouring he, dilating, magniloquent, glorying in picture. 
 He to a matter-of-fact still softening, paring, abating. 
 He to the great might-have-been upsoaring, sublime and ideal, 
 He to the merest it-was restricting, diminishing, dwarfing, 
 River to streamlet reducing, and fall to slope subduing : 
 So was it told, the Piper narrating, corrected of Arthur, 
 How under Linn of Dee, where over rocks, between rocks. 
 Freed from prison the river comes, pouring, rolling, rushing, 
 Then at a sudden descent goes sliding, gliding, unbroken. 
 Falling, sliding, gliding, in narrow space collected, 
 Save for a ripple at last, a sheeted descent unbroken, — 
 How to the element offering their bodies, downshooting the fall, thej' 
 Mingled themselves with the flood and the force of imperious water. 
 
 And it was told too, Arthur narrating, the Piper correcting. 
 How, as one comes to the level, the weight of the downward impulse 
 Carries the head under water, delightful, unspeakable ; how the 
 Piper, here ducked and blinded, got stray, and borne-ofl' by the current 
 Wounded his lily-white thighs, below, at the craggy corner. 
 
 And it was told, the Piper resuming, corrected of Arthur, 
 More by word than motion, change ominous, noted of Adam, 
 How at the floating-bridge of Laggan, one morning at sunrise, 
 Came, in default of the feriyman, out of her bed a brave lassie ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-XA-YUOLICH. 167 
 
 And as Philip and she together were turning the handles, 
 
 Winding the chain by wliich the boat works over the water 
 
 Hands intermingled with hands, and at last, as they stepj^ed from the 
 
 boatie, 
 Turning about, tliey saw lips also mingle with lips ; but 
 That was flatly denied and loudly exclaimed at by Arthur : 
 How at the General's hut, the Inn by the Foyers Fall, where 
 Over the loch looks at you the summit of Me'alfourvonie, 
 How here too he was hunted at morning, and found in the kitchen 
 Watching the porridge being made, pronouncing them smoked for 
 
 certain, 
 Watching the porridge being made, and asking the lassie that made 
 
 them 
 What was the Gaelic for girl, and what was the Gaelic for pretty ; 
 How in confusion he shouldered his knapsack, yet blushingly stammered, 
 Waving a hand to the lassie, that blushingly bent o'er the porridge. 
 Something outlandish — Slan-aomething, Slau leat, he believed, Caleg 
 
 Looach — • 
 That was the Gaelic, it seemed, for ' I bid you good-bye, bonnie lassie ; ' 
 A rthur admitted it true, not of Philip, but of the Piper. 
 
 And it was told by the Piper, while Arthur looked out at the window, 
 How in thunder and in rain — it is wetter far to the westward — 
 Thunder and rain and wind, losing heart and road, they were welcomed. 
 Welcomed, and three days detained at a farm by the lochside of 
 
 Rannoch ; 
 How in the three days' detention was Philip observed to be smitten. 
 Smitten by golden-haired Katie, the youngest and comeliest daughter ; 
 Was he not seen, even Arthur observed it, from breakfast to bedtime. 
 Following her motions with eyes ever brightening, softening ever ? 
 Did he not fume, fret, and fidget to find her stand waiting at table ? 
 Was he not one mere St. Vitus' dance, when he saw her at nightfall 
 Go through the rain to fetch peat, through beating rain to the peat- 
 
 stack 1 
 How too a dance, as it happened, was given by Grant of Glenurchic,
 
 108 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 And with the farmer they went as the farmer's guests to attend it ; 
 
 Philip stayed dancing till daylight, — and evermore with Katie ; 
 
 How the whole next afternoon he was with her away in the shearing,* 
 
 And the next morning ensuing was found in the ingle beside her 
 
 Kneeling, picking the peats from her apron, — blowing together, 
 
 Both, between laughing, with lips distended, to kindle the embers ; 
 
 Lijis were so near to lips, one living cheek to another, — • 
 
 Though, it was true, he was shy, very shy, — yet it wasn't in nature. 
 
 Wasn't in nature, the Piper averred, there shouldn't be kissing ; 
 
 So when at noon they had packed up the things, and proposed to bo 
 
 starting, 
 Philip professed he was lame, would leave in the morning and follow; 
 Follow he did not ; do burns, when you go up a glen, follow after ? 
 Follow, he had not, nor left ; do needles leave the loadstone ? 
 Nay, they had turned after starting, and looked through the trees at 
 
 the corner, 
 Lo, on the rocks by the lake there he was, the lassie beside him, 
 Lo, there he was, stooping by her, and helping with stones from flic 
 
 water 
 Safe in the wind to keep down the clothes she would spread for tlie 
 
 drying. 
 There they had left him, and tliere, if Katie was there, was Philip, 
 There drying clothes, making fires, making love, getting on too by this 
 
 time. 
 Though he was shy, so exceedingly shy. 
 
 You may say so, said Arthur, 
 For the first time they had known with a peevish intonation, — 
 Did not the Piper himself flirt more in a single evening, 
 Namely, with Janet the elder, than Philip in all our sojourn ? 
 Philip had stayed, it was true ; the Piper was loth to depart too. 
 Harder his parting from Janet than e'en from the keeper at Balloch ; 
 And it was certain that Philip was lame. 
 
 * Reaping.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-NA-VUOLICII. 169 
 
 Yes, in his excuses, 
 Answered the Piper, indeed ! — 
 
 But tell me, said Hobbes interposing. 
 Did you not say she was seen every day in her beauty and bedgown 
 Doing plain household work, as washing, cooking, scouring 1 
 How could he help but love her ? nor lacked there perhaps the attractit'ii 
 That, in a blue cotton print tucked up over striped linsey-woolsey, 
 Barefoot, barelegged, he beheld her, with arms bare up to the elbows. 
 Bending with fork in her hand in a garden uprooting potatoes ? 
 Is not Katie as Rachel, and is not Philip a Jacob 1 
 Truly Jacob, supplanting a hairy Highland Esau 1 
 Shall he not, love-entertained, feed sheep for the Laban of Eannoch ? 
 Patriarch happier he, the long servitude ended of wooing, 
 If when he wake in the morning he find not a Leah beside him ! 
 
 But the Tutor inquired, who had bit his lip to bleeding. 
 How far off is the place ? who will guide me thither to-morrow ? 
 
 But by the mail, ere the morrow, came Hope, and brought new tidings; 
 Round by Rannoch had come, and Philip was not at Rannoch ; 
 He had left at noon, an hour ago. 
 
 With the lassie ? 
 With her ? the Piper exclaimed. Undoubtedly ! By great Jingo ! 
 And upon that he arose, slapping both his thighs like a hero, 
 Partly for emphasis only, to mark his conviction, but also 
 Part in delight at the fun, and the joy of eventful living. 
 
 Hope couldn't tell him, of course, but thought it improbable wholly ; 
 Janet, the Piper's friend, he had seen, and she didn't say so, 
 Though she asked a good deal about Philip, and where he was gone to : 
 One odd thing, by the bye, he continued, befell me while with her ; 
 Standing beside her, I saw a girl pass ; I thought I had seen her, 
 Somewhat remarkable-looking, elsewhere; and asked what her name was ; 
 Elspie Mackaye, was the answer, the daughter of David ! she's stopping 
 Just above here, with her uncle. And David Mackaye, where lives he ? 
 It's away west, she said ; they call it Tober-na-vuolich.
 
 170 THE BOTHIE OP TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ut vidi, tit peril, nt me mahis abstulit erii'i-. 
 
 So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not. 
 Sunday six days thence a letter arrived in his writing. — 
 But, Muse, that encompassest Earth like the ambient ether, 
 Swifter than steamer or railway or magical missive electric, 
 Belting like Ariel the sphere with the star-like trail of thy travel. 
 Thou with thy Poet, to mortals mere post-office second-hand know- 
 ledge 
 Leaving, wilt seek in the moorland of Rannoch the wandering hero. 
 
 There is it, there, or in lofty Lochaber, where, silent upheaving, 
 Heaving from ocean to sky, and under snow- winds of September, 
 "Visibly whitening at morn to darken by noon in the shining, 
 Rise on their mighty foundations the brethren huge of Ben-nevis 1 
 There, or westward away, where roads are unknown to Loch Nevish, 
 And the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the westernmost islands ? 
 There is it 1 there 1 or there ? we shall find our wandering hero ? 
 
 Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in Locliiel, in 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan, 
 Here I see him and here : I see him ; anon I lose liim ! 
 Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain. 
 Leaving the crest of Ben-more to be palpable next on Ben-vohrlich, 
 Or like to hawk of the hill which ranges and soars in its liunting. 
 Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether eludent, 
 
 Wherefore, as cloud of Ben-more or hawk over-rangmg the moun- 
 tains. 
 Wherefore in Badenoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, Locliiel, and 
 Xnoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan, 
 Wandereth he who should either with Adam be studying logic, 
 Or by the lochside of Bannoch on Katie his rhetoric using ; 
 He who, his three weeks past, past now long ago, to the cottage 
 Punctual promised return to cares of classes and classics.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-\UOLICH. 171 
 
 He who, smit to the heart by that youngest comeliest daughter, 
 Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreadmg chsthes from her 
 
 wash-tub ? 
 Can it be with him through Badenoch, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan ; 
 Can it be with him he beareth the golden-haired lassie of Rannoch ? 
 This fierce, furious walking — o'er mountain- top and moorland. 
 Sleeping in shieling and bothie, with drover on hill-side sleej^ing, 
 Folded in plaid, where sheep are strewn thicker than rocks by Loch 
 
 A wen. 
 This fierce, furious travel unwearying — cannot in truth be 
 Merely the wedding tour succeeding the week of wooing ! 
 
 No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not ; I see him, 
 Lo, and he sitteth alone, and these are his words in the mountain. 
 
 Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be with the living ; 
 Entering unseen, and retiring unquestioned, they bi-ing, — do they feel 
 
 too ?. - 
 Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner essence with essence ; 
 Would I were dead, I keej) saying, that so I could go and uphold her I 
 Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and, when they retire, leaving after 
 No cruel shame, no prostration, despondency ; memories rather, 
 Sweet happy hopes bequeathing. Ah ! wherefore not thus with the 
 
 living I 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her I 
 
 Is it impossible, say you, these passionate fervent impulsions. 
 These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward embraces, 
 Should in strange ways, in her dreams, should visit her, strengthen 
 
 her, shield her ? 
 Is it possible, rather, that tliese great floods of feeling 
 Setting-in daily from me towards her should, impotent wholly, 
 Bring neither sound nor motion to that sweet sliore they heave to ? 
 Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx ! 
 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ! 
 Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain lamenting, 
 Surely, surely, slie hears in her dreams a voice, ' I am with thee,'
 
 172 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Saying, ' although not with thee ; behold, for we mated our spirits 
 Then, when we stood in the chamber, and knew not the words we 
 
 were saying ; ' 
 Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one finger I touched her, 
 Surely she knows it, and feels it wliile sorrowing here in the moorland. 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ! 
 
 Spirits witli spirits conuningle and separate ; lightly as winds do, 
 Spice-laden South Avith the ocean-born zephyr ! they mingle and 
 
 sunder ; 
 No sad remorses for them, no visions of horror and vileness. 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ! 
 
 Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse, 
 Surely my strength shaU be in her, my help and protection about her, 
 Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigour of joy shall sustain her. 
 Till, the brief winter o'er-past, her own true sap in the sj^ringtide 
 Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e'en as aforetime ! 
 Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet ever and ever. 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her ! 
 
 ISTo, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not : behold, for 
 Here he is sitting alone, and these are his words in the mountain. 
 
 And, at the farm on the lochside of Rannoch, in parlour and kitchen, 
 Hark ! there is music — the flowing of music, of milk, and of whisky ; 
 Lo, I see piping and dancing ! and whom in the midst of the battle 
 Cantering loudly along there, or, look you, with arms uplifted, 
 Whistling, and snapping his fingers, and seizing his gay-smiling Janet, 
 AVliom ?— whom else but the Piper ? the wary precognisant Piper, 
 Who, for the love of gay Janet, and mindful of old invitation. 
 Putting it quite as a duty and urging grave claims to attention. 
 True to his night had crossed over : there goeth he, brimful of music, 
 Like a cork tossed by the eddies that foam under furious lasher, 
 Like to skifl', lifted, uplifted, in lock, by the swift-swelling sluices. 
 So with the music possessing him, swaymg him, goeth he, look you, 
 Swinging and flinging, and stamping and tramping, and grasping and 
 clasping
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-YUOLICH. 173 
 
 Whom but gay Janet ? — Him rivalling, Hobbes, briefest-kilted of 
 
 lieroes, 
 Enters, O stoutest, O rasliest of creatures, mere fool of a Saxon, 
 Skill-less of philabeg, skill-less of reel too, — the Avliirl and the twirl o't : 
 Him see I frisking, and whisking, and ever at swifter gyration 
 Under brief curtain revealing broad acres — not of broad cloth. 
 Him see I there and the Piper — the Piper what vision beholds not ? 
 Him and His Honour with Arthur, with Janet our Piper, and is it, 
 Is it, O marvel of marvels ! he too in the maze of the mazy, 
 Skipping, and tripping, though stately, though languid, with head on 
 
 one shoulder, 
 Airlie, with sight of the waistcoat the golden-haired Katie consoling ? 
 Katie, who simple and comely, and smiling and blushing as ever. 
 What though she wear on that neck a blue kerchief remembered a& 
 
 Philip's, 
 Seems in her maidenly freedom to need small consolement of waist- 
 coats ! — 
 
 Wlierefore in Badenoch then, far-away, in Lochaber, Lochiel, in 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, or Ai"dnamurchan, 
 Wanders o'er mountain and moorland, in shieling or bothie is sleeping, 
 He, who, — and why should he not then ? capricious ] or is it rejected i 
 Might to the piping of Rannoch be pressing the thrilling fair fingers, 
 Might, as he clasped her, transmit to her bosom the throb of his own 
 
 — yea,— 
 Might in the joy of the reel be wooing and winning his Katie ! 
 
 What is it Adam reads far off by himself in the cottage ? 
 Beads yet again with emotion, again is preparing to answer ? 
 What is it Adam is reading ? What was it Philip had written ? 
 
 There was it writ, how Philip possessed undoubtedly had been. 
 Deeply, entirely possessed bj' the charm of the maiden of Rannoch ; 
 Deeply as never before ! how sweet and bewitching he felt her 
 Seen still before him at work, in the garden, the byre, the kitchen ; 
 How it was beautiful to him to stoop at her side in the sheariu". 
 Binding uncoutlily the ears that fell from her dexterous sickle,
 
 174 THE BOTIIIE OP TOBER-XA-YUOLICH. 
 
 Building imcouthly the stooks, * which she laid by her sickle to straighten ; 
 How at the dance he had broken through shyness ; for four days after 
 Lived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not articulate speaking ; 
 Felt too that she too was feeling what he did. — Howbeit they parted . 
 How by a kiss from her lips he had seemed made nobler and stronger, 
 Yea, for the first time in life a man complete and perfect, 
 So forth ! much that before has been heard of. — Howbeit they jjarted ! 
 
 Wliat had ended it all, he said, was singular, very. — 
 I was walking along some two miles oft" from the cottage 
 Full of my dreamings — a girl went by in a party with others ; 
 She had a cloak on, was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning ; 
 But as she passed, from her hood I saw her eyes look at me. 
 So quick a glance, so regardless I, that although I had felt it. 
 You couldn't properly say our eyes met. She cast it, and left it : 
 It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it was. I had seen her 
 Somewhere before I am sure, but that wasn't it ; not its import : 
 No, it had seemed to regard me with sunple superior insight, 
 Quietly saying to itself — Yes, there he is still in his fancy, 
 Letting drop from him at random as things not worth his considering 
 All the benefits gathered and put in his hands by fortune, 
 Loosing a hold which others, contented and unambitious, 
 Trying down here to keej) up, know the value of better than he does. 
 What is this I was it perhaps ? — Yes, there he is still in his fancy, 
 Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere ; 
 People here too are people and not as fairy-land creatures ; 
 He is in a trance, and possessed ; I wonder how long to continue ; 
 It is a shame and a pity — and no good likely to follow. — 
 Something like tliis, but indeed I cannot attempt to define it. 
 Only, three hours thence I was ofi" and away in the moorland, 
 Hiding myself from myself if I could ; the arrow within me. 
 Katie was not in the house, thank God : I saw her in passing, 
 Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel desertion ; 
 What she thinks about it, God knows ! poor child ; may she only 
 
 * Shocks.
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TORER-NA-VUOLICH. 175 
 
 Think me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering! 
 Meantime all through the mountains I hurry and know not whither, 
 Tramp along here, and think, and know not what I should think. 
 
 Tell me then, why, as I sleep amid hill-tops high in the moorland. 
 Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the dissolute city, 
 Where dressy girls slithering by upon pavements give sign for accosting. 
 Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and shame in their bosoms ; 
 Hunger by drink, and by that which they shudder yet burn for, 
 
 appeasing, — 
 Hiding their shame — ah God ! — in the glare of the public gas-lights ? 
 Why, while I feel my ears catching through slumber the run of the 
 
 streamlet, 
 Still am I pacing the pavement, and seeing the sign for accosting. 
 Still am I passing those figures, not daring to look in their faces ? 
 Why, when the chill, ere the light, of the daybreak uneasily wakes me. 
 Find I a cry in my heart crying up to the heaven of heavens, 
 No, Great Unjust Judge ! she is purity ; I am the lost one. 
 
 You will not think that I soberly look for such things for sweet Katie ; 
 No, but the vision is on me ; I now first see how it happens. 
 Feel how tender and soft is the heart of a girl ; how passive 
 Fain would it be, how helpless ; and helplessness leads to destruction. 
 Maiden reserve torn from ofl" it, grows never again to reclothe it, 
 Modesty broken tlirough once to immodesty flies for protection. 
 Oh, who saws through the trunk, though he leave the tree up in the 
 
 forest. 
 When the next wind casts it down, — is his not tlie hand that smote it ? 
 
 This is tlie answer, the second, whicli, pondering long with emotion, 
 There by himself in the cottage the Tutor addressed to Philip. 
 
 I have perhaps been severe, dear Philip, and hasty ; forgive me ; 
 For I was fain to reply ere I wholly had read through your letter ; 
 And it was written in scraps with crossings and counter-crossings 
 Hard to connect with each other correctly, and hard to decijihcr ; 
 Paper was scarce, I suppose : forgive me ; I write to console you. 
 
 Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market ;
 
 17G THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-XA-VUOLICII. 
 
 Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for the askmg. 
 
 There are exceptional beings, one finds them distant and rarely, 
 
 Who, endowed with the vision alike and the interpretation, 
 
 See, by the neighbours' eyes and their own still motions enlightened, 
 
 In the beginning the end, in the acorn the oak of the forest, 
 
 In the child of to-day its children to long generations, 
 
 In a thought or a wish a life, a drama, an epos. 
 
 There are inheritors, is it ? by mystical generation 
 
 Heiring the wisdom and ripeness of spirits gone bj' ; without labour 
 
 Owning what others by doing and suifering earn ; what old men 
 
 After long years of mistake and erasure are proud to have come to. 
 
 Sick with mistake and erasure possess when possession is idle. 
 
 Yes, there is power upon earth, seen feebly in women and cliildren. 
 
 Which can, laying one hand on the cover, read off, unfaltering. 
 
 Leaf after leaf unlifted, the words of the closed book under. 
 
 Words which we are poring at, hammering at, stumbling at, spelling. 
 
 Rare is this ; wisdom mostly is bought for a i)vice in the market ; — 
 
 Rare is this ; and happy, who buys so much for so little, 
 
 As I conceive have you, and as I will hope has Katie. 
 
 Knowledge is needful for man, — needful no less for woman, 
 
 Even in Highland glens, were they vacant of shooter and tourist. 
 
 Not that, of course, I mean to prefer your blindfold hurry 
 
 Unto a soul that abides most loving yet most witliliolding ; 
 
 Least unfeeling though calm, self-contained yet most unselfish ; 
 
 Renders help and accepts it, a man among men that are brothers. 
 
 Views, not plucks the beauty, adores, and demands no embracing, 
 
 So in its peaceful passage whatever is lovely and gracious 
 
 Still without seizing or spoiling, itself in itself reproducing. 
 
 No, I do not set Philip herein on the level of Arthur ; 
 
 No, I do not compare still tarn with furious torrent. 
 
 Yet will the tarn overflow, assuaged in the lake be the torrent. 
 
 Women are weak, as you say, and love of all things to be passive, 
 Passive, patient, i-eceptive, yea, even of wrong and misdoing, 
 Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious feeling
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-JSTA-VUOLICH. 177 
 
 Patient, passive, receptive ; for that is the strength of their being, 
 
 Like to the earth taking all tilings, and all to good converting. 
 
 Oh 'tis a snare indeed ! — Moreover, remember it, Philip, 
 
 To the prestige of the richer the lowly are prone to be yielding. 
 
 Think that in dealing with them they are raised to a different region. 
 
 Where old laws and morals are modified, lost, exist not ; 
 
 Ignorant they as they are, they have but to conform and be yielding. 
 
 But I have spoken of this already, and need not repeat it. 
 You will not now run after what merely attracts and entices, 
 Every-day tilings highly-coloinred, and common-place carved and gilded. 
 You will henceforth seek only the good : and seek it, Philip, 
 Where it is — not more abundant, perhaps, but — more easily met witli ; 
 Where you are surer to find it, less likely to run into error. 
 In your station, not thinking about it, but not disregarding. 
 
 So was the letter completed : a postscript afterward added, 
 Telling the tale that was told by the dancers returning from Rannoch. 
 So was the letter completed : but queiy, whither to send it ? 
 Not for the will of the wisp, the cloud, and the hawk of the moorland, 
 Ranging afar thro' Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoydart, and Moydart, 
 Have even latest extensions adjusted a postal arrangement. 
 Query resolved very shortly, when Hope, from his chamber descending, 
 Came with a note in his hand from the Lady, his aunt, at the Castle ; 
 Came and revealed the contents of a missive that brought strange tidings; 
 Came and announced to the friends, in a voice that was husky with 
 
 wonder, 
 PliUip was staying at Balloch, was there in the room with the Countess, 
 Philip to Balloch had come and was dancing with Lady Maria. 
 
 Philip at Balloch, he said, after all that stately refusal, 
 He there at last — O strange ! O marvel, marvel of marvels ! 
 Au'lie, the Waistcoat, with Katie, we left him this morning at Rannoch ; 
 Atrlie with Katie, he said, and Philip with Lady Maria. 
 
 And amid laughter Adam paced up and down, repeating 
 Over and over, unconscious, the phrase which Hope had lent him, 
 Dancing at Balloch, you say, in the Castle, with Lady Maria.
 
 178 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Ptitavi 
 
 Stultus ego hide nostra similem. 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together 
 
 Duly remained, and read, and looked no more for Philip, 
 
 Pliilip at Balloch shooting and dancing with Lady Maria. 
 
 Breakfast at eight, and now, for brief September daylight, 
 
 Luncheon at two, and dinner at seven, or even later, 
 
 Five full hours between for the loch and the glen and the mountain, — 
 
 So in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jackets, 
 
 So they read and roamed, the pupils five with Adam. 
 
 What if autunuial shower came frequent and chill from the west- 
 ward. 
 What if on browner sward with yellow leaves besprinkled. 
 Gemming the crispy blade, the delicate gossamer gemming, 
 Frequent and tliick lay at morning the chilly beads of hoar-frost. 
 Duly in inatutine still, and daily, whatever the weather, 
 Bathed in the rain and the frost and the mist with the Glory of headers 
 Hope. Tliither also at times, of cold and of possible gutters 
 Careless, unmindful, unconscious, would Hobbes, or ere they departed. 
 Come, in heavy pea-coat his trouserless trunk enfolding. 
 Come, under coat over-brief those lusty legs displaying. 
 All from the shirt to the slipper the natural man revealing. 
 
 Duly there they bathed and daily, the twain or the trio. 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a ledge of granite 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended ; 
 Beautiful, very, to gaze in ere plunging ; beautiful also. 
 Perfect as picture, as vision entrancing that comes to the sightless. 
 Through the great granite jambs the stream, the glen, and the moun- 
 tain, 
 Beautiful, seen by snatches in intervals of dressing. 
 Morn after morn, unsought for, recurring ; themselves too seeming 
 Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as truly 
 Part of it as are the kine in the field lying there by the birches.
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 179 
 
 So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest ; 
 Par amid blackest pines to the waterfalls they shadow, 
 Far up the long, long glen to the loch, and the locli beyond it, 
 Deep, under huge red cliffs, a secret ; and oft by the starlight, 
 Or the aurora, perchance, racing home for the eight o'clock mutton. 
 So they bathed, and read, and roamed in heathery Highland ; 
 There in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jackets 
 Bathed and read and roamed, and looked no more for Philip. 
 
 List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch to Adam. 
 
 I am here, O my friend ! — idle, but learning wisdom. 
 Doing penance, you think ; content, if so, in my penance. 
 
 Often I find myself saying, while watching in dance or on horse- 
 back 
 One that is here, in her freedom and grace, and imperial sweetness, 
 Often I find myself saj'ing, old faith and doctrine abjuring. 
 Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, con\'icticns, — 
 Were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril, 
 Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden ; 
 Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers. 
 So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit, 
 So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady Maria. 
 
 Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it. 
 What of the poor and the weary ? their labour and pain is needed. 
 Perish the poor and the weary ! what can they better than perish, 
 Perish in labour for her, who is worth the destruction of empires ? 
 What ! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable odour of honour. 
 Armies shall bleed ; cities burn ; and the soldier red from the storming 
 Carry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters : 
 "What ! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battle 
 Slay and be slain ; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, and prison : 
 Die as a dog dies ; die mistaken perhaps, and dishonoured. 
 Yea, — and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain of a glorj?^ denied them. 
 
 K 2
 
 180 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-ATJOLICH. 
 
 Which could not ever be theirs more than now it is theirs as spectators ? 
 Wliich could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labour of hodmen? 
 
 And I find myself saying, and what I am saying, discern not. 
 Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner ! and finding be thankful ; 
 Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfection, 
 While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous air of thy cavern, 
 Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess. 
 Dig, and starve, and be thankful ; it is so, and thou hast been aiding. 
 
 Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest ? 
 Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich ! be sublime in great houses, 
 Purple and delicate linen endure ; be of Burgundy patient ; 
 Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet, 
 Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts. 
 Cast not to swine of the stye the pearls that should gleam in your fore- 
 heads. 
 Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness, 
 Even for their poor sakes whose hapjjiness is to behold you ; 
 Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous ; only be lovely, — 
 Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjojTiient ; 
 Not for enjoyment truly ; for Beauty and God's great glorj' ! 
 
 Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration — of Good or of Evil ! 
 Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare gainsay it ? 
 Is it not even of Him, who hath made us ? — Yea, for the lions, 
 Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God ! 
 Is it not even of Him, who one kind over another 
 All the works of His hand hath disposed in a wonderful order ? 
 Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the one on the other, 
 Who hath made man as Himself to know the law — and accept it ! 
 
 You will wonder at this, no doubt ! I also wonder ! 
 But we must live and learn ; we can't know all things at twenty. 
 List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at Balloch. 
 
 All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are Cathedrals, 
 Such is the Catholic doctrine ; 'tis ours with a slight variation ; 
 Every Avoman is, or ought to be, a Cathedral,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 181 
 
 Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and perfect, 
 Built by that only law, that Use be suggester of Beauty, 
 Nothing concealed that is done, but all things done to adornment, 
 Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and embellish. — 
 
 So had I duly commenced in the spirit and style of my Philip, 
 So had I formally opened the Treatise upon the Laws of 
 Architectv/ral Beauty in Application to Women, 
 So had I writ. — But my fancies are palsied by tidings they tell me. 
 Tidings — ah me, can it be then 1 that I, the blasphemer accounted, 
 Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous Analogy working, 
 Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst thou, a prophet apostate, 
 (How are the mighty fallen !) whilst thou, a shepherd travestie, 
 (How are the mighty fallen !) with gun, — with pipe no longer, 
 Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game-killing recantations, 
 Teachest thy verse to exalt Amaryllis, a Countess's daughter ? 
 
 Wliat, thou f orgettest, bewildered, my Master, that rightly considered 
 Beauty must ever be useful, what truly is useful is graceful ? 
 She that is handy is handsome, good dairy-maids must be good-looking, 
 If but the butter be nice, the tournure of the elbow is shapely, 
 If the cream-cheeses be white, far whiter the hands that made them, 
 If — but alas, is it true ? while the pupil alone in the cottage 
 Slowly elaborates here thy System of Feminine Graces, 
 Thou in the palace, its author, art dining, small-talking and dancing, 
 Dancing and pressing the fingers kid-gloved of a Lady Maria. 
 
 These are the final words, that came to the Tutor from Balloch. 
 I am conquered, it seems ! you will meet me, I hope, in Oxford, 
 Altered in manners and mind. I yield to the laws and arrangements. 
 Yield to the ancient existent decrees : who am I to resist them ? 
 Yes, you will find me altered in mind, I think, as in manners, 
 Anxious too to atone for six weeks' loss of your Logic. 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam, the pupils five together, 
 Head, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not now of Philip, 
 All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting-jackets.
 
 182 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 VI 
 
 Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnin. 
 
 Bright October was come, the misty-bright October, 
 Bright October was come to burn and glen and cottage ; 
 But the cottage was empty, the matutine deserted. 
 
 Who are these that walk by the shore of the salt sea water ? 
 Here in the dusky eve, on the road by the salt sea water ? 
 
 Who are these ? and where ? it is no sweet seclusion ; 
 Blank hill-sides slope down to a salt sea loch at their bases. 
 Scored by runnels, that fringe ere they end with rowan and alder ; 
 Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the mountain, 
 Peat-roofed, windowless, white ; the road underneath by the water. 
 
 There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the 
 ocean, 
 There with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it, 
 There with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers. 
 Dwelling of David Mackaye, and his daughters Elspie and Bella, 
 Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. 
 
 And of the older twain, the elder was telling the younger, 
 How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised potatoes. 
 Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his father before him ; 
 Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making horse-shoes 
 Far ; in the army had seen some service with brave Sir Hector, 
 Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith and soldier ; 
 He had been many things since that, — drover, schoolmaster, 
 Whitesmith, — but when his brother died childless came up hither ; 
 And although he could get fine work that would pay in the city, 
 Still was fain to abide where his father abode before him . 
 And the lassies are bonnie, — I'm father and mother to them, — 
 Bonnie and young ; they're healthier here, I judge, and safer, 
 I myself find time for their reading, writing, and learning. 
 
 So on the road they walk by the shore of tlie salt sea water. 
 Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain conversing.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-NA-VUOLICII. 183 
 
 This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving the cottage. 
 If you can manage to see me before going off to Dartmoor, . 
 Come by Tuesday's coach through Glencoe (you have not seen it), 
 Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you will wonder, 
 There however I am) to the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. 
 
 And on another scrap, of next day's date, was written : — 
 It was by accident purely I lit on the place ; I was returning. 
 Quietly, travelUng homeward by one of these wretched coaches ; 
 One of the horses cast a shoe ; and a farmer passing 
 Said, Old David's your man ; a clever fellow at shoeing 
 Once ; just here by the firs ; they call it Tober-na-vuolich. 
 So I saw and sjioke with David Mackaye, our acquaintance. 
 When we came to the journey's end some five miles farther. 
 In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to the bothie. 
 
 But on a final crossing, still later in date, was added : 
 Come as soon as you can ; be sure and do not refuse me. 
 Who would have guessed I should find my haven and end of my 
 
 travel, 
 Here, by accident too, in the bothie we laughed about so ? 
 Who would have guessed that here would be she whose glance at 
 
 Rannoch 
 Turned me in that mysterious way ; yes, angels conspiring. 
 Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself ; the needle 
 Which in the shaken compass flew hither and thither, at last, long 
 Quivering, poises to north. I think so. But I am cautious : 
 More, at least, than I was in the old silly days when I left you. 
 
 Not at the bothie now ; at the changehouse in the clachan ; * 
 Why I delay my letter is more than I can tell you. 
 
 There was another scrap, without or date or connnent, 
 Dotted over with various observations, as follows : 
 Only think, I had danced Avith her twice, and did not remember. 
 I was as one that sleeps on the railway ; one, who dreaming 
 * rublic-lioiise iu the hamlet.
 
 184 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Hears thro' liis dream the name of his home shouted out ; hears and 
 
 hears not, — 
 Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance ; 
 Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and clioice, — and 
 Sense of claim and reality present, anon relapses 
 Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward 
 Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither. 
 
 Handsome who handsome is, who handsome does is more so ; 
 Pretty is all very pretty, it's prettier far to be useful. 
 i\o, fair Lady Maria, I say not that ; but I will say, 
 Stately is service accej)ted, but lovelier service rendered, 
 Interchange of service the law and condition of beauty : 
 Any way beautiful only to be the thing one is meant for. 
 I, I am sure, for the sphere of mere ornament am not intended : 
 No, nor she, I tliink, thy sister at Tober-na-vuolich. 
 This was the letter of PhiliiD, and this had brouglit the Tutor : 
 This is why Tutor and pupil are walking with David and Elspie. — 
 
 Wlien for the night they part, and these, once more together. 
 Went by the lochside along to the changehouse near in the clachan, 
 Thus to his pupil anon commenced the grave man, Adam. 
 
 Yes, she is beautiful, Philip, beautiful even as morning : 
 Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the Attractive ! 
 Happy is he that finds, and finding does not leave it ! 
 
 Ten more days did Adam with Philip abide at the changehouse, 
 Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter. 
 Ten more nights, and night by night more distant away were 
 Philip and she ; every night less heedful, by habit, the father. 
 Happy ten days, most happy : and, otherwise than intended, 
 Fortunate visit of Adam, companion and friend to David. 
 Happy ten days, be ye fruitful of happiness ! Pass o'er them slowly, 
 Slowly ; like cruse of the prophet be multiplied, even to ages ! 
 Pass slowly o'er them, ye days of October ; ye soft misty mornings. 
 Long dusky eves ; pass slowly ; and thou, great Term-time of Oxford 
 Awful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and Great-goes,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 185 
 
 Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and retire for the lovers, 
 Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself even to doomsday ! 
 
 Pass o'er them slowly, ye hours ! Be with them, ye Loves and 
 Graces ! 
 
 Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly bather. 
 Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along by the edges, 
 In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love. the plain present, 
 Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti-poetic. 
 In your faith, ye Muses and Loves, ye Loves and Graces, 
 I wiU confront the great peril, and speak with the mouth of the lovers, 
 As they spoke by the alders, at evening, the runnel below them, 
 Elspie, a diligent knitter, and Pliilip her fingers watching. 
 
 Vesper adest, J uvenes, consiirgite : Vesper Olympo 
 Expectata diu vix tandem luviina tollit. 
 
 For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes, 
 Elspie confessed at the sports long ago with her father she saw him. 
 When at the door the old man had told him the name of the bothie ; 
 Then after that at the dance ; yet again at a dance in Rannoch — 
 And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather Philip 
 Buried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was bursting. 
 Silent, confused, yet by pity she conquered her fear, and continued. 
 Katie is good and not silly ; be comforted. Sir, about her ; 
 Katie is good and not silly ; tender, but not, like many, 
 Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosom 
 Locking-uj) as in a cupboard the pleasure that any man gives then), 
 Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of ; 
 That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland ; 
 No, she lives and takes pleasure in aU, as in beautiful weather, 
 Sorry to lose it, but just as we would be to lose fine weather. 
 And she is strong to return to herself and feel undesei'ted, 
 Oh, she is strong, and not silly : she thinks no further about you ;
 
 186 THE BOTHIE OP TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 She haa had kerchiefs before from gentle, I know, as from simple. 
 Yes, she is good and not silly ; yet were you wrong, Mr. Philip, 
 Wrong, for yourself pei'haps more than for her. 
 
 But Philip replied not. 
 Raised not his eyes from the hands on his knees. 
 
 And Elspie continued. 
 That was what gave me much pain, when I met you that dance at 
 
 Rannoch, 
 Dancing myself too with you, while Katie danced with Donald ; 
 That was what gave me such pain ; I thought it all a mistaking. 
 All a mere chance, you know, and accident,— not proper choosing, — 
 There were at least five or six — not there, no, that I don't say. 
 But in the country about-^you might just as well have been courting 
 That was what gave me much pain, and (you won't remember that, 
 
 though). 
 Three days after, I met you, beside my uncle's, walking, 
 And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn't notice, 
 So as I passed I couldn't help looking. You didn't know me. 
 But I was glad, when I heard next day you were gone to the teacher. 
 
 And uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, 
 Large as great stars in mist, and dim, with dabbled lashes, 
 Pliilip, with new tears starting. 
 
 You think I do not remember, 
 Said, — suppose that I did not observe ! Ah me, shall I tell you ? 
 Elspie, it was yom* look that sent me away from Rannoch. 
 It was your glance, that, descending, an instant revelation. 
 Showed me where I was, and whitherward going ; recalled me, 
 Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of thought in the moun- 
 tains. 
 Yes, I have carried your glance within me undimmed, unaltered, 
 As a lost boat the compass some passing ship has lent her. 
 Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moorland : 
 And you suppose that I do not remember, I had not observed it ! 
 O, did the sailor bewildered observe when they told him his bearings ?
 
 THE BOTHIE OP TOBER-NA-^TJOLICH. 187 
 
 O, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the compass they gave 
 him? 
 And he continued more firmly, although with stronger emotion : 
 Elspie, why should I speak it ? you cannot believe it, and should not : 
 Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another ? 
 Yet should I dare, should I say, O Elspie, you only I love ; you. 
 First and sole in my life that has been and surely that shall be ; 
 Could — O, could you believe it, O Elspie, believe it and spurn not ? 
 Is it — possible, — possible, Elspie? 
 
 Well, — she answered. 
 And she was silent some time, and blushed all over, and answered 
 Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting. Maybe, I think of it, 
 Though I don't know that I did : and she paused again ; but it may be. 
 Yes, — I don't know, Mr. Philip, — but only it feels to me strangely, 
 Like to the liigh new bridge, they used to build at, below there. 
 Over the burn and glen on the road. You won't understand me. 
 But I keep saying in my mind — this long time slowly with trouble 
 I have been building myself, up, up, and toilfully raising. 
 Just like as if the bridge were to do it itself without masons. 
 Painfully getting mj^self upraised one stone on another. 
 All one side I mean ; and now I see on the other 
 Just such another fabric uprising, better and stronger, 
 Close to me, coming to join me : and then I sometimes fancy, — 
 Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges, — 
 Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and 
 Dropping the great key-stone in the middle : there in my dreaming, 
 There I felt the great-key stone coming in, and through it 
 Feel the other part — all the other stones of the archway. 
 Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of completeness. But, 
 
 dear me. 
 This is confusion and nonsense. I mix all the things I can think of. 
 And you won't understand, Mr. Philip . 
 
 But while she was speaking, 
 So it happened, a moment she paused from her work, and pondering.
 
 188 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Laid her hand on her lap : Philip took it : she did not resist : 
 
 So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotion 
 
 Came all over her more and yet more from his hand, from her heart, 
 
 and 
 Most from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing. 
 So he retained her hand, and, liis tears down-dropping on it, 
 Trembling a long time, kissed it at last. And she ended. 
 And as she ended, uprose he : saying. What have I heard ? Oh, 
 What have I done, that such words should be said to me ? Oh, I see i c. 
 See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens ; 
 And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron. 
 
 But as under the moon and stars they went to the cottage, 
 Elspie sighed and said. Be patient, dear Mr. Philip, 
 Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden. 
 Do not say anything yet to any one. 
 
 Elspie, he answered. 
 Does not my friend go on Friday ? I then shall see nothing of you. 
 Do not I go myself on Monday 'I 
 
 But oh, he said, Elspie! 
 Do as I bid you, my child : do not go on calling me Mr. ; 
 Might I not just as well be calling you Miss Elspie ? 
 Call me, this heavenly night for once, for the fii'st time, Philip. 
 
 Philip, she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it ; 
 Philip, she said ; he turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they said it- 
 
 But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way of Philip : 
 And at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders. 
 Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly, 
 
 No, Mr. Philip, 
 T was quite right, last night ; it is too soon, too sudden. 
 What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was hasty. 
 When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it. 
 Not that at all I unsay it ; that is, I know I said it. 
 And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, Mr. Philip !
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 189 
 
 We mustn't pull ourselves at the great key-stone of the centre : 
 
 Some one else up above must hold it, fit it, and fix it ; 
 
 If we try ourselves, we shall only damage the archway. 
 
 Damage all our own work that we wrought, our painful upbuUding. 
 
 When, you remember, you took my hand last evening, talking, 
 
 1 was all over a tremble : and as you pressed the fingers 
 
 After, and afterwards kissed them, I could not speak. And then, too, 
 
 As we went home, you kissed me for saying your name. It was 
 
 dreadful. 
 I have been kissed before, she added, blushing slightly, 
 I have been kissed more than once by Donald my cousin, and others ; 
 It is the way of the lads, and I make up my mind not to mind it ; 
 But, Mr. Philip, last night, and from you, it was different, quite. Sir. 
 When I tliink of all that, I am shocked and terrified at it. 
 Yes, it is dreadful to me. 
 
 She paused, but quickly continued, 
 SmUing almost fiercely, continued, looking upward. 
 You are too strong, you see, Mr. Pliilip ! just like the sea there, 
 Wliich will come, through the straits and all between the mountains 
 Forcing its great strong tide into every nook and inlet. 
 Getting far in, up the quiet stream of sweet inland water. 
 Sucking it up, and stopping it, turning it, driving it backward. 
 Quite preventing its own quiet running : and then, soon after. 
 Back it goes off, leaving weeds on the shore, and wrack and uncleanness: 
 And the poor burn in the glen tries again its peaceful running, 
 But it is brackish and tainted, and all its banks in disorder. 
 That was what I dreamt all last night. I was the bmnie. 
 Trying to get along through the tyrannous brine, and could not ; 
 I was confined and squeezed in the coils of the great salt tide, that 
 Would mix-in itself with me, and change me ; I felt myself changing ; 
 And I struggled, and screamed, I believe, in my dream. It was 
 
 dreadful. 
 You are too sti'ong, Mr. Philip ! I am but a poor slender burnie. 
 Used to the glens and the rocks, the rowan and birch of the woodies,
 
 190 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Quite unused to the great salt sea ; quite afraid and unwilling. 
 
 Ere slie had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers; 
 As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook and shivered ; 
 There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended, 
 Answering in hollow voice, 
 
 It is true ; oh, quite true, Elspie ; 
 Oh, you are always right ; oh, what, what have I been doing 1 , 
 I will depart to-morrow. But oh, forget me not wholly. 
 Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me ; no, do not hate me, my Elspie. 
 
 But a revulsion i)assed through the brain and bosom of Elspie ; 
 And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting ; 
 Went to him, where he stood, and answered : 
 
 No, Mr. Philip, 
 No, you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle ; and I am the foolish : 
 No, Mr. Pliilip, forgive me. 
 
 She stepped right to him, and boldly 
 Took up his hand, and placed it in hers : he dared no movement ; 
 Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. 
 I am afraid, she said, but I will ; and kissed the fingers. 
 And he fell on his knees and kissed her own past counting. 
 
 But a revulsion wrought in the brain and bosom of Elspie ; 
 And the passion she just had compared to the vehement ocean, 
 Urging in high spring-tide its masterful way through the mountains. 
 Forcing and flooding the silvery stream, as it runs from the inland ; 
 That great power withdrawn, receding here and passive. 
 Felt she in myriad springs, her sources far in the mountains. 
 Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth-outflowing. 
 Taking and joining, right welcome, that delicate rill in the valley, 
 Filling it, making it strong, and still descending, seeking. 
 With a blind forefeeling descending ever, and seeking. 
 With a delicious forefeeling, the great still sea before it ; 
 There deep into it, far, to carry, and lose in its bosom. 
 Waters that still from their sources exhaustless are fain to be added.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 191 
 
 As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her, 
 Yielding backward she sank to her seat, and of what she was doing 
 Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion, 
 Stooping, knowing not what, i^ut her lips to the hair on his forehead : 
 And Pliilip, raising himself, gently, for the first time round her 
 Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her, close to his bosom. 
 As they went home by the moon, Forgive me, Philip, she whispered ; 
 I have so many things to think of, all of a sudden ; 
 I who had never once thought a thing, — in my ignorant Highlands. 
 
 vm. 
 Jam veniet virgo,jam dicetur Hymenaeus 
 
 But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie, 
 When she thought of his wealth, his birth and education : 
 Wealth indeed but small, though to her a difference truly ; 
 Father nor mother had Philip, a thousand pounds his portion. 
 Somewhat impaired in a world where nothing is had for nothing ; 
 Fortune indeed but small, and prospects plain and simple. 
 
 But the many tilings that he knew, and the ease of a practised 
 Intellect's motion, and all those indefinable graces 
 {Were they not hers, too, Philip ?) to speech, and manner, and move- 
 ment, 
 Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely instructed feeling, — 
 When she thought of these, and these contemplated daily, 
 Daily appreciating more, and more exactly appraising, — 
 With these thoughts, and the terror withal of a thing she could not 
 Estimate, and of a step (such a step !) in the dark to be taken, 
 Terror nameless and ill-understood of deserting her station, — 
 Daily heavier, heavier upon her pressed the sorrow, 
 Daily distincter, distincter within her arose the conviction, 
 He was too high, too perfect, and she so unfit, so unworthy, 
 (Ah me ! Philip, that ever a word such as that should be written !) 
 It would do neither for him nor for her ; she also was something.
 
 192 THE BOTIilE OF TOBER-NA-YUOLICH. 
 
 Not much indeed, it was true, yet not to be lightly extinguished. 
 Should he — he, she said, have a wife beneath him ? herself be 
 An inferior there where only equality can be ? 
 It would do neither for him nor for her. 
 
 Alas for Pliilip ! 
 Many were tears and great was perplexity. Nor had availed then 
 All his prayer and all his device. But much was spoken 
 Now, between Adam and Elspie : companions were they hourly : 
 Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiring, anxiously seeking. 
 From his experience seeking impartial accurate statement 
 What it was to do this or do that, go hither or thither, 
 How in the after-life would seem what now seeming certain 
 INIight so soon be reversed ; in her quest and obscure exploring 
 Still from that quiet orb soliciting light to her footsteps ; 
 Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiringly, eagerly seeking : 
 Much by Adam to Elspie, informing, reassuring. 
 Much that was sweet to Elspie, by Adam heedfully speaking, 
 Quietly, indirectly, in general terms, of Pliilip, 
 Gravely, but indirectly, not as incognisant wholly. 
 But as suspending until she should seek it, dii-ect intimation ; 
 Much that was sweet in her heart of what he was and would be, 
 Much that was strength to her mind, confirming beliefs and insights 
 Pure and unfaltering, but young and mute and timid for action : 
 Much of relations of rich and poor, and of true education. 
 It was on Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, 
 Then when brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded. 
 And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie ; 
 Alders are green, and oaks ; the rowan scarlet and yellow ; 
 One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the aspen, 
 And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair of the birch-tree. 
 Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, and ear-rings. 
 Cover her now, o'er and o'er ; she is weary and scatters them from her. 
 There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, 
 Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 193 
 
 For as they talked, anon she said, 
 
 It is well, Mr. Philip. 
 Yes, it is well : I have spoken, and learnt a deal with the teacher. 
 At the last I told him all, I could not help it ; 
 
 And it came easier with him than could have been with my father ; 
 Ajid he calmly approved, as one that had fully considered. 
 Yes, it is well, I have hoped, though quite too great and sudden ; 
 I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for years yet. 
 I am afraid ; but believe in you ; and I trust to the teacher ; 
 You have done all things gravely and temperate, not as in passion ; 
 And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell what is likely. 
 What my father will say, I know not ; we will obey him : 
 But for myself, I could dare to believe aU well, and venture. 
 O Mr. Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be different ! 
 And she hid her face — 
 
 Oh, where, but in Philip's bosom ! 
 
 After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed, and said 
 to her. 
 So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I'm bad enough for you. 
 Ah ! but your father won't make one half the question about it 
 You have — he'll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald, 
 Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and bookwork. 
 Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow, 
 Though he allows, but he'll think it was all for your sake, Elspie, 
 Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing. 
 But I had thought in Scotland you didn't care for this folly. 
 How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands ! 
 This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England. 
 You do not all of you feel these fancies. 
 
 No, she answered. 
 And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving. 
 No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting, 
 
 o
 
 194 THE BOTHIE OF TOBEE-JSTA-VUOLICH. 
 
 No, nor do I, dear Philip, I don't myself feel always 
 
 As I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately, 
 
 Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter, 
 
 Out in America there, in somebody's life of Pizarro ; 
 
 Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards ; only Aveaker ; 
 
 And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches, 
 
 All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish. 
 
 No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were, 
 
 Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up from old time 
 
 Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life of 
 
 Bygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nations 
 
 And must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches. 
 
 No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow ; 
 
 Yes, and I feel the life- juices of all the world and the ages, 
 
 Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer : 
 
 You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me. 
 
 No, don't smile, Philip, now, so scornfully ! While you look so 
 
 Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling, 
 
 Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river ; 
 
 And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may be from elsewhere, 
 
 Strong contemptuous resolve ; I forget, and I bound as across it. 
 
 But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous river. 
 
 Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over. 
 Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burden. 
 
 O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light as a feather ? 
 But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too. 
 
 O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us, 
 Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us ; 
 There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it, 
 Love, he said, and kissed her. — 
 
 But I will read your books, thougli. 
 Said she : you'll leave me some, Philip ? 
 
 Not I, replied he, a volume. 
 This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 195 
 
 "Women must read, as if they didn't know all beforehand : 
 Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running water, 
 And the running spring will needs have a pump built upon it. 
 "Weary and sick of our books, we come to repose in your eyelight. 
 As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature. 
 Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick to the death of. 
 
 What, she said, and if I have let you become my sweetheart, 
 I am to read no books ! but you may go your ways then, 
 And I will read, she said, with my father at home as I used to. 
 
 If you must have it, he said, I myself will read them to you. 
 
 Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, when I choose it ; 
 What, you suppose we never read anything here in our Highlands, 
 Bella and I with the father, in all our winter evenings ! 
 But we must go, Mr. Philip — 
 
 I shall not go at all, said 
 He, if you call me Mr. Thank heaven ! that's over for ever. 
 
