THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ^

 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MURRAY
 
 Noxo 'v a 'AVHHnw aoHoao
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 B.A., A.K.C., F.R.S.C. 
 
 Formerly Senior Classical Scholar of King's College, London: 
 
 Late Llsby Scholar and Li:cy Exhibitioner of the 
 University of Oxford. 
 
 EDITED. 
 
 WITH MEMOIR 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN READE 
 
 MONTREAL 
 EDWARD G. O'CONNOR 
 1912
 
 Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada in the 
 year one thousand nine hundred and twelve, by E. G. O'Connor, 
 in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A great deal need not be said regarding this edition 
 of George Murray's poems. The principle on which 
 the selections have been made was that the book 
 should reflect the poet's own tastes and preferences. 
 
 In endeavouring to attain this end, the editor has 
 had the constant co-operation of Miss Alice Murray, 
 B.A. Miss Murray had in recent years been so much 
 with her father in his literary work that she came in 
 time to know his ways of thinking and feeling with 
 knowledge which was brightened by affection. Without 
 her aid the book could not have been prepared, and it 
 is simple justice to say that to her the credit of it in 
 large part belongs. 
 
 SD2125 
 
 USRAKr
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How Canada was Saved 1 
 
 Willie the Miner 7 
 
 To A HuMMING-BiRD IN A GARDEN 13 
 
 The Pardoned Sin 15 
 
 The Thistle IG 
 
 A Parable 21 
 
 An Eastern Judge 22 
 
 The Lake 24 
 
 God's Heroes 26 
 
 A Legend of the Child Jesus 27 
 
 The Time will Come 30 
 
 A Lesson of Mercy 30 
 
 The King and the Peasant 31 
 
 The Story of Brother Paul 33 
 
 Robert Burns 37 
 
 The Swiss Deserter 41 
 
 A Dream About the Aspen 42 
 
 Brotherly Love 46 
 
 The Days that are No More 50 
 
 The Deaf Girl 54
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Neapolitans to Mozart 55 
 
 The New Year's Night of an Unhappy Man 57 
 
 The Sower 60 
 
 The Lamp of Hero 61 
 
 The Fcxeral of a \'illage Girl 62 
 
 The Keeper's Son 63 
 
 Iphigenia at Aulis 66 
 
 After the Battle 67 
 
 Madonna's Isle 70 
 
 A Wild Flower 7S 
 
 A Woman's Dream 74 
 
 Remembrance 76 
 
 Perhaps 79 
 
 If, Darling, with Melodious Lay 81 
 
 The Lily and the Rose 81 
 
 Sonnet 83 
 
 A Week in a Boy's Life 84 
 
 A Fantasy 90 
 
 Forget Me Not 91 
 
 Jacques 92 
 
 The Maiden of Otaheite 92 
 
 A W'oman 95 
 
 Delivered 96 
 
 To Ninon 98 
 
 In Futuro 100 
 
 A Dead Woman 101 
 
 An Evening Scene 102 
 
 Christmas 104 
 
 Memories 104 
 
 Tit-for-Tat 106 
 
 The Flower and the Butterfly 106 
 
 To MY Old Coat 108
 
 CONTENTS XI 
 
 A Ballad 10» 
 
 Rondeau 110 
 
 The Grave and Ths Rose Ill 
 
 Ultlma Spes Mortcoru.v! Ill 
 
 The Grandmother Ho 
 
 The Terrors of Death 117 
 
 The Redbreast 119 
 
 The Angel and the Child 110 
 
 What the Swallows Say 121 
 
 An Appeal for the Deaf and Dumb 123 
 
 Gondolied 125 
 
 The Stranger 126 
 
 The Old Year 127 
 
 The Horoscope 129 
 
 The Hare and the Tortoise 130 
 
 Beauty and the Beast 131 
 
 Prologue to The Merchant of Venice 132 
 
 ViLiKiNS and his Dinah 134 
 
 A Farewell to the Guards 136 
 
 The Silken Sashes 138 
 
 Desolation 140 
 
 A Pauper Poet 140 
 
 A Ballad for Christmas-Tide 142 
 
 The Ballad of the Hopeless Man 143 
 
 A Story of King David 145 
 
 At Lake Mahol^ 148 
 
 For a Blind Beggar 149 
 
 Beneath a Crucifix 149 
 
 Translations from Horace 149 
 
 "For Valour" 154 
 
 The Doves 155 
 
 Knight Toggenburg 156
 
 xii CONTENTS 
 
 A Coup d'Etat 159 
 
 An Old Song of a Young Time 161 
 
 Margaret's Song 162 
 
 The Wandering Jew 163 
 
 The Avenged Crow 166 
 
 The Landlady's Daughter 167 
 
 Two Pictures 168 
 
 Consolation 169 
 
 A Handful of Epigrams 170 
 
 Beneath a Picture 172 
 
 The Caravan 173 
 
 Fame and Love 174 
 
 The Spectre of the Rose 176 
 
 Coquetry 177 
 
 Song 178 
 
 The Gentlemen Cricketers' Team 178 
 
 Flowers from the Greek Anthology 180 
 
 The Student's Wife 184 
 
 Song 185 
 
 The Toilet of Constance 186 
 
 Le Monde est Mechant 187 
 
 The Ballad of Jean Renaud 189 
 
 The Cid and the Jew 190 
 
 Welcome to Mark Twain 192 
 
 Lord Roberts 193 
 
 The Streamlet 194 
 
 The Eagle and the Kings 195 
 
 The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar 196 
 
 The Leaf 199 
 
 My Neighbour's Curtain 2C0 
 
 The Strike of the Smiths 201 
 
 When Children Sleep 209
 
 CONTEXTS xiii 
 
 A Thief 210 
 
 The Magic Bow 213 
 
 Noel 214 
 
 The Black Point 216 
 
 Present Help in Trouble 216 
 
 The Blind Man 221 
 
 A UN Passant 222 
 
 Chanson d'Automne 223 
 
 The Brook and the Ocean 223 
 
 A Withered Nosegay 224 
 
 The Butterfly 225 
 
 Death of Rolla 225 
 
 The Giant 226 
 
 For Aye 229 
 
 The Golden Dream 230 
 
 Whither ? 231 
 
 Index 233
 
 Biographical Sketch 
 
 George Murray was born in Regent Square, London, 
 on the 23rd of March, 1830, and was the only son of 
 Mr. James Murray, who was for years foreign editor 
 of the "London Times." He was a pupil at the school 
 of Dr. J. G. Greig, Walthamstow House, Essex. 
 There in 1846 he won his first literary distinction — a 
 prize for the best English essay. Soon after he entered 
 King's College, London, where the promise of Wal- 
 thamstow was more than fulfilled. He won the 
 chaplain's two prizes for English verse (original and 
 translated) and the principal's prize for Latin verse. 
 He was also awarded the senior classical scholarship, 
 and was elected Associate of King's College (A.K.C.), 
 the highest honour which the institution conferred. 
 At Oxford (Hertford College) he was alike successful, 
 among his distinctions there being the Lusby Scholar- 
 ship and the Lucy Exhibition. A literary venture of 
 his later Oxford years was " The Oxford Ars Poetica; 
 or. How to write a Newdigate," which won commen- 
 dation from the "Spectator" and was pronounced 
 good by the author of the once popular " Verdant 
 Green." Among the friends of those distant 
 years were Dean Farrar and Sir Edwin Arnold, 
 both of whom Murray had the pleasure of meeting
 
 xvi bio(;raphical sketch 
 
 in Montreal long afterwards. The closeness of his 
 early intimacy with the author of " The Light of Asia " 
 is attested by the fact that a poem of Murray's was 
 published, at Arnold's desire, in the latter's first 
 volume, " Poems Narrative and Lyrical." This inti- 
 macy was renewed most happily when both poets wore 
 crowns of silver. In 1891 George Murray dedicated 
 his " Verses and Versions " to the friend of his youth. 
 After coming to Canada in the later fifties, Mr. Murray 
 spent some years in Eastern Ontario (or, as it was 
 then named, Upper Canada), but it is with the 
 Montreal High School that his educational career has 
 been most frequently associated in the minds of his 
 friends and admirers. Of that institution he had been 
 senior classical master for more than a third of a cen- 
 tury, when he retired on a pension in 1892. The 
 testimonial which marked his disappearance from the 
 classes in which he had been so long a familiar figure 
 represented a mere fraction of the multitude of pupils 
 who had carried into the world the memory of his 
 voice. Some of them had risen to rank and influence 
 in the professions, in business, in public life, but 
 whether their position was bright or obscure they were 
 equally dear to their old teacher and he by them was 
 equally unforgotten. In the latter part of his life as 
 a teacher, some share of his time was regularly 
 devoted to the advanced classes of the Girls' High 
 School, and some of his pupils who proceeded thence 
 to the University did credit to his training in Latin 
 and even Greek as well as English. During this 
 period Mr. Murray became well known as a writer. 
 He contributed not only to the Montreal press but 
 also to various periodicals, from Professor N. Y. Hind's 
 British American Magazine, to Mr. Joseph Gould's 
 Arcadia (both of which, by the way, had succes 
 d'estime and may still be read with advantage). It 
 was to the earlier publication that Mr. Murray 
 entrusted his "Willie the Miner" — a most pathetic
 
 BIOCRAPHICAL SKETCH xvil 
 
 poem based on a touching incident related in "The 
 Recreations of a Country Parson" of the Rev. 
 Andrew K. W. Boyd, whose initials long enjoyed the 
 favour of many readers. For a number of years the 
 classical works that were sent for review to the 
 "Montreal Gazette" were put into Mr. Murray's 
 hands, and we need hardly say that his criticism was 
 discriminating, just and learned. 
 
 Some of the older citizens of Montreal can doubtless 
 remember the Literary Club which had its focus on 
 Cathcart street. Of this club, which had among its 
 members Professor and Vice-Principal the Venerable 
 Archdeacon Leach, the Honorable Thomas D'Arcy 
 McGee, Charles Heavysege, the author of "Saul," 
 and other men of mark, Mr. Murray was the esteemed 
 secretary. On the day of McGee's funeral, the club 
 honoured his memory by marching in a body to the 
 grave, every member wearing a badge of suitable 
 device. I was not a member of the club, and had, 
 indeed, only recently returned to Montreal, but Mr. 
 Murray, with characteristic kindness, asked me to 
 accept a badge, and that badge I still possess. 
 
 In the year 1869 Mr. Murray won the gold medal, 
 which the St. Andrew's Society of Ottawa had offered 
 for the best poem on "The Thistle " as the national 
 emblem of Scotland. Mr. Murray had chosen as a 
 central theme in the frame work of his poem the 
 legend of the Danes, wounded in their naked feet by 
 the spines of the thistles, and forced by their cries to 
 betray themselves to the slumbering Scots, whose camp 
 they were invading. In apprising the victorious poet 
 o^ his triumph, Dr. Thorburn, who had been one of 
 the judges, informed him that he had attained no 
 slight success, many of the competing poems being of 
 high merit and some of them " not unworthy of a 
 place alongside " the victor's. They had come from all 
 parts of the Dominion and the United States. Many 
 a letter did Murray receive from the Scots of the new
 
 xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 world asking for a copy of his ballad or for the legend 
 which formed the subject of it. One such letter from 
 St. Louis seems to have been written by the secretary 
 of a Workingmen's Club. He and his colleagues were 
 sincerely thankful to Murray for the trouble he had 
 taken to put them in the way of the information 
 which they had been seeking. How many such letters 
 he received during his connection with the press it 
 would not be easy to compute. 
 
 Mr. Murray's service to another society of which he 
 was a member cannot be better unfolded than in the 
 words of Mr. George lies. "My acquaintance with 
 Mr. George Murray," says Mr. lies, " began in the 
 autumn of 1876. Three friends of his, the Rev. J. 
 Clark Murray, Mr. J. Redpath Dougall, editor of the 
 "Witness," and Mr. Samuel E. Dawson, then the 
 leading publisher and bookseller in Montreal, had 
 formed a literar}- club, of which they decided that Mr. 
 George Murray should be secretary. No choice could 
 have been happier. As the sole permanent officer of 
 the Athenaeum Club he was its life and mainspring." 
 Having emphasized Murray's unfailing kindness and 
 invincible perseverance in the discharge of his duties, 
 Mr. lies thus continues: 
 
 "Mr. Murray's part not seldom lay in spurring a 
 procrastinator to writing a paper long overdue. He 
 was a master of the art of tactful pressure, a pressure 
 without which a literary club is sure to go to pieces. 
 Often, too, I have heard him say just the judicious 
 word which piloted into smooth waters a discussion 
 which threatened to become stormy. So diverse, 
 indeed, was the personnel of the club, that at times 
 only the compulsions of courtesy kept our debates 
 within bounds." Having mentioned some of the 
 subjects of papers and discussions, calling special 
 attention to an essay on " The Princess," by Dr. S. E. 
 Dawson, C.M.G., ex-president of the Royal Society 
 of Canada, which was the substance of the "Study"
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix 
 
 which eUcited so much praise from the critics and so 
 charming a letter from the Laureate, Mr. lies refers 
 to some of Murray's own papers such as "Jacques 
 Jasmin " and " Bacon versus Shakespeare." The 
 Shakespeare Club was another society in which Mr. 
 Murray for a long time took a warm interest and to 
 which he contributed papers. An active member of 
 that club (Mr. S. M. Baylis) gave me some time ago 
 an example of the pains that his old friend would 
 sometimes take in supplying or verifying data for 
 other members even when their views differed toto 
 mundo from his own. Of his happy connection with 
 the Pen and Pencil Club evidence lies before me in 
 the form of a letter from Mr. John E. Logan (Barry 
 Dane), who was charged with the task of conveying to 
 Mr. Murray's widow and family the club's resolution 
 of condolence. " The Club " (so the resolution ran) 
 " desires to express its great sorrow for the death of 
 Dr. George Murray, one of its most valued and 
 beloved members. In addition to this sense of personal 
 loss which touches so closely many of the members 
 to whom he has been an intimate friend, the Club 
 wishes to record what must be a general feeling, that 
 a light of Canadian literature and journalism has gone 
 out." Mr. Logan added, on his own account, that he 
 considered it an honour to have known Mr. Murray 
 intimately for many years. " His kindness of heart," 
 he said, "endeared him to us almost more than his 
 scholarship, which is known throughout the land, even 
 by those who never came in personal contact with 
 him." Mr. Harry A. Jones, Hon. Secretary of The St. 
 James Literary Society, in enclosing to Mrs. Murray 
 the resolution of deep regret which the Society had 
 passed on learning of her husband's death, said that to 
 many of the members the loss was directly personal. 
 
 In 1882, His Excellency the Marquis of Lome, now 
 the Duke of Argyll, after consulting with Sir William 
 Dawson, the Hon. P. J. O. Chauveau, Sir James Le
 
 XX bio(;raphical sketch 
 
 Moine, Sir Daniel Wilson and other men of standing 
 in the intellectual world, constituted the Royal Society 
 of Canada, in four sections of twenty members each. 
 Two sections were composed of men of science; two 
 others were devoted to letters, history and archaeology, 
 one being composed of those speaking the French, 
 the other, of those speaking the English, language. 
 Mr. George Murray w^as nominated to the latter 
 section, being one of the original members of the 
 Society. 
 
 To this institution Murray presented his essay 
 (with translation of exemplary or illustrative epi- 
 grams) on the Greek Anthology. Both of his criticism 
 and his versions scholars who were present at the 
 reading expressed a high opinion. We are disposed to 
 believe that Murray cherished the hope of one day 
 seeing his versions of the exquisite flowers of ancient 
 song on which he had expended so much study 
 gathered into a volume. To Murray's exceptional 
 skill in giving English dress to the choicest morsels 
 of French poetry many readers have borne delighted 
 witness. No one has described Murray's gift more 
 accurately than his friend. Mr. E. G. O'Connor, when 
 he says that he turns French poems into English 
 poems. He had also the kindred faculty, which is 
 not so common as some persons suppose, of recognizing 
 a true poem in another language as well as in English. 
 Without this faculty it would be idle for even the 
 most learned of Grecians to approach the Anthology. 
 To extract what is really sweet and sound and fair 
 from that wondrous miscellany a certain cultured 
 instinct is essential. A great deal must not, a great 
 deal need not, be touched. Whole sections may be 
 let severely alone. Having thus made his clearings, 
 the master begins his task, his most delicate task, of 
 transforming Greek verse into English verse, Greek 
 epigram into English, still preserving the poetic 
 flavour. Just a hint of what Murray could accomplish
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi 
 
 in this ge7ire of the poet's work is afforded by the 
 cluster of English and Greek epigrams in this volume. 
 They are Murray's own choice. In a most sympa- 
 thetic and appreciative notice of Mr. Murray, which 
 appeared in the transactions of the Royal Society of 
 Canada for the year of his death, the Honorary 
 Secretary (now Vice-President), Dr. W. D. Le Sueur, 
 after referring to Mr. James Murray's rare knowledge 
 of languages said that " from him, his son. our late 
 colleague, may well have inherited the great interest 
 in language as an instrument of thought and culture 
 which through life he manifested." Then after briefly 
 recording his earlier career. Dr. Le Sueur thus summa- 
 rizes his half century of life in Montreal: 
 
 " Mr. Murray's first journalistic connection in 
 Montreal was with "The Gazette," for which he wrote 
 book reviews. He also contributed to a number of 
 literary journals which sprang up successively in that 
 city, and having had their day, ceased to be. A more 
 permanent connection was that which he formed with 
 the "Star" in the year 1882, when he took charge of the 
 literary department of that paper including the "Notes 
 and Queries," a department which he made famous. 
 Here he had found an occupation which lasted the 
 rest of his life; for up almost to the day of his death 
 he was writing for the " Star " — his last work appeared 
 in the issue of the 26th February — and also for the 
 "Standard," a literary journal which had its birth in 
 the "Star" establishment, and which, in a manner, was 
 brought out under his literary auspices, the company 
 which controlled it, and of which Murray was made 
 President, being called " The George Murray Publish- 
 ing Company." His page in the " Star " at once won 
 popular favour. His book reviews were fair, moderate, 
 judicious and often very telling; while, in the manage- 
 ment of his " Notes and Queries," he exhibited a 
 wealth of knowledge, and a patience and kindliness in 
 imparting it which were wholly admirable. He was
 
 xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 made the arbiter of countless disputes as to modes of 
 speech, rules of grammar, and historical and literary 
 questions of all kinds, Even in matters of which he 
 was not specially master he would generally contrive 
 to obtain for his correspondents the information they 
 required. The classical master in the High School 
 thus became a schoolmaster for thousands who never 
 saw his face; and so gentle and kindly were his 
 methods that one is led to believe that he must have 
 done much to cultivate a similar temper amongst 
 those who were thus brought within the sphere of his 
 intellectual influence." 
 
 Of the many tributes of alTection and admiration 
 paid to Murray's memory, one of the most pathetic 
 appeared in the Winnipeg " Free Press." It had been 
 written by his true friend, Mr. George lies, in antici- 
 pation of Murray's eightieth birthday, March 23rd, 
 1910. Knowing that his friend had old pupils in the 
 "West Countries," Mr. lies reminded such of them as 
 were readers of the "Free Press" of a building with 
 which some of them had twofold associations. "Facing 
 St. James' Club, in Dorchester St., Montreal,'' he wrote, 
 " is the Fraser Institute Library. It was in this plain, 
 brick building, only two stories in height, that the 
 High School was formerly conducted. Here George 
 Murray from 1859 to 1892 was the senior classical 
 master, inspiring a long succession of pupils with a 
 measure of his own love for Horace and Virgil. Many 
 a Canadian now famous at the bar, in medicine, in 
 engineering, dates his zest for literature from the days 
 when he construed and recited under Mr. Murray's 
 eye. Let us pay him our respects, which we may 
 easily do, as his home is only a few paces ofT, at 11 
 Brunswick street. He greets us as cheerily as if he 
 were but 60. On the twenty-third of March he will 
 celebrate not his sixtieth, but his eightieth birthday. 
 We have interrupted him at the ' Notes and Queries ' 
 which are to appear in next Saturday's ' Star,' as they
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii 
 
 have for thirty years past. Mr. Murray is a gentleman 
 of the old school, and no interruption such as this 
 affects his perfect courtesy, or chills in the slightest 
 degree the warmth of his welcome." 
 
 " We note that he is surrounded by a capital library; 
 its volumes, two and three deep, spread from shelves 
 to tables and chairs. Here is every dictionary and con- 
 cordance worth having; all drawn upon every day for 
 the behoof of correspondents who wish to verify a 
 quotation, trace a couplet to its source, or learn the 
 date of a discovery, a coronation, or other historic 
 event. But much the most valuable store of knowledge 
 for reference here is contained in Mr. Murray's own 
 marvellous memory. Odes and sonnets committed 
 to its tablets in his youth are to-day recalled as vividly 
 and accurately as if impressed but an hour ago." 
 
 Mr. lies then speaks of the old pupils or colleagues 
 in journalism who had written books and were proud 
 of inscribing them to him whom they delighted to 
 honour. Of such marks of love and esteem he made 
 no attempt to conceal his appreciation. There is one 
 dedication which has carried Murray's name to many 
 households in the old lands and the new, and how 
 sadly one reads it now that both Drummond and 
 Murray are gone from us. 
 
 Of the wealth of tender memories evoked by the 
 announcement of Murray's death, the most salient 
 attribute was its spontaneousness. Few men or women 
 have been so warmly, so widely loved. Nor was it 
 merely because, as the Rev. Dr. Robert Campbell 
 said, " the whole country was indebted to him." The 
 bounty of knowledge does not always gain the devotion 
 of the heart. Between learning and kindly simplicity 
 there is no necessary divorce, and yet they are not 
 always mated as they were in Murray's happy com- 
 position. He liked to place her gifts and acquirements 
 at the disposal of others. Mr. David Ross McCord, 
 M.A., K.C., did not cherish the enthusiastic appre-
 
 xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 ciation of Murray's qualities, intellectual and moral, 
 without reason, and Mr. McCord spends his life in 
 spiritual contact with the " great one gone." Dr. F. 
 W. Kelly and Mr. F. Yorston spoke of his worth, each 
 as a fellow worker in a department of life's duties. 
 The Rev. Principal Rexford, Mr. R. C. Smith, K.C., 
 Mr. Henry Dalby, Dr. MacPhail and many others 
 expressed from diverse points of view their judgment 
 of the friend whom they had lost. The Rev. Dr. 
 Symonds, out of a full heart, paid a warm tribute to 
 the friend with whom he had spent so many hours 
 in happy converse. It would be easy to add to the 
 list of Murray's friends whose lips or pens grew 
 eloquent over their silent friend. But I forbear, 
 knowing scarcely where to choose. 
 
 Not long since, in turning the leaves of a volume 
 entitled "Great Hymns of the Church," my attention 
 was drawn to the name of George Murray in a foot 
 note. The author (the Rev. Duncan Morrison, M. A.) 
 thanked him for reference to a valuable work in which 
 he found the suggestion of a new and ingenious reading 
 of a verse in the " Te Deum." This was only one 
 instance in which " Mr. Murray, of the" Star," Mont- 
 real " (as the obliged hymnologist qualifies him), was 
 able and willing to be of service to fellow workers in 
 letters, philology, antiquities and folk lore. Some of his 
 replies in his much prized and widely read " column " 
 (which he began just thirty years ago) were learned 
 monographs that in their way were invaluable. One of 
 the most painstaking of such productions was his 
 "Pollice verso" article, which was prompted by the mis- 
 take of a famous painter. But it was in conversation 
 with intimate friends that Murray's best qualities 
 were disclosed. If the scene was in his own little study 
 in the midst of his well chosen treasures, it was, indeed, 
 a privilege to ask and be answered. George Murray 
 was in a peculiarly felicitous sense what Johnson 
 called a clubbable man. On that point the evidence
 
 BI()C;RAPHICAL sketch xxv 
 
 is large and unimpeachable. But he was also, in quite 
 as real a sense, a domestic, a family man. He loved 
 his home, and in his home he was beloved as few men 
 have been beloved. In 1859 he married Miss Catherine 
 Flora McLauchlin. He lived to celebrate the jubilee 
 of his wedding day. In the retrospect there was 
 much happiness, not without human life's share of 
 sorrow. The second boy (Herbert) was fatally injured 
 in the old High School playground. The eldest boy 
 (Russell) died in the midst of a fairly successful 
 career. The survivors are two sons, Mr. G. William 
 Murray, of New York, and Mr. Frederick Murray, of 
 Oxbow, Sask., and four daughters, Mrs. Gordon Stott, 
 of Chandlers Ford, Hampshire, England; Mrs. W. J. 
 Bland, of Portland, Oregon; Miss Alice Murray and 
 Miss Louise Murray. 
 
