THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ART AND FASHION: ■vvi'nr OTHER Skktyi, Smtp, sift %\m\\$. LONDON: JAMES S. TIltTUE, PRINTER, CITY ROAD. ART AND FASHION: WITH OTIIKI: Mt\t%, Sungs, ai& IB (rents. nv CHARLES SWAIN, AUTHOR OF "THE MIND," "ENGLISH MELODIES," ETC. LONDON: VIRTUE BROTHERS & CO., 1, AMEN CORNER, PATEENOSTEB BOW 1863. Shall Indolence enchant the poet's lyre, Yet Industry awake no kindred song ? Spirit of Commerce, hear ! thy son inspire : — Show him thy seas where masts, like forests, throng ; Thy sails each breeze of heaven impels along, An universal presence o'er the tide ! Tell him where'er mankind hath heard thy tongue, Intelligence hath march'd with rapid stride, And mental freedom sprung rejoicing by thy side ! PR TO JOHN PENDER, ESQ., M.P., AS A LIBERAL PATRON OF ART, AND AS ON'E ILLUSTRATING THE CHARACTER "I' A. BRITISH MERCHANT, Ibis Itotae, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND ESTEEM. IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. CONTENTS. art and fashion reynolds g aixsborougii HAYDON . LEONARDO DA VINCI GIULIO ROMANO . PAGE 3 21 39 57 73 SONGS AND POEMS. THE CH IPEL-BELL . ENDURANCE YE MiS TO COM I, " MORNING " THE BE8T ESTATE EN MEMOBIAM. — HENRY BLARSDEN THE WANDERER A DAILY SCENE . THE VICAR'S BLIND DAUGHTER CRADLE SONG THE WOODLAND WAY 92 96 99 L02 105 L09 LI] 114 115 viii CONTENTS. PAGE not my own . . . . . . 117 freaks of fate ...... 118 watching ant) waiting . . . . 120 pan's dew-drop ...... 122 the meadow gate . . . . . . 125 be sure you call ...... 127 false as water . . . . . . 129 lovers' walks ...... 131 the devoted . . . . . . . 133 plain faces ...... 135 nevermore . . . . . . 136 did you know her :..... 138 never found . . . . . . 140 small gifts ...... 142 LYRIC . . . . . . . . 143 ROUND THE CORNER ..... 145 A WORD OF THINE . . . . . . 147 THE BRITISH PRESS ...... 149 BIRTHDAY LYRIC . . . . . 154 CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN . . . 157 IMPLORA PACEM . . . . . 160 LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS FLEMING . . . 162 HELP EACH OTHER . . . . . . 164 A DAY AGO ....... 166 GOOD ADVICE . . . . . . 168 THE MERRY HEART ...... 170 THE MAGIC GLASS . . . . . . 172 PAST AND PRESENT ...... 174 THE FORTRESS . . . . . . . 175 CONTEXTS. ix PAGE LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN POTTER, M.P. . 177 OLD FRIENDS AND OLD TIMES . . . . . 179 WHAT IS THAT WE TAKE FROM EARTH? . . 181 TO THE YOUNG . . . . . . 183 A HEART FOR EVERY ONE ... . 186 .MAIDENHOOD . . . . . . . 188 THANK GOD FOR ALL . . . . . 190 THE CROSS OF CHRIST . . . . . 192 THE OLD EVENINGS . . . . . .195 THE CHARITIES OF LIFE . . . . . 197 Ml II. i: REQUIRED ...... L99 everybody's GIPSY . . . . 20] what's your opinion? ..... 203 the wherewithal . . . . . . 205 passing away ... . 207 dead, yet undivided . . . . . 209 the hopes gone by . . . . .211 FLOWERS . . . . . . 212 SYMPATHY . . . . . . .215 -MORN ... •)!- THE BIDDEN DELL . ... 219 THE SOUL . . . . . 224 AN EARLY VISITOR . . ... 227 BLAME ME NOT . . . . . . 229 THE DEAD SWAN ...... 230 mi', lost one found ... . -j:;:; rORQU LTO TASSO ... . 237 \ 1 1 \ m . . . . . . 245 WAITING FOR Till: COUNTESS .... 249 x CONTENTS. PAGE YOUTH AND AGE . . . . . 251 RIVA DI SAN MARCO ..... 253 THE ANGEL'S CALL . . . . . . 257 ALL THINGS FOB GOOD ..... 259 THE FLOWER SPIRIT . . . ... 261 THE SHIP OF HEAVEN ..... 263 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN . . . . . 267 NOT TO-NIGHT ...... 271 PRIZES AND BLANKS . . . . . . 273 THE TEMPLE . . . . . . 275 THE HEART . . . . . . . 276 THE CAPTIVE ...... 278 EARTHLY BEAUTY . . . . . . 281 DESPONDENCY ...... 283 FAITHFUL AND FAITHLESS . . . . . 284 ANGELS ....... 286 LOVE THEE? . . . . . . 287 MY LIFE WAS LIKE A FOUNTAIN .... 289 THE FALSE ONE . . . . . . . 291 BALLAD ....... 293 WILL HE COME ? ...... 295 THE CAMP IS UP ! . . . . . 296 LITTLE THINGS . . . . . . . 298 SOIL OF ENGLAND ...... 300 MABY . . . . . . . 302 THINKING OF OTHEB DAYS ..... 304 LET NOBODY KNOW . . . . . . 306 WAIT TILL I PUT ON MY BONNET .... 308 THE GABDEN STREAM . . . . . . 310 CONTENTS. THE HAND OF A FRIEND WIFE OF THE PIRATE THE DAWN VOYAGE OF LIFE THE LONELY HOME . WHICH HOME ? . . . THE WORLDLY VOICE NE'ER WILL I FORSAKE THEE, MOTHER! A LAMENT ..... FIRST EMOTIONS ..... THE DOOMED CITY .... LOVE DNTOLD ..... THE SNOW SHIP THUS NATURE SPEAKS . HYMN TO THE CROSS HERMIONE ..... GOD HELP THE ORPHAN LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DRINKWATEB FINIS ..... XI PAGE 31] . 312 315 317 319 ■ V2-2 324 326 327 • 328 . 329 332 333 . 335 . 336 341 • :U< BIRCH 35] 352 ART AND FASHION. ART AND FASHION. Ferdinand, a young Artist. Augusta, his Cousin. Scene — An Artist's Studio ; busts, casts, draperies, Jishing-rods, <§'c., fc., lying about. Ferdinand at his easel, singing. Love said to Apollo one day, Can't you paint me a likeness of Venus ? If not by yourself, I dare say We might manage to sketch her between us. But Venus declared, when she saw The image o'er which they'd been teasing, That a child might be able to draw A portrait more perfect and pleasing. Ah me ! not e'en the gods can Beauty please ! Who'd be a portrait painter ? Better slave b2 4 AET AND FASHION. At any trade better [singing) " A child might be able to draw." Could I but realise Imagination, Give permanence to Fancy, it were well ; But brighter visions visit me in dreams Than, waking, I can execute. Sleep, sweet sleep ! Thou seem'st the soul of Art ; king of a world In which all others but resolve themselves ! Thine is the key to the impossible, The wonderful, the magical — (a knock at the door). ■ Come in ! If sprite or fay, Make good thy way, And what thou mean'st by coming, say ! Enter Augusta, dressed in the extreme of fashion. ' FERDINAND. Ah ! Cousin mine, a thousand, thousand welcomes ! My eager hand hath scarce thy portrait left. Methinks the head doth credit to my skill ; It fills the room with life — effuses light ; When covered, all seems dark. How lik'st thou it ? AUGUSTA. Why, yes : 'tis like, no doubt, .... but .... AKT AND FASHION. FERDINAND. But !— " A child might be able to " — Your pardon, coz ; I deem that portrait, sketchy though it seem, As near the sweet perfection of thy face As hand can limn ; the likeness free and true. But for the dress — I am a bungler there ; The trimming is fantastic, and the rest Needeth some toning down. AUGUSTA. Oh, that is easy ! FERDINAND. You think His easy, then, to catch " a likeness," ' Copy a nose, a mouth, a chin ! You're right. But copying nature is not all that's needed ; Something behind, unfeatured and unnamed — The dewy light that rims the morning cloud And lends a life to what was dull and cold — Such is the light the Artist hath to find, Else may the portrait show but spiritless. AUGUSTA. Certes, a face is like a lamp unlit ART AND FASHION. Without the mind ; it is the living mind That shapes expression. FERDINAND. I know an Artist — Ay, a great one too, his name still famous- - Who to each sitter took the callipers, And measured, inch by inch, each feature's place, Position, and proportion ; after that — AUGUSTA. He took his canvas {smiling). FERDINAND. No such thing, my coz ! He made a drawing, finish' d and exact, So bold, so vigorous in execution, The after painting scarce could rival it ; In fact, the drawing beat the canvas oft. There was a subtle sentiment he lost In the translation : still he persevered, Slowly, yet all determined to excel. No toil thought he too much; knowing right well Mere feature's truth is not true portraiture. AUGUSTA. You paint not thus ? AET AND FASHION. 7 FERDINAND. No : I rub in at once ; Yet question if 'tis quicker in the end. I alter and re-alter ; at my whim Touch and re-touch. That mouth, which seems so slight, Cost me some hours ; I've had it in and out Full twenty times : at length I took a book, When, all at once, I saw the matter clear ; A few light touches, and the lips had life ; The portrait spoke : that is — AUGUSTA. It should have done ! But this would seem a thing of chance, not Art ; One happy moment, worth ten studious hours ! FERDINAND. Right — and yet wrong ; the myst'ry deeper lies. The thing to catch is not the outward shape ; Mere form a common copyist may reach ; But inward feeling, sentiment, emotion — The mind that in its subtle currency Illuminates each lineament, and gives At different moments different effects — 'Tis this the Artist tries AET AND FASHION. AUGUSTA. No doubt, no doubt ; One cannot reach the soul with compasses, Nor take its depth, nor breadth, nor altitude. FERDINAND. You Ve seen my Hamlet ? Well, it cost some thought ; The critics gave me credit for the " Ghost." A presence, vague and supernatural — A shade majestic, worthy of the realm It left for earth : for that they proffer'd praise Which cost the slightest trouble. 'Twas the mien, The mind of Hamlet task'd my utmost power ; Again the mouth proved difficult to hit, And for a week it ran a daily change. At last, one touch : lo ! 'twas the right effect ; A nervous, sensitive, expressive mouth. The critics lent no echo to my Hope That therein would my better fame be found, But praised the Grhost ! — The Ghost ! — well, Fame 's a ghost, And Hope, too oft, a false Astrologer. Talking of that — of Hope — you like not then The portrait ? ART AND FASHION. AUGUSTA. If tongue may freely breathe it, I much the portrait of our Aunt prefer. FERDINAND. Our Aunt dress'd simpler. What can mortal do With all this heap of frill and frippery ? Art hates gay trimmings : they distract the eye. What lovelier to a lovely countenance Than plain attire — simplicity of garb ? I tell thee, Fashion, like a climbing weed, Destroys the very thing it feeds upon ! Saw'st thou e'er graft upon a nobler stock, On alder, oak, laburnum, sycamore ? The active root develops its own life In vigorous shoots from out the parent stem But these, at once, the gardener destroys : The nature of the tree is sacrificed For the more gaudy, showy, flaunting graft ! "lis thus with you the graft of Fashion shows Upon a nobler nature. AUGUSTA. Indeed ! I . . . 10 ART AND FASHION. FERDINAND. Nay, stay and hear the rest. As feeds that graft On qualities superior to its own, Shoots, born to rise and soar, and drink the air That circles nearer heaven, so Fashion preys, So feeds, on Nature's purer elements. Nature and she are foes. She, Fashion, stands Cold, artificial, ever in extremes ; She dwells within the world without a heart ; Convention is her god, all vulgar else, And than be vulgar better not be born. AUGUSTA. I'll hear no more. FERDINAND. Vulgar ! what means the word ? Nothing 's so vulgar as the light of day, Which sits in hovels and lies down with rags ; Nothing 's so vulgar as the breath of life, Which e'en a rat holds equal with one's self; Nothing -'o augusta {passionately). I thought you'd end in nothing !— Now hear me. Fashion — grant me patience ! "lis profanation thus to libel her. AET AND FASHION. 11 She 's the world's mirror : people see themselves As she reflects them, or they see not life ; They breathe but in the presence of her power. Beauty lends homage due, which she repays By making Beauty still more beautiful, Form more attractive, feature more divine; A grace inspired by her supremacy, And reach'd but by her vot'ries. [ Walks about. Fashion ! yes : A thousand servants wait upon her steps : All hands are busy for her. Ships at sea, Freighted with charms, obey her welcome summons. She keeps the " World " in busy agitation ; Shore, quay, and bustling wharf, warehouse and shop, Teem with her queenly orders. She keeps state, And every stone grows hot with rolling wheels ; She languishes, and every trade falls dull. Fashion, indeed! you teach where you've to learn. I tell thee, Painter, let but Fashion take Thy genius by the hand — let her but speak — And she will turn thy palette into gold, Transmute thy colours into costly gems ; Patrons, in throngs, shall lounge about thy doors, And Peers outbid each other for the next Great effort of that hand which Fashion crowns With her supreme distinction. Fashion ! 12 ART AND FASHION. FERDINAND. What humour 's this ? lo, what a heat you're in ! — Eye, cheek, and lip, glowing with lovely fire ; — A moment sit and let me paint you thus, [Augusta walks about. Each ringlet trembling with strange brilliancy ; Passion becomes you ; what a look was there ! AUGUSTA. Ferdinand ! . . . . FERDINAND. Well, Cousin ! AUGUSTA. Speak where you will, But never more to me ; never .... FERDINAND. For what ? Well may sincerity be rare on earth. The face belie the feeling, tongue shun truth — [^4 pause. Nay, if thus hurt then am I grieved indeed. Augusta ! AUGUSTA. Taunts, taunts, taunts, nothing but taunts! For ever rating me, and scouting Fashion. AET AND FASHION. 13 FERDINAND. Because I love — nay, patience — Nature best ! — And yet not Nature more than I loved you, Ere Fashion won you ! Loved you ! yes, love still — Though Fashion seek to cast my quiet life Too far apart from its divinity ! I worship — but the shrine finds other fires, And burns to other gods ! — AUGUSTA. To be so school'd ! FERDINAND. You'll give your hand ? AUGUSTA. To be so lectured ! Ever we meet to rail, even now you rail — You that should kinder be than any one. FERDINAND. Well, let me own there's truth in what you spoke Of Fashion and her power ; yet I prefer To satin robes, and lace, rich gems and flowers, Some Indian village, by some shore remote — Some Mohawk, with his arrow and his bow, Full of that fire immortal Nature lit 14 ART AND FASHION. When she created Man, whose bounding limb, Instinct with power — alive with energy — Ennobled every motion with a grace, To which — now pardon me — to which, dear coz, Fashion is manner' d, artificial, cold ; An image, not a being — sign, not fact : A symbol, not a soul ! But I have done — Now on my last work give me your decree. [Brings forward a picture, showing village home, with gar den, field, and lane, and distant spire.'] Augusta (after a pause). Our cottage-home — our dear old cottage-home — The spot a mother's early love made holy ! The very lane my school-led footsteps stray'd, Rough with tall fern, and early fox-glove bells, — The mossy spring round which the village maids Would tell their merry secrets ; whisper tales Of moonlight meetings, — stories out of school, — Things little birds had told them— happy days ! That gather'd pleasure from the simplest source. Sweet days, so fresh with memory's morning dew, What have ye left like that ye took ? Oh Home ! We never prize thy worth till thou art lost, And then — how dear, how exquisitely dear ! — AET AND FASHION. 15 FERDINAND. All things are dear when sorrow shows their worth ; Let but a moment be the scanty space Between farewell and absence from the loved, Unknowing the far period of return ; And every simple, trivial, common thing Becomes array'd with triple interest. AUGUSTA. The gate, the tree, the little garden-chair, The shady corner where the bird-cage hung ; A leaf — a flower — how do they spring to worth When the heart pains to lose them ? Would that all Could learn to prize before compell'd to lose ! How many would be rich that think they 're poor ? How many happy that are discontent? Plow many pining, fretful natures blush To show themselves before true sorrow's face ? — Oh home ! oh mother ! — oh too early lost ! I seek ye, but a grave is all I find ! Ferdinand {aside). Nature speaks now. AUGUSTA. That mother, Fred, you loved her dearly once. 16 AET AND FASHION. FERDINAND. May memory scorn me when I love her not : All that I am is owing to her worth ; An orphan 'neath her care, — her brother's child ! She must have loved that brother passing well, For oft I've known her gaze on me with tears, And wet my cheek with kisses ! When she died — No, no ! not died, such goodness never dies ! — But when God's angels bore that saint to heaveD, A letter on her pillow lay, address'd " To her young painter," whom she pray'd might win A name among Earth's gifted. On one page (I've read it oft, dear cousin, oft 'mid thoughts That blinded me with tears) — on one page She gave her daughter to a heart she knew Honestly loved her with a manly truth, Deep, firm, and lasting as the pulse within, — But you — you have discarded the poor painter. AUGUSTA. You would not have a hand without a heart ? Such legacy could not enrich the heir ! FERDINAND. Enforced affection ? What ? Against thy will — Eeceive a cold, reluctant, backward heart ? AET AND FASHION. 