 No, but it's not, she said, it is not over, nor will be. 
 Was it not then, she asked, the name I called you first by 1 
 No, Mr. Philip, no — you have kissed me enough for two nights ; 
 No — come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without you. 
 
 You never call me Philip, he answered, until I kiss you. 
 
 As they went home by the moon that waning now rose later, 
 Stepping through mossy stones by the runnel under the alders, 
 Loitering unconsciously, Philip, she said, I will not be a lady ; 
 We will do work together — you do not wish me a lady. 
 It is a weakness perhaps and a foolishness ; still it is so ; 
 I have been used all my life to help myself and others ; 
 I could not bear to sit and be waited on by footmen, 
 No, not even by women — 
 
 And God forbid, he answered, 
 God forbid you should ever be aught but yourself, my Elspie ! 
 As for service, I love it not, I ; your weakness is mine too, 
 I am sure Adam told you as much as that about me. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 I am sure, she said, he called you wild and flighty. 
 
 That was true, he said, till my wings were clipped. But, my Elsjiie, 
 You will at least just go and see my uncle and cousins, 
 Sister, and brother, and brother's wife. You should go, if you liked it. 
 Just as you are ; just what you are, at any rate, my Elspie. 
 Yes, we will go, and give the old solemn gentility stage-jilay 
 One little look, to leave it with all the more satisfaction. 
 
 That may be, my Philip, she said ; you are good to tlunk of it. 
 But we are letting our fancies run on indeed ; after all, it 
 May all come, you know, Mr. Philip, to nothing whatever, 
 There is so much that needs to be done, so much that may happen. 
 
 All that needs to be done, said he, shall be done, and quickly. 
 
 Aiid on the morrow he took good heart, and spoke with David. 
 Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiving : 
 Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured by the Tutor. 
 And he remembered how he had fancied the lad from the first ; and 
 Then, too, the old man's eye was much more for inner than outer. 
 And the natural tune of his heart without misgiving 
 Went to the noble words of that grand song of the Lowlands, 
 Hank is the guinea stann), but the man's a man for a' that. 
 
 Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it now, but insisted 
 Pliilip should go to liis books ; if he chose he might write ; if after 
 Chose to return, might come ; he truly believed him honest. 
 But a year must elapse, and many things might happen. 
 Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, and blessed them : 
 Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at the doorway 
 Standing with you, and telling the young man where he would find us, 
 I did not tliink he would one day be asking me here to surrender 
 What is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. 
 
 IX 
 
 Arva, beata Petartnis ana ! 
 
 So on the morrow's morrow, with Term-time dread returning, 
 Philip returned to liis books, and read, and remained at Oxford,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 197 
 
 All the Christmas and Easter remained and read at Oxford. 
 
 Great was wonder in College when postman showed to butler 
 Letters addressed to David Mackaye, at Tober-na-vuolich, 
 Letter on letter, at least one a week, one every Sunday : 
 
 Great at that Highland post was wonder too and conjecture. 
 When the postman showed letters to wife, and wife to the lassies. 
 And the lassies declared they couldn't be really to David ; 
 Yes, they could see inside a paper with E. upon it. 
 
 Great was surmise in College at breakfast, wine, and supper. 
 Keen the conjecture and joke ; but Adam kept the secret, 
 Adam the secret kept, and Philip read like fury. 
 
 This is a letter written by Philip at Christmas to Adam. 
 There may be beings, perhaps, whose vocation it is to be idle. 
 Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be : 
 Only let each man seek to be that for which nature meant him. 
 If you were meant to plough. Lord Marquis, out with you, and do it ; 
 If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold, I will feed you. 
 If you were bom for a groom, and you seem, by your dress, to believe so, 
 Do it like a man. Sir George, for pay, in a livery stable ; 
 Tes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the corner. 
 Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the eighth commandment. 
 Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and be lovely ; 
 Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious ware, who 
 Might be plain women, and can be by no possibility better ! 
 — Ye unhappy statuettes, and miserable trinkets. 
 Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under glass cases. 
 Come, in God's name, come down ! the very French clock by you 
 Puts you to shame with ticking ; the fire-irons deride you. 
 You, young girl, who have had such advantages, learnt so quickly. 
 Can you not teach ? yes, and she likes Sunday-school extremely. 
 Only it's soon in the morning. Away ! if to teach be your calling, 
 It is no play, but a business : off ! go teach and be paid for it. 
 Lady Sophia's so good to the sick, so firm and so gentle. 
 Is there a nobler sphere than of hospital nurse and matron 1
 
 198 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 Hast thou for cooking a turn, little Lady Clarissa ? in with them, 
 In with your fingers ! their beauty it spoils, but your own it enhances ; 
 For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for. 
 
 Tliis was the answer that came from the Tutor, the grave man, Adam. 
 When the armies are set in array, and the battle beginning, 
 Is it weU that the soldier whose post is far to the leftward 
 Say, I will go to the right, it is there I shall do best service ? 
 There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions ; 
 Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations. 
 
 This was the final retort from the eager, impetuous Philip. 
 I am sorry to say your Providence puzzles me sadly ; 
 Children of Circumstance are we to be 1 you answer. On no wise ! 
 Where does Circumstance end, and Providence, where begins it ? 
 Wliat are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with ? 
 If there is battle, 'tis battle by night, I stand in the darkness, 
 Here in the melee of men, Ionian and Dorian on both sides, 
 Signal and password known ; which is friend and which is foeman ? 
 Is it a friend ? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother. 
 Still you are right, I suppose ; you always are, and will be ; 
 Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I bow to the duty of order. 
 Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle ? 
 Yes, I could find in my heart to cry, notwithstanding my Elspie, 
 O that the armies indeed were arrayed ! O joy of the onset ! 
 Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth. Great Cause, to array us, 
 King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing seek thee. 
 Would that the armies indeed were arrayed, O where is the battle ! 
 Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor King in Israel, 
 Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation. 
 Backed by a solemn appeal, ' For God's sake, do not stir, there ! ' 
 Yet you are right, I suppose ; if you don't attack my conclusion. 
 Let us get on as we can, and do the thing we are fit for ; 
 Every one for himself, and the common success for us all, and 
 Thankful, if not for our own, why then for the triumph of others. 
 Get along, each as we can, and do the thing we are meant for.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-YUOLICH. 199 
 
 That isn't likely to be by sitting still, eating and drinking. 
 
 These are fragments again without date addressed to Adam. 
 
 As at return of tide the total weight of ocean, 
 Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland, 
 Sets-in amain, in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarba, 
 Heaving, swelling, spreading the might of the mighty Atlantic ; 
 There into cranny and slit of the rocky, cavernous bottom 
 Settles down, and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surface 
 Eddies, coils, and whirls ; by dangerous Corryvreckan : 
 So in my soul of souls, through its cells and secret recesses, 
 Comes back, swelling and s^jreading, the old democratic fervour. 
 
 But as the light of day enters some populous city. 
 Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day-streak signal. 
 High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out the gas-lamjjs — 
 All the great empty streets are flooded with broadening clearness, 
 Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous access 
 Permeates far and pierces to the very cellars lying in 
 Narrow high back -lane, and court, and alley of alleys : — 
 He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding to the suburb. 
 Sees sights only peaceful and pure : as labourers settling 
 Slowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweetness of slumber ; 
 Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not only 
 Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the country 
 Dwelling yet on the sense of the dreamy drivers ; soon after 
 Half-awake servant-maids unfastening drowsy shutters 
 Up at the windows, or down, letting-in the air by the doorway ; 
 School-boys, school-girls soon, with slate, portfolio, satchel, 
 Hampered as they haste, those running, these others maidenly tripping; 
 Early clerk anon turning out to stroll, or it may be 
 Meet his sweetheart — waiting behind the garden gate there ; 
 Merchant on his grass-plat haply bare-headed ; and now by this time 
 Little child bringing breakfast to ' father ' that sits on the timber 
 There by the scaffolding ; see, she waits for the can beside Mm ; 
 Meantime above purer air untarnished of new-lit fires :
 
 200 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-iS'A-YUOLICH. 
 
 So that the whole great wicked artificial civilised fabric — 
 All its unfinished houses, lots for sale, and railway out-works — 
 Seems reaccepted, resumed to Primal Nature and Beauty : — 
 — Such— in me, and to me, and on me the love of Elspie ! 
 
 Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after ; 
 Got a fii'st, 'tis said ; a winsome bride, 'tis certain. 
 There while courtship was ending, nor yet the wedding appointed, 
 Under her father he studied the handling of hoe and of hatchet : 
 Thither that summer succeeding came Adam and Arthur to see him 
 Down by the lochs from the distant Glenmorison ; Adam the tutor, 
 Arthur, and Hope ; and the Piper anon who was there for a visit ; 
 He had been into the schools ; plucked almost ; all but a gone-coon ; 
 So he declared ; never once had brushed up his liairif Aldrich; 
 Into the great might-have-been upsoai-ing sublime and ideal 
 Gave to historical questions a free poetical treatment ; 
 Leaving vocabular ghosts undisturbed in their lexicon-limbo, 
 Took Aristophanes up at a shot ; and the whole tlu-ee last weeks 
 Went, in his life and the sunshine rejoicing, to Nuneham and Godstowe: 
 What were the claims of Degree to those of life and the sunsliine ? 
 There did the four find PhUip, the poet, the speaker, the Chartist, 
 Delving at Highland soil, and railing at Highland landlords, 
 Palling, but more, as it seemed, for the fun of the Piper's fury. 
 There saw they David and Elspie Mackaye, and the Piper was almost 
 Almost deeply in love with Bella the sister of Elspie ; 
 But the good Adam was heedful : they did not go too often. 
 There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October, 
 When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, 
 And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie. 
 Alders are green, and oaks, the rowan scarlet and yellow. 
 Heavy the aspen, and heavy with jewels of gold the birch-tree. 
 There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered, 
 David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie ; 
 Elspie the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Pliilip the poet. 
 
 So won Pliilip his bride. They are married and gone — But oh. Thou
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 201 
 
 Mighty one, Muse of great Epos, and Idyll the playful and tender, 
 
 Be it recounted in song, ere we part, and thou fly to thy Pindus, 
 
 (Pindus is it, O Muse, or Mtna, or even Ben-nevis ?) 
 
 Be it recounted in song, Muse of the Epos and Idyll, 
 
 Who gave what at the wedding, the gifts and fair gratulations. 
 
 Adam, the grave careful Adam, a medicine chest and tool-box, 
 Hope a saddle, and Arthur a plough, and the Piper a rifle, 
 Airlie a necklace for Elspie, and Hobbes a Family Bible, 
 AirHe a necklace, and Hobbes a Bible and iron bedstead. 
 
 What was the letter, O Muse, sent Avithal by the corpulent hero ? 
 
 This is the letter of Hobbes the kilted and corpulent hero. 
 
 So the last speech and confession is made, O my eloquent speaker ! 
 
 So the good time is coming, or come is it ? O my Chartist ! 
 
 So the cathedral is finished at last, O my Pugin of women ; 
 
 Finished, and now, is it true ? to be taken out whole to New Zealand ! 
 
 Well, go forth to thy field, to thy barley, with Ruth, Boaz, 
 
 Ruth, who for thee hath deserted her people, her gods, her mountains. 
 
 Go, as in Ej)hrath of old, in the gate of Bethlehem said they, 
 
 Go, be the wife in thy house both Rachel and Leah unto thee ; 
 
 Be thy wedding of silver, albeit of iron thy bedstead ! 
 
 Yea, to the full golden fifty renewed be ! and fair memoranda 
 
 Happily fill the fly-leaves duly left in the Family Bible. 
 
 Live, and when Hobbes is forgotten, may'st thou, an unroasted Grand- 
 sire, 
 
 See thy children's children, and Democracy upon New Zealand ! 
 This was the letter of Hobbes, and this the postscript after. 
 
 Wit in the letter will prate, but wisdom speaks in a postscript ; 
 
 Listen to wisdom — IFIiich things — you perhaps didn't know, my dear 
 fellow, 
 
 I have reflected ; Which things are an allegory, Philip. 
 
 For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage ; Avhich, I have seen it, 
 
 Lo, and have knoAvn it, is always, and must be, bigamy only, 
 
 Even in noblest kind a duality, compound, and complex. 
 
 One part heavenly-ideal, the other vulgar and earthy : oH ^Ci^ 
 
 <;;»-''3,o-
 
 202 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 
 
 For this Eachel-and-Leali is marriage, and Laban, their father, 
 Circumstance, chance, the world, our uncle and hard task-master. 
 Rachel we found as we fled from the daughters of Heth by the desert ; 
 Rachel we met at the well ; we came, we saw, we kissed her ; 
 Rachel we serve-for, long years, — that seem as a few days only. 
 E'en for the love we have to her, — and win her at last of Laban. 
 Is it not Rachel we take in our joy from the hand of her father? 
 Is it not Rachel we lead in the mystical veil from the altar ? 
 Rachel we dream-of at night : in the morning, behold, it is Leah. 
 ' Nay, it is custom,' saith Laban, the Leah indeed is the elder. 
 Happy and wise who consents to redouble liis service to Laban, 
 So, fulfilling her week, he may add to the elder the younger, 
 Not repudiates Leah, but wins the Rachel unto her ! 
 Neither hate thou thy Leah, my Jacob, she also is worthy ; 
 So, many days shall thy Rachel have joy, and survive her sister ; 
 Yea, and her children — Which things are an allegory, Philip, 
 Aye, and by Origen's head with a vengeance truly, a long one ! 
 
 This was a note from the Tutor, the grave man, nick-named Adam. 
 I shall see you of course, my Philip, before your departure 
 Joy be with you, my boy, with you and your beautiful Elspie. 
 Happy is he that found, and finding was not heedless ; 
 Happy is he that found, and happy the friend that was with liim. 
 
 So won Pliilip his bride : — 
 
 They are married and gone to New Zealand. 
 Five hundred poimds in pocket, with books, and two or three pictures, 
 Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they roimded the sphere to New 
 
 Zealand. 
 There he hewed, and dug ; subdued the earth and liis spirit ; 
 There he built Mm a home ; there Elspie bare him his children, 
 David and Bella ; perhaps ere this too an Elspie or Adam ; 
 There hath he farmstead and land, and fields of com and flax fields ; 
 And the Antipodes too have a Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich .
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METEES
 
 ELEGIACS. 
 
 From tliy far sources, 'mid mountains airily climbing, 
 
 Pass to tlie i"ich lowland, tlaou busy sunny river ; 
 Mnrmuriag once, dimpling, pellucid, limpid, abundant, 
 
 Deepening now, widening, swelKng, a lordly river. 
 Through woodlands steering, with branches waving above 
 thee. 
 
 Through the meadows sinuous, wandering iiTiguous ; 
 Towns, hamlets leaving, towns by thee, biidges across thee. 
 
 Pass to palace garden, pass to cities populous. 
 Murmuring once, dimpling, 'mid woodlands wandering idly, 
 Now with mighty vessels loaded, a mighty liver. 
 Pass to the great waters, though tides may seem to resist thee, 
 
 Tides to resist seeming, quickly will lend thee passage. 
 Pass to the dark waters that roaring wait to receive thee, 
 
 Pass them thou wilt not, thou busy sunny river. 
 Freshwater, 1861 
 
 II 
 
 Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing, 
 
 Boughs with apples laden beautiful, Hesperian, 
 Golden, odoriferous, perfume exhaling about them. 
 
 Orbs in a dark umbrage luminous and radiant ; 
 To the palate grateful, more luscious were not in Eden, 
 
 Or in that fabled garden of AlcinoUs ; 
 Out of a dark umbrage sounds also musical issued. 
 
 Birds their sweet transports uttering in melody :
 
 206 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 
 
 Thrushes clear piping, wood-pigeons cooing, arousing 
 
 Loudly the nightingale, loudly the sylvan echoes ; 
 Waters transpicuous flowed under, flowed to the list'ning 
 
 Ear with a soft murmur, softly soporiferous ; 
 Nor, with ebon locks too, there wanted, circling, attentive 
 
 Unto the sweet fluting, gn-ls, of a swarthy shepherd ; 
 Over a sunny level their flocks are lazily feeding. 
 
 They of Amor musing rest in a leafy cavern. 
 1861 
 
 ALCAICS. 
 
 So spake the voice : and as with a single life 
 Instinct, the whole mass, fierce, irretainable, 
 
 Down on that unsuspecting host swept ; 
 
 Down, with the fury of winds, that all night 
 Upbrimming, sapping slowly the dyke, at dawn 
 Fall through the breach o'er holmstead and harvest ; and 
 
 Heard roll a deluge : while the milkmaid 
 
 Trips i' the dew, and remissly guiding 
 Morn's first uneven furrow, the farmer's boy 
 Dreams out his dream; so, over the multitude 
 
 Safe-tented, uncontrolled and micon- 
 
 trollably sped the Avenger's fury 
 
 ACTION. 
 
 Over a mountain slope with lentisk, and with abounding 
 Arbutus, and the red oak overtufted, 'mid a noontide 
 Now glowing fervidly, the Leto-born, the divine one 
 Artemis, Arcadian wood-rover, alone, hunt-weary, 
 Unto a dell cent'ring many streamlets her foot unerring
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METKES. 207 
 
 Had guided. Plataniis with fig-tree shaded a hollow, 
 Shaded a waterfall, where pellucid yet abundant 
 Streams from perpetual full-flowing sources a current : 
 Lower on either bank in sunshine flowered the oleanders : 
 Plenteous under a rock green herbage here to the margin 
 Grew with white poplars overcrowning. She thither arrived, 
 Unloosening joyfully the vest enfolded upon her, 
 Swift her divine shoulders discovering, swiftly revealing 
 Her maidenly bosom and all her beauty beneath it. 
 To the river water overflowing to receive her 
 Yielded her ambrosial nakedness. But with an instant 
 Conscious, with the instant the' immortal terrific anger 
 Flew to the guilty doer : that moment, where amid amply 
 Concealing plane-leaves he the' opportunity pursued, 
 Long vainly, possessed, unwise, Actseon, of hunters. 
 Hapless of Arcadian, and most misguided of hunters, 
 Knew the divine mandate, knew fate directed upon him. 
 He, to the boughs crouching, with dreadful joy the desired 
 
 one 
 Had viewed descending, view^ed as in a dream, disarraying, 
 And the unclad shoulders awestruck, awestruck let his eyes 
 
 see 
 The maidenly bosom, but not — dim fear fell upon them — 
 Not moi^e had witnessed. Not, therefore, less the forest 
 
 through 
 Ranging, their master ceasing thenceforth to remember. 
 With the instant together came trooping, as to devour him, 
 His dogs from the ambush, — Transformed suddenly before 
 
 them, 
 He fled, an antlei'ed stag wild with terror to the mountain. 
 She, the liquid stream in, her limbs carelessly reclining, 
 The flowing waters collected grateful about her.
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Oh, you are sich of self-love, MalvoUo, 
 And taste with a distempered ai^j^etite ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 II doutait de tout, mcme de Vamovr. 
 
 French Novel. 
 
 Solvitur ambulando. 
 
 SOLUTIO SOPHISMATUM. 
 
 Flevit amorem 
 Non elal)oratuin ad iiedcm. 
 
 Horace.
 
 AMOVES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 •Over the great windy loaters, and over tlie clear-crested summits, 
 
 Unto the sun and the shy, and unto the perfecter earth, 
 Come, let us go,-— to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered. 
 
 Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. 
 Come, let us go; though unthal a voice whisper, ''The world that we 
 live in, 
 
 Tlliithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib ; 
 ^Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel ; 
 
 Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think ; 
 ^Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser ; 
 
 'Tis but to go and have been.' — Come, little bark! let us go. 
 
 I. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Deak Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer. 
 Or at the least to put us again en rapport with each other. 
 Rome disappoints me much, — St. Peter's, perhaps, in especial ; 
 Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me : 
 This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid. 
 Greece must be better, surely ; and yet I am feeling so spiteful. 
 That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai, 
 Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also. 
 
 Rome disappoints me much ; I hardly as yet understand, but 
 Rubbishy seems the word that most exactly would suit it. 
 All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings, 
 All the incongruous things of i^ast incomjjatible ages. 
 Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future. 
 
 p2
 
 212 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it I 
 Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these 
 
 churches ! 
 However, one can live in Rome as also in London. 
 It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, of 
 All one's friends and relations, — yourself (forgive me !) included, — 
 All the assujettissement of having been what one has been, 
 Wliat one thinks one is, or tliinks that others suppose one ; 
 Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English. 
 Vernon has been my fate ; who is here the same that you knew him, — 
 Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellpi. 
 
 II. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Rome disappoints me still ; but I shrink and adapt myself to it. 
 
 Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression 
 
 Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me 
 
 Eeel like a tree (shall I say ? ) buried under a ruin of brickwork. 
 
 Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, 
 
 Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots. 
 
 Ye gods ! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed, 
 
 Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in .' 
 
 ^Miat do I find in the Forum ? An archway and two or three pillars. 
 
 Well, but St. Peter's 1 Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture I 
 
 No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum. 
 
 Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement, 
 
 This the old Romans had ; but tell me, is this an idea ? 
 
 Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant : 
 
 ' Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee ! ' their Emperor 
 
 vaunted ; 
 * Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee ! ' the Tourist may 
 
 answer.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 213 
 
 in. Geokgina Tkevellyn to Louisa . 
 
 At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you. 
 Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes. 
 Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan : 
 Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter's, 
 And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna. 
 Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it ; 
 Not very gay, however ; the English are mostly at Naples ; 
 There are the A.'s, we hear, and most of the W. party. 
 
 George, however, is come ; did I tell you about his mustachios ? 
 Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is waiting ; 
 Mary will finish ; and Susan is writing, they say, to Sophia. 
 Adieu, dearest Louise, — evermore your faithful Georgina. 
 Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be with ? 
 Very stuj^id, I think, but George says so very clever. 
 
 IV. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it. 
 
 With its humiliations and exaltations combining. 
 
 Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements. 
 
 Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth and 
 
 In our poor selves to something most i^erfect above in the heavens, - 
 
 No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it. 
 
 Is not here, O Rome, in any of these thy churches ; 
 
 Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster Abbey. 
 
 What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter eflbrts, 
 
 Is a something, I think, more rational far, more earthly. 
 
 Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal, 
 
 But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance. 
 
 This I begin to detect in St. Peter's and some of the churches, 
 
 Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters ;
 
 214 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws, 
 Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood. 
 Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing needful. 
 By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard. 
 Curious work, meantime, re-entering society : how we 
 Walk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our shadows ! 
 What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be. 
 Do I look like that ? you think me that : then I am that. 
 
 V. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Luther, they say, was unwise ; like a half-taught German, he could not 
 See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance ; 
 Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses ; 
 Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Ai'ts, and Fine Letters, the Poets, 
 Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away the 
 Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas : 
 He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, 
 
 and 
 Bring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe : 
 Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell ; the 
 Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty ; 
 Are they abating at last ? the doves that are sent to explore are 
 Wearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise, — 
 Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel, — 
 Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean, — 
 Luther, they say, was unwise ; he didn't see ho\f things were going ; 
 Luther was foolish, — but, O great God ! what call you Ignatius ? 
 O my tolerant soul, be still ! but you talk of barbarians, 
 Alaric, Attila, Genseric ; — why, they came, they killed, they 
 Ravaged, and went on their way ; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards, 
 These are here still, — how long, O ye heavens, in the country of 
 
 Dante 1 
 These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release not
 
 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 215. 
 
 This, their choicest of prey, this Italy ; here you see them, — 
 Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu, 
 Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures, — 
 Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions, — 
 Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing, 
 Michael Angelo's Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven, 
 Raphael's Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo ! 
 
 VI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry 
 
 Is not a thing to be known ; for our friend is one of those natures 
 
 Which have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic ; 
 
 So that he trifles with Mary's shawl, ties Susan's bonnet. 
 
 Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina,. 
 
 Who is, however, too silly in my apprehension for Vernon. 
 
 I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little ; 
 
 Not that I like them much or care a bajocco for Vernon, 
 
 But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance, 
 
 And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses. 
 
 Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not wholly 
 
 Pure of the taint of the shop ; will at table d'hote and restaurant 
 
 Have their shilling's worth, their penny's pennyworth even : 
 
 Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth ! 
 
 Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, well connected ; 
 
 Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and are careful to 
 
 keep, some 
 Threadbare-genteel relations, who in their turn are enchanted 
 Grandly among county people to introduce at assemblies 
 To the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent fortunes. 
 Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth!
 
 216 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 VII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Ah, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy people ! 
 
 Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic pretensions ! 
 
 Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station 1 
 
 Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to culture ? 
 
 Is it not touching to witness these eflbrts, if little availing, 
 
 Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of manners 1 
 
 Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge 1 and fervour 
 
 Palliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance 1 
 
 Dear, dear, what do I say 1 but, alas ! just now, like lago, 
 
 I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly ; 
 
 So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exultation. 
 
 Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the Maker 
 
 That the works of His hand are all very good : His creatures. 
 
 Beast of the field and fowl. He brings them before me ; I name them ; 
 
 That which I name them, they are, — the bii-d, the beast, and the 
 
 cattle. 
 But for Adam, — alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam ! 
 But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him. 
 