 Two years ago, just after George Murray's death, 
 a true friend of his wrote the words: "There may be 
 cypress to day within the garden of laurels at No. 11 
 Brunswick Street; but there are early spring violets 
 also and their perfume will last so long as respect for a 
 great scholar and for a sympathetic heart controls 
 human emotions." To-day we would think only of 
 the laurels as we scent the violets. 
 
 J. R.
 
 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED.* 
 
 TIME: MAY, 1660 
 
 " II faut ici donner la gloire a ces dix-sept Francois de Montreal, et 
 honorer leurs cendres d'un eloge qui leur est deu avec justice, et que nous ne 
 pouvons leur refuser sans ingratitude. Tout estait perdu, s'ils n'eussent peri, 
 et leur malheur a sauve ce pais." — Relations des Jesuiies, 1660, p. 17. 
 
 Beside the dark Utawa's stream two hundred years 
 
 ago, 
 A wondrous feat of arms was wrought, which all the 
 
 world should know; 
 'Tis hard to read with tearless eyes that record of the 
 
 past 
 It stirs the blood and fires the soul as with a clarion's 
 
 blast. 
 What though no blazoned cenotaph, no sculptured 
 
 columns tell 
 Where the stern heroes of my song, in death triumph- 
 ant, fell; 
 What though beside the foaming flood untombed their 
 
 ashes lie — 
 All earth becomes the monument of men who nobly die. 
 
 *In 1874 7he Monfyea! Witness offered a prize for the best ballad on any 
 subject in Canadian history. The verses entitled " How Canada was Saved " 
 were selected for the prize out of 291 contributions.
 
 2 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A score of troublous years had passed since on Mount 
 
 Royal's crest 
 The gallant Maisonneuve upreared the Cross devoutly 
 
 bless'd, 
 And many of the saintly Guild that founded Ville- 
 
 Marie 
 With patriot pride had fought and died, determined 
 
 to be free. 
 Fiercely the Iroquois had sworn to sweep, like grains 
 
 of sand, 
 The sons of France from off the face of their adopted 
 
 land, 
 When, like the steel that oft disarms the lightning of 
 
 its power, 
 A fearless few their country saved in danger's darkest 
 
 hour. 
 
 Daulac, the Captain of the Fort — in manhood's fiery 
 
 prime — 
 Hath sworn by some immortal deed to make his name 
 
 sublime. 
 And sixteen " Soldierb of the Cross," his comrades 
 
 true and tried, 
 Have pledged their faith for life and death — all kneel- 
 ing side by side: 
 And this their oath — on flood or field, to challenge 
 
 face to face 
 The ruthless hordes of Iroquois, the scourges of their 
 
 race — 
 No quarter to accept or grant, and, loyal to the grave. 
 To die like martyrs for the land they shed their blood 
 
 to save.
 
 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED 3 
 
 Shrived by the Priest, within the Church where oft 
 
 they had adored, 
 W ith solemn fervour they partake the Supper of the 
 
 Lord; 
 And now these self-devoted youths from w^eeping 
 
 friends have passed, 
 And on the Fort of Ville-Marie each fondly looks his 
 
 last. 
 Unskilled to steer the frail canoe or stem the rushing 
 
 tide, 
 On through a virgin wilderness o'er stream and lake 
 
 they glide. 
 Till, weary of the paddle's dip, they moor their 
 
 barques below 
 A rapid of I'tawa's flood, the turbulent Long-Sault. 
 
 There, where a grove of gloomy pines sloped gently 
 
 to the shore, 
 A moss-grown palisade was seen — -a fort in days of 
 
 yore — 
 Fenced by its circle they encamped and on the listen- 
 ing air, 
 B efore those staunch Crusaders slept, arose the voice 
 
 of prayer. 
 Sentry and scout kept watch and w^ard; and soon, 
 
 with glad surprise. 
 They welcomed to their roofless hold a band of dark 
 
 allies — 
 Two stalwart chiefs and forty braves — all sw^orn to 
 
 strike a blow 
 In one great battle for their lives against the common 
 
 foe.
 
 4 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Soft was the breath of balmy spring in that fair month 
 
 of May, 
 The wild flower bloomed, the wild bird sang on many 
 
 a budding spray, 
 A tender blue was in the sky, on earth a tender green, 
 And Peace seemed brooding like a dove o'er all the 
 
 sylvan scene; 
 When loud and high, a thrilling cry dispelled the 
 
 magic charm 
 And scouts came hurrying from the woods to bid their 
 
 comrades arm. 
 And bark canoes skimmed lightly down the torrent of 
 
 the Sault 
 Manned by three hundred dusky forms — the long- 
 expected foe. 
 
 They spring to land — a wilder brood hath ne'er ap- 
 palled the sight— 
 With carbines, tomahawks, and knives that gleam 
 
 with baleful light; 
 Dark plumes of eagles crest their chiefs and broidered 
 
 deerskins hide 
 The blood-red war-paint that shall soon a bloodier red 
 
 be dyed. 
 Hark! to the death-song that they chant — behold them 
 
 as they bound, 
 W^ith flashing eyes and vaunting tongues, defiantly 
 
 around; 
 Then, swifter than the wind, they fly the barrier to 
 
 invest. 
 Like hornet-swarms that heedless boys have startled 
 
 from a nest.
 
 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED 5 
 
 As Ocean's tempest-driven waves dash forward on a 
 
 rock 
 And madly break in seething foam hurled backward 
 
 by the shock, 
 So onward dashed that surging throng, so backward 
 
 were they hurled, 
 When, from the loopholes of the fort, flame burst, 
 
 and vapor curled. 
 Each bullet aimed by bold Daulac went crashing 
 
 through the brain, 
 Or pierced the bounding heart of one who never 
 
 stirred again; 
 The trampled turf was drenched with blood, blood 
 
 stained the passing wave. 
 It seemed a carnival of death, the harvest of the grave. 
 
 The sun went down — the fight was o'er — 'but sleep 
 
 was not for those 
 Who pent within that frail redoubt sighed vainly for 
 
 repose ; 
 The shots that hissed above their heads, the Mohawks' 
 
 taunting cries, 
 Warned them that never more on earth must slumber 
 
 seal their eyes. 
 In that same hour their swart allies, o'erwhelmed by 
 
 craven dread. 
 Leaped o'er the parapet like deer and traitorously 
 
 fled; 
 And when the darkness of the night had vanished like 
 
 a ghost, 
 Twenty and two were left — of all — to brave a madden- 
 ed host.
 
 6 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Foiled for a time, the subtle foes have summoned to 
 their aid 
 
 Five hundred kinsmen from the Isles to storm the 
 palisade; 
 
 And panting for revenge they speed, impatient for 
 the fray, 
 
 Like birds of carnage from their homes allured by 
 scent of prey. 
 
 With scalp-locks streaming in the breeze they charge, 
 but never yet 
 
 Have legions in the storm of fight a bloodier welcome 
 met 
 
 Than those doomed warriors, as they faced the deso- 
 lating breath 
 
 Of wide-mouthed musketoons that poured hot cata- 
 racts of death. 
 
 Eight days of varied horror passed! What boots it 
 
 now to tell 
 How the pale tenants of the fort heroically fell? 
 Hunger and thirst and sleeplessness. Death's ghastly 
 
 aids, at length 
 Marred and defaced their comely forms, and quelled 
 
 their giant strength. 
 The end draws nigh, they yearn to die, one glorious 
 
 rally more 
 For the dear sake of Ville-Marie and all will soon be 
 
 o'er; 
 Sure of the Martyr's golden Crown, they shrink not 
 
 from the Cross, 
 Life yielded for the land they love, they scorn to 
 
 reckon loss!
 
 WILLIE THE MINER 7 
 
 The fort is fired — and through the flames, with sHp- 
 
 pery, splashing tread 
 The Redmen stumble to the camp o'er ramparts of the 
 
 dead ; 
 There with set teeth and nostril wide, Daulac the 
 
 dauntless, stood 
 And dealt his foes remorseless blows 'mid blinding 
 
 smoke and blood, 
 Till hacked and hewn, he reeled to earth, with proud 
 
 unconquered glance, 
 Dead — but immortalized by death — Leonidas of 
 
 France ! 
 True to their oath, that glorious band no quarter 
 
 basely craved; 
 So died the peerless Twenty-two — So Canada was 
 
 saved ! 
 
 WILLIE THE MLNER. 
 
 Ghastly and strange was the relic found 
 By swarthy pitmen below the ground: 
 
 They were hard rough men, but each heart beat quick, 
 Each voice with horror was hoarse and thick. 
 
 For never perchance since the world began. 
 Had sight so solemn been seen by man! 
 
 The pitman foremost to see the sight 
 
 Had shrieked out wildly and swooned with fright; 
 
 His comrades heard, for the shrill scared cry 
 Rang through each gallery, low and high.
 
 8 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 So they clutched their picks and they clustered round 
 And gazed with awe at the thing they found, 
 
 For never perchance since the world began, 
 Had sight so solemn been seen by man! 
 
 It lay alone in a dark recess; 
 
 How long it had lain there, none might guess. 
 
 They held above it a gleaming lamp, 
 
 But the air of the cavern was chill and damp. 
 
 So they carried it up to the blaze of day 
 And set the thing in the sun's bright ray. 
 
 'Twas the corpse of a miner in manhood's bloom, 
 An image, dismal in glare or gloom. 
 
 Awful it seemed in its stillness there, 
 
 With its calm wide eyes and its jet-black hair, 
 
 Cold as some effigy carved in stone 
 
 And clad in raiment that matched their own; 
 
 But none of the miners who looked could trace 
 Friend, son, or brother in that pale face. 
 
 What marvel ? a century's half had rolled 
 Since that strong body grew stiff and cold. 
 
 In youth's blithe summer-time robbed of breath 
 By vapors winged with electric death. 
 
 Many, who felt that their mate was slain. 
 Probed earth's deep heart for his corpse, in vain,
 
 WILLIE THE MINER 
 
 And when naught was found, after years had fled, 
 Few still shed tears for the stripling dead, 
 
 Save one true maiden, who kept the vows 
 Pledged oft to Willie, her promised spouse. 
 
 Now cold he lieth, for whom she pined, 
 A soulless body, deaf, dumb, and blind. 
 
 But still untainted, with flesh all firm, 
 Untravelled o'er by the charnel-worm. 
 
 'Twas as though some treacherous element 
 Had strangled a life, and then, ill-content, 
 
 Had, pitying sorely the poor dead clay, 
 Embalmed the body to balk decay. 
 
 Striving to keep, when the breath was o'er, 
 A semblance of that which had been before. 
 
 So it came to pass, that there lay in the sun. 
 Stared at by many but claimed by none, 
 
 A corpse, unsullied and life-like still, 
 Though its heart, years fifty since, was chill. 
 
 But ho! ye miners, call forth your old, 
 Let men and matrons the corpse behold, 
 
 Before the hour cometh, as come it must. 
 When the flesh shall crumble and fall to dust; 
 
 Some dame or grey-beard may chance to know 
 This lad, who perished so long ago.
 
 10 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 The summons sped like a wind-blown flame, 
 From cot and cabin each inmate came. 
 
 Veteran miners, a white-haired crew, 
 
 Limped, crawled, and tottered the dead to view, 
 
 (Some supporting companions sick. 
 Leaning themselves upon crutch or stick,) 
 
 With wrinkled groups of decrepit crones, 
 Wearily dragging their palsied bones. 
 
 'Twas a quaint, sad sight to see, that day, 
 A crowd so withered, and gaunt, and grey. 
 
 And now they are gathered in groups around 
 The dead man delved from the under-ground, 
 
 And each stoops downward in turn, and pries 
 Into its visage with purblind eyes; 
 
 Mind and memory from some are gone, 
 Aghast and silent, they all look on. 
 
 But lo! there cometh a dark-robed dame, 
 With careworn features and age-bowed frame. 
 
 Bearing dim traces of beauty yet, 
 
 As light still lingers when day has set. 
 
 She nears the corpse and the crowd give way, 
 For, " 'Tis her lover," some old men say, 
 
 Her lover Willie, who, while his bride 
 
 Decked the white robe for her wedding, died — .
 
 WILLIE THE MIXER 11 
 
 Died at his work in the coal-seam, smit 
 By fumes that poisoned the baleful pit! 
 
 One piercing shriek! she has seen the face 
 And clings to the body with strict embrace. 
 
 'Tis he, to whose pleading in by-gone years 
 She yielded her heart, while she wept glad tears, 
 
 The same brave Willie, that once she knew, 
 To whom she was ever, and still is, true, 
 
 Unchanged each feature, undimmed each tress. 
 He is clasped, as of old, in a close caress. 
 
 Many an eye in that throng was wet, 
 The pitmen say, they can ne'er forget 
 
 The wild deep sorrow, and yearning love 
 Of her who lay moaning that corpse above. 
 
 She smoothed his hair and she stroked his cheek, 
 She half forgot that he could not speak; 
 
 And fondly whispered endearing words 
 In murmurs sweet as the song of birds; 
 
 " Willie, O Willie, my bonny lad. 
 
 Was ever meeting so strange and sad? 
 
 Four and fifty lone years have passed 
 Since i' the flesh I beheld thee last, 
 
 Thou art comely still, as i' days o' yore. 
 
 And the girl-love wells i' my heart once more
 
 12 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 I thank thee, Lord, that thy tender ruth 
 Suffers mine arms to enfold this youth, 
 
 For I loved him much .... I am now on the brink 
 O' the cold, cold grave, and I didna think, 
 
 When the lad so long i' the pit had lain, 
 These lips would ever press his again! 
 
 Willie, strange thoughts i' my soul arise 
 While thus I caress thee wi' loving eyes; 
 
 We meet, one lifeless, one living yet, 
 As lovers ne'er i' this world have met, 
 
 We are both well-nigh of one age — but thou 
 Hast coal-black curls and a smooth fair brow, 
 
 While I — thy chosen — beside thee lie, 
 Greyhaired and wrinkled and fain to die! " 
 
 So sobbed the woman; and all the crowd 
 Lifted their voices and wept aloud, 
 
 Wept to behold her, as there she clung. 
 One so aged, to one so young. 
 
 And surely pathos more deep or keen 
 In earthly contrast was never seen. 
 
 Both had been youthful, long years ago. 
 When neither dreamed of the coming woe. 
 
 But time with the maiden had onward sped, 
 Standing still with her lover dead!
 
 TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN 13 
 
 TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN. 
 
 Blithe playmate of the Summer time, 
 
 Admiringly I greet thee; 
 Born in old England's misty clime, 
 
 I scarcely hoped to meet thee. 
 
 Com'st thou from forests of Peru, 
 
 Or from Brazil's savannahs, 
 Where flowers of every dazzling hue 
 
 Flaunt, gorgeous as Sultanas? 
 
 Thou scannest me with doubtful gaze. 
 
 Suspicious little stranger! 
 Fear not, thy burnished wings may blaze 
 
 Secure from harm or danger. 
 
 Now here, now there, thy flash is seen, 
 Like some stray sunbeam darting, 
 
 With scarce a second's space between 
 Its coming and departing. 
 
 Mate of the bird that lives sublime 
 
 In Pat's immortal blunder, 
 Spied in two places at a time. 
 
 Thou challengest our wonder. 
 
 Suspended by thy slender bill. 
 
 Sweet blooms thou lov'st to rifle, 
 The subtle perfumes they distil 
 
 Might well thy being stifle. 
 
 Surely the honey-dew of flowers 
 
 Is slightly alcoholic, 
 Or why, through burning August hours 
 
 Dost thou pursue thy frolic?
 
 14 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 What though thy throatlet never ring.'- 
 With music soft or stirring; 
 
 Still, like a spinning-wheel, thy wings 
 Incessantly are whirring. 
 
 How dearly I would love to see 
 
 Thy tiny car a sposa, 
 As full of sensibility 
 
 As any coy mimosa ! 
 
 They say, when hunters track her nest 
 Where two warm pearls are lying. 
 
 She boldly fights, though sore distrest, 
 And sends the brigands flying. 
 
 What dainty epithets thy tribes 
 Have won from men of science! 
 
 Pedantic and poetic scribes 
 For once are in alliance. 
 
 Crested Coquette, and Azure Crown, 
 
 Sun Jewel, Ruby-throated, 
 With Flaming Topaz, Crimson Down, 
 
 Are names that may be quoted. 
 
 Such titles aim to paint the hues 
 That on the darlings glitter, 
 
 And were we for a week to muse 
 We scarce could light on fitter. 
 
 Farewell, bright bird! I envy thee, 
 Gay rainbow-tinted rover; 
 
 Would that my life, like thine, were free 
 From care till all is over!
 
 THE PARDONED SIN 15 
 
 THE PARDONED SIN. 
 
 Up the worn steps and through the ivied porch 
 That screened the entrance to an ancient church, 
 A gentle school-boy passed, in earnest thought. 
 His heart was throbbing and his eyes were filled 
 With tears that trembled. Pausing in the nave, 
 He looked around with timid glance and gazed 
 On windows lustrous with the blazoned forms 
 Of saints and martyrs and angelic hosts, 
 And on a priceless miracle of art 
 That o'er the altar hung with mute appeal — 
 Christ, bowed to earth beneath a weighty Cross. 
 He sighed; " I also have my Cross to bear," 
 And to the dim confessional drew nigh. 
 
 A white-haired priest, with mild benignant eyes, 
 Beheld him coming, and in gracious tones 
 That oft had wooed the sinner from his sin. 
 Exclaimed: " My son! if thou dost seek mine aid 
 It waits thine asking. Weep not — but lay bare 
 The secret sorrows of thine inmost soul." 
 The boy replied: " My Father! I have sinned, 
 And am not worthy to be called thy son. 
 Still, if thou wilt, my sad confession hear 
 And grant forgiveness in the name of God." 
 
 He knelt: with sobs of inarticulate woe 
 
 He faltered unintelligible words 
 
 In broken accents, so that he who heard 
 
 Failed to interpret their significance. 
 
 In vain he listened patiently; at length. 
 
 Loath to confuse the boy, " Dear child," he said.
 
 16 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 My ears are dull, for I am frail and old, 
 • I cannot glean the purport of thy speech : 
 Write it, I pray thee. In the scholar's bag 
 Slung from thy shoulder, there are, doubtless, stored 
 A tablet and a pencil. Write I pray." 
 The boy obeyed: and, weeping while he wrote, 
 Traced the brief record of his self-reproach. 
 And meekly gave the tablet to the priest. 
 
 But lo! in token that his angel watched. 
 The simple child's innumerable tears 
 Had blurred and blotted each remorseful line: — 
 The words were visible to God alone! 
 With tears of sympathy, the white-haired priest 
 Perused the baffling and bewildering signs. 
 That told more plainly than the plainest speech 
 The sad, sweet anguish of a contrite heart. 
 Then with a grateful smile, he blessed the Lord, 
 And softly murmured : " Child ! depart in peace. 
 God pardons thee — thy penitential tears 
 Have washed away all record of thy sin!" 
 
 THE THISTLE.* 
 
 A LEGENDARY BALLAD. 
 
 "Le coeur de Vhistoire est dans la tradition." 
 
 'Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some 
 
 funereal pall,. 
 Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines, — a fortress grim 
 
 and tall. 
 
 *These verses obtained the gold medal offered by the St. Andrew's Society 
 of Ottawa, in 1869, for the best poem on the subject of " The Thistle."
 
 THE THISTLE 17 
 
 The moon and stars were veiled in clouds and from 
 
 the Castle's height 
 No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the 
 
 night; 
 Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the 
 
 sound 
 Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying 
 
 round. 
 
 The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause 
 for fear; 
 
 The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch 
 to cheer; 
 
 Knight, squire and page, on rush-strewn floors were 
 stretched in sound repose, 
 
 While spears and falchions, dim with dust, hung round 
 in idle rows. 
 
 And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dream- 
 ing lay, 
 
 Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the 
 fray. 
 
 But in that hour, — when Nature's self serenely seemed 
 to sleep, — 
 
 In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the 
 keep, 
 
 A ghost-like multitude defiled, in silence, from the 
 wood 
 
 That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for 
 many a rood, — 
 
 The banner of that spectral host is soiled with mur- 
 derous stains — 
 
 They are the " Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted 
 Danes!
 
 15 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's 
 
 strand, 
 They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe 
 
 and brand, 
 Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path 
 
 with carnage strewn. 
 For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never 
 
 known. 
 And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort 
 
 of Slaines — 
 They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish 
 
 veins ! 
 
 Onward they creep with noiseless tread — -their treach- 
 erous feet are bare. 
 
 Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering 
 prey should scare. 
 
 " Yon moat," they vow, " shall soon be crossed, yon 
 rampart soon be scaled. 
 
 And all who hunger for the spoil, with spoil shall be 
 regaled. 
 
 Press on — press on — and high in air the Raven Stan- 
 dard wave ; 
 
 Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep 
 within the grave! " 
 
 Silent as shadows, on they glide, the gloomy fosse is 
 
 nigh, 
 " Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths 
 
 are dry. 
 Speed, warriors, speed," — but hark! a shriek of 
 
 agonizing pain
 
 THE THISTLE 19 
 
 Bursts from a hundred Danish throats — again it rings, 
 again ! 
 
 Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained 
 by summer's heat, 
 
 And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' 
 naked feet! 
 
 That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's 
 kindling soul, 
 
 And, shouting " Arms! to arms! " he sped the Castle 
 
 bell to toll. 
 But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of 
 
 night, 
 Each clansman started from his couch, and armed him 
 
 for the fight; 
 The draw-bridge falls, — and, side by side, the banded 
 
 heroes fly 
 To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them 
 
 or die! 
 
 As eagles on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lo- 
 mond's crest 
 
 Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of 
 their nest; 
 
 As lions bound upon their prey or, as the burning 
 tide 
 
 Sweeps onward with resistless might from some vol- 
 cano's side; 
 
 So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of 
 Slaines, 
 
 Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes.
 
 20 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their 
 
 foes, 
 They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, 
 
 relentless blows, 
 Claymore, and battle-axe, and spear were steeped in 
 
 slaughter's flood, 
 While every thistle in the moat was splashed with 
 
 crimson blood; 
 And when the light of morning broke, the legions of 
 
 the Danes 
 Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort 
 
 of Slaines! 
 
 Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the 
 
 grave of Time, 
 Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned 
 
 their crime. 
 In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy 
 
 grace 
 Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless 
 
 race; 
 And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the 
 
 sea. 
 Hath Scotland's honour tarnished been — God grant it 
 
 ne'er may be!
 
 A PARABLE 21 
 
 A PARABLE.* 
 
 With limbs at rest on the earth's green breast 
 
 In a dim and solemn wood, 
 A proud form lay, on a summer day, 
 
 In listless, dreaming mood. 
 
 A streamlet slow in the brake below 
 
 Went sadly wailing on, 
 With murmurs wild, like a restless child 
 
 That seeketh something gone. 
 
 The Dreamer rose from his vain repose 
 
 With stern and sullen look, 
 And scornful ire blazed forth like fire. 
 
 As he cursed the simple brook; 
 
 "Thy murmurs deep disturb my sleep — 
 
 Be still, thou streamlet hoarse! 
 Small right hast thou of voice, I trow, 
 
 To tell thy foolish course." 
 
 The waters stirred, for a spirit heard — 
 
 The spirit of the streams — 
 And a voice replied, that softly sighed 
 
 Like a voice we hear in dreams. 
 
 "If the sleeper fear my voice to hear, 
 
 Let him stir each rocky stone, 
 Whose cruel force impedes my course 
 
 And makes my waters moan." 
 
 ♦These verses, written at Oxford, were given by me to Sir Edwin Arnold, 
 and served to fill two pages in his first published volume, entitled " Poems : 
 Narrative and Lyrical."
 
 22 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Oft in my heart strange fancies start 
 
 And a voice in plaintive strain 
 Sings, sadly sings, that earthly things 
 
 Were shadowed in my brain; 
 
 That wealth and birth on God's free earth, 
 
 Oft curse the noise and strife 
 Which poor men make, as they strive to break 
 
 Through the rugged ways of life. 
 
 The sad voice sings, that ermined kings 
 
 Dream on in stately halls, 
 With curses deep for their broken sleep 
 
 When an anguished people calls; 
 
 And when sharp stones wake human moans. 
 
 They hear, but never move, 
 Nor lend men strength to win at length 
 
 The liberty they love. 
 
 AN EASTERN JUDGE. 
 
 Before a Judge two Arabs came. 
 One to deny and one to claim: 
 
 And one was young and one was old — 
 They differed, like the tales they told. 
 
 The young man spake: "Nine days have flown. 
 Since the hot sands I crossed alone.
 
 AN EASTERN JUDGE 23 
 
 My gold meanwhile I left in trust 
 With yon old man, reputed just. 
 
 My journey o'er, his tent I sought; 
 He swears I trusted him with naught!" 
 
 "Name," said the Judge, "the sum of gold: 
 And where, I pray thee, was it told?" 
 
