THE ODE OF LIFE
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 The Illustrated 
 EPIC OF HADES. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 With seventeen full-page designs in photo-mezzotint, by 
 
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 THE ODE OF LIFE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE EPIC OF HADES 
 
 Like to the falling of a star, 
 
 Or as the flights of eagles are. . . . 
 
 BISHOP KING, 1657 
 
 LONDON 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1880
 
 ( Tkt rifktt tf triuuUtian and of rtfiroductitm art merited.)
 
 PREFA' 
 
 IN the present work the Ode, which has such splendid, 
 and yet so few, representatives in English verse, is carried 
 somewhat further than has hitherto been the case, in 
 the direction of a continuous plan, It has been sought 
 to overcome the objection to so long a poem of that 
 nature, by dividing it into minor odes, distinct from each 
 other, but each finding its place in the consecutive 
 development of the whole. 
 
 Whatever may be the fate of the work, the writer 
 knows well that nothing more mature can be expected 
 from him, nor can he hope again to find unappropriated 
 so fruitful a subject for verse. 
 
 March 1st, 1880. 
 
 L -!_ u
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE ODE OF CREATION ... ... ... ... i 
 
 THE ODE OF INFANCY ... ... ... ... n 
 
 THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD ... ... ... ... 21 
 
 THE ODE OF YOUTH ... ... ... ... 33 
 
 THE ODE OF LOVE ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS .. ... ... 61 
 
 THE ODE OF GOOD ... ... ... ... 95 
 
 THE ODE OF EVIL ... ... ... ... ... 105 
 
 THE ODE OF AGE ... ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 THE ODE OF DECLINE ... ... ... ... 125 
 
 THE ODE OF CHANGE ... ... ... ... 135
 
 THE ODE OF CREATION.
 
 THE ODE OF LIFE. 
 
 THE ODE OF CREATION. 
 
 A dark and boundless deep, 
 And a blind height above, 
 Untrodden fields of sleep, 
 Wherein no force may move, 
 Where every sound is still, 
 Nor breathes a living breath ; 
 
 These are the heights, these are the depths, these are the 
 voids of Death. 
 
 But slowly on the lifeless plain 
 
 There wakes a far-sent ray, a little star,
 
 The Ode of Life. 
 
 A tiny spark of Being from afar, 
 
 A throb of precious pain. 
 
 It is done, it has been, it has risen, the glimmer of Life, 
 
 The dark void withdrawing around, 
 
 It breaks with a whisper of sound, 
 
 Through the wastes of silence and sleep, 
 
 There is no more stillness nor Death, 
 
 The great Universe wakes with a deep-drawn singultient 
 
 breath. 
 The great orbs cohere and spin on their measureless 
 
 ways 
 The great suns awaken and shine, ringed with girdles 
 
 of fire every one 
 
 All the worlds are on fire and ablaze 
 The flaming globes circle and whirl each one round its 
 
 sun 
 
 -The hot seas seethe and bellow the fixed hills 
 glow
 
 The Ode of Creation. 
 
 And the fire of Creation burns fierce while the centuries 
 
 grow; 
 And Life and Time have begun ! 
 
 Myriads on myriads of years ! 
 
 Or was there indeed no time except in the Infinite Mind ? 
 
 And was there indeed no ceaseless circling of spheres ? 
 
 Since no sentient eye might mark the peripheries wind, 
 
 And at length the great Life of the worlds grown concen- 
 trate would thrill 
 
 Through some lowly speck of matter, which, waxing 
 apart, 
 
 Grew conscious by slow degrees, and blossomed in Will ; 
 
 Weak centres of Force, which floated as motes in a 
 beam, 
 
 Automatic, contracting, expanding, but consciousless yet. 
 
 Till a stronger force working within them would raise 
 them once more,
 
 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Pushing with inchoate fin as if with an oar 
 
 Afloat on the slow warm stream ; 
 
 And another Creation has come and a new-begun strife, 
 
 With this primal glimmer of life. 
 
 Myriads on myriads of years ! if Time there were yet, 
 When no soul was by to remember or to forget ; 
 The fin growing stronger, and changing to wing or to claw, 
 Struggle on struggle, sentience, consciousness, ravin, and 
 
 pain, 
 Monstrous and mailed forms in the ooze, or hurtling 
 
 thro' air, 
 Waging through aeons of time the ineffable struggles 
 
 which gain 
 
 Order thro' waste and thro' wear. 
 Till the mastodon stalks forth in might with hoof and 
 
 with jaw, 
 And the law of the Higher prevails, the Ultimate Law,
 
 The Ode of Creation. 
 
 And the cooler earth teems with life, on land and in 
 sea : 
 
 Life organic in beast, fish, or bird, in herb or in tree, 
 
 Life dominant, life exulting with quick-coming breath, 
 
 Life that fades down and sinks in the silence and slum- 
 ber of Death. 
 
 But no soul to mark the struggle nor thought which 
 might turn 
 
 To whence those weird fires burn. 
 
 Successions, progressions, a scheme of insensible life, 
 
 One Will alone directing the infinite strife, 
 
 One Force, one Eye, one Sole and Regarding Mind, 
 
 In a Universe deaf and blind ! 
 
 And was it some Inner Law, 
 
 Some hidden potency of Force, 
 
 Or some creative breath Divine 
 
 Which sped the creature on its upward course ?
 
 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Until at last it woke and saw, 
 
 With visual forces fine, 
 
 The Godhead that was round it everywhere, 
 
 The spiritual essence fair, 
 
 Which doth innerve this outward show of things - 
 
 And filled the brute with high imaginings, 
 
 And winging it with new-found wings 
 
 Lifted its aspect to the infinite sky, 
 
 Where, in the light of the Creative Eye, 
 
 Its ancient slough away it cast, 
 
 And rose to Man at last ! 
 
 How know we or can trace 
 
 The first beginnings of all Time, 
 
 Who know not yet indeed how this our race 
 
 Rises to heights sublime ? 
 
 In darkness does our life begin, 
 
 Hidden and fenced within.
 
 The Ode of Creation. 
 
 In darkness and obscurity 
 
 Dwell the blind germs which yet shall be. 
 
 In darkness the slow rolling months fulfil 
 
 The pre-ordained will. 
 
 And even in childhood's earliest days, 
 
 No memory-haunted ways 
 
 Take our first footsteps ; but in deep 
 
 And unremembered tracts of sleep 
 
 The immature creature dwells, nor can recall 
 
 Its former self or primal state at all
 
 THE ODE OF INFANCY.
 
 THE ODE OF INFANCY. 
 
 Oh, little child ! 
 
 Stretched on thy mother's knees, with steadfast gaze 
 
 And innocent aspect mild, 
 
 Viewing this novel scene in mute amaze, 
 
 Following the moving light, thy mother's smile, 
 
 And storing up the while 
 
 New precious knowledge till thou com'st to be 
 
 Sage it may be or clown 
 
 Soaring or sinking down, 
 
 To topmost heights of weal or depths of misery ; 
 
 How shall I dare to mark thy innocent look, 
 
 And write as in a book
 
 14 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Thy infinite possibilities of life ; 
 What fate awaits thee in the coming strife, 
 What joys, what triumphs in the growing years, 
 What depths of woe and tears ? 
 
 I see thee lie 
 
 Safe in thy silken cradle, sunk in down, 
 
 Within thy father's palace-chambers fair ; 
 
 Thy guarded slumbers breathing tempered air ; 
 
 The soft eyes, full of yearning, watching by ; 
 
 Caressing arras waiting thy waking cry ; 
 
 All luxury and state which can assuage 
 
 Life's painful heritage; 
 
 The prayers of a people swell for thee 
 
 Up to the careless skies which cover all. 
 
 And yet it may be thine to fall 
 
 from thy loved and native land, 
 And end thy imperfect, innocent life-tale here,
 
 The Ode of Infancy. 1 5 
 
 Forsaken on a savage desert strand, 
 
 Pierced through and through by some barbarian spear. 
 
 I see thy tiny face 
 
 Pale, worn with hunger, and large hollow eyes, 
 
 Upon the frozen way-side laid 
 
 Stiffening in thy dead mother's cold embrace. 
 
 I hear thy piteous cries 
 
 When the sot flings thee down with limbs that bleed 
 
 Flings thee, and takes no heed ; 
 
 Weak, helpless, born to misery, girt round 
 
 With vice and sin and shame, in sight and sound. 
 
 Poor life foredoomed, already sunk and lost ; 
 
 Too often sent to tread the ways of death 
 
 With childish failing breath ; 
 
 Yet ofttimes holding power 
 
 To bloom a virgin flower 
 
 Upon the untrodden heights closed to the multitude, 
 
 Among the wise and good.
 
 1 6 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Or with brown face thou comest and limb, 
 Naked, on the warm soil that bears the palm ; 
 Or haply the young heir of all the dim 
 And half-forgotten realms whose ruins stand 
 Sown lion-haunted on the deathlike calm 
 Which wraps the Egyptian or Assyrian sand 
 Reared 'midst the dust of empires ; or art now 
 As through all history thou wert, the child 
 Of savage parents, rude and wild, 
 Springing and falling, born to eat and breed 
 And wither under burning skies a weed, 
 'Midst poison fangs and death and cruel men 
 With hearts that ape the tiger's ; or art born 
 In the old, old empire, which hath long outworn 
 God and the hopes of man, and yet coheres, 
 Propped by its own far-reaching bulk, as when 
 It did emerge from savagery and grew,
 
 The Ode of Infancy. i 7 
 
 Oh, child ! as yet may you, 
 
 To worldly strength, and knowledge, and dead lore 
 
 Of wisdom fled before, 
 
 And dull content, and soulless hopes and fears. 
 
 Wherever thou mayest be, 
 
 To me thou art wonderful and strange to see 
 
 Busied with trifles, rapt with simple toys, 
 
 As men with graver joys. 
 
 I hear thy lisping accents slowly reach 
 
 The miracle of speech ; 
 
 I mark thy innocent smile ; 
 
 I treasure up each baby wile 
 
 Which smooths the brow of thought, the heart of care. 
 
 Thou royal scion, born to be the heir 
 
 Of all the unrecorded days, since first 
 
 Man rose to his full being, once blest, and then accurst
 
 1 8 The Ode of Life. 
 
 In weal and woe and ill 
 
 Thou art a miracle still. 
 
 From snow-bound hut to equatorial strand, 
 
 Above thee still regarding angels stand ; 
 
 While thy brief life-tale passes like a dream 
 
 Across Creation's glass. 
 
 Dark powers of ill press thee on either side, 
 
 As now thy swift years pass, 
 
 Revealing on thy young soul's tablets white 
 
 The eternal characters of Right ; 
 
 Or sometimes with the growing years grown strong 
 
 The unhallowed signs of wrong. 
 
 Oh, little child ! thou bringest with thee still, 
 
 As Moses, parting from the fiery hill, 
 
 Some dim reflection in thine eyes, 
 
 Some sense of Godhead, some indefinite wonder 
 
 As of one drifted here unwillingly ;
 
 The Ode of Infancy. 19 
 
 Who knows no speech of ours, and yet doth keep 
 Some dumb remembrance of a gracious home 
 Which lights his waking hours and fills his sleep 
 With precious visions which unbidden come ; 
 Some golden link which nought of earth can sunder, 
 Some glimpse of a more glorious land and sea ! 
 
 Oh, precious vision fleeting past ! 
 
 Oh, age too fair to last ! 
 
 For soon new gifts and powers are thine, 
 
 And growing springs and summers bring 
 
 Boyhood or girlhood hastening, 
 
 And nerve the agile limb, and teach, 
 
 With the new gift of speech, 
 
 The wonders that stand round on every side, 
 
 And Life's imperial portals opening gradually wide.
 
 THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD.
 
 THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 I. BOYHOOD. 
 
 Fair budding age, 
 
 Which, next upon life's stage 
 
 Passest a fairy dream before the eyes, 
 
 High health and bounding limb, 
 
 Eager and stretching towards the wished-for prize 
 
 Whate'er the passing care that takes thy thought, 
 
 I catch the sweet brisk scent of trodden grass 
 
 When through the golden afternoon 
 
 Of a long day in June, 
 
 Until the twilight dim,
 
 24 The Ode of Life. 
 
 The playfield echoes with the joyous noise 
 
 Of troops of agile boys, 
 
 Who, bare-armed, throw the rapid-bounding ball ; 
 
 Who shout and race and fall. 
 
 I see the warm pool fringed with meadow-sweet, 
 
 Where stream in summer, with eager feet 
 
 Through gold of buttercups and crested grass, 
 
 The gay processions stripping as they pass. 
 
 I hear the cool and glassy depths divide 
 
 As the bold fair young bodies, far more fair 
 
 Th;m ever sculptured Nereids were, 
 
 Plunge fearless down, or push, with front or side, 
 
 Through the caressing wave. 
 