 VIII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian ! canst not. 
 Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so ! 
 Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corintliian columns, 
 Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them ; 
 Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, tiU thy whole vast 
 Round grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches, 
 Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and 
 
 cliildren. 
 But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worshij) ; 
 And I recite to niyseK, how
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 217 
 
 Eager for battle here 
 Stood Vulcan, here matronal Jvino, 
 
 And with the bow to his shoulder faithful 
 He who with pure dew laveth of Castaly 
 His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia 
 The oak forest and the wood that bore him, 
 
 Delos' and Patara's own Apollo,* 
 
 IX. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Yet it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company ; pleasant, 
 Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine presence. 
 Pleasant, but wrong, will you say 1 But this happy, serene coexistence 
 Is to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple. 
 Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with sweetness, 
 Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange overwhelming. 
 All the long-silent strinj^s of an awkward, meaningless fabric. 
 Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children ; to have those 
 Pure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you. 
 This were enough, I could think ; and truly with glad resignation 
 Could from the dream of Romance, from the fever of flushed adoles- 
 cence, 
 Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular functions. 
 Nephews and nieces ! alas, for as yet I have none ! and, moreover, 
 Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too rightfully ; fathers 
 Think they have title exclusive to spoiling their own little darlings ; 
 And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian doctrine, 
 
 * Ilic avidus stctit 
 Vulcanus, hie matrona Juno, et 
 
 Nunquam humeris positurus arcuin ; 
 Qui rore puro Castaliaj lavit 
 Crines solutos, qui Lycia; tenet 
 Dumeta natalemque silvani, 
 Delias et Patareus Apollo.
 
 218 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 No sort of proper provision is made for that most patriotic, 
 Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor uncle. 
 
 X. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte Cavallo 
 
 Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motionless movement^ 
 
 Stand -with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant faces, 
 
 Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable manhood, — 
 
 O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas. 
 
 Are ye Christian too ? to convert and redeem and renew you. 
 
 Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has set up on the apex 
 
 Of the Egyptian stone that o'ertops you, the Christian symbol ? 
 
 And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble. 
 Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers, 
 Juno and Ceres, Minei-va, Apollo, the Muses and Bacchus, 
 Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian pilgrims. 
 Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian Pontiff, 
 Are ye also baptized 1 are ye of the kingdom of Heaven ? 
 Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern ! 
 Aju I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of Sixtus ? 
 
 XI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (a 
 Little embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place in 
 Cornwall, of course ; ' Papa is in business,' Mary informs me ; 
 He's a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The mother 
 Is — shall I call it fine l^herself she would tell you refined, and 
 Greatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners ; 
 Somewhat aflecteth the blue ; would talk to me often of poets ; 
 Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold ; but also appreciates Wordsworth ; 
 Sometimes adventures on Schiller ; and then to religion diverges ;
 
 MIOUES DE VOYAGE. 219 
 
 Questions me much about Oxford ; and yet, in her loftiest flights still 
 Grates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent. 
 
 Is it contemptible, Eustace — I'm perfectly ready to think so, — 
 Is it, — the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people 1 
 I am ashamed my own self ; and yet true it is, if disgraceful, 
 That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom. 
 I, who never could talk to the jieople I meet with my uncle, — 
 I, who have always failed, — I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns ; 
 I, believe me, — great conquest, am liked by the country bankers. 
 And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly. 
 So it proceeds ; Laissez faire, laissez aller, — such is the watchwoi'd. 
 Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant. 
 Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish 
 Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn. 
 Well, I know, after aU, it is only juxtaposition, — 
 Juxtaposition, in short ; and what is juxtajjosition ? 
 
 XII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 But I am in for it now, — laissez faire, of a truth, laissez aller. 
 
 Yes, I am going, — I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it, — 
 
 Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations. 
 
 Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know ono 
 
 thing. 
 Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken, — 
 Broken with painful remorses, with slu-inkings of soul, and relentings. 
 Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals. 
 But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of Ulysses ; 
 Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical island ; 
 Yet on my lips is the moly, medicinal, offered of Hermes. 
 I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me, 
 Path into path rounding slyly ; I pace slowly on, and the fancy, 
 Struggling awhUe to sustain the long sequeaices weary, bewildered,
 
 220 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Fain must collapse in despair ; I yield, I am lost, and know nothing ; 
 Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue ; I shall use it. 
 Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure ; I sink, yet 
 Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me ; 
 Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, or 
 Floor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know I 
 Yet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me, — 
 Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in ; and though the 
 Rope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re- 
 Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the end I 
 Yet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shall 
 Feel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction, 
 Look yet abroad from the height o'er the sea whose salt wave I have 
 tasted. 
 
 xiir. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa . 
 
 Dearest Louisa, — Inquire, if you please, about Mr. Claude . 
 
 He has been once at R., and remembers meeting the H.'s. 
 
 Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him. 
 
 It is an awkward youth, but still with very good manners ; 
 
 Not without prospects, we hear ; and, George says, highly connected. 
 
 Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and insists he has 
 
 Taken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist. 
 
 Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to. 
 
 ' Where ? ' we asked, and he laughed and answered, ' At the Pantheon ' 
 
 This was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic church ; and 
 
 Though it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant service, 
 
 Yet I sujjpose this change can hardly as yet be effected. 
 
 Adieu again, — evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgina.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 221 
 
 P.S. BY Mary Trevellyn. 
 
 I AM to tell you, you say, what I tliink of our last new acquaintance. 
 Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to be jealous. 
 I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being with him. 
 He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, and 
 Certainly seems so to me ; but I think he is terribly selfish. 
 
 Alba, thoujindest me still, and. Alba, thoujindest me ever, 
 
 Now from the Capitol steps, now over Titus's Arch, 
 Here from the large grassy spaces that spread from the Lateran portal. 
 
 Towering o'er aqueduct lines lost in perspective between, 
 Or from a Vatican window, or bridge, or the high Coliseum, 
 
 Clear by the garlanded line cut of the Flavian ring. 
 Beautiful can I not call thee, and yet thou hast power to overmaster. 
 
 Power of mere beauty ; in dreatns. Alba, thou hauntest me still. 
 Is it religion ? I ask me ; or is it a vain superstition f 
 
 Slavery abject and gross ? service, too feeble, of truth ? 
 Is it an idol I bow to, or is it a god that I worship ? 
 
 Do I sink back on the old, or do I soar from the mean ? 
 So through the city I wander and question, unsatisfied ever. 
 
 Reverent so I accept, doubtful because I revere.
 
 222 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Js it illusion ? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, 
 Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide ? 
 Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend 
 not, 
 
 Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide ? 
 Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single, 
 
 Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine. 
 E'en in the turret fantastic surviving tliat spyrings from the ruin. 
 
 E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not ? 
 Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine, 
 
 Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare ? 
 Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger, 
 
 Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate ? 
 
 I. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 What do the people say, and what does the government do ? — you 
 
 Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes ; and 
 
 I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it. 
 
 I, who nor meddle nor make in politics, — I who sincerely 
 
 Pvit not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot, 
 
 Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a 
 
 New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven 
 
 Right on the Place de la Concorde, — I, nevertheless, let me say it, 
 
 Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shed 
 
 One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic ; 
 
 What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon, 
 
 Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion 1
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 223 
 
 France, it is foully done ! and you, poor foolish England, — 
 
 You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, 
 
 you 
 Could not, of coiu-se, interfere, — you, now, when a nation has 
 
 chosen 
 
 Pardon this folly ! The Times will, of course, have announced the 
 
 occasion. 
 Told you the news of to-day ; and although it was slightly in error 
 When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee, 
 You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia. 
 
 II. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall, — to 
 Oflfer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause ; yet 
 StUl, individual culture is also something, and no man 
 Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on, 
 Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world that 
 Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here ; 
 Else why send him at all ? Nature wants him still, it is likely ; 
 On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves ; it is certain 
 Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general 
 Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation ; 
 Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive ; 
 Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall. 
 
 So we cling to our rocks like limpets ; Ocean may bluster. 
 Over and under and round us ; we open our shells to imbibe our 
 Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose 
 Nature intended, — a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not. 
 Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die ; but, 
 On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I sha'n't.
 
 224 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 III. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Will they fight 1 They say so. And will the French ? I can hardly. 
 
 Hardly think so ; and yet He is come, they say, to Palo, 
 
 He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa 
 
 He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma, 
 
 She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn, — The Daughter of 
 
 Tiber, 
 She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee ! 
 Will they fight ? I believe it. Alas ! 'tis ephemeral folly. 
 Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, 
 Statues, and antique gems I — Indeed : and yet indeed too, 
 Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream, — tell it not in St. James's, 
 Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church ! — yet did I, waking, 
 Dream of a cadence that sings. Si tombent nos jeunes hhvs, la 
 Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prets a se bcdtre ; 
 Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental. 
 Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me. 
 
 IV. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Now supposing the French or the l!s^eapolitan soldier 
 
 Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny 
 
 (Where the family English are all to assemble for safety). 
 
 Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female 1 
 
 Really, who knows ? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little, 
 
 All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit. 
 
 Oh, one conformed, of course ; but one doesn't die for good manners, 
 
 Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention. 
 
 No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there ; 
 
 Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger. 
 
 Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom, 
 
 Sooner far by the side of the d- — d and dirty plebeians.
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE 225 
 
 All, for a child in the street I could strike ; for the full-blown lady 
 
 Somehow, Eustace, alas ! I have not felt the vocation. 
 
 Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection, 
 
 Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina, 
 
 And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and 
 
 Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended. 
 
 Oh, and of course, you will say, ' When the time comes, you vvill ba 
 
 ready.' 
 Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so 1 
 Wliat I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel 1 
 Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct 1 
 Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception ? 
 Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight. 
 For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action ? 
 Must we, walking our earth, discern a little, and hoping 
 Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us, — 
 Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present, 
 Quit our o^vn fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour. 
 To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim 1 
 And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining, 
 Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent ? 
 
 V. Claude to Eustace, 
 
 Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual, 
 Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffe Is novo ; 
 Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in tlie weather. 
 Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray, 
 And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio IMarbles ; 
 Cajfe-latte ! I call to the waiter, — and Non c' e latte, 
 This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle. 
 So I sit : and truly they seem to think any one else more 
 Worthy than mc of attention. I wait for my milkless iiero, 
 
 Q
 
 226 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons, 
 
 Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and 
 
 Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coflFee, — withdrawing 
 
 Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket 
 
 Slung to the shoulder beliind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual. 
 
 Much and silenter far ; and so I begin to imagine 
 
 Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Gaffe is empty, 
 
 Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso 
 
 Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti. 
 
 Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English, 
 Germans, Americans, French, — the Frenchmen, too, are protected, — 
 So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower ; 
 So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's, 
 Smoke, from the cannon, white, — but that is at intervals only, — 
 Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri ; 
 And we believe we discern some lines of men descending 
 Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming. 
 Every ten minutes, however, — in this there is no misconception, — 
 Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and 
 After a space the report of a real big gun, — not the Frenchman's ! — 
 That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture. 
 
 Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's, 
 Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us ; 
 So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome. — 
 All this smoke is outside ; when it has come to the inside. 
 It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses. 
 
 Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent, 
 Sharp and savage indeed ; that cannot all be for nothing : 
 So we watch and wonder ; but guessing is tiresome, very. 
 Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly, 
 Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of 
 National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows, 
 English, American, Danish, — and, after oflering to help an 
 Irish f anuly moving en masse to the Maison Serny,
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 227 
 
 After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling 
 
 Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters, 
 
 Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter. 
 
 But by this there are signs of stragglers returning ; and voices 
 
 Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken ; 
 
 And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning. — 
 
 This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle. 
 
 VI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Victory ! Victory ! — Yes ! ah, yes, thou republican Zion, 
 Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together ; 
 Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and 
 
 so forth. 
 Victory ! Victory ! Victory ! — Ah, but it is, believe me, 
 Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr 
 Than to indite any piBan of any victory. Death may 
 Sometimes be noble ; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion. 
 While the great pain is upon us, it is great ; when it is over, 
 Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven. 
 Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody ; but on the altar, 
 Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour. 
 
 So it stands, you perceive ; the labial muscles that swelled with 
 Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises, 
 Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col- 
 Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers 
 Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but 
 I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten. 
 
 vii. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 So, I have seen a man killed ! An experience that, among others ! 
 Yes, I suppose I have ; although I can hardly be certain. 
 And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it. 
 
 Q2
 
 228 AMOUES DB VOYAGE. 
 
 But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw 
 Something ; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something. 
 
 I was returning home from St. Peter's ; Murray, as usual. 
 Under my arm, I remember ; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge ; and 
 Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when 
 Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious 
 Of a sensation of movement opposing me, — tendency this way 
 (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is 
 Coming and not yet come, — a sort of noise and retention) ; 
 So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers 
 Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner. 
 Looking up, I see windows filled with heads ; the Piazza, 
 Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters, 
 Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups ; and now the 
 Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is 
 Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it ? 
 Ha ! bare swords in the air, held up 1 There seem to be voices 
 Pleading and hands putting back ; official, perhaps ; but the swords are 
 Many, and bare in the air. In the air ? they descend ; they are smiting. 
 Hewing, chopping — At what ? In the air once more upstretched ? 
 
 And — 
 Is it blood that's on them 1 Yes, certainly blood ! Of whom, then 1 
 Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation ? 
 
 While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on 
 the points of 
 Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a 
 Mercantile- seeming bystander, ' What is it ? ' and he, looking always 
 That way, makes me answer, ' A Priest, who was trying to fly to 
 The Neapolitan army,' — and thus explains the proceeding. 
 
 You didn't see the dead man ? No ;— I began to be doubtful ; 
 I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen, — 
 But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub, 
 Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust, — and 
 Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 229 
 
 Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body. 
 
 You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the 
 matter. 
 Whom should I tell it to else 1 — these girls ? — tlie Heavens forbid it ! — 
 Quidnuncs at Monaldini's ? — Idlers upon the Pincian ? 
 
 If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when 
 Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army 
 First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers, 
 Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. On that 
 
 evening 
 Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered. 
 Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel ; others 
 Say they were only escaping ; a Priest, it is currently stated, 
 Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna : 
 History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine ! 
 
 But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to 
 Put it down ; it has vanished, at least ; the j)lace is most peaceful. 
 Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, 1 
 Found no sort of disorder ; I crossed by the Island-bridges, 
 So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards 
 Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum, 
 Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit. 
 
 VIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa . 
 
 Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed I— 
 
 George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on 
 Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him : 
 This is a man, you know, who came from America with him. 
 Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting, 
 Wliich is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine ; 
 This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle. 
 Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them :
 
 230 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian. 
 
 Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being sdfish ; 
 
 He was Tnost useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April. 
 
 Do not write here any more ; we are starting directly for Florence : 
 
 We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses ; 
 
 All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini. 
 
 P.S. 
 
 Mary has seen thus far. — I am really so angry, Louisa, — 
 Quite out of patience, my dearest ! What can the man be intending ? 
 I am quite tired ; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment, 
 Lets him go on as he likes, and neither wUl help nor dismiss liim. 
 
 IX. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in 
 Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people. 
 Order is perfect, and peace ; the city is utterly tranquil ; 
 And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that 
 Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering 
 Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffe. 
 Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava, 
 Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion. 
 
 Ah, 'tis an excellent race, — and even in old degradation, 
 Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating, 
 E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. 
 C)h, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption ! — but clearly 
 That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals, 
 Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer ' 
 Honour to speech ! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini ! 
 
 X. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 I AM in love, meantime, you think ; no doubt you would tliink so. 
 
 [ am in love, you say ; with those letters, of course, you would say so.
 
 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 231 
 
 I am in love, you declare. I tliink not so ; yet I grant you 
 It is. a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift. 
 Rare felicity, this ! she can talk in a rational way, can 
 Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking. 
 Yet in perfection retain her simplicity ; never, one moment, 
 Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to 
 Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain 
 Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. 
 No, though she talk, it is music ; her fingers desert not the keys ; 'tis 
 Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, 
 Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. 
 I am in love, j'ou say : I do not think so, exactly. 
 
 Ki. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction : 
 
 One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, 
 
 And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. 
 
 I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. 
 
 1 do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing. 
 
 There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. 
 
 I do not like being moved : for the will is excited ; and action 
 
 Is a most dangerous thing ; I tremble for something factitious, 
 
 Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process ; 
 
 We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty. 
 
 XII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted ! 
 Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present ! 
 Say not, Thne flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing ! 
 Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden, 
 Waiting, and watching, and looking ! Let lo\e be its own inspiration ! 
 Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the au-s that environ,
 
 232 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or eflfort, 
 Break into audible words 1 And love be its own inspiration ? 
 
 XIII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Whekefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell ; but it is so. 
 She doesn't like me, Eustace ; I think she never will like me. 
 Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways 1 
 Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly 1 
 'Tis not her fault ; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them : 
 'Tis not her fault ; 'tis lier beautiful nature, not ever to know me. 
 Hopeless it seems, — yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it : 
 She goes— therefore I go ; she moves, — I move, not to lose her. 
 
 XIV. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing ; 
 'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell j^ou, 
 Ever prefers the audacious, the wiKul, the vehement hero ; 
 She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul ; and for knowledge, — 
 Knowledge, O ye Gods ! — when did they appreciate knowledge ? 
 Wherefore should they, either ? I am sure I do not desire it. 
 Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me ! 
 (Care about me, indeed ! and do I really expect it ?) 
 But my manner offends ; my ways are wholly repugnant ; 
 Every vrord that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her ; 
 Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence, 
 Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from uie. 
 Not that I care very much !— any way I escape from the boy's own 
 Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. 
 Not that I mind very much ! Wliy should I? I am not in love, and 
 Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit. 
 Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it ; 
 It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 233 
 
 Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly ; 
 We discontented indeed with things in particular, idle, 
 Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general, 
 Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us, 
 Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us. 
 Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. 
 All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is, 
 Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance. 
 You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her ? 
 
 XV, Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa . 
 
 To-morrow we're starting for Florence, 
 
 Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors ; 
 
 Mr. C. and Papa to escort us ; we by vettura 
 
 Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn. 
 
 Then Ah, what shall I say, my dearest ? I tremble in thinking 
 
 You will imagine my feelings, — the blending of hope and of sorrow ! 
 How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters 1 
 Dearest Louise, indeed it is veiy alarming ; but, trust me 
 Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina. 
 
 P.S. BY Mary Trevellyn. 
 
 ' Do I like Mr. Claude any better ? ' 
 
 I am to tell you, — and, ' Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him 1 ' 
 This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him. 
 All I can say for myself is, alas ! that he rather repels me. 
 There ! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive. 
 So be content, dear Louisa ; for one satisfactory marriage 
 Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish ; 
 Neither Susan nor I shall afibrd you the joy of a second.
 
 234 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 P.S. BY Geokgina Trevellyn. 
 
 Mk. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better ; 
 He and Papa are great friends ; but he really is too shilly-shally, — 
 So unlike George ! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly. 
 I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something. 
 Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together ! 
 
 Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer, 
 
 E^en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old. 
 Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden. 
 
 Vainly ^mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget ? 
 Ah, fair shadoiv, scarce seen, go forth/ for anon he shall follow, — 
 
 He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go ! 
 Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee ! 
 
 She, should she linger in Pome, were not dissevered from thee !
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 235 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Botonda, 
 
 Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls, 
 Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us^ 
 
 Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing sihpreme ; 
 Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around iis ; 
 
 Yet, at the worst of the ivorst, books and a chamber remain ; 
 Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance. — ■ 
 
 Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of ivar, 
 Wliere, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle. 
 
 Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, 
 Wliere, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rimdet sparkles, 
 
 Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply, 
 Wliere, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated. 
 
 Garden on garden itpreared, balconies step to the sky, — 
 Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city. 
 
 Under the vi7ie-trellis laid, my beloved, with thee ! 
 
 I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper, — on tJie way to Florence. 
 
 Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us '? you ask. — We don't know, 
 You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles ; 
 But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason, — 
 He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us. 
 Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so 
 Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party, — 
 Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended : 
 I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.
 
 236 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly 
 
 Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my 
 
 Pen will not write any more ; — let us say nothing further about it. 
 
 Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called liim repulsive ; 
 
 So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression 
 
 Quite as your pupil should ; yet he does most truly repel me. 
 
 Was it to you I made use of the word 1 or who was it told you ? 
 
 Yes, repulsive ; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas 
 
 That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy ; 
 
 I could pronounce him sunply a cold intellectual being. — 
 
 When does he make advances ? — He thinks that women should woo 
 
 him ; 
 Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted. 
 She that should love him must look for small love in return, — like the 
 
 ivy 
 On the stone wall, mast expect but a rigid and niggard support, and 
 E'en to get that must go searcliing all round with her liumble embraces. 
 
 II. Claude to Eustace, — from Bome. 
 
 Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the 
 
 furrow, 
 Did it not truly accept as its summum and idtimvm bonum 
 That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in ? 
 Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons, 
 Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another? 
 Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions 
 Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence ? 
 
 While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia, 
 Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba, 
 Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel, 
 Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows, 
 ' This is Nature,' I said : ' we are born as it were from her waters ;
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 237 
 
 Over her billows that buifet and beat us, her oifspring uncared-for, 
 Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge, 
 Into lier billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.' 
 This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the 
 
 steamer ; 
 And as untliinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne, 
 Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble. 
 It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer. 
 Let us not talk of growth ; we are still in our Aqueous Ages. 
 
 III. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Farewell, Politics, utterly ! What can I do ? I cannot 
 
 Fight, you know ; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although 
 
 Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers, 
 
 What is the good of that ? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters ? 
 
 Cursing and scolding repel the assailants ? No, it is idle ; 
 
 No, whatever befalls, I will hide, wUl ignore or forget it. 
 
 Let the tail shift for itself ; I will bury my head. And what's the 
 
 Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic ? 
 
 Why not fight ? — In the first place, I haven't so much as a musket ; 
 In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use it ; 
 In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles ; 
 In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country ; 
 In the fifth — I forget, but four good reasons are ample. 
 Meantime, pray let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion. 
 So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs ! 
 Sanguis onartyrum semen Ecdesise ; though it would seem this 
 Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind : 
 Militant here on earth ! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere ! 
 Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother !
 
 238 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 IV. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, 
 Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in ; 
 But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden, 
 Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever. 
 Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge, — 
 Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom. 
 
 Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine, 
 Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaiis 
 Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, 
 Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect at- 
 taining. 
 Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian citj'. 
 Withering stiU at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter. 
 
 All, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces. 
 Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions. 
 Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not. 
 Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested bUlow, 
 Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall 
 
 return to, 
 Cormorants, ducks, and guUs, fill ye my imagination ! 
 Let us not talk of growth ; we are still in our Aqueous Ages. 
 
 V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,— /com Florence. 
 
 Dearest Miss Roper, — Alas ! we are all at Florence quite safe, and 
 
 You, we hear, are shut up ! indeed, it is sadly distressing ! 
 
 We were most lucky, they say, to get oft' when we did from the 
 
 troubles. 
 Now you are really besieged ; they tell us it soon will be over ; 
 Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. 
 Do you see Mr. Claude ? — I thought he might do something for you.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 239 
 
 I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful. 
 What is he doing 1 I wonder ; — still studying Vatican marbles ? 
 Letters, I hope, pass tlirough. We trust your brother is better. 
 
 VI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Juxtaposition, in fine ; and what is juxtaposition? 
 Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer, 
 And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended, 
 Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one ; 
 And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect, 
 Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven. 
 
 Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion ! 
 Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only ! 
 Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion, 
 Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our know- 
 ledge ! 
 
 But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance. 
 Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession l 
 But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service 1 
 But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract ? 
 But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway ? — 
 All, but the bride, meantime, — do you think she sees it as he does ? 
 
 But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence, 
 Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into 
 
 action 1 
 But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o'er 
 Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surface 
 Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endui-e not, — 
 But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it. 
 Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here 1 
 Ah, but the women, — God bless them ! they don't think at all about it. 
 
 Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beings 
 Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,
 
 240 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding, 
 Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not, 
 Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings, — 
 Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided. 
 Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet. 
 All, but the women, alas ! they don't look at it in that way. 
 Juxtaposition is great : — but, my fi'iend, I fear me, the maiden 
 Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her, 
 Xot as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up 
 
 with, — 
 Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told her 
 That she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace and pleasure, — 
 That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something, 
 Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another, — 
 Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not. 
 Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting, 
 Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you ? 
 Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you. 
 Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and — leave you ? 
 
 VII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 JuxTAf osiTiox is great, — but, you tell me, affinity greater. 
 
 Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser, 
 
 Stronger and weaker ; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition. 
 
 Potent, efficient, in force, — for a time ; but none, let me tell you, 
 
 Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the wUl, ah, 
 
 None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect. 
 
 Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess, 
 
 Momo sum, nihil humani a me cdienum puto, — 
 
 Vir sum, nihil fceminei, — and e'en to the uttermost circle, 
 
 All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Natm-e's. 
 
 Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition. 
 
 That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at :
 
 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 241 
 
 I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers ; 
 I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window, 
 On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard. 
 Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me ; 
 Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faitlif ul assurance, 
 E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forest 
 Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me ; 
 And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perver- 
 sions. 
 Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence, 
 Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces. 
 
 viii. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and couj^ling ; 
 Faitlifiil it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful, 
 All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled. 
 Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at ; 
 As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing, 
 As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures, 
 Even so beautiful Earth ; and could we eliminate only 
 This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving, 
 Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction. 
 
