M E L A N I E . 
 
 AND 
 
 Wjrr 
 
New Work by the same Author. 
 INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY." 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 " Delicious sentiments, embodied in a sparkling brilliancy of 
 style, characterize this delightful work. JV*. Y. Transcript. 
 
 "Mr. Willis s writings are amongst the most interesting, ex 
 citing, and brilliant of modern times." London New Monthly 
 Magazine. 
 
M E L A N I E 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS 
 
 " Pray pardon me ; 
 
 For I am like a boy that hath found money, 
 Afraid I dream still." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, ANN STREET, 
 
 MDCCCXXXYII. 
 
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837. 
 
 B Y N. P. WILL IS, 
 in the Clerk s office of the Southern District of New York. 
 
 CRAIGHEAD AND ALLEN, 
 
 PRINTERS, 
 NO. 112 FULTON, CORNER OF DUTCH STREET. 
 
TO 
 
 THE REV. LOUIS D WIGHT, 
 
 fus Uolume 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MELANIE - - Page 1 
 
 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER 23 
 
 Birth-day Verses - - - 47 
 
 Florence Gray - -52 
 
 To - - - 56 
 
 To "-"" "- 58 
 
 The Confessional - 60 
 
 Lines on leaving Europe - - - 66 
 
 The Dying Alchymist - - 71 
 The Leper 
 
 Parrhasius - 86 
 
 The Wife s Appeal ; - 95 
 
 The Scholar of Thebet Ben Khorat - - 106 
 
 Christ s Entrance into Jerusalem - - - 121 
 
 The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus - - - 125 
 
 The Soldier s Widow - - 132 
 Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the 
 
 Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826 - - - 135 
 
 To a City Pigeon - 141 
 
 To Julia Grisi - - 143 
 
 The Baptism of Christ - - 144 
 
 On a Picture of a beautiful Boy - - 148 
 
 On the Picture of a Child tired of Play - - 150 
 
 To a face beloved - - - - - - 153 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 Idleness , - 155 
 
 The Burial of Arnold 160 
 
 Spring - - 163 
 
 The Torn Hat - - 165 
 
 April - - 168 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon - - - 171 
 
 To Laura W - 174 
 
 On a Picture of a girl leading her Blind Mother through 
 
 the wood - - 177 
 
 To a Stolen Ring - 180 
 
 To my Mother from the Appenines - - 183 
 
 To Ermengarde - 185 
 
 The Shunamite 188 
 
 Absalom - 194 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness - - 200 
 
 The Widow of Nain -. 207 
 
 Dawn - - 212 
 
 Saturday Afternoon - - - 214 
 
 A Child s first Impression of a Star - - 216 
 
 May - - 218 
 
 On witnessing a Baptism - - 220 
 
 TheAnnoyer - - 222 
 
 Roaring Brook - - 225 
 
 Lines on the New Year, 1825 - - 228 
 
 Lines on the New Year, 1826 - - 229 
 
 On the Death of a young girl - - 232 
 
 Andre s Request to Washington - - 234 
 
 SonnetWinter - - 236 
 
 Sonnet - ... 237 
 
 Sonnet - - 238 
 
 The Table of Emerald 239 
 
MELANIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 1 STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* 
 
 And marvell d at the Sybil s fane, 
 When I was not what I am now. 
 
 My life was then untouch d of pain ; 
 And, as the breeze that stirr d my hair, 
 
 My spirit freshened in the sky, 
 And all things that were true and fair 
 
 Lay closely to my loving eye, 
 With nothing shadowy between 
 I was a boy of seventeen. 
 Yon wondrous temple crests the rock, 
 
 As light upon its giddy base, 
 
 * The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of 
 Tivoli. 
 
 1 
 
M E L A N I E . 
 
 As stirless with the torrent s shock, 
 As pure in its proportioned grace, 
 
 And seems a thing of air, as then, 
 
 Afloat above this fairy glen ; 
 
 But though mine eye will kindle still 
 
 In looking on the shapes of art, 
 The link is lost that sent the thrill, 
 
 Like lightning, instant to my heart. 
 
 And thus may break before we die, 
 
 Th electric chain twixt soul and eye ! 
 
 Ten years -like yon bright valley, sown 
 
 Alternately with weeds and flowers 
 Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown, 
 
 And still I lov d the rosy Hours ; 
 And if there lurk d within my breast 
 
 Some nerve that had been overstrung 
 And quiver d in my hours of rest, 
 
 Like bells by their own echo rung, 
 I was with Hope a masquer yet, 
 
 And well could hide the look of sadness 
 And, if my heart would not forget, 
 
 I knew, at least, the trick of gladness, 
 
M E L ANIE. 3 
 
 And when another sang the strain, 
 I mingled in the old refrain. 
 
 Twere idle to remember now, 
 
 Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. 
 I bear beneath this alter d brow 
 
 The ashes of a thousand dreams 
 Some wrought of wild Ambition s fingers, 
 
 Some colored of Love s pencil well 
 But none of which a shadow lingers, 
 
 And none whose story I could tell. 
 Enough, that when I climbed again 
 
 To Tivoli s romantic steep, 
 Life had no joy, and scarce a pain, 
 
 Whose wells I had not tasted deep ; 
 And from my lips the thirst had pass d 
 For every fount save one the sweetest and the last. 
 The last the last ! My friends were dead, 
 
 Or false ; my mother in her grave ; 
 Above my father s honor d head 
 
 The sea had lock d its hiding wave ; 
 Ambition had but foil d my grasp, 
 And love had perish d in my clasp ; 
 
M E L A N I E . 
 
 And still, I say, I did not slack 
 My love of life, and hope of pleasure, 
 
 But gather d my affections back ; 
 And, as the miser hugs his treasure 
 
 When plague and ruin bid him flee, 
 I closer clung to mine my lov d, lost Melanie ! 
 
 The last of the De Brevern race, 
 
 My sister claimed no kinsman s care ; 
 And, looking from each other s face, 
 
 The eye stole upward unaware 
 For there was nought whereon to lean 
 Each other s heart and heaven between 
 
 Yet that was world enough for me, 
 And, for a brief but blessed while, 
 
 There seemed no care for Melanie 
 If she could see her brother smile ; 
 
 But life with her was at the flow, 
 And every wave went sparkling higher, 
 
 While mine was ebbing, fast and low, 
 From the same shore of vain desire, 
 
 And knew I, with prophetic heart, 
 That we were wearing aye insensibly apart. 
 
M E L ANI E . 
 II. 
 
 We came to Italy. I felt 
 
 A yearning for its sunny sky ; 
 My very spirit seem d to melt 
 
 As swept its first warm breezes by. 
 From lip and cheek a chilling mist, 
 
 From life and soul a frozen rime, 
 By every breath seem d softly kiss d 
 
 God s blessing on its radiant clime ! 
 It was an endless joy to me 
 
 To see my sister s new delight ; 
 From Venice in its golden sea 
 
 To Pcestum in its purple light, 
 By sweet Val d Arno s tinted hills, 
 
 In Vallombrosa s convent gloom, 
 Mid Term s vale of singing rills, 
 
 By deathless lairs in solemn Rome, 
 In gay Palermo s " Golden Shell," 
 At Arethusa s hidden well 
 
 We loiter d like th impassion d sun 
 That slept so lovingly on all, 
 
 And made a home of every one 
 1* 
 
MELANIE. 
 
 Ruin, and fane, and waterfall 
 
 And crown d the dying day with glory 
 If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story. 
 
 We came with Spring to Tivoli. 
 
 My sister lov d its laughing air 
 And merry waters, though, for me, 
 My heart was in another key, 
 
 And sometimes I could scarcely bear 
 The mirth of their eternal play, 
 
 And, like a child that longs for home 
 When weary of its holiday, 
 
 I sighed for melancholy Rome. 
 Perhaps the fancy haunts me still 
 Twas but a boding sense of ill. 
 
 It was a morn, of such a day 
 
 As might have dawn d on Eden first, 
 
 Early in the Italian May. 
 
 Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, 
 
 And on the burthen of the air 
 
 The breath of buds came faint and rare ; 
 And far in the transparent sky 
 
M E L A N I E . 
 
 The small, earth-keeping birds were seen 
 
 Soaring deliriously high ; 
 And through the clefts of newer green 
 
 Yon waters dash d their living pearls ; 
 And with a gayer smile and bow 
 
 Troop d on the merry village girls ; 
 And from the Contadino s brow 
 
 The low-slouch d hat was backward thrown, 
 
 With air that scarcely seem d his own ; 
 And Melanie, with lips apart, 
 
 And clasped hands upon my arm, 
 Flung open her impassion d heart, 
 
 And bless d life s mere and breathing charm, 
 And sang old songs, and gather d flowers, 
 And passionately bless d once more life s 
 thrilling hours. 
 
 In happiness and idleness 
 
 We wandered down yon sunny vale 
 Oh mocking eyes ! a golden tress 
 
 Floats back upon this summer gale ! 
 A foot is tripping on the grass ! 
 
 A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! 
 
M E L A N I . 
 
 I see a bounding shadow pass !- 
 
 O God ! my sister once was here ! 
 Come with me, friend ! We rested yon ! 
 
 There grew a flower she pluck d and wore ! 
 She sat upon this mossy stone ! 
 
 That broken fountain running o er 
 With the same ring, like silver bells. 
 
 She listen d to its babbling flow, 
 And said, " Perhaps the gossip tells 
 
 Some fountain-nymph s love-story now !" 
 And as her laugh rang clear and wild, 
 A youth a painter passed and smiled. 
 
 He gave the greeting of the morn 
 
 With voice that lingered in mine ear. 
 I knew him sad and gentle born 
 
 By those two words so calm and clear. 
 His frame was slight, his forehead high 
 
 And swept by threads of raven hair, 
 The fire of thought was in his eye, 
 
 And he was pale and marble fair, 
 And Grecian chisel never caught 
 The soul in those slight features wrought. 
 
M E L A N I E . 
 
 I watch d his graceful step of pride, 
 Till hidden by yon leaning tree, 
 
 And lov d him ere the echo died ; 
 And so, alas ! did Melanie ! 
 
 We sat and watch d the fount awhile 
 
 In silence, but our thoughts were one ; 
 And then arose, and with a smile 
 
 Of sympathy, we saunter d on ; 
 And she by sudden fits was gay, 
 And then her laughter died away, 
 
 And in this changefulness of mood, 
 Forgotten now those May-day spells, 
 
 We turn d where Varro s villa stood 
 And gazing on the Cascatelles, 
 
 (W hose hurrying waters wild and white 
 
 Seem madden d as they burst to light,) 
 I chanced to turn my eyes away, 
 
 And lo ! upon a bank alone, 
 The youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! 
 
 His pencils on the grass were thrown, 
 And by his side a sketch was flung, 
 
 And near him as I lightly crept, 
 
10 M E L A N I E . 
 
 To see the picture as he slept, 
 
 Upon his feet he lightly sprung ; 
 And gazing with a wild surprise 
 
 Upon the face of Melanie, 
 
 He said and dropp d his earnest ey 
 " Forgive me ! but I dream d of thee !" 
 His sketch, the while, was in my hand, 
 
 And, for the lines I look d to trace 
 A torrent by a palace spann d, 
 Half-classic and half fairy-land 
 
 I only found my sister s face ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Our life was changed. Another love 
 
 In its lone woof began to twine ; 
 But ah ! the golden thread was wove 
 
 Between my sister s heart and mine ! 
 She who had liv d for me before 
 
 She who had smiled for me alone 
 Would live and smile for me no more ! 
 
 The echo to my heart was gone ! 
 It seemed to me the very skies 
 Had shone through those averted eyes ; 
 
MELA NIE. 
 
 The air had breath d of balm the flower 
 Of radiant beauty seemed to be 
 
 But as she lov d them, hour by hour, 
 And murmur 1 d of that love to me ! 
 Oh, though it be so heavenly high 
 
 The selfishness of earth above, 
 That, of the watchers in the sky, 
 
 He sleeps who guards a brother s love 
 Though to a sister s present weal 
 
 The deep devotion far transcends 
 The utmost that the soul can feel 
 
 For even its own higher ends 
 Though next to God, and more than heaven 
 For his own sake, he loves her, even 
 
 Tis difficult to see another, 
 A passing stranger of a day 
 
 Who never hath been friend or brother, 
 Pluck with a look her heart away 
 
 To see the fair, unsullied brow, 
 Ne er kiss d before without a prayer, 
 
 Upon a stranger s bosom now, 
 Who for the boon took little care 
 
 Who is enrich d, he knows not why 
 
 11 
 
12 M E L ANIE . 
 
 Who suddenly hath found a treasure 
 
 Golconda were too poor to buy, 
 And he, perhaps, too cold to measure 
 (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, 
 Th unconscious idol happier seem,) 
 
 Tis difficult at once to crush 
 The rebel mourner in the breast, 
 
 To press the heart to earth and hush 
 Its bitter jealousy to rest 
 
 And difficult the eye gets dim, 
 
 The lip wants power to smile on him ! 
 
 I thank sweet Mary Mother now, 
 
 Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, 
 And touch d mine eyes and lit my brow 
 
 With sunshine that my heart belied. 
 I never spoke of wealth or race 
 
 To one who ask d so much from me 
 I looked but in my sister s face, 
 
 And raus d if she would happier be J 
 And hour by hour, and day by day, 
 
 I lov d the gentle painter more, 
 
 And in the same soft measure wore 
 
MELANIE. 13 
 
 My selfish jealousy away ; 
 
 And I began to watch his mood, 
 And feel with her love s trembling care, 
 
 And bade God bless him as he woo d 
 That loving girl so fond and fair, 
 
 And on my mind would sometimes press 
 
 A fear that she might love him less. 
 
 But Melanie I little dream d 
 
 What spells the stirring heart may move 
 
 Pygmalion s statue never seem d 
 
 More changed with life, than she with love. 
 
 The pearl tint of the early dawn 
 Flush d into day-spring s rosy hue 
 
 The meek, moss-folded bud of morn 
 Flung open to the light and dew 
 
 The first and half-seen star of even 
 
 Wax d clear amid the deepening heaven- 
 Similitudes perchance may be, 
 
 But these are changes oftener seen, 
 And do not image half to me 
 
 My sister s change efface and mien. 
 2 
 
14 MELANIE. 
 
 Twas written in her very air 
 
 That Love had passed and enter d there, 
 
 IV. 
 
 A calm and lovely paradise 
 
 Is Italy, for minds at ease. 
 The sadness of its sunny skies 
 
 Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
 The ruin d aisle, the crumbling fane, 
 
 The broken column, vast and prone, 
 It may be joy it may be pain 
 
 Amid such wrecks to walk alone ! 
 The saddest man will sadder be, 
 
 The gentlest lover gentler there, 
 As if, whate er the spirit s key, 
 
 It strengthened in that solemn air. 
 
 The heart soon grows to mournful things, 
 
 And Italy has not a breeze 
 But comes on melancholy wings ; 
 
 And even her majestic trees 
 Stand ghost-like in the Caesar s home, 
 
 As if their conscious roots were set 
 
MELANIE. 15 
 
 In the old graves of giant Rome, 
 And drew their sap all kingly yet ! 
 
 And every stone your feet beneath 
 Is broken from some mighty thought, 
 
 And sculptures in the dust still breathe 
 
 The fire with which their lines were wrought, 
 
 And sunder d arch, and plunder d tomb 
 
 Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!" 
 
 Yet gaily o er Egeria s fount 
 
 The ivy flings its emerald veil, 
 And flowers grow fair on Numa s mount, 
 
 And light-sprung arches span the dale, 
 And soft, from Caracalla s Baths, 
 
 The herdsman s song comes down the breeze 
 While climb his goats the giddy paths 
 
 To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; 
 And gracefully Albano s hill 
 
 Curves into the horizon s line, 
 And sweetly sings that classic rill, 
 
 And fairly stands that nameless shrine, 
 And here, oh, many a sultry noon 
 And starry eve, that happy June, 
 
16 MELANIE. 
 
 Came Angelo and Melanie, 
 And earth for us was all in tune 
 For while Love talk d with them, Hope walked apart 
 with me ! 
 
 V. 
 
 I shrink from the embittered close 
 
 Of my own melancholy tale. 
 Tis long since I have waked my woes 
 
 And nerve and voice together fail ! 
 The throb beats faster at my brow, 
 
 My brain feels warm with starting tears, 
 And I shall weep but heed not thou ! 
 
 Twill soothe awhile the ache of years. 
 The heart transfix d worn out with grief 
 Will turn the arrow for relief. 
 The painter was a child of shame I 
 
 It stirr d my pride to know it first, 
 For I had question d but his name, 
 
 And thought, alas ! I knew the worst, 
 Believing him unknown and poor. 
 His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; 
 
 A high-born Conti was his mother, 
 
MELANIE. 17 
 
 But, though he knew one parent s face, 
 
 He never had beheld the other, 
 Nor knew his country or his race. 
 
 The Roman hid his daughter s shame 
 Within St. Mona s convent wall, 
 
 And gave the boy a painter s name 
 And little else to live withal ! 
 
 And, with a noble s high desires 
 For ever mounting in his heart, 
 
 The boy consum d with hidden fires, 
 But wrought in silence at his art ; 
 
 And sometimes at St. Mona s shrine, 
 Worn thin with penance harsh and long, 
 
 He saw his mother s form divine, 
 And lov d her for their mutual wrong. 
 I said my pride was stirr d but no ! 
 
 The voice that told its bitter tale 
 Was touch d so mournfully with wo, 
 
 And, as he ceas d, all deathly pale, 
 He loos d the hand of Melanie, 
 And gaz d so gaspingly on me 
 
 The demon in my bosom died] 
 
 Q* 
 
18 MELANIE. 
 
 " Not thine," I said, u another s guilt ; 
 
 I break no hearts for silly pride ; 
 So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt I" 
 
 VI. 
 
 St. Mona s morning mass was done. 
 
 The shrine-lamps struggled with the day ; 
 And rising slowly, one by one, 
 
 Stole the last worshippers away. 
 The organist played out the hymn, 
 
 The incense, to St. Mary swung, 
 Had mounted to the cherubim, 
 
 Or to the pillars thinly clung ; 
 And boyish chorister replaced 
 
 The missal that was read no more, 
 And clos d, with half irreverent haste, 
 
 Confessional and chancel door; 
 And as, through aisle and oriel pane, 
 
 The sun wore round his slanting beam, 
 The dying martyr stirr d again, 
 
 And warriors battled in its gleam ; 
 And costly tomb and sculptur d knight 
 Show d warm and wondrous in the light. 
 
M E L ANI E . 19 
 
 I have not said that Melanie 
 
 Was radiantly fair 
 This earth again may never see 
 
 A loveliness so rare ! 
 She glided up St. Mona s aisle 
 That morning as a bride, 
 And, full as was my heart the while, 
 
 I bless d her in my pride ! 
 The fountain may not fail the less 
 
 Whose sands are golden ore, 
 And a sister for her loveliness, 
 May not be lov d the more ; 
 But as, the fount s full heart beneath, 
 
 Those golden sparkles shine, 
 My sister s beauty seem d to breathe 
 Its brightness over mine ! 
 
 St. Mona has a chapel dim 
 
 Within the altar s fretted pale, 
 Where faintly comes the swelling hymn, 
 
 And dies, half lost, the anthem s waiL 
 And here, in twilight meet for prayer, 
 
 A single lamp hangs o er the shrine, 
 
20 MELANIE. 
 
 And Raphael s Mary, soft and fair, 
 
 Looks down with sweetness half divine, 
 And here St. Mona s nuns alway 
 Through lattic d bars are seen to pray. 
 