 I mark the deadly chill, thro' the young blood, 
 
 When some young life, snatched from the cruel flood, 
 
 Looks once upon the flowers, the fields, the sun, 
 
 Looks once, and then is done ! 
 
 Or the grey, frosty field, and the great ball
 
 The Ode of Childhood. 25 
 
 Urged on by flying feet. 
 
 Or when the skate rings on the frozen lake, 
 
 The gliding phantoms fleet, 
 
 Rosy with health, and laughing though they fall. 
 
 Or by the rapid stream or swirling pool, 
 
 The fisher, with his pliant wand. 
 
 Or by the covert-side, taking his stand, 
 
 The shooter, watching patient hour by hour, 
 
 With that hard youthful heart that young breasts hold, 
 
 Till the fur glances through the brake ; 
 
 As when our savage sires wandered of old, 
 
 Hungering through primal wastes. I see them all, 
 
 The brisk, swift days of youth, which cares for nought 
 
 But for the joy of living; scarce a thought 
 
 Of Love, or Knowledge, or at best 
 
 Such labour as gives zest 
 
 To the great joy of living. Oh, blest time ! 
 
 For which each passing hour rings out a chime
 
 26 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Of joy-bells all the year ; ay, tho' through days 
 
 Of ill thou farest, and unhappy ways ; 
 
 Or whether on the sun-struck lands thy feet 
 
 Are the young savage hunter's, lithe and fleet, 
 
 Turning at night-fall to thy father's cot, 
 
 Bathed in the full white moonlight ; or dost stand 
 
 'Mid the hushed plains of some forsaken land ; 
 
 Where'er thou art, oh, boyhood ! thou art free 
 
 And fresh as the young breeze in summer born 
 
 On sun-kissed hills or on the laughing sea, 
 
 Or gay bird-music breathing of the mom, 
 
 Or some sweet rose-bud pearled with early dew, 
 
 As brief and fair as you.
 
 The Ode of Childhood. 27 
 
 II. GIRLHOOD. 
 
 Or in another channel still more sweet, 
 
 Life's current flows along, 
 
 Ere yet the tide of passion, full and strong, 
 
 Hurries the maiden's feet. 
 
 Oh, sweet and early girlish years 
 
 Of innocent hopes and fears ! 
 
 Busied with fancies bright and gay, 
 
 Which Love shall chase away, 
 
 When, with the flutter of celestial wings, 
 
 He stirs the soul forth from its depths, and brings
 
 28 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Healing from trouble. Oh, deep well 
 Of fairy fancies undefiled ! 
 Oh, sweet and innocent child ! 
 
 Now with thy doll I see thee full of care, 
 
 Or filled already with the mother's air, 
 
 Hushing thy child to sleep. 
 
 And now thyself immersed in slumbers, deep 
 
 Yet light, I see thee lie. 
 
 And now the singer, lifting a clear voice 
 
 In soaring hymns or carols that rejoice, 
 
 Or busied with thy seam, or doubly fair 
 
 For the unconscious rapture of thy look 
 
 Lost in some simple book. 
 
 U'hate'er the colour of thy face, 
 
 Thou art fulfilled with grace. 
 
 Oh, little maiden, fair or brown : 
 
 Thine is the simple beauty which doth crown
 
 The Ode of Childhood. 29 
 
 The dreams of happy fathers, who have past 
 
 By Love and Passion, and have come 
 
 To know pure joys of home ; 
 
 And for the hurry and haste of younger years, 
 
 Have taken the hearth that cheers, 
 
 And the fair realm of duty, and delight 
 
 Of innocent faces bright, 
 
 And the sweet wells of feeling and white love 
 
 A daughter's name can move. 
 
 In every clime and age I see thee still, 
 Since the rude nomads wandered forth at will 
 Upon the unbounded Aryan pastures wild 
 There thou wert, oh, fair child ! 
 " The milker " 'twas they called thee ; all day long 
 Tending the browsing herds with high-voiced song ; 
 Or on some sun-warmed place 
 Upon the flower-faced grass,
 
 3O The Ode of Life. 
 
 Watching the old clouds pass, 
 
 And weaving wreaths with such wild grace 
 
 And sprightly girlish glee 
 
 As Proserpine did once in sunny Sicily. 
 
 Or maybe by some widowed hearth 
 
 The fairest, saddest sight on earth, 
 
 Filled too soon with sweet care, 
 
 And bringing back the voice and air 
 
 Of thy dead mother ; thou art set 
 
 An innocent virgin-mother, childlike yet. 
 
 Thy baby sisters on thy loving arm 
 
 Sleep fast, secure from harm. 
 
 Thou hast no time for game or toy, 
 
 Or other thought but this ; 
 
 Who fmdcst thy full reward, thy chiefest joy, 
 
 In thy fond father's kiss.
 
 The Ode of Childhood. 31 
 
 Or under palms to-day, 
 
 Thy childhood fleets away ; 
 
 Or by the broadening shadow hid, 
 
 Of tomb or pyramid; 
 
 In stainless whiteness ; or maybe 
 
 Forlorn in haunts of misery ; 
 
 Thou keepest on thy rounded face 
 
 Some unforgotten trace 
 
 Of the old primal days unsung, 
 
 Of the fresh breezes of pure morn 
 
 When the first maiden child was born, 
 
 And Time was young. 
 
 Fair streams which run as yet 
 
 Each in its separate channel from the snows ;
 
 32 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Boyhood and girlhood ; while Life's banks are set 
 
 With blooms that kiss the clear lymph as it flows, 
 
 One swift and strong and deep, 
 
 One where the lilies sleep ; 
 
 Fair streams, which soon some stress of Life and Time 
 
 Shall bring together, 
 
 Under new magical skies and the strange weather 
 
 Of an enchanted clime.
 
 THE ODE OF YOUTH.
 
 THE ODE OF YOUTH. 
 
 Now upon the tree of life there rise 
 
 Before our wondering eyes 
 
 Two strange new flowers of varied hue. 
 
 The tree is grown, 
 
 The flowers are blown, 
 
 There is nought wanting to its early sweetness ; 
 
 But with a full completeness, 
 
 The purple bloom and white 
 
 Fill the entranced, admiring sight. 
 
 The tree is grown, the tree is strong ; 
 
 Oh ! dear to art and song !
 
 36 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Fair time of Flowers ! within whose chalice sweet 
 
 Lurks Youth with rosy feet, 
 
 And Love with purple folded wing, 
 
 And birdlike thoughts that sing.
 
 The Ode of Youth. 37 
 
 I. EARLY MANHOOD. 
 
 And first, oh youth, I see thee with the plume 
 Of thy thick locks upon thy forehead set, 
 And thy frank eyes kindling with fire, or dim 
 With soaring thoughts of heaven, or wet 
 With kindly dews of pity ; the straight limb 
 And the strong arm, and force that never tires ; 
 The cheek and lip touched with the early down 
 Of manhood's fullest crown ; 
 The heart, which hardly thought of passion fires 
 The mind, which opens like a flower in spring 
 To all the wanton airs the seasons bring ; 
 The young existence self-contained no longer,
 
 38 The Ode of Life. 
 
 But pressing outward hour by hour, 
 
 Fired with a thirst continually stronger, 
 
 For some supreme white flower. 
 
 Whatever be the prize 
 
 Whether upon the difficult heights of Thought, 
 
 Or 'midst the white laborious dust of Duty, 
 
 Or on the peaks of Power, the bloom be sought, 
 
 Or in the flush and thrill of the new Beauty 
 
 Born of a maiden's eyes. 
 
 Oh, happiest age of all ! 
 
 When hope is without measure, 
 
 And life a thrill of pleasure, 
 
 And health is high and force unspent, 
 
 Nor Disappointment yet, nor sordid Care, 
 
 Nor yet Satiety, nor the cold chill 
 
 Which creeps upon the world-worn heart to kill 
 
 All higher hope, and leaves us to despair.
 
 The Ode of Youth. 39 
 
 Nor doubt of God or men can touch, but all 
 
 The garden ground of Life is opened wide ; 
 
 And lo ! on every side 
 
 The flowers of spring are blooming, and the air 
 
 Is scented, and sweet song is everywhere, 
 
 And young eyes read from an enchanted book, 
 
 With rapt entranced look, 
 
 Loves legend and the Dream of days to be, 
 
 And fables fair of Life's mythology, 
 
 Rapt hour by hour till dewy twilight fall. 
 
 Whatever be the page 
 
 Whether on metaphysical riddles faint, 
 
 Or the rapt visions of some far-off seer, 
 
 The burning thoughts of saint, 
 
 Or maxims of the sage 
 
 Thou comest, oh youth, with thought as sure, 
 
 With mind severe and pure ;
 
 4O The Ode of Life. 
 
 Thou takest afresh, with each returning year, 
 \ The fair thin dreams, the philosophic lore 
 Of the great names of yore 
 Plato the wise, Confucius, Socrates, 
 The blest Gautama all are thine ; 
 Upon thee year by year the words divine 
 Of our great Master, falling like the dew, 
 Fill thee, to hate the wrong, to love the true ; 
 For thee the fair poetic page is spread 
 Of the great living and the greater dead ; 
 For thee the glorious gains of Science lie 
 Stretched open to thine eye ; 
 And to thy fresh and undimmed brain, 
 The mysteries of Number and of Space 
 Seem easy to explain ; 
 Thou lookest with clear gaze upon the long 
 Confusions of the Race, the paradox of Wrong ; 
 And dost not fear to trace,
 
 The Ode of Youth. 41 
 
 With youth's strong fiery faith that knows no chill, 
 The secret of Transgression, the prime source 
 Of Good and Evil, and the unfailing course 
 Of the Ineffable Will. 
 
 And sometimes life, glowing with too fierce fire, 
 
 O'er sea and land in rapid chase, 
 
 Snatches thee with tumultuous will, 
 
 And careless, breathless pace. 
 
 Sometimes a subtle flame 
 
 Comes on thee as a shadow of night, 
 
 Marring thy young life's white, 
 
 And some strange thrill thou knowest without a name, 
 
 And at thy side shamefast Desire 
 
 Stands unreproved and guides thy bashful feet 
 
 To where, girt by dim depths of solitude, 
 
 Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood ; 
 
 And oh, but Youth runs swift and Pleasure is sweet !
 
 42 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And sometimes, too, looking with too bold eye 
 
 Upon the unclouded sky, 
 
 Sudden the heavens are hidden, and the great Sun 
 
 Sinks as if day were done, 
 
 And the brain reels and all the life grows faint, 
 
 Smitten by too much light ; or a thick haze 
 
 Born out of sense doth overcloud 
 
 The soul, and leaves it blind and in amaze, 
 
 And the young heart is dull and the young brain 
 
 Dark till God shine again. 
 
 Oh, fairest age of all ! 
 
 Whate'er thy race or clime, 
 
 To-day ten thousand cities on thee call, 
 
 Broad plain and palm-fringed isle. 
 
 Thine is the swelling life, the eager glance and smile, 
 
 Oh, precious fruit of Life and Time !
 
 The Ode of Youth. 43 
 
 Oh, worker of the world ! to whose young arm 
 
 The brute earth yields and wrong, as to a charm ; 
 
 Young seaman, soldier, student, toiler at the plough, 
 
 Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art thou ! 
 
 Where'er thou art, though earthy oft and coarse, 
 
 Thou bearest with thee hidden springs of force, 
 
 Creative power, the flower, the fruitful strife, 
 
 The germ, the potency of Life, 
 
 Which draws all things to thee unwittingly. 
 
 The Future lies within thy loins, and all the Days to be 
 
 To thee Time giveth to beget, 
 
 The Thought that shall redeem and lift man higher yet.
 
 44 The Ode of Life. 
 
 II. MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 But lo ! another form appears 
 
 Upon the glass. Oh, pure and white ! 
 
 Oh, delicate and bright ! 
 
 Oh, primal growth of Time ! 
 
 Sweet maidenhood ! that to a silvery chime 
 
 Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled, 
 
 And modest grace and mild, 
 
 Comest, best gift of God to men, 
 
 As fair to-day as when 
 
 The first man, waking from his deep 
 
 And fancy-haunted sleep,
 
 The Ode of Youth. 45 
 
 Found his strength spent, and at his side 
 
 His fair dream glorified ; 
 
 High-soaring note, keeping the eternal song 
 
 Through secular discords long. 
 
 Oh, lily of Life's garden ! fair of hue 
 
 And sweet of scent, watered with heaven's own dew ; 
 
 Fair being, that boldest hidden motherhood 
 
 And undeveloped good ; 
 
 Implicit in thee, even as white blooms hold 
 
 Their fragrant globes of gold, 
 
 Men know no praise they can withhold from thee, 
 
 Oh, sweet virginity ! 
 
 Since Artemis first trod the youngling earth. 
 
 Thou glorious and surpassing birth ! 
 
 The Vestal fires were thine, the convents cold 
 
 Are thine as those of old. 
 
 To thee, when strong sweet flowers of Life and Sense, 
 
 Scent gross, we turn, oh white and gracious innocence !
 