 "Four score gold pieces did I tell. 
 Beneath a palm-tree, by a well." 
 
 Then spake the Judge: "Go seek that tree, 
 And hither bid him come to me; 
 
 But take my seal, that he may know 
 To whom thou biddest him to go." 
 
 The youth went out into the plain — 
 The old man and the Judge remain. 
 
 An hour passed by — and not a word 
 From either of the twain was heard. 
 
 At length the Judge: "He cometh not. 
 Dost think the lad hath reached the spot?" 
 
 The old man, startled, answered: "No — 
 Far o'er the sands the tree doth grow." 
 
 The Judge spake sternly, like a King: 
 "How knowest where that palm doth spring? 
 
 For in the desert, near and far, 
 I trow that many palm-trees are."
 
 24 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 The youth came back and said: "The tree 
 Returned answer none to me." 
 
 "He hath been here," the Judge did say, 
 "The gold is thine: go now thy way." 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 
 (From the French of Lamartine.) 
 
 Must we for ever to some distant clime 
 
 Drift through the night despairingly away ? 
 
 And can we never on the sea of Time 
 Cast anchor for a day ? 
 
 O Lake! a year hath passed with all its pain. 
 And, by the waves she hoped once more to see. 
 
 Here, on this stone, I seat myself again, 
 But ask not where is she ? 
 
 Thus didst thou murmur in thy rocky caves, 
 On their torn flanks thy w^aters thus did beat, 
 
 While the gay Zephyr flung thy foaming waves 
 Around her fairy feet. 
 
 One summer eve we floated from thy shores. 
 Dost thou recall it ? Not a sound was heard, 
 
 Save when the measured cadence of our oars 
 The dreamy silence stirred. 
 
 Then tones more sweet than earth shall ever hear. 
 Sweet tones that never will be heard again. 
 
 Woke slumbering echoes round the haunted mere 
 That listened to the strain,
 
 THE LAKE 25 
 
 " O blissful Time ! suspend thy flight, 
 
 Dear hours, prolong your stay, 
 And let us taste the fleet delight 
 
 Of this enchanting day. 
 
 Alas ! too many filled with woe 
 
 Thy tardiness regret; 
 For these, outstrip the winds, but oh! 
 
 Earth's happy ones forget! 
 
 I ask some moments more, in vain — 
 
 Time's wings more swiftly fly: 
 'O rapturous eve,' I sigh, 'remain,' — 
 
 Lo ! night is in the sky. 
 
 Come, let us love— the minutes flee — 
 
 Love may not long abide ; 
 Time's river knows no ebb, and we 
 
 Drift onward with the tide." 
 
 O jealous Time, say, why must hours like these. 
 That thrill the heart with youthful passion's glow, 
 
 Take wing more quickly on the summer breeze 
 Than dismal hours of woe ? 
 
 Can we not fix one joyous moment's trace, 
 Must it from earth be cancelled evermore! 
 
 Shall Time each record of our love efface. 
 Refusing to restore? 
 
 O grand Eternity ! O solemn Past ! 
 
 Ye, whose abyss engulfs our little day, 
 Speak, will ye grant again the bliss, at list, 
 
 That once ye snatched away?
 
 26 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 O Lake beloved, mute caves, and forest green. 
 Whose beauty Time ne'er suffers to depart, 
 
 Keep fresh the memory of that evening scene. 
 Fair Nature, in thy heart ! 
 
 Keep it, dear Lake, in sunshine and in storm, 
 In all the varied aspects of thy shore 
 
 In these dark pines, and rocks of savage form 
 That round thy waters soar. 
 
 Still let it live in every breeze that sighs, 
 In each soft echo that the hills repeat, 
 
 In every star that on thy bosom lies 
 With lustre, calm and sweet. 
 
 Let night-winds murmur to the reeds her name. 
 Let the faint fragrance that embalms each glade. 
 
 Let every sound and sight and scent proclaim, 
 " Here, two fond lovers strayed." 
 
 GOD'S HEROES. 
 
 Once, at a battle's close, a soldier met 
 A youthful comrade whom his eyes had missed 
 Amid the dust and tumult of the strife. 
 Flushed with the glow of victory, and proud 
 Of wounds received in presence of his Chief, 
 He spake in tones of triumph to the boy ; 
 "I did not see thee in the battle's flame;" 
 The stripling answered: "I was in the smoke.'* 
 Then, with his hand upon his bleeding heart, 
 He closed his eyes, and suddenly fell dead !
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS 27 
 
 So, countless heroes, oft unheeded, fight 
 In Life's grim battle, hidden by the smoke. 
 With patient martyrdom they ply the tasks 
 That God assigns them. Words of sympathy 
 From human lips too seldom cheer their toil, 
 Or help them to be victors over pain. 
 Few mark their struggles in the crowded world — 
 Few soothe their anguish while they inly bleed — 
 And, when they answer to the call of Death, 
 Their names are syllabled on earth no more. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR A CHILD. 
 
 You ask a story, dearest. Here is one 
 Heard oft amid the peasant homes of France. 
 
 It was the time when Jesus was a child, 
 
 And, with the Baptist and his cherished lamb, 
 
 He wandered forth among the hills and dales 
 
 In the calm hours that closed a summer eve. 
 
 And they were glad: the lambkin frisked and played, 
 
 Or cropped green herbage with its milk-white teeth, 
 
 While the two cousins gathered wilding flowers. 
 
 Dipped their bare feet in limpid streams, or culled 
 
 Ripe crimson berries from full-laden boughs. 
 
 As thus they rambled peacefully it chanced 
 
 Two rustic children met them. These were wroth 
 
 Each with the other, and the stronger held 
 
 Bound by the feet a white and innocent dove 
 
 That strove to soar and ever as she strove 
 
 Was balked and baffled by a spiteful cord.
 
 28 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Out spake the weaker lad : " The bird is mine. 
 Why hast thou robbed me ? It was I that snared 
 The silly pigeon and thou hast no right 
 To filch my plaything. Give me back my own." 
 Thereat, his comrade stormed a wilful " No ! 
 Thou shalt not have it; I will keep the bird." 
 Then the meek Jesus sorrowfully spake: 
 ' Lo ! with red blood her slender legs are stained, 
 Her eyes are dim and she is sick to death : 
 How wilt thou find thy pleasure in her pain? 
 I cannot think thou hast a cruel heart, 
 For thou, like me, art still of tender years; 
 Too thoughtless, may be. Wherefore loose, I pray^ 
 This chafing cord and let the captive fly 
 Home to her callow nestlings that await 
 Her coming and are all agape for food." 
 Then the boy's heart was softened and he said: 
 " Well hast thou spoken and thy pitying tones 
 Have moved my pity more than I can tell. 
 Thy pleading shames me; — I will loose the dove. 
 Would I were like thee; but whate'er I am, 
 Thou must not think that I am void of ruth." 
 So saying, he unloosed the cord that bound 
 The victim's feet, and " Pretty sufferer, fly," 
 He cried, " fly homeward to thy downy nest 
 In the green woods and feed thy gaping chicks." 
 
 But, when the other saw the harmless bird 
 
 Freed from her bonds, he stooped and snatched a stone 
 
 Up from the roadside, and with deadly aim 
 
 And fury, hurled it at the joyous dove 
 
 Which dropped to earth, as lifeless as the stone — 
 
 Her slim throat mangled by the ragged flint.
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS 29 
 
 Then, with keen taunts, he flung her at the feet 
 Of Jesus, hissing: " Meddler ! take thy prize 
 And grant the darling leave to soar again! " 
 But the meek Jesus sadly from the ground 
 Raised the dead bird, and said: " Alas ! poor boy, 
 Thou dost not know the evil thou hast wrought 
 By thy brief passion. God himself alone 
 Can to a lifeless creature life recall." 
 Then, kneeling down, he humbly joined his hands 
 In prayer, and, looking up to heaven with eyes 
 That swam in tears, sighed, " O ! that I were God ! " 
 And once again, " Ah ! would that I were God ! " 
 Scarce had his prayer upfloated, when the dove. 
 Kissed by his hallowed lips, unclosed her eyes, 
 Oped her light wings and clove the liquid air. 
 Awestruck, the children watched ; then, he whose hand 
 Had freed the captive, whispered: " Art thou God? " 
 And Jesus answered him: " I cannot tell." 
 
 Then suddenly a rush of nimble wings 
 Whirred, and descending in a golden beam, 
 The dove returned and settled on the brow 
 Of the meek Jesus. While it lingered there. 
 The spell-bound children heard a solemn voice 
 That fell like music on their ears, and cried: 
 " I am the God of Heaven and He who woke 
 Life from death's sleep is my beloved Son." 
 Then first the Baptist by these tokens knew 
 That the meek Jesus was the Son of God; 
 And gazing on the twice-born dove, he saw 
 A brown half-circle on her snowy neck 
 Marked newly there, in memory of the wound 
 Healed by the kisses of the Holy Child.
 
 30 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 THE TIME WILL COME. 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 The time will come, wiien thou and I 
 Shall meet once more before we die; 
 The links of passion's broken chain 
 Shall be united once again, 
 In coming days for which we sigh. 
 
 And thus the sorrows I defy 
 That cloud the sunshine of our sky. 
 For Hope still sings her sweet refrain, 
 The time will come. 
 
 O that the hours which loiter by 
 Would match my swift desire, and fly: 
 But fond impatience I restrain. 
 Sure that Love's trust is not in vain. 
 And that in answer to my cry. 
 
 The time will come. 
 
 A LESSON OF MERCY. 
 
 Beneath a palm-tree by a clear cool spring 
 
 God's Prophet, Mahomet, lay slumbering, 
 
 Till roused by chance, he saw before him stand 
 
 A foeman, Durther — scimitar in hand. 
 
 The chieftain bade the startled sleeper rise; 
 
 And with a flame of triumph in his eyes, 
 
 " Who now can save thee, Mahomet ? " he cried. 
 
 " God," said the Prophet, " God, my friend and guide.' 
 
 Awe-struck the Arab dropped his naked sword,
 
 THE KlXr, AND THE PEASANT 31 
 
 Which, grasped by Mahomet, defied its lord: 
 And, " Who can save thee now thy blade is won ? " 
 Exclaimed the Prophet. Durther answered, " None! " 
 Then spake the victor: " Though thy hands are red 
 With guiltless blood unmercifully shed, 
 I spare thy life, I give thee back thy steel. 
 Henceforth, compassion for the helpless feel." 
 And thus the twain, unyielding foes of yore. 
 Clasped hands in token that their feud was o'er. 
 
 THE KING AND THE PEASANT. 
 
 "Verily I say unto you, that a rich man shall hardly enter into the King- 
 ■dom of Heaven. And again I say unto you. It is easier for a camel to go 
 through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom 
 of God." — yen: To'tamiiit. 
 
 Once, at the self-same point of time, 
 
 Two mortals passed from earth : 
 One was a King of caste sublime, 
 
 But base the other's birth; 
 And each had led a stainless life 
 Amid this sinful planet's strife. 
 
 Upward the spirits took their flight 
 
 Enfranchised and elate, 
 Till soon they reached the realms of light 
 
 And paused at Eden's gate, 
 Where, waiting them, with joy they see 
 The Fisherman of Galilee. 
 
 He oped the Gate, one lustrous stone, 
 
 And ushered in the King, 
 While the poor peasant, left alone,
 
 32 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Heard songs of welcoming 
 And strains of harps, divinely sweet, 
 Poured forth the Royal Guest to greet. 
 
 The music ceased, the Heavenly Guide 
 
 Flung back the Gate again 
 And bade the peasant at his side 
 
 Join the seraphic train; 
 But, strange to say, no Angels sang. 
 No harps through Heaven symphonious rangt 
 
 "O Saint revered!" the peasant cried, 
 
 "Why chant no choirs for me 
 As for yon Monarch in his pride ? 
 
 Am I less dear than he? 
 Can aught but equity have birth 
 Here, in high -Heaven, as on the earth ? " 
 
 "My Son," the Saint replied, "thou art 
 
 As dear as kingly clay; 
 But men like thee, of lowly heart. 
 
 Come hither every day — 
 While Dives at the Gate appears 
 Once only in a hundred years!"
 
 THE STORY OF BROTHER PAUL 33 
 
 THE STORY OF BROTHER PAUL. 
 
 (As told to a friend in the Convent-gnrden.) 
 (Suggested btj a picture by Frank Dirk.-'ee. A.R.A.) 
 
 Dear friend, you question me if I 
 
 Am happy, and I thus reply: 
 
 How can I be so when my hfe 
 
 Seems an interminable strife 
 
 Between a pure, but earthly love. 
 
 And voices calling from above ? 
 
 You start: my words sound strange and wild, 
 
 The language of some wayward child, 
 
 And so you marvel — I forget, 
 
 'Tis six long years since last we met — 
 
 You knew me then as Paul D'Estres, 
 
 You find me "Brother Paul" to-day, 
 
 A pale, worn monk, whose life of woes 
 
 Is nearing to a welcome close. 
 
 Nay, speak not yet: for though I hate 
 
 My tragic story to relate, 
 
 Here in this Convent-garden, where 
 
 The sunlight streams, the flowers are fair. 
 
 And all around seems breathing balm. 
 
 As though each restless heart to .calm — 
 
 Still, I will bare my inmost soul 
 
 To you who pity and condole. 
 
 No lapse of time can e'er destroy 
 
 The hallowed memory of the joy 
 
 I felt, when first I gazed upon 
 
 The face of Gabrielle Yvonne. 
 
 Your subtlest words can scarce express 
 
 The magic of her loveliness:
 
 34 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Her guileless eyes and golden hair 
 
 Still haunt my vision everywhere, 
 
 And in the Convent when I paint 
 
 Scenes from the life of some sweet Saint, 
 
 Some priceless manuscript to grace. 
 
 Each picture but repeats her face. 
 
 Our souls were one — we had no thought 
 
 But for each other — life was naught 
 
 While we were parted, and I swore 
 
 Fond vows, still cherished as of yore. 
 
 Our homes, before my father died, 
 
 Lay closely nestling side by side; 
 
 My castle now with all its lands 
 
 Has passed forever from my hands. 
 
 And, had my pride not met this fall, 
 
 I would not here be "Brother Paul." 
 
 My father died — his life had been 
 
 A course of recklessness and sin. 
 
 Since his young wife had passed away — 
 
 And for the first time, on the day 
 
 When with vain pomp his limbs were laid 
 
 Within the ancestral chapel's shade, 
 
 I learnt that if our ancient name 
 
 Could be redeemed from scorn and shame, 
 
 I must at once prepare to roam 
 
 A ruined exile from my home. 
 
 But worse than all, my Gabrielle's sire 
 
 Cursed my wrecked fortunes in his ire, 
 
 And sternly bade me ne'er again 
 
 Set foot within his broad domain. 
 
 Enough — I left my natal place, 
 
 But saved our honour from disgrace.
 
 THE STORY OF BROTHER PAUL 35 
 
 Years passed: where'er my footsteps sped, 
 My pencil won me fame — and bread — 
 And in my paintings you can trace 
 Always the same angelic face, 
 For earthly maid almost too fair, 
 With guileless eyes and golden hair, 
 Far from this cloister — years ago — 
 A youth whom erst I used to know 
 Here in loved Normandy, revealed 
 News he might better have concealed: 
 "Thy fair-haired Gabrielle is wed — 
 They lied, and told her thou wast dead! " 
 I fell beneath this lightning stroke. 
 And, from my trance when I awoke, 
 Six months, with raving frenzy rife, 
 Were cancelled from my weary life. 
 'Twas then that cankered by despair, 
 Dazed by the world's remorseless glare 
 I passed within this Convent wall 
 To bear the name of "Brother Paul." 
 And am I happy now, you ask: 
 Behold me. Do I wear a mask? 
 I scourge my flesh, I fast, I pray. 
 But in each moment of each day, 
 Between myself and Heaven I trace 
 The shadow of a saintly face. 
 For earthly maid almost too fair. 
 With guileless eyes and golden hair. 
 One eve. my sorrows to allay, 
 I sought in solitude to pray. 
 And while I meekly stood before 
 The sombre Abbey's open door,
 
 36 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 I heard some footsteps lightly fall 
 
 On the paved walk that skirts the wall, 
 
 And as I turned my glances fell 
 
 Upon the face of Gabrielle. 
 
 Our eyes but for a moment met 
 
 In one sad gaze of fond regret; 
 
 Then in dead silence passing on, 
 
 The woman that I loved was gone. 
 
 Close by her side she led a child, 
 
 Whose lips angelically smiled, 
 
 While his small hand was reaching nigh 
 
 Two butterflies that floated by. 
 
 Ah! Who can guess the 'yearning pain 
 
 With which I saw my love again. 
 
 Or who can blame me for the sin 
 
 Of musing on what might have been ? 
 
 With a strange thrill of tender joy 
 
 I gazed upon the lovely boy. 
 
 Till both his mother's self and he 
 
 Seemed to belong, by right, to me. 
 
 And fancy tempted me to deeni 
 
 The past a false and evil dream. 
 
 But reason woke: I passed within 
 
 The Abbey's gloom, and strove to win 
 
 Christ's pardon for the thoughts that still 
 
 Confused my soul against my will. 
 
 And now my hapless tale is told, 
 
 One vision haunts me as of old^ 
 
 •One image never will depart 
 
 Till Death shall hush this throbbing heart, 
 
 And, trusting to the love of God, 
 
 I sleep at last, beneath the sod!
 
 V ROBERT BURNS 37 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Large hearted minstrel! from the sphere 
 
 Where now thou dwellest, if thine eyes 
 Can watch the spell-bound myriads — here — 
 
 Whose Hps thy genius eulogize; 
 If pain thou feelest now no more, 
 Thy wayward life's wild battle o'er ; 
 If tears that at thy memory start 
 Can touch thy sympathetic heart; 
 On this thy birth-day we would fain 
 Hope — even if the hope be vain — 
 That thou with tranquil joy may'st see 
 The loving honours paid to thee, 
 Thou Laureate of the Poor! whose song 
 O'er the charm'd earth shall echo long. 
 As stars, that garish day concealed, 
 
 Shine forth amid the shades of night, 
 So, thy dark destiny revealed 
 
 Each fault and frailty to our sight. 
 The nightingale, that sings forlorn 
 With bosom prest against a thorn. 
 Is type of thee, whose noblest lays 
 Were hymned in sorrow-clouded days; 
 Bard of the vale and stream and grove, 
 Thou lyric oracle of love! 
 
 Genius, by signs that cannot lie. 
 Flashed in full glory from thine eye. 
 In thee a hero's ardour burned, 
 In thee a woman's pity yearned; 
 Passion and pathos — fire and tears — 
 Baptized thy life's few tragic years.
 
 38 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 So — in the summer-cloud that lowers 
 
 Keen lightning lurks — with gentle showers; 
 
 So — from their depths volcanoes bring 
 
 The fire-flood and the healing spring. 
 
 Gaze on the Poet's stalwart form 
 
 Dilating through the mist and storm. 
 
 The w^hirlwind shrieks — the thunders roll — 
 
 They wake fierce echoes in his soul. 
 
 Hark! 'Mid the elemental war 
 
 He hears the battle's maddening roar; 
 
 The tempest loud and louder raves — 
 
 He treads on Scottish heroes' graves: 
 
 They wake — they rise — past scenes return — 
 
 It is the fight of Bannockburn! 
 
 He sees — he thrills — he glows — 
 As, battling for the ground they trod, 
 His phantom brethren — "red-wat shod" 
 Charge over trampled corse and clod, 
 
 Down on their Southron foes! 
 His ardent spirit onward sped 
 
 To join the exulting throng — 
 His banner was the lightning red, 
 His march, the whirlwind overhead, 
 And "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled" 
 
 His glorious battle-song! 
 
 And yet dumb cattle, and the "silly sheep," 
 "Smoor'd" in a snow-drift, made this hero weep. 
 Crushed by his plough, the daisy upward turns 
 Its dying eye, and wins immortal tears; 
 The nest-robbed "mousie," numb with piteous fears- 
 The "wee" bird "chittering" on a frozen spray,
 
 ROBERT Bl'RXS 39 
 
 Hungry and cold on winter's bleakest day — 
 To all of these the strong man's pity yearns; 
 What helpless thing but melts the heart of Burns? 
 
 He sang his comrades unrenowned, 
 
 Shepherds and tillers of the ground; 
 
 Brave Poverty — inglorious worth — 
 
 The guiltless conquerors of earth, 
 
 Heroic souls of humblest life, 
 
 Stern soldiers in the ceaseless strife 
 
 Waged — since this planet's course began — 
 
 'Twixt hard necessity and man. 
 
 Their lowly joys, their labours dull 
 
 The poet's touch made beautiful; 
 
 He deemed nought "common or unclean" — 
 
 His spirit sanctified the mean — 
 
 And the rude mattock in his hand 
 
 Seemed like a sceptre of command! 
 
 So — he is loved throughout the earth 
 Beyond the land that gave him birth ; 
 So — where his youth and manhood toiled. 
 Undaunted still, though sorely foiled, 
 Where once he broke the stubborn clod 
 He reigns supreme — a household god — ■ 
 And pilgrims venerate the spot 
 Where stands the Poet's clay-built cot. 
 
 In cities — where, 'mid smoke and gloom, 
 The engine clanks and whirrs the loom; 
 Where, 'mid a wilderness of bricks. 
 Grim Toil and Trade their empire fix. 
 And Want and Affluence, side by side,
 
 40 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Are whirled on trafific's roaring tide; 
 
 Where dim, discoloured streams that erst 
 
 From mossy springs clear-bubbling burst, 
 
 Now, clogged and silent, welter on 
 
 With all their light and music gone — 
 
 There — by the foundry's furnace glow, 
 
 Or black canal — barge-laden, slow — 
 
 Among the toiling swarms of men 
 
 The Minstrel of the linn and glen. 
 
 Hath lays to captivate each ear — 
 
 For joy, a laugh — for grief, a tear. 
 
 And Burns to them is dearer far 
 
 Than Shakespeare's self and Milton are. 
 
 Dearer — because there runs some vein 
 
 Warm from his heart through every strain, 
 
 What though he be no cultured sage 
 
 Rich in the lore of classic page — 
 
 He tells them that the honest poor 
 
 In God's eyes never are obscure — 
 
 That rank and riches — blood and birth — 
 
 Are but the accidents of earth. 
 
 And that a garb of "hodden-grey" 
 
 Is not less grand than kings' array, 
 
 If he who wears it will and can 
 
 Uphold the dignity of man. 
 
 And thus — the shepherd on the moor; 
 
 The lasses, bleaching on the braes; 
 The gude-wife, spinning at the door; 
 
 The reaper in the noon-tide blaze; 
 The wayworn hunter on the fell ; 
 The milk-maid in the hazel dell; 
 The fisher, rocked upon the deep;
 
 THE SWISS DESERTER 41 
 
 The mother, ere her "bairnies" sleep; 
 Australian herdsmen, as they roam. 
 And settlers in a "New World" home; 
 Sailors, amid the Atlantic main. 
 And soldiers on the Indian plain; 
 Joyful, or joyless, all in turns 
 Sing the sweet songs of Robert Burns — 
 Those miracles of matchless art, 
 That nestle warmly in each heart! 
 
 THE SWISS DESERTER. 
 
 In Strasbourg's fortress old and strong. 
 Began this sore mischance of mine: 
 
 I heard an Alpine horn prolong 
 Its echoes from across the Rhine. 
 
 I heard — I plunged — and strove to gain 
 
 My native shore, alas! in vain. 
 
 'Twas at the darkest hour of night 
 
 When I, the homesick boy, was caught, 
 
 And with my arms both pinioned tight 
 Before the unpitying Captain brought. 
 
 My mates had dragged me from the wave, 
 
 And nought, O God, my life can save. 
 
 To-morrow — at the hour of ten — 
 Before the regiment I must stand, 
 
 And humbly ask their pardon then. 
 Obedient to the Chief's command: 
 
 Doomed for my crime without delay, 
 
 The penalty of Death to pay.
 
 42 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Comrades! ye see me, be it known, 
 For the last time on earth to-day: 
 
 'Twas the young herdsman who alone 
 Caused that my Hfe must pass away; 
 
 His Alpine horn bewitched my youth 
 
 To yearn for home — God knows the truth. 
 
 Ye three, that armed with rifles stand, 
 Loved comrades! hear my last desire — 
 
 See that ye lift no trembling hand. 
 Aim true together, w^hen ye fire: 
 
 Straight let each bullet pierce my heart, 
 
 I ask this only ere we part. 
 
 O Lord! W'ho art the King of Heaven, 
 Draw my poor soul to Thee on high : 
 
 May all my frailties be forgiven 
 By Thy great mercy ere I die. 
 
 Hereafter, let me dwell with Thee, 
 
 O Lord, mv God, remember me! 
 
 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASFEN. 
 