 Ave and sacrament were o er, 
 
 And Angelo and Melanie 
 Still knelt the holy shrine before ; 
 
 But prayer, that morn was not for me ! 
 My heart was lock d ! The lip might stir, 
 
 The frame might agonize and yet, 
 Oh God ! I could not pray for her ! 
 
 A seal upon my soul was set 
 My brow was hot my brain opprest 
 And fiends seem d muttering round, " Your bridal is 
 unblest !" 
 
 With forehead to the lattice laid, 
 
 And thin, white ringers straining through, 
 
 A nun the while had softly pray d. 
 
 Oh, ev n in prayer that voice I knew ! 
 
 Each faltering word each mournful tone 
 Each pleading cadence, half-suppress d 
 
MELA.NIE. 21 
 
 Such music had its like alone 
 
 On lips that stole it at her breast ! 
 And ere the orison was done 
 I lov d the mother as the son ! 
 
 And now, the marriage vows to hear, 
 
 The nun unveil d her brow 
 When, sudden, to my startled ear, 
 There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear, 
 
 " De Brevern ! is it Ihou /" 
 The priest let fall the golden ring, 
 
 The bridegroom stood aghast, 
 While, like some weird and frantic thing, 
 
 The nun was muttering fast ; 
 And as, in dread, I nearer drew, 
 She thrust her arms the lattice through, 
 And held me to her straining view 
 
 But suddenly begun 
 To steal upon her brain a light 
 That stagger d soul, and sense, and sight, 
 And, with a mouth all ashy white, 
 
 She shriek d, " It is his son ! 
 The bridegroom is thy bloud thy brother ! 
 
22 
 
 M E L AN I E . 
 
 Rodolph de Brevern wronged his mother /" 
 
 And, as that doom of love was heard, 
 My sister sunk and died without a sign or word ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 I shed no tear for her. She died 
 
 With her last sunshine in her eyes. 
 Earth held for her no joy beside 
 
 The hope just shatter d and she lies 
 In a green nook of yonder dell ; 
 
 And near her, in a newer bed, 
 Her lover brother sleeps as well! 
 
 Peace to the broken-hearted dead ! 
 
23 
 
 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Dost thou despise 
 
 A love like this ! A lady should not scorn 
 One soul that loves her,howe er lowly it be." 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 How beautiful it is ! Come here, my daughter! 
 Is t not a face of most bewildering brightness ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 The features are all fair, sir, but so cold 
 I could not love such beauty ! 
 
24 LORDIVON. 
 
 LORD 1VON. 
 
 Yet, ev n so 
 
 Look d thy lost mother, Isidore ! Her brow 
 Lofty like this her lips thus delicate, 
 Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads 
 Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve 
 Thus matchless, from the small and " pearl 
 
 round ear" 
 
 To the o er-polished shoulder. Never swan 
 Dreamed on the water with a grace so calm ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 And was she proud, sir? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Or I had not loved her. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Then runs my lesson wrong. I ever read 
 Pride was unlovely. 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Dost thou prate already 
 Of books, my little one ? Nay, then, tis time 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 2-5 
 
 That a sad tale were told thee. Is thy bird 
 Fed for the day ? Canst thou forget the rein 
 Of thy beloved Arabian for an hour, 
 And, the first time in all thy sunny life, 
 Take sadness to thy heart? Wilt listen, sweet? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Hang I not ever on thy lips, dear father? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 As thou didst enter, I was musing here 
 Upon this picture. Tis the face of one 
 I never knew ; but, for its glorious pride, 
 I bought it of the painter. There has hung 
 Ever the cunning curse upon my soul 
 To love-this look in woman. Not the flower 
 Of all Arcadia, in the Age of Gold, 
 Looked she a shepherdess, would be to me 
 More than the birds are. As th astrologer 
 Worships the half-seen star that in its sphere 
 Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily 
 That flings, unask d, its fragrance in his way, 
 3 
 
26 LORDIVON 
 
 Yet both (as are the high-born and the low) 
 Wrought of the same fine Hand so, daringly, 
 Flew ray boy-hopes beyond me. You are here 
 In a brave palace, Isidore ! The gem 
 That sparkles in your hair imprisons light 
 Drunk in the flaming Orient ; and gold 
 Waits on the bidding of those girlish lips 
 In measure that Aladdin never knew 
 Yet was I lowly born ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Lord Ivon ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Ay, 
 
 You wonder ; but I tell you that the Lord 
 Of this tall palace was a peasant s child! 
 And, looking sometimes on his fair domain, 
 Thy sire bethinks him of a siokly boy, 
 Nursed by his mother on a mountain side, 
 His only wealth a book of poetry, 
 With which he daily crept into the sun, 
 To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream 
 Of beauiy he had only read of there. 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Have you the volume still, sir 1 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Twas the gift 
 
 Of a poor scholar wandering in the hills, 
 Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed 
 My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme 
 A silly tale of a low minstrel boy, 
 Who broke his heart in singing at a bridal 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 Loved he the lady, sir? 
 
 LORD IVOX. 
 
 So ran the tale. 
 How well I do remember it! 
 
 27 
 
 Poor youth ! 
 
 ISIDOR^E. 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I never thought to pity him. 
 
28 LORDIVON 
 
 The bride was a duke s sister ; and I mused 
 Upon the wonder of his daring love, 
 Till my heart changed within me. I became 
 Restless and sad ; and in my sleep I saw 
 Beautiful dames all scornfully go by ; 
 And one o er-weary morn I crept away 
 Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock, 
 Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters 
 Fill d me with energy, I swore my soul 
 To better that false vision, if there were 
 Manhood or fire within my wretched frame. 
 I turn d me homeward with the sunset hour, 
 Changed for the thought had conquer d ev n 
 
 disease ; 
 
 And my poor mother check d her busy wheel, 
 To wonder at the step with which I came. 
 
 Oh, heavens ! that soft and dewy April eve, 
 When, in a minstrel s garb, but with a heart 
 As lofty as the marble shafts upreared 
 Beneath the stately portico, I stood 
 At this same palace door ! 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Our own ! and you 
 A minstrel boy ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes I had wandered far 
 Since I shook of my sickness in the hills, 
 And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn d 
 A subtler lesson than humility 
 In the quick school of want. A menial stood 
 By the Egyptian sphinx ; and when I came 
 And pray d to sing beneath the balcony 
 A song of love for a fair lady s ear, 
 He insolently bade me to begone. 
 Listening not, I swept my fingers o er 
 The strings in prelude, when the base-born slave 
 Struck me! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 Impossible ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I dash d my lute 
 
30 LORD1VON 
 
 Into his face, and o er the threshold flew ; 
 And, threading rapidly the lofty rooms, 
 Sought vainly for his master. Suddenly 
 A wing rushed o er me, and a radiant girl, 
 Young as myself, but fairer than the dream 
 Of my most wild imagining, sprang forth, 
 Chasing a dove, that, wilder d with pursuit, 
 Dropt breathless on my bosom. 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Nay, dear father ! 
 Was t so indeed ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I thank d my blessed star ! 
 And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood 
 Silent with wonder, I resign d the bird 
 To her white hands : and, with a rapid thought, 
 And lips already eloquent of love, 
 Turn d the strange chance to a similitude 
 * Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip 
 Curl d at the warm recital of my wrong, 
 And on the ivory oval of her cheek 
 The rose flush d outward with a deeper red ; 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 And from that hour the minstrel was at home, 
 And horse and hound were his, and none might 
 
 cross 
 
 The minion of the noble Lady Clare. 
 Art weary of my tale ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Dear father ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Well ! 
 
 A summer, and a winter, and a spring, 
 Went over me like brief and noteless hours. 
 Forever at the side of one who grew 
 With every morn more beautiful ; the slave, 
 Willing and quick, of every idle whim ; 
 Singing for no one s bidding but her own, 
 And then a song from my own passionate heart, 
 Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named 
 As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear ; 
 Riding beside her, sleeping at her door, 
 Doing her maddest bidding at the risk 
 Of life what marvel if at last I grew 
 Presumptuous ] 
 
32 LORDIVON 
 
 A messenger one morn 
 
 Spurr d through the gate " A revel at the court! 
 And many minstrels, come from many lands, 
 Will try their harps in presence of the king; 
 And tis the royal pleasure that my lord 
 Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare, 
 Rob d as the queen of Faery, who shall crown 
 The victor with his bays." 
 
 Pass over all 
 
 To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned 
 Amid the court ; and never twilight star 
 Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye 
 As she with her rare beauty on the gaze 
 Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed 
 Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme; 
 And ever at the pause all eyes upturn d 
 And fed upon her loveliness. 
 
 The last 
 
 Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd 
 Waited the king s award when suddenly 
 The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without, 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 And a clear voice claim d hearing for a bard 
 
 Belated on his journey. Mask d, and clad 
 
 In a long stole, the herald led me in, 
 
 A thousand eyes were on me : but I saw 
 
 The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone ; 
 
 And, kneeling at her feet, I pressed my brow 
 
 Upon her footstool, till the images 
 
 Of my past hours rush d thick upon my brain ; 
 
 Then, rising hastily, I struck my lyre ; 
 
 And, in a story woven of my own, 
 
 I so did paint her in her loveliness 
 
 Pouring my heart all out upon the lines 
 
 I knew too faithfully, and lavishing 
 
 The hoarded fire of a whole age of love 
 
 Upon each passionate word, that, as I sunk 
 
 Exhausted at the close, the ravish d crowd 
 
 Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering 
 
 lyre ; 
 
 And the moved monarch in his gladness swore 
 There was no boon beneath his kingly crown 
 Too high for such a minstrel ! 
 
 Did my star 
 
34 LORDIVON 
 
 Speak in my fainting ear ? Heard I the king ? 
 
 Or did the audible pulses of my heart 
 
 Seem to me so articulate ? I rose, 
 
 And tore my mask away; and, as the stole 
 
 Dropped from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly 
 
 A look upon the face of Lady Clare. 
 
 It was enough ! I saw that she was changed 
 
 That a brief hour had chilled the open child 
 
 To calculating woman that she read 
 
 With jeold displeasure my o er-daring thought ; 
 
 And on that brow, to me as legible 
 
 As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace 
 
 The scorn that waited on me ! Sick of life, 
 
 Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope 
 
 Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt, 
 
 And claimed the king s fair promise 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 For the hand 
 Of Lady Clare ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 No, sweet one for a sword. 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 You surely spoke to her 1 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I saw her face 
 
 No more for years. I went unto the wars ; 
 And when again I sought that palace door, 
 A glory heralded the minstrel boy 
 That monarchs might have envied. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Was she there 1 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes and, O God ! how beautiful ! The last, 
 The ripest seal of loveliness, was set 
 Upon her form ; and the all-glorious pride 
 That I had worshipped on her girlish lip, 
 When her scared dove fled to me, was matured 
 Into a queenly grace ; and nobleness 
 Was bound like a tiara to her brow, 
 And every motion breathed of it. There lived 
 Nothing on earth so ravishingly fair. 
 
36 LORD IVON 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And you still lov d her ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I had peril d life 
 
 In every shape had battled on the sea, 
 And burnt upon the desert, and outgone 
 Spirits most mad for glory, with this one 
 O ermastering hope upon me. Honor, fame, 
 Gold, even, were as dust beneath my feet ; 
 And war was my disgust, though I had sought 
 Its horrors like a bloodhound for her praise. 
 My life was drunk up with the love of her. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 And now she scorn d you not? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Worse, Isidore! 
 
 She pitied me ! I did not need a voice 
 To tell my love. She knew her sometime 
 
 minion 
 And felt that she should never be adored 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 With such idolatry as his, and sighed 
 That hearts so true beat not in palaces 
 But I was poor, with all my bright renown, 
 And lowly born ; and she the Lady Clare ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 She could not tell you this ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 She broke my heart 
 
 As kindly as the fisher hooks the worm 
 Pitying me the while ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And you 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Lived on ! 
 
 But the remembrance irks me, and my throat 
 Chokes with the utterance ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Dear father ! 
 
 37 
 
38 LORD IVON 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Nay- 
 Thanks to sweet Mary Mother, it is past: 
 And in this world I shall have no more need 
 To speak of it. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 But there were brighter days 
 In store. My mother and this palace 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 You outrun 
 
 My tale, dear Isidore ! But tis as well. 
 I would not linger on it. 
 
 Twenty years 
 
 From this heart-broken hour, I stood again 
 An old man and a stranger, at the door 
 Of this same palace. I had been a slave 
 For gold that time. My star had wrought with me ! 
 And I was richer than the wizard king 
 Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look 
 On my innumerable gems, the glare 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 Pained so my sun-struck eyes. My gold was 
 countless. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And Lady Clare 1 
 
 LORD ITON. 
 
 I met upon the threshold 
 Her very self all youth, all loveliness 
 So like the fresh-kept picture in my brain, 
 That for a moment I forgot all else, 
 And stagger d back and wept. She passed me by 
 With a cold look 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Oh ! not the Lady Clare ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Her daughter yet herself! But what a change 
 Waited me here ! My thin and grizzled locks 
 Were fairer now than the young minstrel s curls; 
 My sun-burnt visage and contracted eye 
 Than the gay soldier in his gallant mien ; 
 
40 LORDIVON 
 
 My words were wit, my looks interpreted, 
 And Lady Clare I tell you, Lady Clare 
 Leaned fondly fondly ! on my wasted arm. 
 
 God ! how changed my nature with all this ! 
 I, that had been all love and tenderness, 
 The truest and most gentle heart, till now 
 That ever beat grew suddenly a devil ! 
 
 1 bought me lands, and titles, and received 
 Men s homage with a smooth hypocrisy ; 
 And you will scarce believe me, Isidore 
 
 I suffered them to wile their peerless daughter, 
 Tne image and the pride of Lady Clare, 
 To wed me ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 Sir ! you did not t 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Ay ! I saw 
 
 Th indignant anger when her mother first 
 Broke the repulsive wish, and the degrees 
 Of shuddering reluctance as her mind 
 Admitted the intoxicating tales 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 Of wealth unlimited. And when she look d 
 On my age-stricken features, and my form, 
 Wasted before its time, and turned away 
 To hide from me her tears, her very mother 
 Whispered the cursed comfort in her ear 
 That made her what she is ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 You could not wed her, 
 Knowing all this ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I felt that I had lost 
 
 My life else. I had wrung, for forty years, 
 My frame to its last withers ; I had flung 
 My boyhood s fire away the energy 
 Of a most sinless youth the toil, and fret, 
 And agony of manhood. I had dared, 
 Fought, suffered, slaved and never for an hour 
 Forgot or swerved from my resolve ; and now 
 With the delirious draught upon my lips 
 Dash down the cup ! 
 4* 
 
LORD IVON 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Yet she had never wronged you I 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Thou rt pleading for thy mother, my sweet child ! 
 And angels hear thee. But if she was wrong d, 
 The sin be on the pride that sells its blood 
 Coldly and only for this damning gold. 
 Had I not offered youth first ? Came I not 
 With my hands brimm d with glory to buy love 
 And was I not denied ? 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Yet, dearest father, 
 They forced her not to wed ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 I called her back 
 
 Myself from the church threshold, and, before 
 Her mother and her kinsmen, bade her swear 
 It was her own free choice to marry me. 
 I showed her my shrunk hand, and bade her think 
 If that was like a bridegroom, and beware 
 
AND HIS DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 Of perjuring her chaste and spotless soul, 
 If now she loved me not. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 What said she, sir? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Oh ! they had made her even as themselves ; 
 And her young heart was colder than the slab 
 Unsunn d beneath Pentelicus. She pressed 
 My withered fingers in her dewy clasp, 
 And smiled up in my face, and chid " my lord* 
 For his wlid fancies, and led on ! 
 
 ISIDORE, 
 
 And no 
 
 Misgiving at the altar ? 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 None ! She swore 
 
 To love and cherish me till death should part us, 
 With a voice as clear as mine. 
 
44 LORDIVON 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 And kept it, father ! 
 In mercy tell me so ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 She lives, my daughter ! 
 
 Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb d, 
 And let my heart down to its better founts 
 Of tenderness. I had no friends not one ! 
 My love gush d to my wife. I rack d my brain 
 To find her a new pleasure every hour 
 Yet not with me I fear d to haunt her eye ! 
 Only at night, when she was slumbering 
 In all her beauty, I would put away 
 The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her, 
 And watch her through my tears. 
 
 One night her lips 
 
 Parted as I gazed on them, and the name 
 Of a young noble, who had been my guest, 
 Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall 
 
ANDHISDATTGHTER. 45 
 
 The curtains silently, and left her there 
 To slumber and dream on ; and gliding forth 
 Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star, 
 And swore, that if it pleased the God of light 
 To let me look upon the unborn child 
 Lying beneath her heart, I would but press 
 One kiss upon its lips, and take away 
 The life that was a blight upon her years. 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 I was that child ! 
 
 LORD IVON. 
 
 Yes and I heard the cry 
 Of thy small " piping mouth" as twere a call 
 From my remembering star. I waited only 
 Thy mother s strength to bear the common shock 
 Of death within the doors. She rose at last, 
 And, oh! so sweetly pale! And thou, my child 
 My heart misgave me as I looked upon thee ; 
 But he was ever at her side whose name 
 She murmur d in her sleep ; and, lingering on 
 To drink a little of thy sweetness more 
 
46 LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Before I died, I watched their stolen love 
 As she had been my daughter, with a pure, 
 Passionless joy that I should leave her soon 
 To love him as she would. I know not how 
 To tell thee more. * * * 
 
 Come, sweet ! she is not worthy 
 Of tears like thine and mine. * * 
 
 * * * She fled and left me 
 The very night ! The poison was prepared 
 And she had been a widow with the morn 
 Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed 
 My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb, 
 
 I raised the chalice but a weakness came 
 Over my heart ; and, taking up the lamp, 
 I glided to her chamber, and remov d 
 The curtains for a last, a parting look 
 Upon my child. 
 
 * * * Had she but taken thee, 
 I could have felt she had a mother s heart, 
 And drain d the chalice still. I could not leave 
 My babe alone in such a heartless world ! 
 
 ISIDORE. 
 
 Thank God ! Thank God ! 
 
47 
 
 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 " The heart that we have lain near before our birth is the only 
 one that cannot forget that it hath loved us." 
 
 PHILIP SLINGSBY. 
 
 My birthday ! Oh beloved mother! 
 
 My heart is with thee o er the seas. 
 I did not think to count another 
 
 Before I wept upon thy knees 
 Before this scroll of absent years 
 Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 
 
 My own I do not care to check. 
 I weep albeit here alone 
 
48 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 As if I bung upon thy neck, 
 
 As if thy lips were on my own, 
 As if this full, sad heart of mine, 
 Were beating closely upon thine. 
 
 Four weary years ! How looks she now? 
 
 What light is in those tender eyes 1 
 What trace of lime has touch d the brow 
 
 Whose look is borrow d of the skies 
 That listen to her nightly prayer 1 
 How is she changed since he was there 
 Who sleeps upon her heart alway 
 
 Whose name upon her lips is worn 
 For whom the night seems made to pray 
 
 For whom she wakes to pray at morn 
 Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 
 Who weeps these tears to think of her ! 
 
 I know not if my mother s eyes 
 
 Would find me chang d in slighter things ; 
 I ve wandered beneath many skies, 
 
 And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
 And many leaves, once fair and gay, 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 49 
 
 From youth s full flower have dropp d away 
 But, as these looser leaves depart, 
 
 The lessen d flower gets near the core, 
 And, when deserted quite, the heart 
 
 Takes closer what was dear of yore 
 And yearns to those who lov d it first 
 The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nurst. 
 
 Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? 
 