 46 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Yea, still, while life flows fast and free, 
 To thee we turn a world-worn eye. 
 Throbbing delights are youth's and pulses high ; 
 Yet sometimes these will pall, and then to thee 
 We turn, oh fair pale lily, clothed with purity ! 
 
 For sure it is indeed 
 
 Two streams through Life's ground flow, and both are 
 
 good 
 
 The one whose goal is gracious motherhood ; 
 The other in the cloister pale and dim 
 Finding sufficient meed 
 In pure observance, rite, and soaring hymn. 
 We may not blame nor hold them wrong 
 Who through their lives their liturgies prolong, 
 Even though the prize of motherhood be great. 
 But always thine, oh, blest estate ! 
 Thine it is, even in youth's hot sun, to keep 
 Celestial snows and pure abysses deep.
 
 The Ode of Youth. 47 
 
 I see thy fair expanding mind, 
 A precious blossom parcel-blown, 
 Not with the young man's ardent rage, 
 But with a gentler radiance all thy own, 
 Fixed now on history's fabled page, 
 Now on the bard's diviner thought, 
 And now by some deep music stirred, 
 Deeper than any spoken word, 
 Or sweet love-story soft as southern wind. 
 
 Dear flower and fair to mortal eye, 
 Whatever be thy age, thy clime, thy race, 
 Whether the gentle curve of thy young breast 
 Be hidden in white lawn or stand confest 
 In innocent brown nakedness and grace, 
 Thou art the high and unattained prize 
 Of all the generations that have been ; 
 Upon Life's throne thou sittest as a Queen,
 
 48 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And at thy gracious feet 
 The ages kneel to thy eternal Truth. 
 Thy pure and spotless innocence, 
 And free from stain of Time and Sense, 
 Thy undented youth. 
 
 White flower of Life's tree, 
 
 Love like a wanton bee, 
 
 Shall fly to thee, and from thy deep cold cells 
 
 Rifle the honey. Tranquil stream, 
 
 That from the chill heart of the untrodden snow, 
 
 So calm and clear dost flow ; 
 
 Spring wakes beneath the gleam 
 
 Of a new sun which swells 
 
 A warm and rapid torrent strong, 
 
 Soon in the sunny balmy weather, 
 
 To break its banks and bear together 
 
 Your mingled streams along.
 
 THE ODE OF LOVE.
 
 THE ODE OF LOVE. 
 
 I am afraid 
 
 To sing thee, oh Immortal Love, who know 
 
 By what majestic voices long ago 
 
 Thy eulogy was said. 
 
 I do not dare 
 
 To bring a voice which thou didst never train, 
 
 To the high-soaring difficult air 
 
 Of thy celestial strain. 
 
 Yet how of Life to sing, and yet not tell of Love ; 
 
 And since thou art the source of song, 
 
 And all our hearts dost move, 
 
 I will essay thy praise nor fear to do thee wrong.
 
 52 The Ode of Life. 
 
 For see, the love/s go 
 
 With lingering steps and slow, 
 
 By dim arcades where sunbeams scarcely reach ; 
 
 On sea-struck northern beach j 
 
 Or breathless tropic strand, 
 
 By evening breezes fanned ; 
 
 Or through the thick life-laden air 
 
 Of some great city ; or through the hush 
 
 Of summer twilights 'midst the corn ; 
 
 When all the dying heavens glow and blush 
 
 Or the young moonlight curves its crescent horn. 
 
 Oh, wondrous bond that binds 
 
 In one sweet concord separate minds, 
 
 And from their union gives 
 
 To the rapt gazer's eye 
 
 A finer essence and more high,
 
 Ode of Love. 53 
 
 A young and winged God, who lives 
 
 In purer air and seeks a loftier sky ! 
 
 If growing cares and lower aims should banish 
 
 All thought of heavenly hopes and higher things, 
 
 While we can mount upon thy soaring wings 
 
 They shall not wholly vanish. 
 
 Thou art the immortal part of man, the soul, 
 
 Which, scorning earth's control, 
 
 Lifts us from selfish thought and grovelling gains. 
 
 Thou always, whilst thy power remains, 
 
 Canst pierce the dull dead weight of cloud, 
 
 By which our thought is bowed, 
 
 And raise our clear and cleansed eyes 
 
 To the eternal skies. 
 
 No sting of sense it is 
 
 That gives thee wing and lifts thee to the heaven. 
 
 Too high art thou for this ;
 
 54 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Ethereal, pure, free from earth's grosser leaven. 
 If ought of sense be thine, it is the air, 
 Whose weight can lift thee up to soar, 
 Which can thy heavenward pinions bear 
 From brute earth more and more 
 Up to the fount of Power and Love 
 Whence all things move. 
 
 And see, the lovers go 
 
 With lingering steps and slow, 
 
 Over all the world together, all in all, 
 
 Over all the world ! The empires fall ; 
 
 The onward march of Man seems spent ; 
 
 The nations rot in dull content ; 
 
 The blight of war, a bitter flood, 
 
 From continent to continent, 
 
 Rolls on with waves of blood ; 
 
 The light of knowledge sinks, the fire of thought burns low ;
 
 The Ode of Love. 55 
 
 There seems scant thought of God ; but yet 
 
 One power there is men ne'er forget, 
 
 And still through every land beneath the skies, 
 
 Rapt, careless, looking in each other's eyes, 
 
 With lingering steps and slow, 
 
 The lovers go. 
 
 A pillar of light 
 
 Goes evermore before their dazzled eyes. 
 
 Purple and golden-bright, 
 
 Youth's vast horizons spread and the unbounded skies. 
 
 Oh blessed dream which for awhile dost hide 
 
 The sorrows of the world and leave life glorified ! 
 
 Oh blessed light that risest still, 
 
 Young eyes and eager souls to fill ! 
 
 Linked arms and hearts aglow ; 
 Wherever man is more than brute,
 
 56 The Ode of Life. 
 
 To this self-sacrifice our natures grow. 
 
 Rapt each in each they go, and mute, 
 
 Listening to the sweet song 
 
 Which Love, with unheard accents, all day long 
 
 Sings to them, like a hidden bird, 
 
 Sweeter than e'er was seen or heard, 
 
 Which from life's thick-leaved tree 
 
 Sings sadly, merrily, 
 
 A strange, mixed song, a mystic strain, 
 
 Which rises now to joy and jollity, 
 
 Now seemeth to complain ; 
 
 But with a sweeter music far than is 
 
 Of earthborn melodies. 
 
 He sees within her eyes 
 That which his nature needs to be complete 
 The grace, the pureness, the diviner sweet, 
 Which to rude souls and strong our Life denies ;
 
 7 he Ode of Love. 57 
 
 The vision of his nightly dream ; 
 
 More pure than e'er did seem 
 
 The Nymphs of old, by wood, or hill, or stream. 
 
 She views in him the strong 
 
 Deep note which adds the fulness to life's song ; 
 
 High aims and thoughts that glow 
 
 She does not dream, she cannot know 
 
 What turbid forces rude and wild 
 
 Sully his youth's tumultuous flow ; 
 
 She, full of virgin fancies, pale and mild. 
 
 They draw to each other ; they flow together in one, 
 Together thro' all lands beneath the sun, 
 In one attempered stream, or side by side, 
 So near that scarce a footpace may divide 
 Their separate depths, and this maybe is best ; 
 Or maybe in each other lost,
 
 58 The Ode of Life. 
 
 In calm or tempest-tost, 
 
 One broad full river they roll on to the sea, 
 
 One full accordant harmony, 
 
 High song and deep, one perfect note ; 
 
 Or maybe troubled as the wintry wave, 
 
 Or some hoarse accent of a tuneless throat, 
 
 They know no longer peace or rest, 
 
 Ill-mated, hapless, self-opprest, 
 
 Till silent in the grave. 
 
 Yet draw together, draw together still, 
 Fair souls and free, fair souls and young ! 
 Still shall thy praise, Immortal Love, be sung ! 
 Thou art the Spirit which doth animate ; 
 The Universal Will, 
 
 Which speeds the Race upon the ways of Fate ; 
 Which speeds it onwards, gaining strength 
 Little by little, line on line,
 
 The Ode of Love. 59 
 
 Till, as our hope is, risen at length 
 To plenitude Divine, 
 It comes to what high issue rare 
 The Future shall prepare.
 
 THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS.
 
 THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS. 
 
 Now flower and perfect fruit 
 
 Together dress the tree, 
 
 High midsummer has come, midsummer mute 
 
 Of song, but rich to scent and sight. 
 
 The sun is high in heaven, the skies are bright 
 
 And full of blessedness, 
 
 High hope and wild endeavour 
 
 Have fled or sunk for ever ; 
 
 Only the swifter seasons onward press, 
 
 And every day that goes 
 
 Is a full-scented, full-blown garden rose, 
 
 Orbed, complete.
 
 64 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And every hour brings its own burden sweet 
 Of daily duty, precious care ; 
 Wherefrom the visible landscape calm and clear 
 Sghws finer far, and the high heaven more near, 
 Than ever morning skies of sunrise were. 
 
 I miss the unbounded hope of old, 
 
 The freshness and the glow of youth ; 
 
 I miss the fever and the fret, 
 
 The luminous haze of gold. 
 
 I see a mind clearer and calmer yet, 
 
 A more unselfish love, a more unclouded truth ; 
 
 Such gain I take, and this 
 
 More gracious shows and fair than that I miss.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 65 
 
 I. FATHERHOOD. 
 
 Oh, father ! sitting at thy hearth, 
 With sunny heads around and lisping talk, 
 For whom the world without and all the earth 
 Is nought to this ; and to the strong deep love 
 Which, mixed with pity, all thy soul doth move. 
 Strong worker, watching o'er the tottering walk 
 And feeble limbs and growing thought and brain, 
 Rejoicing in each new-found gain 
 As the first sire, alone in Paradise ; 
 And patient and content to work all day, 
 If with the eve returning from thy toil 
 Thou canst put off the sad world's stain and soil, 
 
 F
 
 66 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And bending downward to thy children's eyes, 
 
 Rase cleansed and pure as they. 
 
 I know not if life holds a more divine 
 
 Or fairer lot than thine. 
 
 Strong, patient worker, king of those who can 
 
 To its high goal of Things to be, 
 
 Its goal of Fate and Mystery, 
 
 Lead forth the race of Man ! 
 
 Thy way is ofttimes hard, 
 
 And toilsome oft thy feet ; 
 
 Thine are the days of anxious care, 
 
 When the spent brain reels, or the strong arm tires ; 
 
 Yet all the ease and charm of days that were, 
 
 And pleasure paling all their fading fires, 
 
 Allure no more, but the tired hunter now, 
 
 Or now the worker with the furrowed brow 
 
 On frozen wastes or sun-struck thou dost show ;
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 67 
 
 By mart, or loom, or mine, or bending down 
 Chained to thy desk within the stifling town, 
 Thou toilest daily that thy brood may live. 
 Cares are thine, cares, and the unselfish mind 
 Which spends itself for others and can find 
 How blest it is without return to give. 
 Whate'er thy race or speech, thou art the same ; 
 Before thy eyes Duty, a constant flame, 
 Shines always steadfast with unchanging light, 
 Through dark days and through bright. 
 
 Sometimes, by too great misery bowed down, 
 
 Or poison-draughts brought lower than the beast, 
 
 Thou comest to hate the hollow eyes around, 
 
 Dreading thy cares increased, 
 
 And dost despise thy own, 
 
 And canst thy dead heart steel against their cries, 
 
 And mark unmoved the hunger in their eyes ;
 
 68 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Or sometimes, filled with love, art powerless to aid. 
 Oh, misery, to make our souls afraid ! 
 
 Or if a happier lot 
 
 Await thee, yet by precious wells of tears 
 
 Thy life's road goes, vain hopes and anxious fears. 
 
 Thine 'tis, perchance, to mark the grassy mound 
 
 Which keeps, within the churchyard's narrow ground. 
 
 Thy darling who is not 
 
 Hopes sunk in tears, tears that ascend to hope ; 
 
 Such is thy horoscope, 
 
 Oh father, standing by the little grave, 
 
 And impotent to save ! 
 
 Thy heart is moved with pity 
 For thy young growing lives, who come 
 To leave the safe and sacred walls of home ; 
 For whose young souls, Life, like a cruel city.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 69 
 
 Spreads out her nets of sin. 
 
 Thou knowest well of old 
 
 The strong allurements which they scarce may shun, 
 
 The subtle wiles, the innocent lives undone, 
 
 The tide of passion, scorning all control, 
 
 And thou art filled with an immense despair, 
 
 Wherefrom thy heart beats slow, thy eyes grow dim, 
 
 As when of yore thou heardst them lisp a hymn 
 
 With early childish lips : thou canst not bear 
 
 To think of that young whiteness soiled and foul, 
 
 Or that thick darkness blotting the young soul. 
 