 Oh! know ye why the aspen leaves so tremulously 
 
 sigh 
 When through the burning summer noon no breeze is 
 
 heard on high, 
 When the green canopies that crown the woodlands 
 
 are at rest. 
 And gladden faint wayfaring men with shadows calm 
 
 and blest?
 
 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN 43 
 
 In the dread hour when God's own Son upon the 
 
 Cross was nailed, 
 The fierce red splendour of the sun in midnight gloom 
 
 was veiled, 
 Earth's bosom heaved, and girt around with darkness 
 
 deep and still 
 Men bow'ed, like frail wind-shaken reeds, before God's 
 
 mighty will. 
 With dim presentiment of woe, each beast concealed 
 
 his form, 
 And shrank within his cavern-home, as though beneath 
 
 a storm; 
 No bird-wing fluttered in the grove, or floated through 
 
 the air. 
 And Nature's heart had ceased to beat, wrung deeply 
 
 by despair. 
 Save that the shrouded trees and flowers still mur- 
 mured low in thought. 
 And wailing told of deeds of blood and justice set at 
 
 nought. 
 Of bigot priests and traitor hearts and faith for silver 
 
 bought. 
 
 The cedar groves on Lebanon a dirge-like music made. 
 And dark as night athw'art the hills was flung their 
 
 giant shade; 
 While softly from a weeping tree, the tree of Babylon^ 
 A voice in lonely whisper sighed, " 'Tis finished — He 
 
 is gone! " 
 Then deeply dow^n' she hung her boughs within 
 
 Euphrates' stream 
 And ever dreameth of His death a life-enduring 
 
 dream. ■
 
 44 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Calmly beneath the eye of heaven the glowing vine- 
 yards slept, 
 
 The vintner watched the big bright tears that from the 
 branches wept, 
 
 And when the purple clusters dropped and the new 
 wine was prest. 
 
 Mindful he named it " Tears of Christ," and still that 
 name is blest. 
 
 But soon a vapour round the Mount arose with fra- 
 grant flow. 
 Breathed from the very soul of Love compassionating 
 
 Woe, 
 By the night-blooming violet to cool the burning 
 
 brain 
 Of Him whose thorn-encircled brow throbbed wildly 
 
 in its pain. 
 Mournfully spake the cypress then, " My branches I 
 
 will wave 
 In memory of this awful hour for ever by the grave; " 
 And through the sultry dimness passed a gently-wafted 
 
 breath. 
 As to the Cross an Angel moved, stern messenger of 
 
 death; 
 A sad voice groaned: " My God! my God! why hast 
 
 thou me forsaken? " 
 And all the trees and flowers with fear and agony 
 
 were shaken. 
 
 The Aspen shook not: she alone, a proud unpitying 
 tree, 
 
 Stood tearless, motionless beside the Mount of Cal- 
 vary,
 
 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN 45 
 
 And thus outspake that haughty one: "What reck 
 
 we of thy pain? 
 Why should we weep? We trees and flowers are free 
 
 from sinful stain: 
 Soon will my sisters cease to pine — this hour will soon 
 
 be o'er — 
 A bright epiphany of joy shall beam for evermore." 
 
 Then Death's dark Angel took the cup, red with the 
 Saviour's blood, 
 
 And at the cold proud Aspen's root poured forth the 
 mystic flood, 
 
 And spake strange words, and by those words the 
 miserable tree 
 
 Was cursed, and every leaf was doomed a quivering 
 leaf to be; 
 
 And till that old, old curse be dead, her branches 
 cannot rest, 
 
 But still she feareth, trembleth still, when all is calm 
 and blest. 
 
 Scorn not the tale! Those thoughts were born within 
 a child-like heart. 
 
 E'en as the tears that in our eyes so oft unbidden 
 start — 
 
 Born like the strains that gush from out the forest- 
 warbler's breast, 
 
 That soft or shrill are bird-song still and may not be 
 represt. 
 
 Then scoff not at the simple tale, nor deem the legend 
 wild. 
 
 It was not woven that the ears of men might be be- 
 guiled.
 
 46 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 But that men's eyes might trace the form of Truth hi 
 
 Fiction's stream 
 And read a world-old, God-framed law foreshadowed 
 
 in a dream. 
 
 Slowly 'tis learnt by heart, although by memory 
 
 quickly caught — 
 Faintly 'tis writ in tears upon the tablets of the 
 
 thought — 
 Still, still that law of exile lives— the ban of Heaven 
 
 above — 
 That " they who shut Love out shall be in turn shut 
 <■ : out from Love." 
 
 BROTHERLY LOVE; 
 
 OR, THE SITE OF KING SOLOMON's TEMPLE. 
 
 There is a sweet traditionary tale, 
 (Dear to each brother of the Mystic Tie) 
 Which, though recording but a simple deed, 
 A simple deed — and yet how full of love — 
 I would that men might hear and take to heart. 
 
 That tale's clear echo, like some lute that thrilh 
 'Mid lordlier instruments, hath floated down 
 Borne, like a perfume, on the breath of Time, 
 From the dim age of Solomon the King. 
 And even now its music is not dead, 
 Nor can it die, so long as human hearts 
 Feel the quick pulse of brotherhood leap high.
 
 BROTHERLY L()\K 47 
 
 The harvest moon was shining on the grain 
 That waved all golden in the fields around 
 The stately city of Jerusalem. 
 There — a few acres all the wealth they owned — 
 Two brothers dwelt together, most unlike 
 In outward form and aspect, but the same 
 In deep unfailing tenderness of soul. 
 Stalwart and strong, one brother drove the plough. 
 Or plied the sickle with untiring arm, 
 The while his fragile comrade seemed to droop 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day 
 As one not fitted for the toils of life. 
 
 Well knowing this, the elder brother rose 
 At dead of night and woke his sleeping wife 
 And said: "Dear heart, my brother is not strong: 
 111 hath he borne the burden of the day, 
 Reaped the full grain, and bound the yellow sheaves. 
 I will arise and while my brother sleeps 
 Will of my shocks take here and there a sheaf 
 At random — that he may not note the loss — 
 And add the grain, thus pilfered, to his store; 
 And God well knoweth that we shall not miss 
 The sheaves devoted to a brother's need." 
 
 So, the man rose up in the dead of night 
 And, as his great heart prompted, so he did. 
 
 Now, while the younger pondered on his bed. 
 Unwitting of his brother's gracious deed. 
 Kind thoughts, like Angels, visited his soul 
 And thus he spake, communing with himself, 
 " Scant is my harvest — but I am alone,
 
 48 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And thus it haps my harvest is not scant, 
 Nor have I need to lay up store on earth, 
 For death treads closely on the heels of life! 
 Seeing that these things are so, let me do 
 What good I may, before I travel hence 
 And be no more. My brother has a wife 
 And babes to work for — and he is not rich — 
 From sunrise unto sunset though he toils. 
 I will arise and while my brother sleeps, 
 Will of my shocks take here and there a sheaf, 
 And add the grain, thus pilfered, to his store; 
 For 'tis not fitting that my share should be 
 Equal to his, who hath more need than I." 
 
 So he, too, rose up in the dead of night. 
 And, as his great heart prompted, so he did. 
 
 But all the time he wrought that loving deed, 
 He trod the field with feather-footed care. 
 And paused at times, and listened — while the sheaves 
 Shook in his arms and every grain that dropped 
 Left his face pallid as the moon's white ray. 
 So, like a man with guilt upon his soul. 
 Full of vain fears he wrought his task, and then 
 Stole, like a shadow, to his lonely bed. 
 And slept the sleep that cometh to the good. 
 And thus these two, moved by the self-same love, 
 Each on the other nightly did bestow 
 The kindly boon, much wondering that his shocks 
 Did show no loss, though robbed of many sheaves. 
 
 At length one night — while tenderly the Moon 
 Looked down from Heav'n on their unselfish love —
 
 BROTHERLY LOVE 4^ 
 
 The brothers met ; the arms of both were filled 
 With golden sheaves and then they understood 
 The riddle that they could not read before. 
 
 The simple tale (for, to the neighbours round 
 Each brother fondly told his brother's deed), 
 Soon through the garrulous streets was noised abroad 
 Until 'twas whispered in the Royal Court 
 And reached the ears of Solomon the King. 
 Its pathos stole, like music, to his heart 
 And stirred the fountain of delicious tears 
 And thus he spake: "The ground whereon that deed 
 Was wrought, henceforth is consecrated earth; 
 For, surely, it is sanctified by love. 
 The love that loveth to do good by stealth. 
 I, therefore, leagued with Hiram, King of Tyre. 
 Who hews me cedar-trees on Lebanon 
 And aided also by the Widow's Son, 
 Cunning to work in silver and in gold. 
 Will on that field erect the House of God 
 Exceedingly magnifical and high — 
 Because I ween that nowhere in the world 
 A site more holy shall I ever find." 
 
 So it was done according to his word : 
 And God's own House was builded on the spot 
 Where those two brothers in the moonlight met. 
 Each with the golden sheaves within his arms.
 
 -50 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 
 
 " O, call back yesterday, bid lime return." Shakespeare 
 
 Poor faded flower, 
 Thy pale dead form hath caused the tears to start 
 And stirred the waters of my lonely heart 
 
 With strange angelic power. 
 
 Long years ago 
 Ere life's glad sunshine languished into shade, 
 Thou wast the fragrant offering of a maid 
 
 Fair as the world can show. 
 
 Let me call up 
 The Past's dim ghost by memory's potent spell: 
 One pearl at least is left, for which 'tis well 
 
 To drain grief's bitter cup! 
 
 'Twas summer eve, 
 And she and I, fair maiden and fond boy, 
 Together wandered full of such deep joy 
 
 As age can ne'er retrieve. 
 
 The cherished scene 
 Gleams through a mist of tears and memory sees 
 The velvet turf, the patriarchal trees. 
 
 The woodland cool and green. 
 
 A silver lake 
 Before us slumbered ; herds of timid deer 
 With horns thrown back, came trooping to the mere 
 
 From many a leafy brake:
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE \0 MORE 51 
 
 With large bright eyes 
 And ears erect, they marked our coming feet, 
 One moment paused, then vanished in retreat 
 
 Swift as a falcon flies. 
 
 A fairy boat 
 Rocked on the ripples, captive to a bough ; 
 I loosed its chain and oared the shallop's prow 
 
 Through lily-leaves afloat. 
 
 Eve's golden rays 
 Streamed o'er our path ; my sweet companion steered 
 Straight for a greenly-wooded isle that peered 
 
 Dimly through crimson haze. 
 
 We did not speak: 
 When bliss is infinite, what need of speech? 
 Our keel soon grated on the pebbly beach 
 
 That fringed a sheltered creek. 
 
 So strayed we on, 
 Through shadowy aisles of close-embracing trees 
 Whose restless foliage murmured like the seas, 
 
 A slumberous monotone. 
 
 Green twinkling leaves 
 Lit by slant sunbeams tremulously made 
 Quaint shifting arabesques of light and shade 
 
 Such as nought earthly weaves. 
 
 The Zephyr's sigh 
 And hum of insect-swarms alone were heard. 
 Save when some squirrel leapt, or nestling bird 
 
 Sang vespers fnjm on high.
 
 52 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 With silent joy 
 We stood and gazed and listened. There was nought 
 To mar the spell by one intrusive thought 
 
 That might our dreams annoy. 
 
 Each sense seemed drowned 
 In waves of happiness; I turned to tell 
 My soul's deep bliss to her who knew it well — 
 
 Her looks perused the ground : 
 
 There, flowering wild 
 'Mid emerald leaves and buds with ruby tips, 
 Crimson and dewy as her own sweet lips, 
 
 A fragrant blossom smiled. 
 
 With loving heed 
 I stooped to pluck it from its v'erdant nook. 
 When she, with playfully capricious look. 
 
 Stooped and forestalled the deed ; 
 
 Then, arch coquette. 
 She flashed upon me her bewildering eyes 
 In saucy triumph and displayed the prize, 
 
 And then — our fingers met: 
 
 Her soft white hand 
 Sent a keen shiver through my tingling frame — 
 Each vein seemed glowing with a subtle flame 
 
 That each pulsation fanned. 
 
 I took the flower, 
 I caught her hand and clasped it in my own 
 And murmured vows in fond impassioned tone, 
 
 Accordant with the hour.
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE 53 
 
 She did not check 
 The heaving tides of passion's fiery flood, 
 But the quick current of her tell-tale blood 
 
 Rushed over face and neck: 
 
 The faint pink flush 
 Of dainty sea-shell, or deep-bosomed rose, 
 Rich sunset hues asleep on virgin snows 
 
 Scarce typify her blush. 
 
 And then she sighed; 
 The small white teeth within her lips apart 
 Gleamed like the rain-drops that some bud's red heart 
 
 Caressing, half doth hide. 
 
 She did not move, 
 Her eyes half closed in languor's dim eclipse — 
 I pressed upon the blossom of her lips 
 
 The first sweet kiss of love. 
 
 Ah! me! Ah! me! 
 Our fondest joys endure but for a day, 
 While pains make nest-homes of our hearts and stay 
 
 And so 'twill ever be. 
 
 That maid is gone! 
 She, whose rare nature formed my soul's delight, 
 Long since to kindred angels took her flight 
 
 And I am left alone! 
 
 But there is balm 
 Still for my woe; the memory of her smiles 
 Back to youth's morning-land my heart beguiles 
 
 And brings elysian calm.
 
 54 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And thus I vow, 
 Though colour, beauty, fragrance, all are fled 
 From the pale flower that lies before me dead, 
 
 I hold it sacred now: 
 
 And I would fling 
 The queenliest blooms aside that scent the breeze 
 In odorous isles of blue Pacific seas. 
 
 For this poor withered thing! 
 
 THE DEAF GIRL. 
 
 When childhood's laughing tones reveal 
 
 Deep blessedness of heart, 
 I feign the joy I long to feel 
 
 And check the sobs that start; 
 Shrouding the agony that lies 
 Within my dim, tear-blinded eyes. 
 Because on earth eternally 
 The door of sound is closed for me, 
 And man — man knoweth not the key! 
 
 In solitude I love to dream 
 
 Of what I may not hear. 
 And muse how sweet a sound must seem, 
 
 A human voice, how dear! 
 Alas! that dreams which soothe and bless 
 Should be so full of nothingness! 
 I wake and all is mystery: 
 The door of sound is closed for me, 
 '\nd man — man knoweth not the key!
 
 THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART 55 
 
 I shall not long be here on earth, 
 
 My mother's eyes are wet: 
 She felt, e'en when she gave me birth, 
 
 My star would quickly set. 
 I grow less earthly day by day, 
 Then tell me why should death delay? 
 God calls me home, God sets me free: 
 The door of sound is closed for me, 
 But oh! it shall not always be. 
 
 My form is frail, my sight is dim, 
 
 Life's tide is ebbing fast: 
 My failing senses seem to swim 
 
 And all will soon be past! 
 Peace, peace! I hear sweet angel-tones 
 Singing in Heaven round the thrones; 
 One last brief prayer on bended knee — 
 The door of sound is oped for me, 
 But God, God only, held the key! 
 
 THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART. 
 
 Strange musical wizard! the spells of thine art 
 Can ne'er but with life from our memory depart; 
 The notes are now hushed, but their echo still rolls, 
 Like a slow-ebbing tide, o'er our passionate souls. 
 
 " In Italy they told little Mozart that it was his bewitched ring that 
 accomplished all his feats on the piano, until he toolc off the ring and 
 quietly put it on the desk." — Trmple Bar. for May, 1836. p. 50. 
 
 " We remember Mozart's being obliged to take off his ring, while per- 
 forming at Naples. The poetical and music-loving public of that land of song 
 could only account for his divine genius by the belief that a spirit inhabited 
 the jewel on his finger." — Ejrciga Review, No. VII.
 
 56 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Fair Naples, thou know'st, is the home of sweet song, 
 And thither earth's minstrels all lovingly throng; 
 Inspired are the pilgrims who visit this shrine, 
 But when have we known inspiration like thine? 
 
 The kings of this world never heard on their thrones 
 Such rare modulations, such jubilant tones; 
 The music of dreams is less marvellous far 
 Than the chords of thy ravishing harmonies are. 
 
 With thy nostrils dilated, and tremulous lips. 
 Thine eyes lit with glory that nought can eclipse, 
 Thou seemest some Angel, and multitudes trace 
 God's bfeath passing shadow-like over thy face. 
 
 Where learnt thy weird fingers each exquisite strain 
 That floods our quick spirits with pleasure or pain? 
 Who taught thee to wake from mute ivory keys 
 Low moans like deep thunder, sighs soft as the breeze? 
 
 Our poets have chronicled oft in their rhyme 
 Fantastic old legends of madness and crime, 
 Of human souls bartered for gold, might, or fame. 
 In compact with One whom we shudder to name. 
 
 Is it thus thou hast gained supernatural skill? 
 Hast thou mortgaged thy soul to the Spirit of 111? 
 Away with thy harmony. Wizard — but no — 
 Those tones are seraphic, it cannot be so. 
 
 There are beings we know of celestial birth. 
 Commissioned to haunt this dim planet of earth; 
 Their silver-winged legions float ever in air. 
 Our eyes may not see them, but still they are there:
 
 THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN 57 
 
 Perchance some bright minister, now at thy side, 
 To music's keen pathos thy fingers may guide; 
 For, oh ! thy rapt strains in their tenderness seem 
 Like snatches of angel-song heard in a dream. 
 
 See! see! on thy finger there flashes a gem — 
 Its radiance is fit for a king's diadem: 
 Cast off that ring, Wizard ! Some musical sprite 
 Dwells shrined in that jewel's ineffable light. 
 
 Now, strike the still chords! Sweeter murmurs are 
 
 heard 
 Like the whispers of love, or the song of a bird. 
 Our tears fall like rain. Stranger, give us thy prayers. 
 Men have entertained Angels ere now unawares! 
 
 THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY 
 
 MAN. 
 
 (From the prose of Jean Paul Richter) 
 
 Once on a time, it was the New Year's Night, 
 An old man at his window stood and gazed 
 Upon the myriad-eyed and changeless Heaven, 
 And on the pure white earth whereon there sighed 
 No human soul so hopeless as his own. 
 
 In mute despair he gazed upon his grave! 
 The snows of age and not the green of youth 
 Shrouded its blackness: and that woeful man 
 Out of his whole rich life now thither brought 
 Nought but a load of follies, sins, and cares; 
 A wasted frame, a desolated heart,
 
 58 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And lone old age embittered with remorse. 
 
 And now like ghosts the bright days of his youth 
 
 Hovered about him: and he stood once more 
 
 At Life's dread cross-road by his father's side. 
 
 Its right-hand pathway led by sunny tracks 
 
 Of virtue to a Paradise of peace 
 
 Full of glad harvests and of glorious light; 
 
 But the left strayed, through labyrinths of vice, 
 
 Down to a dismal, poison-dropping cave. 
 
 Where serpents darted mid the dark damp night. 
 
 Ah! now those serpents writhed about his breast, 
 Those poisoned droppings paralyzed his tongue, 
 He learnt the error of his choice — too late! 
 Crushed by despair he sobbed aloud to Heaven 
 "Give back my youth, O God! and oh! my Sire, 
 Place me once more upon that branching road. 
 That once again my pathway I may choose." 
 
 In vain — his father and his youth were gone! 
 He saw strange lights that danced above the marsh 
 And died within the grave-yard — and he sighed, 
 "Those were my sinful days." He watched a star 
 Shoot from the skies and glimmer to its fall 
 To be extinguished on the gloomy earth ; 
 "That star is I," he groaned, and fell Remorse 
 Gnawed at his wounds again with serpent-fangs. 
 
 Suddenly, music for the new-born year 
 Like distant church-song floated from a tower. 
 His soul was stirred — he gazed around the earth 
 And mused upon the playmates of his youth, 
 Who, happier now and holier far than he.
 
 THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN 59 
 
 Were teachers of the world, world-honoured men, 
 Fathers of loving children — and he cried: 
 "I too, my Sire, might now have happy been, 
 Thy New. Year's bidding had I erst fulfilled!" 
 
 He bowed his head — hot, penitential tears 
 Streamed on the snow — again he softly sighed. 
 Hopeless, unconscious almost, "Come again! 
 O my lost Youth, come back!" 
 
 It came again — 
 For on that strange and solemn New Year's Night 
 He had but dreamed. His youth was left him still — 
 His errors only had not been a dream. 
 
 With grateful soul he poured his thanks to God, 
 That he was spared still young to turn aside 
 From Sin's foul ways and follow the fair track 
 That leads the pilgrim to a land of peace. 
 
 Turn then aside with him, thou wayward youth, 
 Who standest doubting on the road of Life ! 
 This ghastly dream was pictured for thy sake. 
 If e'er, grown old, in anguish thou shouldst cry, 
 "Come back once more, O vanished Youth, come 
 
 back!" 
 The golden years can never more return.
 
 60 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 THE SOWER. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Peaceful and cool, the twilight grey 
 Draws a dim curtain o'er the day, 
 While in my cottage-porch I lurk 
 And watch the last lone hour of work. 
 
 The fields around are bathed in dew, 
 And, with emotion filled, I view 
 An old man clothed in rags, who throws 
 The seed amid the channeled rows. 
 
 His shadowy form is looming now 
 High o'er the furrows of the plough ; 
 Each motion of his arm betrays 
 A boundless faith in future days. 
 
 He stalks along the ample plain, 
 Comes, goes, and flings abroad the grain; 
 Unnoted, through the dreamy haze 
 W'ith meditative soul I gaze. 
 
 At last, the vapours of the night 
 Dilate to heav'n the old man's height, 
 Till every gesture of his hand 
 Seems to my eyes sublimely grand !
 
 THE LAMP OF HERO 61 
 
 THE LAMP OF HERO. 
 
 (From the French of Louise Ackermann.) 
 
 When Hero's lover, reckless of the storm, 
 
 Each night more hungry for his stealthy bliss, 
 Swam the swift channel to the trembling form 
 That waited with a kiss; 
 
 A Lamp, with rays that welcomed from afar. 
 
 Streamed through the darkness, vigilant and bright. 
 As though in Heav'n some large immortal star 
 Unveiled its throbbing light. 
 
 The scourging billows strove to blind his eyes, 
 
 The winds let loose their fury on the air. 
 And the scared sea-gulls shrieked discordant cries. 
 Foreboding death's despair; 
 
 But from the summit of the lonely tower 
 
 The Lamp still streamed above the waters dim 
 And the bold swimmer felt redoubled power 
 Nerve each exhausted limb. 
 
 As the dark billows and the winds at strife 
 
 Whelmed in their wrath the love-sick boy of old, 
 So, round humanity the storms of life 
 
 Since Time was born have rolled. 
 
 But while each lightning-flash reveals a tomb 
 
 Which yawns insatiate for each wretch that cowers 
 In the same dangers, and the same dense gloom 
 The same true Lamp is ours.
 
 62 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Through the dull haze it glimmers, dim and pale, 
 
 The winds and waters struggle but in vain. 
 In clouds of foam the guiding star to veil, 
 For still it gleams again. 
 
 And we, with faces lifted to the sky, 
 
 Filled with fresh hopes, the raging billows cleave, 
 Faint but encouraged by the light on high 
 Our venture to achieve. 
 
 Pharos of Love ! that in the blackest night 
 
 Dost guide our course amid the rocks and shoals, 
 O Lamp of Hero! fail not with thy light 
 To cheer our sinking souls! 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF A VILLAGE GIRL. 
 
 (From the French of Juhen-Auguste Brizeux.) 
 
 When fair Louise, half child, half woman, died 
 Like some frail blossom crushed by wind and rain. 
 Her bier was followed by no mourning train. 
 One priest alone accompanied, who sighed 
 Brief prayers, to which in accents soft and low, 
 A boy-attendant answered, full of woe. 
 Louise was poor: in death, our common lot, 
 The rich have honours which the poor have not. 
 A simple cross of wood, a faded pall. 
 These were her funeral honours, this was all; 
 And when the sexton from the cottage room 
 Conveyed her light young body to the tomb, 
 A bell tolled faintly, as if loath to say
 
 THE KEEPER'S SON 63 
 
 So sweet a maiden had been called away. 
 
 'Twas thus she died — and thus, by hill and dale, 
 
 'Mid broom whose fragrance floated on the gale, 
 
 And past green cornfields, at the dawn of day. 
 
 The scant procession humbly took its way. 
 
 April had lately burst upon the earth 
 
 In all the glory that attends her birth, 
 
 And tenderly upon the passing bier 
 
 She snowed her blossoms and she dropped her tear. 
 
 Flowers, pink and white, arrayed the hawthorn now, 
 
 While starry buds were trembling on each bough, 
 
 Sweet scents and harmonies the air caressed 
 
 And every bird was warbling in its nest. 
 
 THE KEEPER'S SON. 
 