 Am I remember d in my home ? 
 When those I love for joy are met, 
 
 Does some one wish that I would come ? 
 Thou dost I am belov d of these ! 
 
 But, as the schoolboy numbers o er 
 Night after night the Pleiades 
 
 And finds the stars he found before, 
 As turns the maiden oft her token, 
 
 As counts the miser aye his gold 
 So, till life s silver chord is broken, 
 
 Would I of thy fond love be told. 
 My heart is full, mine eyes are wet- 
 Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer 
 yet] 
 
50 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 Oh ! when the hour to meet again 
 
 Creeps on, and, speeding o er the sea, 
 My heart takes up its lengthen d chain, 
 
 And, link by link, draws nearer thee 
 When land is hailed, and, from the shore, 
 
 Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
 With fragrance from my mother s door 
 Of flowers forgotten when I come 
 When port is gain d, and, slowly now, 
 
 The old familiar paths are past, 
 And, entering, unconscious how, 
 
 I gaze upon thy face at last, 
 And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
 And feel thy tears upon my cheek 
 
 Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, 
 The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 
 
 And I shall grow once more a boy : 
 And, mother ! twill be like a dream 
 
 That we were parted thus for years 
 And once that we have dried our tears, 
 
 How will the days seem long and bright- 
 To meet thee always with the morn, 
 
 And hear thy blessing every night 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 51 
 
 Thy " dearest," thy " first-born !" 
 And be no more as now in a strange land, forlorn 1 
 
 London, January 20th, 1835. 
 
52 
 
 FLORENCE GRAY. 
 
 I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon 
 
 And the Egean wind had dropp d asleep 
 
 Upon Hymettus, and the thy my isles 
 
 Of Salamis and Egina lay hung 
 
 Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 
 
 I had climb d up the Acropolis at morn, 
 
 And hours had fled as time will in a dream 
 
 Amidst its deathless ruins for the. air 
 
 Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, 
 
 And they walk with you ! As it sultrier grew, 
 
 I laid me down within a shadow deep 
 
 Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 
 
 And, in an absent idleness of thought, 
 
 I scrawl d upon the smooth and marble base. 
 
FLORENCE GRAY. 53 
 
 Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there ? 
 The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome ! 
 
 I was in Asia. Twas a peerless night 
 
 Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon, 
 
 Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr d tent, 
 
 Hajd witch d me from my slumber. I arose 
 
 And silently stole forth, and by the brink 
 
 Of " golden Pactolus," where bathe his waters 
 
 The bases of Cybele s columns fair, 
 
 I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood 
 
 I mused upon the storied past awhile, 
 
 Watching the moon that with the same mild eye 
 
 Had looked upon the mighty Lydian kings 
 
 Sleeping around me Croesus, who had heap d 
 
 Within that mouldering portico his gold, 
 
 And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 
 
 Beneath yon swelling tumulus and then 
 
 I loitered up the valley to a small 
 
 And humbler ruin, where the undented* 
 
 * "Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not 
 defiled their garments : and they shall walk with me hi white ; 
 for they are worthy." Revelation iii. 4. 
 
 5* 
 
54 FLORENCE GRAY. 
 
 Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
 Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe 
 The broken threshold, to my spirit s eye 
 It seem d as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
 " The angel of the church of Sardis" still ! 
 And I again pass d onward, and as dawn 
 Paled the hright morning star, I laid me down 
 Weary and sad beside the river s brink, 
 And twixt the moonlight and the rose morn, 
 Wrote with my finger in the " golden sands." 
 Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there ? 
 The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! 
 
 The dust is old upon my " sandal-shoon," 
 And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved 
 From wild America to spicy Ind, 
 And worshipped at innumerable shrines 
 Of beauty ; and the painter s art, to me, 
 And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, 
 And of dead kingdoms I recal the soul, 
 Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored 
 My memory with thoughts that can allay 
 Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim, 
 
FLORENCE GRAY. 55 
 
 And I am overladen in ray years, 
 Minister to me. But when wearily 
 The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes 
 Open but seeing not, and senses all 
 Lying awake within their chambers dim, 
 Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear 
 Far in its sleeping depths, as twere a gem, 
 Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair ? 
 The face, of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! 
 
56 
 
 TO 
 
 " The desire of the moth for the star 
 
 Of the night for the morrow 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow," 
 
 SIIELLEY. 
 
 " L alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." 
 
 METASTASIO. 
 
 As, gazing on the Pleiades, 
 
 We count each fair and starry one, 
 Yet wander from the light of these 
 
 To muse upon the Pleiad gone 
 As, bending o er fresh gathered flowers, 
 
 The rose s most enchanting hue 
 Reminds us but of other hours 
 
 Whose roses were all lovely too 
 So, dearest, when I rove among 
 
 The bright ones of this foreign sky, 
 
T O . 
 
 And mark the smile, and list the song, 
 
 And watch the dancers gliding by, 
 The fairer still they seem to be, 
 The more it stirs a thought of thee ! 
 
 The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime, 
 
 Of many hearts may touch but one, 
 And so this seeming careless rhyme 
 
 Will whisper to thy heart alone. 
 I give it to the winds ! The bird, 
 
 Let loose, to his far nest will flee, 
 And love, though breathed but on a word, 
 
 Will find thee, over land and sea. 
 Though clouds across the sky have driven, 
 
 We trust the star at last will shine, 
 And like the very light of heaven 
 
 I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine ! 
 
 57 
 
58 
 
 TO 
 
 " Oh, by that little word 
 How many thoughts are stirr d ! 
 The last, the last, the last!" 
 
 THE star may but a meteor be, 
 
 That breaks upon the stormy night ; 
 And I may err, believing thee 
 
 A spark of heaven s own changeless light [ 
 But if on earth beams aught so fair, 
 
 It seems, of all the lights that shine, 
 Serenest in its truth, tis there, 
 
 Burning in those soft eyes of thine. 
 Yet long-watch d stars from heaven have rushM, 
 
 And long-lov d friends have dropp d away, 
 And mine my very heart have crush d ! 
 
 And I nave hop d this many a day, 
 } It liv d no more for love or pain ! 
 But thou hast stirr d its depths again, 
 
T o . 59 
 
 And to its dull, out-wearied ear, 
 Thy voice of melody has crept, . 
 
 In tones it cannot choose but hear ; 
 And now I feel it only slept, 
 
 And know, at ev n thy lightest smile, 
 It gathered fire and strength the while. 
 
 Fail me not thou ! This feeling past, 
 My heart would never rouse again. 
 Thou art the brightest but the last ! 
 
 And if this trust, this love is vain 
 If thou, all peerless as thou art, 
 Be not less fair than true of heart 
 My loves are o er ! The sun will shine 
 Upon no grave so hush d as this dark breast of mine, 
 
60 
 
 THE CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 11 When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, 
 Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold 
 Not changeless, as the loved and left of old 
 
 Remember me remember me 
 
 I passionately pray of thee !" 
 
 LADY E. S. WORTLEY. 
 
 I THOUGHT of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 On ocean many a weary night 
 When heaved the long and sullen sea, 
 
 With only waves and stars in sight. 
 We stole along by isles of balm, 
 
 We furPd before the coming gale, 
 We slept amid the breathless calm, 
 
 We flew beneath the straining sail 
 But thou wert lost for years to me, 
 And, day and night I thought of thee! 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 In France amid the gay saloon, 
 
THECONFESSIONAL. 61 
 
 Where eyes as dark as eyes may be 
 Are many as the leaves in June 
 
 Where life is love, and ev n the air 
 Is pregnant with impassion d thought, 
 
 And song and dance and music are 
 
 With one warm meaning only fraught 
 
 My half-snar d heart broke lightly free, 
 
 And with a blush I thought of thee! 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 In Florence, where the fiery hearts 
 Of Italy are breathed away 
 
 In wonders of the deathless arts; 
 Where strays the Contadina down 
 
 Val d Arno with song of old ; 
 Where clime and women seldom frown, 
 
 And life runs over sands of gold ; 
 I stray d to lone Fiesole 
 On many an eve, and thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 In Rome, when on the Palatine 
 Night left the Caesar s palace free 
 
62 THE CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 To Time s forgetful foot and mine ; 
 Or, on the Coliseum s wall, 
 
 When moonlight touch d the ivied stone, 
 Reclining, with a thought of all 
 
 That o er this scene has come and gone 
 The shades of Rome would start and flee 
 Unconsciously I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 In Vallombrosa s holy shade, 
 Where nobles born the friars be, 
 
 By life s rude changes humbler made. 
 Here Mjlton fram d his Paradise; 
 
 I slept within his very cell ; 
 And, as 1 clos d my weary eyes, 
 
 I thought the cowl would fit me well 
 The cloisters breath d, it seemed to me, 
 Of heart s-ease but I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 In Venice, on a night in June ; 
 
 When through the city of the sea, 
 Like dust of silver slept the moon. 
 
THE CONFESSIONAL. 63 
 
 Slo\v turn d his oar the gondolier, 
 And, as the black barks glided by, 
 
 The water to my leaning ear 
 
 Bore back the lover s passing sigh 
 
 It was no place alone to be 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 In the Ionian Isles when straying 
 With wise Ulysses by the sea 
 
 Old Homer s songs around me playing ; 
 Or, watching the bewitched caique, 
 
 That o er the star-lit waters flew, 
 I listened to the helmsman Greek, 
 
 Who sung the song that Sappho knew 
 The poet s spell, the bark, the sea, 
 All vanished as I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 In Greece when rose the Parthenon 
 
 Majestic o er the Egean sea, 
 And heroes with it, one by one ; 
 
 When, in the grove of Academe, 
 
64 THE CONFESSIONAL, 
 
 Where Lais and Leontium stray d 
 Discussing Plato s mystic theme, 
 
 I lay at noontide in the shade 
 The Egean wind, the whispering tree, 
 Had voices and I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 In Asia on the Dardanelles ; 
 Where swiftly as the waters flee, 
 
 Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
 And, seated by the marble tank 
 
 Which sleeps by Ilium s ruins old, 
 (The fount where peerless Helen drank, 
 
 And Venus lav d her locks of gold,*) 
 I thrill d such classic haunts to see, 
 Yet even here I thought of thee. 
 
 I thought of thee I thought of thee, 
 
 Where glide the Bosphor s lovely waters, 
 All palace-lined from sea to sea ; 
 
 * In the Scamander, before contending for the prize of 
 beauty on Mount Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near 
 the walls of Troy. 
 
THECONPESSIONAL. 65 
 
 And ever on its shores the daughters 
 Of the delicious East are seen, 
 
 Printing the brink with slipper d feet, 
 And oh, the snowy folds between, 
 
 What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! 
 Peris of light no fairer be 
 Yet in Staraboul I thought of thee. 
 
 I ve thought of thee I ve thought of thee, 
 
 Through change that teaches to forget ; 
 Thy face looks up from every sea, 
 
 In every star thine eyes are set, 
 Though roving beneath Orient skies, 
 
 Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, 
 I envy every bird that flies 
 
 Into the far and clouded West : 
 I think of thee I think of thee ! 
 Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me1 
 
66 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast I 
 Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
 And point as Freedom s eagle flew ! 
 
 Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars t 
 
 Point home, my country s flag of stars ! 
 
 The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 
 
 The pressure of the rising breeze, 
 And, swiftest of a thousand keels, 
 
 She leaps to the careering seas ! 
 Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, 
 
 In whose white breast I seem to lie t 
 How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 
 
 I ve seen your semblance in the sky, 
 
LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 67 
 
 And long d, with breaking heart to flee 
 On such white pinions o er the sea ! 
 
 Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld! 
 
 I turn to watch our foamy track, 
 And thoughts with which I first beheld 
 
 Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; 
 My lips are dry with vague desire, 
 
 My cheek once more is hot with joy 
 My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! 
 
 Oh, what has changed that traveller-boy I 
 As leaves the ship this dying foam, 
 His visions fade behind his weary heart speeds home ! 
 
 Adieu, oh soft and southern shore, 
 
 Where dwelt the stars long miss d in heaven ! 
 Those forms of beauty seen no more, 
 
 Yet once to Art s rapt vision given! 
 Oh, still th enamored sun delays, 
 
 And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
 To win to his adoring gaze 
 
 Those children of the sky again I 
 Irradiate beauty, such as never 
 
68 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 That light on other earth hath shone, 
 Hath made this land her home forever ; 
 
 And could I live for this alone 
 Were not my birthright brighter far 
 Than such voluptuous slave s can be 
 Held not the West one glorious star 
 
 New-born and blazing for the free 
 Soar d not to heaven our eagle yet 
 Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! 
 
 Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see 
 
 Your white cliffs on th horizon s rim, 
 And though to freer skies I flee, 
 
 My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! 
 As knows the dove the task you give her, 
 
 When loosed upon a foreign shore 
 As spreads the rain-drop in the river 
 
 In which it may have flowed before 
 To England, over vale and mountain, 
 
 My fancy flew from climes more fair 
 My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 
 
 Ran warm and fast in England s air. 
 
LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 69 
 
 My mother ! in thy prayer to-night 
 
 There come new words and warmer tears ! 
 On long, long darkness breaks the light 
 
 Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
 Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! 
 
 Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
 The ear of heaven bends low to her! 
 
 He comes to shore who sails with me ! 
 The wind-tost spider needs no token 
 
 How stands the tree when lightnings blaze 
 And by a thread from heaven unbroken, 
 
 I know my mother lives and prays ! 
 
 Dear mother ! when our lips can speak 
 
 When first our tears will let us see 
 When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 
 
 And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me 
 Twill be a pastime little sad 
 
 To trace what weight time s heavy fingers 
 Upon each other s forms have had 
 
 For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! 
 But there s a change, beloved mother ! 
 
 To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
 
70 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 I come but with me comes another 
 
 To share the heart once only mine ! 
 Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 
 
 One star arose in memory s heaven 
 Thou, who hast watch d one treasure only 
 
 Watered one flower with tears at even 
 Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 
 
 Is darken d to lend light to ours ! 
 There are bright flowers of care bereft, 
 
 And hearts that languish more than flowers 
 She was their light their very air 
 
 Room, mother! in thy heart! place for her in thy 
 prayer ! 
 
 English Channel, May, 1836. 
 
71 
 
 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 
 
 THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by, 
 And the old shutters of the turret swung 
 Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon, 
 As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
 Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
 So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
 
 Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
 Yet still it burned, and ever as his thoughts 
 Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
 Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
 With difficult energy, and when the rod 
 Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
 Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
 
72 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 
 
 Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
 Muttered a curse on death ! The silent room 
 From its dim corners mockingly gave back 
 His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
 Had the distinctness of a knell, and when 
 Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
 He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
 And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
 And with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
 He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
 Upright, and communed with himself: 
 
 I did not think to die 
 Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
 I thought to pierce th eternal secret through 
 
 With this my mortal eye ; 
 I felt Oh God! it seemeth even now 
 This cannot be the death-dew on my brow. 
 
 And yet it is I feel 
 Of this dull sickness at my heart afraid ; 
 And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 
 
 And something seems to steal 
 
THEDYINGALCHYMIST. 73 
 
 Over my bosom like a frozen hand, 
 Binding its pulses with an icy band. 
 
 And this is death ! But why 
 Feel I this wild recoil 1 It cannot be 
 Th immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! 
 
 Would it not leap to fly, 
 Like a chain d eaglet at its parent s call t 
 I fear I fear that this poor life is all ! 
 
 Yet thus to pass away ! 
 To live but for a hope that mocks at last 
 To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 
 
 To waste the light of day, 
 Night s better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, 
 All that we have and are for this for nought ! 
 
 Grant me another year, 
 God of my spirit! but a day to win 
 Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 
 
 I would know something here ! 
 Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
 
 Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 
 
 7 
 
74 THEDYINGALCHYMIST. 
 
 Vain vain ! my brain is turning 
 With a swift dizziness, and ray heart grows sick, 
 And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 
 
 And I am freezing burning 
 Dying ! Oh God! if I might only live ! 
 My phial Ha ! it thrills me I revive. 
 
 Ay were not man to die 
 He were too glorious for this narrow sphere ! 
 Had he but time to brood on knowledge here 
 
 Could he but train his eye 
 Might he but wait the mystic word and hour 
 Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 
 
 Earth has no mineral strange 
 Th illimitable air no hidden wings 
 Water no quality in its covert springs, 
 
 And fire no power to change 
 Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
 Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 
 
 Oh, but for time to track 
 The upper stars into the pathless sky 
 
THEDYINGALCHYMIST. 75 
 
 To see th invisible spirits, eye to eye 
 
 To hurl the lightning back 
 To tread unhurt the sea s dim-lighted halls 
 To chase Day s chariot to the horizon-walls 
 
 And more, much more for now 
 The life-sealed fountains of my nature move 
 To nurse and purify this human love 
 
 To clear the god-like brow 
 Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down 
 Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one 
 
 This were indeed to feel 
 The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream 
 To live Oh God ! that life is but a dream! 
 
 And death Aha ! I reel 
 
 Dim dim I faint darkness comes o er my eye - 
 Cover me ! save me ! God of heaven ! I die ! 
 
 Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
 No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 
 Open and ashy pale, th expression wore 
 Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair 
 
76 THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 
 
 Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild, 
 His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
 And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
 His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
 Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 
 
 The storm was raging still. The shutters swung 
 Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, 
 And all without went on as aye it will, 
 Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
 Is breaking, or has broken in its change. 
 
 The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
 The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
 Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
 That fashioned them, and the small silver rod, 
 Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
 Lay on th alembic s rim, as if it still 
 Might vex the elements at its master s will. 
 
 And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
 A soul of fire a sun-bent eagle stricken 
 From his high soaring down an instrument 
 
THE DYING ALGHY MIST. 77 
 
 Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor 
 Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
 Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown 
 His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked 
 A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
 Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 
 
 7* 
 
78 
 
 THE LEPER. 
 
 " ROOM for the leper ! Room !" And, as he came, 
 
 The cry passed on " Room for the leper ! Room !" 
 
 Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 
 
 Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 
 
 The early risen poor were coming in 
 
 Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 
 
 Rose the sharp hammer s clink, and the far hum 
 
 Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, 
 
 And all that in a city murmur swells, 
 
 Unheard but by the watcher s weary ear, 
 
 Aching with night s dull silence, or the sick 
 
 Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase 
 
 The death-like images of the dark away. 
 
THE LEPER. 
 
 " Room for the leper !" And aside they stood 
 Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood all 
 Who met him on his way and let him pass. 
 And onward through the open gate he came, 
 A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
 Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
 A covering, stepping painfully and slow, 
 And with a difficult utterance, like one 
 Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 
 Crying " Unclean ! Unclean !" 
 
 Twas now the first 
 Of the Judean Autumn, and the leaves 
 Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, 
 Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
 Of Judah s loftiest noble. He was young, 
 And eminently beautiful, and life 
 Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, 
 And sparkled in his glance, and in his mien 
 There was a gracious pride that every eye 
 Followed with benisons and this was he ! 
 With the soft airs of Summer there had come 
 A torpor on his frame, which not the speed 
 
 79 
 
80 
 
 THE LEPER. 
 
 Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 
 Of the bold huntsman s horn, nor aught that stirs 
 The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 
 The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 
 Dimness crept o er his eye ; a drowsy sloth 
 Fetter d his limbs like palsy, and his mien 
 With all its loftiness, seemed struck with eld. 
 Even his voice was changed a languid moan 
 Taking the place of the clear, silver key ; 
 And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light, 
 And very air, were steeped in sluggishness. 
 He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, 
 Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 
 Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise 
 The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. 
 Day after day, he lay, as if in sleep. 
 His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales 
 Circled with livid purple, covered him. 
 And then his nails grew black, and fell away 
 From the dull flesh about them, and the hues 
 Deepened beneath the hard unmoistened scales, 
 And from their edges grew the rank white hair, 
 And Melon was a leper ! 
 