 Yet from thy grief and pain 
 Comes ofttimes greater gain 
 Than all thy loss. 
 Thou knowest what it is to grieve, 
 And from the burden of thy cross 
 Thou comest to believe.
 
 70 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Thou who hast lost and yet dost love, 
 
 Thou, too, a Father hast in some dim sphere above, 
 
 Who doth regard thy joys, thy miseries, 
 
 Thy petty doubts of Him, thy feeble learning, 
 
 Thy faults, thy pains, thy childish doubt and yearning, 
 
 Even as thou dost these.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 7 1 
 
 II. MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 But here is one who over all the earth 
 
 Is worshipped and is blest, 
 
 Who doth rejoice from holier springs of mirth, 
 
 And sorrows from a deeper fount of tears, 
 
 On whose sweet bosom is our earliest rest, 
 
 Whose tender voice that cheers 
 
 Is our first memory, which still doth last 
 
 Thro' all our later past 
 
 The love of love or child, the world-worn strife, 
 
 The turmoil and the triumphs of a life 
 
 The sweet maid-mother, pure and mild, 
 
 The deep love undefiled.
 
 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Thou art the universal praise 
 
 Of every human heart, the secret shrine 
 
 Where seer and savage keep a dream divine 
 
 Through growing and declining days ; 
 
 And but for thee 
 
 And thy unselfish love, thy sacrifice, 
 
 Which brings heaven daily nearer to our eyes, 
 
 Men whom the rude world stains, men chilled by doubt, 
 
 Would find no ray of Deity 
 
 To fire a Faith gone out. 
 
 Our life from a twofold root 
 
 Springs upwards to the sky, 
 
 One, surface only, shared with tree and brute, 
 
 And one, as deep and strong as heaven is high. 
 
 Spirit and sense, 
 
 Each bears its part and dwells in innocence
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 73 
 
 Yet only grown together can they bear 
 
 The one consummate fruit. 
 
 The flower is good, the flower is fair, 
 
 But holds no lasting sweetness in its petals thin, 
 
 No seed of life within. 
 
 But the ripe fruit within its orbed gold 
 
 Doth hidden secrets hold ; 
 
 Within its honied wells set safe and deep, 
 
 The Future lies asleep. 
 
 Of shamefastness our being is born, 
 
 Of shamefastness and scorn. 
 
 Oh, wonder, that so high dost soar ! 
 
 Oh, vision, blest for evermore ! 
 
 With every throe of birth 
 
 Two glorious Presences make glad the earth : 
 
 The stainless mother and the Eternal Child. 
 
 Of the heart comes love, of the heart and not the brain ;
 
 74 The Ode of Life. 
 
 To heights where Thought comes not can Love attain 
 
 We cannot tell at all, we may not know, 
 
 How to such stature high our lower natures grow ; 
 
 What strong instinctive thrill 
 
 The mother's being doth fill, 
 
 And raises it from miry common ways, 
 
 Up to such heights of love. 
 
 We cannot tell what blessed forces move, 
 
 And so transform the careless girlish heart 
 
 To bear so high a part 
 
 We cannot tell ; we can but praise 
 
 Fair motherhood, by every childish tongue 
 
 Thy eulogy is sung. 
 
 In every passing age 
 
 The theme of seer and sage : 
 
 The painters saw thee in a life-long dream ; 
 
 The painters who have left a world more fair
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 75 
 
 Than ever days of nymph and goddess were 
 Blest company, who now for centuries 
 Have fixed the virgin mother for our eyes 
 The painters saw thee sitting brown or fair, 
 Amid the Tuscan vines or colder Northern air ; 
 They saw the love shine from thy peasant gaze ; 
 They saw thy reverent look, thy young amaze 
 And left thee Queen of Heaven, wearing a crown 
 Of glory ; and abased at thy sweet breast, 
 Spuming his robes of kingship down, 
 The God-child laid at rest. 
 
 They found thee, and they fixed thee for our eyes ; 
 
 But every day that goes 
 
 Before the gazer new Madonnas rise. 
 
 What matter if the cheek show not the rose, 
 
 Nor eyes divine are there nor queenly grace ? 
 
 The mother's glory lights the homely face.
 
 7 6 The Ode of Life. 
 
 In every land beneath the circling sun 
 Thy praise is never done. 
 
 \ Whatever men may doubt, they put their trust in thee ; 
 Rude souls and coarse, to whom virginity 
 Seems a dead thing and cold. 
 So always was it from the days of old ; 
 So shall it be while yet our race doth last ; 
 Though truth be sought no more and faith be past, 
 Still, till all hope of heaven be dead, 
 Thy praises shall be said. 
 
 Aye, thou art ours, or wert, ere yet 
 
 The loss we ne'er forget, 
 
 The loss which comes to all who reach life's middle way. 
 
 We see thee by the childish bed 
 
 Sit patient all night long, 
 
 To cool the parching lips or throbbing head ; 
 
 We hear thee still with simple song
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 77 
 
 Or sweet hymn lull the wakeful eyes 'to sleep ; 
 
 Through every turning of life's chequered page, 
 
 Joying with those who joy, weeping with those who weep. 
 
 Oh, sainted love ! oh, precious sacrifice ! 
 
 Oh, heaven-lighted eyes ! 
 
 Best dream of early youth, best memory of age !
 
 78 The Ode of Life. 
 
 III. LABOUR. 
 
 They do the Maker wrong 
 
 Who with the closing days of youth 
 
 Shut fast the gate of Song ; 
 
 Nor ever can I hold it truth, 
 
 With those who feign to tell the tale of life, 
 
 That only love is worth, the love that binds 
 
 A youth and maid, nor care at all 
 
 For the long summer ere the fruit shall fall, 
 
 And hold not fit for song the glorious strife, 
 
 The joy of toil and thought, the clash of vigorous minds, 
 
 When knowledge flies before, and we pursue, 
 
 And who the Fair once followed, follow now the True.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 79 
 
 Ah, full fair life ! if something we have lost, 
 
 If never more again 
 
 We feel the ancient joy, the former pain, 
 
 If no more passion-tost 
 
 Upon the tides of life we hurry by, 
 
 The white waves laughing as we plunge along, 
 
 Nor watch the light clouds drift along the sky, 
 
 While the glad South snatches us swift and strong 
 
 To some blest isle beyond the purple wave, 
 
 Where Love is Queen and Mirth, nor Prudence grave 
 
 Nor Wisdom frowns, but to be glad is all, 
 
 From jocund morn till dewy evening fall ; 
 
 Oh, if that sky is dark those winds are still ; 
 
 Another day has risen : again from the East 
 
 Our treasure is increased ; 
 
 And as the orient Lord begins to grow, 
 
 Nejv airs begin to blow,
 
 cSo The Ode of Life. 
 
 And on the calm majestic tide 
 Our full-sailed galleon comes to glide, 
 Love, with its little skiff, has gone, 
 But Life's great bark sails on. 
 
 t Toil is the law of life, and its best fruit ; 
 This from the uncaring brute 
 Divides ; this and the prescient mind whose store 
 Grows daily more and more. 
 Toil is the mother of wealth, 
 The nurse of health ; 
 Toil 'tis that gives the zest 
 To well-earned rest ; 
 The law of life laid broad and deep 
 As are the fixed foundations of the sea, 
 The medicine of grief, the remedy, 
 Wherefrom Life giveth his beloved sleep.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 81 
 
 Oh, labour truly blest ! 
 
 Thou rulest all the race ; 
 
 Over all the toiling earth I see thy gracious face 
 
 Stand forth confest. 
 
 Wherever thou art least, 
 
 In those fair lands beneath the tropic blaze, 
 
 The slothful savage, likened to the beast, 
 
 Drags on his soulless length of days ; 
 
 Where most thou art, 
 
 Man rises upward to a loftier height, 
 
 And views the earth and heaven with clearer sight, 
 
 And holds a cleaner heart 
 
 I see the toilers with the awaking morn, 
 
 Ere yet the day is born, 
 
 Go forth to labour over all the earth. 
 
 In northern darkness, 'midst the wintry rain, 
 
 The great bell clangs thro' the smoke-laden air ; 
 
 G
 
 82 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And ere light comes the workers gather there, 
 
 While the great engines throb, the swift wheels turn, 
 
 And the long, sickly gaslights flare and burn ; 
 
 I hear the slow winch creak above the pit, 
 
 While the black workers, who have toiled all night, 
 
 Rise, dazed, to rest and light ; 
 
 I see the fisher on the waking sea ; 
 
 The great ship, full-manned, heaving silently 
 
 Across the foam ; reapers in yellow corn ; 
 
 The frosty shepherd in the early morn ; 
 
 The naked worker bent among the cane 
 
 Or cotton ; the vinedresser, lean and brown ; 
 
 The thousand labours of the busy town ; 
 
 The myriad trades which in each clime and race 
 
 Build up man's dwelling-place; 
 
 I see the countless toiling multitude ; 
 
 And all I see is good.
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. ' 83 
 
 But to ends nobler still 
 
 The nobler workers of the world are bent. 
 
 It is not best in an inglorious ease 
 
 To sink and dull content, 
 
 When wild revolts and hopeless miseries 
 
 The unquiet nations fill ; 
 
 It is not best to rot 
 
 In dull observance, while the bitter cry 
 
 Of weak and friendless sufferers rends the sky, 
 
 Wailing their hopeless lot ; 
 
 Or rest in coward fear on former gain, 
 
 Making old joys supply the present pain. 
 
 Nay, best it is indeed 
 
 To spend ourselves upon the general good ; 
 
 And, oft misunderstood, 
 
 To strive to lift the knees and limbs that bleed ; 
 
 This is the best, the fullest meed.
 
 84 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Let ignorance assail or hatred sneer ; 
 
 Who loves his race he shall not fear ; 
 
 He suffers not for long, 
 
 Who doth his soul possess in loving, and grows strong. 
 
 Oh, student ! far into the night 
 
 From youth to age 
 
 Bent low upon the blinding page, 
 
 Content to catch some gleam of light ; 
 
 Art thou not happy, though the world pass by ? 
 
 Happy though Honours seek thee not, nor Fame, 
 
 And no man knows thy name ? 
 
 Happy in that blest company of old 
 
 Whose names are writ in characters of gold 
 
 Upon the rocks of Time, the glorious band 
 
 Who on the shining mountains stand, 
 
 Thinker and jurist, bard or seer, 
 
 Whatever name is brightest and most dear ?
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 85 
 
 Or thou with docile hand, 
 
 Obedient to the visionary eye, 
 
 Who 'midst art's precious work dost choose to stand 
 
 Amid the great ones of the days gone by. 
 
 Oh, blest and glorious lot, always to be 
 
 With dreams of beauty compassed round about ! 
 
 The godlike mother and the child divine, 
 
 Or land or sea or sky, in calm or storm, 
 
 Nature's sincerest verities of form 
 
 To see from canvas or from marble shine, 
 
 Little by little orbing gradually, 
 
 Some trace of hidden Godhead gleaming out ! 
 
 Or who, from heart and brain inspired, create, 
 Defying time, defying fate, 
 Some deathless theme and high, 
 Some verse which cannot die,
 
 86 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Some lesson which shall still be said 
 
 Altho' their tongue be lost and dead ; 
 
 Or who, in daily labour's trivial round, 
 
 Their fitting work have found ; 
 
 Or who on high, guiding the car of State, 
 
 Are set, a people's envy and their pride, 
 
 Who, spuming rank and ease and wealth, 
 
 And setting pleasure aside and health, 
 
 And meeting contumely oft and hate, 
 
 Have lived laborious lives and all too early died. 
 
 Or shall I silence keep 
 
 Of you, oh ministering women fair, 
 
 Who, while the world lies sunk in careless sleep, 
 
 Still for the love of God and man can bear 
 
 To watch by alien sick-beds, and to guard 
 
 With little hope and scant reward, 
 
 'Midst misery and foul infected air,
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 87 
 
 The friendless and the dying ? Shall I dare 
 
 To sing of labour's meed, nor hold you dear ? 
 
 Dear souls, your joys are great, and yet not wholly here ; 
 
 In heaven they blossom best and grow complete, 
 
 And beautiful upon the eternal mountains are your feet. 
 
 Ay, labour, thou art blest. 
 
 From all the earth, thy voice, a constant prayer, 
 
 Soars upward day and night : 
 
 A voice of aspiration after right ; 
 
 A voice of effort yearning for its rest ; 
 
 A voice of high hope conquering despair !
 
 88 The Ode of Life. 
 
 IV. REST, 
 
 There is a joy in rest ; 
 
 There is a joy to cease and to be still 
 
 This is the remedy of all the best, 
 
 To cure the pain of too laborious will. 
 
 Ah ! it is sweet to lie reclined, 
 
 Reaping the fallow mind, 
 
 When all the sweat and drouth of day is done, 
 
 And a cool breeze breathes from the setting sun. 
 