17 Never ! Oh God, that letter ! \_IIe seizes the letter, and attemjyts to destroy it. And yet, thy mother's last, last written lines, That loving, tender — no, I cannot tear, But I can yield it ! Never more my cheek Shall sweetly slumber o'er the hope it gave : My pillow never more its seal shall press Whilst far in dreams I clomb the steep of fame, And offer'd name and fortune at thy feet : Dreams — oh delusions ! — dreams that break the heart ! One kiss, dear seal — old friends should kiss at parting. Now .... quickly .... take it ! AUGUSTA. Alone? FERDINAND. How mean you ? AUGUSTA. Not take the honest hand which holds the letter ? FERDINAND. Be merciful — be candid — be sincere : Jlistake not sudden sympathy for love. You hesitate, .... you do not take the letter. c 18 AET AND FASHION. AUGUSTA. Not hesitate — if, if you think my life Can make your own more happy ; if my love Can make existence "brighter in your sight ; Can — can reward you for the love I know You cherish for your giddy, graceless cousin, Then .... FERDINAND. Then .... Oh, sainted shade — inheritor of heaven — Who wert my friend, my one true friend on earth, My parent when I needed parent most, Look down, sweet saint, and bless thy grateful children ! augusta {after a pause). This picture — FERDINAND. Well ? AUGUSTA. It never must be sold. Ferdinand {struggling to recover his usual tone and feeling). So ; every artist his own purchaser. 'Twere pleasant could it last ; but much I fear Such system scarcely may become the " Fashion !" AET AND FASHION. 19 AUGUSTA. Fashion ? again, again ! FEEDENAND. An artist's wife .... AUGUSTA. Seeketli no fleeting aid of ornament. But how we talk ! — you were defeated, Sir : The victor, not the vanquished, proffers terms ! [Exeunt. c2 REYNOLDS. Scene — Dining-room in Sir Joshua's house, Leicester Square. Enter Reynolds and Goldsmith. REYNOLDS. But •when was this ? GOLDSMITH. Less than an hour ago. REYNOLDS. Garrick and Johnson quarrelling on Art, And questioning " the Beautiful " — what then? GOLDSMITH. Johnson declared all Beauty was a dream — A fiction merely ; something p eople saw But through their fancy ; and as Fancy chose The jade misled her idle votaries. 22 KEYNOLDS. KEYNOLDS. Pleasant, indeed ! How came the subject on ? Johnson lacks faith in painting : he avers That pictures are but toys — things to please babes. GOLDSMITH. The Doctor 's weak of sight, and roughly speaks. KEYNOLDS. But strong of mind ; and, 'faith, he argues well. Proceed with their discourse — how prosper'd it ? GOLDSMITH. " Beauty," quoth Garrick, " is not definite ; There are no general principles for Beauty. The features which delight us in one face May suddenly displease us in the next. Beauty is not a thing for square or rule." " Sir, I deny it," Johnson, growling, broke ; il There is a settled principle of Form, Which, injured, you beget deformity. Rule ? — Nature, Sir, submits herself to rule ! One thing is needed you to judge aright — Discrimination. " " I cannot comprehend," Said David, stiffly, .... REYNOLDS. 23 " Of course you cannot — People, too oft, are slow of comprehension. Beauty, good lack ! what knowest thou of it, Except in paint and foil ? Beauty, with thee, Must at the side-scene make her entrances, Or move 'neath groves cut by the carpenter ; Her song-bird is an orchestra — her stars The stage-lights ; knowing nought of seasons, but As shown by bill or prompter's calendar ; Her seasons are theatrical — her fruits, Her flowers, spring not from Nature's treasury, But make-believes — peaches of wood and wax ; Not from the green-house, David, but the Green-room ! Beauty ! " stormed he, " i'faith, when saw'st thou it, Save through the tube of operatic glass ? " At which, indignant, Garrick turned aside And left the Doctor victor. REYNOLDS. Pooh ! mere stuff, The loveliest women born have trod the stage ! GOLDSMITH". But, after all, who knows what Beauty is? Is it a type of feeling, fancy-like ? A question of localities — of shores ? — 24 EEYNOLDS. Of nationalities ? — To Caffre's eye The Black is beautiful. REYNOLDS. And why not Black ? Of the Ideal, Beauty is the centre : — Imagination, genius, feeling, passion, Pay homage to the greatness there enshrined. Art seeks to penetrate! the inner veil Where beauty sits concealed, but oftener fails Than finds the hidden labyrinth to her feet. Every creation of victorious Art But vibrates to that centre ; finest tones But echo that interior harmony ; The loveliest conception doth but shape A feeble image of the beauty" shrined Within that vast ideal .... GOLDSMITH. This for Art : Yet simpler illustration may be found. REYNOLDS. Ever the old question, " What is Beauty? r You say, as thousands say, a presence fair, Of easy elegance, elastic step, As bounding as the sparkling foot of Spring ; REYNOLDS. 25 Expression that takes captive every grace, And glads the sense to gaze, as though the world Narrowed its orb to where one being moved, And all the rest were barren ! If 'twere thus, Then to be thus were sure to be admired : But there 's a charm the gazer's self must find Within himself, a portion of his life — His own conception, feeling, sentiment, Or Beauty's power is wanting. Some affect A slender, delicate, half-girlish form, Which fills them with a dream of loveliness, Of purity, and maiden innocence ; Others select a full, round, regal shape, Eeflecting some ideal of their own, Some Juno of their heart's mythology, And slenderness is silliness to them ! GOLDSMITH. "lis true, Each loving heart hath in its central core Some fair imaginary sketch, some shape, Some dream angelic of the bride to be, Some unknown wonder, which shall yet appear ; Crossing the travel of their daily life Find they but one, one charm, of those conceived And shaped within— their eyes erode the red ! 26 KEYNOLDS. They see, in fact, what others cannot see ; And what seems " plain " to cold, unloving eyes, To those that love, enzone beatitude. As there is music which awakes no chord Within some breasts, all perfect though it be, So is there Beauty which affects us not, While plainer faces thrill us with a joy Unfelt, unimaged, unbelieved before ! Who can interpret, then, what Beauty is ? KEYNOLDS. Woman 's a riddle — Beauty is the same. GOLDSMITH. To me, — nay, do not laugh, — in sooth, to me There is a spirit in creation which Seems cognizant of Art ! The woodland stream Ripples its sylvan course by mead and rock, By nest of moorland lark, by park of deer, Or sedgy nook, that would a painter choose ; The smallest flower that decks the hem of Spring- Seeks, as by instinct, some romantic spot, Some shady slope, to dress its beauty in. Earth closely knits in universal Art The commonwealth of seasons, and their change ; Nature, a colourist — supreme as truth — Paints with a pencil dipped in setting suns ! EEYNOLDS. 27 REYNOLDS. You sail in Fancy's barque, and touch on shores Seen by the dreamer's eye : — beware the rock ! GOLDSMITH. Nay, dream it is not ; — but a certainty ! The wild rose climbs the gate, or slyly seeks Some old white gable to display herself ; Conscious of contrast, or, in playful mood, Toys with the sun, and kisses her own shade. REYNOLDS. Why, this is sketching ! — you've a soul for Art. GOLDSMITH. From youth I grew a lover of that light Which warms the altar of " the Beautiful ! " I loved Mythology ; for it to me Was the religion of the Beautiful ! But Thought is ever in advance of Action, Could we achieve what we in thought perceive, Then Greatness were a step of easy reach ! REYNOLDS. Within the mind of man there glows a fire Which hath its source from some diviner orb Than warms our world — spark of a higher sphere ; 28 KEYNOLDS. There, in its full integrity, exists What we may term, for lack of better name, The " Central Form " — the principle of Taste. 'Tis this that to the flagging fancy gives Sense of a nobler mark — something beyond What it hath yet achieved — some loftier step Than it hath yet ascended : promptly as This " Central Form " exerts its influence, So its possessor moveth on to Fame ; Retaining this, in its divine perfection, No man, no artist, actor, sculptor, bard, Can rest content with failure : no, 'tis this, This inward sense of something unachieved, Felt, vaguely seen, and difficult of aim, Upward invites us, till the mounting mind Catches the light that can immortalise ! — This sudden power, not in itself a thought, Yet aye compelling thought ; — not Beauty, but Extracting it ; that Beauty unto which Each particle of universal life Is more or less related : — this is Genius, Or 'tis the guide of Genius — 'tis the Judge That, though reproving, still encourageth ! You are an artist, every poem shows — Simple, descriptive, earnest, full of grace And manly tenderness ; your pen excels REYNOLDS. 29 The painter's pencil ; surely then you feel That inward sense of something unperforrn'd, Which yet your thought may grasp with diligence ! GOLDSMITH. Conscious full often am I of a charm In word or thought which yet I fail to reach : And can believe it may be thus with Art. Paintings ! how they lead the mind to nature, Inspire the spirit, lift the thought to God ! — All that in woman's life is beautiful, All that is innocent and sweet in childhood, All that is high, heroic, great in man ! Of fancy and reality — of taste And truth — of glory and enthusiasm : — How they illuminate the life of life ! Paintings to me are Prophets of Advancement ! REYNOLDS. Poet thou art — and Nature formed thee such ; But all too wild a spirit for that art Where Judgment, more than Fancy, sits and acts. Who wins must labour ! not await the hour Of some descending vision, some fair muse, Seen in the dreams of foolish votaries. To know one's object, and to learn the mode Of reaching best that object ; profiting 30 KEYNOLDS. By every study ancient Art hath left ; By contemplation, and laborious zeal ; These, humble as they show and poor in sound, Have royal right to epithets divine ! These will achieve what Dreamers ne'er achieve, Led by the hope of some propitious star ! Some power, not won by labour, but a gift ! Alas, these gifts, how many a churchyard tells Of broken hearts, of tears, of blighted homes ! The Halls of Fate are crowded by the Gifted ; The very dust is consecrate to woes, Which found their birth in the insane belief That untaught genius wins a world's renown, Labour in Art scorned as mechanical : Would that my voice each ardent youth might reach, Who by his parent's table draws and dreams Of heaven-born genius and the stars of Fame. The only spirit worth the listening to, Is that which bids men Work ! — toil, study, learn. This, Inspiration flouts as something low, Unworthy her diviner attributes ! GOLDSMITH. All men are not alike ; whether it be In brain or blood, in muscle or in nerve. A power, to man inexplicable, still KEYNOLDS. 31 Infuses nature ; pulses of a life As yet unveil'd : nay, hath not temperament, Organisation, something still to do With those emotions which translation seek In Art, Invention, Sculpture, Poetry ? Thoughts come uncall'd for, and exert a power Of which we are the servants, not the master. Some hearts can vibrate to the simplest chord, Others an orchestra may fail to rouse. Beauty ? It dwells in Truth, in Goodness, Grace ; Beauty is mental more than physical ! You laugh, you think not thus ? — now, what 's amiss ? REYNOLDS. Keep that, my Goldie, for some future verse. Enter Servant. So please you, Sir, the little girl attends You met with strawberries, and bade to call. REYNOLDS. Strawberry Girl, — well, let her call at ten. {Exit Servant. GOLDSMITH. The Strawberry Girl, pray let me see her. I have a tenderness for childish life : A man — yet something of a child myself. 32 KEYtfOLDS. Imagination builds her paradise Deep in the wondering nature of a child : The great, the wise, heroic, fortunate, How shine they in the books that childhood reads ! There is a land but known to children's feet, Wherein grow flowers that never bloom elsewhere ; As some child-angel, passing by, had thrown The garment of her glory over earth ! Birds sing therein, whose notes, we know, were brought From groves by fairies haunted ; brooklets flow In music such as heard Aladdin, when, Full to the lips, in fortune he returned ! Oh, joy, to tread the ground of child-romance ! REYNOLDS. Come, see the girl, and tell your story out, Or write a book — a second Blue Beard tale, A Cinderella, or new Riding Hood ; Some other story of a Wondrous Lamp ! Something to rank with Giants of the Past ! [Exeunt, Reynolds bantering. GAINSBOROUGH. Scene — The room of an old-fashioned house in Sudbury. Enter young Gaestsborough, with his mother, speaking earnestly. GAINSBOROUGH. Well, but, dear mother, I dislike these looms — Treddles and shuttles, steaming vats and stoves. MRS. GADJSBOROUGH. Speak with respect, dear boy, and quietly. GAINSBOROUGH. I would not hint a feeling otherwise Than kind, and most respectful to my sire ; Others, however, may have feelings too. M GAINSBOKOUGH. MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. Forget your feelings, and remember fortune. Think what a life of industry may yield, — Wealth to command the highest influence ; Wealth to assist the poor — to raise the weak ; To be a benefactor and a friend Unto the town that bred you ! That were well ! GAINSBOROUGH. But to inhale the sickly breath of crowds ; Exchange the fresh glad breeze of early morn For the close atmosphere of carded wool ; Sweet Nature's quiet face, for the quick whirl And everlasting din of shafts and wheels ! No ; Nature's manufactory for me : She moves on silently, though reproducing Faster than man, with all his new-found helps. MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. Your brother Humphrey would not argue thus. GAINSBOROUGH. Make Humphrey, then, the weaver ; let him be The right hand of my father ; let his name Continue on the trade of " crapes" and " says." I'll carve out fortune with my palette knife ; GAINSBOEOUGH. 35 A brush shall be my engine ; and for steam, For steam, I'll get up perseverance — yes, High-pressure perseverance. I'll not fail ! Never believe I'll fail. MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. Consider this : A tenth-rate fortune is a thing to prize ; A tenth-rate reputation — what is that ? GAINSBOROUGH. But I'll be first!— MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. First ? — my poor boy — be first ? GAINSBOROUGH. 1 will work out the poetry of Art ; Make painting read as easily as a book ; Illustrate life and the intents of life ; Bid Nature sit for likeness of herself, And fix the evanescent, by a wand Potent as young Aladdin's. You will see ! My colours, these poor colours, shall be actors, And with each day's performance bring me fame. Kings, queens, and nobles, warriors, ministers, Shall tread the stage, and keep it with applause. d 2 36 GAINSBOKOUGH. The world itself shall be my theatre ! — Mother, there is a bond between us twain Which makes affection but one common pulse Guiding two hearts — 'tis instinct, some would say Mother, there is an instinct to be great — And that I feel ! — throbbing each ardent pulse, Coursing my veins as if to win the goal. Can Nature err who thus reveals herself? MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. Your father's disappointment — think of that ! GAINSBOROUGH. He'll not be disappointed — or, if so, But for a time — a very little time. What is this wealth, of which he talks so much ? Death, that can make even a Croesus poor, Cannot deprive the artist of his gains ! No man hath more than a life-interest In what his toil amasses. Death stays all, Nothing he taketh with him : not so Fame — It lends a halo even to the tomb, Crowns the dead brow, honours the lifeless hand, Enrobes the mortal with immortal worth : — Death cannot rob the artist of his due, For it enricheth e'en his very dust ! GAINSBOKOUGH. 37 And for his life — think of his glowing life ! To linger in the light of golden eves ; Take lessons of the clouds, the streams, the hills ; Ramble J mid woody rocks and winding glades ; To watch the panorama of the roads, — The rustic cart to distant market hound, The harvest waggon on its rumbling way, Children beneath the hedgerow gathering haws, The ploughman and his team, or tripping lass AVith wicker basket and her weekly eggs. All country pictures have a charm for me ! The sheep that spot the mead, like drifting snow ; The lowing kine within the sedgy pool ; Crows wandering home before the dusk of eye ; The aged woodman sheltering from the storm ; Even the shepherd dog, by meadow gate, Waiting some well-known footstep, are enough To fill my mind with pictures yet to be ! MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. Manhood succeeds to youth — and manhood sighs To find youth's world a dream ! Could I but think Thy way were sure ! GAINSBOROUGH. Be sure I'll bring you fame ; My name shall be an honour to your years, 38 GAINSBOROUGH. And, as you walk, people that pass shall say, That is the mother of young Gainsborough. Oh ! what a joy, some day to hear you own, — But once my son proved backward to my wish ; But once — and after that no son more true ; My wish rose not so high as he did mount. Fame then how sacred — how divinely dear — How doubly welcome, if my mother's heart But share the harvest which her son hath won ! Could I yet live to hear you own at last — My son, your choice was right ! You were my hope ; But now you are my pride ! MRS. GAINSBOROUGH. You are my pride ! And God make good your hope. [She falls on his neck. Keeping. HAYDON. (THE TWO EXHIBITIONS.) Scene — A room in the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, en- gaged by HAYDONybr the exhibition of his two important pictures, " The Banishment of Aristides" and " Tlte Burning of Rome" HA YD ON. The world may say I've faiFd ; I have not fail'd : If I set truth 'fore men they will not see, 'Tis they who fail, not I. My faith holds firm, And time will prove me right ; meantime I fed As martyrs feel who suffer for the Truth ! j irt should illustrate principle ; give strength To virtue ; lift the soul to God ! It claims A higher, nobler province than to deck The walls of lordly owners ; than to be Mere furniture for mansions. Art — High Art — 40 HAYDON. Should foster the intelligence of nations, Commemorate the loftiest deeds of man ! Enter Lady Ethgkove and Party. LADY ETHGROVE. La, bless me, not a creature — I declare ; How vastly awkward — 'tis a change, indeed, To leave the General for Mr. Haydon. PARTY. A change, indeed ; but surely you'll not stay ? LADY ETHGROVE to HAYDON. You see I've call'd, — I promised you I'd call. The pictures ?