THE LEPER. 
 
 81 
 
 Day was breaking 
 
 When at the altar of the temple stood 
 The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 
 Burned with a struggling light, and a low chaunt 
 Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof 
 Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, 
 Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 
 The echoes of the melancholy strain 
 Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, 
 Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head 
 Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
 His costly raiment for the leper s garb, 
 And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
 Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still 
 Waiting to hear his doom : 
 
 Depart ! depart, O child 
 Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! 
 For He has smote thee with his chastening rod, 
 
 And to the desert- wild, 
 From all thou lov st away thy feet must flee, 
 That from thy plague His people may be free. 
 
oZ THELEPER. 
 
 Depart ! and come not near 
 The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
 Nor set thy foot a human threshold o er ; 
 
 And stay thou not to hear 
 Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly 
 From all who in the wilderness pass by. 
 
 Wet not thy burning lip 
 In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
 Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; 
 
 Nor kneel thee down to dip 
 The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
 
 By desert well or river s grassy brink. 
 
 And pass thou not between 
 The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; 
 And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 
 
 Where human tracks are seen ; 
 Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
 Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain* 
 
 And now depart ! and when 
 Thine heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
 
83 
 
 THE LEPER. 
 
 Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him 
 
 Who, from the tribes of men, 
 Selected thee to feel his chastening rod. 
 Depart ! O leper ! and forget not God ! 
 
 And he went forth alone ! not one of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
 Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
 Comfort unto him. Yea he went his way, . 
 Sick, and heart-broken, and alone to die ! 
 For God had cursed the leper ! 
 
 It was noon, 
 
 And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
 In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
 Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched 
 The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
 Praying that he might be so blest to die ! 
 Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, 
 He drew the covering closer on his lip, 
 Crying " Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds 
 Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
 
84 THE LEPER. 
 
 He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
 Nearer the stranger came, and bending o er 
 The leper s prostrate form, pronounced his name. 
 " Melon!" the voice was like the master-tone 
 Of a rich instrument most strangely sweet ; 
 And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
 And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
 And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
 " Helon! arise !" and he forgot his curse, 
 And rose and stood before him. 
 
 Love and awe 
 
 Mingled in the regard of Melon s eye 
 As he beheld the stranger. He was not 
 In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
 The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
 No followers at his back, nor in his hand 
 Buckler, or sword, or spear yet in his mien 
 Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, 
 I A kingly condescension graced his lips, 
 The ,lion would have crouched to, in his lair. 
 His garb was simple, and his sandals worn ; 
 His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; 
 
THELEPER. 85 
 
 His countenance the impress of a God 
 Touched with the open innocence of a child ; 
 His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 
 In the serenest noon ; his hair unshorn 
 Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard 
 The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 
 He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 
 As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down, 
 He took a little water in his hand 
 And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean !" 
 And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
 Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 
 And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 
 The dewy softness of an infant s stole. 
 His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
 Prostrate at Jesus feet and worshiped him. 
 
86 
 
 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 " Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian 
 captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one 
 very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to 
 death with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his exam 
 ple, to expres the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom 
 he was then about to paint." 
 
 BURTON S ANA.T. OF MEL. 
 
 THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart, 
 A gray-haired and majestical old man, 
 Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, 
 And the last seller from his place had gone, 
 And not a sound was heard but of a dog 
 Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, 
 Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, 
 As the faint captive changed his weary feet. 
 
PARRHASIUS. 
 
 87 
 
 He had stood there since morning, and borne 
 
 From every eye in Athens the cold gaze 
 
 Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him 
 
 For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came 
 
 And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, 
 
 And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer 
 
 Passed on, and when, with weariness o erspent, 
 
 He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, 
 
 Th inhuman soldier smote him, and with threats 
 
 Of torture to his children summoned back 
 
 The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 
 
 Twas evening, and the half descended sun 
 
 Tipped with a golden fire the many domes 
 
 Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere 
 
 Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street 
 
 Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up 
 
 With a stout heart that long and weary day, 
 
 Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, 
 
 But now he was alone, and from his nerves 
 
 The needless strength departed, and he leaned 
 
 Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts 
 
 Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him, 
 
88 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, 
 
 Gazing upon his grief. Th Athenian s cheek 
 
 Flush d as he measured with a painter s eye 
 
 The moving picture. The abandon d limbs, 
 
 Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins 
 
 Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, 
 
 Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes, 
 
 And as a thought of wilder bitterness 
 
 Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, 
 
 And the fast workings of his bloodless face 
 
 Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The golden light into the painter s room 
 Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole 
 From the dark pictures radiantly forth, 
 And in the soft and dewy atmosphere 
 Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. 
 The walls were hung with armor, and about 
 In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms 
 Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, 
 And from the casement soberly away 
 Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, 
 And, like a veil of filmy mellowness, 
 The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. 
 
PARRHASIUS. by 
 
 Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
 Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 
 Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, 
 The vulture at his vitals, and the links 
 Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh, 
 And as the painter s mind felt through the dim, 
 Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth 
 With its far-reaching fancy, and with form 
 And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye, 
 
 ; 
 
 Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
 
 Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip 
 
 Were like the winged God s, breathing from his flight. 
 
 " Bring me the captive now ! 
 My hands feels skilful, and the shadows lift 
 From my waked spirit airily and swift, 
 
 And I could paint the bow 
 Upon the bended heavens around me play 
 Colors of such divinity to-day. 
 
 Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
 Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
 
 or he faints! stand with the cordial near! 
 8* 
 
90 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 Now bend him to the rack ! 
 Press down the poison d links into his flesh ! 
 And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 
 
 So let him writhe! How long 
 Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! 
 What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 
 
 Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! 
 How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
 Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! / 
 
 4 Pity thee ! So I do ! 
 I pity the dumb victim at (he altar 
 But does the rob d priest for his pity falter ? 
 
 I d rack thee though I knew 
 A thousand lives were perishing in thine 
 What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 
 
 "Hereafter!" Ay hereafter! 
 A whip to keep a coward to his track! 
 What gave death ever from his kingdom back 
 
 To check the sceptic s laughter? 
 Come from the grave to-morrow with that story 
 And I may take some softer path to glory. 
 
PARRHASIUS. 91 
 
 No, no, old man ! we die 
 
 Ev n as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
 Our life upon the chance wind, ev n as they! 
 
 Strain well thy fainting eye 
 For when that bloodshot quivering is o er, 
 The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 
 
 Yet there s a deathless name ! 
 A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
 And like a steadfast planet mount and burn 
 
 And though its crown of flame 
 Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
 By all the fiery stars ! I d bind it on! 
 
 Ay though it bid me rifle 
 My heart s last fount for its insatiate thirst 
 Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first 
 
 Though it should bid me stifle 
 The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
 And taunt its mother till my brain went wild 
 
 All I would do it all 
 Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot 
 
92 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot! 
 Oh Heavens but I appal 
 
 Your heart, old man! forgive ha! on your lives 
 
 Let him not faint ! rack him till he revives ! 
 
 Vain vain give o er ! His eye 
 Glazes apace. He does not feel you now 
 Stand back! I ll paint the death-dew on his brow! 
 
 Gods ! if he do not die 
 But for one moment one till I eclipse 
 Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! 
 
 Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters 
 Brokenly now that was a difficult breath 
 Another? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death ! 
 
 Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
 Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! 
 
 He shudders gasps Jove help him! so he s dead." 
 
 ****** 
 
 How like a mounting devil in the heart 
 Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once 
 But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 
 Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 
 
PARRHASIUS. 
 
 And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on 
 
 The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 
 
 The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 
 
 Left in the bosom for the spirit s lip, 
 
 We look upon our splendor and forget 
 
 The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life 
 
 Many a falser idol. There are hopes 
 
 Promising well, and love-touch d dreams for some, 
 
 And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes 
 
 For gold and pleasure yet will only this 
 
 Balk not the soul Ambition only gives 
 
 Even of bitterness a beaker full ! 
 
 Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, 
 
 Troubled at best Love is a lamp unseen, 
 
 Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, 
 
 Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken 
 
 Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, 
 
 And Quiet is a hunger never fed 
 
 And from Love s very bosom, and from Gain, 
 
 Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose, 
 
 From all but keen Ambition, will the soul 
 
 Snatch the first moment of forgetful ness 
 
 To wander like a restless child away. 
 
94 PARRHASIUS. 
 
 Oh, if there were not better hopes than these 
 Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame 
 If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart 
 Must canker in its coffers if the links 
 Falsehood hath broken will unite no more 
 If the deep-yearning love that hath not found 
 Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears 
 If truth, and fervor, and devotedness, 
 
 ; j 
 
 Finding no worthy altar, must return 
 
 And die of their own fulness if beyond 
 
 The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air 
 
 The spirit may find room, and in the love 
 
 Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart 
 
 May spend itself what thrice-mocked fools are we ! 
 
95 
 
 THE WIFE S APPEAL. 
 
 " Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride above all things 
 strengthens affection/ 
 
 E. L. BULWER. 
 
 HE sat and read. A book with silver clasps, 
 
 All gorgeous with illuminated lines 
 
 Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame 
 
 Before him. Twas a volume of old time ; 
 
 And in it were fine mysteries of the stars 
 
 Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts 
 
 Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams 
 
 Clearer than truth, and speculations wild 
 
 That touched the secrets of your very soul, 
 
 They were so based on Nature. With a face 
 
 Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book. 
 
 The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft 
 
 Beneath his limbs, and, as he turned the page, 
 
96 THE WIFE S APPEAL. 
 
 The sunlight, streaming through the curtain s fold, 
 
 Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell d hand, 
 
 And the rich woods of the quaint furniture 
 
 Lay deepening their veined colours in the sun, 
 
 And the stained marbles on the pedestals 
 
 Stood like a silent company. Voltaire, 
 
 With an infernal sneer upon his lips, 
 
 And Socrates, with godlike human love 
 
 Stamped on his countenance, and orators 
 
 Of times gone by that made them, and old bards, 
 
 And Medicean Venus, half divine. 
 
 Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, 
 
 And rich old pictures hung upon the walls 
 
 Where the slant light fell on them ; and wrought gems, 
 
 Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques 
 
 From Herculaneum, the niches filled. 
 
 And on a table of enamel, wrought 
 
 With a lost art in Italy, there lay 
 
 Prints of fair women, and engravings rare, 
 
 And a new poem, and a costly toy, 
 
 And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze 
 
 Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep 
 
 Upon the carpet couched a graceful hound, 
 
THE WIFE S APPEAL. 97 
 
 Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave 
 A murmur of delight at some sweet line, 
 He raised his slender head, and kept his eye 
 Upon him till the pleasant smile had passed 
 From his mild lips, and then he slept again. 
 The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk, 
 And the clear letters of the pleasant book 
 Mingled and blurred, and the lithe hound rose up, 
 And, with his earnest eye upon the door, 
 Listened attentively. It came as wont 
 The fall of a light foot upon the stair 
 And the fond animal sprang out to meet 
 His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand, 
 He seemed to know was beautiful. She stooped 
 Gracefully down and touched his silken ears 
 As she passed in then, with a tenderness, 
 Half playful and half serious, she knelt 
 Upon the ottoman and pressed her lips 
 
 Upon her husband s forehead. 
 
 ***** 
 
 She rose and put the curtain-folds aside 
 From the high window, and looked out upon 
 
 The shining stars in silence. " Look they not 
 9 
 
98 
 
 Like Paradise to thine eye ?" he said 
 But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light, 
 And starting from his seat he folded her 
 Close to his heart, and, with unsteady voice, 
 Asked if she was not happy. A faint smile 
 Broke through her tears ; and pushing off the hair 
 From his fine forehead, she held back his head 
 With her white hand, and, gazing on his face, 
 Gave to her heart free utterance : 
 
 Happy ? yes, dearest ! blest 
 Beyond the limit of my wildest dream 
 Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem ; 
 
 There lives not in my breast, 
 One of Hope s promises by Love unkept, 
 And yet forgive me, Ernest I have wept. 
 
 How shall I speak of sadness, 
 And seem not thankless to my God and thee ? 
 How can the lightest wish but seem to be 
 
 The very whim of madness 1 
 Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside 
 And I will ask it of thee in my pride ! 
 
THE WIFE S APPEAL. 99 
 
 List, while my boldness lingers ! 
 If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee 
 If thou couldst bid the rainbow s curve bend near 
 thee 
 
 If thou couldst charm thy fingers 
 To weave for thee the Sunset s tent of gold 
 Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold ? 
 
 If thou hadst Ariel s gift, 
 To course the" veined metals of the earth 
 If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth 
 
 If thou couldst know the drift 
 Of the lost cloud that sailed into the sky 
 Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswered eye 1 
 
 It is thy life and mine ! 
 Thou in thyself, and I in thee, misprison 
 Gifts like a circle of bright stars unrisen 
 
 For thou whose mind should shine 
 Eminent as a planet s light, art here 
 Moved with the starting of a woman s tear ! 
 
 I have told o er thy powers 
 Jn secret, as a miser tells his gold ; 
 
100 THE WIFE S APPEAL. 
 
 I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold : 
 
 I ve watched thy lightest hours, 
 And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth 
 Touched with the instinct ravishment of truth. 
 
 Thou hast the secret strange 
 To read that hidden book, the human heart ; 
 Thou hast the ready writer s practised art ; 
 
 Thou hast the thought to range 
 The broadest circles Intellect hath ran 
 And thou art God s best work an honest man t 
 
 And yet thou slumberest here 
 Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions, 
 And others track in glory the dominions 
 
 Where thou hast not thy peer 
 Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun, 
 And plucking honor that thou shouldst have won. 
 
 Oh, if thou lov dst me ever, 
 Ernest, my husband ! If th idolatry 
 That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee 
 
 If to dismiss thee never 
 
THE WIFE S APPEAL. 10 1 
 
 In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim 
 Heed me oh, heed me ! and awake to Fame ! 
 
 Her lips 
 
 Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat 
 Gazing into his eyes as if her look 
 Searched their dark orbs for answer. The warm blood 
 Into his temples mounted, and across 
 His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts 
 Passed with irresolute quickness. He rose up 
 And paced the dim room rapidly awhile, 
 Calming his troubled mind, and then he came 
 And laid his hand upon her orbed brow, 
 And in a voice of heavenly tenderness 
 Answered her : 
 
 Before I knew thee, Mary, 
 Ambition was my angel. I did hear 
 For ever its witch d voices in mine ear ; 
 
 My days were visionary, 
 My nights were like the slumbers of the mad, 
 ? And every dream swept o er me glory-clad. 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 I read the burning letters 
 Of warlike pomp, on History s page, alone ; 
 I counted nothing the struck widow s moan ; 
 
 I heard no clank of fetters ; 
 I only felt the trumpet s stirring blast, 
 And lean-eyed Famine stalked unchallenged past ! 
 
 I heard with veins of lightning, 
 The utterance of the Statesman s word of power 
 Binding and loosing nations in an hour 
 
 But while my eye was brightening, 
 A masked detraction breathed upon his fame, 
 And a curst serpent slimed his written name. 
 
 The Poet rapt mine ears 
 With the transporting music that he sung. 
 With fibres from his life his lyre he strung, 
 
 And bathed the world in tears 
 And then he turned away to muse apart, 
 And scorn stole after him and broke his heart I 
 
 Yet here and there I saw 
 One who did set the world at calm defiance, 
 
And press right onward with a bold reliance ; 
 
 And he did seem to awe 
 The very shadows pressing on his breast, 
 And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest. 
 
 And then I looked again, 
 And he had shut the door upon the crowd, 
 And on his face he lay and groaned aloud- 
 Wrestling with hidden pain ; 
 And in her chamber sat his wife in tears, 
 And his sweet babes grew sad with whispered fears- 
 
 And so I turn d sick-hearted 
 From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness, 
 Searched mine own bosom for some spring of glad 
 ness ; 
 
 And lo ! a fountain started 
 Whose waters ev n in death flow calm and fast, 
 And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last. 
 
 And then I met thee, Mary, 
 And felt how love may into fulness pour, 
 Like light into a fountain running o er : 
 
104 THE WIFE S APPEAL, 
 
 And I did hope to vary 
 My life but with surprises sweet as this 
 A dream, but for thy waking filled with bliss. 
 
 Yet now I feel my spirit 
 Bitterly stirred, and -nay, lift up thy brow ! 
 It is thine own voice echoing to thee now, 
 
 And thou didst pray to hear it 
 I must unto my work and my stern hours ! 
 
 Take from my room thy harp, and books and flowers ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 * * * * A year 
 
 And in his room again he sat alone. 
 His frame had lost its fulness in that time ; 
 His manly features had grown sharp and thin, 
 And from his lips the constant smile had faded. 
 Wild fires had burned the languor from his eye : 
 The lids looked fevered, and the brow was bent 
 With an habitual frown. He was much changed. 
 His chin was resting on his clenched hand, 
 And with his foot he beat upon the floor 
 Unconsciously the time of a sad tune. 
 Thoughts of the past preyed on him bitterly. 
 
105 
 
 He had won power and held it. He had walked 
 Steadily upward in the eye of Fame, 
 And kept his truth unsullied but his home 
 Had been invaded by envenomed tongues ; 
 His wife his spotless wife had been assailed 
 By slander, and his child had grown afraid 
 To come to him his manner was so stern. 
 He could not speak beside his own hearth freely. 
 His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men 
 Presumed upon their services and grew 
 Familiar with him. He d small time to sleep, 
 And none to pray ; and, with his heart in fetters, 
 He bore deep insults silently, and bowed 
 Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them ! 
 And when his heart was eloquent with truth, 
 And love of country and honest zeal 
 Burned for expression, he could find no words 
 They would not misinterpret with their lies. 
 What were his many honors to him now ? 
 The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong 
 His home was hateful with its cautious fears 
 His wife lay trembling on his very breast 
 Frighted with calumny ! And this is FAME* 
 
106 
 
 THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORA1V 
 
 "lufluentia coeli morbum hunc movet, interdum omnibus 
 aliis amotis." 
 
 MELANCTHON DE ANIMA, CAP. DE HUMORIBUS. 
 
 NIGHT in Arabia. An hour ago, 
 Pale Dian had descended from the sky, 
 Flinging her cestus out upon the sea, 
 And at their watches now the solemn stars 
 Stood vigilant and lone ; and, dead asleep, 
 With not a shadow moving on its breast, 
 The breathing earth lay in its silver dew, 
 
 A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent 
 forty years in discovering the motion of the eighth sphere. He 
 had a scholar, a young Bedouin Arab, who, with a singular pas 
 sion for knowledge, abandoned his wandering tribe, and, apply 
 ing himself too closely to astrology, lost his reason and died, 
 
THE SCHOLAR OF TIIEBET BEN KHORAT. 107 
 
 And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings, 
 
 TV imprisoned odors left the flowers to dream 
 
 And stole away upon the yielding air. 
 