 IX. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Mud monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters : 
 So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, a 
 Tribute to those Avhom perhajis you do not believe I can honour. 
 But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, ofdrumming and shouting, 
 Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood, 
 And amid placid regards and mildly coui-teous greetings 
 Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'er 
 
 R
 
 242 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters : 
 
 Terrible word, Obligation ! You should not, Eustace, you should 
 not, 
 No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it! 
 Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly 
 Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour. 
 Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no! 
 I will be free in this ; you shall not, none shall, bind me. 
 No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things. 
 This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing. 
 No, I could talk as I pleased ; come close ; fasten ties, as I fancied ; 
 Bind and engage myself deep ; — and lo, on the following morning 
 It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing. 
 Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-perform- 
 ance 
 At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of evasion. 
 When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements, 
 Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it, — 
 Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of obligations. 
 Knew not of debt — ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons. 
 
 X. Claude to Exjstace. 
 
 Hang this thinking, at last ! what good is it ? oh, and what evil ! 
 Oh, what mischief and pain ! like a clock in a sick man's chamber. 
 Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing. 
 What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men ? Have com- 
 passion ; 
 Be favourable, and hear ! Take from me this regal knowledge ; 
 Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers, 
 Tranquilly, haj^pily lie, — and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar !
 
 AlIOUKS DE VOYAGE. 243 
 
 XI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 TiBUR is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio 
 
 Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence ; 
 
 Tibur and Anio's tide ; and cool from LucretUis ever. 
 
 While the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, 
 
 Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace : — 
 
 So not seeing I sang ; so seeing and listening say I, 
 
 Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, 
 
 Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me ; * 
 
 Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, 
 
 Dasliing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters, 
 
 Tivoli's waters and rocks ; and fair unto Monte Gennaro 
 
 (Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, 
 
 Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces), 
 
 Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations. 
 
 Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace : — 
 
 So not seeing I sang ; so now — Nor seeing, nor hearing, 
 
 Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces, 
 
 Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro, 
 
 Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters. 
 
 But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, tlie 
 
 Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens, 
 
 Wliich, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the 
 
 Romans, — 
 But on Montorio's 'height, looking foiih to the vapoury moun- 
 tains, 
 Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy, — 
 But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me. 
 Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist. 
 
 * domus Albuuea; resonanti.s, 
 
 Et pneceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda 
 Mobilibus pomaria rivis. 
 B2
 
 244 AMOURS DB VOYAGE. 
 
 XII. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper. 
 
 Dear Miss Roper, — It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, saiJ 
 
 Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions. 
 
 Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina. 
 
 It is so disagreeable and so annoying to think of ! 
 
 If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, that 
 
 It was all George's doing, and we were entirely unconscious, 
 
 It would extremely relieve — Your ever aflfectionate Mary. 
 
 RS. (1) 
 
 Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted. 
 So you have seen him, — indeed, and guessed, — how dreadfully clever ! 
 What did he really say ? and what was your answer exactly ? 
 Charming ! — but wait for a moment, I haven't read through the letter. 
 
 P.S. (2) 
 
 Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it. 
 If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so. 
 Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage. 
 It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled foi'. 
 Do as you please ; you know I trust implicitly to you. 
 Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter. 
 Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret, 
 That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it. 
 
 P.S. (3) 
 
 I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday. 
 Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage 
 Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter. 
 It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly 
 As if it had not occurred : and I do not think he would like it. 
 1 must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is over
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 245 
 
 We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan ; 
 There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce di Malta ; 
 Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England, 
 
 XIII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city, — 
 So it appears ; though then I was quite uncertain about it. 
 So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding. 
 
 I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Floience. 
 Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon 
 Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together. 
 As to intentions forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded. 
 Horrified quite ; and obtaining just then, as it happened, an offer 
 (No common favour) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection, 
 Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me. 
 How could I go ? Great Heavens ! to conduct a permitted flirtation 
 Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers ! 
 Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries. 
 Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman, 
 Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal, 
 
 That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown, — not, I tliink, by 
 Georgina : 
 
 She, however, ere this, — and that is the best of the story, — 
 
 She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone — honey- 
 mooning. 
 
 So — on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city. 
 
 Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of ; 
 
 Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep eu- 
 
 Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace ; 
 
 Tibur I shall not see ; — but something better I shaU see. 
 Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses ; 
 
 Twice I have tried and failed : this time it shall not be a failure.
 
 246 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyardcd ruins ! 
 
 Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes ! 
 Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic Albano, 
 
 Seen from, Montorio's height, Tibur and ^suWs hills / 
 Ah, coidd toe once, ere we go, coidd ice stand, lohile, to ocean descending, 
 
 SinJcs o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad sun. 
 Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in the champaign , 
 
 Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts vmhrageous and old. 
 E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful holloxo, 
 
 Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill ! — 
 Tlierefore fareivcll, ye plains, and ye hills, and the City Eternal ! 
 
 Therefore farewell ! We depart, but to behold yon again !
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 247 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Eastward, or Northward, or West ? I ivander and ash as I wander ; 
 
 Weary, yet eager and sure, Wliere shall I come to my love ? 
 TFliitherioard hasten to seek her ? Ye daughters of Italy, tell me, 
 
 G-raceful and tender and dark, is she consorting vjith you ? 
 TJiou that out-climbest the torrent, that tendest thy goats to the summit, 
 
 Call to ine, child of the Alp, has she been seen on the heights ? 
 Italy, fareivell I bid thee! for ichither she leads me, I follow. 
 
 Fareivdl the vineyard J for I, where I but guess lier, must go ; 
 Weariness welcome, and labour, tuherever it be, if at last it 
 
 Bring me in mountain or plain into the sight of my love. 
 
 I. Claude to Eustace,— //-owi Florence. 
 
 Gone from Florence ; indeed ! and that is truly provoking ; — 
 
 Gone to Milan, it seems ; then I go also to Milan. 
 
 Five days now departed ; but they can travel but slowly; — 
 
 I quicker far ; and I know, as it happens, the house they will go to.- 
 
 Why, what else should I do ? Stay here and look at the pictures. 
 
 Statues, and churches ? Alack, I am sick' of the statues and pictures !- 
 
 No, to Bologna, Parma, Piacenza, Lodi, and Milan, 
 
 Off go we to-night, — and the Venus go to the Devil! 
 
 II. Claude to Eustace,— /yo»i Bellaggio. 
 
 Gone to Como, they said ; and I have posted to Como. 
 There was a letter left ; but the camcriere had lost it. 
 Could it have been for me ? They came, however, to Como, 
 And from Como went by the boat, — perliaps to the Spliigen, —
 
 248 AMOURS DE VOYAGE 
 
 Or to the Stelvio, say, and the Tyrol ; also it might be 
 By Porlezza across to Lugano, and so to the Simplon 
 Possibly, or the St. Gothard, — or possibly, too, to Baveno, 
 Orta, Turin, and elsewhere. Indeed, I am greatly bewildered. 
 
 III. Claude to Eustace,— /ro}?i Bdlaggio. 
 
 I HAVE been up the Spliigen, and on the Stelvio also : 
 
 Neither of these can I find they have followed ; in no one inn, and 
 
 This would be odd, have they written their names. I have been to 
 
 Porlezza ; 
 There tliey have not been seen, and therefore not at Lugano. 
 What shall I do ? Go on through the Tyrol, Switzerland, Deutschland, 
 Seeking, an inverse Saul, a kingdom to find only asses ? 
 There is a tide, at least, in the love aflairs of mortals. 
 Which, when taken at flood, leads on to the happiest fortune, — 
 Leads to the marriage morn and the orange flowers and the altar, 
 And the long lawful line of crowned joys to crowned joys succeeding. — 
 Ah, it has ebbed with me ! Ye gods, and when it was flowing. 
 Pitiful fool that I was, to stand fiddle-faddling in that way I 
 
 IV. Claude to Eustace, — from Bellaggio. 
 
 I HAVE returned and found their names in the book at Como. 
 
 Certain it is I was right, and yet I am also in error. 
 
 Added in feminine hand, I read, By the boat to Bellaggio. — 
 
 So to Bellaggio again, with tlie words of her writing to aid me. 
 
 Yet at Bellaggio I find no trace, no sort of remembrance. 
 
 So I am here, and wait, and know every hour will remove them. 
 
 V. Claude to Eustace,— /rom Bellaggio. 
 
 I HAVE but one chance left, — and that is going to Florence. 
 But it is cruel to turn. The mountains seem to demand me, —
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 249 
 
 Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me onward. 
 
 Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I would follow ; 
 
 Somewhere among those heights she haply calls me to seek her. 
 
 Ah, could I hear her call ! could I catch the glimpse of her raiment ! 
 
 Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert her ; 
 
 For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence, 
 
 Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from the Ropers. 
 
 VI. Mary Trevellyn, from Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence. 
 
 Dear Miss Roper, — By this you are safely away, we are hoping, 
 Many a league from Rome ; ere long we trust we shall see you. 
 How have you travelled 1 I wonder ; — was Mr. Claude your companion ? 
 As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano ; 
 So by the Mount St. Gothard ; we meant to go by Porlezza, 
 Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at Bellaggio, 
 Two or three days or more ; but this was suddenly altered, 
 After we left the hotel, on the very way to the steamer. 
 So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfection. 
 
 Well, he is not come, and now, I suppose, he will not come. 
 What will you think, meantime ? and yet I must really confess it ; — 
 What will you say ? I wrote him a note. We left in a hurry, 
 Went from Milan to Como, three days before we expected. 
 But I thought, if he came aU the way to Milan, he reaUy 
 Ought not to be disappointed : and so I wrote three lines to 
 Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our party ; — 
 If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to 
 Cross the St. Gothard, andstay, we believed, atLucerne, forthe summer. 
 Was it wrong 1 and why, if it was, has it failed to bring liim 1 
 Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan 1 He knew (you 
 Told him) the house we should go to. Or may it, perhaps, have mis- 
 carried 1 
 Any way, now, I repent, and am heartily vexed that I wrote it.
 
 250 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 There is a home on the shore of the Alpine sea, that xtpsiveUiiig 
 
 High up the inountain-sides spreads in the holloiv bettveen ; 
 Wilderness, mountain, and snow from the land of the olive conceal it; 
 
 Under Pilatus's hill low by its river it lies : 
 Italy, utter the word, and the olive and vine will allitre not, — 
 
 Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passage impede ; 
 Italy, unto thy cities receding, the due to recover, 
 
 Sither, recovered tlie due, shall not the traveller haste ?
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 251 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 27(-cre is a city, upbuilt on the cpiays of the turbulent Arno, 
 
 Under Fiesole's heights, — thither are we to return ? 
 There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters. 
 
 Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay, — 
 Parthenope, do they call thee ? — the Siren, Neapolis, seated 
 
 Under Vesevus's hill, — are ice receding to thee ? — 
 Sicily, Chreece, will invite, and the Orient; — or are we to turn to 
 
 England, which may after all be for its children tJie best ? 
 
 I. Mary Trevellyn, at Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence. 
 
 So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence ; 
 That is delightful news ; you travelled slowly and safely ; 
 Mx. Claude got you out ; took rooms at Florence before you ; 
 Wrote from Milan to say so ; had left directly for Milan, 
 Hoping to find us soon ; — if he coidd, he woxdd, you are certain. — 
 Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly happy. 
 
 You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our intentions : 
 You had not heard as yet of Lucerne, but told him of Como. — 
 Well, perhaps he will come ; however, I will not expect it. 
 Though you say you are sure, — if he can, he will, you are certain. 
 O my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate Mary. 
 
 II. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Florence. 
 Action ivill furnish belief, — but will that belief be the true one ? 
 This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much matter.
 
 252 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action, 
 So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true one. 
 Out of the question, you say ; if a tiling isn't wrong we may do it. 
 Ah ! but this wrong, you see — but I do not know that it matters. 
 Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me about them. 
 
 Pisa. 
 
 Pisa, they say they think, and so I follow to Pisa, 
 Hither and thither inquiring. I weary of making inquiries. 
 I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it. — ■ 
 Who are your friends ? You said you had friends who would certainly 
 know them. 
 
 Florence. 
 But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix her 
 Image more and more in, to write the whole perfect inscription 
 Over and over again upon every page of remembrance. 
 
 I have settled to stay at Florence to wait for your answer. 
 Who are your friends ? Write quickly and tell me. I wait for your 
 answer. 
 
 III. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper, — at Lucca Baths. 
 
 You are at Lucca baths, you tell me, to stay for the summer ; 
 Florence was quite too hot ; you can't move further at present. 
 Will you not come, do you think, before the summer is over ? 
 
 Mr. C. got you out with very considerable trouble ; 
 And he was useful and kind, and seemed so happy to serve you. 
 Didn't stay with you long, but talked very openly to you ; 
 Made you almost his confessor, without appearing to know it,— 
 What about ? — and you say you didn't need his confessions. 
 O my dear Miss Roper, I dare not trust what you tell me I 
 
 Will he come, do you think ? I am really so sorry for him. 
 They didn't give him my letter at Milan, I feel jjretty certain.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 253 
 
 You had told him Bellaggio. We didn't go to Bellaggio ; 
 So he would miss our track, and perhaps never come to Lugano, 
 Where we were written in full, To Lucerne across the St. Gothard. 
 But he could write to you ; — you would tell him where you were going. 
 
 rv. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Let me, then, bear to forget her. I will not cling to her falsely ; 
 
 Notliing factitious or forced shall impair the old happy relation. 
 
 I will let myself go, forget, not try to remember ; 
 
 I will walk on my way, accept the chances that meet me, 
 
 Freely encounter the world, imbibe these alien airs, and 
 
 Never ask if new feelings and thoughts are of her or of others. 
 
 Is she not changing herself ? — the old image would only delude me. 
 
 I will be bold, too, and change, — if it must be. Yet if in aU things, 
 
 Yet if I do but aspire evermore to the Absolute only, 
 
 I shall be doing, I think, somehow, what she will be doing ; — 
 
 I shall be thine, O my child, some way, though I know not in what 
 
 way. 
 Let me submit to forget her ; I must ; I already forget her. 
 
 V. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Utterly vain is, alas ! this attempt at the Absolute, — wholly ! 
 
 I, who believed not in her, because I would fain believe nothing, 
 
 Have to believe as I may, with a wilful, unmeaning acceptance. 
 
 I, who refused to enfasten the roots of my floating existence 
 
 In the rich earth, cling now to the hard, naked rock that is left me, — • 
 
 Ah ! she was worthy, Eustace, — and that, indeed, is my comfort, — 
 
 Worthy a nobler heart than a fool such as I could have given her.
 
 254 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Yes, it relieves me to ^Yi'ite, though I do not send, and the chance that 
 Takes may destroy my fragments. But as men pray, without asking 
 Wliether One really exist to hear or do anything for them, — 
 Simply impelled by the need of the moment to turn to a Being 
 In a conception of whom there is freedom from all limitation, — 
 So in your image I turn to an ens rationis of friendship, 
 Even so write in your name I know not to whom nor in what wise. 
 
 There was a time, methought it was but lately departed, 
 When, if a thing was denied me, I felt I was bound to attempt it : 
 Choice alone should take, and choice alone should surrender. 
 There was a time, indeed, when I had not retired thus eaiiy. 
 Languidly thus, from pursuit of a purpose I once had adopted, 
 But it is over, all that ! I have slunk from the jDerilous field in 
 Whose wild struggle of forces the prizes of life are contested. 
 It is over, all that ! I am a coward, and know it. 
 Courage in me could be only factitious, unnatural, useless. 
 
 Comfort has come to me here in the dreary streets of the city. 
 Comfort — how do you tliink 1 — with a barrel-organ to bring it. 
 Moping along the streets, and cursing my day as I wandered. 
 All of a sudden my ear met the sound of an English psalm-tune, 
 Comfort me it did, till indeed I was very near crying. 
 Ah, there is some great truth, partial, very likely, but needful, 
 Lodged, I am strangely sure, in the tones of the English psalm-tune. 
 Comfort it was at least ; and I must take without question 
 Comfort, however it come, in the dreary streets of the city.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 255 
 
 What with trusting myself, and seeking support from within me, 
 Almost I could believe I had gained a religious assurance, 
 Formed in my own poor soul a great moral basis to rest on. 
 Ah, but indeed I see, I feel it factitious entirely ; 
 I refuse, reject, and put it utterly from me ; 
 I will look straight out, see things, not try to evade them ; 
 Fact shall be fact for me, and the Truth the Truth as ever, 
 Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform, and doubtful. — 
 OS, and depart to the void, thou subtle, fanatical tempter ! 
 
 I SHALL behold thee again (is it so 1) at a new visitation, 
 
 ill genius thou ! I shall at my life's dissolution 
 
 (When the pulses are weak, and the feeble light of the reason 
 Flickers, an unfed flame retiring slow from the socket), 
 Low on a sick-bed laid, hear one, as it were, at the doorway, 
 And, looking up, see thee standing by, looking emptily at me ; 
 
 1 shall entreat thee then, though now I dare to refuse thee, — 
 Pale and pitiful now, but terrible then to the dying. — 
 Well, I will see thee again, and while I can, will repel thee. 
 
 VI. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 Home is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medici taken. 
 
 Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has lost il Moro ; — 
 
 Rome is fallen ; and fallen, or falling, heroical Venice. 
 
 I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, sit 
 
 Moping and mourning here, — for her, and myself much smaller. 
 
 Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle. 
 Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them 1 
 Are they upborne from the field on the slumberous pinions of angels 
 Unto a far-ofl" home, where the weary rest from their labour. 
 And the deep wounds are healed, and tlie bitter and l)ur ing moisture
 
 256 AMOUES DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Wiped from the generous eyes ? or do they Imger, unhappy, 
 
 Pining, and haunting the grave of their by -gone hope and endeavour ? 
 
 All declamation, alas ! though I talk, I care not for Roine nor 
 Italy ; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can lament the 
 Wreck of the Lombard youth, and the victory of the oppressor. 
 Whither depart the brave ? — God knows ; I certainly do not. 
 
 VII. Mary Trevelly;n to Miss Roper. 
 
 He has not come as yet ; and now I must not expect it. 
 
 You have written, you say, to friends at Florence, to see him, 
 
 If he perhaps should return ; — but that is surely unlikely. 
 
 Has he not written to you ? — he did not know your direction. 
 
 Oh, how strange never once to have told him where you were going ! 
 
 Yet if he only wrote to Florence, that would have reached you. 
 
 If what you say he said was true, why has he not done so 1 
 
 Is he gone back to Rome, do you think, to his Vatican marbles 1 — 
 
 my dear Miss Roper, forgive me ! do not be angry ! — • 
 
 You have written to Florence ; — your friends would certainly find him. 
 Might you not write to him ? — but yet it is so little likely ! 
 
 1 shall expect nothing more. — Ever yours, your affectionate Mary. 
 
 VIII. Claude to Eustace. 
 
 I cAisT^OT stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. 
 
 Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished 
 
 (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first 
 
 time) 
 Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever. 
 Chicken-hearted, past thought. The cafies and waiters distress mo. 
 All is i;nkind, and, alas ! I am ready for any one's kindness. 
 Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, 
 If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness, 
 It is the need of it, — it is this sad, self-defeating dependence.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 257 
 
 Wliy is this, Eustace ? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell 
 
 you. 
 But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression, 
 Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. 
 All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something. 
 Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks, 
 Is not I tuill, but I must. I must, — I must, — and I do it. 
 
 After all, do I know that I really cared so about her ? 
 
 Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image ; 
 
 For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter's, 
 
 Or the Pantheon fagade, or Michel Angelo's figures. 
 
 Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum, — 
 
 But that face, those eyes, — ah, no, never anything like them ; 
 
 Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline. 
 
 And a pale blank orb, wliich no recollection will add to. 
 
 After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it ; 
 
 I have had pain, it is true : I have wept, and so have the actors. 
 
 At the last moment I have your letter, for Avhich I was waiting ; 
 I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries. 
 Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me. 
 Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain ; 
 All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to 
 
 be changed. 
 It is a curious history, tliis ; and yet I foresaw it ; 
 I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us ; 
 For it is certain enough I met with the people you mention ; 
 They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even ; 
 
 S
 
 258 AMOUKS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Stayed a week, saw me often ; departed, and whither I know not. 
 Great is Fate, and is best. I beheve in Providence partly. 
 ^Vliat is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered. 
 Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion. 
 I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances. 
 Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering. 
 
 IX. Claude to Extstace. 
 
 Shah, we come out of it all, some day, as one does from a tunnel? 
 Will it be all at once, without our doing or asking. 
 We shall behold clear day, the trees and meadows about us. 
 And the faces of friends, and the eyes we loved looking at us? 
 Who knows ? Who can say ? It will not do to suppose it. 
 
 X. Claxtde to Eustace,— //-o hi Rome. 
 
 Rome will not suit me, Eustace ; the priests and soldiers possess it ; 
 Priests and soldiers : — and, ah ! which is the worst, the priest or the 
 soldier ? 
 
 Politics, farewell, however ! For what could I do ? with inquiring, 
 Talking, collating the journals, go fever my brain about things o'er 
 Which I can have no control. No, happen whatever may happen, 
 Time, I suppose, will subsist ; the earth will revolve on its axis ; 
 People will travel ; the stranger will wander as now in the city ; 
 Rome will be here, and the Pope the custode of Vatican marbles. 
 
 I have no heart, however, for any marble or fresco ; 
 I have essayed it in vain ; 'tis in vain as yet to essay it : 
 But I may haply resume some day my studies in this kind ; 
 Not as the Scripture says, is, I think, the fact. Ere our death-day, 
 Faith, I think, does pass, and Love ; but Knowledge abidetli. 
 Let us seek Knowledge ; — the rest may come and go as it happens. 
 Knowledge is hard to seek, and harder yet to adhere to. 
 Knowledge is painful often ; and yet when we know we are happy.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 259 
 
 Seek it, and leave mere Faith and Love to come with the chances. 
 As for Hope, — to-morrow I hope to be starting for Naples. 
 Rome will not do, I see, for many very good reasons. 
 
 Eastwax'd, then, I suppose, with the coming of winter, to Egypt. 
 
 XI. Mary Tkevellyn to Miss Roper. 
 
 You have heard nothing ; of course I know you can have heard nothing. 
 
 Ah, well, more than once I have broken my purpose, and sometimes, 
 
 Only too often, have looked for the little lake steamer to bring him. 
 
 But it is only fancy, — I do not really expect it. 
 
 Oh, and you see I know so exactly how he would take it : 
 
 Finding the chances prevail against meeting again, he would banish 
 
 Forthwith every thought of the poor little jjossible hope, which 
 
 I myself could not help, perhaps, thinking only too much of ; 
 
 He would resign himself, and go. I see it exactly. 
 
 So I also submit, although in a different manner. 
 
 Can you not really come ? We go very shortly to England. 
 
 So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evil ' 
 
 Go, little book ! thy tale, is it not evil and good ? 
 Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer. 
 
 Go, and if curious friends ash of thy rearing and age, 
 Say, ' I am flitting about many years from brain unto brain of 
 
 Feeble and restless youths born to inglorious days : 
 But,'' sofitiish the word, ' I was writ in a Roman chamber, 
 
 When from Janicidan heights thundered the cannon of France.'' 
 
 S2
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE.* 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! Her vans the vessel tries, 
 His iron might the potent engine plies : 
 Haste, winged words, and ere 'tis useless, tell, 
 Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell. 
 
 The docks, the streets, the houses past us fly. 
 Without a strain the great ship marches by ; 
 Ye fleeting banks take up the words we tell. 
 And say for us yet once again, farewell. 
 
 The waters widen — on without a strain 
 The strong ship moves upon the open main ; 
 She knows the seas, she hears the true waves swell, 
 She seems to say farewell, again farewell. 
 
 The billows whiten and the deep seas heave ; 
 Fly once again, sweet words, to her I leave. 
 With winds that blow return, and seas that swell, 
 Farewell, farewell, say once again, farewell. 
 
 Fresh in my face and rippling to my feet 
 
 The winds and waves an answer soft repeat. 
 
 In sweet, sweet words far brought they seem to tell, 
 
 Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell. 
 
 * These songs were composed either during the writer's voyage across 
 the Atlantic in 1852, or during his residence in America.
 
 264 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Night gathers fast ; adieu, thou fading shore ! 
 The land we look for next must lie before ] 
 Hence, foolish tears ! -weak thoughts, no more rebel, 
 Farewell, farewell, a last, a last farewell. 
 
 Yet not, indeed, ah not till more than sea 
 And more than space divide my love and me. 
 Till more than waves and winds between us swell, 
 Farewell, a last, indeed, a last farewell. 
 
 Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
 Across this watery waste we fare, 
 Your image at our hearts we bear 
 Green fields of England, eveiywhero 
 
 Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
 Past where the waves' last confines be. 
 Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
 Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 
 
 Dear home in England, safe and fast 
 If but in thee my lot lie cast. 
 The past shall seem a nothing past 
 To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
 Dear home in England, won at last. 
 1852 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where is home for me. 
 Whose ship is driving o'er the trackless sea 1 
 To the frail bark here plunging on its way, 
 To the wild waters, shall I turn and say 
 To the plunging bark, or to the salt sea foam. 
 You are my home.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 265 
 
 Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew, 
 Familiar things so old my heart believed them true. 
 These far, far back, behind me lie, before 
 The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar. 
 And speak to them that 'neath and o'er them roam 
 No words of home. 
 
 Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar, 
 There may indeed, or may not be, a shore. 
 Where fields as green, and hands and hearts as ti'ue. 
 The old forgotten semblance may renew. 
 And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt sea foam 
 Another home. 
 