 (From the French of Andre Theuriet.) 
 
 Black is the night and as though in fight 
 Their arms the trees of the forest wave. 
 
 And not a sound can be heard around. 
 But rain that rushes and winds that rave. 
 
 The doors are shut in yon woodland hut: 
 An aged sire and his fearless sons, 
 
 Three poachers keen, with a bloodhound lean 
 Crouch in the thicket and load their guns. 
 
 Within the gloom of that hut's low room 
 An infant sleeps by the grandam's bed. 
 
 While a maiden fair near the slumbering pair 
 Sits at a spindle with drooping head.
 
 64 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A flickering lamp through the midnight damp 
 Illumes her cheek with a feeble light, 
 
 Aiding to trace a sweet flower-like face 
 
 And curls that stray o'er a neck snow-white. 
 
 Fair is her form, but her bosom warm 
 Fitfully heaves like the ocean's breast: 
 
 Is it fright or care, or the stifling air. 
 Or waiting, that causes her wild unrest? 
 
 The hinges weak of the frail door creak 
 And a rainy squall from the outer gloom 
 
 Driveth a boy, the fair maiden's joy, 
 Into the shadowy silent room. 
 
 Clasped in her arms, he rebukes alarms, 
 
 And cries: " Sweet Alice, what need of fright?"" 
 
 She pleadeth, " Oh! speak soft and low: 
 My grandam's slumber is ever light! " 
 
 Their hearts beat high with ecstasy 
 
 And the maiden wipes, while she softly speaks, 
 The raindrops cold that like tears have rolled 
 
 Down her boy-lover's white brow and cheeks. 
 
 " My love is wild for thee, sweet child! " 
 
 He cried. She murmurs, " Eve, morn and noon 
 
 For thee I sigh; but, my darling, why 
 Wast thou the son of the Keeper born ? 
 
 For, higher far than our forests are, 
 
 A barrier rises to part us twain: 
 And I dread his ire should my jealous sire 
 
 Learn that I love and am loved again."
 
 THE KEEPER'S SON 65. 
 
 He soothed her fears and he kissed the tears 
 That overflowed frorn her soft brown eyes; 
 
 But while deep joy thrilleth maid and boy 
 Day swiftly follows the night that flies. 
 
 Far off" they hear shrill chanticleer — 
 
 " Bird, if I owned thee, thou soon hadst died,"^ 
 
 The lover speaks, while the morning breaks, 
 And the maiden opens the casement wide. 
 
 The storm is o'er and the blythe larks soar 
 Aloft like specks in the clear blue sky: 
 
 One more sweet kiss full of passion's bliss, 
 Now till eve cometh again, " Good-bye." 
 
 Swift as a deer, with no sense of fear. 
 
 The youthful lover then lightly broke 
 Through the moorland's maze, over which thick haze 
 
 Swam like a quivering wreath of smoke. 
 
 But the poachers bold, wet, famished, cold. 
 With empty game-bags behind their backs. 
 
 Were homeward beating a slow retreat — 
 Fur and feather alike each lacks. 
 
 A light branch stirred and their quick ears heard ; 
 
 " Shoot! " the same instant exclaimed the sire: 
 Three shots ring out and three voices shout: 
 
 "The game has fallen before our fire." 
 
 Deep bayed the hound with a doleful sound, 
 The sire pressed onward, then shrank aghast — 
 
 'Mid the brushwood dyed with a crimson tide 
 The son of the Keeper had breathed his last!
 
 66 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 IPHIGENIA AT AULIS. 
 
 (EURIPIDES.) 
 
 Had I the voice of Orpheus, O my Sire, 
 
 And could I charm the stones to follow me, 
 
 Beguiling hearers sweetly to my will, 
 
 Words I would use — but now my only spell 
 
 Lies in my tears, for tears are all I have! 
 
 I hold no suppliant bough, but touch thy knees 
 
 With this frail body which she bore for thee: 
 
 I pray thee, slay me not before my time. 
 
 For sweet it is to look upon the light. 
 
 But thou wouldst thrust me down to nether gloom. 
 
 I was the first to call thee Father: thou 
 
 Didst call me first thy child, and I did cling 
 
 First to thy knees and shower upon thy lips 
 
 Sweet, loving kisses which thy lips returned. 
 
 And thou wouldst say, " My darling, shall I live 
 
 To see thee blooming in some chieftain's halls 
 
 A joyous bride, an honour to thy sire ? " 
 
 And I would answer, toying with thy beard, 
 
 Which now my hand doth fondly still caress: — 
 
 "My Father, shall it be, when thou art old 
 
 That I shall cherish thee within my home, 
 
 Repaying thus the nurture of my youth ? " 
 
 I do remember me of all these words. 
 
 But thou forgetting them, dost seek my death. 
 
 Spare me I pray, by Pelops, by thy sire. 
 
 And by my mother too, who at my birth 
 
 Felt pangs less keen than those my death will cause. 
 
 " The speech of Iphigenia is remarkaVjle for its pathos ; and we seem to fee! 
 now at least that we are certainly reading the ver>' words of Euripides, free 
 from any interpolations." — Paley's Euripides, vol. III., p. 443.
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE 67" 
 
 What part or lot have I in Helen's loves, 
 Or why should Paris ruin also me ? 
 Look on me, Father! grant one look, one kiss, 
 That if I fail to move thee by my words, 
 I may in death, at least remember these. 
 My brother! weak I fear me, is thine aid — 
 Still, weep with me, with me beseech our sire 
 To spare thy sister — there may be a sense 
 Of sorrow even in an infant's mind. 
 Behold, how silently he prays to thee, 
 My Father. Pity me and spare my life. 
 Two beings dear to thee are at thy feet, 
 He, still a nursling — I, a maiden grown. 
 One last brief plea I urge — 'tis very sweet 
 To live and look upon the light; but death 
 Is darkness — they are mad who pray to die. 
 Life is more precious than the noblest death ! 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 Once on a time, it matters little when — 
 On English ground, it matters little where- 
 A fight was fought upon a summer day 
 
 When skies were blue and waving grass was green. 
 The wild flower, fashioned by the Almighty Hand 
 To be a perfumed goblet for the dew. 
 Felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood 
 And shrinking from the horror, drooped and died. 
 
 These lines are printed as a Curiosity of Literature. The reader will 
 find that by the mere addition or omission of a few words. Charles Dickens" 
 graphic description of the scene where once a great battle had been fought is- 
 here turned into unrhymed metre.
 
 '68 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Many an insect that derives its hue 
 
 From harmless leaves and tender-bladed herbs 
 
 "Was stained anew that day by dying men 
 
 And marked its wanderings .with unnatural track. 
 
 The painted butterfly that soared from earth 
 
 Bore blood upon the edges of its wings. 
 
 The stream ran red. The trampled soil became 
 
 A quagmire whence from sullen pools that formed 
 
 In prints of human feet and horses' hoofs — 
 
 The one prevailing hue of stagnant blood 
 
 Still lowered and glimmered at the cloudless sun. 
 
 The lonely moon upon the battle-ground 
 
 Shone brightly oft, while stars kept mournful watch, 
 
 And winds from every quarter of the earth 
 
 Blew o'er it, ere the traces of the fight 
 
 Were worn away. They lurked and lingered long 
 
 In trivial signs surviving. Nature far 
 
 Above the evil passions of mankind, 
 
 Her old serenity recovered soon 
 
 And smiled upon the guilty battle-ground 
 
 As she had done when it was innocent. 
 
 The lark sang high above it; swallows skimmed 
 
 And dipped and flitted gaily to and fro. 
 
 The shadows of the flying clouds pursued 
 
 Each other swiftly over grass and corn 
 
 And field and woodland, over roof and spire 
 
 •Of peaceful towns embosomed among trees. 
 
 Into the glowing distance, far away 
 
 Upon the borders of the earth and sky 
 
 Where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown 
 
 And reaped and harvested; the restless stream 
 
 That once was red with carnage, turned a mill;
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE 69 
 
 Men whistled at the plough, or tossed the hay, 
 
 And bands of gleaners gathered up the grain. 
 
 In sunny pastures sheep and oxen browsed; 
 
 Boys whooped and called to scare the pilfering birds; 
 
 Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; Sabbath bells 
 
 Rang with sweet chimes; old people lived and died; 
 
 The timid creatures of the field and grove, 
 
 The simple blossoms of the garden-plot, 
 
 Grew up and perished in their destined terms — 
 
 And all amid the blood-steeped battle-ground 
 
 Where thousands upon thousands had been slain. 
 
 But there were deep green patches in the corn, 
 
 That peasants gazed upon at first with awe. 
 
 Year after year those patches reappeared 
 
 And children knew that men and horses lay 
 
 In mouldering heaps beneath each fertile spot. 
 
 The village hind who ploughed that teeming soil 
 
 Shrank from the large worms that abounded there; 
 
 The bounteous sheaves it never failed to yield 
 
 Were called the " Battle Sheaves" and set apart: 
 
 And no one knew a " Battle Sheaf " to be 
 
 Borne in the last load at a Harvest Home. 
 
 For many a year each furrow that was turned 
 
 Revealed some crumbling record of the fight, 
 
 And by the roadside there were wounded trees 
 
 And scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall 
 
 Where deadly struggles erst had taken place, 
 
 And trampled spots, where not a blade would grow. 
 
 For many a year, no smiling village girl 
 
 Would dress her bosom or adorn her hair 
 
 With fragrant blossoms from that Field of Death: 
 
 And, when the seasons oft had come and gone,
 
 70 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 The crimson berries growing there were thought 
 To leave too deep a stain upon the hands 
 Of those that plucked them. 
 
 THE MADONNA'S ISLE. 
 
 Embosomed on the deep there lay 
 
 A green Elysian isle, 
 With curving shore and crystal bay 
 
 Whose waters glowed awhile, 
 Crimson and golden, as the day 
 
 Sent down a parting smile. 
 
 It seemed to sleep, a holy spot 
 
 Amid the sleepless sea. 
 Where guilt and grief might be forgot. 
 
 And man from passion free 
 Might cease the sole, black, sullying blot 
 
 On God's fair earth to be. 
 
 There, like some phantom that we meet 
 
 In visions of the night. 
 The tenant of that calm retreat. 
 
 Arrayed in stainless white. 
 Strayed, lost in meditation sweet, 
 
 A virgin pure and bright: 
 
 Bright as the dreams of childhood's sleep 
 Which waft the soul to Heaven, 
 
 Pure as the tears that angels weep 
 When man with God hath striven 
 
 And sinned dread sins, perchance too deep, 
 Too dark to be forgiven!
 
 THE MADONNA'S ISLE 71 
 
 She knelt immaculately fair, 
 
 With love-illumined face, 
 And like some lute the voice of prayer 
 
 Breathed spells around the place, 
 Up floating through the summer air 
 
 To reach the throne of grace. 
 
 But hark! hoarse shouts her prayer arrest, 
 
 Her piteous face is pale! 
 For lo! to that green Eden-nest 
 
 A boat with sun-lit sail 
 Airily skims o'er ocean's breast. 
 
 Like sea-bird in the gale. 
 
 Its crew are rovers bold and free, 
 
 Men stained with human gore. 
 And when they marked with savage glee 
 
 The Presence on the shore. 
 They bounded madly o'er the sea 
 
 With lengthened sweep of oar. 
 
 Rude threats they mutter as they row 
 
 Against that Hallowed One; 
 They scofif and jeer, they do not know 
 
 The Mother of God's Son. 
 Heaven shield their helpless prey, for oh! 
 
 Compassion they have none. 
 
 With eyes upraised, that maiden mild 
 
 In speechless woe implored 
 Quick succour from a sinless Child, 
 
 Her offspring, but her Lord : 
 It came — and shrieks of terror wild 
 
 Burst from the pirate horde!
 
 72 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Fiercely, Euroclydon awoke 
 And lashed each angry wave, 
 
 Far-echoing peals of thunder spoke 
 In tones that shook the brave. 
 
 While shadowy depths asunder broke 
 In many a yawning grave. 
 
 Men struggled with unearthly might 
 And gasped with gurgling breath, 
 
 And when the lightning in its flight 
 Glared on the wreck beneath. 
 
 Just God! it was a ghastly sight 
 To see their ghastly death! 
 
 The gentle moon hath charms to still 
 The murmurs of the main, 
 
 As mothers at their own sweet will 
 Can soothe an infant's pain; 
 
 That night she hushed them not until 
 That ruthless band was slain: 
 
 And when the billows' vengeful might 
 Had swept those sinners o'er, 
 
 Oh ! calmly then her cloudless light 
 The gentle moon did pour 
 
 Upon the Virgin clothed in white 
 Still kneeling on the shore!
 
 A WILD FLOWER 73 
 
 A WILD FLOWER. 
 
 (From the French of Gustave Lemoine.) 
 
 A gleaner brown, a rustic flower, 
 
 Loved a rich peasant's only son; 
 But she could bring no other dower 
 
 Than the fond heart that he had won. 
 She wept. The father said at last: 
 
 "Go, reap yon barley field of mine — 
 If, when three days from now have passed 
 
 The task is done, my boy is thine." 
 
 Come, listen to my mournful strain, 
 
 A simple story, sweet and sad. 
 This tale of one who loved in vain 
 
 Was told me by a harvest lad. 
 
 The father spoke, the listening maid 
 
 With joy and love nigh swooned away: 
 Forthwith she seized a reaper's blade 
 
 And deftly plied it, night and day. 
 When, faint and weaned, in despair. 
 
 She felt her yearning strength depart^ 
 She drew fresh courage from her prayer. 
 
 And prayer was prompted by her heart. 
 
 Come, listen to my mournful strain, 
 
 A simple story, sweet and sad. 
 This tale of one who loved in vain 
 
 Was told me by a harvest lad. 
 
 A daisy in her path delays 
 
 The tender glances of her eye; 
 ''Price of my happiness," she says,
 
 74 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 "Poor harmless blossom, thou must die!" 
 But while it perished in its youth, 
 
 It looked so pitifully mild. 
 That the fond maiden wept for ruth — 
 
 She, too, was but a blossom wild. ' 
 
 Come, listen to my mournful strain, 
 A simple story, sweet and sad. 
 
 This tale of one who loved in vain 
 Was told me by a harvest lad. 
 
 The third day passed, with twilight shade 
 
 The rich man to his barley came; 
 Breathless and pale, there stood the maid. 
 
 Her eyes triumphantly aflame! 
 "I did but jest, my girl," he cried, 
 
 "Ten crowns thy toil will amply pay." 
 Alas! one more frail blossom died, 
 
 Cut to the heart, ere close of day! 
 
 Such is the story, sad and sweet, 
 I heard amid the golden grain: 
 
 The maidens sing it when they meet. 
 And mingle weeping with the strain. 
 
 A WOMAN'S DREAM. 
 
 (From the French of Madame Desbordes-Valmore.) 
 
 "Wilt thou begin thy life once more. 
 Woman, whose hair will soon be white? 
 
 Would'st thou thy childhood, as of yore 
 Flushed by its guardian angel's light?
 
 A WOiMAN'S DREAM 75 
 
 Rocked in a cradle to repose, 
 
 Wilt thou thy mother's kisses greet?" 
 
 "Yes! my lost Eden's gates unclose! 
 Ah yes, my God! It was so sweet!" 
 
 "Trained by thy father's tender care, 
 
 Wilt thou love purity and truth, 
 Diffusing round thee everywhere 
 
 The fragrant innocence of youth? 
 Wilt thou to life's enchanting prime 
 
 Fly back with joy on pinion fleet?" 
 "Would it might last a longer time! 
 
 Ah yes, my God! It was so sweet!" 
 
 "Wilt thou thine ignorance resume, 
 
 And spell life's alphabet anew? 
 When hopes, like stars, thy path illume, 
 
 Canst thou forget the storms that blew? 
 Wouldst thou have back thy blossoms gay, 
 
 The doves that fluttered to thy call?" 
 ' 'All but the gravestones by the way — 
 
 O gracious God! restore them all!" 
 
 "Have then whate'er thy heart may crave — 
 
 Thy doves, thy blossoms, and thy song — 
 Time's stream with melancholy wave 
 
 Will reach the Vale of Tears ere long! 
 Love thou hast felt — to Love return — 
 
 Too frail its madness to defy." 
 "Must I again with passion burn? 
 
 Nay! pitying Saviour! let me die."
 
 76 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 sacred ground, in wandering back to thee 
 
 I thought to suffer though I hoped to weep; 
 Thou dearest grave unhonoured save by me, 
 Where hallowed memories sleep. 
 
 What find ye in this solitude to dread. 
 
 My friends ? Why draw me by the hand away ? 
 
 When habit grown so old and sweet, hath led 
 My footsteps here to stray. 
 
 1 see the uplands and the blooming heath. 
 The silvery pathway o'er the noiseless sand, 
 
 The walks still redolent of lovers' breath, 
 Where hand was clasped in hand. 
 
 The mountain gorge's careless tracks I mark. 
 
 Familiar murmurs once again I hear 
 From ancient pine trees, crowned with verdure dark, 
 
 That soothed my boyhood's ear. 
 
 Here is the greenwood where my youth once more 
 Sings like a choir of birds upon a]tree; 
 
 Fair moorland where my mistress strayed of yore 
 Didst thou not look for me ? 
 
 " It was in the beginning of this period of silence that he wrote one of the most 
 beautiful of his poems Lf Spuvrnir. He had visited the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau in the month of Septemt)fer, 1840, and a few months later he put into 
 verse the reminiscences which were recalled by the scene of his old love for 
 George Sand. The whole poem is most touching. But after it was published, 
 he was filled with regret that he had given it to the world." — Xorth American 
 Review, September, 1878.
 
 REMEMBRANCE 77 
 
 Nay let them flow, these welcome, blissful tears, 
 That from a heart still bleeding take their rise. 
 
 And let the mist that veils long-buried years 
 Refresh my aching eyes. 
 
 These woods are witness that I once was blest, 
 Through them no echoes of a dirge shall roll; 
 
 Proud is this forest in its peaceful rest 
 And proud too is my soul. 
 
 With bitter cries let some bereaved one rave. 
 Who kneels despairing by a comrade's tomb, 
 
 Here all breathes life — the flowerets of the grave 
 Here cannot bud or bloom. 
 
 Behold! the moon is rising o'er the glade: 
 
 Thy glance still trembles, lovely queen of night! 
 
 But soon, dispelling the horizon's shade. 
 Thine orb shall glow with light. 
 
 As all the perfumes of the vanished day 
 
 Rise from the earth still moistened with the dew, 
 
 So from my chastened soul beneath thy ray 
 Old love is born anew. 
 
 Where are the sorrows gone that made me pale 
 And left me prematurely old with pain ? 
 
 I grow, while gazing on this friendly vale, 
 A joyous child again. 
 
 Oh! tender might of Time — oh! fleeting hours, 
 Ye stanch each tear and stifle each regret, 
 
 And, in your pity, on our faded flowers 
 Your feet are never set.
 
 78 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 I bless thee Time, kind angel of relief; 
 
 I had not thought love's wound could e'er conceal 
 Anguish so keen, or that a victim's grief 
 
 Could be so sweet to feel. 
 
 Far be from me each time-worn thought and phrase. 
 
 That oft in heartless epitaphs are read. 
 Wherewith the man who never loved, displays 
 
 His feelings for the dead. 
 
 Dante, thou saidst that in the hour of woe 
 Remembered happiness is sorrow's curse; 
 
 What grief was thine that thus could overflow 
 In that embittered verse ? 
 
 Must we forget that ever in the skies, 
 
 E'en when our night is darkest, light appears ? 
 
 Didst thou spurn sorrow, thou, whose mournful eyes 
 Poured forth immortal tears ? 
 
 No! by yon moon whose beams illume my glance, 
 That vaunted blasphemy was not thy creed; 
 
 Remembered happiness on earth perchance 
 May happiness exceed. 
 
 Heaven on my head its lightnings now may fling, 
 This memory cannot from my heart be torn; 
 
 To this, though wrecked by tempests, I will cling 
 Like mariner forlorn. 
 
 And oft I murmur: "At this time and place 
 I loved one day and I was loved again; 
 
 Time has no power the picture to efface. 
 While life and thought remain."
 
 I 
 
 PERHAPS 79 
 
 PERHAPS. 
 
 (From the French of Gustave Nadaud) 
 
 To horse! To horse ! I mount with speed, 
 For we must travel far, my steed, 
 
 To find repose: 
 Thy master's brain is crazed with care 
 And we must gallop apace, but where ? 
 
 Who knows ? 
 
 Oh! how that golden-haired coquette 
 Dreamed she had caught me in the net 
 
 Of her disdain! 
 The Siren is so fair, so cold. 
 That the same kingdom cannot hold 
 
 Us twain. 
 
 Around her castle-walls each day 
 My steed and I with spirits gay 
 
 Were wont to roam : 
 Yon path familiar grown to each 
 We now must shun or we should reach 
 
 Her home. 
 
 Those faithless gods to which I bowed, 
 Her charms that lured me made her proud; 
 
 Her hair, her eyes 
 Blue as the cloudless heaven above. 
 Her lips, that seemed to breathe of love 
 
 In sighs. 
 
 At length my heart hath burst its chain, 
 And as my freedom I regain 
 I curse her pride,
 
 80 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And to my lips, that day by day 
 Murmured " I love thee," now I say, 
 "Ye lied." 
 
 Shame on the heartless wayward elf 
 Who will not tenderly herself 
 
 My passion share. 
 But jealously refuses still 
 To let me wander at my will 
 
 Elsewhere ! 
 
 On, on, my steed! 'tis just the hour 
 That, in the gloaming, to her bower 
 
 Her slave would bring: 
 Now from the hateful spot I fly, 
 And with no tear-drop in my eye, 
 
 I sing. 
 
 But what is here ? The velvet lawn. 
 Her home, amid the shade withdrawn — 
 
 It must be so — 
 O thoughtless man! O heedless brute! 
 That failed to recognize which route 
 
 To go! 
 
 Turn back! but no — stand still! for she 
 Is smiling at the casement. See! 
 
 Her finger taps. 
 'Twere churlish not to say " Good-bye; 
 When daylight dawns, my steed and I 
 Afar from Circe's bower will fly, — 
 
 Perhaps.
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE 81 
 
 IF, DARLING, WITH MELODIOUS LAY. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Wilder.) 
 
 If, darling, with melodious lay 
 
 In woodlands depths thou wert a bird, 
 I fain would be the slender spray 
 
 That thrills where'er thy voice is heard. 
 Or if thou wert a crimson flower 
 
 That bares its heart to heav'n above, 
 Then, like a golden bee each hour 
 
 I'd sip the honey of thy love. 
 
 Wert thou, my love, a stately swan 
 
 That floats upon some glassy lake, 
 I'd be the waveless mere whereon 
 
 No breeze thy cradled calm should break. 
 Wert thou some star, when clouds are dark^ 
 
 A sentry o'er the world asleep, 
 I then would be a poor frail bark 
 
 For thee to pilot o'er the deep. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 (From the French of Victorien Sardou.) 
 
 A secret I wish to disclose, 
 
 A mystery's heart to lay bare: 
 We take for example a Rose 
 
 And a Lily with virginal air. 
 The Lily said: " Exquisite Rose! 
 If I dared, — but I fear to propose," 
 Then the Rose murmured, " Pray do not fear; 
 One must dare, a little, my dear! "
 
 82 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And this is the way that the Rose 
 And the Lily their feehngs disclose: 
 The Lily and Rose in this way 
 A subtle discretion display. 
 
 The Lily then said, — I suppose 
 
 Her speech is abridged by design, — 
 ■" I would love, O most exquisite Rose, 
 To mingle my perfume with thine! " 
 The Rose answered, " Nobody knows 
 Good reason your wish to oppose ; 
 But if such a wish is sincere, 
 Come closer, a little, my dear! " 
 Thus matters soon came to a close 
 Between the coy Lily and Rose; 
 The Rose and the Lily this way 
 United to form a bouquet. 
 
 LE MUGUET ET LA ROSE. 
 
 (Par Victorien Sardou.) 
 
 Je vais vous debrouiller la chose, 
 Et devoiler ce grand secret. 
 Voici, par exemple, une rose; 
 Une rose et un muguet. 
 Le muguet dit: " O belle rose, 
 Si j'osais parler, mais je n'ose! " 
 La rose dit tout bas: " Mon Dieu! 
 II faut pourtant oser un peu! " 
 Voila la fagon dont on cause 
 Entre le muguet et la rose, 
 Et dont on joue au plus discret 
 Entre la rose et le muguet.
 
 SONNET 83 
 
 Le muguet poursuit, je suppose, 
 Pour abreger les entretiens; 
 "Que j'aimerais, charmante rose, 
 A meler mes parfums aux tiens! " 
 La rose dit: "C'est une chose 
 A laquelle rien ne s'oppose! 
 Mais, pour satisfaire a ce voeu, 
 II faut vous rapprocher un peu! " 
 Et voila comment toute chose, 
 Entre le muguet et la rose, 
 Finit par un joli bouquet 
 Fait de la rose et du muguet. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 (From the French of Felix Arvers.) 
 