 The toiler sits before his cottage door, 
 Set with musk-roses round, and eglantine,
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 89 
 
 In dewy, scented, twilight-glooms divine, 
 When all the trouble of the week is o'er, 
 And sabbath rest comes with the evening sun : 
 The joyous shouts come up from pool or green ; 
 Round the white chestnut-spikes the beetles hum ; 
 And down the hawthorn-haunted by-ways come 
 The loitering lovers, hardly seen 
 Till springs aloft the clear, large moon 
 Of pleasant June. 
 
 Or by the palm-thatched hut at shut of eve, 
 
 The dusky toilers lie, when the red sun 
 
 Is sinking or has gone. 
 
 A cool wind rises landward from the sea ; 
 
 The fire-flies glance like silver in the palm ; 
 
 On the fringed shore the thundering rollers heave ; 
 
 And all the simple souls are full of glee, 
 
 And the fair earth of calm.
 
 90 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Or on the hot and trackless sand, 
 
 In the sweet dying day, 
 
 Beyond the unknown monuments of the dead, 
 
 The last muezzin calls, the prayers are said, 
 
 And turbaned faces stern relax a while 
 
 To some unwonted smile, 
 
 Watching the large-eyed children at their play. 
 
 Or maybe busy brains, which day by day 
 
 Life's struggle frets away, 
 
 Weary with fierce pursuit of fame or wealth, 
 
 And prizing only health ; 
 
 Over the joyous wave in some swift boat, 
 
 White-winged, delight to float 
 
 From land to land upon the tideless sea ; 
 
 Borne careless still and free 
 
 By hoary cape and gleaming southern town, 
 
 And many an islet clothed with palm and vine,
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. g i 
 
 And on the wine-dark sea-depths looking down, 
 High based on wave-worn fronts, the marble shrine ; 
 Or see the white town flush with dying day, 
 And the red mountain fire the glimmering bay. 
 
 Or maybe on the icy hill they creep 
 
 Above the pines, across the frozen sea, 
 
 Whose blue abysses bare the unfathomed deep ; 
 
 Each to the other bound, and silently, 
 
 Fearful lest some chance step or spoken word, 
 
 The avalanche trembling to its fall have stirred ; 
 
 And up the giddy height 
 
 Little by little, gaining slow, 
 
 They gradually go, 
 
 Till with hard toil of knee and hand, 
 
 On the white summit panting but content, 
 
 With full hearts throbbing high and forces spent, 
 
 At last the climbers stand ;
 
 92 The Ode of Life. 
 
 For this of old is sure, 
 
 That change of toil is toil's sufficient cure. 
 
 Or by the lovely classic shore, 
 
 The traveller sees with wondering eyes 
 
 The treasure-house of art ; the store 
 
 Of gracious memories 
 
 Left by some cunning vanished hand, 
 
 At whose supreme command 
 
 The spirit of beauty rose and did appear : 
 
 The angel with the lily ; the poor maid, 
 
 Submissive, yet afraid ; 
 
 The fair Madonnas mild ; 
 
 The deep ineffable Child ; 
 
 The sweet boy-angels singing high and clear ; 
 
 The lady with the mystic smile ; 
 
 The kneeling Magi from the fabled East ; 
 
 The blessed Presence at the sacred feast ;
 
 The Ode of Perfect Years. 93 
 
 And many a virgin martyr sweet, 
 
 And many a youthful saint, 
 
 Gazing from heavenly eyes and free of guile ; 
 
 Who, when the tortured life began to faint, 
 
 Looking in agony above, 
 
 Saw the heavens opened, and the Paraclete 
 
 Descending like a dove. 
 
 Or maybe under secular trees, 
 
 Old when his ancestors were young, 
 
 The statesman, in the golden autumn, sees 
 
 New glories for the eloquent tongue, 
 
 New triumphs gained against the banded might 
 
 Of selfishness and fear, new struggles for the right ; 
 
 And in the falling evening and the sad 
 
 Short light of waning days, 
 
 Illumes his soul with subtle inward rays, 
 
 And grows sedately glad.
 
 94 The Ode of Life. 
 
 These thy refreshments are, oh blest 
 
 And necessary Rest ! 
 
 Peaceful delights, which bear not soil and fret 
 
 As do the victories of toil, and yet 
 
 Bear their own fruit exceeding fair : 
 
 Renewal of the labouring mind, 
 
 New hopes, new dawns, and carking care 
 
 A black night left behind.
 
 THE ODE OF GOOD.
 
 THE ODE OF GOOD. 
 
 Eternal Spring, and Source 
 
 Of happiness and weal ! 
 
 Indwelling and unfailing Force ! 
 
 Who dost Thyself reveal 
 
 In every jocund day, and restful night ; 
 
 In every dawn serenely bright ; 
 
 In every tide of yearning which doth roll, 
 
 Heavenward, some growing soul ! 
 
 What were life save for Thee 
 But pain and misery
 
 98 The Ode of Life. 
 
 To have no more longing, but to be 
 Below the brute, below the tree, 
 Below the little stone, or speck of dust, 
 Which are themselves, and are made just 
 Conforming to the law which bade them grow, 
 Not dreaming dreams of heaven in their estate so 
 low ! 
 
 The calm brutes live and are, 
 
 Tranquil and unafraid, 
 
 Keeping their nature only ; the faint star 
 
 Pursues its orbit always though of Thee 
 
 It knows not, yet its vast periphery 
 
 Is ordered by Thy hand ; by Thee were laid 
 
 The fixed foundations of the unfathomed sea ; 
 
 All these obey Thee, though they may not know 
 
 What law it is that holds them. Man alone 
 
 Sees Thee, and knowing Thee, averts his face,
 
 The Ode of Good. 99 
 
 And yet is higher than all for his disgrace, 
 Which were impossible to brute, or tree, or stone. 
 
 How shall a finite voice 
 
 Praise Thee who art too high for any praise, 
 
 Great Scheme, that by eternal, perfect ways 
 
 Farest and dost rejoice ! 
 
 Thou wert before Life was, or 111. 
 
 Thou rulest all things still ; 
 
 The Governance and Regimen is Thine, 
 
 Oh Plenitude divine ! 
 
 Of all the orbs that roll 
 
 Through all Thy infinite space. 
 
 We are through Thee alone, each in its place, 
 
 Organic, Inorganic, great and small ; 
 
 Thou dost inspire and keep us all ; 
 
 Earth, sky, and sea ; herb, tree, insect, and brute ; 
 
 All Thy created excellences mute, 
 
 To Man of large discourse, and the undying soul.
 
 ioo The Ode of Life. 
 
 We know not by what Name our tongues shall call 
 
 Thee or Thy Essence, nor can Thought as yet 
 
 Gain those ineffable heights where Thou art set, 
 
 As from a watch-tower guarding all. 
 
 Thou girdest Thyself round with mystery, 
 
 As Thy great sun behind an embattled cloud, 
 
 Or some wrapt summit, never seen ; 
 
 Yet Thy veiled presence cheers us on our road. 
 
 With eyes bent down too much on earth and bowed, 
 
 We toil and do forget 
 
 All but our daily labour and its load ; 
 
 Yet art Thou there the while, felt yet unseen, 
 
 Oh universal Good, and Thy great Will 
 
 Directs our footsteps still 
 
 Directs them, though they come to stray 
 
 From the appointed way ; 
 
 Lights them, though for a while they wander far,
 
 The Ode of Good. 101 
 
 Led by some feeble baleful star, 
 
 Which can allure them when the blinding fold 
 
 Of mist is on the hill side, and the cold 
 
 Clouds which make green our lives, descending, hide 
 
 Death's steeps on every side. 
 
 We know not what Thou art 
 
 Whether the Word of some all-perfect Will 
 
 Inborn and nourished in each human heart, 
 
 Some hidden and mysterious good, 
 
 Obeyed, not understood ; 
 
 Or whether the harmonious note 
 
 Of some world-symphony divine, 
 
 To which the perfect Scheme of things, 
 
 Ever advancing perfectly 
 
 To high fulfilment, sings. 
 
 We know not what Thou art, and yet we love ; 
 
 We know not where Thou dwell'st, yet still above
 
 IO2 The Ode of Life. 
 
 We turn our eyes to Thee, knowing Thou wilt take 
 Our yearnings and wilt treasure them, and make 
 Our little lives fulfil themselves and Thee : 
 And in this trust we bear to be. 
 
 Oh Light so white and pure, 
 
 Oft clouded and yet sure ! 
 
 Oh inner Radiance of the heart, 
 
 That drawest all men, whatsoe'er Thou art ! 
 
 Spring of the soul, that dost remove 
 
 Winter with rays of love, 
 
 And dost dispel of Thy far-working might 
 
 The clouds of 111 and Night, 
 
 For every soul which cometh to the earth ; 
 
 That beamest on us at our birth, 
 
 And paling somewhat in life's grosser day, 
 
 Lightest, a pillar of fire, our evening way ; 
 
 What matter by what Name
 
 The Ode of Good. 
 
 We call Thee? still art Thou the same, 
 
 God call we Thee, or Good, still through the strife 
 
 Unchangeable alone, of all our changeful life, 
 
 With awe-struck souls we seek Thee, we adore 
 
 Thy greatness ever more and more, 
 
 We turn to Thee with worship, till at last, 
 
 Our journey well-nigh past, 
 
 When now our day of Life draws to its end, 
 
 Looking, with less of awe and more of love, 
 
 To Thy high throne above, 
 
 We see no dazzling brightness as of old, 
 
 No kingly splendours cold, 
 
 But the sweet Presence of a heavenly Friend.
 
 THE ODE OF EVIL.
 
 THE ODE OF EVIL. 
 
 Oh, who shall sing of Life and not of 111 ? 
 
 The essence of our will 
 
 Is fullest liberty to stray, 
 
 From out the green and blessed way, 
 
 Amid the desert wastes of drought and death. 
 
 This is the power that makes us free, 
 
 This of our Being is the penalty ; 
 
 And maybe the Eternal Will, 
 
 Clothing itself with form to bid Creation be, 
 
 Took to itself some boundary, and awhile, 
 
 Self-limited, made vile
 
 io8 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And subjected to Law the Majesty 
 Which all the universe of space did fill. 
 
 Evil is Life, 
 
 The conflict of great laws pervading space ; 
 
 Evil is strife, 
 
 Which keeps the creature in its ordered place. 
 
 If any hand divine should e'er withdraw 
 
 The fixed coercive potency of Law, 
 
 Surely the universe of things would fade 
 
 And cease and be unmade. 
 
 Where Law is, there is Good, 
 
 And freedom to obey or to transgress ; 
 
 Else 'twere no Law, but, weaker far and less, 
 
 If one created being might not the thing it would. 
 
 Young lives spring up and fade, 
 Wither and are opprest,
 
 The Ode of Evil. 109 
 
 Toil takes the world, and pain, 
 
 And all the things that God has made 
 
 Travail and groan and fain would be at rest, 
 
 And Wrong prevails again. 
 
 And we we lift a hopeless eye 
 
 Up to the infinite sky, 
 
 Mourning the 111 that is, and shall be yet, 
 
 Weak creatures who forget 
 
 The very law and root of Life, 
 
 That it is sown in pain and nursed in woe and strife. 
 
 The evil blight of war 
 
 Torments the race from age to age, 
 
 And man slays man through all the years that are, 
 
 And savage lust and brutal rage 
 
 Deform this glorious heritage of earth. 
 
 We shudder and grow faint, 
 
 Knowing the ar fair dreams of seer and saint
 
 no The Ode of Life. 
 
 Show thin and little worth. 
 
 The young life, rising, sinks in sloughs of sense, 
 
 And wanders and is lost. 
 
 Alas ! for days of young-eyed innocence. 
 
 Alas ! for the calm hours ere, passion-tost, 
 
 The young soul grew, a white flower sweet and pure. 
 
 Yet this is sure, 
 
 That not in tranquil zones of endless calm 
 
 Springs up the victor's palm, 
 
 But blown by circling storms which blot the sky, 
 
 Nor fitting were it to the eye 
 
 Always to look upon a cloudless sun, 
 
 Grown blind with too much light before the journey done. 
 
 The victories of Right 
 
 Are born of strife. 
 
 There were no Day were there no Night, 
 
 Nor, without dying, Life.
 
 77/6' Ode of Evil. \ 1 1 
 
 There only doth Right triumph, where the Wrong 
 
 Is mightiest and most strong ; 
 
 There were no Good, indeed, were there no 111. 
 
 And when the final victory shall come, 
 
 Burst forth, oh Awful Sun, and draw Creation home ! 
 
 Not within Time or Space 
 
 Lines drawn in opposite ways grow one, 
 
 But in some Infinite place 
 
 Before the Eternal throne ; 
 
 There, ways to-day divergent, Right and Wrong, 
 
 Approach the nearer that they grow more long. 
 
 There at the Eternal feet, 
 
 Fused, joined, and grown complete, 
 
 The circle rounds itself, the enclosing wall 
 
 Of the Universe sinks down, and God is all in all !
 
 THE ODE OF AGE.
 