 But toil and pain must wear out many a day, 
 And days bear weeks, and weeks bear months away, 
 Ere, if at all, the weary traveller hear, 
 With accents whispered in his wayworn e;vr, 
 A voice he dares to listen to, say. Come 
 To thy true home. 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where a home hath he 
 Whose ship is driving o'er the driving sea? 
 Through clouds that mutter, and o'er waves that roar, 
 Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a shore 
 That is, as is not ship or ocean foam. 
 Indeed our home 1 
 1852 
 
 Come back, come back, behold with straining mast 
 And swelling sail, behold her steaming fast ; 
 With one new sun to see her voyage o'er. 
 With morning light to touch her native shore. 
 Come back, come back.
 
 266 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Come back, come back, while westward labouring by, 
 With sailless yards, a bare black hulk we fly. 
 See how the gale we fight with sweeps her back, 
 To our lost home, on our forsaken track. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, across the flpng foam, 
 We hear faint far-off voices call us home. 
 Come back, ye seem to say; ye seek in vain ; 
 We went, we sought, and homeward turned again. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; and whither back or why? 
 To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try; 
 Walk the old fields ; pace the familiar street ; 
 Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; and whither and for what 1 
 To finger idly some old Gordian knot. 
 Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave. 
 And with much toil attain to half-believe. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; yea back, indeed do go 
 Sighs panting thick, and tears that want to fiow ; 
 Fond fluttering hopes upraise their useless wings, 
 And wishes idly struggle in the strings ; 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, more eager than the breeze, 
 The flying fancies sweep across the seas, 
 And lighter far than ocean's flying foam. 
 The heart's fond message hurries to its home. 
 Come back, come back !
 
 SONGS Ix\ ABSENCE. 267 
 
 Come back, come back ! 
 
 Back flies the foam; the hoisted flag streams back ; 
 The long smoke wavers on the homeward track, 
 Back fly with winds things which the winds obey, 
 The strong ship follows its appointed way. 
 1852 
 
 Some future day when what is now is not, 
 
 When all old faults and follies are forgot. 
 
 And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away, 
 
 We'll meet again upon some future day. 
 
 When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, 
 As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, 
 When all but it has yielded to decay, 
 We'll meet again upon some future day. 
 
 When we have proved, each on his course alone. 
 The wider world, and learnt what's now unknown. 
 Have made life clear, and worked out each a way. 
 We'll meet again, — we shall have much to say. 
 
 With happier mood, and feelings born anew, 
 Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll review, 
 Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to play. 
 And meet again, on many a future day. 
 
 Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see, 
 In some far year, though distant yet to be, 
 Shall we indeed, — ye winds and waters, say ! — 
 Meet yet again upon some future day ? 
 1852
 
 268 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from 1 Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face. 
 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ; 
 Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
 The foaming wake far widening as we go. 
 
 On stoi-my nights when wild north-westers rave, 
 How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
 The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
 Exults to bear, and scoi-ns to wish it past. 
 
 Where Kes the land to which the ship would go 1 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from 1 Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 1852 
 
 The mighty ocean rolls and raves, 
 To part us with its angiy waves ; 
 But arch on arch from shore to shore, 
 In a vast fabric reaching o'er. 
 
 With careful labours daily wrought, 
 By steady hope and tender thought. 
 The wide and weltering waste above — 
 Our hearts have bridged it with theii' love. 
 
 There fond anticipations fly 
 To rear the growing structm-e high; 
 Dear memories upon either side 
 Combine to make it large and wide.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 269 
 
 There, tappy fancies day by day, 
 New courses sedulously lay ; 
 There soft solicitudes, sweet fears. 
 And doubts accumulate, and tears. 
 
 While the pure purpose of the soul, 
 
 To form of many parts a whole, 
 
 To make them strong and hold them true, 
 
 From end to end, is cari-ied through. 
 
 Then when the waters war between, 
 Upon the masonry unseen. 
 Secure and B^vift, from shore to shore. 
 With silent footfall travelling o'er, 
 
 Our sundered spirits come and go, 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 Pass and repass, now linger near, 
 Now part, anew to reappear. 
 
 With motions of a glad surprise. 
 We meet each other's wondering eyes, 
 At work, at play when people talk, 
 And when we sleep, and when we wait. 
 
 Each dawning day my eyelids see 
 You come, methinks, across to me, 
 And I, at every hour anew, 
 Could dream I travelled o'er to you. 
 1853
 
 270 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Were you Avith me, or I with you, 
 There's naught, methinks, I might not do ; 
 Coukl venture here, and venture there, 
 And never fear, nor ever care. 
 
 To things before, and things behind, 
 Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind, 
 On this and that, day after day. 
 Could daie to throw myself away. 
 
 Secure, when all was o'er, to find 
 My proper thought, my perfect mind, 
 And unimpaired receive anew 
 My own and better self in you. 
 1853 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind 
 Is true of most we leave behind ; 
 It is not sure, nor can be true. 
 My own and only love, of you. 
 
 They wei-e my friends, 'twas sad to part ; 
 Almost a tear began to start ; 
 But yet as things run on they find 
 That out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 For men, that ^vill not idlers be, 
 Must lend their hearts to things they see ; 
 And friends who leave them far behind, 
 When out of sight are out of mind. 
 
 I blame it not ; I think that when 
 The cold and silent meet again. 
 Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind, 
 'Twas ' out of sight ' was ' out of mind.'
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 271 
 
 I knew it when we parted, well, 
 I knew it, but was loth to tell; 
 I felt befoi'B, what now I find, 
 That ' out of sight ' is ' out of mind.' 
 
 That friends, however friends they were, 
 Still deal with things as things occur, 
 And that, excepting for the blind. 
 What's out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 But love, the poets say, is blind ; 
 So out of sight and out of mind 
 Need not, nor will, I think, be true. 
 My own and only love, of you. 
 1853
 
 MARI MAGNO 
 
 OE 
 
 TALES ON BOAED.
 
 MABI MAGNO 
 
 or 
 
 TALES ON BOARD. 
 
 A YOUTH was I. An elder friend with me, 
 'Twas in September o'er the autumnal sea 
 We went ; the wide Atlantic ocean o'er 
 Two amongst many the strong steamer bore. 
 
 Delight it was to feel that wondrous force 
 That held us steady to ovir proposed course, 
 The burning resolute victorious will 
 'Gainst winds and waves that strive unwavering still. 
 Delight it was with each returning day 
 To learn the ship had won upon her way 
 Her sum of miles, — delight were mornings grey 
 And gorgeous eves, — nor was it less delight, 
 On each more temperate and favouring night. 
 Friend with familiar or with new-found friend. 
 To pace the deck, and o'er the bulwarks bend. 
 And the night watches in long converse spend ; 
 While still new subjects and new thoughts arise 
 Amidst the silence of the seas and skies. 
 
 Amongst the mingled multitude a few, 
 Some three or four, towards us early drew ; 
 We proved each other with a day or two ; 
 Night after night some three or four we walked 
 And talked, and talked, and infinitely talked. 
 
 Of the New England ancient blood was one ; 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 His youtliful spurs in letters he had won, 
 
 Unspoilt by that, to Europe late had come, — 
 
 Hope long deferred,— and went unspoilt by Europe homa 
 
 What racy tales of Yankeeland he had ! 
 
 Up-country girl, up-country farmer lad ; 
 
 The regnant clergy of the time of old 
 
 In wig and gown ; — tales not to be retold 
 
 By me. I could but spoil were I to tell : 
 
 Himself must do it who can do it well. 
 
 An English clergyman came spick and span 
 In black and white — a large well-favoured man, 
 Fifty years old, as near as one could guess. 
 He looked the dignitary more or less. 
 A rural dean, I said, he was, at least, 
 Canon perhaps ; at many a good man's feast 
 A guest had been, amongst the choicest there. 
 Manly his voice and manly was his air : 
 At the first sight you felt he had not known 
 The things pertaining to his cloth alone. 
 Chairman of Quarter Sessions had he been 1 
 Serious and calm, 'twas plain he much had seen, 
 Had miscellaneous large experience had 
 Of human acts, good, half and half, and bad. 
 Serious and calm, yet lurked, I know not why, 
 At times, a softness in his voice and eye. 
 Some shade of ill a prosperous life had crossed ; 
 Married no doubt : a wife or child had lost ? 
 He never told us why he passed the sea. 
 
 My guardian friend was now, at thirty-three, 
 A rising lawyer — ever, at the best. 
 Slow rises woi'th in lawyer's gown compressed; 
 Succeeding now, yet just, and only just. 
 His new success he never seemed to trust. 
 By natui'e he to gentlest thoughts inclined, 
 To most severe had disciplined his mind;
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 277 
 
 He held it duty to be half unkind. 
 
 Bitter, they said, who but the exterior knew, 
 
 In friendship never was a friend so true : 
 
 The unwelcome fact he did not shrink to tell, 
 
 The good, if fact, he recognised as well. 
 
 Stout to maintain, if not the first to see ; 
 
 In conversation who so great as he ? 
 
 Leading but seldom, always sure to guide, 
 
 To false or silly, if 'twas borne aside, 
 
 His quick correction silent he expressed. 
 
 And stopped you short, and forced you to your best. 
 
 Often, I think, he sufiered from some pain 
 
 Of mind, that on the body woiked again ; 
 
 One felt it in hLs sort of half- disdain. 
 
 Impatient not, but acrid in his speech; 
 
 The world with him her lesson failed to teach 
 
 To take things easily and let them go. 
 
 He, for what special fitness I scarce know. 
 For which good quahty, or if for all, 
 With less of reservation and recall 
 And speedier favour than I e'er had seen, 
 Took, as we called him, to the rural dean. 
 '^s grew the gourd, as grew the stalk of bean. 
 So swift it seemed, betwixt these difiering two 
 A stately trunk of confidence up-grew. 
 
 Of marriage long one night they held cUscourse ; 
 Regarding it in difierent ways, of course. 
 Marriage is discipline, the wise had said, 
 A needful human discipline to wed ; 
 Novels of course depict it final bliss, — 
 Say, had it ever really once been this 1 
 
 Our Yankee friend (whom, ere the night was done, 
 We called New England or the Pilgrim Son), 
 A little tired, made bold to interfere ; 
 * Appeal,' he said, ' to me ; my sentence hear.
 
 278 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 You'll reason on till night and reason fail; 
 My judgment is you each shall tell a tale ; 
 And as on marriage you can not agree, 
 Of love and marriage let the stories be.' 
 Sentence delivered, as the younger man, 
 My lawyer friend was called on and began.
 
 MAKI MAGNO. 279 
 
 THE LAWYER'S FIBST TALE. 
 
 Love is fellow-service. 
 
 A YOUTH and maid upon a summer night 
 Upon the lawn, while yet the skies were light, 
 Edmund and Emma, let their names be these. 
 Among the shrubs within the circling trees, 
 Joined in a game with boys and girls at play : 
 Eor games perhaps too old a little they; 
 In April she her eighteenth year begun, 
 And twenty he, and near to twenty-one. 
 A game it was of running and of noise; 
 He as a boy, with other girls and boys 
 (Her sisters and her brothers), took the fun ; 
 And when her turn, she marked not, came to run, 
 * Emma,' he called, — then knew that he was wrong, 
 Knew that her name to him did not belong. 
 Her look and manner proved his feeling true, — 
 A child no more, her womanhood she knew; 
 Half was the colour mounted on her face, 
 Her tardy movement had an adult grace. 
 Yexed with himself, and shamed, he felt the more 
 A kind of joy he ne'er had felt before. 
 Something there was that from this date began ; 
 'Twas beautiful with her to be a man. 
 
 Two years elapsed, and he who went and came, 
 Changing in much, in this appeared the same; 
 The feeling, if it did not greatly grow. 
 Endured and was not wholly hid below.
 
 280 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 He now, o'ertasked at school, a serious boy, 
 
 A sort of after-boyliood to enjoy 
 
 Appeared — in vigour and in spirit high 
 
 And manly grown, but kept the boy's soft eye : 
 
 And full of blood, and strong and lithe of limb, 
 
 To him 'twas pleasure now to ride, to swim ; 
 
 The peaks, the glens, the torrents tempted him 
 
 Eestless he seemed, — long distances would walk, 
 
 And lively was, and vehement in talk. 
 
 A wandering life his life had lately been, 
 
 Books he had read, the world had little seen. 
 
 One former frailty haunted him, a touch 
 
 Of something introspective overmuch. 
 
 With all his eager motions still there went 
 
 A self-correcting and ascetic bent, 
 
 That from the obvious good still led astray, 
 
 And set him travelling on the longest way; 
 
 Seen in these scattered notes their date that claim 
 
 When first his feeling conscious sought a name. 
 
 ' Beside the wishing gate which so they name, 
 'Mid northern hills to me this fancy came, 
 A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
 Would I could wish my wishes all to rest, 
 And know to wish the wish that were the best! 
 O for some winnowing wind, to the empty air 
 This chaff of easy sympathies to bear 
 Far off, and leave me of myself aware ! 
 Wliile thus this over health deliides me still, 
 So willing that I know not what I will ; 
 for some friend, or more than friend, austere. 
 To make me know myself, and make me fear ! 
 O for some touch, too noble to be kind, 
 To awake to life the mind within the mind ! ' 
 
 ' O charms, seductions and divine delights ! 
 All thi'ough the radiant yellow summer nights,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 281 
 
 Dreams, hardly dreams, that yield or e'er they're done. 
 
 To the bright fact, my day, my risen sun ! 
 
 O promise and fulfilment, both in one ! 
 
 O bliss, already bliss, which nought has shared. 
 
 Whose glory no fruition has impaii-ed. 
 
 And, emblem of my state, thou coming day, 
 
 With all thy hours unspent to pass away ! 
 
 Why do I wait 1 What more propose to know ? 
 
 Where the sweet mandate bids me, let me go ; 
 
 My conscience in my impulse let me find, 
 
 Justification in the moving mind, 
 
 Law in the strong desire ; or yet behind, 
 
 Say, is there ought the spell that has not heard, 
 
 A something that refuses to be stirred 1 ' 
 
 ' In other regions has my being heard 
 Of a strange language the diviner word ? 
 Has some forgotten life the exemplar shown 1 
 Elsewhere such high communion have I known, 
 As dooms me here, in this, to live alone ? 
 Then love, that shouldest blind me, let me, love, 
 Nothing behold beyond thee or above ; 
 Ye impulses, that should be strong and wild, 
 Beguile me, if I am to be beguiled ! ' 
 
 ' Or are there modes of love, and different kinds. 
 Proportioned to the sizes of our minds 1 
 There are who say thus, I held there was one, 
 One love, one deity, one central sun ; 
 As he resistless brings the expanding day. 
 So love should come on his victorious way. 
 If light at all, can light indeed be there, 
 Yet only permeate half the ambient air ] 
 Can the high noon be regnant in the sky, 
 Yet half the land in light, and half in darkness lie 1 
 Can love, if love, be occupant in part. 
 Hold, as it were, some chambers in the heai't ;
 
 282 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 Tenant at will of so mucll of the soul, 
 Not lord and mighty master of the whole 1 
 There are who say, and say that it is well ; 
 Opinion all, of knowledge none can tell.' 
 
 ' Montaigne, I know in a realm high above 
 Places the seat of friendship over love ; 
 'Tis not in love that we should think to find 
 The lofty fellowship of mind with mind ; 
 Love's not a joy where sonl and soul unite, 
 Rather a wondrous animal delight ; 
 And as in spring, for one consummate hour 
 The world of vegetation turns to flower, 
 The birds with liveliest plumage trim their wing, 
 And all the woodland listens as they sing ; 
 When spring is o'er and summer days are sped, 
 The songs are silent, and the blossoms dead : 
 E'en so of man and woman is the bliss. 
 O, but I will not tamely yield to this ! 
 I think it only shows us in the end, 
 Montaigne was happy in a noble friend. 
 Had not the fortune of a noble wife ; 
 He lived, I think, a poor ignoble life, 
 And wrote of petty pleasures, petty pgin ; 
 I do not greatly think about Montaigne.' 
 
 ' How charming to be with her ! yet indeed. 
 After a while I find a blank succeed; 
 After a while she little has to say, 
 I'm silent too, although I wish to stay ; 
 What would it be all day, day after day ? 
 Ah ! but I ask, I do not doubt, too much ; 
 I think of love as if it should be such 
 As to fulfil and occupy in whole 
 The nought-else-seeking, nought-essaying soul. 
 Therefore it is my mind with doubts I urge ; 
 Hence ax"e these fears and shiverings on the verge ;
 
 MARI MAGNO. 283 
 
 By books, not nature, thus have we been schooled, 
 
 By poetry and novels been befooled ; 
 
 Wiser tradition says, the affections' claim 
 
 Will be supplied, the rest will be the same. 
 
 I think too much of love, 'tis true : I know 
 
 It is not all, was ne'er intended so ; 
 
 Yet such a change, so entire, I feel, 'twould be, 
 
 So potent, so omnipotent with me ; 
 
 My former self I never should recall, — 
 
 Indeed I think it must be all in all.' 
 
 ' I thought that Love was winged ; without a sound, 
 His purple pinions bore him o'er the ground, 
 Wafted withovit an effort here or there, 
 He came — and we too trod as if in air : — 
 But panting, toiling, clambering up the hill. 
 Am I to assist him 1 I, put forth my will 
 To upbear his lagging footsteps, lame and slow, 
 And help him on and tell him where to go. 
 And ease him of his quiver and his bow ] ' 
 
 ' Erotion ! I saw it in a book ; 
 Why did I notice it, why did I look 1 
 Yea, is it so, ye powers that see above 'i 
 I do not love, I want, I try to love ! 
 This is not love, but lack of love instead ! 
 Merciless thought ! I would I had been dead, 
 Or e'er the phrase had come into my head.' 
 
 She also wrote : and here may find a place, 
 Of her and of her thoughts some slender trace. 
 
 ' He is not vain ; if proud, he quells his pride. 
 And somehow really likes to be defied ; 
 Bejoices if you humble him : indeed 
 Gives way at once, and leaves you to succeed.' 
 
 ' Easy it were with such a mind to play. 
 And foolish not to do so, some would say ; 
 One almost smiles to look and see the way :
 
 284 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 But come what 'will, I will not play a part, 
 Indeed I dare xiot condescend to art.' 
 
 ' Easy 'twere not, perhaps, with him to live ; 
 He looks for more than any one can give : 
 So dulled at times and disappointed ; still 
 Expecting what depends not of my will : 
 My inspiration comes not at my call. 
 Seek me as I am, if seek you do at all.' 
 
 ' Like him I do, and think of him I must ; 
 But more — I dare not and I cannot tiust. 
 This more he brings — say, is it more or less 
 Than that no fruitage ever came to bless, — 
 The old wild flower of love-in-idleness 1 ' 
 
 ' Me when he leaves and others when he sees, 
 What is my fate who am not there to please 1 
 Me he has left ; already may have seen 
 One, who for me forgotten here has been ; 
 And he, the while is balancing between. 
 If the heart spoke, the heart I knew wei'e bound ; 
 What if it utter an uncertain sound 1 ' 
 
 ' So quick to vary, so rejoiced to change, 
 From this to that his feelings surely range ; 
 His fancies wander, and his thoughts as well ; 
 And if the heart be constant, who can tell 1 
 Far off to fly, to abandon me, and go. 
 He seems returning then before I know : 
 With every accident he seems to move, 
 Is now below me and is now above. 
 Now far aside, — 0, does he I'eally love 1 ' 
 
 ' Absence were hard ; yet let the trial be ; 
 His nature's aim and purpose he would free. 
 And in the world his. course of action see. 
 O should he lose, not learn ; jiervert his scope ; 
 
 should I lose ! and yet to win I hope. 
 
 1 win not now; his way if now I went, 
 Brief joy I gave, for years of discontent,'
 
 MARI MAGNO. 285 
 
 * Gone, is it true 1 but oft he went before, 
 
 And came again before a month was o'er. 
 
 Gone — though I could not venture upon ai-t, 
 
 It was perhaps a foolish pride in part ; 
 
 He had such ready fancies in his head, 
 
 And really was so easy to be led ; 
 
 One might have failed ; and yet I feel 'twas pride, 
 
 And can't but half repent I never tried. 
 
 Gone, is it true 1 but he again will come, 
 
 Wandering he loves, and loves returning home." 
 Gone, it was true ; nor came so soon again ; 
 
 Came, after travelling, pleasure half, half pain. 
 
 Came, but a half of Europe first o'erran ; 
 
 Arrived, his father found a ruined man. 
 
 Rich they had been, and rich was Emma too. 
 
 Heiress of wealth she new not, Edmund knew. 
 Farewell to her ! — In a new home obscure, 
 
 Food for his helpless parents to secure. 
 
 From early morning to advancing dark. 
 He toiled and laboured as a merchant's clerk. 
 Three years his heavy load he bore, nor quailed, 
 Then all his health, though scarce his spirit, failed; 
 Friends interposed, insisted it must be, 
 Enforced their help, and sent him to the sea. 
 
 Wandering about with little heie to do. 
 His old thoughts mingling dimly with his new, 
 Wandering one morn, he met upon the shore. 
 Her, whom he quitted five long years befoi-e. 
 
 Alas ! why quitted 1 Say that charms ai'e nought, 
 Nor grace, nor beauty worth one serious thought ; 
 Was there no mystic virtue in the sense 
 That joined your boyish girlish innocence 1 
 Is constancy a thing to thi-ow away. 
 And loving faithfulness a chance of eveiy day? 
 Alas ! why quitted 1 is she changed 1 but now 
 The weight of intellect is in her brow ;
 
 286 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 Changed, or but truer seen, one sees in her 
 Something to wake the soul, the interior sense to stir. 
 
 Alone they met, from alien eyes away, 
 The high shore hid them in a tiny bay. 
 Alone was he, was she ; in sweet surjirise 
 They met, before they knew it, in their eyes. 
 In his a wondering admiration glowed. 
 In hers, a world of tenderness o'erfiowed ; 
 In a brief moment all was known and seen, 
 That of slow years the wearying work had been : 
 Morn's early odorous breath perchance in sooth, 
 Awoke the old natural feeling of their youth : 
 The sea, perchance, and solitude had charms. 
 They met — I know not — in each other's arms. 
 
 "Why linger now — why waste the sands of life 1 
 A few sweet weeks, and they were man and wife. 
 
 To his old frailty do not be severe, 
 His latest theory with patience hear : 
 
 ' I sought not, truly would to seek disdain, 
 A kind, soft pillow for a wearying pain, 
 Fatigues and cares to lighten, to relieve ; 
 But love is fellow-service, I believe.' 
 
 ' No, truly no, it was not to obtain. 
 Though that alone were happiness, were gain, 
 A tender breast to fall upon and weep, 
 A heart, the secrets of my heart to keep ; 
 To share my hopes, and in my griefs to grieve ; 
 Yet love is fellow-service, I believe.' 
 
 ' Yet in the eye of life's all- seeing sun 
 We shall behold a something we have done. 
 Shall of the work together we have v/rought, 
 Beyond our aspiration and our thought. 
 Some not unworthy issue yet receive ; 
 For love is fellow-service I believe.'
 
 MARI MAGNO. 287 
 
 The tale, we said, instructive was, but short ; 
 Could he not give another of the sort ? 
 He feared his second might his first repeat, 
 ' And Aristotle teaches, change is sweet ; 
 My wiser friend, who knows for what we live, 
 And what should seek, will his correction give.' 
 
 We all made thanks. 'My tale were quickly told.' 
 The other said, ' but the turned heavens behold; 
 The night two watches of the night is old, 
 The sinking stars then* suasions urge for sleep, 
 My story for to-morrow night will keep.' 
 
 The evening after, when the day was stilled, 
 Has promise thus the clergyman fulfilled.
 
 288 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S TALE. 
 
 Edward and Jane a married couple were, 
 And fonder she of him or he of her 
 Was hard to say; their wedlock had begun 
 When in one year they both were twenty-one ; 
 And friends, who would not sanction, left them free. 
 He gentle-born, nor his inferior she, 
 And neither rich ; to the newly -wedded boy, 
 A great Insurance OiEce found employ. 
 Strong in their loves and hopes, with joy they took 
 This narrow lot and the world's altered look ; 
 Beyond their home they nothing sought nor craved, 
 And even from the narrow income saved ; 
 Their busy days for no ennui had place. 
 Neither grew weary of the other's face. 
 Nine happy years had ci'owned theii- maiTied state 
 With children, one a little girl of eight ; 
 With nine industrious years his income grew, 
 With his employers rose his favour too ; 
 Nine years comj^lete had passed when something ailed, 
 Friends and the doctors said his health had failed. 
 He must recruit, or worse would come to pass ; 
 And though to rest was hard for him, alas ! 
 Three months of leave he found he could obtain, 
 And go, they said, get well and work again. 
 Just at this juncture of their married life, 
 Her mother, sickening, begged to have his wife. 
 Her house among the hills in Surrey stood. 
 And to be there, said Jane, would do the children good.
 
 MART MAGNO. 28& 
 
 They let their house, and with the children she 
 Went to her mother, he beyond the sea ; 
 Far to the south his orders were to go. 
 A watering-place, whose name we need not know, 
 For climate and for change of scene was best : 
 There he was bid, laborious task, to rest. 
 