 Ben Khorat s tower stands shadowy and tall 
 
 In Mecca s loneliest street ; and ever there, 
 
 When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp 
 
 As constant as the Cynosure, and forth 
 
 From his looped window stretch the brazen tubes, 
 
 Pointing forever at the central star 
 
 Of that dim nebula just lifting now 
 
 Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night 
 
 Is of a clearer blackness than is wont, 
 
 And far within its depths the colored stars* 
 
 * " Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably differ 
 ent colors ; but when viewed with a prismatic glass, they may 
 be very accurately classed into the red, the yellow, the brilliant 
 white, the dull white and the anomalous. This is true also of 
 the planets, which shine by reflected light, and of course the 
 difference of color must be supposed to arise from their differ 
 ent powers to absorb and reflect the rays of the sun. The 
 original composition of the stars, and the different dispersive 
 powers of their different atmospheres, may be supposed to ac 
 count also for this phenomenon," 
 
108 THE SCHOLAR OF 
 
 Sparkle like gems capricious Antares* 
 
 Flushing and paling in the Southern arch, 
 
 And azure Lyra, v like a woman s eye, 
 
 Burning with soft blue lustre} and away 
 
 Over the desert the bright Polar-star, 
 
 White as a flashing icicle, and here, 
 
 Hung like a lamp above th Arabian sea, 
 
 Mars with his dusky glow, and, fairer yet, 
 
 Mild Sirius,! tinct with dewy violet, 
 
 Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve ; 
 
 And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,f 
 
 (Alas that ev n a star may pass from heaven 
 
 And not be miss d !) the linked Pleiades 
 
 Undimmed are there, though from the sister band 
 
 The fairest has gone down, and, South away, 
 
 Hirundojl with its little company, 
 
 * This star exhibits a peculiar quality a rapid and beautiful 
 shange in the color of its light; every alternate twinkling being 
 of an intense reddish crimson color, and the answering one of a 
 brilliant white. 
 
 t When seen with a prismatic glass, Sirius shows a large brush 
 of exceedingly beautiful violet rays. 
 
 | The Pleiades are vertical in Arabia. 
 
 || An Arabic constellation placed instead of the Piscis Australis, 
 because the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the he- 
 .iacal rising of the Fishes. 
 
THEBET BEN KHORAT. 109 
 
 And white-browed Vesta, lamping on her path 
 Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven, 
 Articulate almost, they troop to night, 
 Like unrob d angels in a prophet s trance. 
 
 Ben Khorat knelt before his telescope,* 
 Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars. 
 The gray hairs, struggling from his turban folds, 
 Played with the entering wind upon his cheeks, 
 And on his breast his venerable beard 
 With supernatural whiteness loosely fell. 
 The black flesh swelled about his sandal thongs, 
 Tight with his painful posture, and his lean 
 And withered fingers to his knees were clenched, 
 And the thin lashes of his straining eye 
 Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens, 
 Stiffened with tense up-turning. Hour by hour, 
 Till the stars melted in the flush of morn, 
 The old astrologer knelt moveless there, 
 Ravished past pain with the bewildering spheres, 
 
 * An anachronism, the author is aware. The Telescope 
 was not invented for a century or two after the time oi Ben 
 Khorat. 
 
 10 
 
110 THE SCHOLAR OP 
 
 And, hour by hour, with the same patient thought, 
 Pored his pale scholar on the characters 
 Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim 
 With weariness, the dark-eyed Arab laid 
 His head upon the window and looked forth 
 Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews 
 And the soft beauty of the silent night 
 Cooled his flushed eyelids, and then patiently 
 He turned unto his constant task again. 
 
 The sparry glinting of the Morning Star 
 Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm 
 Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught 
 The eye of the rapt scholar, he arose 
 And clasped the volume with an eager haste, 
 And as the glorious planet mounted on, 
 Melting her way into the upper sky, 
 He breathlessly gazed on her : 
 
 " Star of the silver ray ! 
 Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave 
 What spirit the eternal canon gave 
 
 That bends thee to thy way ? 
 
THEBET BEN KHORAT. Ill 
 
 What is the soul that on thine arrowy light 
 Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night ? 
 
 We know when thou wilt soar 
 Over the mount thy change, and place, and 
 
 time 
 Tis written in the Chaldee s mystic rhyme 
 
 As twere a priceless lore ! 
 I knew as much in my Bedouin garb 
 Coursing the desert on my flying barb ! 
 
 How oft amid the tents 
 Upon Sahara s sands I ve walked alone, 
 Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one ! 
 
 With what magnificence, 
 In the last watches, to my thirsting eye, 
 Thy passionate beauty flushed into the sky ! 
 
 Oh, God ! how flew my soul 
 Out to thy glory upward on thy ray 
 Panting as thou ascendedst on thy way, 
 
 As if thine own control 
 This searchless spirit that I cannot find 
 Had set its radiant law upon my mind ! 
 
112 THE SCHOLAR OF 
 
 More than all stars in heaven 
 I felt thee in my heart ! my love became 
 A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame. 
 
 Ay, in the desert even 
 My dark-eyed A bra coursing at my side 
 The star, not Abra, was my spirit s bride ! 
 
 My Abra is no more ! 
 My desert-bird is in a stranger s stall 
 My tribe, my tent I sacrificed them all 
 
 For this heart-wasting lore ! 
 Yet than all these the thought is sweeter far 
 Thou wert ascendant at my birth,, bright star ! 
 
 The Chaldee calls me thine 
 And in v this breast, that I must rend to be 
 A spirit upon wings of light like thee, 
 
 I feel that thou art mine ! 
 
 Oh, God ! that these dull fetters would give way 
 And let me forth to track thy silver ray!" 
 
 * * * Ben Khorat rose 
 
 And silently looked forth upon the East 
 
THEBET BEN KHORAT. 113 
 
 The dawn was stealing up into the sky 
 
 On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace, 
 
 And faded, till the Morning Star alone, 
 
 Soft as a molten diamond s liquid fire, 
 
 Burned in the heavens. The mom grew freshlier 
 
 The upper clouds were faintly touched with gold, 
 
 The fan-palms rustled in the early air, 
 
 Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills, 
 
 And still the star was visible, and still 
 
 The young Bedouin with a straining eye 
 
 Drank its departing light into his soul. 
 
 It faded melted and the fiery rim 
 
 Of the clear sun came up, and painfully 
 
 The passionate scholar pressed upon his eyes 
 
 His dusky fingers, and with limbs as weak 
 
 As a sick child s, turned fainting to his couch, 
 
 And slept. * * * 
 
 II, 
 
 It was the morning watch once more. 
 The clouds were drifting rapidly above, 
 And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through, 
 And as the fitful gust soughed mournfully, 
 10* 
 
114 THE SCHOLAR OF 
 
 
 
 The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof 
 
 Plashed heavily large single drops of rain, 
 
 And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat 
 
 By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept, 
 
 Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet, 
 
 Stretched on a pallet, lay the Arab boy, 
 
 Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep, 
 
 And working his dark fingers in his palms 
 
 Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale, 
 
 And, as they moved, his teeth showed ghastly through, 
 
 White as a charnel bone, and closely drawn 
 
 Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press 
 
 Some frightful image from the bloodshot balls. 
 
 His lids a moment quivered, and again 
 
 Relaxed, half open, in a calmer sleep. 
 
 Bon Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands 
 Of the departing hour. The last white grain 
 Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age 
 The old astrologer reversed the glass ; 
 And, as the voiceless monitor went on, 
 Wasting and wasting with the precious hour, 
 He looked upon it with a moving lip, 
 
THEBET BEN KHORAT. 115 
 
 And, starting, turned his gaze upon the heavens. 
 Cursing the clouds impatiently. 
 
 "Tistime!" 
 
 Muttered the dying scholar, and he dashed 
 The tangled hair from his black eyes away, 
 And, seizing on Ben Khorat s mantle-folds, 
 He struggled to his feet, and falling prone 
 Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly 
 Into the East : 
 
 " There is a cloud between 
 She sits this instant on the mountain s brow, 
 And that dusk veil hides all her glory now 
 
 Yet floats she as serene 
 
 Into the heavens ! Oh, God ! that even so 
 
 I could o ermount my spirit-cloud, and go ! 
 
 The cloud begins to drift ! 
 Aha ! Fling open ! tis the star the sky ! 
 Touch me, immortal mother ! and I fly ! 
 
 Wider ! thou cloudy rift ! 
 
 Let through ! such glory should have radiant room ! 
 Let through ! a star-child on its light goes home ! 
 
116 THE SCHOLAR OF 
 
 Speak to me, brethren bright ! 
 Ye who are floating in these living- beams ! 
 Ye who have come to me in starry dreams ! 
 
 Ye who have winged the light 
 Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame 
 (I knew it passed through spirits as it came) 
 
 Tell me ! what power have ye ? 
 What are the heights ye reach upon your wings ? 
 What know ye of the myriad wondrous things 
 
 I perish but to see ? 
 
 Are ye thought-rapid ? Can ye fly as far 
 As instant as a thought, from star to star 1 
 
 Where has the Pleiad gone ? 
 Where have all missing stars* found light and 
 home 1 
 
 * Missing stars are often spoken of in the old books of as 
 tronomy. Hipparchus mentions one that appeared and vanish 
 ed very suddenly ; and in the beginning of the sixteenth century 
 Kepler discovered a new star near the heel of the right foot of 
 Serpentarius. " so bright and sparkling that it exceeded any 
 tiling he had ever seen before." He " took notice that it was 
 every moment changing into some of the colors of the rainbow, 
 
THEBET BEN KHORAT. 117 
 
 Who bids the Stella Mira* go and come ? 
 
 Why sits the Pole-star lone ? 
 And why, like banded sisters, through the air 
 Go in bright troops the constellations fair ? 
 
 Ben Khorat ! dost thou mark ? 
 The star ! the star! By heavens, the cloud drifts 
 
 o er ! 
 Gone and I live ! nay will my heart beat more ? 
 
 Look ! master ! tis all dark ! 
 
 Not a clear speck in heaven ! my eye-balls smother 1 
 Break through the clouds once more ! oh, starry 
 mother ! 
 
 I will lie down ! Yet, stay, 
 The rain beats out the odour from the gums, 
 And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes ! 
 
 I am a child alway 
 
 except when it was near the horizon, when it was generally 
 white." It disappeared the following year, and has not been 
 seen since. 
 
 * A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by 
 Fabricius in the fifteenth century. It appears and disappears 
 seven times in six years, and continues in the greatest lustre for 
 fifteen days together, 
 
118 THE SCHOLAR OF 
 
 When it is on my forehead ! Abra sweet ! 
 Would I were in the desert at thy feet ! 
 
 My barb ! my glorious steed ! 
 Methinks my soul would mount upon its track 
 More fleetly, could I die upon thy back ! 
 
 How would thy thrilling speed 
 Quicken my pulse ! Oh, Allah ! I get wild ! 
 Would that I were once more a desert-child 1 
 
 Nay nay I had forgot ! 
 
 My mother ! my star mother ! Ha ! my breath 
 Stifles! more air! BenKhorat! this is death! 
 
 Touch me ! 1 feel you not ! 
 
 Dying! Farewell! goodmaster! room! more room! 
 Abra ! I loved thee ! star bright star ! I come !" 
 
 How idly of the human heart we speak, 
 Giving it gods of clay ! How worse than vain 
 Is the school homily, that Eden s fruit 
 Cannot be plucked too freely from " the tree 
 Of good and evil." Wisdom sits alone, 
 Topmost in heaven ; she is its light its God ! 
 
THE BET BEN KHORAT. 119 
 
 And in the heart of man she sits as high 
 Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes, 
 Seeing but this world s idols. The pure mind 
 Sees her for ever : and in youth we come 
 Filled with her sainted ravishment, and kneel, 
 Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires, 
 And then is knowledge " good." We come too oft 
 The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon 
 Look with licentious freedom on the maid 
 Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits, 
 Robed in her soft and seraph loveliness, 
 Instructing and forgiving, and we gaze 
 Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands 
 Upon her very garments, are struck down, 
 Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven ! 
 Yet, oh ! how full of music from her lips 
 Breathe the calm tones of wisdom ! Human praise 
 Is sweet till envy mars it, and the touch 
 Of new-won gold stirs up the pulses well, 
 And woman s love, if in a beggar s lamp 
 T would burn, might light us cheerly through the world ; 
 But Knowledge hath a far more wildering tongue, 
 And she will stoop and lead you to the stars, 
 
120 THE SCHOLAR OF, ETC. 
 
 And witch you with her mysteries, till gold 
 Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame 
 Toys of an hour, and woman s careless love, 
 Light as the breath that breaks it. He who binds 
 His soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven 
 But tis a bitter mockery that the fruit 
 May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst 
 Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste 
 It burns his lips to ashes ! 
 
121 
 
 CHRIST S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 
 
 HE sat upon the ass s colt and rode 
 Toward Jerusalem. Beside him walked 
 Closely and silently the faithful twelve, 
 And on before him went a multitude 
 Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands 
 Strewing their garments thickly in his way. 
 Th unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp d, 
 Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song 
 Of " welcome to the Son of David" burst 
 Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves 
 Of the wav d branches touch d its silken ears, 
 It turned its wild eye for a moment back, 
 And then, subdued by an invisible hand, 
 Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 
 
 The dew s last sparkle from the grass bad gone 
 11 
 
122 CHRIST S ENTRANCE 
 
 As he rode Up Mount Olivet. The woods 
 
 Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west, 
 
 And the light foal, with quick and toiling step 
 
 And head bent low, kept its unslacken d way 
 
 Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind 
 
 Sent o f er the mount from Jordan. As he reach d 
 
 The summit s breezy pitch, the Saviour rais d 
 
 His calm blue eye there stood Jerusulem ! 
 
 Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
 
 His mantle s passive folds, a bolder line 
 
 Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs 
 
 Betray d the swelling fulness of his heart. 
 
 There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look d 
 
 The silver sun on all her palaces, 
 
 And her fair daughters mid the golden spires 
 
 Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron s stream 
 
 Lacing the meadows with its silver band, 
 
 And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 
 
 With the morn s exhalations. There she stood 
 
 Jerusalem the city of his love, 
 
 Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem 
 
 That knew him not and had rejected him ; 
 
 Jerusalem for whom he came to die ! 
 
INTO JERUSALEM. 123 
 
 The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips 
 
 At the fair sight, the children leap d and sang 
 
 Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was filled 
 
 With odor from the trampled olive leaves 
 
 But " Jesus wept." The lov d disciple saw 
 
 His Master s tears, and closer to his side 
 
 He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 
 
 The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, 
 
 And mourn d " How oft, Jerusalem ! would I 
 
 Have gather d you, as gathereth a hen 
 
 Her brood beneath her wings but ye would not ! n 
 
 He thought not of the death that he should die 
 He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce 
 His forehead of the buffet on the cheek 
 The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn! 
 
 Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye 
 
 Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, 
 
 While they who " could not watch with him one 
 
 hour" 
 
 Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood, 
 Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha 
 
124 CHRIST S ENTRANCE, ETC. 
 
 Stood bare and desert by the city wall, 
 And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, 
 Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies 
 Were number d all the nails were in his feet 
 Th insulting sponge was pressing on his lips 
 The blood and water gushing from his side 
 The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain 
 And, while his own disciples fled in fear, 
 A world s death-agonies all mix d in his ! 
 Ay ! he forgot all this. He only saw 
 Jerusalem, the chos n the lov d the lost! 
 He only felt that for her sake his life 
 Was vainly giv n, and in his pitying love, 
 The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in 
 
 black, 
 Were quite forgotten. 
 
 Was there ever love, 
 In earth or heaven equal unto this ? 
 
125 
 
 THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.* 
 
 FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve 
 Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
 Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
 Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance, 
 Her thin pale fingers clasp d within the hand 
 Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, 
 Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
 The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
 And as it stirr d with the awakening wind, 
 The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 
 And her slight fingers mov d, and heavily 
 She turn d upon her pillow. He was there 
 The same lov d, tireless watcher, and she look d 
 Into his face until her sight grew dim 
 
 * Luke viii. 54, 55. 
 11* 
 
126 THE HEALING OF 
 
 With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh 
 
 Of tremulous weakness, murmuring his name, 
 
 She gently drew his hands upon her lips, 
 
 And kiss d it as she wept. The old man sunk 
 
 Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
 
 Of the rich curtains buried up his face 
 
 And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
 
 Stirr d with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 
 
 Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear 
 
 In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
 
 Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave 
 
 To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth 
 
 He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
 
 Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
 
 Ach d with its deathly stillness. . * % 
 
 . . . It was night 
 
 And softly o er the Sea of Galilee 
 Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
 Tipp d with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
 The breaking waves play d low upon the beach 
 Their constant music, but the air beside 
 Was still as starlight, and the Saviour s voice, 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 127 
 
 In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, 
 Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, 
 Wak d by the power of wisdom. On a rock, 
 With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
 He stood and taught the people. At his feet 
 Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim s scallop-shell, 
 And staff for they had waited by the sea 
 Till he came o er from Gadarene, and pray d 
 For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
 His hair was parted meekly on his brow, 
 And the long curls from off his shoulders fell 
 As he leaned forward earnestly, and still 
 The same calm cadence, passionless and deep, 
 And in his looks the same mild majesty, 
 And in his mien the sadness mix d with power, 
 Fill d them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 
 As on his words entrancedly they hung, 
 The crowd divided, and among them stood 
 JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe 
 Gather d in haste about his loins, he came, 
 And fix d his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
 The twelve disciples to their Master s side, 
 And silently the people shrunk away, 
 
128 THE HEALING OF 
 
 And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
 Alone. A moment longer on the face 
 Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 
 And as the twelve look d on him, by the light 
 Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
 Steal to his silver beard, and drawing nigh 
 Unto the Saviour s feet, he took the hem 
 Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
 Press d it upon his lips, and murmur d low, 
 " Master! my daughter /" 
 
 . > . hf! ;: . The same silvery light, 
 That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, 
 Slept on the Ruler s lofty capitals 
 As at the door he stood, and welcom d in 
 Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 
 The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
 Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
 Of moonlight slanting to the marble floor 
 Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms 
 As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 
 He trod the winding stair, but ere he touch d 
 The latchet, from within a whisper came, 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 129 
 
 " Trouble the Master not for she is dead!" 
 And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 
 And his steps falter d, and his broken voice 
 Chok d in its utterance ; But a gentle hand 
 Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
 The Saviour s voice sank thrillingly and low, 
 " She is not dead but shepeth." 
 
 They pass d in. 
 
 The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
 BurnM dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
 Curl d indolently on the chamber walls. 
 The silken curtains slumbered in their folds 
 Not ev n a tassel stirring in the air 
 And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, 
 And pray d inaudibly, the Ruler heard 
 The quickening division of his breath 
 As he grew earnest inwardly. There came 
 A gradual brightness o er his calm sad face, 
 And drawing nearer to the bed, he mov d 
 The silken curtains silently apart 
 And look d upon the maiden. 
 
130 THE HEALING OP 
 
 Like a form 
 
 Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay 
 The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
 And over it her white transparent hands, 
 The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
 A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
 And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, 
 The breathing curve was mockingly like life, 
 And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
 Ran the light branches of the azure veins 
 And on her cheek the jet lash overlay 
 Matching the arches pencilled on her brow: 
 Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
 Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
 In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
 Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung 
 Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
 Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour rais d 
 Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
 The snowy fingers in his palm, and said 
 " Maiden ! Arise /" and suddenly a flush 
 Shot o er her forehead, and along her lips 
 And through her cheek the rallied color ran, 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 131 
 
 And the still outline of her graceful form 
 Stirr d in the linen vesture, and she clasp d 
 The Saviour s hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
 Full on his beaming countenance AROSE ! 
 
13-2 
 
 THE SOLDIER S WIDOW. 
 
 Wo for my vine clad home ! 
 That it should ever be so dark to me, 
 With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree ! 
 
 That I should ever come, 
 Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
 Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 
 
 Lead on my orphan boy ! 
 Thy home is not so desolate to thee 
 And the low shiver in the linden tree 
 
 May bring to thee a joy ; 
 
 But, oh, how dark is the bright home before thee, 
 To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! 
 
133 
 
 Lead on ! for thou art now 
 My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
 And the strong heart I lean d upon is broken ; 
 
 And I have seen his brow, 
 The forehead of my upright one, and just, 
 Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. 
 