 THE ODE OF AGE. 
 
 There is a sweetness in autumnal days, 
 
 Which many a lip doth praise ; 
 
 When the earth, tired a little and grown mute 
 
 Of song, and having borne its fruit, 
 
 Rests for a little space ere winter come. 
 
 It is not sad to turn the face towards home, 
 
 Even though it shows the journey nearly done ; 
 
 It is not sad to mark the westering sun, 
 
 Even though we know the night doth come. 
 
 Silence there is, indeed, for song, 
 
 Twilight for noon ;
 
 1 1 6 The Ode of Life. 
 
 But for the steadfast soul and strong 
 Life's autumn is as June. 
 
 As June itself, but clearer, calmer far ; 
 Here come no passion-gusts to mar, 
 No thunder-clouds or rains to beat 
 To earth the blossoms and the wheat, 
 No high tumultuous noise 
 Of youth's self-seeking joys, 
 But a cold radiance white 
 As the moon shining on a frosty night 
 
 To-morrow is as yesterday, scant change, 
 
 Little of new or strange, 
 
 No glamour of false hope to daze, 
 
 Nor glory to amaze, 
 
 Even the old passionate love of love or child 
 
 A temperate affection mild,
 
 The Ode of Age, 1 1 7 
 
 And ever the recurring thought 
 Returning, though unsought : 
 
 How strange the scheme of things ! how brief a span 
 The little life of man ! 
 
 And ever as we mark them, fleeter and more fleet, 
 The days and months and years, gliding with winged 
 feet. 
 
 And ever as the hair grows grey, 
 
 And the eyes dirri, 
 
 And the lithe form which toiled the live-long day, 
 
 The stalwart limb, 
 
 Begin to stiffen and grow slow, 
 
 A higher joy they know : 
 
 To spend the season of the waning year, 
 
 Ere comes the deadly chill, 
 
 In works of mercy, and to cheer 
 
 The feet which toil against life's rugged hill ;
 
 n8 The Ode of Life. 
 
 To have known the trouble and the fret, 
 
 To have known it, and to cease 
 
 In a pervading peace, 
 
 Too calm to suffer pain, too living to forget, 
 
 And reaching down a succouring hand 
 
 To where the sufferers are, 
 
 To lift them to the tranquil heights afar, 
 
 Whereon Time's conquerors stand. 
 
 And when the precious hours are done,' 
 
 How sweet at set of sun 
 
 To gather up the fair laborious day ! 
 
 To have struck some blow for right 
 
 With tongue or pen ; 
 
 To have smoothed the path to light 
 
 For wandering men ; 
 
 To have chased some fiend of 111 away ; 
 
 A little backward to have thrust
 
 The Ode of Age. 1 1 9 
 
 The instant powers of Drink and Lust ; 
 To have borne down Giant Despair ; 
 To have dealt a blow at Care ! 
 How sweet to light again the glow 
 
 Of warmer fires than youth's, tho' all the blood runs 
 slow ! 
 
 Oh ! is there any joy, 
 
 Of all that come to girl or boy 
 
 Or manhood's calmer weal and ease, 
 
 To vie with these ? 
 
 Here is some fitting profit day by day, 
 
 Which none can render less ; 
 
 Some glorious gain Fate cannot take away, 
 
 Nor Time depress. 
 
 Oh, brother, fainting on your road ! 
 
 Poor sister, whom the righteous shun ! 
 
 There comes for you, ere life and strength be done,
 
 i2o The Ode of Life. 
 
 An arm to bear your load. 
 
 A feeble body, maybe bent, and old, 
 
 But bearing 'midst the chills of age 
 
 A deeper glow than youth's ; a nobler rage ; 
 
 A calm heart yet not cold. 
 
 A man or woman, withered perhaps, or bent, 
 
 To whom pursuit of gold or fame 
 
 Is as a fire grown cold, an empty name, 
 
 Whom thoughts of Love no more allure, 
 
 Who in a self-made nunnery dwell, 
 
 A cloistered calm and pure, 
 
 A beatific peace greater than tongue can tell. 
 
 And sweet it is to take, 
 
 With something of the eager haste of youth, 
 
 Some fainter glimpse of Truth 
 
 For its own sake ; 
 
 To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird ;
 
 The Ode of Age. 1 2 1 
 
 To trace in Nature the ineffable Word, 
 
 Which by the gradual wear of secular time, 
 
 Has worked its work sublime ; 
 
 To have touched, with infinite gropings dim, 
 
 Nature's extremest outward rim ; 
 
 To have found some weed or shell unknown before ; 
 
 To advance Thought's infinite march a footpace more ; 
 
 To make or to declare laws just and sage ; 
 
 These are the joys of Age. 
 
 Or by the evening hearth, in the old chair, 
 
 With children's children at our knees, 
 
 So like, yet so unlike the little ones of old 
 
 Some little lad with curls of gold, 
 
 Some little maid demurely fair, 
 
 To sit, girt round with ease, 
 
 And feel how sweet it is to live, 
 
 Careless what fate may give ;
 
 122 The Ode of Life. 
 
 To think, with gentle yearning mind, 
 
 Of dear souls who have crossed the Infinite Sea ; 
 
 To muse with cheerful hope of what shall be 
 
 For those we leave behind 
 
 When the night comes which knows no earthly morn ; 
 
 Yet mingled with the young in hopes and fears, 
 
 And bringing from the treasure-house of years 
 
 Some fair-set counsel long-time worn ; 
 
 To let the riper days of life, 
 
 The tumult and the strife, 
 
 Go by, and in their stead 
 
 Dwell with the living past, so living, yet so dead : 
 
 The mother's kiss upon the sleeper's brow, 
 
 The little fish caught from the brook, 
 
 The dead child-sister's gentle voice and look, 
 
 The school -days and the father's parting hand ; 
 
 The days so far removed, yet oh ! so near, 
 
 So full of precious memories dear ; 
 
 The wonder of flying Time, so hard to understand !
 
 The Ode of Age. 123 
 
 Not in clear eye or ear 
 
 Dwells our chief profit here. 
 
 We are not as the brutes, who fade and make no sign ; 
 
 We are sustained where'er we go, 
 
 In happiness and woe, 
 
 By some indwelling faculty divine, 
 
 Which lifts us from the deep 
 
 Of failing senses, aye, and duller brain, 
 
 And wafts us back to youth again ; 
 
 And as a vision fair dividing sleep, 
 
 Pierces the vasts behind, the voids before, 
 
 And opens to us an invisible gate, 
 
 And sets our winged footsteps, scorning Time and Fate, 
 
 At the celestial door.
 
 THE ODE OF DECLINE.
 
 THE ODE OF DECLINE. 
 
 With forces well-nigh spent, 
 
 Uneasy or in pain, 
 
 Or brought to childish weakness once again, 
 
 With bodies shrunk and bent, 
 
 We come, if Fate so will, to cold decrepit age. 
 
 The book of Life lies open at its latest page. 
 
 Only four score of summers, and four score 
 
 Of winters, nothing more, 
 
 And then 'tis done. 
 
 We have spent our fruitful days beneath the sun ;
 
 128 The Ode of Life. 
 
 We come to a cold season and a bare, 
 
 Where little is sweet or fair. 
 
 We, who a few brief years ago, 
 
 Would passionately go 
 
 Across the fields of life to meet the morn, 
 
 We are content, content and not forlorn, 
 
 To lie upon our beds, and watch the Day 
 
 Which kissed the Eastern peaks, grow gradually grey. 
 
 Great Heaven, that Thou hast made our lives so brief 
 
 And swiftly spent ! 
 
 We toil our little day and are content, 
 
 Though Time, the thief, 
 
 Stands at our side, and smiles his mystic smile. 
 
 We joy a little, we grieve a little while ; 
 
 We gain some little glimpse of Thy great laws, 
 
 Rolling in thunder through the voids of space ; 
 
 We gain to look a moment on Thy face,
 
 The Ode of Decline. 129 
 
 Eternal Source and Cause ! 
 And then, the night descending as a cloud, 
 We walk with aspect bowed, 
 And turn to earth and see our Life grow dark. 
 Was it for this the fiery spark 
 Of Thy Eternal Self, sown on the vast 
 And infinite abysses of the Past, 
 Revealed itself and made Creation rise 
 Before Thy Eternal Mind : 
 This little span of life, with' purblind eyes 
 That grow completely blind ; 
 This little force of brain, 
 Holding dim thoughts sublime, 
 Too weak to withstand the treacheries of Time ; 
 This body bent and bowed in twain, 
 Soon racked by growing pain, 
 Which briefer far than is the life of the tree, 
 Springs as a flower and fades, and then must rot 
 
 K
 
 1 30 The Ode of Life. 
 
 And perish and be not, 
 
 Passing from mystery to mystery ? 
 
 It is a pain 
 
 To move through the old fields, even though they lie 
 
 Before our eyes, we know that never again, 
 
 Where once our daily feet were used to pass 
 
 Amid the crested grass, 
 
 We any more shall wander till we die ; 
 
 Nor to the old grey church, with the tall spire, 
 
 Whose vane the sunsets fire, 
 
 Where once a little child, by kind hands led, 
 
 Would spell the scant memorials of the dead, 
 
 Never again, or once alone, 
 
 When pain and Time are done. 
 
 / The soaring thoughts of youth 
 Are dead and cold, the victories of Thought
 
 The Ode of Decline. 131 
 
 Are no more prized or sought 
 
 By eyes which draw too near the face of Truth. 
 
 Whatever fruit or gain 
 
 Fate held in store, 
 
 To tempt the growing soul or brain, 
 
 Allures no more. 
 
 It is as the late Autumn, when the fields 
 
 Are bare of flower or fruit ; 
 
 Nor charm nor profit the swept surface yields, 
 
 Sullen and mute ; 
 
 So that a doubting mind might come to hold 
 
 The very soul and life were dead and cold. 
 
 But who can peer 
 Into another soul, or tell at all 
 What hidden energies befall 
 The aged lingering here ? 
 When all the weary brain
 
 132 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Seems dull, the immeasurable fields of life 
 
 Lie open to the memory, and again 
 
 They know the youthful joys, the hurry and the strife, 
 
 And feel, but gentlier now, the ancient pain. 
 
 In the uneasy vigils of the night, 
 
 Before the tardy light ; 
 
 Or, lonely days, when no young lives are by, 
 
 There come such long processions of the dead, 
 
 The buried lives and hopes of far-off years, 
 
 Spent joys and dried-up tears, 
 
 That round them stands a blessed company, 
 
 Holding high converse, though no word be said, 
 
 Till only what is past and gone doth seem 
 
 To live, and all the Present is a dream. 
 
 So may the wintry earth, 
 
 Holding her precious seeds within the ground, 
 
 Pause for the coming birth,
 
 The Ode of Decline. 133 
 
 When like a trumpet-note the Spring shall sound ; 
 
 So may the roots which, buried deep 
 
 And safe within her sleep, 
 
 Whisper as 'twere, within, tales of the sun, 
 
 Whisper of leaf and flower, of bee and bird, 
 
 Till by a sudden glory stirred, 
 
 A mystic influence bids them rise, 
 
 Bursting the narrow sheath 
 
 And cerement of death, 
 
 And bloom as lilies again beneath the recovered skies.
 
 THE ODE OF CHANGE.
 
 THE ODE OF CHANGE. 
 
 I have come to the time of the failing of breath ; 
 I have reached the cold threshold of Death ! 
 
 Death ! there is not any Death ; only infinite change, 
 
 Only a place of life which is novel and strange. 
 
 Change ! there is naught but change and renewal of 
 
 strife, 
 Which make up the infinite changes we sum up in life.
 
 138 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Life ! what is life, that it ceases with ceasing of breath ? 
 Death ! what were Life without change, but an infinite 
 Death? 
 
 As I lie on my bed, and the sun, like a furnace of fire, 
 Burns amid the old pines in the west, ere the last rays 
 
 expire, 
 
 Can I dream he will rise no more, but a fathomless night 
 Shall brood o'er Creation for ever, and shut out the 
 
 light? 
 
 It is done, this Day of our Life ; but another shall rise, 
 Day for ever following Day, in the infinite skies, 
 Day following Day for ever ! 
 
 Day following day, with the starlit darkness between ; 
 Or, maybe in a world where Dawn comes, ere our sunset 
 
 has been ; 
 Day following Day for ever !
 
 The Ode of Change. 139 
 
 For ever ! though who shall tell in what seeming or 
 
 where ? 
 
 In what far-off secret space of God's limitless air ? 
 It matters nothing at all what we are or where set, 
 If a spark of the Infinite Light can shine on us yet 
 Life following Life for ever ! 
 
 Life following Life for ever ! for what if the Sun 
 
 Grew chilled, and the universe cold, and the orbits 
 
 undone, 
 And all the great globes should fall back into chaos once 
 
 more ; 
 They would wake at a glance of the Light, as they 
 
 wakened before. 
 There is no Death for ever !
 