 A dismal thing in foreign lands to roam 
 To one accustomed to an English home. 
 Dismal yet more, in health if feeble grown, 
 To live a boarder, helpless and alone 
 In foreign town, and worse yet worse is made, 
 If 'tis a town of pleasure and parade. 
 Dispiriting the public walks and seats, 
 The alien faces that an alien meets ; 
 Drearily every day this old routine repeats. 
 
 Yet here this alien prospered, change of air 
 Or change of scene did more than tenderest care ; 
 Three weeks were scarce completed, to his home. 
 He wrote to say, he thought he now could come. 
 His usual work was sure he could resume. 
 And something said about the place's gloom. 
 And how he loathed idling time away. 
 O, but they wrote, his wife and all, to say 
 He must not think of it, 'twas quite too quick ; 
 Let was their house, her mother still was sick, 
 Three months were given, and three he ought to take ; 
 For his, and hers, and for his children's sake. 
 
 He wrote again, 'twas weariness to wait, 
 This doing nothing was a thing to hate ; 
 He'd cast his nine laborious years away, 
 And was as fresh as on his wedding-day; 
 At last he yielded, feared he must obey. 
 
 And now, his health repaired, his spirits giown 
 Less feeble, less he cared to live alone. 
 u
 
 290 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 'Twas easier now to face the crowded shore, 
 And table d'hote less tedious than before; 
 His ancient silence sometimes he would break. 
 And the mute Englishman was heard to speak. 
 His youthful colour soon, his youthful air 
 Came back ; amongst the crowd of idlers there, 
 With whom good looks entitle to good name, 
 For his good looks he gained a sort of fixme, 
 People would watch him as he went and came. 
 
 Explain the tragic mystery who can, 
 Something there is, we know not what, in man, 
 With all established happiness at strife, 
 And bent on revolution in his life. 
 Explain the plan of Providence who dare. 
 And tell us wherefore in this world there are 
 Beings who seem for this alone to live, 
 Temptation to another soul to give. 
 A beauteous woman at the table d'hote, 
 To try this English heart, at least to note 
 This English countenance, conceived the whim. 
 She sat exactly opposite to him. 
 Ere long he noticed "with a vague surprise 
 How every day on him she bent her eyes ; 
 Soft and inquiring now they looked, and then 
 Wholly ^^-ithdrawn, unnoticed came again ; 
 His shrunk aside : and yet there came a day, 
 Alas ! they did not wholly turn away. 
 So beautiful her beauty was, so strange. 
 And to his northern feeling such a change ; 
 Her throat and neck Junonian in their grace ; 
 The blood just mantled in her southern face : 
 Dark hail', dark eyes ; and all the arts she had 
 With which some di-eadful power adorns the bad,- 
 Bad women in their youth, — and young was she, 
 Twenty perhaps, at the utmost twenty-three, —
 
 MARI MAGNO. 291 
 
 And timid seemed, and innocent of ill ; — 
 Her feelings went and came without her will. 
 
 You ^vill not wish minutely to know all 
 His efforts in the prospect of the fall. 
 He oscillated to and fro, he took 
 High courage oft, temptation from him shook, 
 Compelled himself to virtuous thoughts and just, 
 And as it were in ashes and in dust 
 Abhorred his thought. But living thus alone. 
 Of solitary tedium weary grown ; 
 From sweet society so long debarred, 
 And fearing in his judgment to be hard 
 On her — that he was sometimes off his guard 
 What wonder ? She relentless still pursued 
 Unmarked, and tracked him in his solitude. 
 And not in vain, alas ! 
 
 The days went by and found him in the snare. 
 But soon a letter full of tenderest care 
 Came from his wife, the little davighter too 
 In a large hand — the exercise was new — 
 To her papa her love and kisses sent. 
 Into his very heart and soul it went. 
 Forth on the high and dusty road he sought 
 Some issue for the vortex of his thought. 
 Returned, packed up his things, and ere the day 
 Descended, was a hundred miles away. 
 
 There are, I kaow of course, who lightly treat 
 Such slips ; we stumble, we regain ovu- feet; 
 What can we do 1 they say, but hasten on 
 And disregard it as a thing that's gone. 
 Many there are who in a case like this 
 Would calm re-seek their sweet domestic bliss ; 
 Accept unshamed the wifely tender kiss. 
 And lift their little children on their knees. 
 And take their kisses too ; with hearts at ease 
 u2
 
 292 MAEl MAGNO. 
 
 Will read the household prayers, — to church will go, 
 And sacrament, — nor care if people know. 
 Such men — so minded — do exist, God knows, 
 And, God he thanked, this was not one of those. 
 
 Late in the night, at a provincial town 
 In France, a passing traveller was put down ; 
 Haggard he looked, his hair was turning grey, 
 His hair, his clothes, were much in disarray : 
 In a bedchamber here one day he stayed, 
 Wrote letters, posted them, his reckoning paid 
 And w-ent. 'Twas Edward rushing from his fall ; 
 Here to his vdie he Avrote and told her all. 
 Forgiveness — yes, perhaps she might forgive — 
 For her, and for the cliildren, he must live 
 At any rate ; but their old home to share 
 As yet was something that he could not hem: 
 She with her mother still her home should make, 
 A lodging near the office he should take ; 
 And once a quarter he would bring his pay, 
 And he would see her on the quarter-day, 
 But her alone ; e'en this would dreadful be. 
 The children 'twas not possible to see. 
 
 Back to the office at this early day 
 To see him come, old-looking thus and grey, 
 His comi'ades wondered, wondered too to see 
 How dire a passion for his work had he, 
 How in a garret too he lived alone; 
 So cold a husband, cold a father gi'own. 
 
 In a green lane beside her mother's home. 
 Where in old days they had been used to roam, 
 His wife had met him on the appointed day. 
 Fell on his neck, said all that love could say, 
 And wept ; he put the loving arms away. 
 At dusk they met, for so was his desire ; 
 She felt his cheeks and forehead all on fire;
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 293 
 
 The kisses which she gave he could not brook ; 
 Once in her face he gave a sidelong look, 
 Said, but for them he wished that he were dead, 
 And put the money in her hand and fled. 
 
 Sometimes in easy and familiar tone. 
 Of sins resembling more or less his own 
 He heard his comrades in the office speak, 
 And felt the colour tingling in his cheek; 
 Lightly they spoke as of a thing of nought ; 
 He of their judgment ne'er so much as 'thought. 
 
 I know not, in his solitary pains, 
 Whether he seemed to feel as in his veins 
 The moral mischief circulating still, 
 Racked with the torture of the double will ; 
 And like some frontier-land where armies wage 
 The mighty wars, engage and yet engage 
 All through the summer in the fierce campaign ; 
 March, counter-march, gain, lose, and yet regain ; 
 With battle reeks the desolated plain ; 
 So felt his nature yielded to the strife 
 Of the contending good and ill of life. 
 
 But a whole year this penance he endured, 
 Nor even then would think that he was cured. 
 Once in a quarter, in the country lane. 
 He met his wife and paid his quarter's gain; 
 To bring the children she besought in vara. 
 
 He has a life small happiness that gives. 
 Who friendless in a London lodging lives, 
 Dines in a dingy chop-hovise, and returns 
 To a lone room while all within him yearns 
 For sympathy, and his whole nature burns 
 With a fierce thirst for some one, — is there none ? 
 To expend his human tenderness upon. 
 So blank, and hard, and stony is the way 
 To walk I wonder not men go astray.
 
 294 MARI ItlAGXO. 
 
 Edward, whom still a sense that never slept 
 On the strict path undeviating kept, 
 One winter-evening found himself pm-sued 
 Amidst the dusky thronging multitude. 
 Quickly he walked, but strangely swift was she, 
 And pertinacious, and would make him see. 
 He saw at last, and recognising slow, 
 Discovered in this hapless thing of woe 
 The occasion of his shame twelve wretched months ago. 
 She gAily laughed, she cried, and sought his hand. 
 And spoke sweet phrases of her native land ; 
 Exiled, she said, her lovely home had left, 
 Not to forsake a friend of all but her bereft ; 
 Exiled, she cried, for liberty, for love. 
 She was ; still limpid eyes she turned above. 
 So beauteous once, and now such misery in. 
 Pity had all but softened him to sin ; 
 But while she talked, and mldly laughed, and cried, 
 And plucked the hand which sadly he denied, 
 A stranger came and swept her from his side. 
 
 He watched them in the gas-lit darkness go, 
 And a voice said within him. Even so, 
 So midst the gloomy mansions where they dwell 
 The lost souls walk the flaming streets of hell ! 
 The lamps appeared to fling a baleful glare, 
 A brazen heat was heavy in the au^; 
 And it was hell, and he some unblest wanderer there. 
 
 For a long hour he stayed the streets to roam. 
 Late gathering sense, he gained his garret home ; 
 There found a telegraph that bade him come 
 Straight to the country, where his daughter, still 
 His darling child, lay dangerously ill. 
 The doctor would he bring ? Away he went 
 And found the doctor; to the office sent 
 A letter, asking leave, and went again,
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 295 
 
 And with a wild confusion in his brain, 
 Joining the doctor caught the latest train. 
 The train swift whirled them from the city liglit 
 Into the shadows of the natural night. 
 
 'Twas silent starry midnight on the down, 
 Silent and chill, when they, straight come from town^ 
 Leaving the station, walked a mile to gain 
 The lonely house amid the hills Avhere Jane, 
 Her mother, and her children should be found. 
 "Waked by their entrance, but of sleep unsound, 
 The child not yet her altered father knew; 
 Yet talked of her papa in her delirium too. 
 Danger there was, yet hope thei'e was ; and he. 
 To attend the crisis, and the changes see, 
 And take the steps, at hand should surely be. 
 
 Said Jane the following day, ' Edward, you know. 
 Over and over I have told you so, 
 As in a better world I seek to live. 
 As I desire forgiveness, I forgive. 
 Forgiveness does not feel the word to say, — • 
 As I believe in One who takes away 
 Our sin and gives us righteousness instead, — 
 You to this sin, I do believe, are dead. 
 'Twas I, you know, who let you leave your home 
 And bade you stay when you so wished to come ; 
 My fault was that : I've told you so before. 
 And vainly told; but now 'tis something more. 
 Say, is it right, without a single friend, 
 Without advice, to leave me to attend 
 Children and mother both 1 Indeed I've tliought 
 Through want of you the child her fever caught. 
 Chances of mischief come with every hour. 
 It is not in a single woman's power 
 Alone, and ever haunted more or less 
 With anxious thoughts of you and your distress, —
 
 296 MAEI MAGK^O. 
 
 'Tis not indeed, I'm sure of it, in me, — ■ 
 All things with perfect judgment to foresee. 
 This weight has grown too heavy to endure; 
 And you, I tell you now, and I am sure, 
 Neglect your duty both to God and man 
 Persisting thus in your unnatural plan. 
 This feeling you must conquer, for you can. 
 And after all, you know we are but dust. 
 What are we, in ourselves that we should trust 1 ' 
 
 He scarcely answered her ; but he obtained 
 A longer leave, and quietly remained. 
 Slowly the child recovered, long was ill. 
 Long delicate, and he must watch her still ; 
 To give up seeing her he could not bear, 
 To leave her less attended, did not dare. 
 The child recovered slowly, slowly too 
 Recovered he, and more familiar drew 
 Home's happy breath; and apprehension o'er, 
 Their former life he yielded to restore. 
 And to his mournful garret went no more. 
 
 Midnight was dim and hazy ovei'head 
 
 "When the tale ended and we turned to bed. 
 
 On the companion-way, descending slow, 
 
 The artillery captain, as we went below. 
 
 Said to the lawyer, life could not be meant 
 
 To be so altogether innocent. 
 
 What did the atonement show 1 he, for the rest. 
 
 Could not, he thought, have written and confessed. 
 
 Weakness it was, and adding crime to crime 
 
 To leave his family that length of time, 
 
 The lawyer said ; the American was sure 
 
 Each nature knows instinctivelv its cure.
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 297 
 
 Midnight was in the cabin still and dead, 
 Our fellow-passengers were all in bed, 
 AVe followed them, and nothing further spoke. 
 Out of the sweetest of my sleep I woke 
 At two, and felt we stopped ; amid a dream 
 Of England knew the letting-oif of steam 
 And rose. 'Twas fog, and were we off Cape llaco '? 
 The captain would be certain of his place. 
 Wild in white vapour flew away the force. 
 And self-arrested was the eager course 
 That had not ceased before. But shortly now 
 Cape Race was made to starboard on the bow. 
 The paddles plied. I slept. The following night 
 In the mid seas we saw a quay and light. 
 And peered through mist into an unseen to^vn, 
 And on scarce-seeming land set one companion down. 
 And went. With morning and a shining sun, 
 Under the bright New Brunswick coast we run. 
 And visible discern to every eye 
 Rocks, pines, and little ports, and passing by 
 The boats and coasting craft. When sunk the night, 
 Early now sunk, the northern streamers bright 
 Floated and flashed, the clifis and clouds behind, 
 With phosphorus the billows all were lined. 
 
 That evening, while the arctic streamers bright 
 Rolled from the clouds in waves of airy light. 
 The lawyer said, ' I laid by for to-night 
 A story that I would not tell before ; 
 For the last time, a confidential four. 
 We meet. Receive in your elected ears 
 A tale of human sufiering and tears.'
 
 298 MARI MAGXO. 
 
 CHRISTIAN. 
 
 The Laivyer's Second Tale. 
 
 A Highland inn among the western hills, 
 A single parlour, single bed that fills 
 With fisher or with tourist, as may be ; 
 A waiting-maid, as fair as you can see. 
 With hazel eyes, and frequent blushing face, 
 And ample brow, and with a rustic grace 
 In all her easy quiet motions seen, 
 Large of her age, which haply is nineteen. 
 Christian her name, in full a pleasant name. 
 Christian and Christie scarcely seem the same ; — 
 A college fellow, who has sent away 
 The pupils he has taught for many a day. 
 And comes for fishing and for solitude, 
 Perhaps a little pensive in his mood, 
 An aspiration and a thought have failed. 
 Where he had hoped, another has prevailed. 
 But to the joys of hill and stream alive. 
 And in his boyhood yet, at twenty-five. 
 
 A merry dance, that made young people meet. 
 And set them moving, both with hands and feet ; 
 A dance in which he danced, and nearer knew 
 The soft brown eyes, and found them tender too. 
 A dance that lit in two young hearts the fire. 
 The low soft flame, of loving sweet desire. 
 And made him feel that he could feel again ; — 
 The preface this, what follows to explain. 
 
 That night he kissed, he held her in his arms, 
 And felt the subtle virtue of her charms ;
 
 MAKI JIAGXO. 299 
 
 Nor less bewildered on the following day, 
 
 He kissed, he found excuse near her to stay, — 
 
 Was it not love 1 And yet the truth to speak, 
 
 Playing the fool for ha2)ly half a week, 
 
 He yet had fled, so strong within him dwelt 
 
 The horror of the sin, and such he felt 
 
 The miseries to the woman that ensue. 
 
 He wearied long his brain Avith reasonings fine, 
 
 But when at evening dusk he came to dine, 
 
 In linsey petticoat and jacket blue 
 
 She stood, so radiant and so modest too, 
 
 All into air his strong conclusions flew. 
 
 Now should he go. But dim and drizzling too, 
 
 For a night march, to-night will hardly do, 
 
 A march of sixteen weary miles of way. 
 
 No, by the chances which our lives obey. 
 
 No, by the heavens and this sweet face he'll stay. 
 
 A week he stayed, and still was loth to go. 
 But she grew anxious and would have it so. 
 Her time of service shortly would be o'er. 
 And she would leave; her mistress knew before. 
 Where would she go 1 To Glasgow, if she could ; 
 Her father's sister would be kind and good ; 
 An only child she was, an orphan left, 
 Of all her kindred, save of this, bereft. 
 Said he, ' Your guide to Glasgow let me be, 
 You little know, you have not tried the sea ; 
 Say, at the ferry when are we to meet 1 
 Thither, I guess, you travel on your feet.' 
 She would bo there on Tuesday next at three ; 
 'O dear, how glad and thankful she would be; 
 But don't,' she said, ' be troubled much for me.' 
 
 Punctual they met, a second class he took. 
 More naturally to her wants to look,
 
 300 MAB,1 MAGNO. 
 
 And from her side was seldom far away. 
 
 So quiet, so indifferent yet, were they. 
 
 As fellow-servants travelling south they seemed, 
 
 And no one of a love-relation dreamed. 
 
 At Oban, where the stormy darkness fell. 
 
 He got two chambers in a cheap hotel. 
 
 At Oban of discomfort one is sure, 
 
 Little the difference whether rich or poor. 
 
 Around the Mull the passage now to make, 
 They go abroad, and separate tickets take, 
 Fii'st-class for him, and second-class for her. 
 No other first-class passengers there were, 
 And with the captain walking soon alone. 
 This Highland girl, he said, to him was known. 
 He had engaged to take her to her kin ; 
 Could she be put the ladies' cabin in 1 
 The difference gladly he himself would pay. 
 The weather seemed but menacing to-day. 
 She ne'er had travelled from her home before, 
 He wished to be at hand to hear about her more. 
 
 Cvirious it seemed, but he had such a tone. 
 And kept at first so carefully alone, 
 And she so quiet was, and so discreet. 
 So heedful, ne'er to seek him or to meet, 
 The first small wonder quickly passed away. 
 
 And so from Oban's little land-locked bay 
 Forth out to Jura — Jura pictured high 
 With lofty peaks against the western sky, 
 Jvira, that far o'erlooks the Atlantic seas, 
 The loftiest of the Southern Hebrides. 
 Through the main sea to Jurf • — when we I'each 
 Jura, we tui'n to leftward to the breach, 
 And southward strain the narrow channel through, 
 And Colonsay we pass and Islay too ; 
 Cantire is on the left, and all the day 
 A dull dead calm upon the waters lay.
 
 MAlil MAGXO. 301 
 
 Sitting below, after some length of while, 
 He sought her, and the tedium to beguile, 
 He ventured some experiments to make. 
 The measvTre of her intellect to take. 
 Upon the cabin table chanced to lie 
 A book of popular astronomy ; 
 In this he tried her, and discoursed away 
 Of Winter, Summer, and of Night and Day. 
 Still to the task a reasoning power she brought, 
 And followed, slowly followed with the thought ; 
 How beautiful it was to see the stir 
 Of natural wonder waking thus in her ; 
 But loth was he to set on books to pore 
 An intellect so charming in the ore. 
 
 And she, perhaps, had comprehended soon 
 Even the nodes, so puzzling, of the moon ; 
 But nearing now the Mull they met the gale 
 Pdght in their teeth : and should the fuel fail 1 
 Thinking of her, he grew a little pale, 
 But bravely she the terrors, miseries, took : 
 And met him with a sweet courageous look : 
 Once, at the worst, unto his side she drew. 
 And said a little tremulously too, 
 ' If we must die, please let me come to you.' 
 
 I know not by what change of wind or tide, 
 Heading the Mull, they gained the eastern side, 
 But stiller now, and sunny e'en it grew ; 
 Arran's high peaks unmantled to the view; 
 While to the north, far seen from left to right. 
 The Highland range, extended snowy white. 
 
 Now in the Clyde, he asked, what would be thought, 
 In Glasgow, of the company she brought : 
 * You know,' he said, ' how I desire to stay; 
 We've played at strangers for so long a day, 
 But for a while I yet would go away.' . ^C^t 
 

 
 302 MARI MAGNO. 
 
 She said, no, indeed they must not part. 
 Her father's sister had a kindly heart. 
 * I'll tell her all, and O, when you she sees, 
 I think she'll not be difficult to please.' 
 Landed at Glasgow, quickly they espied 
 Macfarlane, grocer, V)y the river side : 
 To greet her niece the woman joyful ran, 
 But looked with wonder on the tall young man. 
 Into the house the women went and talked, 
 He with the grocer in the doorway walked. 
 He told him he was looking for a set 
 Of lodgings : had he any he could let 1 
 
 The man was called to council with his wife ; 
 They took the thing as what will be in life. 
 Half in a kind, half in a worldly way ; 
 They said, the lassie might play out her play. 
 The gentleman should have the second floor, 
 At thirty shillings, for a week or more. 
 
 Some days in this obscvuity he stayed, 
 Happy with her, and some inquiry made 
 (For friends he found) and did his best to see, 
 What hope of getting pupils there would be. 
 This must he do, 'twas evident, 'twas clear. 
 Marry and seek a humble maintenance here. 
 Himself he had a hundred pounds a year. 
 To this plain business he would bend his life, 
 And find his joy in children and in wife, 
 A wife so good, so tender, and so true, 
 Mother to be of glorious children too. 
 
 Half to excuse his present lawless way. 
 He to the grocer happened once to say 
 Marriage would cost him more than others dear. 
 Cost him, indeed, three hundred pounds a-year. 
 *'Deed,' said the man, 'a, heavy price, no doubt, 
 For a bit form that one can do without.'
 
 MARl MAGNO. 303 
 
 And asked some questions, pertinent and plain, 
 Exacter information to obtain ; 
 He took a little trouble to explain. 
 
 The College Audit now, to last at least 
 Three weeks, ere ending with the College Feast, 
 He must attend, a tedious, dull affair, 
 But he, as j vmior Bursar, must be there. 
 Three weeks, however, quickly would be fled, 
 And then he'd come, — he didn't say to wed. 
 
 With plans of which he nothing yet would say, 
 Preoccupied vipon the parting day. 
 He seemed a little absent and distrait ; 
 But she, as knowing nothing was amiss. 
 Gave him her fondest smile, her sweetest kiss, 
 
 A fortnight after, or a little more, 
 As at the Audit, weary of the bore, 
 He sat, and of his future prospects thought, 
 A letter in an unknown hand was brought. 
 'Twas from Macfarlane, and to let him know 
 To South Australia they proposed to go. 
 ' Rich friends we have, who have advised us thus, 
 Occasion ofiers suitable for us ; 
 Christie we take ; whate'er she find of new. 
 She'll ne'er forget the joy she's had with you; 
 'Tis an expensive pilgrimage to make, 
 You'll like to send a trifle for her sake.' 
 Nothing he said of when the ship would saih 
 
 That very night, by swift-returning mail. 
 Ten pounds he sent, for what he did not know ; 
 And ' In no case,' he said, ' let Christian go.' 
 He in three days would come, and for his life 
 Would claim her and declare her as his wife. 
 
 Swift the night-mail conveyed his missive on ; 
 He followed in three days, and found theoi 
 cone.
 
 304 MARI MAGXO. 
 
 All three had sailed : he looked as though he dreamedj 
 The money-order had been cashed, it seemed. 
 
 The Clergyman, ' This story is mere pain,' 
 Exclaimed, ' for if the women don't sustain 
 The moral standard, all we do is vain.' 
 
 ' But what we want,' the Yankee said, ' to know, 
 Is if the girl went ■willingly or no. 
 Sufficient motive though one does not see, 
 'Tis clear the grocer used some trickery.' 
 
 He judged himself, so strong the clinging in 
 This kind of people is to kith and kin ; 
 For if they went and she remained behind. 
 No one she had, if him she failed to find. 
 Alas, this lawless loving was the cause, 
 She did not dare to think how dear she was. 
 Justly his guilty tardiness he curst, 
 He should have owned her when he left her fii'st. 
 And something added how upon the sea, 
 She perilled, too, a life that was to be ; 
 A child that, born in far Australia, there 
 Would have no father and no father's care. 
 So to the South a lonely man returned, 
 For other scenes and busier life he burned, — 
 College he left and settled soon in town, 
 Wrote in the journals, gained a swift renown. 
 Soon into high society he came, 
 And still where'er he went outdid his fame. 
 All the more liked and more esteemed, the less 
 He seemed to make an object of success. 
 
 An active literary life he spent. 
 Towards lofty points of public pi-actice bent, 
 Was never man so carefully who read, 
 Wliose plans so well were fashioned in his head, 
 Nor one who truths so luminously said.
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 305 
 
 Some years in various labours thus he passed, 
 A spotless course maintaining to the last. 
 Twice upon Government Commissions served 
 With honour ; place, which he declined, deserved. 
 He married then, — a marriage fit and good, 
 That kept him where his work was understood ; 
 A widow, wealthy, and of noble blood, 
 Mr. and Lady Mary are they styled. 
 One grief is theirs — to be without a child. 
 
 I did not tell you how he went before 
 To South Australia, vainly to explore. 
 The ship had come to Adelaide, no doubt ; 
 "Watching the papers he had made it out, 
 But of themselves, in country or in town, 
 Nothing discovered, travelling up and down. 
 Only an entry of uncertain sound. 
 In an imperfect register he found. 
 His son, he thought, but could not prove it ti'ue 
 The surname, of the girl it chanced he never knew 
 But this uneasy feeling gathered strength 
 As years advanced, and it became at length 
 His secret tortui-e and his secret joy 
 To think about his lost Australian boy. 
 Somewhere in wild colonial lands has grown 
 A child that is his true and very own. 
 This strong parental passion fills his mind. 
 To all the dvibious chances makes him blind. 
 Still he will seek, and still he hojjes to find. 
 Again will go. 
 
 Said I, ' O let him stay. 
 And in a London drawing-room some day — 
 Rings on her fingers, brilliants in her hair. 
 The lady of the latest millionaire — 
 She'll come, and with a gathering slow surprise 
 On Lady Mary's husband turn her eyes : 
 X
 
 306 MAKI MAGNO. 
 
 The soft brown eyes that in a formei- day 
 
 From his discretion lured him all astray. 
 