 He will not meet thee there 
 Who blest thee at the eventide, my son ! 
 And when the shadows of the night steal on, 
 
 He will not call to prayer. 
 The lips that melted, giving thee to God, ! 
 Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 
 
 Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
 Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
 And the proud glory of my life hath past 
 
 With his high glance of fire. 
 Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, 
 And a just man be gathered to the tomb ! 
 
 Why bear them proudly, boy ! 
 It is the sword he girded to his thigh 
 12 
 
134 THE SOLDIER S WIDOW. 
 
 It is the helm he wore in victory 
 
 And shall we have no joy 1 
 For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died ! 
 I will forget my sorrow in my pride I 
 
135 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A POEM DELIVERED AT THE DE 
 PARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF 
 YALE COLLEGE, IN 1826. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 WE shall go forth together. There will come 
 
 Alike the day of trial unto all, 
 
 And the rude world will buffet us alike. 
 
 Temptation hath a music for all ears ; 
 
 And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; 
 
 And the ungovernable thought within 
 
 Will be in every bosom eloquent ; 
 / But, when the silence and the calm come on, 
 t, And the high seal of character is set, 
 
 We shall not all be similar. The scale 
 
 Of being is a graduated thing ; 
 
 And deeper than the vanities of power, 
 
 Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ 
 
136 EXTRACT, ETC. 
 
 Gradation, in its hidden characters. 
 The pathway to the grave may be the same, 
 And the proud man shall tread it, and the low, 
 With his bowed head, shall bear him company. 
 Decay will make no difference, and death, 
 With his cold hand, shall make no difference ; 
 And there will be no precedence of power, 
 In waking at the coming trump of God ; 
 
 f But in the temper of the invisible mind, 
 
 The godlike and undying intellect, 
 There are distinctions that will live in heaven, 
 When time is a forgotten circumstance ! 
 The elevated brow of kings will lose 
 The impress of regalia, and the slave 
 Will wear his immortality as free, 
 Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth 
 Of glory in the attributes of God, 
 Will measure the capacities of mind ; 
 And as the angels differ, will the ken 
 Of gifted spirits glorify him more. 
 It is life s mystery. The soul of man 
 Createth its own destiny of power;) 
 And, as the trial is intenser here, 
 
EXTRACT, ETC. 137 
 
 His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. 
 
 What is its earthly victory ? Press on \ t 
 For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on ! 
 For it shall make you mighty among men ; 
 And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, 
 Ye shall look down on monarchs. O press on ! 
 For the high ones and powerful shall come 
 To do you reverence : and the beautiful 
 Will know the purer language of your brow, 
 And read it like a talisman of love ! 
 Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose 
 The spirit, and forget yourself in thought ; 
 Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, 
 And, in the very fetters of your flesh, 
 Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! 
 Press on ! for in the grave there is no work, 
 And no device. Press on ! while yet ye may ! 
 
 So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst 
 Of his immortal nature ; and he rends 
 The rock for secret fountains, and pursues 
 The path of the illimitable wind 
 
 12* 
 
138 EXTRACT, ETC. 
 
 For mysteries and this is human pride ! 
 
 There is a gentler element, and man 
 
 May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul, 
 
 And drink its living waters till his heart 
 
 Is pure and this is human happiness ! 
 
 Its secret and its evidence are writ 
 
 -In the broad book of nature. Tis to have 
 
 Attentive and believing faculties ; 
 
 To go abroad rejoicing in the joy 
 
 Of beautiful and well created things ; 
 
 To love the voice of waters, and the sheen 
 
 Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; 
 
 To thrill with the rich melody of birds, 
 
 Living their life of music ; to be glad 
 
 In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm ; 
 
 To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, 
 
 And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree ; 
 
 To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence 
 
 Of God s deep wisdom in the natural world ! 
 
 It is to linger on the magic face 
 
 Of human beauty, and from light and shade 
 
 Alike to draw a lesson ; tis to love 
 
 The cadences of voices that are tuned 
 
EXTRACT, ETC. 139 
 
 By majesty and purity of thought; 
 
 To gaze on woman s beauty, as a star 
 
 Whose purity and distance make it fair ; 
 
 And in the gush of music to be still, 
 
 And feel that it has purified the heart ! 
 J It is to love all virtue for itself, 
 
 All nature for its breathing evidence ; 
 
 And, when the eye hath seen, and when the ear 
 
 Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world, 
 
 It is to humble the imperfect mind, 
 ;. And lean the broken spirit upon God ! 
 
 Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true 
 To the great moral of a passing world. 
 Thus would I like a just departing child, 
 Who lingers on the threshold of his home 
 Remember the best lesson of the lips 
 Whose accents shall be with us now, no more ! 
 It is the gift of sorrow to be pure : 
 And I would press the lesson ; that, when life 
 Hath half become a weariness, and hope 
 Thirsts for serener waters, go abroad 
 Upon the paths of nature, and, when all 
 
140 EXTRACT, ETC. 
 
 Its voices whisper, and its silent things 
 Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, 
 Kneel at its simple altar, and the God 
 Who hath the living waters shall be there ! 
 
141 
 
 TO A CITY PIGEON. 
 
 STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove ! 
 Thy daily visits have touch d my love, 
 I watch thy coming, and list the note 
 That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, 
 
 And my joy is high 
 To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 
 
 Why dost thou sit on the heated eves, 
 
 And forsake the wood with its freshen d leaves 1 
 
 Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, 
 
 When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet 1 
 
 How canst thou bear 
 This noise of people this sultry air 1 
 
142 TO A CITY PIGEON. 
 
 Thou alone of the feather d race 
 
 Dost look unscared on the human face ; 
 
 Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 
 
 Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; 
 
 And " the gentle dove" 
 Has become a name for trust and love. 
 
 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
 Thou rt nam d with childhood s earliest word ! 
 Thou rt link d with all that is fresh and wild 
 In the prison d thoughts of the city child, 
 
 And thy glossy wings 
 Are its brightest image of moving things. 
 
 It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, 
 Wisely by Him who has tam d thy heart, 
 To stir the love for the bright and fair 
 That else were seal d in this crowded air ; 
 
 I sometimes dream 
 Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 
 
 Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
 The page I read, to my humble eaves, 
 
TO A CITY PIGEON. 143 
 
 And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, 
 And murmur thy low sweet music out ! 
 
 I hear and see 
 Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! 
 
 TO JULIA GRISI, 
 
 AFTER HEARING HER IX ANNA EOLENA. 
 
 When the rose, is brightest, 
 Its bloom will soonest fly; 
 
 When burns the meteor lightest, 
 Twill vanish from the sky ! 
 If Death but wait until Delight 
 O errun the heart like wine, 
 And break the cup when brimming quite- 
 I die for thou hast pour d, to-night, 
 The last drop into mine. 
 
144 
 
 THE BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 
 
 IT was a green spot in the wilderness, 
 Touch d by the river Jordan. The dark pine 
 Never had dropp d its tassels on the moss 
 Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass 
 Of the broad circle stretching evenly 
 To the straight larches, had a heavier foot 
 Than the wild heron s trodden. Softly in 
 Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, 
 Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, 
 And hushing as they spread into the light, 
 Circled the edges of the pebbled tank 
 Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. 
 
 Hither had come th Apostle of the wild, 
 
THE BAPTISM OF CHRIST*. 145 
 
 Winding the river s course. Twas near the flush 
 Of eve, and, with a multitude around, 
 Who from the cities had come out to hear, 
 He stood breast high amid the running stream, 
 Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. 
 His simple raiment was of camel s hair, 
 A leathern girdle close about his loins, 
 His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat 
 The locust and wild honey of the wood 
 But like the face of Moses on the mount 
 Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye 
 Burned the mild fire of love, as he spoke 
 The ear lean d to him, and persuasion swift 
 To the chain d spirit of the listener stole. 
 
 Silent upon the green and sloping bank 
 
 The people sat, and while the leaves were shook 
 
 With the birds dropping early to their nests, 
 
 And the grey eve came on, within their hearts 
 
 They musM if he were Christ. The rippling stream 
 
 Still turned its silver courses from his breast 
 
 As he divined their thought. " I but baptize," 
 
 He said " with water ; but there cometh One 
 13 
 
146 
 
 THE BAPTISM OP CHRIST. 
 
 The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare 
 Ev n to unloose. He will baptize with fire 
 And with the Holy Ghost." And lo ! while yet 
 The words were on his lips, he rais d his eyes 
 And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid 
 His raiment off, and with his loins alone 
 Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, 
 In their angelic slightness, meek and bare, 
 He waited to go in. But John forbade, 
 And hurried to his feet and stay d him there, 
 And said, " Nay, Master ! I have need of thine, 
 Not thou of mine /" And Jesus, with a smile 
 Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, 
 And answered, " Suffer it to be so now ; 
 For thus it doth become me to fulfil 
 All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, 
 He took around him the Apostle s arm 
 And drew him gently to the midst. 
 
 The wood 
 
 Was thick with the dim twilight as they came 
 Up from the water. With his clasped hands 
 Laid on his breast th Apostle silently 
 
THE BAPTISM OP CHRIST. 147 
 
 Followed his Master s steps when lo ! a light, 
 
 Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, 
 
 Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, 
 
 Enveloped them, and from the heavens away 
 
 Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; 
 
 And as a voice, fearful exceedingly, 
 
 Broke from the midst, " THIS is MY MUCH LOV D SON 
 
 IN WHOM I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-white dove, 
 
 Floating upon its wings, descended thro 1 , 
 
 And shedding a swift music from its plumes, 
 
 Circled, and flutter d to the Saviour s breast. 
 
148 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 
 
 " Thou who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, readst the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A BOY ! yet in his eye you trace 
 
 The watchfulness of riper years, 
 And tales are in that serious face 
 Of feelings early steep d in tears ; 
 
 And in that tranquil gaze 
 There lingers many a thought unsaid, 
 
 Shadows of other days, 
 Whose hours with shapes of beauty came and fled- 
 
ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 149 
 
 And sometimes it is even so ! 
 
 The spirit ripens in the germ ; 
 The new-seal d fountains overflow, 
 
 The bright wings tremble in the worm. 
 The soul detects some passing token, 
 Some emblem of a brighter world, 
 And, with its shell of clay unbroken, 
 Its shining pinions are unfurl d, 
 
 And, like a blessed dream, 
 Phantoms, apparell d from the sky, 
 
 Athwart its vision gleam 
 
 As if the light of Heaven had touched its gifted 
 eye. 
 
 Tis strange how childhood s simple words 
 
 Interpret Nature s mystic book 
 How it will listen to the birds, 
 Or ponder on the running brook, 
 
 As if its spirit fed. 
 And strange that we remember not, 
 Who fill its eye, and weave its lot, 
 How lightly it were led 
 
 Back to the home which it has scarce forgot. 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." 
 
 TIRED of play ! Tired of play ! 
 What hast thou done this livelong day 1 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves, 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done 
 How hast thou spent it restless one ! 
 
 Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
 
 To tell thy mother at even tide 1 
 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 
CHILD TIRED OF PLAY. 151 
 
 < What kind word to thy playmate spoken 1 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou learned by field and hill, 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 
 
 There will come an eve to a longer day, 
 That will find thee tired but not of play ! 
 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
 With drooping limbs and an aching brow, 
 And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 Well were it then if thine aching brow 
 Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
 Well for thee, if thy lip could tell 
 A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
 If thine open hand hath reliev d distress 
 If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness 
 If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence 
 If Nature s voices have spoken to thee 
 With their holy meanings eloquently 
 If every creature hath won thy love, 
 
152 CHILD TIRED OF PLAY. 
 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, 
 
 If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 
 Hath plead with thy human heart unheard 
 
 Then, wheto the night steals on as now, 
 
 It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
 
 And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother s breast. 
 
153 
 
 TO A FACE BELOVED. 
 
 The music of the waken d lyre 
 
 Dies not upon the quivering strings, 
 Nor burns alone the minstrel s fire 
 
 Upon the lip that trembling sings ; 
 Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, 
 
 Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, 
 Nor sleeps the fountain s wealth, I ween, 
 
 For ever in its sparry wells 
 The spells of the enchanter lie 
 Not on his own lone heart his own rapt ear arid eye. 
 
 I look upon a face as fair 
 As ever made a lip of heaven 
 
154 TO A FACE BELOVED. 
 
 Falter amid its music-prayer ! 
 
 The first-lit star of summer even 
 Springs not so softly on the eye, 
 
 Nor grows, with watching half so bright, 
 Nor mid its sisters of the sky, 
 
 So seems of heaven the dearest light 
 Men murmur where that face is seen, 
 My youth s angelic dream was of that look and mien. 
 
 Yet though we deem the stars are blest, 
 
 And envy, in our grief, the flower 
 That bears but sweetness in its breast, 
 
 And feared th enchanter for his power, 
 And love the minstrel for his spell, 
 
 He winds out of his lyre so well 
 The stars are almoners of light, 
 
 The lyrist of melodious air, 
 The fountain of its waters bright 
 
 And every thing most sweet and fair 
 Of that by which it charms the ear, 
 
 The eye of him that passes near 
 A lamp is lit in woman s eye 
 That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by. 
 
155 
 
 IDLENESS. 
 
 " Idleness is sweet and sacred." 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 When you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day. 
 " When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your 
 three cups." 
 
 CHINESE POET- 
 
 THE rain is playing its soft pleasant tune 
 Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade 
 Of the fast-flying clouds across my book 
 Passes with delicate change. My merry fire 
 Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat 
 Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, 
 And looks into my face as if she felt 
 
156 IDLENESS. 
 
 Like me the gentle influence of the rain. 
 
 Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, 
 
 And sometimes listening to the faster fall 
 
 Of the large drops, or rising with the stir 
 
 Of an unbidden thought, have walked awhile 
 
 With the slow steps of indolence, my room, 
 
 And then sat down composedly again 
 
 To my quaint book of olden poetry. 
 
 It is a kind of idleness, I know ; 
 
 And I am said to be an idle man 
 
 And it is very true. I love to go 
 
 Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye 
 
 Rest on the human faces that pass by, 
 
 Each with its gay or busy interest : 
 
 And then I muse upon their lot, and read 
 
 Many a lesson in their changeful cast, 
 
 And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight 
 
 Of human beings, were humanity. 
 
 And I am better after it, and go 
 
 More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love 
 
 Stirring my heart to every living thing, 
 
 And my low prayer has more humility, 
 
 And I sink lightlier to my dreams and this, 
 
IDLENESS. 157 
 
 Tis very true, is only idleness ! 
 I love to go and mingle with the young 
 In the gay festal room when every heart 
 Is beating faster than the merry tune, 
 And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips 
 Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks 
 Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance. 
 And I can look upon such things, and go 
 Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams 
 For their fast coming years, and speak of them 
 Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad 
 With a benevolent joy and this, I know, 
 To the world s eye is only idleness ! 
 
 And when the clouds pass suddenly away, 
 And the blue sky is like a newer world, 
 And the sweet growing things forest and flower, 
 Humble and beautiful alike are all 
 Breathing up odors to the very heaven 
 Or when the frost has yielded to the sun 
 In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist 
 Lies like a silver lining on the sky, 
 14 
 
158 IDLENESS. 
 
 And the clear air exhilirates, and life 
 Simply, is luxury and when the hush 
 Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on, 
 And the birds settle to their nests, and stars 
 Spring in the upper sky, and there is not 
 A sound that is not low and musical 
 At all these pleasant seasons I go out 
 With my first impulse guiding me, and take 
 Woodpath or stream, or slope by hill or vale, 
 And in my recklessness of heart, stray on, 
 Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, 
 And happy with the fair and blessed world 
 And this, tis true, is only idleness ! 
 
 And I should love to go up to the sky, 
 And course the heavens, like stars, and float away 
 Upon the gliaing clouds that have no stay 
 In their swift journey arid twould be a joy 
 To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread 
 The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know 
 The tribes of the unfathomable depths 
 Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea ! 
 
IDLENESS. 159 
 
 And I should love to issue with the wind 
 On a strong errand, and o ersweep the earth 
 With its broad continents and islands green, 
 Like to the passing of a spirit on ! 
 And this, tis true, were only idleness ! 
 
160 
 
 THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. 
 
 YE VE gathered to your place of prayer 
 
 With slow and meausured tread : 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all there- 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength, 
 
 The manliest of ye all ; 
 Why lies he at that fearful length, 
 
 And ye around his pall 1 
 
 Ye reckon it in days, since he 
 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 With his dark eye flashing gloriously^ 
 
THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. 161 
 
 And Jiis lip wreathed with a smile. 
 O, had it been but told you, then, 
 
 To mark whose lamp was dim, 
 From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, 
 
 Would ye have singled him 1 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung 
 
 Defiance to the ring? 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung 
 
 Yet not for glorying? 
 Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, 
 
 No rivalry might brook, 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 
 There lies he go and look ! 
 
 On now his requiem is done, 
 
 The last deep prayer is said 
 On to his burial, comrades on, 
 
 With the noblest of the dead ! 
 Slow for it presses heavily 
 
 It is a man ye bear ! 
 Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the noble sleeper there. 
 14* 
 
162 THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades ! we have laid 
 
 His dark locks on his brow 
 Like life save deeper light and shade : 
 
 We ll not disturb them now. 
 Tread lightly for tis beautiful, 
 
 That blue-veined eye-lid s sleep, 
 Hiding the eye death left so dull 
 
 Its slumber we will keep. 
 
 Rest now ! his journeying is done 
 
 Your feet are on his sod 
 Death s chain is on your champion 
 
 He waiteth here his God 
 Ay turn and weep tis manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here 
 For the grave of earth s best nobleness 
 
 Is watered by the tear. 
 
163 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 " L onda del mar divisa 
 Bagna la valle e 1 monte, 
 
 Va passegiera 
 
 In fiume, 
 
 Va prigionera 
 
 In fonte, 
 
 Mormara sempre e geme 
 Fin che non torna al mar." 
 
 METASTASIO, 
 
 THE Spring is here the delicate-footed May, 
 With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers 
 
 And with it comes a thirst to be away, 
 
 Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours 
 
 A feeling that is like a sense of wings, 
 
 Restless to soar above these perishing things. 
 
164 SPRING. 
 
 We pass out from the city s feverish hum, 
 To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 
 
 And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
 
 Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods 
 
 Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal 
 
 To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 
 
 Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, 
 The waters tripping with their silver feet, 
 
 The turning to the light leaves in June, 
 
 And the light whisper as their edges meet 
 
 Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 
 
 The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 
 
 There s no contentment in a world like this, 
 Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 
 
 We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
 
 That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; 
 
 Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye 
 
 And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 
 
165 
 
 THE TORN HAT, 
 
 (A PICTURE BY SULLY.) 
 
 "A leaf 
 
 Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance 
 Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, 
 Then sink of its own heaviness." 
 
 PHILIP SLINGSBV. 
 
 THERE S something in a noble boy, 
 A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 
 
 With his unchecked, unbidden joy, 
 His dread of books and love of fun, 
 
 And in his clear and ready smile, 
 
 Unshaded by a thought of guile, 
 
166 THETORNHAT. 
 
 And unrepressed by sadness 
 Which brings me to my childhood back, 
 As if I trod its very track, 
 
 And felt its very gladness. 
 And yet it is not in his play, 
 
 When every trace of thought is lost, 
 And not when you would call him gay, 
 
 That his bright presence thrills me most. 
 
 His shout may ring upon the hill, 
 His voice be echoed in the hall, 
 
 His merry laugh like music trill, 
 And I in sadness hear it all 
 
 For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 
 
 T scarcely notice such things now 
 But when, amid the earnest game, 
 
 He stops, as if he music heard, 
 And, heedless of his shouted name 
 
 As of the carol of a bird, 
 Stands gazing on the empty air 
 As if some dream were passing there 
 
 Tis then that on his face I look, 
 His beautiful but thoughtful face, 
 
 And, like a long- forgotten book, 
 
THE TORN HAT. 167 
 
 Its sweet, familiar meanings trace 
 
 Remembering a thousand things 
 { Which passed me on those golden wings, 
 Which time has fettered now 
 
 Things that came o er me with a thrill, 
 
 And left me silent, sad, and still, 
 And threw upon my brow 
 
 A holier and a gentler cast, 
 
 That was too innocent to last. 
 