 140 The Ode of Life. 
 
 Cease ! but how should we cease while God's light shall 
 
 remain ? 
 
 He that has lighted Life's flame shall light it again ! 
 What if He take back for a while, as the sun from the 
 
 sea, 
 Some spark of the radiance divine that bade all things 
 
 to be? 
 We rest in Him, we are sunk, we are folded in Him, but 
 
 we are; 
 As the star which draws near to the sun is obscured, but 
 
 is still a star. 
 There is only Change for ever ! 
 
 Shall I fear that I shall be changed and no more shall 
 
 bel? 
 
 I who know not what 'tis that I am, to live or to die ? 
 Nay, while God is, I too must be, else too weak were 
 
 His hand,
 
 The Ode of Change. 141 
 
 The created is part of His essence, how else could the 
 
 Maker stand ? 
 There is no Death for ever ! 
 
 Take me, oh infinite Cause, and cleanse me of wrong ! 
 Take me, raise me to higher Life through centuries long ! 
 Cleanse me, by pain, if need be, through seons of days ! 
 Take me and purge me, still I will answer with praise 
 There is no Death for ever ! 
 
 Shall I mourn for those who are not ? Nay, while love 
 
 and regret 
 
 Still linger within our souls, they live with us yet. 
 If we love, then the souls that we love, they exist and 
 
 they are, 
 As memory which makes us ourselves, brings precious 
 
 things from far. 
 Love lives and is for ever !
 
 142 The Ode of Life. 
 
 We are part of an Infinite Scheme, 
 
 All we that are ; 
 
 Man the high crest and crown of things that be, 
 
 The fiery-hearted earth, the cold unfathomed sea, 
 
 The central sun, the intermittent star. 
 
 Things great and small, 
 
 We are but parts of the Eternal All ; 
 
 We live not in a barren, baseless dream ; 
 
 No endless, ineffectual chain 
 
 Of chance successions launched in vain ; 
 
 But every beat of Time, 
 
 Each sun that shines or fails to shine, 
 
 Each animate life that comes to throb or cease, 
 
 Each life of herb or tree 
 
 Which springs aloft and then has ceased to be, 
 
 Each change of strife and peace, 
 
 Each soaring thought sublime,
 
 The Ode of Change. 143 
 
 Each deed of wrong and blood, 
 
 Each impulse towards an unattained good, 
 
 All with a sure, unfaltering working tend 
 
 To one Ineffable, Beatific End. 
 
 Oh hidden Scheme, perfect Thyself, and take 
 
 Our petty lives, and mould them as Thou wilt ! 
 
 All things that are, are only for Thy sake, 
 
 And not to obey Thee is our only guilt ! 
 
 Perfect Thyself, and be fulfilled, oh great 
 
 Unfathomable Will, who art our Life and Fate ! 
 
 There is hope, but nothing of fear, 
 
 Nought but a patient mind, 
 
 For him who waits with conscience clear 
 
 And soul resigned 
 
 Whate'er the mystic coming change 
 
 Shall bring of new and strange. 
 
 He looks back once upon the fields of life,
 
 144 The Ode of Life. 
 
 The good and evil locked in strife, 
 The happy and the unhappy days, 
 The Right we always love, the oft-triumphant Wrong ; 
 And all his being to a secret song 
 Sings with a mighty and unfaltering voice 
 " I have been ; Thou hast done all things well ; I am 
 glad ; I give thanks ; I rejoice ! " 
 
 PRINTED AT THE CAXTON PRESS, BECCLES.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 THE EPIC OF HADES. 
 
 BOOK II* 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "Fresh, picturesque, and by no means deficient in intensity; but 
 the most conspicuous merits of the author are the judgment and 
 moderation with which his poem is designed, his self-possession 
 within his prescribed limits, and the unfailing elegance of his 
 composition, which shrinks from obscurity, exuberance, and rash 
 or painful effort as religiously as many recent poets seem to 
 
 cultivate such interesting blemishes Perhaps the fine 
 
 bursts of music in Marsyas, and the varied emotions portrayed in 
 Andromeda, are less characteristic of the author than the prompt, 
 yet graceful, manner in which he passes from one figure to another. 
 .... Fourteen of these pieces written in blank verse which 
 bears comparison with the very best models make up a thoroughly 
 
 enjoyable little volume Fully suited to maintain and 
 
 crown the reputation the author has acquired by those which 
 have preceded it." Pall Mall Gazette, March loth, 1876. 
 
 " It is natural that the favourable reception given to his ' Songs 
 of Two Worlds' should have led the author to continue his 
 poetical exercises, and it is, no doubt, a true instinct which has led 
 him to tread the classic paths of song. In his choice of subject 
 he has not shrunk from venturing on ground occupied by at least 
 two Victorian poets. In neither case need he shrink from com- 
 parison. His Marsyas is full of fine fancy and vivid description. 
 His Andromeda has to us one recommendation denied to 
 Kingsley's a more congenial metre ; another is its unstrained 
 and natural narrative." Saturday Review, May aoth, 1876. 
 
 * Book II. was issued as a separate volume prior to the publication of 
 Books I. and III. and of the complete work. 
 
 L
 
 2 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "In his enterprise of connecting the Greek myth with the 
 high and wider meaning which Christian sentiment naturally 
 finds for it, his success has been great The passage in which 
 Apollo's victory over Marsyas and its effect are described is full 
 of exquisite beauty. It is almost as fine as verse on such a 
 
 subject could be The little volume is delightful reading. 
 
 From the first line to the last, the high and delicate aroma of 
 purity breathes through the various spiritual fables. " Spectator, 
 May ayth, 1876. 
 
 "The blank verse is stately, yet sweet, free, graceful, and never 
 undignified. We could have well wished that space had per- 
 mitted us to make extracts. We confidently believe that our 
 readers will agree with us in regarding this as one of the finest 
 and most suggestive poems recently published. We trust to 
 have, ere long, more poetic work from his hand." British 
 Quarterly Review, April 1st, 1876. 
 
 " The writer has shown himself more critical than his friends, 
 and the result is a gradual, steady progress in power, which we 
 frankly acknowledge. .... This long passage studded with 
 graces." Academy, April 29th, 1876. 
 
 "No lover of poetry will question his right to rank as a true 
 poet. His mark is made upon the age, and his future must be a 
 matter of enduring interest. ' Sunday Times, March 26th, 1876. 
 
 " From first to last, the work is that of a true poet, and such 
 as a true poet alone could accomplish." Standard, March 27th, 
 1876. 
 
 "Told as only a poet could tell such stories, with clearness 
 of outline and chastity of colour ; with rich, vivid imagination, 
 always moulded and guided by an instinct of true artistic moder- 
 ation and restraint ; with a pathos and a tenderness which bring 
 home to us the loves and the sorrows even of those dim shades, 
 and enable us to feel across the ages the quick throb of human 
 brotherhood. The world has to thank him for four volumes of 
 true and exquisite poetry." Liverpool Albion, March i8th, 1876. 
 
 "English blank verse of an exquisite sort, than which the 
 Laureate himself pens none more perfect." Illustrated News, 
 May 27th, 1876.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 THE EPIC OF HADES. 
 
 BOOKS I. and III. and the COMPLETE WORK. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "The author's present volumes continue the promise of his 
 earlier work, and advance it somewhat further towards fulfil- 
 ment. In one sense the idea of his Epic is not only ambitious, 
 but audacious, for it necessarily awakens reminiscences of Dante. 
 Not unfrequently he is charmingly pathetic, as in his Helen and 
 Psyche. There is considerable force and no small imagination 
 in the description of some of the tortures in the ' Tartarus. ' 
 There is genuine poetical feeling in the 'Olympus.' .... We 
 might invite attention to many other passages. But it is more 
 easy to give honest general praise than to single out particular 
 extracts." Times, February gth, 1877. 
 
 "The various symbolisms of the ancient myths are worked 
 out with quite as much poetical feeling as in the former part. 
 .... The whole of this last portion of the poem is exceedingly 
 
 beautiful Nor will any, except critics of limited view, 
 
 fail to recognize in the Epic a distinct addition to their store of 
 those companions of whom we never grow tired. " Atheruzum, 
 March 3rd, 1877. 
 
 " Clytemnestra is a striking dramatic study The whole 
 
 passage is as tragic as it is graphic Thus the author has 
 
 achieved the task he set himself of showing that the myths of 
 classic antiquity are capable of interpretation by a modern singer. 
 A simple, lucid style, a spontaneous power of song, and a bright, 
 fearless fancy enable him to seize and retain the sympathies 
 of his audience. We believe that the Epic will approve itself 
 to students as one of the most considerable and original feats 
 of recent English poetry." Saturday Review, March 3ist, 1877.
 
 4 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "We notice the same thoughtfulness and penetrating sympathy 
 which have enabled the author, without doing violence to the 
 sweet rounded grace of the old myths, to impart an undercurrent 
 of present-day meaning and reference which should find for 
 them a wider audience than could be expected for anything in 
 the character of a severely Pagan revival merely. Thought, fancy, 
 music, and penetrating sympathy \ve have here, and that radiant, 
 unnamable suggestive delicacy which enhances the attraction 
 with each new reading." British Quarterly Review, April, 1877. 
 
 " The author most certainly possesses very great powers ; but 
 he is writing far too fast. We gladly repeat, however, that the 
 present work is by far his greatest achievement ; that the whole 
 tone of it is noble, and that portions, more especially the con- 
 cluding lines, are excessively beautiful." Westminster Review, 
 April, 1877. 
 
 "The work is one of which any singer might justly be proud. 
 In fact, the Epic is in every way a remarkable poem, which to 
 be appreciated must not only be read, but studied. It is that 
 rarest of things, a book one would care to buy and keep."- 
 Graphic, March loth, 1877. 
 
 "This is in our opinion, in a high and serious sense, a remark- 
 able poem remarkable alike for thought, for music, and for fine 
 suggestive quality. We look forward still to being made yet 
 more the writer's debtors. " Nonconformist, February 2ist, 1877. 
 
 "All his poems have proved him appreciative, thoughtful, and 
 scholarly. 'The Epic of Hades' should rank highest of his 
 work." Examiner, February 24th, 1877. 
 
 "We do not hesitate to advance it as our opinion that 'The 
 Epic of Hades' will enjoy the privilege of being classed amongst 
 the poems in the English language which will live." Ch<U 
 Service Gazette, March I7th, 1877. 
 
 " Exquisite beauty of melodious verse A remarkable 
 
 poem, both in conception and execution. We sincerely wish 
 for the author a complete literary success." Literary World, 
 March 3Oth, 1877. 
 
 " The author never sinks low, but he often rises high, and 
 thus you have poetry which pleases you as you read, which
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 
 
 shocks no sensibility, never wearies you, and often raises you into 
 a serener atmosphere, in which the earthiness of the earth is lost 
 sight of, and the pure and almost the divine are found. It will 
 be surprising if the reader does not come to the conclusion that 
 the author is a poet of very high order." Scotsman, April 27th, 
 1877. 
 
 " Will live as a poem of permanent power and charm. It will 
 receive high appreciation from all who can enter into its meaning, 
 for its graphic and liquid pictures of external beauty, the depth 
 and truth of its purgatorial ideas, and the ardour, tenderness, 
 and exaltation of its spiritual life." Spectator, May 5th, 1877. 
 
 " I have lately been reading a poem which has interested me 
 very much, a poem called ' The Epic of Hades. ' Many of you 
 may never have heard of it ; most of you may never have seen 
 it. It is, as I view it, another gem added to the wealth of the 
 poetry of our language." Mr. Brighfs speech on Cobden, at 
 Bradford, July 25th, 1877. 
 
 " I have derived from it a deep pleasure and refreshment such 
 as I never thought modern poetry could give. " The Bishop of 
 Gloucester and Bristol. 
 
 "This poem is not in the merely technical sense an epic, any 
 more than the divine poem of Dante is a comedy. That was a 
 comedy, as passing to a happy close; from Hell, through Pur- 
 gatory, into Paradise. This is an epic, as it is concerned with 
 one great action ; for the soul of man is shown throughout it 
 labouring towards what Mr. Tennyson has called the 
 
 One far-off divine event 
 To which the whole Creation moves. 
 
 In the blank verse of the 'Epic of Hades,' apt words are so 
 simply arranged with unbroken melody, that if the work were 
 printed as prose, it would remain a song, and every word would 
 still be where the sense required it ; not one is set in a wrong 
 place through stress of need for a mechanical help to the music. 
 The poem has its sound mind housed in a sound body. Pro- 
 fessor Morley in The XlXth Century, February, 1878. 
 
 L3
 
 6 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 THE EPIC OF HADES. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED QUARTO EDITION. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "Of Mr. Chapman's illustrations it is pleasant to be able to 
 speak with considerable admiration, not only because they arc 
 a fortunate echo of the verse, and represent the feelings and 
 incidents of the 'Epic,' but because of their intrinsic merits. 
 There is in them a fine and high inspiration of an indefinite 
 sort." Athemcum, March 29th, 1879. 
 