— ah, I see ; — how forcible ! Especially " The Burning," — or, in fact, I scarce know which is best, both are so good. The Banishment of . . . Let me see the bill- Of Aristides — hum !, HAYDON. Contemptible ! (aside.) Your ladyship, I fear me, hurried here From metal more attractive — General Thumb ? LADY ETHGROVE. Oh, such a treasure, such a little dear ! Ladies were offring guineas for a kiss. HAYDON. 41 HAYDON. Indeed ! LADY ETHGROVE. So said : though, 'faith, I offer' d none. Charm'd as I am, 1 must perforce away. These pictures quite enamour me ; but still . . . HAYDON. Your ladyship prefers the General. [ Walks about. Enter Lord Lovel. LADY ETHGROVE. Ah, my Lord Lovel, have you seen the " rage," The wonder of the world ? — so perfect, too, From crown to heel a miracle of form ! LOVEL. A miracle ? — wherever to be seen ? LADY ETHGROVE. General Tom Thumb — you must, indeed, go there ; The whole world 's hurrying there ; nothing is heard But sayings, doings, speeches of Tom Thumb ! 42 HAYDON LOVEL. Dwarfs suit not with my humour : when I pay 'Twill be for seeing giants, not for dwarfs. [Haydon stops in his walk and regards Lord Lovel. LADY ETHGROVE. You'll go, I know ; come, see him for yourself. Say yes — but " yes " — and straight we will return ; Though, 'faith, we've spent the whole long morning there. LOVEL. Excuse me ; nothing less than man gigantic ! Not an inch less than nine full measured feet Would tempt me to attend. LADY ETHGROVE. Ah, you but jest ! — You'll see — you'll change your mind — we go with crowds : Where fashion is, there go the fashionable ! And 'tis the fashion to admire Tom Thumb. Adieu ! I'm sure you'll go — quite sure you'll go. [Exeunt Lady Ethgrove and Party. LOVEL tO HAYDON. You seem annoy' d — yet wherefore thus annoy'd ? HAYDON. 43 What need to fret at mere frivolity ? If weak, 'tis harmless, and not worth a thought. HAYDON. Not quite so harmless as your lordship deems. This puny prodigy — this wondrous mite — This dwarf— this minikin — this scrap of flesh — This turnip-radish of a man, attracts In myriads, while I gain in units. Last week twelve thousand hurried to the show — One hundred honour'd me with their regard : Twelve thousand to one hundred — desperate odds ! LOVEL. Your name and service will survive the time ; You are the prophet of a new Art-creed ; It taketh years to inculcate the " New " — The " Old" had its believers ere we came, And will have when we're gone. HAYDON. In fact, this world 's A riddle, and success an epigram. Forty-two years I've battled for the cause, Through harassments, anxieties, and l<'.-s — And what is the result? 44 HAYDON. LOVEL. A great result ; and greater yet to come. The Elgin Marbles gave fresh force to Art, And your impassioned advocacy made Them known and loved, when scorn' d and misconceived. HA YD ON. Kindly remark'd, my lord ; spoke all like you, My heart — and more, my home — had suffer' d less. LOVEL. The years to come shall pay for sorrows past ; Meanwhile, let patience minister to peace ! HA YD ON. The years to come ! I hear the knell of Hope Dolefully ringing 'neath the spectral veil Which hides the future ! In my dreams I hear Nothing but dirges. Hope loves youth, not age ! LOVEL. Some pulse of Goodness centres in all life ; Open the door, and let the Angel enter. HAYDON. Goodness ! the revelation of God's love ; Yes ; I have faith in goodness, though unfound ! HAYDON. 45 And equal faith in evil influence ! No man more earnestly beseecheth God For strength in weakness, for support in grief, For aid to finish greatly what his mind Greatly conceives, than I. Ere canvas find A line upon its surface, my heart's prayer Ascends to Him who is the help of all ! To Him who grasps eternity, and holds All nature in the hollow of His hand. Then in such mood, I feel that I could seize E'en Samson by the throat, and conquer him ! Nothing 's too vast, too high, too difficult : I walk the level of colossal thought, And mate with heroes in the world of Art. LOVEL. Proceed ; I 'm all attention. HAYDON. For a time, — This for a time ; but other moods take place : The glory narrows to a final speck, And darkness, thick as Erebus, succeeds : Out of this mist of horror comes a breatb — A whisper — scarce a voice — a small thin tone That shakes me like a reed, and makes the air 46 HAYDON. Quiver as if with dread. I try to think Of home, of children, all endearing things That gladden labour through the task of life ; But still that breath grows hotter in mine ear ; The darkness thickens, and an utterance, More dread than any presence man ere saw, Chafes my roused spirit into hate and scorn ! Infects me with a pride beyond all pride, — Intense disdain — unequalPd arrogance — Unmatched assumption of transcendent powers. Ambition, vast as was the Morning Star's Ere quench'd in night, possesses every nerve. I feel the world would crush me, if it could, But that its malice lacks the needful might : And then I brave the worst it can perform — Mock its opinions — crucify its idols — Unmask its falsehoods, and expose its shams — Counters that would be coins — mere dross for dupes ! All tongues against me— I against all tongues ! Till life appears a mesh, from which to 'scape Were paradise — and then .... I dare not think what then ! LOVEL. 'Tis but the penalty of shattered nerves — O'erwrought imagination. You need rest, HAYDON. 47 Freedom and relaxation : quit the town, And pass a month with me at Loveltower. Let Nature turn physician, and prescribe As only Nature can, whose power 's supreme. HAYDON. There 's a prescription every one must take, Sooner or later, and that sombre draught With me seems close at hand — a grave-like phial ! LOVEL. Come, come, be glad ; discard this monkish mood. Nature 's a queen, whom God himself hath crowned : Grace, Beauty, Sweetness, are her maids of honour ; They bear her train, rich with the vernal gold And diamonds of the morn ; and forth she moves With Pow'r and Grandeur for her ministers : A thousand servants wait upon her steps, And kings are her retainers ! Come, we '11 change This scene for one of peaceful, woodland life. Fll be the prompter, at whose magic call Prisons are changed to palaces. You '11 return Strong to achieve ; and Fame will banquet you ! IIAYDON. Fame is a myth — a ghost that wanders ruins ! A phantom that deceives, misleads, and mocks ; 48 HAYDON. What sorcery compels me to pursue This vision ? LOVEL. Fame is tlie star of Labour, Without it effort dies — existence pines. Fame, or the hope of Fame, hath led to deeds Which elevate the world, — say nought 'gainst Fame ; Fame is to Mind what Love is to the Heart, The goddess of its worship, and its wealth : You have no heresy 'gainst Love, we hope ? HAYDON. Love is the law of all things visible ; From Love doth emanate the beautiful'; And from the god-like beautiful springs Form — Form, the exponent of all majesty ! LOVEL. We carry beauty and proportion with us ; The visual eye asks guidance from within. And as that cometh is its power increased. Some men see form the first, the colour next : Mere outline hath to them a grander charm Than harmony of tone or grace of hue. Others would sit unquiet if there hung HAYDON. 49 A picture out of square, and forthwith rise, CompelPd by impulse to adjust it right. HAYDON. Taste is the gold of life, where'er 'tis seen, Though but in cottage-home, it lends a light Not wealth itself, if wanting taste, can match. Art, as a teacher and a benefactor, As yet is unacknowledged : give me rule, And Schools of Art I 'd raise in every town. LOVEL. You pause. HAYDON. The wheels fast rolling to Tom Thumb ! Hear you the inmates hurrying to the scene ? They crash — they scream — they faint. Your Lordship finds The number here needs no arithmetic ! LOVEL. Methought you had forgotten " such small deer I" HAYDON. Who feels for others can forget no step By which their happiness may be involved : Failure in this neglected exhibition May bring down desolation upon those E 50 HAYDON. I'd gladly die to serve. But wherefore grieve ? 'Tis but one heartache more ! Let me proceed. LOVEL. Schools of Design, you say .... HAYDON. Had I the means, Schools of Design 1 7 d build in every town ; Make Art an element of education Common to all — the lowliest born of man ; A new community should spring around, Refined, improved, advanced in social worth ; " Design " ere long would forth reveal itself In every mercantile, industrial craft ; Iron and wood, nay, e'en the potter's clay, Would offer forms of elegance and taste. A graceful style aolds nothing to the cost ; 'Tis odds if more material be not used To mould the vulgar than the graceful form ! A saving ! there 's attraction in the word, Could I but prove this to the Government : What say you ? LOVEL. Simply this — petition Peel. HAYDON. 51 HAYDON. I have ; and he most courteously declines. Yet Peel means well, and has a heart to feel ; Would fain do right, and yet is slow to act. Melbourne but shrugs, and shakes his laughing sides, And says, " What need to paint the House of Lords ? Many might say too much Art there already ! Schools of Design ? What, more designing men ? Call you this, Hay don, serving well your country ? " So, with a joke, he laughs at argument, And quits the question. LOVEL. We '11 not quit it thus ; Assistance shall be had, and now, for once, Close doors, and come with me : I have a scheme Perchance may make a fortune ; meanwhile, deem My house a debtor by your sojourn there. HAYDON. Had not your lordship better ask Tom Thumb? If he were absent — I might then succeed ! LOVEL. The river of success runs ever clear ! All flock to see what all can understand. e 2 52 HAYDON. If I read Shakspere, it is plain to sense, I read to what 's Shaksperian in the man. If lie be wanting in dramatic taste, I might as well harangue the Monument ! Come, staying here doth hut embitter thought. Nay, cease to hesitate. HAYDON. Embitter thought? Thrice happy they whose expectation 's small, And hope but little, if they hope at all ! [Exeunt HAYDON. 53 NOTES. From T. Taylor's Life of Haydon. " Advertise'men't. — Haydon's New Pictures. — On Easter Monday next will open for exhibition at the Egyptian Hall, Picca- dilly (admission 1.?., catalogues Qd.), two large pictures, viz., 'The Banishment of Aristides, with his Wife and Childreu,' to show the injustice of democracy; 'Nero Playing with his Lyre while Rome is Burning,' to prove the heartlessness of despotism. " April 4th. It rained the whole day. Nobody came except Jerrold, Bowring, Fox Maule, and Hobhouse. Twenty-six years ago the rain would not have prevented them, but now it is not so. However, I do not despair. — 6th. Receipts, 1846, £1 Is. 6i. ; Aristides. In God I trust, Amen.— 7th. Rain. £1 8s. U.— 8th. Pine. Receipts— worse, £1 6s. M— 13th. Easter Monday. God ! bless my receipts this day for the sake of my creditors; my family, and my Art, Amen. Receipts (22). £1 2s. ; catalogues (3) Is. 6rf. ; £1 3s. U. "They rush by thousands to see Tom Thumb (exhibiting in another room in the same building). They push, they fight, they scream, they faint, they cry help and murder! and oh! and ah ! They see my bills, my boards, my caravans, and don't read them. Their eyes are open, but their sense is shut. It is an insanity, a rabies, a madness, a furor, a dream ! " LEONARDO DA VINCI. LEONARDO DA VINCI. Scene— Gallery of Paintings in the Palace of Fontaine- bleau ; a flight of steps descending to the garden. Enter Raimondi, Filippo, and Ginevra. RAIMONDI. Seven hundred crowns a year ! Well, Fortune's son Improves upon his early heritage. filippo. A welcome boon — worthy the generous hand And hingly heart of Francis. A wise gift ! RAIMONDI. So after time may say : but hold you not More than a common interest in this act, Knowing Da Vinci long ? FILIPPO. From childhood, Sir. I am ten years his senior. Neighbours' sons 58 LEONAKDO DA VINCI. Were we — wild, rambling, thoughtless, truants oft. Val d'Arno, and the mountain tracts beyond, Beheld us link'cl together dawn and eve. Bright days were those, Raimoncli; bright but brief- Scenes that have passed to sounds — mere things of air- Voices that have no echo, save a sigh : Little remains to bid us now rejoice. Pleasure finds many doors, and knocks full loud ; She hath her youthful comrades as of yore : Age from the casement views her tripping by, Calling no more as erst she used to call ; Singing no more as she was wont to sing ! RAIMONDI. Well, Leonardo is advancing, too. FIL1PPO. Genius counts days by deeds ! Him I remember — A handsome, gifted, earnest, active youth : There was persuasion in his honest look ; None saw him but to love him. GINEVRA. Love him — a madcap ! Sooth, I lov'd him not — A giddy, hare-braiDed, noisy, reckless lad, Ever in mischief! Never imp alive Contrived to plague me as that rogue Da Vinci. LEONARDO DA VINCI. 59 RAIMONDI. I knew him when such school-day sports had ceased, When thought made thin his cheek, when full of hope, Full of the painter's ardour — young and warm, Trembling with aspirations yet untold, He loved to stand and gaze, full hour hy hour, Upon a Giotto or a Masaccio : — Hearing no tongue save that which stirr'd the soul With restless promptings unto noble deeds ; Seeing a vision canvas never showed Lying beyond, apart, and far above The painted scene on which he seemed to gaze — A world wherein dwelt name, position, fame ! — Oh, hope of Genius, how divine the air Which wraps thy presence — how intense the joy That agitates the step that seeks renown ! FILIPPO. Gladsome it is to mark a gifted mind Step from a lot, by circumstance confined, Narrowed by poverty, and in pure force Of self-reliant, honourable will Make circumstance give way,— and the steep path Which leads to station, dignity, ami power, 60 LEONARDO DA VINCI. Take, as 'twere native to the soul within, A spirit born to climb and to ascend! \_A pause. Oh ! golden city of the land of Hope, What hast thou not in store for those who strive And toil, and mount, and wrestle for the wreathes Whose leaves are — EAIMONDI. What? FILIPPO. Worthless, me thought to say ; But I am old, and aged eyes wax dim. EAIMONDI. And yet I 've seen them gladden when thou spak'st Of the Jirst painting Leonardo wrought — His famed Medusa .... filippo {with excitement). Think, my Raimondi — in a low-built room — On scrap of common wood — with clay and paint, Of which as yet he 'd scarcely learnt the use, — Without a friend to cheer, to aid him on, Or whisper courage, — silent and alone, Unfriended, unassisted, — he sent forth LEONAEDO DA VINCI. 01 A work whose novelty, whose force and depth, Astonished Florence ! Then his modest worth ; His noble person, — handsome countenance — GINEVRA. A little louder speak, — I'm somewhat deaf. FILIPPO. A handsome lad — GINEVRA. Ay, ay, a franksome lad — a ne'er-do-well ; I often said he 'd never come to good. Always devising — ever constructing, Making, unmaking ; — doing, undoing ; — -M ills, bridges, boats, and other carpentry — Leaving a litter, which he called " Invention." Out on Invention ! — 'tis untidy work — Keeps a house dirty, slovenly and rough .... raimondi {interrupting her'). You'd need to speak more fittingly of one So high in worth,- in honour, as our Painter ! GINEVRA. Painter, forsooth ! — and where '$ the good of it? What 's the end of it ? Who profits by it ? G2 LEONAEDO DA VINCI. Painting ? efecks ! give me a Pantry, Sir ! — Sketching, say you — Kitchen, say I ; Kitchen ! — The Light of Genius — can you see by it ? The Fire of Genius — can you cook with it ? What hath his genius done ? RAIMONDI. Created works that will outlast thy grave ; A plate from one such work were worth a sum. GINEVRA. Plates, marry, plates ! give me good dinner plates ! Burnished like silver, glittering in a row, Making a dark place light ; — Painting ! mere stuff ! The painting on a clock but spoils the dial ; 'Twould better go without it ; — Painting ! Plates ! Leonardo 's a fool. \Exit, grumbling. FILIPPO. That woman would speak evil of a saint, As obstinate as ... . RAIMONDI. What ? FILIPPO. An old woman ! — LEONAKDO DA YIXCI. 