 There is a secret shrined within my soul, 
 
 A deathless love, in one brief moment born, 
 A hopeless passion that I must control 
 
 And hide from her to whom its vows are sworn. 
 Yes! I must pass unnoticed by her eye. 
 
 Close by her side, consumed by lonely thought. 
 And shrouding still my secret I shall die. 
 
 By naught rewarded having sued for naught. 
 But she — though God has dower'd her with a sweet 
 And tender nature — knows not that her feet 
 Lure me to follow her where'er they stray: 
 Too pure to dream her love can be desired — 
 Were she to read these lines she has inspired, 
 
 "Who is this lady? " she would calmly say!
 
 84 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. 
 
 (From the Provencal of Jasmin.) 
 I. 
 
 Chill was our sky: the swallows all had fled, 
 A feeble glimmer by the sun was shed, 
 The silent fields were lying bleak and bare, 
 When All Saints' Day drew nigh : 
 And from each palsied bough on high 
 The yellow leaves condemned to die 
 Dropped, eddying slowly through the air. 
 
 II. 
 
 One evening from our peaceful town, 
 While countless stars were gazing down, 
 A brother and a sister strayed 
 
 In melancholy mood. 
 
 And when before a Cross they stood 
 They innocently prayed. 
 Bathed in the moonlight's purity 
 Abel and Rose long bent the knee; 
 Then like some organ in a fane 
 The mournful voices of the twain 
 Poured forth two prayers that blent in one 
 And soared to Heaven in unison: 
 "Mother of Christ! benignant Maid! 
 
 Father at home lies sick with pain: 
 
 This poem by- Jacques Jasmin, the barber-poet of Agen on the Garonne, has 
 never before, I believe, been translated, probably on account of its homely 
 simplicity which in passages may seem too prosaic for the public taste. Long- 
 fellow, in his translation of " The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille " had to fight 
 against the same difficulty.
 
 A WEEK IX A BOY'S LIFE 85 
 
 Oh! send thine angel to his aid. 
 
 So shall our mother smile again 
 And we thy children, will adore 
 And love thee, sweetest Virgin, more and more." 
 The Virgin could not slight the prayer: 
 
 Scarce had they reached their home, 
 When from a door that opened there, 
 A woman, youthful still and fair, 
 
 With joy beheld them come: 
 "Poor darlings! Death hath turned aside — 
 
 The fever is subdued — 
 And since your father hath not died. 
 
 Show God, dear lambs! your gratitude." 
 So kneeling on the bare, rude planks 
 Of a poor garret they gave thanks, 
 Beside a bed, with serge o'erspread. 
 
 Whereon with cool and painless brow, 
 Hilaire, the honest father lay — 
 A soldier in his youthful day, 
 
 A humble mason now. 
 
 III. 
 
 The morrow dawned with smiling gleam, 
 
 The sunlight once again 
 Was soon illuming with its beam 
 
 Each patched-up window pane, 
 When Abel came with noiseless tread, 
 Stole forward to his father's bed 
 And oped the curtain by his head. 
 He newly waked beheld his son with joy 
 And cried: "I looked for thee — remain, my boy. 
 Our home is poor: my toil procures us food:
 
 86 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 God for your sakes has spared me. God is good. 
 
 For thou art young, not fifteen quite, 
 
 Thou knowest how to read and write. 
 But thou art coy and grave and prone to dream: 
 Still life has work for everyone I deem. 
 I know that thou art delicate and frail, 
 Less strong than comely; and thine arms would fail 
 To smite the stone with sinews hale: 
 
 But our Collector wise and kind. 
 
 Notes that thy manners are refined, 
 
 And to befriend thee seems inclined. 
 Go then and do his bidding; but no sloth 
 
 And no conceit, my boy, leave that to fools. 
 Writer and artisan are workmen, both — 
 
 Pens, hammers are their tools. 
 Mind like the body, wears our life away — 
 
 Enough, dear child! I trust that thou, 
 
 Dressed in black cloth, wilt ne'er allow 
 False pride to scorn thy father's mean array." 
 Abel's blue eyes were lifted up with joy — 
 Fond kisses passed between the man and boy. 
 Mother and sister also had their share: 
 
 Next morn the stripling to his patron went 
 
 And for four days that followed, their content 
 Was boundless as the air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas! the pleasures of the poor are brief! 
 
 The Sabbath morning brought a mandate stern: 
 
 ■'Hilaire to-morrow must to work return. 
 
 If he be absent, in that case 
 
 Another hand will take his place.
 
 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE 87 
 
 By order of the Chief." 
 The volley from a cannon fired 
 
 No deeper anguish doles 
 Than by this message was inspired 
 
 Within four wretched souls. 
 "I'm cured," the father cries, 
 And struggles hard to rise 
 But falls back feebly — if he works, he dies! 
 A week of rest is wanted : ah ! poor friend ! 
 Thy life and death upon thy toil depend. 
 All four were mute — through Abel's heart 
 A thought like lightning seemed to dart. 
 It dried the tears within his eyes 
 
 And lent the boy a nobler mien: 
 Strength in each muscle seemed to rise. 
 While blushes on his cheek were seen. 
 Then forth he fared, and quickly went 
 To the rough foreman's tenement. 
 Soon he returned : his heart no more 
 
 By sore distress was wrung. 
 Ne'er had he looked so gay before, 
 Smiles in his eyes and honey on his tongue. 
 "Rest, father rest! Thou hast a week of grace. 
 Rest from thy toil — thy wonted vigour gain — 
 A friend that loves thee will supply the place 
 Which thou may'st still retain." 
 
 V. 
 
 Saved by a friend! So, friends still love and feel! 
 
 Would this were certain in our world of woes: 
 To-morrow's light the secret will reveal; 
 
 Good sons exist- — but friends? alas! who knows?
 
 88 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 'Tis Monday morn : our Abel drudges hard — 
 Not at the desk but in the builder's yard. 
 His sire was wrong: for though he seems to be 
 So frail, his work is as the work of three: 
 
 Deftly he crumbles up the lime 
 
 And kneads the mortar for each wall, 
 
 Light as a bird, he loves to climb, 
 Till the pale workmen tremble for his fall. 
 He walks a dizzy platform with the best. 
 
 Smiles as he mounts and smiles when he alights: 
 
 Here, there and everywhere no task he slights. 
 But toils to save his father — ^and is blest. 
 
 And thus his honest comrades there, 
 Who guessed the secret of the boy. 
 
 Watched while the sweat uncurled his sunny hair 
 And clapped their hands with tearful joy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What bliss for Abel when at close of day 
 
 The workmen homeward press: 
 
 He quickly doffs his spattered dress 
 
 And dons his black array. 
 
 Then, three fond traitors all conspire 
 
 To cheat the unsuspecting sire, 
 Who hails his son's arrival from the desk: 
 Abe prates of bills and contracts, in burlesque. 
 
 And with an artful wink replies 
 Whene'er his conscious mother winks her eyes! 
 So passed three days: the patient quits his bed: 
 
 Life seems more sweet — an unfamiliar boon — 
 Thursday, his malady has fled: 
 
 Friday, he gaily quits the house at noon.
 
 A WEEK IX A BOY'S LIFE 89 
 
 But Friday! God created thee for woe! 
 
 Cheered by the sunshine's welcome heat, 
 Hilaire speeds onward, vexed at seeming slow: 
 He yearns his friend and substitute to greet — 
 He longs his name to know. 
 
 VH. 
 
 And now, the house is nigh: but no one stands on high, 
 
 And yet the bell for dinner has not rung: 
 Great Heaven ! what crowds are at the building's base- 
 Foreman, mechanics, neighbours, old and young. 
 But why? A man has fall'n: Oh! piteous case! 
 His friend, perchance: his soul is on the rack. 
 He runs — the workmen shudder at the sight 
 
 And strive to keep him back. 
 
 He elbows through, with frenzied might: 
 
 Oh! helpless sire — oh! horror wild — - 
 The friend that saved him is his darling child! 
 He finds him toppled from a scaffold's height. 
 Stretched, almost dead, upon the bloody ground: 
 
 And while the father shrieks for fright, 
 To aid his son all sadly cluster round. 
 Alas! the boy who dies, 
 Past aiding, only sighs: 
 "Master! I could not — quite — work out my week — 
 
 One day is lost — but in poor mother's name 
 Thy pity for my father I bespeak." 
 
 Men wept to hear the fond pathetic claim. 
 At length the sufferer turns his eyes 
 
 Upon his father, bends his face 
 
 Towards him for a moment's space, 
 
 Petitioning a last embrace; 
 Fondles his hand and smiling softly, dies!
 
 90 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They kept his place for lone Hilaire — 
 
 They proffered goodly pay, 
 Alas! too late! his only care 
 
 Was soon to pass away. 
 No gold his sorrow could efface — 
 
 No skill his life could save — 
 He went, to take another place, 
 
 Beside his darling's grave. 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 (From the French of Gerard de Nerval.) 
 
 There is an air that haunts me till I slight 
 
 The witching strains of Weber and Mozart; 
 An air that floods with languorous delight 
 f The secret chambers of my lonely heart. 
 
 Each time I listen to that music old 
 I seem to live two hundred years ago, 
 
 'Tis Louis Treize who reigns, and I behold 
 Green uplands golden in the sunset's glow. 
 
 Then, a tall palace, grey with granite towers 
 And countless window-panes that redly glare, 
 
 Girt by broad parks through which 'mid bloom of 
 flowers 
 A glassy river wanders here and there. 
 
 And then, a lady opes a casement high — 
 
 Pale, with dark eyes, in antique robes arrayed, 
 
 One whom I loved in centuries gone by — 
 Whose image never from my soul can fade!
 
 FORGET ME NOT 91 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 Remember me, when Morn with trembling light 
 
 Opes her enchanted palace to the Sun; 
 Remember me, when silver-mantled Night 
 
 In silence passes like a pensive nun. 
 Whene'er with ecstasy thy bosom heaves, 
 Or dreams beguile thee in the summer eves. 
 Then from the woodland lone 
 Hear a low-whispered tone. 
 Forget me not! 
 
 Remember me, when unrelenting Fate 
 
 Hath forced us two for evermore to part, 
 When years of exile leave me desolate. 
 
 And sorrow blights this fond despairing heart; 
 Think of my hapless love, my last farewell : 
 Absence and time true passion cannot quell. 
 And while the heart still beats. 
 Each throb for thee repeats, 
 Forget me not! 
 
 Remember me, when 'neath the chilly tomb 
 My weary heart is wrapt in slumber deep; 
 Remember me, when pale blue flowerets bloom 
 
 O'er the green turf that shrouds my dreamless sleep. 
 I shall not see thee, but from realms above 
 My soul shall watch thee with a sister's love, 
 And oft when none are nigh, 
 A voice at night shall sigh. 
 Forget me not!
 
 92 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 JACQUES. 
 
 In Paris at the dawn of light, 
 
 To woriv two masons hied; 
 And mounting to a scaffold's height, 
 
 Their labour briskly plied. 
 
 Soon their frail foothold in the air 
 Cracked, threatening to give way; 
 
 Too weak the weight of two to bear — 
 For one a trembling stay. 
 
 "Jacques," cried his mate, " I have a wife 
 
 And children three alive." 
 " Farewell! " said Jacques, and gave his life 
 
 A sacrifice for five. 
 
 O hero! known as " Jacques " to Fame, 
 
 That deed's unselfish love 
 In full, we trust, shall cause thy name 
 
 To be inscribed Above! 
 
 THE MAIDEN OF OTAHEITE. 
 
 (Suggested by a poem of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 " And wilt thou fly me? Must thy fickle sail 
 Soon waft thee hence before the favouring gale? 
 From my quick senses I would fain conceal 
 The nameless trifles which the truth reveal ; 
 My jealous eyes confirm my boding heart — 
 I cannot doubt that thou wilt soon depart!
 
 THE MAIDEN OP' OTAHEITE 93 
 
 This very eve while roaming o'er the wet 
 
 And shell-strewn beach, where we so oft have met, 
 
 (Thou dost remember well the Giant Cave 
 
 There we would sit and hear old Ocean rave) 
 
 I saw thy ship, at anchor in the bay, 
 
 Clean, bright and trim, as for some holiday; 
 
 I watched thy sailors folding many a tent, 
 
 I heard their shouts with songs and laughter blent, 
 
 I guessed the cause of all their glee and crept 
 
 Within our cave, where bitterly I wept! 
 
 Why quit our isle? Around thine island home 
 Doth Ocean more magnificently foam? 
 Are the blue skies more exquisitely clear, 
 Is there less sorrow in thy clime than here? 
 Are the flowers fairer, or the trees more grand, 
 Do brighter shells and pebbles deck the strand, 
 Or if by sickness thou shouldst stricken be, 
 Will far-off friends more fondly wait on thee? 
 Hast thou forgotten when the zephyr bore 
 Thy weary vessel to our welcome shore? 
 I gazed upon thee as upon some star 
 And thou didst call me to the woods afar; 
 'Twas the first time I saw thy smiling eyes, 
 And yet I came obedient to thy cries. 
 Then I was beautiful — but beauty's flower 
 Fades, droops and withers in one stormy hour, 
 And so with me — salt bitter tears, in truth. 
 Have marred my comeliness, O stranger youth ! 
 But if thou stayest, I will bloom again. 
 As flowers revive in sunshine after rain.
 
 94 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Stay then, sweet stranger — bid me not farewell — 
 Tales of thy tender mother thou shalt tell, 
 And sing the ballads of thy native land 
 That thou hast taught me half to understand. 
 To thee I yield myself — to thee who art 
 My being's breath, the life-blood of my heart — 
 Who fillest all my days — whose form of light 
 Haunts my rapt soul in visions of the night — 
 Whose very life is so involved with mine 
 That my last hour must be the same as thine! 
 
 Alas! Thou goest; on thy natal hills 
 
 Perchance some virgin for thy coming thrills; 
 
 *Tis well: still deign, O master, deign to take 
 
 Thy slave along with thee; for thy dear sake 
 
 E'en to thy bride I will submissive prove, 
 
 If thy delight be centred in her love. 
 
 Far from my birthplace and my parents old. 
 
 Whose fond affection never can be told ; 
 
 Far from the woods where scared by no alarms, 
 
 When thou didst call, I sank into thy arms; 
 
 Far from my flowers and palm-trees I may sigh. 
 
 But here, by thee deserted, I shall die! 
 
 If ever thou didst love me in the past, 
 
 Hear now my prayer — it is the first and last — 
 
 Frown not upon me — thou wast wont to smile — 
 
 Fly not without me to thy cherished isle. 
 
 Lest my sad ghost, when death hath stilled my heart, 
 
 Should hover round thee, wheresoe'er thou art! " 
 
 Day dawned and reddened the receding sails 
 
 Of a great ship, far distant out at sea. 
 
 Her playmates sought the maiden in her tent,
 
 A WOMAN 95 
 
 But never more beneath the forest boughs, 
 Or on the shore of ocean was she seen. 
 The gentle girl no longer wept — but still 
 She was not with the stranger, out at sea! 
 
 UNE FEMME. 
 
 (Translated from the German of Heine by Gerard de Nerval.) 
 
 lis s'aimaient tous deux tendrement; elle etait vo- 
 leuse, et lui filou. Lorsqu'il commettait quelque coup 
 de main, elle se jetait sur le lit, et riait. 
 
 Le jour se passait en joies et en bombances, la nuit 
 elle reposait sur sa poitrine. Lorsqu'on le mena en 
 prison, elle se mit a la fenetre, et riait. 
 
 II lui ecrit: "Oh! reviens a moi, je soupire apresta 
 presence, je t'appelle du fond du coeur et je languis." 
 Lorsqu'elle regut la lettre, elle secoua la tete, et riait. 
 
 Vers six heures du matin il fut pendu, a sept heures 
 on le jeta dans la fosse; mais elle, une heure apres, 
 buvait du vin rouge, et riait. 
 
 A WOMAN. 
 
 (Translated from the French of Gerard de Nerval.) 
 
 They loved each other, in joy or grief: 
 He was a sharper, and she, a thief. 
 At each new tale of her lover's craft 
 She fell on her pillow and gaily laughed.
 
 96 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 All day, they revelled with mirth and jest; 
 All night, she slumbered upon his breast. 
 They dragged him to jail — like a creature daft 
 She stood at the window and gaily laughed. 
 
 He wrote her a letter: "Oh ! come to me: 
 I sigh for thy presence; I pine for thee." 
 She read each word of the ill-scrawled draft — 
 Then shook her head and still gaily laughed. 
 
 At six, he was hanged in the sight of Heaven — 
 His body was flung in a ditch, at seven — 
 And at eight in the morning, his mistress quaffed 
 A bumper of wine and still gaily laughed. 
 
 DELIVERED. 
 
 (From the Swedish of A. A. Grafstrom.) 
 
 The night was chilly — home Gunnar sped 
 
 With bark from the pine-trees torn: 
 Fain would he mix it with If our for bread, 
 But flour there is none in his lowly shed, 
 In his barn not a grain of corn. 
 
 Two pale thin children, with looks of woe. 
 
 To welcome their father run: 
 " Some bread, dear Father, we hunger so. 
 A crumb or two in thy love bestow." 
 
 " God pity you^I have none."
 
 DELIVERED 97 
 
 " When Mother was borne on the rude black bier, 
 
 And her coffin was downward cast 
 Into a pit in the churchyard drear, 
 A loaf you gave us, 'twas wet with a tear, 
 
 Say, Father, was that the last?" 
 
 "My Children! to-day I can give you nought, 
 
 But God will allay your sorrow; 
 In calm meek trust should His grace be sought, 
 He will soon send aid of His kind forethought, 
 
 Perhaps we will bake to-morrow!" 
 
 He snatched his harp from the mossy wall — 
 
 What magic is in its strains! 
 For bread those starved ones no longer call. 
 And tears from their pale cheeks cease to fall 
 
 As the melody soothes their pains. 
 
 He turned his face that would else betray 
 
 The tokens of anguish deep, 
 And he played them some music so wildly gay 
 That the children danced and night wore away. 
 
 Till wearied they fell asleep. 
 
 Then he prayed by the pallet, whereon the twain 
 
 Lay sleeping with tranquil breath : 
 " Save them, O Friend of the Poor, from pain ! " 
 God listened, they never awoke again. 
 
 The Deliverer came — it was Death!
 
 QS POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 TO NINON. 
 
 (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 If I should dare my passion to reveal, 
 
 What would your answer be, blue eyed brunette? 
 You know what pain Love's victims ever feel; 
 E'en you your pity cannot all conceal — 
 
 Still, you would doubtless make me feel regret. 
 
 Were I to say that silent I have pined 
 
 Six weary months with all a lover's woe, 
 Ninon, your careless subtlety of mind 
 May, like a witch, my secret have divined. 
 
 And you, perchance would answer me, "I know." 
 
 Were I the pleasing madness to confess 
 
 That makes me, shadow-like, your steps pursue 
 
 (A look of sweet incredulous distress, 
 
 Ninon, you know enhances loveliness). 
 
 Your lips perchance would murmur, " Ig it true ? " 
 
 Were I to tell you that my tongue can name 
 
 Each airy syllable you spoke last night, 
 (Ninon, you know your glances, when they blame. 
 Change eyes of azure into eyes of flame). 
 
 Your wrath perchance would drive me from your 
 sight. 
 
 Were I to tell you that on bended knee 
 
 Each night I pray, despairing all the while, 
 (Ninon, you know that when you smile, a bee 
 
 " J'ai entendu vanter, et par des femmes de beaucoup d'esprit, une piece du 
 recueil de M. Alfred de Musset intitulee : -1 yinon. Cette piece en effet est 
 un chef-d'oeuvre de subtihte sentimentale." — CtiviUier-Fleiir!/, Etudes Litti- 
 r a ires.
 
 TO NINON 9& 
 
 In your red lips a blossom well might see), 
 
 Were I to tell you, you perchance would smile. 
 
 But I refrain; in silence seated near 
 
 Your beauty by the lamplight, I adore — 
 
 I breathe your fragrance and your voice I hear, 
 
 But you will find no cause to be severe. 
 
 Though all my looks you doubtingly explore. 
 
 I dwell within a region of romance — 
 
 At eve, your songs are all on earth I heed; 
 Your hands with harmony my soul entrance, 
 Or in the joyous whirlwind of the dance 
 I feel your lithe form tremble like a reed. 
 
 When envious night has forced me to depart 
 
 And all your charms are ravished from my view. 
 Quick through my brain a thousand memories dart 
 And like some miser, I unlock my heart, 
 A treasured casket filled alone for you. 
 
 I love— but coldly I can still reply; 
 
 I love — the secret I alone can tell; 
 Sweet is the secret, dear each stifled sigh, 
 For I have sworn to love, though hopelessly, 
 
 Not without bliss — I see you: it is well. 
 
 I was not born for happiness supreme. 
 With you to live and in your arms to die, 
 
 E'en my despair to teach me this would seem; 
 
 Still, if I told you of my passion's dream, 
 
 Who knows, adored one, what you might reply?"
 
 100 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 IN FUTURO. 
 
 (From the French of Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 E'en now, from mountain or from plain, 
 
 In France, America or Spain, 
 
 A tree is soaring, oak or pine, 
 
 Of wiiich some portion shall be mine. 
 
 E'en now within her chamber lone 
 Some wrinkled and decrepit crone 
 Weaves fair white linen, like a Fate, 
 To clothe my body soon or late. 
 
 E'en now, for me, with sunless toil 
 Like some blind mole beneath the soil, 
 A swarthy miner doth explore 
 Earth's teeming veins for iron ore. 
 
 There is some corner of the earth 
 Where nought but loveliness hath birth, 
 Where sunbeams drink the tears of morn, 
 There I shall sleep in days unborn. 
 
 That tree which with its foliage now 
 Doth screen a nest on every bough, 
 The planks hereafter shall supply 
 Wherein my coffined bones shall lie. 
 
 That linen, which the wrinkled crone 
 Is weav'ing in her chamber lone. 
 Shall form a winding sheet to hold 
 My lifeless body in its fold.
 
 A DEAD WOMAN 101 
 
 That iron, burrowed from the soil 
 By the swart miner's sunless toil, 
 Transformed to nails, shall tightly close 
 The chest wherein my limbs repose; 
 
 And in that charming spot on earth 
 Where nought but loveliness hath birth, 
 A grave shall yawn, beneath whose sod 
 My heart shall mingle with the clod. 
 
 A DEAD WOMAN. 
 
 (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 Yes, she was beauteous; if the Night 
 By Michael's chisel wrought, 
 
 A marble monument asleep, 
 Can beautiful be thought. 
 
 And she was good ; if goodness be 
 
 Devoid of heart and cold ; 
 If Love be shewn by alms alone; 
 
 If Charity be gold. 
 
 She thought; if words in dulcet tones. 
 
 Significant of nought, 
 Vague as the murmur of a stream, 
 
 Deserve the name of thought. 
 
 " I know he must have encountered some very harsh, unjust and injurious 
 treatment on the day when he came home resolved to break with this lady for 
 ever. In the mood I have described, he wrote the verses >'")■ iiin Mortr.' 
 The rupture was complete and irremediable. In order to judge whether the 
 writer of those verses was to blame, one should understand the wound which 
 he resented: and no one knows how deep that was." — l\iiil dr .Va.vwr.s Life of 
 A. de Musset, p. 238.
 
 102 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 She prayed; if prayer it can be called, 
 
 To fix two lustrous eyes 
 Now, meekly downward on the earth, 
 
 Now, upward on the skies. 
 
 She smiled; if e'er the virgin bud, 
 
 With heart unclosed as yet, 
 Smiles to the zephyrs of the spring 
 
 That pass it — and forget. 
 
 She might have wept; if dews divine. 
 
 That soften human clay. 
 Could ever to her chilly breast 
 
 Have found some secret way. 
 
 She might have loved; but scorn and pride 
 Kept watch about her heart. 
 
 Like lamps that o'er a cofifined form 
 Their useless radiance dart. 
 
 Now, she who only seemed to live 
 
 But had no life, is dead. 
 And from her hands the book has dropped 
 
 In which she never read! 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Here all is joy and all is light, 
 The spider, with untiring tread, 
 
 Ties to the tulip's turban bright 
 His circling maze of silvery thread.
 
 AN EVENING SCENE 103 
 
 The quivering dragon-fly appears, 
 Proud to behold her round dark eyes 
 
 Glassed in the limpid stream, that rears 
 A world of breathing mysteries. 
 
 The full-blown rose, grown young again, 
 
 To blushing buds her love avows; 
 The birds pour forth their evening strain 
 
 Of melody from sunlit boughs. 
 