 Tis strange how thought upon a child 
 
 Will, like a presence, sometimes press, 
 And when his pulse is beating wild, 
 
 And life itself is in excess 
 When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
 Are all with ardor straining high 
 
 How in his heart will spring 
 A feeling whose mysterious thrall 
 Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; 
 
 And on its silent wing, 
 How with the clouds he ll float away, 
 As wandering and as lost as they ! 
 
168 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 " A violet by a mossy stone, 
 Half hidden from the eye, 
 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 1 HAVE found violets. April hath come on, 
 And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain 
 Falls in the beaded drops of summer time. 
 You may hear birds at morning, and at eve 
 The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, 
 Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in 
 His beautiful bright neck, and, from the hills, 
 A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea 
 
APRIL. 169 
 
 Tells the release of waters, and the earth 
 Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves 
 Are lifted by the grass and so I know 
 That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard 
 The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. 
 Take of my violets ! . I found them where 
 The liquid South stole o er them, on a bank 
 That leaned to running water. There s to me 
 A daintiness about these early flowers 
 That touches me like poetry. They blow 
 With such a simple loveliness among 
 The common herbs of pasture, .and breathe out 
 i Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 
 \ Whose beatings are too gentle for the world./ 
 I love to go in the capricious days 
 Of April and hunt violets ; when the rain 
 Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod 
 So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. 
 It may be deem d too idle, but the young 
 Read nature like the manuscript of heaven, 
 And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! 
 Ye spirits of habitual unrest, 
 And read it when the " fever of the world" 
 15 
 
170 APRIL. 
 
 Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life 
 Hath yet one spring unpoisoned, it will be 
 Like a beguiling music to its flow, 
 And you will no more wonder that I love 
 To hunt for violets in the April time. 
 
171 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 " Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow 
 Of people, and my heart of one sad thought." 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 ON the cross beam under the Old South bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there, 
 Out and in with the morning air : 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
 
172 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There s a human look in its swelling breast, 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 V 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell 
 Chime of the hour or funeral knell 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- 
 When the sexton cheerly rings for noon 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light 
 When the child is waked with " nine at night" 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
 Filling the spirit with tones. of prayer 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
 Or rising half in his rounded nest, 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
 Then drops again with filmed eyes, 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 
THE BELFRY PIGEON. 173 
 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee! 
 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 
 But, unlike me, when day is o er, 
 
 Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, 
 
 Or, at a half felt wish for rest, 
 
 Canst smooth thy feathers on thy breast, 
 
 And drop forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that in such wings of gold 
 
 I could my weary heart upfold ; 
 
 I would I could look down unmoved, 
 
 (Unloving as I am unloved,) 
 
 And while the world throngs on beneath, 
 
 Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
 
 And never sad with others sadness, 
 
 And never glad with others gladness, 
 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 
 
 And, lapt in quiet, bide my time. 
 
174 
 
 TO LAURA W , TWO YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee, 
 
 Child of the sunny brow 
 Bright as the dream flung over thee 
 
 By all that meets thee now. 
 Thy heart is beating joyously, 
 
 Thy voice is like a bird s 
 And sweetly breaks the melody 
 
 Of thy imperfect words. 
 I know no fount that gushes out 
 As gladly as thy tiny shout. 
 
 I would that thou might st ever be 
 As beautiful as now, 
 
TO LAURA \V . 175 
 
 That time might ever leave as free 
 
 Thy yet unwriiten brow : 
 I would life were " all poetry" 
 
 To gentle measure set, 
 That nought but chasten d melody 
 
 Might stain thy eye of jet 
 Nor one discordant note be spoken, 
 Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 
 
 I would but deeper things than these 
 
 With woman s lot are wove : 
 Wrought of intenser sympathies,. 
 
 And nerv d by purest love 
 By the strong spirit s discipline, 
 
 By the fierce wrong forgiven, 
 By all that wrings the heart of sin, 
 
 Is woman won to Heaven. 
 " Her lot is on thee," lovely child 
 God keep thy spirit undefined! 
 
 I fear thy gentle loveliness, 
 
 Thy witching tone and air, 
 Thine eye s beseeching earnestness 
 
176 TO LAURA W . 
 
 May be to thee a snare. 
 The silver stars may purely shine, 
 
 The water s taintless flow 
 But they who kneel at woman s shrine, 
 
 Breathe on it as they bow 
 Ye may fling back the gift again, 
 But the crushed flower will leave a stain. 
 
 What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? 
 
 Keep thee as thou art now? 
 Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, 
 
 At God s pure throne to bow ? 
 The world is but a broken reed, 
 
 And life grows early dim 
 Who shall be near thee in thy need, 
 
 To lead thee up to Him ? 
 He, who himself was " undefiled?" 
 With him, we trust thee, beautiful child ! 
 
177 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND 
 MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD. 
 
 THE green leaves as we pass 
 Lay their light fingers on chee unaware, 
 And by thy side the hazels clester fair, 
 
 And the low forest-grass 
 
 Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind- 
 Alas ! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind ! 
 
 And nature is all bright ; 
 And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, 
 Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ; 
 
 And evening s purple light 
 Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky 
 Alas ! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye I 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER. 
 
 The moon s new silver shell 
 Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, 
 In the blue air, and the rich tulip s cup 
 
 Is pencill d passing well, 
 And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee 
 Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou canst not see ! 
 
 And the kind looks of friends 
 Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
 And the child stops amid his bounding race, 
 
 And the tall stripling bends 
 Low to thine ear with duty unforgot 
 Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not ! 
 
 But thou canst hear! and love 
 May richly on a human tone be pour d, 
 And the least cadence of a whisper d word 
 
 A daughter s love may prove 
 And while I speak thou knowst if I smile, 
 Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! 
 
 Yes, thou canst hear ! and He 
 Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER. 179 
 
 To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 
 
 Heaven and earth and sea ! 
 And tis a lesson in our hearts to know 
 With but one sense the soul may overflow. 
 
180 
 
 TO A STOLEN RING. 
 
 OH for thy history now ! Hadst thou a tongue 
 
 To whisper of thy secrets, I could lay 
 
 Upon thy jewell d tracery mine ear 
 
 And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn 
 
 In that fair creature s pride, and thou hast felt 
 
 The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e er 
 
 Sprang from the heart of woman ; and thy gold 
 
 Has lain upon her forehead in the hour 
 
 Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast 
 
 And life was but a bitterness with all 
 
 Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed 
 
 In her fair girlhood on thy snowy pearls, 
 
 And mused away the hours, and she has bent 
 
 On thee the downcast radiance of her eye 
 
TO A STOLEN RING. 181 
 
 When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear, 
 
 And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and prest 
 
 Back on her heart its beatings, and put by 
 
 From her vein d temples the luxuriant curls, 
 
 And in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain 
 
 In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams 
 
 Of her high heart came goldenly and soft, 
 
 Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt 
 
 The swelling of the clear transparent veins 
 
 As the rich blood rush d through them, warm and fast. 
 
 I am impatient as I gaze on thee, 
 Thou inarticulate jewel ! Thou hast heard 
 With thy dull ear such music ! the low tone 
 Of a young sister s tenderness, when night 
 Hath folded them together like one flower 
 The sudden snatch of a remember d song 
 Warbled capriciously the careless word 
 Lightly betraying the inaudible thought 
 Working within the heart, and more than all, 
 Thou hast been lifted when the fervent prayer 
 For a lov d mother, or the sleeping one 
 16 
 
182 TO A STOLEN RING. 
 
 Lying beside her, trembled on her lip, 
 And the warm tear that from her eye stole out 
 As the soft lash fell over it, has lain, 
 Amid thy shining jewels like a star. 
 
183 
 
 TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APPENINES. 
 
 " Mother ! dear mother ! the feelings nurst 
 As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 
 Tvvas the earliest link in love s warm chain 
 Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
 And as year by year, and day by day, 
 Some friend still trusted drops away, 
 Mother ! dear mother ! oh dost thou see 
 How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee ! 
 
 PHILIP SLINGSBY. 
 
 Tis midnight the lone mountains on 
 The East is fleck d with cloudy bars, 
 
 And, gliding through them one by one, 
 The moon walks up-her path of stars 
 
 The light upon her placid brow 
 
 Borrowed of fountains unseen now. 
 
184 TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APPENINES. 
 
 And happiness is mine to-night, 
 
 Thus springing from an unseen fount, 
 
 And breast and brain are warm with light, 
 With midnight round me on the mount 
 
 Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow 
 
 From far that Western star below. 
 
 Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 
 
 The life thou gav st flows yet from tbee 
 And, sun-like, thou hast power to give 
 
 Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 
 Though wandering, as this moon above, 
 I m dark without thy constant love. 
 
185 
 
 TO ERMENGARDE. 
 
 I KNOW not if the sunshine waste 
 
 The world is dark since thou art gone I 
 The hours are, oh ! so leaden-paced ! 
 
 The birds sing, and the stars float on, 
 But sing not well, and look not fair 
 A weight is in the summer air, 
 
 And sadness in the sight of flowers, 
 And if I go where others smile, 
 
 Their love but makes me think of ours, 
 And heaven gets my heart the while. 
 Like one upon a desert isle, 
 
 I languish of the weary hours ; 
 I never thought a life could be 
 
 So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee j 
 16* 
 
186 TO ERMENGARDE. 
 
 I sit and watch the summer sky, 
 
 There comes a cloud through heaven alone, 
 A thousand stars are shining nigh 
 
 It feels no light, but darkles on ! 
 Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, 
 
 And, flushmg through its fringe of snow, 
 There steals a rosier die, and soon 
 
 Its bosom is one fiery glow ! 
 The queen of life within it lies! 
 
 Yet mark how lovers meet to part ! 
 The cloud already onward flies, 
 
 And shadows sink into its heart, 
 And (dost thou see them where thou art?) 
 
 Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
 Its light, like mine, is seen no more, 
 And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before ! 
 
 Where press this hour those fairy feet, 
 Where look this hour those eyes of blue ! 
 
 What music in thine ear is sweet ! 
 
 What odor breathes thy lattice through ! 
 
 What word is on thy lip ? What tone 
 
 What look replying to thine own 1 
 
TO ERMENGARDE. 187 
 
 Thy steps along the Danube stray 
 
 Alas it seeks an orient sea ! 
 Thou would st not seem so far away 
 
 Flow d but its waters back to me 1 
 I bless the slowly coming moon 
 
 Because its eye look d late in thine ! 
 I envy the west wind of June 
 
 Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; 
 The flower I press upon my brow 
 Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now! 
 
188 
 
 THE SHUNAMITE.* 
 
 IT was a sultry day of summer time. 
 The sun pour d down upon the ripen d grain 
 With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves 
 Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills 
 Stood still, and the divided flock were all 
 Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, ) 
 And the sky look /d like silver, (and it seem d 
 f As if the air had fainted,)and the pulse 
 Of nature had run down, and ceas d to beat. 
 
 " Haste thee, my child !" the Syrian mother said, 
 " Thy father is athirst" and from the depths 
 Of the cool well under the leaning tree, 
 2 Kings iv. 1837. 
 
THE SHUNAMITE. 189 
 
 She drew refreshing water, and ith thoughts 
 Of God s sweet goodness stirring at her heart, 
 She bless d her beautiful boy, and to his way 
 Committed him. And he went lightly on, 
 With his soft hands press d closely to the cool 
 Stone vessel, and his little naked feet 
 Lifted with watchful care, and o er the hills, 
 And through the light green hollows, where the lambs 
 Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, 
 Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, 
 Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows 
 Throbbing with heat, he set his burthen down. 
 
 Childhood is restless ever, and the boy 
 Stay d not within the shadow of the tree, 
 But with a joyous industry went forth 
 Into the reapers places, and bound up 
 His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
 The pliant withs out of the shining straw, 
 Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
 The very weariness of their stooping toil 
 In the beguiling of his earnest mirth. 
 Presently he was silent, and his eye 
 
190 
 
 EARLY POE 
 
 Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand 
 Press d hard upon his forehead, and his breast 
 Heaving with the suppression of a cry, 
 He utter d a faint murmur, and fell back 
 Upon the loosen d sheaf, insensible. 
 
 They bore him to his mother, and he lay 
 Upon her knees till noon and then he died ! 
 She had watch d every breath, and kept her hand 
 Soft on his forehead, and gaz d in upon 
 The dreamy languor of his listless eye, 
 And she had laid back all his sunny curls 
 And kiss d his delicate lip, and lifted him 
 Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong 
 His beauty was so unlike death! She leaned 
 Over him now, that she might catch the low 
 Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn d 
 To love when he was slumbering at her side 
 In his unconscious infancy 
 
 "So still! 
 
 Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies, 
 With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins 
 Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! 
 
THE SHUNAMITE. 191 
 
 How could they say that he would die ! Oh God ! 
 I could not lo^se him ! I have treasured all 
 His childhood in my heart, and even now, 
 ; As he has slept, my memory has been there, 
 Counting like treasure all his winning ways 
 His unforgotten sweetness : 
 
 " Yet so still ! 
 
 How like this breathless slumber is to death ! 
 I could believe that in that bosom now 
 There were no pulse it beats so languidly ! 
 I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! 
 Death would not be so very beautiful ! 
 And that half smile would death have left that there ? 
 And should I not have felt that he would die ? 
 And have I not wept over him? and prayed 
 Morning and night for him 1 and could he die ? 
 No God will keep him ! He will be my pride 
 Many long years to come, and this fair hair 
 Will darken like his father s, and his eye 
 Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; 
 And he will be so tall, and I shall look 
 With such a pride upon him ! He to die !" 
 And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, 
 
192 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 And smiled, as if twere mockery to think 
 That such fair things could perish 
 
 Suddenly 
 
 Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled 
 From her fix d lip, and her supporting knees 
 Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch d 
 His forehead, as she dallied with his hair 
 And it was cold like clay ! Slow, very slow, 
 Came the misgiving that her child was dead. 
 She sat a moment, and her eyes were clos d 
 In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took 
 His little hand and press d it earnestly 
 And put her lip to his and look d again 
 Fearfully on him and then, bending low, 
 She whisper d in his ear, " My son ! My son !" 
 And as the echo died, and not a sound 
 Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still 
 Motionless on her knee the truth would come ! 
 And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart 
 Were crush d, she lifted him and held him close 
 Into her bosom with a mother s thought 
 As if death had no power to touch him there ! 
 
THE SHUNAMITE. 193 
 
 The man of God came forth, and led the child 
 Unto his mother, and went on his way. 
 And he was there her beautiful her own 
 Living and smiling on her with his arms 
 Folded about her neck, and his warm breath 
 Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear 
 The music of his gentle voice once more ! 
 
 17 
 
194 
 
 ABSALOM. 
 
 THE waters slept. Night s silvery veil hung low 
 
 On Jordan s bosom, and the eddies curled 
 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper s pulse. 
 
 The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, 
 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 
 And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 
 SHow strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering, 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 
 
A B S AL OM . 195 
 
 King David s limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner s covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gather d round him on the fresh green bank, 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 Are such a very mockery how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
 He pray d for Israel and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He pray d for those 
 Whose love had been his shield and his deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
 
196 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 
 The heart that cherished him for him he poured, 
 
 In agony that would not be controlled, 
 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
 To the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 The snowy fingers of Judea s daughters. 
 His helm was at his feet : his banner, soiled 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
 Reversed, beside him: and the jewelled hilt, 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
 Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
 Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
 
ABSALOM. 197 
 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
 
 As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
 
 A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
 
 As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
 
 Of David entered, and he gave command, 
 
 In a low tone, to his few followers, 
 
 And left him with his dead. The king stood still 
 
 Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
 
 The pall from the still features of his child, 
 
 He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
 
 In the resistless eloquence of wo : 
 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should st die ! 
 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering hair 1 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 17* 
 
198 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 
 And hear thy sweet " my father /" from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 41 The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young; 
 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death s gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 "And now, farewell! Tis hard to give thee up, 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; 
 
 And thy dark sin ! Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
 If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 
 
ABSALOM. 199 
 
 May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
 My erring Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child : then, giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
 His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
 And, as a strength were given him of God, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
200 
 
 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garment of a thousand dies ; and leaves, 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
 j All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light 
 And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
 To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, 
 And the young birds were singing as if life 
 
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 20 1 
 
 Were a new thing to them ; but oh ! it came 
 Upon her heart like discord, and she felt 
 How cruelly it tries a broken heart, 
 To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
 She stood at Abraham s tent. Her lips were pressed 
 Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, 
 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
 Which made its language legible, shot back, 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
 Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
 Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, 
 Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up 
 Into his mother s face until he caught 
 The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
 Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form 
 / Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
 I As if his light proportions would have swelled, 
 ^Had they but matched his spirit, to the.man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his staff so wearily ] His beard 
 
202 
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Is low upon his breast, and on his high brow, 
 So written with the converse of his God, 
 Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
 His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
 Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 Oh ! man may bear with suffering : his heart 
 Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp 
 Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear 
 One chord affection clings to, part one tie 
 That binds him to a woman s delicate love, 
 And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. 
 
 He gave to her the water and the bread, 
 But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
 To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
 In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy, 
 And left her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep 1 May slighted woman turn, 
 And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
 Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? 
 
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 203 
 
 O no ! by all her loveliness by all 
 
 That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
 
 By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 
 Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
 
 That makes her cup a bitterness yet give 
 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 
 An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
 
 But oh ! estrange her once it boots not how 
 
 By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
 
 A change has come upon your tenderness, 
 
 And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
 
 Her pride o ermastereth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step and slow; 
 Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, 
 As it had been a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed 
 His hand till it was pained : for he had caught, 
 As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
204 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 The morning past, and Asia s sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven,(and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
 She kept her weary way, until the boy 
 Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
 For water; but she could not give it him. 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him ; 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes, 
 Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know 
 Why God denied him water in the wild. 
 She sat a little longer, and he grew 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
 And bore him farther on, and laid his head 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 205 
 
 Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned : 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy brow to look, 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, 
 Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 
 
 Or wearing rosy hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 
 So beautiful and deep. 
 
 " Oh no ! and when I watched by thee the while, 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
 How prayed I that my father s land might be 
 
 An heritage for thee ! 
 18 
 
206 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 " And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, 
 And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 
 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair !" 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laughed 
 In his reviving happiness, land lisped 
 His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
 Of the cool plashing of his mother s hand. 
 
207 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NALNV 
 
 THE Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall 
 Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread 
 Of comers to the city mart was done, 
 For it was almost noon, and a dead heat 
 QuiverM upon the fine and sleeping dust, 
 And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, 
 And bask d his scaly circles in the sun. 
 Upon his spear the soldier lean d, and kept 
 His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream 
 Was broken by the solitary foot 
 Of some poor mendicant, he rais d his head 
 To curse him for a tributary Jew, 
 And slumberously dozed on. 
 
 * Luke, chap. vii. 
 