63 EAIMONDI. Mere prejudice, my Filippo, mere cant ; — True obstinacy is young as oft as old ; As often seen in ringlets as in wigs ; As firmly sits upon a snowy brow As though it found ten wrinkles for a seat ; Speaks with smooth lip as boldly as with rough ; Ascribes a hundred motives for an act, Not one of which is temper, passion, spleen. No 'faith, 'tis " proper pride," — 'tis a "self-respect," — A rightful spirit suffering things unjust ; A brave resolve not to be " trampled on ! " Your true-born stubbornness is something £reat : A mixture of the martyr and the saint ! — FILIPPO. The world hath sat in judgment and declared . . EAIMONDI. Tut, tut ! The world must then reverse its law. The old? no, no ! — the stubborn are the young ' Twenty things granted cannot make them grateful ; One thing denied sufficeth to provoke them ; The young . . It galls me to the quick .... 64 LEONAEDO DA VINCI. FILIPPO. Ha ! ha ! A Preacher of " submission " losing patience ! But of Ginevra, who has just retired, Nothing seems right to her distorted view ; Why sent Da Vinci for her ? RAIMONDI. Doubtless to render service ; place her well ; Where her old age might meet with fitting care. E'en I have much to thank his friendship for. No favour promptly offer'd to his youth Escapes his heart — eludes his memory ; The hand that did him kindness when a boy — That hand, if needing help, he thrice repays. God bless him for it ! FILIPPO. See, Da Yinci comes. RAIMONDI. FILIPPO. And with the King. 'Twere better to retire. RAIMONDI. Two Kings : — One has his throne within this realm of France ; LEONARDO DA VINCI. 65 The other, crown'd by Fame, ascends a throne Acknowledged by all peoples, and all realms. FILIPPO. Still so enamour'd : one may bend the knee To kingly worth — a thousand unto Kings Without the worth ! Still nearer they approach. We may offend. [ They descend tlie steps leading to the garden. Scene II. — Enter Francis the First and Leonardo. LEONARDO.. Your Majesty outvalues much my skill. FRANCIS THE FIRST. Nay, good Da Vinci — not a jot too much; Kings find few pleasures half so pure or high. As those true Art invites them to partake ; 'Tis pleasant to seek refuge from the cares, Inquietudes, and vanities of state, Within a world where talking is unknown : — A world whose star hath set — whose day hath gone; Whose rank and power, whose pomp and arrogance Are painted visions hanging 'gainst a wall ! — 'Tis something to behold a human face F 66 LEONAEDO DA VINCI. That asks not office, favour, or control, — Here, conquests, glories, spoils, ambitions, all Shrink into silence ; — beauty lifts her gaze, In immortality of loveliness, Yet craves nor title, pension, nor reward : Sworn foes frown face to face, yet draw no sword ; The envious cease their scandals ; and the false Have done with stratagems and low Jinesse. Oh, World of Art, thou dost rebuke the life "We prize so much, yet pass so peevishly ! Say, my Da Vinci, what drew first thy thought Unto this sphere of thy divinity ? Art, we remember, was thy second choice. LEONARDO. In youth my great ambition was the Muse ; — To leave a poem that might shrine my name For centuries ; to represent the mind, The spirit, manners, progress of the Age ; To pioneer the path to higher aims And holier aspirations, — to advance The Arts and Science of my country, — these — These were the thoughts that, like unbearing trees> Show'd many leaves, but never came to fruit ; — A few light sonnets, a few passing songs, And the strings jarr'd, and all again was mute. LEONARDO DA VINCI. 67 FRANCIS. Some sonnets we have seen, yet scarce regret The Poet lost for the true Painter found. LEONARDO. Ah, my liege — Some hundreds enter the wide boat of Fame, But in few years Time throws full many out ; — Pass half a century, and half remain ; — A hundred years, and you may count their heads By twos and threes — the multitudes are gone : And still the Immortal City shines afar ; Still longer centuries must intervene Ere on that coast to Genius consecrate The Pilgrim's name may live for evermore, Writ high above the casualties of time ! — Sucli height, I fear, my name may never reach. FRANCIS. Great men know not their greatness — 'tis the air, The daily element, which they respire; Greatness is habitude, and strikes them not I LEONARDO. My next ambition was to cope with Time; — Anticipate the future, and invent Machines that should achieve what human hands, i 2 68 LEONAEDO DA VINCI. By tens of thousands, could not execute ; To bring the poor cheap bread, and better garb, Healthier homes, and life at lesser cost ; And partly 'twas accomplished ; — my next step,- FRANCIS. And best — LEONARDO. Would I could think so ; but, my liege, What yet is done seems small to the " to be " — That grows, enlarges — but 'tis ever so : The prize of time is in the years to come, The time we have we prize not ! — FRANCIS. Say not so ! One work is done which every heart must prize ! Art is the bridge that leads from years of time To the eternal years whose sun is Fame ! To speak not of the female heads thy skill Hath dower'd with beauty and perpetual grace, Whose tender playfulness, expression, power ; Whose purity , refinement, breathe a life — A stamp of truth, unequall'd erst in Art, — Omitting these, one great achievement stands To guard thy name from man's forgetfulness — LEONAKDO DA VINCI. GO One noble labour — " The Lord's Supper ! " whence, Whence rose the seed of this ? A sudden thought, Or long- premeditation? LEONARDO. Good, my liege, The painting honour'd with such special praise Was my sole thought for years :— Ml oft the hope Of its accomplishment died in my breast, Again to be renew'd — with higher zeal And bolder impulse ; then again delay'd. The day my hand, irresolute and slow, Dared the commencement of so grand a theme, A solemn sense of some companionship Compell'd my pencil silently to paint ; — •Fused feeling into colours ; — soon this pass'd, And my whole being own'd some presence gone. Still day by day, week, month, and year, I strove ; Onward, though slow, till each Disciple's head Before my mind, as in a mirror, came, And lived upon the canvas as they rose ; When each received my last, half-lingering touch. I turned to that, which made reflection ache, To that — the one untouched — all else complete : The head of our Redeemer — the Divine, Incarnate Saviour, — Ransom infinite! 70 LEONAKDO DA VINCI. How dared I execute those lineaments ? With what expression might I mould that face — That head, which God himself had glorified — That hand which angels worshipp'd in their spheres : That hand ! — Oh, miracle of gracious love, — Which gave itself to wounds, our souls to heal, And lift them pure before the face of God ? I paused and wept : — what could I else but weep ? What other offering had my soul to yield For such self-sacrifice — such love supreme ? [A pause. FRANCIS. Emotion is the spring of excellence ; He must feel deeply who'd make others feel. LEONARDO. Oh ! my mind long'd — yet fear'd the wondrous theme — To mark each scene and circumstance that left A glory round Jerusalem — that endow'd The everlasting tongue of love with truth, That lifted man to an inheritance Surpassing earthly kingdoms — made the grave A gateway unto light ! — a path o'er which Shone the unsetting day of righteousness ! To portray Him who trod the wilderness And held communion with eternity : — LEONAKDO DA VINCI. 71 He who loved Martha, Mary, Lazarus ; — Who on his breast received the slumb'ring brow Of his disciple John ; — whose tenderness Broke forth in syllables that live insphered ; — Who to the universal Mother called, With voice that thrills each matron-heart e'en now, " Suffer little children to come unto Me ! " Oh, lips Divine — oh, words omnipotent, Solace unmatch'd, and comfort unconceived — How could man's pencil seek to realise An image that could live — resembling- Thee ? But I forget the presence of my King, — FRANCIS. Thy King would have thee still forget: Proceed. LEONARDO. Then pass'd a vision, or perchance a dream, I know not what, but vision it appeared! In which I seem'd spectator, and not actor : — Coming and iroimr without thought of mine — A vision that surprised me unto tears ! — As music to the ear — so to my soul Rang the innumerable harmonics Of heaven, of angels, and the hosts of God ! 72 LEONAKDO DA VINCI. FRANCIS. We have felt painting thus ourself, Da Vinci, As voiceless sermons — silent psalms to God — Mute and yet eloquent : — they hade us feel What words were powerless to communicate. Enter Officer. FRANCIS. What interruption now? Who waits without? OFFICER. My liege, the deputies of Burgundy Entreat an audience .... francis {aside). What broil 's abroad ? What fresh chagrin, vexation, discontent, Trouble our deputies? Well, 'tis some gain To snatch an interval, though brief as this, From frets of rule and jealousies of state. The State is King, and sovereigns are its slaves. {To Da Vinci.) You to your canvas — we to council go. Happier your realm than any realm we know. GIULIO ROMANO. Scene — Giulio in the Hall of Constantine, steadfastly regarding Raffaelle 's picture of " Justice and Mercy.'''' To him enter Donatini and Francesco. GIULIO. Now, Donatini, what 's the latest news ? DONATINI. Cardinal Tortoso lias been chosen Pope, And with new title fills the papal chair. GIULIO. Adrian the Sixth — the news is six hours old ! DONATINI. Adrian the Sixth — and further, in your ear Let it Le whisper'd, — Angclo 's recall'd ! GIULIO. Recall'd ! That 's news, and welcome news to Art. 74 GIULIO ROMANO. DONATINI. You fear no rival, RarTaelle being dead : Others, less lib'ral, perchance had thought Bad news, and most unwelcome. GIULIO. Rival, no ! Art hath no rival, save unrivall'd Nature : Each gifted mind is a new strength to Art ; New wealth, new capital ; and weak is he Who dreads a brother greater than himself. He knows not Art, nor Art's exalted aim. FRANCESCO. What is the aim of Art ? GIULIO. It is to teach Through power of beauty the eternal power ! It is to feel our own humanity Enlarge with Science, to evolve out of The perishable the imperishable ! 'Tis to give feature to imagination, Set clear the visionary forms of fancy, Make shadows real, hold the fleetingya^ / To snatch the spark that can illuminate. GIULIO KOMANO. \ FRANCESCO. By this we must conceive you designate The highest order of Inventive Art ; — Nature hath other schools and colleges, Other degrees and honours. — Is 't not so ? GTULIO. Reigns, customs, manners change, but not so man : The spirit of the old humanity Invigorates the new ; Man changes more In symbol than in essence ; — and the thoughts That thrill'd Apelles in long ages back Thrill Grecian breasts e'en now ; and to the end The grandeur and the majesty of Art Shall wake grand thoughts, and Truth and Justice Keep their primal state and regal dignity. FRANCESCO. To follow up this subject. It would seem Art, in its highest form, hath province here But second to religion — that is, to raise And spiritualise our nature ! — thus — GIULIO. Time hath made pictures altars! they've received The homage vouchsafed to divinity: It is the soul's prerogative to soar ! 76 GIULIO ROMANO. An impulse God implanted from the first, When he created man : as it is nature In the earth to feel the influence of spring, So is it nature in the soul to feel The influence of Art. DONATINT. Thought all like you It might be well. GIULIO. Who 's the true patriot, He who sets himself above his country, Or he who, for that country's sake, would see Self, power, possession — everything — forgot ; And, scorning death, with his last effort cry, Make way for Rome, ye nations ? — so with Art. DONATLNI. Give me your hand — ; right nobly said, Romano. Less self, less thought of self, less show of self, More thought of that which teaches love of all ; More love of that which teaches thought for all. GIULTO. Ah ! who so just, unenvious ; who so kind As noble Rafiaelle ? Oft I 've heard him say, " Thank God I breathe the air of Angela ! " GIULIO ROMANO. 77 And Angelo, whene'er he visits Home, Will see no spot more precious to his thought, More touching to his heart, than the dear earth Which wraps the form of Santi RafFaelle. FRANCESCO. From what dire circumstance arose the fact That Michael, that great mark and pride of Rome, Was forced to visit Pietra ? 'Twas most strange ! GIULIO. Leo the Tenth, whose brief pontificate Made a new era in the world of Art, On his accession to the papal throne Profess'd regard for Michael Angelo ; Love for his fame, and zeal for his success ; Desired his genius for his native city ; And Angelo, as if foreboding ill, Reluctantly obey'd the Pontiffs call. FRANCESCO. 'Tis true ; but thence to Florence order'd, forth To build, of Saint Lorenzo, the facade. GIULIO. What follow'd next? 'Tis known throughout the realm, Instead of the fagade — uufinish'd yet Since the old Cosmo time — instead of this, 78 GIULIO ROMANO. Great work and fit for Genius to perform, He, Michael Angelo, the soul of Art, Was straight dismissed to Pietra, to decide Between the quarries of the mountains there And the pure marble of Carrara — thus For eight long toilsome years he fashion'd blocks, Constructed roads o'er marshes to the sea, Travell'd with rafts and fascines ! Believ'st thou ? He — Rome's great architect and ornament, True Painter, Poet, Sculptor — left to toil Like common mason — a mere blank in life ; His time consumed — his glorious talents lost During the whole, hard reign of Leo Tenth ? DONATINI. It mocks belief! — myriads, as yet unborn, Will read, yet doubt ; and ask, can this be true Which wars 'gainst sense? GIULIO. You saw me gazing here On Justice and on Mercy ! — shadows both : They have no living semblances on earth ! To think of eight years in such labour spent ! GIULIO ROMANO. DONATINI. A loss no Pope of Rome may e'er compute : A loss posterity will long deplore ! GIULIO. Years, generations, empires and their crowns, Follow each other to the end of time : All things of earth are reproduced by earth ; Genius hath no successor ! — knows no heir ! — Angel o dead— what centuries could replace The grand old spirit of that master-mind ? Angelo living— any puny power May cramp and fetter. Rome ! it makes me mad To think of Michael and Pietra Sante. DONATINI. Go where ye will, tin's is the fate of Genius ! Ever the stream of life is full of turns And rough impediments ; to chafe at fate Is but to sink the deeper. GIULIO. Sad as true, The patli of fame finds many a weary foot, And aching head, and disappointed heart ; Many ascend, few reach the toilsome height ! 80 GIULIO ROMANO. DONATINI. Whate'er the Present owes the Future pays ! Towards the Pantheon let us hasten now. GIULIO. First meet we Angelo — conduct him there ; There, 'neath its cupola, survey the tomb Of Raffaelle : — let Genius mourn for Genius ; A tear from Michael Angelo would soothe That spirit, call'd too early from the world, Too early from that sphere which he adorn'd. DONATINI. Too early, yes ; too soon for Art ! and yet That is not Death which brings not death to fame : He lives, who leaveth an immortal name. {Exeunt. SONGS AND POEMS. THE CHAPEL-BELL. The wintry winds blow wild and shrill, Like ghosts they shriek across the moor, Or howl beneath the window sill, Or shake with gusty hands the door ; And, hour by hour, from some lone bell A wizard sound at night doth steal — Sometimes 'tis like a funeral knell, Sometimes 'tis like a marriage peal ! I know it is some fiend that stands Within the belfry's ghastly gloom, And with its stark and fleshless hands Rings out dead souls from tomb to tomb. I long to weep — 1 pray to sleep, But through the haunted house it sounds, And through my ilesh rhe chill veins creep Like wintry worms in burial-grounds. g 2 84 THE CHAPEL-BELL. A weight is on my heart — my brain, A shadow flits across the floor ; And then I know it is in vain To pine, or pray, or struggle more ! Well, let the foul fiend ring till morn- Till the red sun awakens men : Yet, though thus tortured and forlorn, What then I did— I 'd do again ! He thought it fine to feign a love Which woo'd my spirit to his feet ; He raised his false, false eyes above, And vow'd, what 's useless to repeat. Whatever he vow'd, there is no name So black on earth as his deceit ; Whate'er he vow'd, there is no shame So vile as in his heart did beat ! Ring out, thou bitter fiend, till morn Awakes the prying eyes of men ; Yet prison' d, madden'd, and forlorn, What then I did — I 'd do again ! Not slightly was I woo'd or won ; For years the whisp'ring false one came, And nought a saint might fear to shun Forewarned me of the villain's aim. THE CHAPEL-BELL. 85 I loved him — loved ? I would have died, If dying- ought to him might spare ; I would have every pain defied To save him from a single care ' Toll, toll, thou fiend, ring out, and tell The murd'rous deed from goal to goal ! I know my name is writ in hell — I feel there 5 s blood upon my soul ! The dawn arose, hut not for me The bridal train did wait and smile ; As slowly, stately, three by three, They swept in beauty down the aisle. I crept behind the pillar'd base ; The bride's white garments fann'd my cheek : The blood rush'd madly to my face ; I dared not breathe — I could not speak ! Laugh out, thou fiend, laugh out and scorn, With mocking sounds, my weary ear ! Is there no other — lost — forlorn, No other wretch whose life 's a tear ? There rose a whisper deep and low — A sound that took away my sight ; All i kings around me seem'd to flow. And wander in a demon light ! THE CHAPEL-BELL. I nerved my hand to grasp the steel ; I stepped between him and his bride. Who 'd think so black a heart could feel ? — Could pour so warm, so red a tide? Is there no sinful soul but mine, Thou endless fiend, that thou must make These serpent sounds to hiss and twine Around me till my senses ache ! I had not stabb'd him, but I saw My noble father's thin gray hairs ; And that, perchance, which tears might draw, Drew blood upon me unawares. I flung the shrieking bride apart ; I sprang before him in his guilt ; The steel went quivering to his heart — Would God my own blood had been spilt ! Laugh out, dark fiend ! beside me then A wilder sound than thine was spread ; A cry I ne'er shall hear again Till every grave gives up its dead ! Twelve months — dark months — I groan'd in pain A curse lay heavy on my head. They tell me I have ne'er been sane Since that wild hour the brideo-room bled ! THE CHAPEL-BELL. 87 They say no shadow stalks the room — No midnight tolling haunts the air. Tis false ! You hear it through the gloom : And, see, the phantom passes — there ! Mad— mad ? 