 Far in the woods, where silence dwells, 
 
 The timid fawn securely dreams; 
 'Mid emerald moss with velvet cells. 
 
 Like burnished gold the beetle gleams. 
 
 Pale as some sweet consumptive maid 
 Regaining life, the moon doth rise, 
 
 Dispelling every cloud or shade 
 With radiance from her opal eyes. 
 
 The wallflower, that to ruin clings, 
 Now frolics with the wandering bee; 
 
 The furrow feels each germ that springs 
 
 'Neath the warm earth, and laughs with glee. 
 
 All lives and plays its part with grace; 
 
 The sunbeam on the portal's sill, 
 The shadow on the water's face. 
 
 The blue sky o'er the verdant hill. 
 
 Field, glen and forest share the whole 
 
 Of Nature's ecstasy and rest: 
 Fear nothing, Man! Creation's soul 
 
 Knows the whole secret and is blest.
 
 104 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 (From the French of Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 The heavens are black, the earth is white; 
 
 Ring out, wild joy-bells, to the skies! 
 Jesus is born; the Virgin bright 
 
 Bends o'er Him with enraptured eyes. 
 
 Around the mystic infant's head 
 
 No fold of slumberous curtain streams; 
 
 Only the spider's airy thread 
 
 Drops from the stable's dusty beams. 
 
 The Baby, nestling in the straw. 
 Thrills with the cold in every limb; 
 
 The ox and ass, in seeming awe, 
 
 Kneel down and warmly breathe on Him. 
 
 O'er that thatched hovel in the night 
 Heaven opens, dazzling as the morn. 
 
 While bands of Angels, clothed in white, 
 Sing to the shepherds, "Christ is born." 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 (From the French of Henri Murger.) 
 
 Hast thou, Louise, forgotten yet 
 That nook within the garden old. 
 
 Where when the summer sun had set 
 My hand would oft thy hand enfold? 
 
 With beating hearts we sat beneath 
 The shadows of the willow trees.
 
 MEMORIES 105 
 
 Few words escaped our trembling breath; 
 Dost thou remember still, Louise? 
 
 Hast thou, Marie, forgotten yet 
 
 The fond exchange of rings we made, 
 The sun-lit meadows where we met, 
 
 The woodlands full of song and shade? 
 A fount, that musically fell 
 
 In marble basin, marks the spot 
 Where oft we lingered; Marie, tell. 
 
 Is that sweet trysting-place forgot? 
 
 Christine, hast thou forgotten quite 
 
 Our fragrant room with roses gay? 
 'Twas somewhat near the sky, but bright 
 
 On April morns and eves of May, 
 Those calm clear eves, when planets pale 
 
 Seem'd whispering to thee, "Earthly Queen, 
 Like us, thy beauty's light unveil:" 
 
 Dost thou remember still, Christine? 
 
 Louise is dead ! Poor fond Marie 
 
 Is worse alas! than dead, they say: 
 And pale Christine across the sea 
 
 To sunnier climes hath sailed away. 
 Marie, Louise, Christine, all three 
 
 Though ne'er forgotten, now forget: 
 Our loves are dead eternally. 
 
 And I alone remember yet!
 
 106 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 TIT-FOR-TAT. 
 
 (From the French of Dufresnoy.) 
 
 PhilHs, a venal nymph, delayed 
 Poor Damon's hopes of bliss; 
 
 Until the love-sick swain had paid 
 Ten sheep to buy a kiss. 
 
 Next day, ashamed to cheat the boy, 
 She sold her favours cheap; 
 
 And Damon bought, with eager joy, 
 Ten kisses for a sheep. 
 
 Next morning, of her own accord. 
 
 Afraid his love to miss, 
 The sheep to Damon she restored. 
 
 Eleven for a kiss. 
 
 At eve, half-wild with jealousy. 
 She gladly would have bought 
 
 With all her flock the kiss that he 
 Gave Rosalind for nought! 
 
 THE FLOWER AND THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Once to the Butterfly a Floweret sighed: 
 
 "One moment stay! 
 Our fates are severed : here on earth I bide, 
 
 Thou must away.
 
 THE FLOWER AND THE BUTTERFLY 107 
 
 Still, we both love: and far from human tread 
 
 We pass the hours: 
 Each like the other, for by man 'tis said 
 
 We both are flowers. 
 
 Earth chains me down— thy path is in the skies — 
 
 O cruel lot! 
 O'er thee I fain would breathe my perfumed sighs: 
 
 They reach thee not. 
 
 Thou rovest far — 'mid blossoms fair and sweet 
 
 Thy life is glad : 
 T watch the shadow turning at my feet. 
 
 Alone and sad! 
 
 Thy form now quivers near, now flits away. 
 
 And disappears: 
 But thou wilt find me at each dawn of day, 
 
 All bathed in tears. 
 
 If 'tis thy will our love should lasting be, 
 
 O truant King! 
 Like me, take root: or, let me soar, like thee. 
 
 On splendid wing." 
 
 L'envoi a 
 
 "Roses and Butterflies! in death you meet. 
 
 Or soon, or late. 
 Would not your lives together passed be sweet. 
 
 Then, wherefore wait? 
 
 Somewhere above the earth, if floating up 
 
 Thy pinions soar — 
 Or in the meads, if there perchance thy cup 
 
 Its fragrance pour.
 
 108 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 What matters where? Be thou a breath alone, 
 
 Or tint of spring: 
 A radiant Butterfly, or Rose half-blown, 
 
 A flower or wing. 
 
 To live together ! This your fondest aim, 
 
 Your vital need ! 
 Chance may be left your future home to name, 
 
 The sky — the mead." 
 
 TO MY OLD COAT. 
 
 (From the French of Beranger.) 
 
 Wear well, poor coat, that time endears! 
 
 Together we are growing old : 
 My hand has brushed thee ten long years — 
 
 Can more of Socrates be told? 
 If Fate aggressively still tries 
 
 Thy patched and threadbare stufi to rend, 
 Resist — like me, philosophize^ 
 
 We must not part, my dear old friend! 
 
 How fondly I recall the day 
 
 When first I wore thee! 'Twas my fete 
 And friends, who hailed my spruce array, 
 
 Sang songs thy praise to celebrate. 
 Thy poor old age of which I boast, 
 
 True comrades never can offend, 
 Oft still myself and thee they toast — 
 
 W' e must not part, my dear old friend !
 
 A BALLAD 109 
 
 Have I debased thee with perfume, 
 
 That warns when simpering fops are near; 
 Or, cringing in some anteroom, 
 
 Exposed thee to a patron's sneer? 
 For ribbons that the wise man scorns 
 
 All France is eager to contend : 
 A rose thy buttonhole adorns — 
 
 We must not part, my dear old friend! 
 
 No longer fear those reckless days, 
 
 When kindred destinies were ours, 
 Days, when we shared the blame and praise,. 
 
 The joy and sorrow, sun and showers. 
 My need of tailors I foresee 
 
 Is not far distant from an end : 
 We'll end together — wait for me — 
 
 We soon must part, my dear old friend L 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 (From the French of Andre Van Hasselt.) 
 
 "O restless Swallow! thou whose wings 
 Skim the gray clouds in sportive rings. 
 Hast thou beheld my own true knight?" 
 "Fair Dame! he has not blest my sight." 
 
 "Gay Lark! that soarest far on high, 
 A lessening speck amid the sky, 
 Say, hast thou marked the form I love?" 
 "My glance hath aye been turned above.'"
 
 110 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 "Thou Wood! beneath whose leafy dome 
 Soft murmurs of the summer roam, 
 Here did my lover chance to stray?" 
 "No foot hath trod my paths to-day." 
 
 "Aerial Crag! on whose dim crest 
 The eagle strews her careless nest, 
 Hath horse or horseman met thine eye? " 
 "No cavalier hath ridden by." 
 
 "White foaming Torrent! tell me where 
 My warrior with the golden hair? 
 O'er thy dark waters did he leap? " 
 "Down in their depths he lies asleep! " 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 (From the French of Jehan Froissart.) 
 
 Come back, sweet friend, too long thou art away, 
 My heart is pained while thou dost absent stay; 
 I yearn for thee each moment of the day. 
 Come back, sweet friend, too long thou art away. 
 
 For till thou comest — wherefore then delay? — 
 I have not any one to make me gay; 
 Come back, sweet friend, too long thou art away. 
 My heart is pained when thou dost absent stay.
 
 ULTIMA SPES MORTUORUM HI 
 
 THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 The Grave said: " Rose, so bright of hue, 
 What dost thou with the drops of dew 
 That bathe thy buds each day? " 
 
 The Rose replied: " O solemn Gra\'e! 
 With all that fills thy hungry cave 
 What doest thou, I pray? 
 
 From the sweet tears of morn that roll 
 Into my heart, the very soul 
 Of fragrance I distill." 
 
 The Grave then answered: "All that lies 
 Entombed, hereafter shall arise 
 God's Paradise to fill." 
 
 ULTIMA SPES MORTUORUM 
 
 (From the French of Henri Murger.) 
 I. 
 
 The bells will ring to-morrow for the day 
 
 Held sacred to the Dead, 
 And those who slumber in their shrouds of clay 
 
 Will quit their narrow bed. 
 
 " Yesterday was ' Lr Jour dr^ Mnrts.' and a large trade was done in mourn- 
 ing wreaths and iinmorti II) s destined to be placed upon the tombs of Mont- 
 martre. Montpamasse, and Pere- la-Chaise. But of the half a million people 
 who visit the cemeteries, more than half have no better impulse than curi- 
 osity. Nor are these funeral visits always made in person; footmen are often 
 despatched in cabs laden with black and yellow garlands, and all these are 
 always carefully deposited on the graves." — Extract from a Parv> letter.
 
 1 12 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Then shades invisible to mortal eye, 
 
 Arising from the tomb, 
 Will flit beneath the sycamores that sigh 
 
 Amid funereal gloom 
 
 Chilled by the breeze those shivering phantoms stray, 
 
 While Heaven is dark above, 
 And still by hope inspirited they say, 
 
 " We wait for those we love: 
 
 " Their warm true hearts our absence still deplore^ 
 
 " And soon in dark array, 
 " A pilgrim band, our cherished friends of yore,. 
 
 " Above each cross will pray. 
 
 '' And they will ofifer to our me*nory true 
 
 " Affection's simple boon: 
 " Kind hands immortelles on each mound will strew, 
 
 '■ That fade alas — so soon! " 
 
 II. 
 
 Why from your cerements shake the dust away? 
 
 Why come to tremble 'neath our misty skies? 
 What sound disturbed within your beds of clay 
 
 The slumberous calm that weighed upon your eyes?" 
 
 Shades of the Dead! ye viewless spectres! tell — 
 Why cross the threshold of the earth again? 
 
 What hope ye from this world wherein we dwell. 
 Since in your grave-clothes still ye hope in vain? 
 
 Ye come, your confidence in man to test, 
 
 And ye will carry back into your bed 
 The sad conviction, bitterly confess'd, 
 
 That from oblivion nought can save the Dead.
 
 ULTIMA SPES MORTUORUM lia 
 
 III. 
 
 The De Projundis pealed its solemn tones, 
 
 And the good man of God 
 Pra^'ed, while the sexton hid your coffined bones 
 
 Beneath the hallowed sod; 
 
 Parents and sisters, friends and lovers, all 
 
 Whom at the final hour 
 Your dying lips had kissed, were round the pall 
 
 Regretful tears to shower; 
 
 And all, when blessings with your latest breath 
 
 To each in turn were given, 
 While ye were waiting for the call of Death 
 
 To wing your flight to Heaven — - 
 
 All fondly promised, weeping in despair, 
 
 That from each faithful heart, 
 Your memories, sanctified by daily prayer. 
 
 Should never more depart! 
 
 Come then, to-day — your prison portals ope, 
 
 Your resting places leave: 
 Eternal victims of eternal hope. 
 
 Come — wait in vain, till eve! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The ghosts are flitting restlessly 
 
 Beneath the cypress trees: 
 They list — 'tis nothing but the sigh 
 
 Of some autumnal breeze:
 
 114 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 But still those phantoms list each sound 
 
 That breathes the lonely walks around. 
 
 Long, but in vain, they wait to hear 
 
 The tread of human footstep near. 
 
 Then shedding bitter tears of sorrow. 
 
 They whisper, " They will come to-morrow." 
 
 Lord! Thou well knowest that they will not come. 
 And that those hapless ghosts will oft return 
 
 To seek some simple offering at their tomb, 
 For which they vainly evermore will yearn : 
 
 To Thee the cruel irony is known! 
 
 Whatever dies is soon Oblivion's prey, 
 And tears that answered every dying groan 
 
 E'en at the grave are calmly wiped away. 
 
 Lord! Thou dost know that o'er the world to-flay 
 The love of Self triumphantly doth reign. 
 
 That should this curse defer some souls to slay. 
 Sooner or later they must still be slain. 
 
 Lord ! Thou well knowest that the human race 
 Is sick at heart and weary to the death. 
 
 Pursuing Hope in everlasting chase, 
 
 Until we murmur with our dying breath, — 
 
 " At last we greet the silence of repose, 
 
 " Blue sky or black — to us it matters not — 
 
 " Calmly we slumber, disregarding woes, 
 " Expecting nought, for all is now forgot." 
 
 And yet, oh mockery! the rest we crave 
 Is still disturbed within our final bed: 
 
 Hope, faithless spectre, penetrates the grave 
 And, by the living spurned, deludes the dead!
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER 115. 
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 "Dear Mother of our Mother! dost thou sleep? 
 Thy voice was wont to murmur many a tone 
 
 Of rapt devotion e'en in slumber deep: 
 Breathless, this eve thou liest here alone, 
 With lips all motionless, a form of stone. 
 
 Why on thy bosom droops thy wrinkled brow? 
 What have we done to cause that seeming ire? 
 
 The lamp burns dim, the ashes glimmer low, 
 
 And shouldst thou answer not, the smould'ring fire 
 The lamp, and we thy two, will all expire! 
 
 By the dim lamp thy children soon will die. 
 And thou, by slumber's spell no more opprest, 
 
 Wilt call on those who may not hear thy cry: 
 And thou long-time wilt fold us to thy breast. 
 And strive with prayer, to stir us from our rest. 
 
 In our warm hands thy chilly fingers place; 
 Sing lays of Troubadours, dead long ago, 
 
 Of warriors, aided by the Fairy race. 
 
 Who chanted Love amid the battle's glow, 
 
 And decked their brides with trophies from the foe.. 
 
 Tell us the signs that scatter ghosts in flight — 
 What hermit viewed Hell's swift-careering Lord — 
 
 Tell of the Gnome-king's rubies sparkling bright. 
 And if the psalms of Turpin are abhorr'd 
 By the black demon, more than Roland's swords
 
 116 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Show us thy Bible, filled with pictures fair, 
 
 Saints robed in white, who guard each hamlet low, 
 
 Virgins, with golden glories round their hair — 
 Or, read the pages, where we long to know 
 Each mystic word that breathes to God our woe. 
 
 Soon from all light thy children will be shut — 
 Round the black hearth the frolic shadows dance 
 
 And airy shapes may steal within the hut: 
 
 Thou frightest us — thy love is changed, perchance — 
 Oh! cease thy prayer, awaken from thy trance! 
 
 Unseal those eyes — Oh! God, thine arms are cold! 
 
 Oft hast thou told us of the glorious sky. 
 Of the damp grave, and life that waxeth old, 
 
 And oft of death — what is it then to die? 
 
 Tell us, dear Mother: thou dost not reply! " 
 
 With plaintive voices long they wailed alone— 
 The sleeper woke not when the morning shone. 
 The death-bell, slowly tolling, seemed to grieve, 
 And through the door, a passer-by at eve 
 By the still couch and pictured Bible sees 
 Two little children praying on their knees.
 
 THE TERRORS OF DEATH 117 
 
 THE TERRORS OF DEATH. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE WALLS OF A CARTHUSIAN MONASTERY 
 
 (From the French of Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 Thou who dost pace this cloistered hall, 
 
 Reflect on death ! Thou canst not know 
 If e'er again thy form shall throw 
 
 Its changeful shadow on the wall. 
 
 It may be that these very stones 
 
 Which thou, regardless of the dead, 
 To-day with sandall'd foot dost tread, 
 
 Shall press to-morrow on thy bones. 
 
 Life, like a frail, thin plank, conceals 
 
 Eternity's abyss profound : 
 
 A gulf yawns suddenly around. 
 The panic-stricken sinner reels: 
 
 The earth recedes on which he trod, 
 
 What finds he now? Heaven blue and calm, 
 Or Hell's red blaze? The victor's palm, 
 
 Or torment? Lucifer or God? 
 
 Oh! ponder well the thought of dread! 
 And let thy prescient spirit view 
 Thyself, as with cadaverous hue, 
 
 Thou liest stretched upon a bed. 
 
 Betwixt two sheets, whereof the one 
 
 Shall form the shroud to wrap thy clay, 
 Sad raiment all must wear some day, 
 
 Albeit coveted by none!
 
 118 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 By fever parched or numbed by cold, 
 
 Writhing like green wood in the fire, 
 While inarticulate words expire 
 
 Upon thy lips — thyself behold! 
 
 Thou pantest, like a stag at bay; 
 
 Death rattles hoarsely in thy throat, 
 Foreboding with sepulchral note 
 
 The soul's desertion of the clay; 
 
 Dark-vestured priests in silence steal 
 W^ithin thy room, with oil and pyx. 
 And bearing each a crucifix, 
 
 Around thy lowly pallet kneel. 
 
 Behold too praying for thy soul 
 
 Thy wife and children, loved so well! 
 The ringer of the passing-bell 
 
 Hangs on the rope thy knell to toll. 
 
 The sexton hollows with his spade 
 A narrow bed thy bones to hold. 
 And soon the fresh brown crumbling mould 
 
 Shall fill the pit where thou art laid. 
 
 Thy flesh so delicate and fair. 
 
 Shall serve the charnel-worms to feed, 
 And brightly tint each flower and weed 
 
 Upon thy grave with verdure rare. 
 
 Fit then, thy soul that hour to meet 
 
 When thou shalt draw thy latest breath! 
 My brother! bitter is the death 
 
 Of him whose life hath been too sweet!
 
 THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD 119 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 (A Legend of Brittany.) 
 
 When Jesus meekly passed to death 
 
 And bore the cursed rood, 
 With faltering limbs and failing breath, 
 
 And brow bedewed with blood; 
 
 A small bird hovering in the air 
 
 Flew down and strove, in vain, 
 With feeble strength, but pious care, 
 
 To soothe the Saviour's pain. 
 
 The only thorn its love could wrest 
 
 From out His ruthless crown. 
 Pierced sharply through its gentle breast 
 
 And crimsoned all the down. 
 
 Ages have passed: but since that deed, 
 
 The bird with crimson breast — 
 Oh! sweetly superstitious creed — 
 
 Is loved by man the best. 
 
 THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 
 
 (From the French of Jean Reboul.) 
 
 An angel watched with radiant face 
 
 A cradled infant's dream. 
 Seeming his own bright form to trace 
 
 As in some crystal stream.
 
 120 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 " Sweet image of myself," he cried, 
 " Fair cherub come with me; 
 
 Far we will journey side by side, 
 Earth is no home for thee. 
 
 Here, bliss is mixed with base alloy 
 
 Pain pleasure underlies; 
 Grief echoes in each tone of joy, 
 
 And rapture has its sighs. 
 
 Fear at each banquet sits a guest, 
 Earth's calmest Sabbath fails 
 
 To pledge the future, or arrest 
 To-morrow's raging gales. 
 
 Say then, shall gloomy woes and fears 
 
 To vex thy soul arise? 
 Oh ! must the bitterness of tears 
 
 Bedim thine azure eyes? 
 
 No! Through the fields of space with me 
 
 Thy soul may soar content: 
 God claims no more those days from thee, 
 
 Thou should'st on earth have spent. 
 
 But let no sable robes by pale 
 And weeping friends be worn ; 
 
 Death's hour as gladly they should hail. 
 As that when thou wast born. 
 
 Pain for thy loss should leave no scar. 
 Thy doom should cloud no brow: 
 
 The last day is the fairest far 
 To beings pure as thou."
 
 WHAT THE SWALLOWS SAY 121 
 
 The seraph spake; and then, with white 
 
 Resplendent wings outspread, 
 To realms eternal took his flight: 
 
 Mother — thy son was dead! 
 
 WHAT THE SWALLOWS SAY. 
 
 (From the French of Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 Dry leaves drop silently and cover 
 The turf no longer fresh and green: 
 
 Fair weather now alas! is over, 
 
 The breeze at morn and eve is keen. 
 
 But ere the Autumn days are ended, 
 
 Earth's latest treasures charm the sight; 
 
 The dahlia's full cockade is splendid. 
 The marigold is flaming bright. 
 
 In bubbling drops the rain is beating 
 On every fountain, while on high 
 
 The swallows hold a monster meeting 
 To prate of winter now so nigh. 
 
 By hundreds they have flocked together, 
 Concerting plans to flee the cold: 
 
 One says, " 'Tis always charming weather 
 At Athens, on the rampart old. 
 
 There, on the Parthenon I've wintered 
 For many a year in peaceful rest, 
 
 And where a cannon-ball has splintered 
 A pillar's frieze, I make my nest."
 
 122 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Another cries: " I hang my chamber 
 Within a Turkish Cafe's walls, 
 
 Where Hadjis count their beads of amber, 
 And sunshine o'er the threshold falls: 
 
 I come — I go — I find no trouble 
 
 'Mid Latakia's vapours white, 
 And while the long narghilehs bubble, 
 
 I skim gay turbans in my flight." 
 
 A third: " In Baalbec's temple splendid 
 A triglyph yields me shelter warm; 
 
 There, lightly by my claws suspended, 
 I screen my gaping chicks from harm." 
 
 A fourth: "In future my address is 
 
 Rhodes, once with knightly warriors fill'd; 
 
 Beneath a capital's recesses 
 
 On some black column I shall build." 
 
 A fifth one twitters: " I am fearful 
 Age won't permit me far to fly; 
 
 Still. Malta's terraces are cheerful 
 Between blue water and blue sky." 
 
 A sixth: " For me the land of Pharaoh! 
 
 I'll paste an ornament with loam 
 High on a minaret of Cairo, 
 
 And thus secure my winter-home." 
 
 The last one: " Soon I shall be flitting 
 
 Above the Second Cataract ; 
 A granite monarch there is sitting, 
 
 For swallows' nests expressly crack'd."
 
 AN APPEAL FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB 123 
 
 Then all exclaim: " With tireless motion 
 
 To-morrow we shall voyage o'er 
 Brown plains, white peaks, and purple ocean 
 
 Whose foaming billows fringe the shore." 
 
 With quick, shrill cries, and wings a-flutter 
 
 On the tall roofs and narrow eaves, 
 Such is the talk the swallows utter, 
 
 Scared by the Autumn's reddening leaves. 
 
 I can interpret all their prattle; 
 
 Each poet is a bird of light. 
 Though like a captive, doomed to battle 
 
 With powers unseen that check his flight. 
 
 Then, " Oh! for pinions, airy pinions," 
 
 As Ruckert's charming verses sing, 
 To rove each year o'er earth's dominions 
 
 With swallows to eternal spring! 
 
 AN APPEAL FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB. 
 
 Deaf ! Not a murmur or a loving word 
 Can ever reach his ear. The raging sea, 
 The pealing thunder and the cannon's roar 
 To him are silent — silent as the grave. 
 Not quite; for, ever when God takes away. 
 
 " An Appeal for the Deaf and Dumb" appeared in Diogenes, and is here re- 
 printed, not on account of any supposed poetical merit, but because it met the 
 warm auproval of those in whose interest it was written. A deaf-mute, in a 
 letter asking for a wider circulation of the " Appeal " says of the accompany- 
 ing lines : " They are the most truthful and vivid I have ever met with, so 
 much so I am inclined to think the writer must have experienced the ciush- 
 ing calamity himself or that some ministering angel has portrayed the deaf- 
 mute's condition in all its reahty to the writer."
 
 124 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 He gives in other shape. The tramp of feet, 
 The crash of falHng things, the waves of sound 
 Strike on a deaf man's feelings with a force 
 To us unknown. Vibrations of the air 
 Play through his frame on sympathetic nerves, 
 Like fine-strung instruments of varied tone. 
 
 Dumb! Not a murmur or a loving word 
 Can ever pass his lips. The cry of rage, 
 The voice of friendship and the vows of love 
 Freeze on his tongue, so impotent of sound. 
 
 But deem not that intelligence is null 
 In that doomed mortal. Gaze upon his eye — 
 A speaking eye — an eye that seems to hear 
 E'en by observing, and that gathers more 
 From flickering lights and shadows of a face 
 Than duller minds can gain from spoken words. 
 