 " ' The Epic of Hades ' is certainly one of the most remarkable 
 \vorks of the latter half of the nineteenth century. Here is an 
 edition de luxe which may possibly tempt the unthinking to 
 search for the jewel within the casket. It is adorned with 
 designs in photo-mezzotint by Mr. George R. Chapman, all 
 noticeable for originality and grace, while many are gems of 
 exquisite feeling. " World, February I2th, 1879. 
 
 " We are glad to see this fine poem, on the whole finely 
 illustrated. While some of the designs reach a very high point 
 of beauty, none of them can be said to be absolute failures." 
 Spectator, January 25th, 1879. 
 
 "The exquisite aerial feeling of 'Eros and Psyche, ' by far 
 the best of the drawings, in which the figures seem literally to 
 float in ether. ' Laocoon ' is grand and dignified, and all deserve 
 to be noticed with attention." Graphic, January 25th, 1879. 
 
 "These designs of themselves would be of the highest value, 
 and when they are placed, as in this book, by way of illustration 
 of a text which is full of power, their value is not easily
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 7 
 
 estimated. The book ought to be one of the most cherished 
 gifts that any lover of poetry or the pencil could desire." 
 Scotsman, January 23rd, 1879. 
 
 "This remarkable poem now appears in a luxurious and 
 beautiful form, illustrated by designs of considerable merit, and 
 altogether forming a most suitable gift-book for lovers of 
 poetry." Church Times, January 24th, 1879. 
 
 " It is doubtful whether Milton in these degenerate days would 
 find many readers were he now to have published his mighty 
 poems. An epic poem is indeed a trial of genius from which 
 few can come out victorious ; but lovers of the gentle muse of 
 poetry will doubtless pass a pleasant hour and more in perusing 
 this ' Epic of Hades,' and the author has been most fortunate in 
 his illustrator. The seventeen designs are gems of drawing and 
 conception, and the mezzotint is admirably adapted to the style 
 of drawing and subject. This is truly a charming addition to 
 the literary table. It is seldom one sees figure illustrations of 
 such graceful and powerful beauty, and so thoroughly in sympathy 
 with the visionary subjects of the author." Art Journal, April, 
 1879. 
 
 " ' The Epic of Hades ' has already won a place among the 
 immortals. The lovely and terrible figures of the Greek 
 mythology have never received a more exquisite consecration 
 than at the hands of the author, who, with the true divination of 
 the poet, has known how to interpret in the modern spirit the 
 profound and pathetic fables of antiquity without vulgarizing by 
 modern affectations their divine simplicity. This beautiful poem 
 appears now in an edition de luxe a setting not unworthy of 
 such gems. The seventeen designs, by George R. Chapman, 
 only fail to satisfy us, as any representation of ideal masterpieces 
 must fail to satisfy the reader to whose imagination the poet has 
 lent wings. These designs are noteworthy for their tenderness 
 of sentiment and their languid grace. The Demeter and 
 Persephone are charming ; but the charm of Demeter might 
 perhaps be a little more august." Daily Neivs, April 2nd, 1879.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. 
 
 Complete in one volume. Crown %vo. Uniform -with " The Epic of Hades.' 
 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & Co. 
 1878. 
 
 THESE poems were originally published in three volumes, issued 
 in the years 1872, 1874, and 1875. The following are a few 
 selections from the Press notices which appeared as they were 
 issued. 
 
 (FIRST SERIES.) 
 
 No one after reading the first two poems almost perfect in rhythm and 
 all the graceful reserve of true lyrical strength could doubt for an instant 
 that this book is the result of lengthened thought and assiduous training in 
 poetic forms. These poems will assuredly take high rank among the class 
 to which they belong." British Quarterly Review, Apiil, 1872. 
 
 " If this volume is the mere prelude of a mind growing in power, we 
 
 have in it the promise of a fine poet In ' The Wandering Soul," the 
 
 verse describing Socrates has that highest note of critical poetry, that in 
 it epigram becomes vivid with life, and life reveals its inherent paradox. It 
 would be difficult to describe the famous irony of Socrates in more poetical 
 and more accurate words than by saying that he doubted men's doubts 
 away." Spectator, February i7th, 1872. 
 
 "Throughout there is the true lyrical note, the 'cry' that seems to veil 
 itself in the harmony of the language it chooses, and so makes itself only the 
 more imperatively felt. Seldom, indeed, docs it fall to the lot of the critic 
 
 to come on such a prize as this No extracts could do justice to the 
 
 exquisite tones, the felicitous phrasing and delicately wrought harmonies 
 of some of these poems." Nonconformist, March 27th, 1872. 
 
 " In all this poetry there is a purity and delicacy of feeling which comes 
 over one like morning air." Graphic, March ifith, 1872.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 (SECOND SERIES.) 
 
 " In earnestness, sweetness, and the gift of depicting nature, the writer 
 may be pronounced a worthy disciple of his compatriot, Henry Vaughan, the 
 Silurist. Several of the shorter poems are instinct with a noble purpose'and 
 a high ideal of life. One perfect picture, marginally annotated, so to speak, 
 in the speculations which it calls forth, is 'The Organ- Boy.' But the most 
 noteworthy poem is the 'Ode on a Fair Spring Morning,' which has some- 
 what of the charm and truth to nature of ' L' Allegro ' and ' II Penseroso.' It is 
 the nearest approach to a master-piece in the volume." Saturday Review, 
 May 3oth, 1874. 
 
 "If in any respect this second series is superior to the first, it is in a 
 certain mellowness and warmth of tone. The poem entitled ' To an Unknown 
 Poet ' is a wonderful combination of insight, melody, picture, and suggestion. 
 ' The Organ-Boy ' brings out a strong contrast in a most powerful and felicitous 
 way." British Quarterly Review, July ist, 1874. 
 
 " This volume is a real advance on its predecessor of the same name, and 
 contains at least one poem of great originality, as well as many of much 
 tenderness, sweetness, and beauty. 'The Organ-Boy' we have read again 
 and again, with fresh pleasure on every reading. It is as exquisite a little 
 poem as we have read for many a day." Spectator, June i3th, 1874. 
 
 " The reception of the New Writer's first series shows that, in his degree, 
 he is one of the poetical forces of the time. Of the school of poetry of which 
 Horace is the highest master, he is a not undistinguished pupil." Academy, 
 August nth, 1874. 
 
 " This series is superior to the first. No person of the least sensitiveness 
 could read a few pages of this volume, and deny that the writer possesses the 
 ' vision of the poet.' The glance, the touch, the hint suffice, and you have 
 not only a picture, but a series of pictures. Of the .poems we can only say 
 that they are quick with wisdom and high thought, touched with phantasy, 
 and flowing easily into imaginative forms." Nonconformist, June 24th, 
 1874. 
 
 "A warm welcome is due to this pleasant and able volume of poems, 
 which is marked by distinctness of aim, artistic clearness of execution, and 
 that particular imaginative lustre which belongs to the truly poetic mind. " 
 Guardian, September 2oth, 1874. 
 
 " The verses are full of melodious charm, and sing themselves almost, 
 without music." Blackwood's, August ist, 1874.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 (THIRD SERIES.) 
 
 " Not unworthy of its predecessors. It presents the same command of 
 metre and diction, the same contrasts of mood, the same grace and sweetness. 
 It cannot be denied that he has won a definite position among contempo- 
 rary poets." Times, October i6th, 1875. 
 
 " ' Evensong ' shows power, thought, and courage to grapple with the pro- 
 foundest problems. In the ' Ode to Free Rome ' we find worthy treatment 
 of the subject and passionate expression of generous sympathy." Saturday 
 Review, July sist, 1875. 
 
 " More perfect in execution than either of its predecessors The pure 
 
 lyrics are sweeter and richer. In the ' Birth of Verse ' every stanza is a little 
 poem in itself, and yet a part of a perfect whole." Spectator, May 22nd, 
 1875. 
 
 " ' Evensong' is a poem in which the source of inspiration is the sub- 
 limity to which thought is led by the contemplation of metaphysical problems. 
 It would be impossible to give any notion of the poem by quotations." 
 Atketueum, May 8th, 1875. 
 
 " It would be well, indeed, if our more successful versifiers as a rule fill- 
 filled their early promise as calmly, equably, and melodiously as the author. 
 His range of moral sympathy is large, and his intellectual view is wide enough 
 to embrace a great variety of subjects." Guardian, September ist, 1875. 
 
 " If each book that he publishes is to mark as steady improvement as 
 have his second and third, the world may surely look for something from the 
 writer which shall immortalize him and remain as a treasure to literature." 
 Graphic, June ist, 1875. 
 
 " The author's healthiness and uprightness of feeling refresh one like a 
 cold air after a hot and sultry day. ' The Home Altar ' should in future 
 
 adorn every collection of English religious verse The exquisite cadence 
 
 of these verses The farewell that he threatens cannot be permitted." 
 
 Examiner, May 8th, 1875. 
 
 " The high hopes we had been led to entertain are here realized At 
 
 one page he is celebrating the doubts bred of science, and on the next the 
 poor little ' Arabs," enlisted in the sale of the cheap newspapers, have due 
 celebration, and that more successfully than was even the case with that 
 wonderful poem in the last volume, ' The Organ-Boy.' We despair of doing 
 justice to this choice volume by extract." Nonconformist, May igth, 1875.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 GWEN: 
 
 A DRAMA IN MONOLOGUE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE EPIC OF HADES." 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The charm of this beautiful little poem is its perfect simplicity of utterance ; 
 its chastened and exquisite grace. There is nothing very new in the incidents or 
 in the characters of this most touching story, except in its unconventional ending, 
 which takes the reader by surprise. The genius of the author has closed an idyll 
 of love and death with a strain of sweet, sad music in that minor key which belongs 
 to remembrance and regret." Daily News, January 22nd. 
 
 " We have read this new work with the interest arising from the expectations 
 which the author had quickened in us, and with the hope of finding those ex- 
 pectations confirmed. We are not disappointed, for we have here the same 
 selectness of language, the same high, pure tone, the same delicate power of 
 touching the deeper chords of thought and feeling, which have previously won our 
 attention and sympathy." Literary World, January i/th. 
 
 " At the close of the tale the heart swells with pathos, and the tears all but 
 force their way into the eyes. To turn from the most noteworthy of modern 
 poetry to the verse in which ' Gwen ' is written is like turning from a brilliant 
 painting to a fine statue. We are scarcely sensible of want of colour, so refreshed 
 are we by purity of outline. All, indeed, is graceful, good, and poetical work, as 
 pure and limpid in flow as a brook." Sunday Times, February 2nd. 
 
 " Pretty, pensive, and pathetic are the epithets which in an alliterative mood 
 one would feel disposed to apply to ' Gwen.' There are many exquisite passages, 
 however, touching and musical, thoughtful and suggestive ; and the two principal 
 characters pour out their hearts one to another in alternate bursts of song, as bird 
 sings to bird among the branches." Illustrated News, February 8th.
 
 12 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The piece as a whole will repay very attentive perusal, while here and 
 there in it there is a particular choice bit of work. Here, for example, is a fine 
 lyric . . . and here a love-song of rare and exquisite beauty." New York 
 Evening Post, February 2oth. 
 
 "The book abounds with lyrics worthy, alike from their metrical sweetness 
 and their deep tenderness and purity, to be set to music ; while over the whole 
 story we are conscious of the easy power and the consummate mastery of his 
 noble art, which distinguish the author. He is to be congratulated upon a 
 genuine success in a new field, which must do much to sustain and extend his 
 well-earned fame." Leeds Mercury, February 26th. 
 
 " Few among the later poets of our time have received such a generous welcome 
 as the author. He has been appreciated not by critics alone, but by the general 
 public. . . . The charm of ' Gwen ' is to be found in the limpid clearness of the 
 versification, in the pathetic notes which tell the old story of true love wounded 
 and crushed. Nothing can be more artistically appropriate or more daintily 
 melodious than the following. . . . " Pall Mall Gazette, October 8th. 
 
 " Our author has a message to deliver to the age which no other can deliver so 
 well as he." Freeman, August isth. 
 
 " Seldom has literature been enriched by a more beautiful poem than the 
 author's latest work, ' Gwen,' which ought to extend the popularity he has gained 
 already. It surpasses any of his former works in intensity of pathos and subtle 
 and vivid delineation of passion." Scotsman, June $th. 
 
 "The poem is, as a whole, tender, simple, chaste in feeling, and occasionally 
 it rises to a lyrical loftiness of sentiment or grows compact with vigorous 
 thought." New York "Nation" March 27th. 
 
 " The writer has gained inspiration from themes which inspired Dante ; he has 
 sung sweet songs and musical lyrics ; and whether writing in rhyme or blank 
 verse, has proved himself a master of his instrument. He knows, like all true 
 poets, how to transmute what may be called common into the pure gold of 
 poetry." Spectator, July 26th.
 
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