'Twere blissful but to lose One hour from self — one moment free From thoughts that every hope refuse — From life whose lot is misery ! Mad — mad ? As if the sense could leave The form it tortured ! Never more Shall I do aught but rave and grieve, And wish — vain wish — this life were o'er ! Away ! — a thousand lives have gone, A thousand phantoms glide in hell ; But not one perish'd — no, not one So black in guilt as he who fel 1 ! Night after night, 'mid sounds aghast, That fiend, that spectre, haunts my way. What shall I see when life hath past, And Night is mine that knows no day ? ENDURANCE. i. Ever struggle and endurance : " Is there no repose?" I cried ; Gives the world but this assurance,- Others thus have lived and died ? ii. On the broad highway of being Crowds on crowds still ever go ; Nothing more beyond them seeing Than to toil with foreheads low. in. To a spot I wander'd dreary, With thick branches overlaid, For the sunlight made me weary — There seem'd solace in the shade. ENDURANCE. 89 IV. On a bank my limbs reposing, Found a momentary balm ; Spirit worn, my eyelids closing, Sought forgetfulness and calm. V. Still that thought, for ever present, Came with purpose unexprest ; As beneath the moon's dim crescent Glides some ghost that cannot rest. VI. Seeking hint or clue to guide me, As I leant upon the earth, I beheld a flower beside me Struggling, midst the soil, to birth. VII. Through the winter's wrath and rigour. Pent in dust, and prison' d fast, Had it forced its path with vigour. Till obstruction ceased at last ! 90 ENDUEANCE. VIII. Now within its emerald bosom All the future life reposed — SwelPd the rich and golden blossom That the morn would see unclosed. IX. Then my heart, with sudden motion Lost the weight so hard to bear ; And some new and sweet devotion Soothed and sanctified its care. x. He who thus the flower hath moulded, Sphered its being to this span ; He, too, hath the future folded In the living soul of man ! XI. For a time the soil is round us, For a time we feel the thorn ; When the spirit-hour hath found us, Inner glories shall be born ! ENDURANCE. 91 XII. Welcome struggle and endurance — Welcome toil, to this allied ; Welcome the divine assurance, — Others thus have lived and died ! XIII. Toil, I kiss thee with affection, Never more shall mortal say That I view thee with dejection — That I murmur on my way. XIV. Through the soil and earthy ember, He who raised the flower from dust — He will also man remember ; And in Him I move and trust ? YEARS TO COME. i. A day will dawn I ne'er shall see ; A night will set I ne'er shall know ; The wave-tide of humanity Thus ever surges to and fro. II. The dew with gems shall bead the flower, The bird make rich the morn with song ; And Mind, still climbing hour by hour, Find worlds beyond the starry throng. in. Years shall return to future years What ages unto them have given, And that high power which Faith reveals, Grasp the fixed points of earth and Heaven. YEARS TO COME. 93 IV. The boy shall loiter through the lane, With school-ward footsteps short and slow ; Afraid each moment to remain, And yet still more afraid to go ! v. Ah, priceless years ! if boyhood knew The mark and value of such time ; Ah, happy school ! could youth but view The future and its paths sublime. VI. What younger Howard then might feel — What other Wilberforce arise — What Burke assert the general weal — What Rosso or Newton span the skies ! VII. The joys, the hopes, the interests, That animate the bosom now, Shall lend their glow to other breasts — And flush the young enthusiast brow. VIIT. The majesty of manhood then May aim at some diviner worth ; And progress grant to future men A wider brotherhood on earth. 94 YEARS TO COME. IX. What theory shall then succeed ? What deeper power — what newer theme — What fresh discovery supersede The electric flash— the steed of steam ? x. Who '11 be the bard to England dear, When centuries have filed and fled ? Or who the statesmen crowds will cheer, Worthy the Peels or Chathams dead ? XI. The passions that distract mankind — The pride, the envy, and mistrust — Shall they be scatter' d on the wind That lifts the banner of the just ? XII. Shall Christian sense e'er sheathe the sword ? Shall simple Justice rule the land ? Shall Law its shield of right afford. A right that all may understand ? XIII. The languid sun fades in the sky ; The sap within the tree droops low ; The cold wind whispers winter nigh, And soon the last lorn leaf must go ! YEARS TO COME. 95 XIV. Yet lie who in all change can find A providence of goodness shown — He who is ruler o'er his mind Is more than he who rules a throne. xv. A day shall come I ne'er shall see, A day when heart and tongue lie dumb ; That day, Lord, be Thou with me — And oh, on earth, Thy kingdom come ! "NIGHT" AND "MORNING." [The title of "Night" and "Morning" is given to two excellent paintings by Sir Edwin Landseer. Pew of the fine works, even of this our modem master, demand greater attention. The subject is simple in both pictures. In the first we perceive a couple of deer contending for the mastery, on an elevated piece of moorland adjoin- ing a lake ; the moon has risen above the distant hills which form the horizon. " Morning " shows to us the result of the combat — the animals are dead.] Afar o'er the mountains the mists are unroll'd, And the wings of the Morn scatter crimson and gold ; The voice of the torrent is heard on its way Proclaiming the power and the glory of day ; While each object the soul with magnificence fills, And the heart seems to echo the joy of the hills. What cry comes so swift from the solitude vast ? What feet sweep the glen like the rush of the blast ? 'Tis the stag of the desert — the monarch whose throne Is girt with a grandeur to cities unknown ; He was up with the dawn, over heather and fen — Over corrie and cairn — over moorland and glen ; "NIGHT" AND " MOENING." 97 From bold Ben-y-chatt to Locli Dirie he flew, Nor stayed he his hoof at Glenbruar nor Chroo ; With the foam-speed of passion he bated no breath. But away — still away — to the combat of death ! Where shrieks the lone eagle, where skulks the lean fox, And the wolf holds her watch from her home mid the rocks ; Where the spray of the torrent is hung like a shroud, And the pine soars aloft through the rack of the cloud ; Still onward he rushes, still bounds at a pass, Each rugged and stern and precipitous mass ; Up, upward, he toils, by no danger deterr'd, 'Till his rival appears in the midst of the herd ! One glance — and together they spring o'er the path — One moment, each eye-ball is gleaming with wrath : Now butting, now goring — their haunches they bow : Now tossing in fury, clash antler and brow ; 'Till the fire of their passion falls faint by degrees, And panting and foaming they sink to their knees ; Still honi linked in horn, still contending with fate, While the moonlight looks down on their fury and hair .' But the moonlight hath gone ; and the Morniug hath thrown Over mountain and river a Bpell of her own : — H 98 "NIGHT" AND "MOENING." A freshness that sparkles with heavenly light, A beauty that glorifies hollow and height : The gold of the summits is tinctured with rose, And the air with a gladness and holiness glows ; Above — springs enchantment in every breath, Below — there 's the rock — and the vulture — and death. Who recks what that Night of contention hath seen ? Who recks what the rage of the rivals hath been ? As, hour after hour, gash'd and gory they stood, From the fetlock to neck plash' d with foam and with blood, With antlers so lock'd, that no strength could unclose The clasp that in life they had fasten'd as foes ! Now the fox to his banquet in silence may prowl, And the wild eagle shriek to the wolfs hungry howl. THE BEST ESTATE. The Heart it hath its own estate — The Mind it hath its wealth untold ; It needs not fortune to be great, While there 's a coin surpassing gold. No matter which way Fortune leans, Wealth makes not Happiness secure ; A little mind hath little means — A narrow heart is always poor. Stern Fate the greatest still enthrals, And Misery hath its high compeers ; For Sorrow enters palace halls, And queens are not exempt from fear-. The princely robe and beggar's coat, The scythe and sword, the plume and plough. Arc in the grave of equal note, — Men live but in the eternal " Now ! ' H 2 100 THE BEST ESTATE. Still Disappointment tracks the proud — The bravest 'neath defeat may fall ; The high, the rich, the courtly crowd Find there 's calamity for all. 'Tis not the house that honour makes, — True honour is a thing divine ; It is the mind precedence takes, — It is the spirit makes the shrine ! So keep thou yet a generous heart, A steadfast and contented mind ; And not, till death, consent to part With that which friend to friend doth bind. What 's utter'd from the life within Is heard not by the life without ; There 's always something to begin 'Twixt life in faith, and life in doubt ! But grasp thou Truth — though bleak appears The rugged path her steps have trod — She '11 be thy friend in other spheres ; Companion in the world of God. Thus dwelling with the wise and good — The rich in thought, the great in soul — Man's mission may be understood, And part prove equal to the whole I THE BEST ESTATE. 101 We know not half we may possess, Nor what awaits, nor what attends, — We 're richer for than we may guess. Rich as Eternity extends ! The Heart it hath its own estate, The Mind it hath its wealth untold ; It needs not fortune to be great, While there 's a coin surpassing gold ! IN MEMORIAM. Day after day, the angels say, Innumerable souls ascend ; Day after day, we mourn and pray For some departed friend ; Yet never kinder heart than thine, And never truer breast E'er soar'd unto a world divine, Or won immortal rest. school-companion, playmate, friend ! I muse the long years o'er, And weep to see the shroud descend Which folds thee evermore : 1 shrink to yield thee to the dust- To mark the funeral pall ; And strive to teach my heart to trust In Him who feels for all ! IN MEMORIAM. 103 And can it be that thou art dead, And I left to deplore ? I almost seem to list thy tread — To hear thee at the door : The path, it was thy wont to cross, I gaze upon, and wait ; And scarce can realise my loss, — A loss so deep — so great ! Our school-days seem to dawn again ; Again the same light beams ; A different light than falls on men, A radiance full of dreams. The future — what it was to be ! When all our hopes seem'd truth •; Alas, the things we live to see Are not the dreams of youth ! Is there a childhood in that sphere To which thy soul hath fled ? Do we begin the spirit-year, New-born from out the dead ? Tread we eternity at first, As we trod time of yore? Or, does immortal glory burst At once from God's own shore ? 104 IN MEMOEIAM. gate of death I gate of life ! mystery sublime ! With everlasting wonders rife, And marvels of all time ; — Say, shall affections still remain ? Shall memories endure ? And links of friendship's endless chain Eternity secure ? Shall truth find truth, and love find love, Within that better world ? Shall all the tears and pains we prove Be ever earthward hurl'd ? Shall friend meet friend in that blest hour, Before their Saviour's sight, And feel that Death no more hath power To separate or blight ? My heart hath faith — my soul hath hope, Once more to see thy face ; A few brief years with time to cope, Then newer worlds to trace ! A few brief years on earth to roam, And then, when death is o'er, Angels for friends — and Heaven for home - And love for evermore ! THE WANDERER. Three dreary years in peril tost — Three years upon a polar sea : Ice-wreck'd, — and half his comrades lost ; Once more his native land treads he. While westward from the sandy height He views where, far, his cottage lies, A father's transport fills his sight, A husband's joy overflows his eyes ! He speeds by each remember'd way, Each turning brings him still more near He sees his first-born child at play — And calls — but cannot make him hear Fast as he speeds his child appears Still distant as it was before ; At length, with bursting, grateful tears, He sees his young wife at the door. 106 THE WANDEEEE. She takes the sweet child by the hand, She kisses him with loving joy ; The gazer deems in all the land There 's no such other wife or boy ! She lifts him fondly to her cheek, Then leaves the narrow wicket gate ; The Wanderer thinks he will not speak, But gaze and wait — if love can wait ! But from that gate, to open view, Come never more those feet so light ; There grew no covert, that he knew, Whose leaves might hide them from his sight. A sudden terror fills his veins And chills the rapture in his eyes ; With eager spring the gate he gains ; And calls, but not a voice replies. The door — it does not stand ajar — The casement, too, is closed and dark ; Across the path is thrown a bar — And all wears desolation's mark ! He shrieks in fear each name so clear — The garden plot is waste and wild : God ! why doth his wife not hear ? love ! why cometh not his child ? THE WAIS T DEEEK. 107 He strains to catch the slightest trace Of form or raiment ; nought is seen ; As, with a wild and spectral face, The gray boughs groan and intervene ! The leaves bend trembling to their root, The frail grass mutters to the flower ; With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot, While tolls the bell the vesper hour. He turns bewilder'd at the sound — Again his wife, his child, appear ; They move across the churchyard ground, And beckon the pale Wanderer near. A few steps more and he may hold The twain within his trembling arms : Why seems his sinking heart so cold ? What shakes him with these dread alarms ? Pale, in the dreary moonlight, gleams Each mound and monumental stone ; He stands distraught — as one that dreams — Was lie again alone — alone? Alone — they 've pass'd — yet nothing stirr'd ! He thought that thro' the spectral air There rose one low, one little word. Faint echo of some infant prayer ! 108 THE WANDERER He thought that name, which erst had mov'd His pulses with a parent's joy, Carne softly — as in hours beloved — When on his glad knee sat his boy ! Yet all had fled : and on the stone Beneath his feet two lines were read ; Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown, Do break the heart ; that 's better dead ! He press'd his hot lips to each name — He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er— They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame ; Thev sear'd his worn heart to the core. For this — he cried — for this was won My way thro' tempests ! — this — to bear ; Still- still, God— Thy will be done ! Yet one — not one ! not one to spare ! "V* -fF %s ¥fc flf "3t« Morn stepp'd from out the mists of heaven, And coldly lit each hallow'd spot ; Another morn to him was given — Another world, where death was not ! A DAILY SCENE. A dim light in the window, Deep straw around the gate, And silence lingering as in pain Some closing breath to wait. o Is it a mother that departs ? A sire, whose course is o'er ? A child, mid tears and breaking hearts, That speeds to death's mute shore ? Doth friend lose friend ? Some comrade old That early boyhood knew — When like a lamb from Nature's fold Life drank the morning dew. We know not. This alone we know ; There is no home but tells Some sorrow in this world below Of graves and funeral bells. 