 At home, six bouncing girls, who more or less 
 
 Are learning English of a governess, 
 
 Six boisterous boys, as like as pear to pear ; 
 
 Only the eldest has a diflferent aii-.' 
 
 ' You jest,' he said, ' indeed it happened so.' 
 
 From a great party just about to go, 
 
 He saw, he knew, and ere she saw him, said 
 
 Swift to his wife, as for the door he made, 
 
 ' My Highland bride ! to escape a scene I go, 
 
 Stay, find her out — great God ! — and let me know.' 
 
 The Lady Mary turned to scrutinise 
 The lovely brow, the beautiful brown eyes. 
 One moment, then performed her perfect part. 
 And did her spiriting with simplest art, 
 Was introduced, her former friends had known, 
 Say, might she call to-morrow afternoon 
 At three 1 yes ! At three she made her call, 
 And told her who she was and told her all. 
 Her lady manners all she laid aside ; 
 Like women the two women kissed and cried. 
 Half overwhelmed sat Christian by her side. 
 While she, ' You know he never knew the day 
 When you would sail, but he believed you'd stay 
 Because he wrote — you never knew, you say, — 
 Wrote that in three days' time, they need not fear, 
 He'd come and then would many you, my dear. 
 You never knew 1 And he had planned to live 
 At Glasgow, lessons had arranged to give. 
 Alas, then to AustraHa he went out. 
 All through the land to find you sought about, 
 And found a trace, which though it left a doubt, 
 Sufficed to make it still his grief, his joy. 
 To think he had a child, a living boy,
 
 MAKI MAGNO. 307 
 
 Whom you, my love ' 
 
 ' His cliilcl is six foot high, 
 I've kept him as the apple of my eye,' 
 Cried she, ' he's riding, or you'd see him here. 
 joy, that he at last should see his father dear! 
 As soon as he comes in I'll tell him all, 
 And on his father he shall go and call.' 
 
 ' And you,' she said, ' my husband will you see 1 ' 
 
 * no, it is not possible for me. 
 The boy I'll send this very afternoon. 
 dear, I know he cannot go too soon; 
 And something I must write, to write will do.' 
 So they embraced and sadly bade adieu. 
 
 The boy came in, his father went and saw ! 
 We will not wait this interview to draw; 
 Ere long returned, and to his mother ran : 
 His father was a wonderful fine man. 
 He said, and looked at her ; the Lady, too. 
 Had done whatever it was kind to do. 
 He loved his mother more than he could say, 
 But if she wished, he'd with his father stay. 
 A little change she noticed in his face. 
 E'en now the father's influence she could trace ; 
 From her the slight, sHght severance had begun, 
 But simply she rejoiced that it was done. 
 She smiled and kissed her boy, and ' Long ago, 
 When I was young, I loved your father so. 
 Together now we had been living, too. 
 Only the ship went sooner than he knew. 
 In loving him you will be loving me : 
 Father and mother are as one you see.' 
 
 Her letter caught him on the following day 
 As to the club he started on his way. 
 x2
 
 308 MAEI MAGNO. 
 
 From her he guessed, the hand indeed was new ; 
 Back to his room he went and read it through. 
 
 ' I know not how to write and dare not see ; 
 But it will take a load of grief from me — 
 ! what a load — that you at last should know 
 The way in which I was compelled to go. 
 Wretched, I know, and yet it seems 'twas more 
 Cruel and wretched than I knew before ; 
 So many years to think how on your day 
 Joyful you'd come, and find me flown away. 
 What would you think of me, what would you say ? 
 O love, this little let me call you so ; 
 What other name to use I do not know 
 O let me think that by your side I sit, 
 And tell it you, and weep a little bit, 
 And you too weep v/ith me, for hearing it. 
 Alone so long I've borne this dreadful weight ; 
 Such grief, at times it almost turned to hate. 
 O let me think you sit and listening long, 
 Comfort me still, and say I wasn't ^vrong. 
 And pity me, and far, far hence again 
 Dismiss, if haply any yet remain, 
 Hard thoughts of me that in your heart have lain. 
 O love ! to hear your voice I dare not go ; 
 But let me trust that you will judge me so. 
 
 ' I think no sooner were you gone away, 
 My aunt began to tell me of some pay, 
 More than three hundred pounds a-year 'twould be. 
 Which you, she said, would lose by marrying me. 
 Was this a thing a man of sense would dol 
 Was I a fool, to look for it from you 1 
 You were a handsome gentleman and kind, 
 And to do right were every way inclined. 
 But to this truth I must submit my mind. 
 You would not marry. " Speak, and tell me true,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 309 
 
 Say, has he ever said one word to yon 
 
 That meant as mnch 1 " O, love, I knew you would, 
 
 I've read it in your eyes so kind and good, 
 
 Although you did not speak I understood. 
 
 Though for myself, indeed, I sought it not. 
 
 It seemed so high, so iindeserved a lot. 
 
 But for the child, when it should come, I knew — 
 
 0, I was certain — what you meant to do. 
 
 She said, " We quit the land, will it be right 
 
 Or kind to leave you for a single night. 
 
 Just on the chance that he will come down here, 
 
 And sacrifice three hundred pounds a-year. 
 
 And all his hopes and prospects fling away. 
 
 And has already had his will, as one may say 1 
 
 Go you with us, and find beyond the seas, 
 
 Men by the score to choose from, if you please." 
 
 I said my will and duty was to stay, 
 
 Would they not help me to some decent way 
 
 To wait, and surely near was now the day 1 
 
 Quite they refused ; had they to let you know 
 
 Written, I asked, to say we were to go 1 
 
 They told me yes ; they showed a letter, too, 
 
 Post-ofiice order that had come from you. 
 
 Alas, I could not read or write, they knew. 
 
 I think they meant me, though they did not say. 
 
 To think you wanted me to go away; 
 
 O, love, I'm thankful nothing of the kind 
 
 Ever so much as came into my mind. 
 
 ' To-morrow was the day that would not fail ; 
 For Adelaide the vessel was to sail. 
 All night I hoped some dreadful wind would rise, 
 And lift the seas and rend the very skies. 
 All night I lay and listened hard for you. 
 Twice to the door I went, the bolt I drew, 
 And called to you ; scarce what I did I knew.
 
 310 MARI MAGXO. 
 
 ' Morning gi'ew light, the house was emptied clear 
 The ship would go, the boat was lying near. 
 They had my money, how was I to stay ] 
 Who could I go to, when they went away 1 
 Out iu the streets I could not lie, you know. 
 
 dear, but it was terrible to go. 
 
 Yet, yet I looked ; I do not know what passed, 
 
 1 think they took and carried me at last. 
 Twelve hours I lay, and sobbed in my distress ; 
 But in the night, let be this idleness, 
 
 I said, I'll bear it for my baby's sake. 
 Lest of my going mischief it should take. 
 Advice will seek, and every caution use ; 
 My love I've lost — his child I must not lose. 
 
 ' How oft I thought, when sailing on the seas, 
 Of our dear journey through the Hebrides, 
 When you the kindest were and best of men : 
 0, love, I did not love you right till then. 
 O, and myself how willingly I blamed, 
 So simple who had been, and was ashamed, 
 So mindful only of the present joy. 
 When you had anxious cares your busy mind to employ. 
 Ah, well, I said, but now at least he's free, 
 He will not have to lower himself for me. 
 He will not lose three hundred pounds a-year. 
 In many ways my love has cost him dear. 
 
 ' Upon the passage, great was my delight, 
 A lady taught me how to x-ead and write. 
 She saw me much, and fond of me she grew, 
 Only I durst not talk to her of you. 
 
 ' We had a quiet time upon the seas, 
 And reached our port of Adelaide with ease. 
 At Adelaide my lovely baby came. 
 Philip, he took his father's Christian name, 
 And my poor maiden surname, to my shame.
 
 MAEI MAGNO. 311 
 
 O, but I little cared, I loved him so, 
 
 'Twas such a joy to watch and see him grow. 
 
 At Adelaide we made no length of stay ; 
 
 Our friends to Melbourne just had gone away. 
 
 We followed shortly where they led before. 
 
 To Melbourne went, and flourished more and more. 
 
 My aunt and uncle both are buried there ; 
 
 I closed their eyes, and I was left their heii'. 
 
 They meant me well, I loved them for their care. 
 
 ' Ten years ago I married Robert ; dear 
 And well he loved, and waited many a year. 
 Selfish it seemed to turn from one so true, 
 And I of course was desperate of you. 
 I've borne him children six ; we've left behind 
 Three little ones, whom soon I hope to find. 
 To my dear boy he ever has been kind. 
 
 * Next week we sail, and I should be so glad, 
 Only to leave my boy will make me sad. 
 But yours he is by right — the grief I'll bear, 
 And at his age, more easy he can spare. 
 Perhaps, a mother's than a father's care. 
 Indeed I think him like his father, too 
 He will be happiei-, probably, with you. 
 'Tis best, I know, nor will he quite forget. 
 Some day he'll come perhaps and see his mother yet. 
 
 ' O heaven ! farewell — perhaps I've been to blame 
 To write as if it all were still the same. 
 Farewell, write not. — I will not seek to know 
 Whether you ever think of me or no.' 
 
 O love, love, love, too late ! the tears fell down. 
 He dried them uj) — and slowly walked to town.
 
 312 MAEI MAGNO. 
 
 To bed with busy thoughts ; the following day 
 Bore us expectant into Boston Bay ; 
 With dome and steeple on the yellow skies, 
 Upon the left we watched with curious eyes 
 The Piuitan great Mother City rise. 
 Among the islets, winding in and round, 
 The great ship moved to her appointed ground. 
 We bade adieu, shook hands and went ashore : 
 I and my friend have seen our friends no more.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
 
 GOME, POET, COME. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 A thousand labourers ply their task, 
 And what it tends to scarcely ask, 
 And trembling thinkers on the brink 
 Shiver, and know not how to think. 
 To tell the purport of their pain. 
 And what our silly joys contain ; 
 In lasting lineaments portray 
 The substance of the shadowy day ; 
 Our real and inner deeds rehearse, 
 And make our meaning clear in verse : 
 Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
 We do the work or feel the pain, 
 And gather up the seeming gain, 
 Unless before the end thou come 
 To take, ere they are lost, their sum. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 
 To give an utterance to the dumb, 
 
 And make vain babblers silent, come ; 
 
 A thousand dupes point here and there. 
 
 Bewildered by the show and glare ; 
 
 And wise men half have learned to doubt 
 
 Whether we are not best without. 
 
 Gome, Poet ; both but wait to see 
 
 Their error proved to them in thee. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 
 In vain I seem to call. And yet 
 
 Think not the living times forget.
 
 316 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Ages of heroes foiighb and fell 
 That Homer in the end might tell ; 
 O'er grovelling generations past 
 Upstood the Doric fane at last ; 
 And countless hearts on countless years 
 Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, 
 Rude laughter and unmeaning tears ; 
 Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
 The pure perfection of her dome. 
 Others, I doubt not, if not we, 
 The issue of our toils shall see ; 
 Young children gather as their own 
 The harvest that the dead had sown, 
 The dead forgotten and unknown. 
 
 ITE BOMUM SATUBJE, VENIT HESPERUS. 
 
 The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palio), 
 The rainy clouds are filing fast below. 
 And wet will be the path, and wet shall we. 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 
 Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone, 
 
 Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on 1 
 
 My sweetheart wanders far away from me. 
 
 In foreign land or on a foreign sea. 
 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 
 The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), 
 And through the vale the rains go sweeping by ; 
 Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be 1 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
 
 MISCELLAN'EOUS POEMS. 817 
 
 Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they 
 O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie). 
 And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind 
 The pleasant huts and herds he left behind ? 
 And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see 
 The feeding kine, and doth he think of me. 
 My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be 1 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 The thunder bellows far from snow to snow 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), 
 And loud and louder roars the flood below. 
 Heigho ! but soon in shelter shall we be : 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 
 Or shall he find before his term be sped, 
 Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed 1 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palis.) 
 For weary is work, and weary day by day 
 To have your comfort miles on miles away. 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 
 Or may it be that I shall find my mate. 
 
 And he returning see himself too late ? 
 
 For work we must, and what we see, we see, 
 
 And God he knows, and what must be, must be, 
 
 When sweethearts wander far away from me. 
 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 
 
 The sky behind is brightening up anew 
 (Home, Rose, and home. Provence and La Palie), 
 The rain is ending, and our journey loo ; 
 Heigho ! aha ! for here at home we are : — 
 In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.
 
 318 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 A LONDON IDYLL. 
 
 On grass, on gravel, in the sun, 
 
 Or now beneath the shade, 
 They went, in pleasant Kensington, 
 
 A. prentice and a maid. 
 That'Sunday morning's April glow, 
 
 How should it not impart 
 A stir about the veins that flow 
 
 To feed the youthful heart. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, and years may bi-ing 
 
 The truth that is not bliss. 
 But will they bring another thing 
 
 That can compare with this ] 
 
 I read it in that arm she lays 
 
 So oft on his ; her mien. 
 Her step, her very gown betrays 
 
 (What in her eyes were seen) 
 That not in vain the young buds round, 
 
 The cawing birds above. 
 The air, the incense of the ground, 
 
 Are whispering, breathing love. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, &c. 
 
 To inclination, young and blind. 
 
 So perfect, as they lent, 
 By purest innocence confined 
 
 Unconscious free consent.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEJIS. 319 
 
 Persuasive power of vernal change, 
 
 On this, thine earliest day, 
 Canst thou have found in all thy range 
 
 One fitter type than they 1 
 
 Ah ! years may come, &c. 
 
 Th' high-titled cares of adult strife, 
 
 Which we our duties call. 
 Trades, arts, and politics of life. 
 
 Say, have they, after all, 
 One other object, end or use 
 
 Than that, for girl and boy, 
 The punctual earth may still produce 
 
 This golden flowei- of joy. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, &c. 
 
 O odours of new-bu.dding rose, 
 lily's chaste perfume, 
 
 fragrance that didst first unclose 
 The young Creation's bloom ! 
 
 Ye hang around me, while in sun 
 Anon and now in shade, 
 
 1 watched in pleasant Kensington 
 
 The prentice and the maid. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, and years may brinj; 
 
 The truth that is not bliss, 
 But will they bring another thing 
 
 That will compare with this?
 
 320 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 UBANUS.^ 
 
 When on the primal peaceful blank profound, 
 
 Which in its still unknowing silence holds 
 
 All knowledge, ever by withholding holds— 
 
 When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms), 
 
 In faint pulsations from the whitening East 
 
 Articulate voices first Avere felt to stir. 
 
 And the great child, in dreaming grown to man, 
 
 Losing his dream to piece it up began : 
 
 Then Plato in me said, 
 
 ' 'Tis but the figured ceiling overhead, 
 
 With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shine 
 
 In all the three dimensions, are endowed 
 
 With motion too by skill mechanical, 
 
 That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power, 
 
 Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceed 
 
 To higher entities, whereof in us 
 
 Copies are seen, existent they themselves 
 
 In the sole kingdom of the Mind and God. 
 
 Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God,' 
 
 By that supremer Word 
 
 O'ermastered, deafly heard 
 
 Were hauntings dim of old astrologies ; 
 
 Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip light 
 
 From modern ologistic fancyings mixed, 
 
 Of suns and stars, by hypothetic men 
 
 Of other frame than ours inhabited, 
 
 1 This thouii'ht is taken from a passage on astronomy in Plato's ' Re- 
 public,' in whicli the following sentence occurs, vii. 529, D : ' We must use 
 the fretwork of the sky as patterns, with a view to the study which aims at 
 these higher realities, just as if we chanced to meet with diagrams cunningly 
 drawn and devised by Dadalus or some other craftsman or p;iinter.'
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 321 
 
 Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge. 
 
 And was there atmosphere, or was there not 1 
 
 And without oxygen could life subsist? 
 
 And was the world originally mist 1 — 
 
 Talk they as talk they list, 
 
 I, in that ampler voice, 
 
 Unheeding, did rejoice. 
 
 SELENE. 
 
 My beloved, is it nothing 
 Though we meet not, neither can, 
 That I see thee, and thou me. 
 That we see, and see we see, 
 When I see I also feel thee ; 
 Is it nothing, my beloved ? 
 
 Thy luminous clear beauty 
 
 Brightens on me in my night, 
 
 I withdraw into my darkness 
 
 To allure thee into light. 
 
 About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay, 
 
 About me, deep into me, every lucid tender I'ay. 
 
 And thou, thou also feelest 
 
 When thou stealest 
 
 Shamefaced and half afraid 
 
 To the chamber of thy shade, 
 
 Thou in thy turn. 
 
 Thou too feelest 
 
 Something follow, something yearn, 
 
 A full orb blaze and burn. 
 
 My full orb upon thine. 
 
 As thine erst, gently smiling,
 
 322 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Softly wooing, sweetly wiling, 
 
 Gleamed on mine ; 
 
 So mine on thine in turn 
 
 When thou feelest blaze and bum, 
 
 Is it nothing, my beloved ] 
 
 My beloved, is it nothing 
 When I see thee and thou me, 
 When we each other see, 
 Is it nothing, my beloved 1 
 
 Closer, closer come unto me. 
 
 Shall I see thee and no more ? 
 
 I can see thee, is that all 1 
 
 Let me also. 
 
 Let me feel thee. 
 
 Closer, closer, my beloA'ed, 
 
 Come unto me, come to me, come ! 
 
 cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not, 
 Lookest onward, look'st before. 
 
 Yet I follow, evermore. 
 
 Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way, 
 
 Scarcely lookest, will not stay, 
 
 From thine alien way. 
 
 The inevitable motion 
 Bears me forth upon the line 
 Whose course I cannot see. 
 
 1 must move as it conveys me 
 Evermore. It so must be. 
 
 O cold one, and I round thee 
 Revolve, round only thee, 
 Straining ever to be nearer 
 While thou evadest still ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 323 
 
 Repellest still, cold one, 
 Nay, but closer, closer, closer. 
 My beloved, come, come, come ! 
 
 Tbe inevitable motion 
 
 Carries both upon its line, 
 
 Also you as well as me. 
 
 What is best, and what is strongest. 
 
 We obey. It so must be. 
 
 Cruel, cruel, didst thou only 
 
 Feel as I feel evermore, 
 
 A force, though in, not of me, 
 
 Drawing inward, in, in, in. 
 
 Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth, 
 
 Thou shalt feel me closer, closer, 
 
 My beloved, close, close to thee. 
 
 Come to thee, come, come, come ! 
 
 The inevitable motion 
 Bears us both upon its line 
 Together, you as me. 
 Together and asunder. 
 Evermore. It so must be. 
 
 PESCHIEBA. 
 
 What voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy bi'idge I crost ? 
 ' 'Tis better to have fought and losf, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 
 The tricolor — a trampled rag 
 Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
 By sentry boxes yellow-black, 
 Lead up to no Italian flag.
 
 •324 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 I see the Croat soldier staud 
 Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
 The eagle with his black Avings flouts 
 The breath and beauty of your land. 
 
 Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
 men of Brescia, on the day 
 Of loss past hope, I heard you say 
 Your welcome to the noble pain. 
 
 You say, ' Since so it is, — good bye 
 Sweet life, high hope ; but whatsoe'er 
 May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
 To tell, " The Lombard feared to die ! " 
 
 You said (there shall be answer fit) 
 ' And if our children must obey, 
 They must ; but thinking on this day 
 'Twill less debase them to submit,' 
 
 You said (Oh not in vain you said), 
 ' Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may ; 
 The hours ebb fast of this one day 
 When blood may yet be nobly shed.' 
 
 Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
 For honour, fame, nor self-applause, 
 But for the glory of the cause, 
 You did, what will not be forgot. 
 
 And though the stranger stand, 'tis true. 
 By force and fortune's right he stands ; 
 By fortune which is in God's hands, 
 And strength, which yet shall spring in you.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 325 
 
 This voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiei^, when thy bridge I cz-ost, 
 ' 'Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 1849. 
 
 ALTERAM PAItTEM. 
 
 Or shall I .say, Vain word, false thought, 
 Since Prudence hath her martyrs too, 
 And Wisdom dictates not to do, 
 Till doing shall be not for nouglit. 
 
 Not ours to give or lose is life ; 
 Will Natui-e, when her l^rave ones fall, 
 Remake her work % or songs recall 
 Death's victim slain in useless strife ? 
 
 That rivers flow into the sea 
 
 Is loss and waste, the foolish say, 
 
 Nor know that back they find their way. 
 
 Unseen, to where they wont to be. 
 
 Showers fall upon the hills, springs How, 
 The river runneth still at hand. 
 Brave men are box'n into the land. 
 And whence the foolish do not know. 
 
 No ! no vain voice did on me fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy l)ridge I crost, 
 ' ^Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 1849.
 
 326 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH. 
 
 Say not, the struggle novight availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. 
 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows onl}-, 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light, 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 
 But westward, look, the land is bright.
 
 INDEX 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Highland inn .among the western hills 298 
 
 A youth and maid upon a summer night 279 
 
 A youth was I. An elder friend with mo 275 
 
 Across the sea, along the shore .... ... 52 
 
 As, at a i-ail way junction, men 29 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 31 
 
 Away, haunt thou not me 7 
 
 Bright October was come, the misty-bright October . . . . 182 
 
 But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie .... 191 
 
 Come back again, raj- olden heart ! 3 
 
 Come back, come back, behold with straining mast • . . . 265 
 
 Come home, come home ! and whore is home for me . . . . 264 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! . . 315 
 
 Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer . . . 211 
 
 Duty — that's to say, complj'ing 131 
 
 Each for himself is still the rule 133 
 
 Eastward, or Northward, or West ? I wander and ask as 1 wander . 247 
 
 Edward and Jane a married cDuple were 288 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! Her vans the vessel triet-- 263 
 
 Farewell, my Highland lassie ! wlien the year returns around . . 22 
 
 For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes 185 
 
 From thy far sources, 'mid mountains airily climbini; .... 205 
 
 Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 264
 
 328 INDEX OP THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hearken to me, ye mothers of my tent 37 
 
 Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent 8 
 
 Hope evermore and believe, O man, for e'en as thj' thought . . 138 
 
 How often sit I, poring o'er 10 
 
 I dreamed a dream : I dreamt that I espied . . . 54 
 
 I have seen higher, hoHer things than these 15 
 
 I saw again the spirits on a day 13G 
 
 If, when iu clieerless wanderings, dull and cold 16 
 
 Is it illusion ? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages . . . 222 
 
 Is it true, ye gods, who treat us . . . . . . . . 32 
 
 It fortifies mv soul to know 49 
 
 • It may be true 50 
 
 It was the afternoon ; and tlio sports were now at the ending . 147 
 
 Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said 28 
 
 Like a child iO 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 43 
 
 Matthew and JIark and Luke and holy John 53 
 
 Morn, in yellow and white, came broadening out from the mountains 153 
 
 Mj' beloved, is it nothing 321 
 
 My sons, and ye the children of my sons 40 
 
 My wind is turned to bitter north 14 
 
 O kind protecting Darkness ! as a child 11 
 
 only Source of all our light and life 47 
 
 O stream descending to the sea 141 
 
 O tell me, friends, while j-et we part 30 
 
 O Thou ■whose image in the shrine . .' 48 
 
 ■ Old things need not be therefore true ' 52 
 
 On grass, on gravel, in the sun 318 
 
 On the mountain, in the woodland 24 
 
 (Jnce more the wonted road I tread 12 
 
 Or shall I saj'. Vain word, false thought 325 
 
 Over a mountain slope with lentisk, and with abounding . . . 206 
 
 Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits . . 211 
 
 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane 142 
 
 Roused by importunate knocks ... .... 11 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth 326 
 
 So I went wrong 5 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together . . .178
 
 INDEX OF THE FIRST LIXES. 
 
 329 
 
 So in the golden morning they parted and went to the westward 
 So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not 
 So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone .... 
 So on the morrow's morning, with Term-time dread returning 
 So spake the voice : and as with a single life .... 
 Some future daj' when what is now is not 
 Sweet streamlet bason ! at thy side .... 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind .... 
 
 The human spirits saw I on a day 
 
 The mighty of^ean rolls and raves .... 
 
 The scene is different, and the place, the air 
 
 The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow . 
 
 There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent 
 
 Thou shalt have one God, only ; who 
 
 Though to the vilest things beneath the moon 
 
 Thought may well be ever ranging .... 
 
 Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past 
 
 To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain 
 
 Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing 
 
 Well, well, — Heaven bless you ail from day to day ! 
 Were you with me, or I with you .... 
 What voice did en my spirit fall .... 
 What we, when face to face we see ... . 
 When on the primal peacefid blank profound . 
 When panting sighs the bosom fill .... 
 When soft September brings again .... 
 When the dews are earliest falling .... 
 
 Whence are ye, vague desires 
 
 Whence comest thou, shady lane ? and ^^•hy and how ? 
 Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? . 
 Whj' should I say I see the things I see not ? 
 
 Arno 
 
 Yea, I have lied, and so must walk my way . 
 
 Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotonda , 
 
 PAGE 
 
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 132 
 
 205 
 
 9 
 
 270 
 
 323 
 
 50 
 
 320 
 
 19 
 
 6 
 
 23 
 
 139 
 
 5 
 
 275 
 
 16 
 
 9 
 235 
 
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