208 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Twas now high noon. 
 The dull, low murmur of a funeral 
 Went through the city the sad sound of feet 
 Unmix d with voices and the sentinel 
 Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
 Up the wide street along whose paved way 
 The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 
 Bearing a body heavily on its bier, 
 And by the crowd that in the burning sun 
 Walk d with forgetful sadness, twas of one 
 Mourn d with uncomm&n sorrow. The broad gate 
 Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent 
 His spear-point downwards as the bearers past 
 Bending beneath their burthen. There was one 
 Only one mourner. Close behind the bier 
 Crumpling the pall up in her wither d hands, 
 Follow d an aged woman. Her short steps 
 Falter d with weakness, and a broken moan 
 Fell from her lips, thicken d convulsively 
 As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
 Follow d apart, but no one spoke to her. 
 She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone 
 A widow with one son. He was her all 
 
THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 209 
 
 The only tie she had in the wide world 
 
 And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 
 
 Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate 
 The funeral came forth. His lips were pale 
 With the noon s sultry heat. The beaded sweat 
 Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn 
 And simple latchets of his sandals lay 
 Thick the white dust of travel. He had come 
 Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
 To wet his lips by green Bethsaida s pool, 
 Nor wash his feet in Kishon s silver springs, 
 Nor turn him southward upon Tabor s side 
 To catch Gilboa s light and spicy breeze. 
 Genesareth stood cool upon the East, 
 Fast by the sea of Galilee, and there 
 The weary traveller might bide till eve, 
 And on the alders of Bethulia s plains 
 The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild, 
 Yet turn d he not aside, but gazing on 
 From every swelling mount, he saw afar 
 Amid the hills the humble spires of Nain, 
 
 The place of his next errand, and the path 
 
 18* 
 
210 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Touch d not Bethulia, and a league away 
 Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. 
 
 Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd 
 
 Follow d the stricken mourner. They came near 
 
 The place of burial, and, with straining hands, 
 
 Closer upon her breast she clasp d the pall, 
 
 And with a gasping sob, quick as a child s, 
 
 And an inquiring wildness flashing through 
 
 The thin, gray lashes of her fever d eyes, 
 
 She came where Jesus stood beside the way. 
 
 He look d upon her, and his heart was moved. 
 
 " Weep not !" he said, and, as they stay d the bier, 
 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet, 
 
 He gently drew the pall from out her grasp 
 
 And laid it back in silence from the dead. 
 
 With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, 
 
 And gaz d on his calm looks. A minute s space 
 
 He stood and pray d. Then taking the cold hand 
 
 He said, " Arise !" And instantly the breast 
 
 Heav d in its cerements, and a sudden flush 
 
 Ran through the lines of the divided lips, 
 
THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 
 And, with a murmur of his mother s name, 
 He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 
 And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, 
 Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 
 
212 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 " That line I learned not in the old sad song." 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 THROW up the window ! Tis a morn for life 
 In its most subtle luxury. The air 
 Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; 
 And the south wind is like a gentle friend, 
 Parting the hair so softly on my brow. 
 It has come over gardens, and the flowers 
 That kissed it are betrayed ; for as it parts, 
 With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, 
 I know it has been trifling with the rose, 
 And stooping to the violet. There is joy 
 For all God s creatures in it. The wet leaves 
 
DAWN. 213 
 
 Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing 
 As if to breathe were music, and the grass 
 Sends up its modest odor with the dew, 
 Like the small tribute of humility. 
 
 I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, 
 And light was welcome to,me. I looked out 
 To feel the common air, and when the breath 
 Of the delicious morning met my brow 
 Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun 
 Shone on familiar objects, it was like 
 The feeling of the captive who comes forth 
 From darkness to the cheerful light of day. 
 Oh! could we wake from sorrow ; were it all 
 A troubled dream like this, to cast aside 
 Like an untimely garment with the morn ; 
 Could the long fever of the heart be cooled 
 By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom 
 Of a bereaved affection pass away 
 With looking on the lively tint of flowers \ 
 How lightly were the spirit reconciled] 
 To make this beautiful, bright world its home ! 
 
214 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 (A PICTURE.) 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man s heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old, 
 And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told. 
 
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 215 
 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I m old, and " I bide my time :" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smothered call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 ikam willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
216 
 
 A CHILD S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 
 
 SHE had been told that God made all the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 As if it were a new and perfect world, 
 And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 Half parted with the new and strange delight 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That looked so still and delicate above, 
 Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 
FIRST IMPRESSION OP A STAR. 217 
 
 Stood looking at the west with that half-smile, 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively 
 " Father, dear father, God has made a star!" 
 
 19 
 
218 
 
 MAY. 
 
 OH the merry May has pleasant hours, 
 
 And dreamily they glide, 
 As if they floated like the leaves 
 
 Upon a silver tide. 
 The trees are full of crimson buds, 
 
 And the woods are full of birds, 
 And the waters flow to music 
 
 Like a tune with pleasant words. 
 
 The verdure of the meadow-land 
 
 Is creeping to the hills, 
 The sweet, blue-bosom d violets 
 
 Are blooming by the rills ; 
 
MAY. 
 
 219 
 
 The lilac has a load of balm 
 
 For every wind that stirs, 
 And the larch stands green and beautiful 
 
 Amid the sombre firs. 
 
 There s perfume upon every wind 
 
 Music in every tree 
 Dews for the moisture-loving flowers 
 
 Sweets for the sucking bee ; 
 The sick come forth for the healing breeze, 
 
 The young are gathering flowers ; 
 And life is a tale of poetry, 
 
 That is told by golden hours. 
 
 If tis not true philosophy, 
 
 That the spirit when set free 
 Still lingers about its olden home, 
 
 In the flower and the tree, 
 It is very strange that our pulses thrill 
 
 At the tint of a voiceless thing, 
 And our hearts yearn so with tenderness 
 
 In the beautiful time of Spring. 
 
220 
 
 
 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 
 
 SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart 
 Resting on God, and held her fair young child 
 Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 
 Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 
 To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 
 The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 
 Of the good man glowed fervently with faith 
 That it would be, even as he had pray d, 
 And the sweet child be gathered to the fold 
 Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 
 Her lips mov d silently, and tears, fast tears, 
 Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 
 The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
 With the baptismal water. Then I thought 
 
ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 221 
 
 That, to the eye of God, that mother s tears 
 Would be a deeper covenant, which sin 
 And the temptations of the world, and death, 
 Would leave unbroken, and that she would know 
 In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 
 The prayer which press d them from her heart had 
 
 been 
 In leading its young spirit up to God. 
 
 19* 
 
222 
 
 THE ANNOYER. 
 
 " Common as light is love, 
 And its familiar voice wearies not ever." 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 LOVE knoweth every form of air, 
 
 And every shape of earth, 
 And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 
 
 Like thought s mysterious birth. 
 The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 
 
 Are written with Love s words, 
 And you hear his voice unceasingly, 
 
 Like song in the time of birds. 
 
 He peeps into the warrior s heart 
 
THE ANNOYER. 223 
 
 From the tip of a stooping plume, 
 And the serried spears, and the many men 
 
 May not deny him room. 
 He ll come to his tent in the weary night, 
 
 And be busy in his dream ; 
 And he ll float to his eye in morning light 
 
 Like a fay on a silver beam. 
 
 He hears the sound of the hunter s gun, 
 
 And rides on the echo back, 
 And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, 
 
 And flits in his woodland track. 
 The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river 
 
 The cloud, and the open sky 
 He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver : 
 
 Like the light of your very eye. 
 
 The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 
 
 And ponders the silver sea, 
 For Love is under the surface hid, 
 
 And a speli of thought has he, 
 He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 
 And speaks in the ripple low, 
 
224 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 
 And the hook hangs bare below. 
 
 He blurs the print of the scholar s book, 
 
 And intrudes in the maiden s prayer, 
 And profanes the cell of the holy man, 
 
 In the shape of a lady fair. 
 In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, 
 
 In earth, and sea, and sky, 
 In every home of human thought, 
 
 Will love be lurking nigh. 
 
225 
 
 ROA.RING BROOK. 
 
 (A PASSAGE OF SCENERY IN CONNECTICUT.) 
 
 IT was a mountain stream that with the leap 
 
 Of its impatient waters had wora out 
 
 A channel in the rock, and wash d away 
 
 The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, 
 
 Till it was darken d with the shadowy arch 
 
 Of the o er-leaning branches. Here and there 
 
 It loiter d in a broad and limpid pool 
 
 That circled round demurely, and anon 
 
 Sprung violently over where the rock 
 
 Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on, 
 
 Till they were broken by the hanging moss, 
 
 As anger with a gentle word grows calm. 
 
 In spring-time, when the snows were coming down, 
 
226 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 And in the flooding of the Autumn rains, 
 
 No foot might enter there but in the hot 
 
 And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept, 
 
 You could go up its channel in the shade, 
 
 To the far sources, with a brow as cool 
 
 As in the grotto of the anchorite. 
 
 Here when an idle student have I come, 
 
 And in a hollow of the rock lain down 
 
 And mus d until the eventide, or read 
 
 Some fine old poet till my nook became 
 
 A haunt of faery, or the busy flow 
 
 Of water to my spell-bewilder d ear 
 
 Seem d like the din of some gay tournament. 
 
 Pleasant have been such hours, and tho the wise 
 
 Have said that I was indolent, and they 
 
 Who taught me have reprov d me that I play d 
 
 The truant in the leafy month of June, 
 
 I deem it true philosophy in him 
 
 Whose path is in the rude and busy world, 
 
 To loiter with these wayside comforters. 
 
227 
 
 LINES ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1825. 
 
 FLEETLY hath past the year. The seasons came 
 Duly as they are wont the gentle Spring, 
 And the delicious Summer, and the cool, 
 Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, 
 And Winter, like an old and hoary man, 
 Frosty and stiff and so are chronicled 
 We have found beauty in the new green leaf, 
 And in the first blown violets ; we have drunk 
 Cool water from the rock, and in the shade 
 Sunk to the noon-tide slumber ; we have eat 
 The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, 
 And girded to our pleasant wanderings 
 When the cool wind came freshly from the hills ; 
 
228 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves 
 
 Had faded from its glory, we have sat 
 
 By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced 
 
 Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. 
 
 " God hath been good to us !" Tis He whose hand 
 
 Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out 
 
 The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep 
 
 The fountains in their secret places cool ; 
 
 And it is He who leadeth up the sun 
 
 And ordereth the starry influences, 
 
 And tempereth the keenness of the frost 
 
 And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, 
 
 And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM 
 
 Have praises for the well completed year. 
 
229 
 
 LINES ON THE NEW YEAR 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1826. 
 
 WINTER is come again. The sweet south-west 
 Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth 
 Has laid aside its mantle to be bound 
 By the frost fetter. There is not a sound, 
 Save of the skaiter s heel, and there is laid 
 An icy finger on the lip of streams, 
 And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, 
 And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought, 
 Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends 
 Many sweet voices with its odors out, 
 And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe 
 With a complaining whisper. Winter s dumb ! 
 God made his ministry a silent one, 
 20 
 
230 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 And he has given him a foot of steel 
 And an unlovely aspect, and a breath 
 Sharp to the senses and we know that He 
 Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid 
 Under the shadow of his hand. Look up ! 
 And it shall be interpreted. Your home 
 Hath a temptation now. There is no voice 
 Of waters with beguiling for your ear, 
 And the cool forest and the meadows green 
 Witch not your feet away ; and in the dells 
 There are no violets, and upon the hills 
 There are no sunny places to lie down. 
 You must go in, and by your cheerful fire 
 Wait for the offices of love, and hear 
 Accents of human tenderness, and feast 
 Your eye upon the beauty of the young. 
 It is a season for the quiet thought, 
 And the still reckoning with thyself. The year 
 Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time 
 Whispers the history of its vanished hours ; 
 And the heart, calling its affections up, 
 Counteth its wasted treasure. Life stands still 
 
LINES ON THE NEW YEAR. 231 
 
 And settles like a fountain, and the eye 
 Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all 
 That stirred its troubled waters. It is well 
 That Winter with the dying year should come ! 
 
232 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL 
 
 Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. 
 
 Her presence, like the shadow of a wing 
 
 That is just lessening in the upper sky, 
 
 Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, 
 
 And for her step we listen, and the eye 
 
 Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, 
 
 Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel 
 
 That she will no more come that from her cheek 
 
 The delicate flush has faded, and the light 
 
 Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, 
 
 That was so exquisitely pure, the dew 
 
 Of the damp grave has fallen ! Who, so lov d, 
 
 Is left among the living ? Who hath walk d 
 
 The world with such a winning loveliness, 
 
ON THE DEATH OP A YOUNG GIRL. 233 
 
 And on its bright brief journey, gathered up 
 
 Such treasures of affection ? She was lov d 
 
 Only as idols are. She was the pride 
 
 Of her familiar sphere the daily joy 
 
 Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, 
 
 And in the light and music of her way, 
 
 Have a companion s portion. Who could feel 
 
 While looking upon beauty such as hers, 
 
 That it would ever perish ! It is like 
 
 The melting of a star into the sky 
 
 While you are gazing on it, or a dream 
 
 In its mosfravishing sweetness rudely broken, 
 
234 
 
 ANDRE S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 
 
 IT is not the fear of death 
 
 That damps my brow 
 It is not for another breath 
 
 I ask thee now ; 
 I can die with a lip unstirr d 
 
 And a quiet heart 
 Let but this prayer be heard 
 
 Ere I depart. 
 
 I can give up my mother s look- 
 
 My sister s kiss ; 
 I can think of love yet brook 
 
 A death like this ! 
 I can give up the young fame 
 
ANDRE S REQUEST. 235 
 
 I burn d to win 
 All but the spotless name 
 I glory in. 
 
 Thine is the power to give, 
 
 Thine to deny, 
 Joy for the hour I live 
 
 Calmness to die. 
 By all the brave should cherish, 
 
 By my dying breath, 
 I ask that I may perish 
 
 By a soldier s death ! 
 
236 
 
 SONNET WINTER. 
 
 THE frozen ground looks gray. Twill shut the snow 
 
 Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall 
 Softly, and lie upon it. The hushed flow 
 
 Of the ice-covered waters, and the call 
 Of the cold driver to his oxen slow, 
 
 And the complaining of the gust, are all 
 That I can hear of music would that I 
 With the green summer like a leaf might die! 
 So will a man grow gray, and on his head 
 
 The snow of years lie visibly, and so 
 Will come a frost when his green years have fled 
 
 And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow, 
 And his deep voice be shaken would that I 
 In the green summer of my youth might die ! 
 
237 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 STORM had been on the hills. The day had worn 
 
 As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ; 
 And the dark clouds that gather d at the morn 
 
 In dull, impenetrable masses slept, 
 And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all 
 Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. 
 
 Suddenly on the horizon s edge a blue 
 And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, 
 
 And as it wider and intenser grew, 
 The darkness removed silently away, 
 
 And, with the splendor of a God, broke through 
 The perfect glory of departing day 
 So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o er, 
 Will light upon the dying Christian pour. 
 
238 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL robin ! with thy feathers red 
 
 Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, 
 Making thy little flights as thou art led 
 
 By things that tempt a simple one like thee 
 I would that thou couldst warble me to tears 
 As lightly as the birds of other years ! 
 
 Idly to lie beneath an April sun, 
 Pressing the perfume from the tender grass ; 
 
 To watch a joyous rivulet leap on 
 With the clear tinkle of a music glass, 
 And as I saw the early robin pass, 
 
 To hear him thro his little compass run 
 Hath been a joy that I shall no more know 
 Before I to my better portion go. 
 
239 
 
 THE TABLE OF EMERALD. 
 
 "Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain 
 concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great 
 Hermes engraved before the flood the secret of alchemy that 
 gives gold at will.* 
 
 MOORE S EPICUREAN. 
 
 THAT Emerald vast of the Pyramid 
 
 Were I where it is laid, 
 I would ask no king for his weary crown, 
 
 As its mystic words were said. 
 The pomp of wealth, the show of power, 
 
 In vain for me would shine, 
 And nought that brings the mind a care, 
 
 Would win bright gold of mine. 
 
240 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Would I feast all day revel all night 
 
 Laugh with a secret sadness ? 
 Would I sleep away the breezy morn, 
 
 And wake to the goblet s madness ? 
 Would I spend no time and no golden ore 
 
 For the wisdom that sages knew ? 
 Would I run to waste with a human mind 
 
 To its holy trust untrue? 
 
 Oh ! knew I the depth of that emerald spell, 
 
 And had I the gold it brings, 
 I would never load with a mocking joy 
 
 My spirit s mounting wings. 
 I would bind no wreath to my brow to day 
 
 That would leave a stain to-morrow, 
 Nor drink a draught of joy to-night, 
 
 That would change with morn to sorrow. 
 
 But, oh, I would burst this chain of care, 
 
 And be spirit and fancy-free ; 
 My mind should range where it longs to go 
 
 And the limitless wind outflee. 
 I would place my foot on my heaps of ore 
 
THE TABLE OF EMERALD. 24l 
 
 To mount to "Wisdom s throne, 
 And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine, 
 To be left, of care, alone ! 
 
 Ambition ! my lip would laugh to scorn 
 
 Thy robe and thy gleaming sword ! 
 I would follow sooner a woman s eye, 
 
 Or a child s imperfect word ; 
 But come with the glory of human thought, 
 
 And the light of the scholar s brow, 
 And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness, 
 
 And alone at thine altar bow. 
 
 There was one mild eye there was one deep tone 
 
 They were dear to this heart of mine ! 
 Dearer to me was that mild blue eye 
 
 Than the lamp on wisdom s shrine. 
 My soul brought up from its deepest cell 
 
 The sum of its earthly love ; 
 But it could not buy her wing from Heaven, 
 
 And she flew to her rest above. 
 
 That first deep love I have taken back 
 21 
 
242 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 In my rayless breast to hide ; 
 With the tear it brought for a burning seal 
 
 Twill there forever bide. 
 I may stretch on now to another goal, 
 
 I may feed my thoughts of flame 
 The tie is broken that kept me back, 
 
 And my mind speeds on for fame ! 
 
 But, alas ! I am dreaming as if I knew 
 
 The spell of the tablet green ! 
 I forget how like to a broken reed 
 
 Is the hope on which I lean 
 There is nothing true of my idle dream 
 
 But the wreck of my early love, 
 
 my mind is coin d for my daily bread, 
 
 And how can it soar above ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
Ann Street, June, 1837. 
 
 MESSRS. SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, 
 
 HATE NOW READY THE FOLLOWING 
 
 IMPORTANT NEW WORKS. 
 
 i. 
 
 Mrs. Sutler s JVeio Work. 
 THE STAR OF SEVILLE, 
 
 A DRAMA IN 5 ACTS, 
 BY MRS. PIERCE BUTLER, 
 
 II. 
 
 Miss Martineatfs New Work. 
 SOCIETY IN AMERICA, 
 
 BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 III. 
 
 The Lafayette Papers. 
 MEMOIRS, CORRESPONDENCE AND OTHER 
 
 MANUSCRIPTS OF 
 GENERAL LAFAYETTE, 
 
 Edited by his Family, 
 
 This American Edition will include a series of Letters relating to the 
 Revolutionary War, not inserted in the London and Paris editions. 
 
IV. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson s Illustrated Work. 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN: 
 
 MORAL, POETICAL AND HISTORICAL. 
 
 BY MRS. JAMESON. 
 Illustrated by a series of her own Vignette Etchings. 
 
 V. 
 
 Mrs. Shelley s New Work. 
 FALKNER A NOVEL. 
 
 BY MRS. SHELLEY. 
 Authoress of " Frankenstein," &c. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mr. Grant s New Work. 
 THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 " Random Recollections of the Lords and Commons" fyc. 
 Fourth Edition. 
 
 VJI. 
 
 Mr. Bulwer s Nciv Drama: 
 
 THE DUCHESS DE LA VALLIER E 
 
 A Play in Five Acts. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 VIIT. 
 
 Mr. Willis s JVew Work. 
 
 INKLINGS OF ADVENTURE. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ. 
 Third Edition. 
 
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