110 A DAILY SCENE. Some flower beloved that bloomed in vain, Some joy that could not last ; Some hope that darken' d into pain ; Some grief that shrouds the past, Another sun hath bathed the lawn In light, and golden air ; The dead hath found another dawn, A dawn which angels share. Around the house a sadness steals, A weight that pains the brow ; There is no fear of rolling wheels ; No need of caution now. No need of blind-drawn windows, Nor deep straw, borne aside, To tell us in that darken'd home Some heart hath loved and died. THE VICAR'S BLIND DAUGHTER. Lone, yet never feeling lonely, For her spirit peace can win ; Blind she is, but darkness only Dwells without, and not within. Face of friend or brother never Lent their image to her eyes ; Yet the world seems kindly ever, And its love wears no disguise ! 'O Let us sit awhile beside her — Watch her life a single day ; See the angel that doth guide her Gently through her darken'd way : Nature hath but one concealment — All that eloquence can yield Meets her soul in rich revealment ; Voice of stream, and wood, and field ! 112 THE VICAR'S BLIND DAUGHTER. E'en the Summer flowers, though lowly, Gather their whole heart's perfume With a sweetness still more holy, As to sanctify her gloom. Charm of hue they cannot send her ; Yet her gentle touch they meet With a softness far more tender, And a sweetness still more sweet. Not a rustic in the village, Not a ploughman labouring nigh, But, forgetting toil and tillage, Blesses her as she goes by : She knows all the children's voices, Calls their young names o'er and o'er ; Every mother's heart rejoices As she standeth by the door. For she feeleth for their sorrow, Careth for them in their care ; Helpeth them to meet the morrow With the little she 's to spare. In their sickness she is near them, In each trial of their lot She is first to aid and cheer them ; None in sorrow are forgot ! THE YICAE'S BLIND DAUGHTER. 113 So she fills her daily mission With unwearied heart and mind, Helping all in hard condition, Leaving sorrow more resign' d ! So each night, by angels tended, Finds she Nature's rest increase : And that days in duty ended Bring the spirit perfect peace. Call you life like this privation ? Hath not God's own word supplied, Ev'n in darkness, consolation — Joys, through Jesus, multiplied ? Light, which earthly vision never Yet beheld on sea or shore, Hopes, no darkness can dissever, Lift her soul for evermore ! CRADLE SONG. Neak a chin, like bank of snow. Dwells a lip where kisses grow ; Eyes, where little angels dwell, Each within its azure cell ; Tiny dimples in each cheek Seem, in Fancy's ear, to speak : So, at least, the mother sings— "Wond'ring babies have not wings ! Strange what mothers can believe ; Strange how human eyes deceive : Nothing seem'd, as I stood by, More than right in chin and eye. As for infant lips, we know Where they come, there kisses grow ! But young mothers think such things Fancy, babies born with wings ! THE WOODLAND WAY. " Still day by day the woodland way. I wonder you 're not weary, Jane." " I go to hear the woodlark, dear, And list the linnet's merry strain." " The lark soars in the sun's warm ray, The linnet 's heard in every lane ; But day by day the woodland way ! There 's sure some other reason, Jane ? " Jane turned aside with wounded pride, And left her friend without a look; She knew each turn by moss and fern. Each narrow winding of the brook : But still a voice within would say, A conscience-voice, that whisper'd plain, " Still day by day the woodland way ! There 's sure some other reason, Jane ? " t 2 116 THE WOODLAND WAY. Still through the glade, in light and shade, She wander'd far, until she found An aged thorn, — where time had worn Deep rents and hollows near the ground : There, soft and white, just hid from sight, A small seaVd note her fingers gain : Ah, never bird, that love e'er heard, Had note so sweet, so dear, to Jane ! NOT MY OWN. I told my lips they must disguise The secret of my soul ; But oh, my heart flew to my eyes, And told almost the whole ! Oh, eyes too swift of love to speak. No more such thoughts reveal ! Twas vain : Love next upon my cheek Wrote all 1 would conceal ! And thus, by every glance betray'd, My hidden love made known, I 'm of my very heart afraid, For it seems not my orun ! FEEAKS OF FATE. Things congenial lose each other, Life and love are incomplete ; Hearts akin to one another Rarely are the hearts to meet ! Where 's the reason ? Tell me whether 'Tis Fate's star that thus decides ; That brings opposites together, And the similar divides ! Spirits suited lose each other ; Time is but a long deceit ; Hearts akin to one another Rarely are the hearts to meet. Fortune seems to make alliance Where conformity rebels ; As in Nature's plain defiance, Matching where no fitness dwells ! FREAKS OP FATE. L19 What is this which chains existence To an uncongenial state? Should the soul not make resistance 'Gainst this tyranny of fate ? Spirits suited lose each other, Life and love are incomplete ; Hearts akin to one another Rarely are the hearts to meet. WATCHING AND WAITING. Evek weeping at the casement, Ever looking, leaning out ; While the village, in amazement, Wonder what this grief's about! With the morn-light, gray and drear}-. Long ere waketh bird or bee, Mary stands, with spirit weary, Gazing out upon the sea. There, until the wc . an g] th, Lists she to each breeze that blows ; But the wind, though much it knoweth, Telleth no one what it knows, — No one — no one — what it knows. On a coast forlorn, forsaken, Dug by hard and hasty hands, Near a low cross, rudely shapen, Rests a grave upon the sands ! WATCHINQ AND WAITING. 121 Never wing of bird comes near it, Nothing but the billows' roar ; And a voice — the night stars hear it — Sighing, " Mary, never more ! " Still, until the west sun gloweth, Mary lists each breeze that blows ; But the wind, though much it knowetk. Telleth no one what it knows, — No one — no one — what it knows. PAN'S DEW-DROP. PAN. Hither, Sylphs and Satyrs, hither ! Here 's a secret going to wither : Stand around and answer true, — Is 't a gem or drop of dew ? Is its birthplace high or low, — Sky or ocean ? Ho — ho — ho ! Ho — ho — ho ! Guess and tell me ere it go ! SYLPHS. 'Tis a tear from Luna's eye ; 'Tis a star from some lost sky : 'Tis a fairy pearl — a thing Fallen from Titania's ring ! 'Tis a gem from Cupid's bow. PAN'S DEW-DROP. 123 PAN. Cupid ! Cupid ! Ho — ho — ho ! Ho — ho — ho ! Cupid leaves no jewels so. SYLPHS. 'Tis a spangle from the shoe Which Queen Mab at Somnus threw ; 'Tis a spark of Terra's spar ! Silver stud from Juno's car ! 'Tis a rare and tiny shell Gather' d from some Mermaid's cell ! PAN. Mermaid ! Juno ! Ho — ho — ho ! Ho — ho — ho ! 'Tis but dew that 's frozen no. SYLPHS. Who knows what it may conceal ? Atoms can great truths reveal ! Is 't a glowworm, fast asleep, Caught and spell-bound ere 't could creep ? Is 't an egg some insect knew ? 124 PAN'S DEW-DKOP. PAN. Nothing else but frozen dew ! A bud ! a berry ! Guess who can : — 'Tis frozen dew, or I 'm not Pan ! SYLPHS. Winter ne'er such gern could show : 'Tis pearl ! PAN. It is not ! Ho — ho — ho ! Ho — ho — ho ! Here 's a coil 'bout frost and snow ! THE MEADOW GATE. The blue-bell peeps beneath the fern, The moor its purple blossom yields, 'Tis worth full six days' work to earn A ramble 'mid the woods and fields : There is an hour to silence dear, An hour for which a king might wait ; It is to meet, when no one 's near, My Mary by the meadow gate. When love inspires the linnet's breast, How swift he speeds from spray to spray ; His song is of his woodland nest, Far hidden from the peep of day. Would such a nest were my sweet lot, Would 1 might l)e some dear one's mate ; I 'd ask, to share my lowly cot, My Mary by the meadow gate. 126 THE MEADOW GATE. There is a tide the streamlet seeks, A full mile from its course it veers, And into silvery music breaks When from the vale the sea appears. Oh ! twenty miles my eager feet "Would wander long, and linger late, One happy moment but to meet My Mary by the meadow gate. BE SURE YOU CALL. It was a rustic cottage gate, And over it a maiden leant, Upon her face and youthful grace A lover's earnest eyes were bent. " Good-night," she said, " once more, good-night, The evening star is rising high ; But early with the morning light Be sure you call as you pass by. As you pass by, Be sure you call as you pass by.'" The spring had into summer leapt, Brown autumn's hand her treasures threw. When forth a merry party swept In bridal garments, two by two ; I saw it was the maid that bless'd The evening star that rose so high : — 128 BE SURE YOU CALL. For he, as I suppose you We guess'd, Had often call'd as be pass'd by, As be pass'd by, Had often call'd as be pass'd by. Ob, blissful lot, where all 's forgot, Save love, that wreathes the heart with flowers ! Ob, what 's a throne to that clear cot Whose only wealth is happy hours ? And oft, if o'er the woodland way The evening star is rising high, I fancy still I hear her say, " Be sure you call as you pass by, As you pass by, Be sure you call as you pass by." FALSE AS WATER. Flow on, thou faithless stream, That maketh all things seem As deep within thy heart : Fern, hell, and drooping tree, Behold themselves in thee ; And yet thou canst depart. Alas ! thy little span But mimics faithless man ! Like thee, too, he can stray ; Like thee a charm reveal — Reflect, but never feel — And singing pass away. Flow on ! thou canst not touch The wounded heart so much As man's inconstant breafli ; Thy fnlse tongue ne'er deceives Like his, who loves, and leaves ; Takes life, and brings us death ! K 130 FALSE AS WATEE. What though within thy face Our very looks we trace ; Thy falsehood 's not so deep As his whose lips can sigh, Yet leave the heart to die, — And, till it dies, to weep ! LOVERS' WALKS. Ah ! once I liked not lovers' walks, Nor wanderings by the hill, When star to star at midnight talks, And all the world is still : I laugh'd at all romantic souls, That half in rapture stood ; I hated strolls — those moonlight strolls- And always thought I should ! I vow'd by all the world e'er knew Of beautiful or bright, No love on earth should tempt me to A rambling walk by night ; But, ah ! one's mind can little guess To what one's heart is born ! Who'd thought a month, or even less, Had found mu so forsworn ? k 2 132 LOVERS' WALKS. But when I loved nor star, nor moon, Nor wanderings through the glen, My song of life was out of tune, I knew not Mary then : Now, I would rather roam till light Bloom'd o'er the Morn's sweet breast. Than ever breathe those words, " Good Night! " Or ever think of rest. THE DEVOTED. I hear the organ's mellow peal Swelling the vast cathedral round : But still a voice my soul doth feel Comes up between me and that sound. I 'm circled by a world that lives Within my heart, whose day or night Is such as thy dear presence gives — If fled, 'tis dark— if near, 'tis light. I know the bondage that detains, I feel that I'm no longer free ; Yet to my heart I clasp my chains, Content to be enthrall' d by thee ! I cannot think as I have thought ; A power, 'tis fruitless to define, Hath to my soul a vision brought — A presence — with a voice like thine ! 134 THE DEVOTED. It comes beside me unawares — It steps between me and the shrine ; I clasp my hands to breathe my prayers, Yet say, "I'm thine, for ever thine ! " Oh, where hath fled the tranquil rest, The freedom never more to be ? Time seems but Sorrow in my breast, And life a void, till cheer'd by thee ! PLAIN FACES. Neither feature nor complexion Can the law of liking prove ; We see all things through affection — All is lovely seen through love ! How we love, or what attraction Wins us, who hath power to learn ! Beauty, 'tis our satisfaction, Love can this in all discern ! Plainer faces win election, Plainer forms to passion move ; Joy, that through the heart's affection, Beauty lives in all we love ! NEVERMORE. Whither, spirit, whither ? Let me weep alone : Wherefore bring me hither, Knowing she is gone ? All that was Elysian With herself hath flown ; Tears are in the vision Of that shrine o'erthrown. Do the roses whisper Sweet, as she were nigh ? Do the linnets warble Music, like her sigh ? Neither rose nor linnet Can the charm restore ; Life hath but one language, One sad word — " Deplore ! ; ' NEVERMORE. 137 Just as he that dreameth Starts, and wakes in tears, So the present seemeth Girt with doubts and fears : Still, 'mid hopes that wither, Sorrow liveth on : Wherefore bring me hither, Knowing she is gone ? DID YOU KNOW HER? Did you know her ? — any station Might become her — high or low ; She was fond of admiration, Few the arts she did not know : She could droop her eyes, as dreaming, With a tender, quiet grace ; Then, with sudden, upward beaming, Flash their lustre on your face ! Did you know her ? She was never Fond of saying what she meant ; — You 'd confess her words were clever, But a riddle their intent : She 'd a puzzle of expression, Half of nature, half of art ; And a perfect self-possession, Visible in every part. DID YOU KNOW HER ? 139 Free and graceful in the morning, Pensive in the afternoon ; Changing moods without a warning — Weeping now — yet laughing soon : Various as the moments show her, Still, each moment finds a charm ; And, indeed, if you should know her — Guard your heart — if it be warm ! NEVER FOUND. There 's an image we enshrine In the heart's young days ; A form we deem divine In the heart's young days ; But that fancy of the mind, We may seek — but never find : 'Tis a dream we leave behind With our heart's young days. But who can dreams control In their heart's young days ? They 're the shadows of the soul, In our heart's young days : And, though the living grace May escape from our embrace, Yet sweet 's the vision'd face Of our heart's young days ! NEVER FOUND. 141 "lis the purity that waits On our heart's young days ; That such loveliness creates In our heart's young clays : The angel, that we drew, Remain'd while life was new ; Then hack to heaven flew With our heart's young days ! SMALL GIFTS. I cake not how simple The offering may be, If it come from the heart It is welcome to me : "Tis not in itself That the value resides ; The jewel is love — Worth all jewels besides. Affection is something Beyond what is bought : 'Tis the growth of the heart — 'Tis the wealth of the thought ! And often we find, 'Mid the gifts of the earth, The smallest in value Is greatest in worth ! LYRIC. There 's a spirit of fancy flowing- Flowing in dreams of night ; Sweeping the shores of darkness, Yet bearing an angel's light. Restless — questioning ever — Reaping the fields of time, Counting the unsown harvests, Longing the stars to climb. What is the soul's true nature ? What is the spirit's birth ? What is the mind's great sequel ? Is it to end on earth ? Are we to love unceasing, There in that region of souls ? Sweetly the vision of heaven On to the Life-giver rolls ! 144 LYEIC. That spirit of Fancy flowing, Flowing in dreams of night ; Sweeping the shores of darkness, Yet bearing an angePs light. ROUND THE CORNER. Round the corner waiting — What will people say ? If you wish to see me There 's a proper way : Village tongues are ever Ready with remark ; Eyes are at the casement If a dog but bark. Round the corner waiting — What will j>eople say ? If you wish to see me There 's a proper way. When the Church hath bound us, Link'd two hearts in one, I shall care bat little How their tongues rail on ; 146 BOUND THE COENER. But until the bridal, Never let them find Aught to cause me blushes — Hurt my peace of mind ! Round the corner waiting — What will people say ? Manly hearts should ever Take a manly way. Fifty things are stated, Things you 'd ne'er suppose, If but something secret In a neighbour shows : Boldly take the pathway, And their lips are stayed ; All are quick to censure If you seem afraid. Round the corner waiting — What will people say ? If you wish to see me There 's a proper way ! A WORD OF THINE. A word of thine ! — how hath it dwelt Like music in my heart ! A look ! — how oft my soul hath knelt And worshipp'd it, apart ! My spirit like a mirror seems, That still, where'er I be, In happy thoughts, or happier dreams, Reflects but only thee, My love, Reflects but onlv thee ' I marvel what my life had been If thee I ne'er had known ? Thy form, thy beauty, never seen, Nor heard thy lips' dear tone ? l2 148 A WOED OF THINE. It seems as if my heart were born Thy shrine alone to be ; For every pulse from eve to morn Still beats for only thee, My love, Still beats for only thee ! THE BRITISH PRESS. What 's nobler than the Press ? Where else may Freedom find The ready hand that can redress The wrongs of human kind ? It is a people's power — The terror of the strong : Abler than armies in the hour Of tyranny and wrong. The sword may strike oppression down ; But sharper than the sword, And mightier than a monarch's crown, The Press maintains its word ! It marks the footsteps of the age, The progress of the time ; Its seal is stamp' d on every page, In every land and clime : 150 THE BEITISH PEESS. It setteth principle above The brutal hand of force, And forth, in usefulness and love, It runs its glorious course ! And they whose meaner minds can scheme To crush its honest sway, As well, in fruitless hate, might dream To check the light of day., What 's dearer than the Press To every manly heart ? What voice is first the right to bless, To act the patriot's part ? The spirit, manners, customs, arts, Opinions, changes, — all That worth to human life imparts, — Its columns can recall. It moves— and every bar is hurl'd Athwart its path like weeds ! It speaks — and it divides the world In parties, powers, and creeds ! The textures of our social state, The aspects of the past, — When different creeds fed mutual hate, And conscience overcast, — THE BRITISH PRESS. 151 These live within its potent lines, And ancient errors show ; From these a guiding spirit shines Which every man should know. When stood the Press with front of steel, While meaner champions fled ? When it was crime to set the heel Upon the serpent's head ! What 's holier than the Press, Which hallows every home ; Which lifts the darkness from distress, And points the light to come ! AVhich teaches faith when hope is dull ; And, onward as we plod, Reveals to us the beautiful, Uprising like a god ! For not uncared for, in his day Of sorrow, man hath been : Angels have watched his troubled way, And helped him when unseen ! 'Tis true the men are few That turn with grateful hearts, To names where every meed is due That human fame imparts : 152 THE BRITISH PEESS. "lis easy to forget The patriot debt we owe ; But there are dates in history yet Time cannot overthrow ! The men that battled for the right When right was hard to win ; Who braved the axe, and laugh'd at might, When Might called Freedom sin. Great hearts have girt thee round, Press, revered of yore ! Burke, Milton, More, have crown'd Thy rule for evermore ! Their sacred banner was " Advance ! ,; Integrity their guide, And Truth the consecrated lance That swept each bar aside ! Such are the names our land should bless ! The song of age and youth Should still be, Honour to the Press, And Victory to Truth ! Then, if thy power be great. Great be thy justice too ; Be fearless in thy place to state Whate'er to man is due. THE BEITISH PEESS. 153 Be thou to every heart a guide, A lamp to every mind ; So shall thy course be sanctified — Teaching, as God design'd ; And never be thy power abused, Thy mission here misled ; Oh, never may thou stand accused Before the Patriot Dead ! Lend Education aid Where'er thy voice can reach ; No text is more obey'd Than that the Press can preach. Bid trade the wide earth span ; Speed labour to its due ; Bid mind-enlightened man God's Ed en- world renew. Still every good befriend, And every ill enthral, Till man's improvement end But with the end of all ! BIRTHDAY LYRIC. Down the ladder of Aurora, When she hath the day before her, And the East is clasp'd in gold, Saw I angels swift descending, With a glory never-ending, And a majesty untold ; And I whispered lowly — slowly — " Whither tend ye, angels holy?" Spake they forth — " We bring affection To a heart of our selection — To the birthday of a being We, afar from heaven seeing, Loved : and bear, by Faith's direction, One pure, priceless gift — Affection ! " Then the scene, like music, fainted Far away in waves of light ; And a vision like one sainted, In some old cathedral painted, Flash'd its wonder on my sight ! BIETHDAY LYRIC. 155 Down a silvery pathway gliding, In a robe of starry binding, Moved the Presence upon earth ; And I sought my fear to banish, Lest, in speaking, it might vanish, Saying, " Whither, angel fair?" And it whisper'd, soft as air, " I bring gifts to one, whose spirit Well deserveth to inherit — Friendship, that departeth never ! Love, still faithful, fond for ever ! Equal to a life's endurance — To another world's securance ! So, when death to heaven may guide her, Love shall linger still beside her, Friendship mourn o'er days departed, Nature weep for the true-hearted ; Virtue every gift commendeth, May she keep them till life endeth ! ' Fled my dream ; — for Morn, the singer, O'er my couch her sunbeams held ; And with touch of golden finger All my angel-world dispelled ! All, methought, if love were given Thus, how we should prize its worth— 156 BIETHDAY LYEIC. In its nature all of heaven That might enter aught of earth ! Ah, if friendship falter'd never, Heart to heart, and thus for ever ! Yet ourselves within must find Charm to gain, and skill to bind ; Soul must shine ere friendship 's won- There 's no summer without sun ! Heart must glow ere love can rest, And call God's angel to the breast ! CHEIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. If there were language in each star, A voice in every onward wave ; If every breeze that traveled far, An ever-during utterance gave ; They yet must fail to tell the worth Of those blest words Christ spake on earth. Oh morn, it was no light of sun That left such glory on thy face ! It was a light in Christ begun — A sun that ne'er will run its race ! A light — a sun — whose endless ray Shall cheer affliction's darkest day ! Blest words, that wider circle fill Than frail humanity can span ; That thrill — and shall for ages thrill — The universal heart of man : Words with eternal comfort rife — Wcnls throbbing with immortal life ! 158 CHKIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDEEN. Though weak the little feet that came Half coyly to the Saviour's side ; Though small the lips that lisp'd His name, Though check'd by His disciples' pride, He, who beholdeth all things, saw In each child's face God's written law. As in the seed we know the flower That future suns shall wake to birth ; So, in the child, Christ saw that dower Which speaks of other worlds than earth ! That germ which sleeps in quiet might Till God shall call it into light ! Though they could neither see nor hear What then our Saviour saw and heard — The glory of another sphere ! The music of Jehovah's word ! To His divine humanity All things of heaven were open'd free. Oh, fitting theme for painter's art, That brings the Past before man's eyes ; That bids him from no portion part, Till angels meet him in the skies ! What worthier theme for painter's skill Than hope which Christian truths fulfil ? CHEIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 159 He, who did little children bless, Will still receive and bless them now : Kneel to Him in your loveliness — Pray for His hand to press your brow : That hand which life to all hath given, That welcomes all from earth to heaven ! Christ waiteth ! — shall your Saviour plead, And you, with children at your knee, Still pause, their little steps to lead, To Him who loves them more than ye ? Teach, father, teach the way He trod ; Lead, mother, lead thy child to God ! IMPLORA PACEM. Lowly, lowly, lying lowly, Where the willow weeps, One who makes remembrance holy In her beauty sleeps. Music once was in the river, Joy in wood and field, Gone are they, and gone for ever, Earth no charm can yield. Like a star the cloud o'ershadeth, Did we lose her ray ; Like a flower that blooms and fadeth. Faded she away ; None remember, none come hither Mourning o'er her doom — None, save one, whose heart is with her, In her village tomb. IMPLOKA PACEM. 101 Wild birds seek the willow near lier, Singing as of yore ; She whose voice was sweeter, dearer, Sings to me no more. Every charm was thrown about her That could life adorn ; Now the sun is dark without her And the world forlorn. Something blest to her was given, Some diviner birth ; There 's one angel more in heaven, And one miss'd from earth. Every hope my heart refuseth Thinking but of one ! Ah, we know not what life loseth 'Till the loved are gone ! M LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MISS FLEMING. Inscribed to William Fleming, Esq., M.D. There 's a land where hearts united Live, unknowing change or time ; Where the leaves and flowers unblighted Speak of an eternal clime : There 's a land that knows not sorrow, Sees not tears of anguish flow ; Fears no trial for the morrow — To that land, oh, let us go ! Here affection still is weeping Over friends that must depart ; Here we love — but there 's no keeping Those we love around our heart. Where 's the home that death bereaves not ? Where 's the heart that ne'er felt woe ? To that land where friendship grieves not — To that land, oh, let us go ! LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS FLEMING. 163 From the morn a ray is darting, Which must end in clouds of night ; On the earth we read but " Parting ! ' Leaf and flower the same word write. To that land where Morning dies not, Where the skies immortal glow, Where the heart in parting sighs not — To that hind, oh, let us go ! There — where angels are repeating Hymns to God, who doth restore Heart to heart in endless meeting — Boundless love for evermore. Mother, 'tis a child that names thee, 'Tis a seraph whispers low ; Brother, 'tis a sister claims thee — To that land, oh, let us go ! In affliction's hour of trial, Let our faith more perfect rise ; Teach our love a brief denial, Ask that peace which God supplies ! So the future shall grow dearer, Knowing what it can bestow ; So our mission shall be clearer In that land to which we go ! u 2 HELP EACH OTHER. I never knew a kindness yet, But, as Time's seasons ran, Some seed of hope from it was set That promised good for man : I never knew a feeling heart, In needful cases shown, But it a spirit could impart Congenial to its own ! For kindness is a power divine, An essence not of earth ; It wreathes the everlasting shrine Where holiest things have birth : It hath a life beyond to-clay ; And, when this life is o'er, 'Twill meet us smiling on our way, And good for good restore ! HELP EACH OTHER. 165 I never knew a generous hand Grow poorer for such deed ; A power we all can understand Still bids that hand succeed. Whate'er a noble act may cost, Whatever the service given, A kindness done is never lost ; Neither on earth nor heaven ! A DAY AGO. A day ! — a thing but few regard — A drop upon the stream of life — A flower upon the summer sward, Where thousand other flowers are rife ! Yet o'er the dial of our fate There is a finger moving slow ; How long 't will move, what tongue can state ? What 's death was life a day ago ! Ah ! solemn task, to teach the soul The value of a moment's space ; Our thoughts and wishes to control, And look on Truth with fearless face ! To strip from Hope its rainbow dress, Its false, false glitter, and its show : All life— to man — is littleness ! All time — co God — a day ago ! A DAY AGO. 167 Use time, and use it wisely, then ; Esteem it at its proper worth ; Nor say, were years to come again, We would act differently on earth. Be grateful for the bounties sent, And patient when they cease to flow ; Soon — soon — we learn how much is meant By those brief words — A day ago ! GOOD ADVICE. Who receives advice with kindness — Marks its simple, plain intent ? Who, discarding selfish blindness. Taketh counsel as 'tis meant ? Ah ! too often, what was merely Urged to caution or improve, Toucheth vanity too nearly, Hurts our feeling — pride — self-love Surely, hearts of wiser feeling, Should be joyed to find a friend Any hint or thought revealing, Formed to warn, instruct, amend. Courtly phrase and false pretences, Outward smile and servile show, May indeed avoid offences : Friends a higher office know ! GOOD ADVICE. 169 What, though other lips may pander To each weakness of our youth, Better to receive with candour, Honest, open, manly truth. Take, then, truth without resistance, Use it, and its worth discern ; To the last day of existence All have something yet to learn. THE MERRY HEART. 'Tis well to have a merry heart, However short we stay : There 's wisdom in a merry heart, Whatever the world may say. Philosophy may lift its head And find out many a flaw, But give me the philosophy That 's happy with a straw. If life but bring us happiness, It brings us, we are told, What 's hard to buy, though rich ones try With all their heaps of gold. Then laugh away, let others say Whate'er they will of mirth ; Who laughs the most may truly boast He 's got the wealth of earth. THE MEEEY HEAET. 171 There 's beauty in a merry laugh, A moral beauty, too : It shows the heart 's an honest heart, That 's paid each man his due ; And lent a share of what 's to spare, Despite of wisdom's fears, And made the cheek less sorrow speak, The eye weep fewer tears. The sun may shroud itself in cloud, The tempest-wrath begin ; It finds a spark to cheer the dark, Its sunlight is within. Then laugh away, let others say Whatever they will of mirth ; Who laughs the most may truly boast He 's got the wealth of earth. THE MAGIC GLASS. Hither maidens, merry maidens ! Come and view my magic glass ! I can tell you many marvels, All things as they 're sure to pass ! I can see adventure growing, Through a mystic power sublime ; Watch the hand of Fortune throwing Treasures in the lap of Time ! Come then, maidens, merry maidens ! Come and see my magic glass ! All the wonders I shall whisper, True as time, are sure to pass ! Time, that like a seed appeareth, Dry and dark, and hard to view ; I can show you how it reareth Leaf, and bud, and floweret too : THE MAGIC GLASS. 173 Leaf of friendship, coyly hidden, Flower of love, that shuns the sight ! Things to other eyes forbidden, Unto mine are clear as light ! Come then, maidens, merry maidens ! Come and view my magic glass ! All the wonders I shall whisper, True as time, are sure to pass ! Like a stage I see the future, — Signs and symbols o'er it crowd, Wild as wintry stars at midnight, And they speak to me aloud : Tell me secrets worth believing, Secrets with instruction rife — What the loom of Fate is weaving From the mingled threads of life. Come then, maidens, merry maidens ! Come and view my magic glass ! All the wonders I shall whisper, Sure as time, shall come to pass ! PAST AND PRESENT. With the solitude of ages, In the hoary woods sublime, Hung two vast and glorious cages, Which belong'd to Time. Songs from one came, sweet and pleasant, From the other hope seem'd cast — The merry bird was called the Present, The melancholy bird the Past. Time, I saw, was feeding ever His sweet favourite from his store ; But the Past he came to never, Though she 'd been his joy before ! Still the Past would give its warning, " Not so long wilt thou be dear ! ' liough the bird sang night and mori Never would the Present hear ! THE FORTRESS. What fortress spans this rock forlorn ? What sea mourns at its feet ? Its walls " might laugh a siege to scorn," Its tide engulph a fleet ! Yet rusted swing its iron gates ; Scant guard the warder keeps ; One at the portal stands and waits, — One stands, and waits, and weeps. The banner lifts its batter'd crest Above the shipless tide ; The harbour seems in little quest, Nor pilot here, nor guide. Ho ! tell me who this fortress claims ? Who claims ? the watcher saith — One who with joy eacli angel names, The heir of all is Faith ! 17G THE FORTRESS. And 'tis the banner of our God That floats upon the morn ; This is the Rock that all have trod Who 've sprung, through Faith, new born. Though few the feet that enter in, Yet shall a day appear, When God shall strike the gates of sin, And all shall enter here. LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN POTTER, 31. P., FOUNDER OF THE FREE LIBRARY. Life and Death — two words containing More than human thought can span : What is Death ? — the dust remaining Utters no response to man. We behold : — but earthly vision Cannot compass that domain, Cannot climb that world Elysian Where the dead new life attain. Life is duty ! — noblest therefore He who best that course selects ; Never waiting, asking " Wherefore ? "-- Acting as his heart directs ! Feeling, that through Education Lies the secret of all good ; That to make a happy nation, Men must first be understood ! N 178 ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN POTTER, M.P. Know each other — aid each other- Short the space 'twixt life and death, When the lowest shall be brother To the highest that have breath. Thou who felt for human labour, Knew its means and pleasures few, Thou that sought thy humbler neighbour ; Teaching others what to do ! Thousands, — in the far to-morrow, — Shall survey this hallowed ground, And with tears of silent sorrow BJess the friend their fathers found ! All that is of power or beauty Passeth from our steps away ; In the path of Faith and Duty Honour lives, though Man decay. OLD FBIENDS AND OLD TIMES. Thinking of old times, Hopes ne'er to be ; Speaking of old friends Far o'er the sea : Distance can change not Dear ones like you ; Fortune estrange not Hearts that are true ! Tims, in the twilight, Fond thoughts will stray Back to the old homes — Homes far away ! Oh ! 'mid the old friends I no more see, Is there a kind though! Ever for me ? n 2 180 OLD FEIENDS AND OLD TIMES. If there 's but one hope, One wish, though vain ; If there 's but one sigh, I '11 not complain. Thus in the twilight Tears oft will stray, Thinking of old friends, — Friends far away. WHAT IS THAT WE TAKE FROM EARTH ? What is that we take from earth When the spirit leaves its clay ? What is there of mortal birth Worthy to be borne away ? Is it state, or power, or fame, Gold or rank, we need above ? Oh ! there 's nought worth heaven's claim Save that gift of heaven — love ! Love, which fills the world with light, When the sun hath set afar, Love, whicli joins us in our flight To that land where angels are ! ■*o v From all nature doth it draw Beauty to adorn its shrine ; By some spiritual law Making earthly things divine. 182 WHAT IS THAT WE TAKE FKOM EARTH? It the inner soul inspires, It the purer life reveals ; And eternity requires To express the faith it feels ! Love, 'tis Love, fills earth with light, "When the sun hath set afar ; Love, which joins us in our flight To that world where angels are ! Yes, 'mid all that God hath made There is one surpassing spell : In its strength are saints array'd, In its glory angels dwell. It is this which still outspeeds Sight and space, and time and breath, It is this the spirit needs When immortal over death ! Sweetness which outblooms the May, Brightness which outshines the star ; This, 'tis this, we bear away To that land where angels are ! TO THE YOUNG. [f a dower to man were granted, Free and boundless in extent, Hills on which renown was planted. Soil for widest culture meant ; What would be the donor's sorrow If that unattended earth Showed no promise for the morrow, Nothing but defect and dearth? "O Or, if some small cultivation, But in patches scatter'd o'er, Flowers — a few for decoration — Just in front, and nothing more ! All the vnst extent behind it Left without one seed to grow ; Left — as Time ought ne'er to find il. Since Goi> bade the sun t<> glow ! 184 TO THE YOUNG. Oh, the gift of mind is greater Than the gift of land can be : Nothing from our kind Creator Breathes so much of deity : Nothing through the world's extension Equals that eternal dower ; Scarce an angel's comprehension Spans the vastness of its power ! If, then, but a thin partition Of that mind true culture knows, If no tillage gains admission, Nought that right advancement shows, Is it grateful to the Donor Who — some purpose to fulfil — Made ye of such power the owner, To be careless of his will ? Is it grateful to the spirit Poorly thus its worth to scan, To neglect what you inherit, Disregard God's gift to man ? Is it wise to rest contented With this half-instructed state ? Lost time ne'er was unrepented, But regret may come too late ! TO THE YOUNG. 185 Work then, youth, while yet 'tis morning, Broad the land before you lies, Neither task nor labour scorning; Which the fruit of thought supplies ; As you work so choose your station, Knowing life and its demands ; Knowing 'tis through cultivation That the living mind expands ! A HEART FOR EVERY ONE. Oh ! there 's a heart for every one, If every one could find it ; Then up and seek, ere youth be gone, Whate'er the toil ne'er mind it ! For if you chance to meet at last With that one heart, intended To be a blessing unsurpass'd, Till life itself is ended, How would you prize the labour done, How grieve if you 'd resign'd it ; For there's a heart for every one, If every one could find it. Two hearts are made, the angels say, To suit each other dearly ; But each one takes a different way, A way not found so clearly ! — A HEART FOR EVERY ONE. 187 Yet though you seek, and seek for years, The trouble 's worth the taking-, For what the life of home endears Like hearts of angels' making 1 ? Then haste, and guard the treasure won, When fondly you Ve enshrin'd it ; For there 's a heart for every one, If every one could find it ? MAIDENHOOD. My love is full of happy mirth. Her laughter is a joy to see ; And yet there 's scarce a thing on earth She wishes not to be ! A flower, in some green covert found, Half hidden from the view : " Ah ! well," I said, " were I the ground On which thy beauty grew ! " A bird, that sky-ward might repair, Or soar to heavenly things : " Yes, were I but the blessed air That bore thy glittering wings ! '' Then she would like a river be, "With green banks sweeping wide ; And I — I 'd be some willow tree Still whispering by her side. MAIDENHOOD. 189 " Can I be nothing without you ? " She poutingly replied : All things, to one another true, I said, must be allied ? As well divorce the air from light, The colour from the flower, As banish me from that dear sight In which I live each hour ! " If such a lot must me befal, — Though bird, or flower, or star, I think," she smiled, " that after all, We 're better as we are ! " THANK GOD FOR ALL. Beside yon oak a rustic roof appears, A cottage garden leads unto the door, A few wild plants the lowly casement cheers, And all around looks neat, though all is poor. There Philip dwells, and takes a neighbour's part, Though little be the means his help to test ; Yet still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart, 'Tis well to labour, — and that God knows best ! i The hare flits by him with her dewy feet, As blithe of heart he quits his cottage gate ; The golden village lane with dawn is sweet, And Philip feels content, though low his state ; For labour unto him can joy impart, 'Tis independence to his honest breast ; And still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart, 'Tis well to labour, — and that God knows best ! THANK GOD FOR ALL. 191 His wife beside the door waits his return, His children's voices meet him half the way, And while the sun within the west doth burn, And bird and brook sing sweet the close of day, Philip forgets his toil, his chair to find, By little arms and little lips caress 5 d ; And gazing round, exclaims, with grateful mind, Thank God for all,— thank God, who knoweth best ! THE CROSS OF CHRIST. INSCRIBED TO THE EEV. J. M. BELLEW, S.C.L. Cross of Christ ! first rear'd 'mid scoff and scorn, Cherish'd in secret 'gainst a bad world's hate ; Now on the neck of maiden beauty worn — Blazing 'mid arms and banners of the state—- The flags of navies, crown'd and consecrate ! Erst type of persecution, shame, and blood : Now the bow'd knees of nations on thee wait ; And kings adore, where burning martyrs stood, Like Faith amidst the flames, unchanged and un- subdued ! blest of Heaven, Keligion, GoD-born guide ! Not thine the torture and the bigot chain, Not thine the unsparing creed, the zealot pride That would, through persecution, Christ attain ! THE CROSS OP CHRIST. 193 Thou hast no heavenly joy in human pain ; But ever com'st by love and mercy led ; Yet wert thou parent call'cl by many a Cain, Who from the altar struck his brother dead, And pray'd with gore-stain'd hands, as if 'twere incense shed ! Come to our souls and make us all thine own ; Come with thy brow of truth, thy lip of grace — Thy peace, which is the light of Jesus' throne ; Thy hope, which beameth like an angel's face ; Oh, come, Religion, all the world embrace ! For all are brothers, and God's home would seek : Back to thy breast our erring footsteps trace ; Teach us with Christian charity to speak, Nor crouch to high estate, nor trample on the weak ! To preach the Gospel ! — to illume the dark, Strengthen the weak, upraise the poor and low ; To seek in humble breasts the struggling spark, And with the breath of truth to bid it glow : To lead the frail, irresolute, and slow Unto the fount of everlasting light ! To teach them to believe what God doth show In every dawning day and setting night : To call the erring back, and guide their feet aright o 194 THE CEOSS OF CHRIST. This is to preach the Gospel of our Lord ! To lead through love, persuade through Mercy's tongue : And thou, to whom I dedicate each word, Whose zeal, whose genius I have honour'd long, Still, arm'd with eloquence, convince the throng ; Assure the doubtful — win the heedless breast, Bid lips, long mute, thrill with Jehovah's song ! Show the afflicted where their griefs may rest, — So shall thy name be loved, and thy true mission blest ! THE OLD EVENINGS. I wander'd by the old house, But others now live there ; I thought about the old times And all we used to share. How happy 'twas our wont to meet, When friends came frank and free. Ah, when shall we such laces greet As once we used to see Tn those old merry evenings, Those pleasant friendly evenings, Beneath the old roof tree ? But what though we 'd the old house, We still should lack old cheer, The old friends in the old house Were all thai made it dear ! o 2 196 THE OLD EVENINGS. And these are fled, or changed, or dead, And never more may we Revive the music of their tread — The joys that used to be In those old friendly evenings, Those long-departed evenings, Beneath the old roof tree ! THE CHARITIES OF LIFE. If thou bast pass'd an aching heart. Turn back a little way, Let not " thy giving'" be a pari To act another day ! Give whilst the weary eye is dim, And if a tear should fall, 'Twill be in gratitude to Him Who heard the mourner's call. Oh, in the charities of life This impulse still obey ; And if thou 'st pass'd an aching hear! Turn back a little way ! It is not far the feet can go ; The shadow comet h last; And whether we move fast or slow, 'Tis to one bourn at last. 198 THE CHARITIES OF LIFE. When thy " to-morrows " all have died, Kind actions will appear Like angels waiting at thy side To bless thee, and to cheer ! Then in the charities of life This impulse still obey ; And if thou 'st pass'd an aching heart Turn back a little way ! LITTLE REQUIRED. Tis little indeed we require, A cot just removed from the way, All cover'd with woodbine and briar, And Norah still with me each day. We can live upon nothing at all, For what do we care for display ? Love can smile though his income be small, Yes, that 's what he used to say ! Ah, me ! that 's what he used to say ! Then love before marriage could see No figure so fair as my own ; Now figures in columns of three Perplex him and alter his tone ! He wonders how bills can come in In this strange unaccountable way ; And frowns, with his hand to his chin, And forgets what he used to Bay, Ah, me ! forgets what he used to say ' 200 LITTLE EEQUIEED. He says that lie loves me the same, — There 's nothing, at least, I detect ; — But a maid when she changes her name Hath many a change to expect. I wish better times would appear, That Harry again might be gay, And whisper once more in my ear The words that he used to say, Ah, me ! the words that he used to say ! EVERYBODY'S GIPSY. Hope 's the Gipsy queen of life, Fortune's hidden light revealing- : Whisp'ring better stars are rife In the depths the cloud 's concealing : She is seen at many gates — Many sighs to her are given ; — If we credit all she states, She's her knowledge straight from heaven. More than any gipsy known She sets all things in confusion : She 's the one whose power alone Keeps the whole world in delusion ! Kings and peers her voice obey, High and low her spells she tosses ; E'en the poor and aged stay When their path of life she crosses : 202 EVEEYBODY'S GIPSY. Soldiers on the tented field, Sailors on the stormy ocean, Unto her their secrets yield ; None on earth have such devotion. More than any gipsy known She sets all things in confusion ; She 's the one whose power alone Keeps the whole world in delusion. WHAT'S YOUK OPINION? 'Tis my belief, that if you show Your heart to any one you know, Or let your cheek with blushes glow, You shorten Love's dominion : But if you pause, or seem to be Indifferent to his urgent plea ; The colder you — the warmer he : Now tell me your opinion, Your opinion ; Do tell me your opinion. 'Tis hard when feelings' pulse beats strong To guard the word that seeks the tongue ; And hide the secret well — and long : But who would lone dominion '.' 204 WHAT'S YOUE OPINION? Who let a little word defeat The hopes that in their bosoms beat ? Whate'er I felt — he should not see 't ! At least, that 's my opinion, My opinion ; At least, that 's my opinion ! 'Tis said that some are far too nice, Too over-proud to take advice ; I only pray you to think twice Before you quit dominion : The more your looks, your lips, express, The more you sigh, he '11 sigh the less ; 'Till he proposed I 'd ne'er confess ! At least, that 's my opinion, My opinion ; At least, that 's my opinion ! THE WHEREWITHAL. A man may have wisdom and worth, And humour and wit at his call ; But what do these matter on earth If he has not the wherewithal ? His home may be circled with friends, If he only can keep up the ball ; But friendship soon changes and ends If he has not the wherewithal. Then seek for the wherewithal — Make sure of the wherewithal, For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends If you have not the wherewithal. The purse is the dial whose face Shows best where the sunlight doth fall He always is first in the race, Who is first with the wherewithal ! 206 THE WHEEEWITHAL. Some say that the high can be mean — Some hint that the great can be small But trifles like these are not seen, If bless'd with the wherewithal ! Then seek for the wherewithal — Make sure of the wherewithal, For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends, If short of the wherewithal. Love smiles on the casement that shows A picture within to enthral ; When gold 's in the heart of the rose, There 's love in the wherewithal ? Yes ; men may have wisdom and worth, And humour and wit at their call, But what do these matter on earth If they have not the wherewithal ! Then seek for the wherewithal — Make sure of the wherewithal, For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends, If short of the wherewithal ! PASSING AWAY. i. Look from the casement ! — look, and tell What 's passing, mother, dear ; Since dawn I Ve heard a funeral bell, Slow pealing on my ear ; And now there comes the solemn fall Of footsteps sweeping nigh. Look down the street, I hear their feet, Some funeral 's passing by. The mother gazed with anxious hue, But nothing there was seen, Except each old accustomM place, And what had always been. II. A moment yet, dear mother, stay ; Strange sounds are on the air, Like angels singing on their way Or voices deep in prayer ! 208 PASSING AWAY. Oh, lift my pillow high— more high — For I am faint and low ; Help me to look upon the sky, And bless them ere they go ! The mother raised her daughter's head, But no word could she speak ; The hope that from her bosom sped Left tears upon her cheek. in. The night look'd through the casement old, And saw a cheek so pale — A form so wasted, thin, and cold — No skill might there prevail ; But that which conquers Death yet beaniM Upon her wasted brow ; And sweet, as though an angel dream'd, The sufferer rested now ! Ah, who the mother's grief may tell ? Or who may comfort bring ? Yet, high above the funeral bell, She heard the angels sing ! DEAD, YET UNDIVIDED. They are together still. — .- The parted still are one ! Their love our being's home can fill, Although the loved be gone ! The mystery of the spirit's birth Outfatlioms human skill ; Though one 's in heaven, and one on earth. They are together still ! For there 's a feeling that unites The distant and the dead ; The last sweet bloom that winter blights, Yet leaves the odour shed : And thus affection lives beyond Death's dark and withering will ; No power hath he to pari the fond, They meet, in spirit, still ! p 210 DEAD, YET "UNDIVIDED. In quiet thought, in lonely prayer, That spirit all pervades, It lends a glory to the air When every planet fades ; It circles all with holiness, It blunts the barb of ill ; And e'en the parted it can bless, And link together still ! THE HOPES GONE BY. The hopes gone by — the hopes that made A golden path to other years ; Ere yet our hearts had known a shade, Or life had lost what life endears : The bounding heart — the spirits' play — The thoughts that seem'd on wings to fly — "We ask in vain, — ah, where are they ? The days, the dreams, the hopes gone by ! The brightness and the bloom have fled, . And life seems cold as win My snow : For some are changed, and some are dead, That knew and loved us lontr a