 The age of miracles hath past; but man 
 Can summon art and science to his aid, 
 And cause the faculties of sight and touch 
 To act imperfectly for speech and ear. 
 
 The deaf-mute seems by Nature formed to be 
 
 A delicate artificer, and skilled 
 
 In subtle operations of the hand; 
 
 He can be taught to read, and thus to learn 
 
 The story of the Present and the Past, 
 
 Or by quick signs to share his inmost thoughts 
 
 Chiefly with those for whom he yearneth most, 
 
 His fellow-sufferers! Nay, it sometimes haps
 
 GONDOLIED 125 
 
 That men, like Kitto, reft of senses twain, 
 Have by their lore electrified the world 
 And won the crown of literary fame. 
 
 Spare not your gifts, ye wealthy of the land. 
 
 To these afflicted brethren. Ye to whom 
 
 Heaven grants that sweetest of all blessings, health, 
 
 And the keen joys of each corporeal sense. 
 
 Aid those to whom these blessings are denied. 
 
 And shed some sunshine o'er their gloomy lives. 
 
 Let us all tread, as closely as we can, 
 
 In the blest footprints of that Holy One 
 
 Who went about forever doing good, 
 
 Making the dumb to speak, the deaf to hear. 
 
 GONDOLIED. 
 
 Kiss the red lips of thy mistress to-day. 
 
 To-morrow, who knows? thou mayst sleep with the 
 dead. 
 Love, while the heart in thy bosom is gay. 
 
 Love, while thy blood is a flame that is red. 
 Grey hairs they say, are the pale flowers of death; 
 
 Blood turns to ice, or but sluggishly flows; 
 Time the remorseless, will soon with his breath 
 
 Quench the wild fire that exultingly glows. 
 Into my gondola step from the shore. 
 
 Under its roof we are free from alarms; 
 Veiled are the windows and closed is the door — 
 
 Nobody sees thee, my love, in my arms.
 
 126 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Nobody watches our infinite bliss, 
 
 Gently we rock on the waters that heave; 
 
 Like the fond wavelets we toy and we kiss, 
 Mingling caresses this midsummer eve. 
 
 Love then, while youth thrilling passion inspires. 
 Age soon with snow will extinguish its fires! 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 (From the French of Madame Emile de Girardin.) 
 
 He passed from vision like a cloud, 
 
 Or wave that onward sweeps; 
 My heart that once was cold and proud 
 His image keeps. 
 
 One keen but fascinating glance 
 
 Enthralled my spell-bound eyes. 
 And since that moment of romance 
 Life's breath I prize. 
 
 Too daring and too rapturous 
 My self-communings seem; 
 I love him and to love him thus 
 Is joy supreme. 
 
 And yet in lonely hours, alas! 
 
 Mine eyes with tears are dim 
 To think my youthful years may pass 
 Apart from him. 
 
 He was the soul of which I dreamed, 
 
 For which I vainly pine; 
 The long-sought sister-soul that seemed 
 The twin of mine.
 
 THE OLD YEAR 127 
 
 And I had found it — oh, my heart! 
 
 Thy throbbings I must quell; 
 'Tis hard from all we love to part 
 And cry, " Farewell.' 
 
 M 
 
 But still, if pitying Heaven will deign 
 
 To aid us from above. 
 Hereafter, I shall meet again 
 My only love. 
 
 One moment let me hear him sigh 
 
 And feel his fond caress; 
 E'en were I doomed that hour to die 
 From joy's excess! 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 The calm pale moon is watching in the sky, 
 The stars look down unutterably bright. 
 
 Each like a seraph's eye; 
 They mourn thee not; they will not veil their fire, 
 For they have seen six thousand years expire! 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 I feel like one who weeps beside a bed. 
 Knowing full surely that the morrow's light 
 
 Will find his comrade dead ! 
 His comrade dead! Oh, solemn words of fate, 
 E'en at their sound the heart sinks desolate! 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 The'moaning winds thy requiem murmur low.
 
 128 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And like a corpse arrayed in garments white, 
 
 Thou liest draped in snow; 
 And thy young heir, when scarce thy breath hath 
 
 flown. 
 Will gallop up to seize upon his own. 
 
 Good night, Old Year, good night! 
 We knew that thou must die; the hectic flush 
 That tinged thy cheek in Autumn like a blight, 
 
 Told of Death's coming hush, 
 And musing mournfully, from day to day 
 We watched the languid progress of decay. 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 We bless thee for the blessings that thy hand 
 Hath scattered freely, as the sun doth light, 
 
 O'er each too thankless land ; 
 If sometimes we have murmured at our lot — 
 Old Year, we pray thee, oh! record it not! 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 Think how we strove the tempter to repel, 
 Think of our aspirations for the right. 
 
 And if alas! we fell. 
 Recall those words the Holy One did speak, 
 The Soul is willing but the Flesh is weak! 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 I trow that no man liveth on the Earth, 
 Who as thy spirit calmly takes its flight, 
 
 Would vent discordant mirth ; 
 For 'tis a solemn thing, while tolls the knell, 
 To bid the year eternally " Farewell! "
 
 THE HOROSCOPE 12* 
 
 Good night, Old Year, good night! 
 To some thou wast Ambassador of woe, 
 For with thee stalked the Phantom Death, to smite 
 
 Their loved ones like a foe ; 
 Let such not curse thee, they should kiss the rod. 
 For thou wast but the messenger of God. 
 
 Good night. Old Year, good night! 
 Mourners whose grief is bitter to endure 
 Should hail with joy thy Heavenward tending flight; 
 
 For if their Faith be sure, 
 Each moment wafts them nearer to that shore 
 Where death and tears and parting are no more. 
 
 Good night, Old Year, good night! 
 Thy Son, the New Year, waiteth at the door 
 And in his hand rich gifts he graspeth tight, 
 
 Three hundred and three-score; 
 Let us all greet him blithely as a friend. 
 And wait God's will with patience till the end. 
 
 THE HOROSCOPE. 
 
 (From the French of Frangois Coppee.) 
 
 Two sisters there, whose arms were interlaced, 
 Stood to consult a fortune-telling hag: 
 
 While she with wrinkled fingers slowly placed 
 The fatal cards upon an outspread rag. 
 
 Brunette and blonde, both fresh as morning's hour,. 
 
 A poppy brown, a white anemone; 
 One like a May bud, one an Autumn flower, 
 
 Both yearned alike their destiny to see.
 
 130 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 " Sorrow, alas! my child, thy life must fill," 
 
 The old witch murmured to the proud brunette: 
 
 The girl enquired, " But will he love me still? " 
 " Yes." " Then I care not — life is happy yet." 
 
 ^' Thou wilt not own thy lover's heart, sweet maid! 
 
 This to the second sister, white as snow: 
 ■" But shall I love him? " tearfully she said. 
 
 " Yes." " That is bliss enough for me to know." 
 
 THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE. 
 
 (The idea of " The Hare and the Tortoise " was suggested to me by the late 
 ■George T. Lanigan.) 
 
 Once on a time a memorable race 
 
 Between a tortoise and a hare took place. 
 
 At the word," Go," Puss started like the wind, 
 
 And left her rival hopelessly behind : 
 
 But soon reflecting that she scarce could lose. 
 
 She sank to earth and coolly took a snooze. 
 
 Meanwhile, the tortoise slowly plodded on, 
 
 Till, inch by inch, the goal was almost won. 
 
 Just then, the hare leaped lightly from her bed, 
 
 And saw the reptile crawling— far ahead : 
 
 Scared by the sight, with all her speed and strength 
 
 She galloped in a winner by a length ! 
 
 " Bravo! " cried Puss, " My victory serves to show 
 
 ■" The race is not gained — always — by the slow."
 
 " BEAUTY AND THE BEAST " 131 
 
 " BEAUTY AND THE BEAST." 
 
 (From the French of Beranger.) 
 
 Ye gods! how fair she is! how bright 
 
 To me her beauty seems! 
 Her eyes are full of tender light 
 
 That haunts the soul in dreams. 
 No breath of life can sweeter be 
 
 Than hers, beneath the sky: 
 Ye gods! how beautiful is she, 
 
 But what a fright am I ! 
 
 Ye gods! how fair! scarce tv/enty years 
 
 Have watched her charms unfold : 
 Her mouth a budding rose appears. 
 
 Her tresses, molten gold. 
 Demure and coy she fails to see 
 
 Each grace that we descry: 
 Ye gods! how beautiful is she. 
 
 But what a fright am I ! 
 
 Ye gods! how exquisite her bloom! 
 
 And yet she loves me well : 
 For years I envied men on whom 
 
 Fair woman's eyes would dwell. 
 Until I won her, Love from me 
 
 Disdainfully would fly: 
 Ye gods! how beautiful is she, 
 
 But what a fright am 1 1 
 
 Ye gods! she seems more charming now 
 
 For me her passion glows: 
 Bald before thirty years, my brow 
 
 To her its garland owes.
 
 132 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 My love shall now no secret be, 
 
 Triumphant I can die: 
 Ye gods! how beautiful is she, 
 
 But what a fright am I! 
 
 PROLOGUE TO "THE MERCHANT 
 OF VENICE." 
 
 (As acted in Montreal by the late Professor Andrew's Pupils.) 
 
 What shall I say? — 'Tis nigh three hundred years 
 Since the Great Master of our smiles and tears, 
 Shakespeare, the myriad-minded artist, drew 
 His never-fading portrait of the Jew. 
 
 Immortal Shylock! When we speak thy name, 
 What swift emiOtions kindle into flame! 
 Lured by the Dramatist's romantic spell 
 From the grey common-place wherein we dwell 
 We voyage backward, up the stream of Time, 
 To sea-girt Venice in her golden prime. 
 And there, encircled by her clustering isles 
 Round which the Ocean ever sports and smiles, 
 From marble palace and from frescoed wall. 
 From mosque-like fane and statue-peopled hall. 
 We turn our gaze to where Rialto's pride 
 Rears its broad arch and spans the busy tide; 
 For us one figure lives and haunts the scene. 
 In scarlet cap and, threadbare gaberdine. 
 
 Aye — there he stands — the money-lending Jew, 
 Wise as a serpent — and as deadly, too — 
 He sees his race, the chosen of the Lord,
 
 PROLOGUE TO "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE" 133 
 
 Proscribed and spurned, insulted and abhorred, 
 Till in his breast, inscrutable to all, 
 The milk of kindness curdles into gall. 
 Antonio threatens — must the threat be borne? 
 Again to spit upon his beard in scorn; 
 Oh! for one glorious chance, ere life be fled, 
 To wreak hot vengeance on the Christian's head; 
 Oh! that he might by one tremendous deed 
 Force the whole heart of Christendom to bleed. 
 It comes, at last, the chance for which he prayed; 
 The Duke is Judge, the forfeit must be paid. 
 And the stern claimant whets a gleaming knife, 
 Keen as his hunger for the Merchant's life. 
 
 We watch, we tremble for Antonio's fate. 
 We loathe the Hebrew's unrelenting hate. 
 But still we pity; and when Shylock old 
 Robbed of his child, his vengeance, and his gold. 
 Sees nought to live for in the years to come. 
 And blindly staggers to his lonely home, 
 I trow, that never since the world began 
 Hath woe more tragic been beheld by man! 
 
 Peace to such thoughts! I meant at first to say 
 
 More of the players than about the play, 
 
 But to my own astonishment I flew 
 
 Off at a tangent — all about the Jew. 
 
 One word, kind friends — whene'er you think it right, 
 
 Greet with applause the actors of to-night. 
 
 They're young, they own it, pray, forgive the crime — 
 
 Youth is a fault that disappears — in time.
 
 134 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Portia's sweet self is waiting, at the side, 
 
 Antonio's saviour and Bassanio's bride: 
 
 Her melting tones, inimitably clear. 
 
 Fall like soft music on the spell-bound ear, 
 
 While pert Nerissa plays a double part, 
 
 Like giddy Jessica, with graceful art. 
 
 As for the boys — those sprightly, clever elves 
 
 Have tongues, I know, to answer for themselves. 
 
 My task is o'er — the curtain soon will rise, 
 
 And Shakespeare's scenes shall live before your eyes. 
 
 VILIKINS AND HIS DINAH. 
 
 In London's fair city a merchant did dwell, 
 
 He had but one daughter, an unkimmon nice young 
 
 gal; 
 Her name it were Dinah, just sixteen years old, 
 With a very large portion of silver and gold. 
 
 As Dinah was a-valking in the gardin one day. 
 Her papa he came to her and thus he did say: — 
 " Go, dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array. 
 For I've got you a 'usband, both galliant and gay." 
 
 " Oh, papa, oh, papa! I've not made up my mind, 
 And to marry just yet I am not quite inclined: 
 And all my large fortin I'll gladly give o'er, 
 If you'll let me be single just one year or more." 
 
 " Go, go, boldest daughter," the parient replied, 
 " If you won't consent for to be this man's bride, 
 I'll give all your fortin to the nearest of kin 
 And you shan't reap the benefit of one single pin."
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM 135 
 
 As Vilikins vas a-valkin in the gardin one day, 
 He spied his dear Dinah lying dead on the clay — 
 And a cup of cold pison was a-lying by her side, 
 And a billet-dux to say that for Vilikins she died! 
 
 He kiss'd her cold corpus a thousand time o'er, 
 He called her his Dinah, though she were no more. 
 And swallowed the pison, like a lover so brave. 
 And Vilikins and his Dinah lie buried in one grave. 
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 
 
 Res bene Londini quondam mercator agebat, 
 Unica cui proles, grata puella, fuit. 
 
 Dina bis octonos vixdum compleverat annos, 
 Pondus ob argenti grande petita sui. 
 
 Forte vagabatur fragrantem Dina per hortum, 
 Quum pater ingratos edidit ore sonos: 
 
 " Vade age — sic jubeo — regales indue vestes — 
 Te manet egregius, Dina beata, procus." 
 
 " O pater, alme pater! mea mens incerta vacillat, 
 Nee cupio, thalami nescia, ferre jugum. 
 
 Divitias, quanta^ mihi sint, tibi leeta resigno, 
 Dummodo ne cogar me sociare viro." 
 
 " At cave," respondit pater, " audacissima virgo! 
 
 Nee mora — tu conjux conjugis hujus eris: 
 Sin minus — argento potietur proxinms haeres, 
 
 Nee fuerit vili te penes asse frui."
 
 136 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Forte pererrabat juvenis Vilikinsius hortum, 
 Tempore quo moriens Dina jacebat humi; 
 
 Cernitur atra calix, gelido commixta veneno, 
 
 Chartaque, virgineus qua patet omnis amor. 
 
 Oscula morte rigens accepit mille puella, 
 
 Mortua, sed quamvis mortua. Dina tamen! 
 
 Turn bibit impavido Mlikinsius ore venerium, 
 Fidaque cum fido Dina sepulta jacet. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE " GUARDS." 
 
 Brave men and true, farewell! 
 This eve the steamship wafts you from our shore, 
 And few who round the " Royal Mountain "dwell 
 
 Will see your faces more: 
 Should this be so — the future who can read? 
 Guardsmen! we bid you, one and all, God speed! 
 
 Blithe Summer thrice hath bloomed 
 Since, proudly conscious of your valour's worth, 
 What time War's shadow in the distance loomed, 
 
 Old England sent you forth ; 
 She deemed it well to trust her Western child 
 To men whose honour never was defiled. 
 
 Stern Winter reigned supreme 
 When to our aid ye marched through dreary lands; 
 Keen frost, deep snow-drifts seemed a hideous dream 
 
 To your enduring bands; 
 But the warm welcome ye received at last 
 Effaced the memory of each hardship past.
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE " GUARDS " 137 
 
 Then ye were strangers — now 
 Ye are our friends — and ye have earned the name 
 By living Hves ye need not disavow, 
 
 By shunning deeds of shame; 
 And thus, brave Guardsmen, as your host departs. 
 One feeling animates Canadian hearts; 
 
 One feeHng of regret. 
 Deep and unfeigned, that men by whom each day 
 Our streets were trod, to whom we owe a debt 
 
 That words can never pay. 
 Will soon be sundered by the ruthless deep 
 From hearts that pray for them, from eyes that weep! 
 
 Oft at the festal scene 
 We shall miss faces round the social hearth— 
 When gallant officers, whose courteous mien 
 
 Betokened gentle birth. 
 No longer woo Canadian beauty's glance, 
 Breathe the soft lay, or circle in the dance. 
 
 But not in vain, we trust. 
 Have your bold legions dwelt within our land; 
 Go to your English homes, since go you must, 
 
 It is your Queen's command — 
 But bear away fond memories of the time 
 That ye have sojourned in our peaceful clime. 
 
 Let distant brothers know 
 That they must dream of Canada no more 
 As a bleak region of eternal snow. 
 
 Where boundless forests soar. 
 And fur-clad settlers, whom the winter spares, 
 Wage a grim war with Indians or with bears.
 
 138 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Dispel such idle dreams: 
 Go tell your comrades, of a fertile soil, 
 A healthtul climate and majestic streams; 
 
 Tell how the sons of toil 
 Love the free country that hath still full space 
 To nurture millions of the human race. 
 
 Tell , of our sea-like lakes, 
 Of village Jiomes where Peace and Plenty smile, 
 Of grand St. Lawrence, our Canadian Nile, 
 
 And the vast Bridge that breaks 
 The crystal boulders, mountainous and white. 
 That Winter vainly hurls against its might. 
 
 And now, once more Farewell! 
 May Peace brood dove-like o'er your Island-home, 
 But oh! if e'er some rebel hordes to quell 
 
 Through foreign lands ye roam, 
 May the great God of Battles lend you might 
 To vanquish England's foemen in the fight. 
 
 THE SILKEN SASHES. 
 
 The Turks were many— the Greeks were few. 
 But their blood was hot and their hearts beat true; 
 And they sware an oath before God on high 
 Never like dastards to yield — but die. 
 
 But how can a hundred champions hope 
 With foes eight hundred or more to cope? 
 Death comes, however, but once to all, 
 Why fear to die, if they nobly fall ?
 
 THE SILKEN SASHES 139 
 
 One Greek, a stripling, they sent away 
 And sternly bade him this charge obey: 
 " Go hide and watch, till the combat ends. 
 Then bear the news to our wives and friends." 
 
 At dawn they quitted the mountain glade 
 Where each his couch on the turf had made, 
 And down to the valley they marched, and there 
 Upreared a rampart with toilsome care. 
 
 The Pacha's envoy gave curt command : 
 ** Disband, ye rebels! at once, disband! " 
 The Chieftain answered, " It is too late. 
 Our stand is taken: we bide our fate." 
 
 The silken sashes that girt them round. 
 Long crimson sashes, had been unwound: 
 And linked together, strong limb to limb, 
 They proudly chanted a battle-hymn. 
 
 The onslaught followed: the heroes fell. 
 Cut down by sabre and shot and shell; 
 But ere the lives of the hundred sped, 
 Five hundred Moslems had joined the dead. 
 
 When months had passed since that bloody fray, 
 An English Colonel who rode that way 
 Saw sun-bleached skeletons strewn around, 
 With crimson sashes together bound.
 
 140 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 (From the French of Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 In the forest bleak and lonely 
 Nothing by the winds is stirred 
 
 But one withered leaflet only, 
 And beside it pipes a bird. 
 
 Everything is dead or dying 
 In my heart, save love alone; 
 
 There it sings, but Autumn's sighing 
 Drowns the music of each tone. 
 
 Winter comes — the leaflet falleth. 
 Love, too, dies amid the gloom; 
 
 Little Bird! when spring-time calleth, 
 Come and sing above my tomb! 
 
 A PAUPER POET. 
 
 In a vast city's swarming street, 
 
 Where crowds sweep wave-like on, 
 
 Where, if some strange, quaint sight we meet, 
 We turn, and lo! 'tis gone; 
 
 I saw a face that moved my heart. 
 
 That haunts my memory yet, 
 Its phantom never can depart, 
 
 Although but once we met.
 
 A PAUPER POET 141 
 
 I may not tell the wretchedness 
 
 That glared from out its eyes; 
 Touched by its silent, sore distress, 
 
 I could not check my sighs. 
 
 He passed, men muttered, and I heard 
 
 His life's eventful tale — 
 What marvel if my soul was stirred 
 
 That stranger to bewail ? 
 
 A Poet once — his magic strains 
 
 Through Italy had rung. 
 And with wild music pierced the brains 
 
 And hearts of old and young. 
 
 He had sung Love, Liberty, and Light, 
 
 And, by some weird control. 
 Had troubled, as an Angel might. 
 
 The waters of each soul. 
 
 And now he treads the crowded street, 
 
 A care-worn pauper old — 
 White-haired, ill-clad in summer's heat, 
 
 Ill-clad in winter's cold. 
 
 Methought, that Bard, bowed down and weak, 
 
 Was like some leafless vine. 
 Which, storm-tossed, on a hill-side bleak, 
 
 And white with snow, doth pine; 
 
 While the rich juice that from it ran. 
 
 Like song from a Poet's heart, 
 Cheers, warms and fires the souls of men 
 
 In climes that oceans part!
 
 142 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A BALLAD FOR CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 
 
 There is a story that hath oft 
 
 My spirit deeply stirred, 
 None ever at its words have scoffed, 
 
 Although so often heard. 
 
 I call to mind no other tale. 
 
 More fitted for the time; 
 Its pathos cannot wholly fail 
 
 To consecrate my rhyme. 
 
 A rich man dwelt in days of old 
 
 Within a palace rare; 
 Arrayed in purple and in gold 
 
 He fed on sumptuous fare. 
 
 And to his gateway there did crawl 
 
 A Lazar, old and sore. 
 Who begged the crumbs that chanced to fall 
 
 Upon the palace floor. 
 
 Alas! in vain the Lazar prayed; 
 
 They bade him " Quick, begone! " 
 In purple and in gold arrayed 
 
 Still Dives feasted on. 
 
 Death came — and Lazarus at last 
 
 With Angels went to dwell ; 
 The rich man's spirit also passed 
 
 Away from earth — to hell.
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE HOPELESS MAN 143 
 
 And thence he lifts his burning eyes 
 
 In torment and unrest, 
 And sees the Lazar, as he lies 
 
 In Abraham's holy breast. 
 
 " One drop, one drop, in Mercy's name, 
 
 To cool my tongue," he cried, 
 " I am tormented in this flame! " 
 
 That blessing was denied. 
 
 O brothers! ye, who riches own. 
 
 To starving want be just; 
 Heaven counts those riches but a loan, 
 
 A temporary trust. 
 
 There is a gulf which yawns between 
 
 The Wealthy and the Poor, 
 And Love alone that wide ravine 
 
 Can bridge securely o'er! 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE HOPELESS MAN. 
 
 (From the French of Henri Murger.) 
 
 ^' Who knocks for entrance at this hour? " 
 
 " Open." " Who art thou first ? " " 'Tis I." 
 
 *' Thy name. I cannot ope my door 
 At midnight to a stranger's cry; 
 
 Thy name." " Oh! let me in thy room — 
 
 The snow falls fast — it blinds my sight! " 
 
 ■" Thy name." " A corpse within the tomb 
 Is not more cold than I to-night.
 
 144 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 For I have wandered all the day 
 
 From north to south, from east to west; 
 Oh! let the wanderer in, I pray. 
 
 One moment by thy fire to rest! " 
 
 " Not yet! Who art thou ? " " I am Fame — 
 
 To immortality I lead." 
 " Hence mocking shade, delusive name! 
 
 Thy faithless voice I dare not heed." 
 
 " Oh! hear me, I am Love and Youth 
 
 Akin to heaven." — " Pass on thy way; 
 
 My mistress failed me in her truth — 
 
 Love, Youth for me both died that day! " 
 
 " Hush! I am Poesy and Art, 
 
 Proscribed by man. Quick, open." " No — 
 Begone! All music from my heart 
 
 Died out with love, long years ago." 
 
 " But I am Wealth: thou shalt not lack 
 Vast treasures of victorious gold, 
 
 And I can lure thy mistress back — " 
 " Alas! but not our love of old." 
 
 " Unbar thy dwelling! I am Power 
 
 And I can throne thee as a King." 
 
 " In vain — the friends that are no more 
 
 Back to these arms thou canst not bring." 
 
 " Then hearken! If for him alone 
 
 Who tells his name, thy doors unclose — 
 
 Learn that my name is Death : I own 
 A balm that cures all earthly woes.
 
 A STORY OF KING DAVID 145- 
 
 Hark! at my girdle clank the keys 
 
 Of gloomy vaults where sleep the dead! 
 
 Thou, too, shalt slumber at thine ease. 
 For I will guard thy dreamless bed." 
 
 " Come, then, thou stranger pale and thin, 
 Scorn not my garret's naked floor — 
 
 My hearth is cold, but enter in, 
 
 I welcome thee — I can no more. 
 
 Hope's self my bosom cannot thrill, 
 
 And I am weary of life's cheat: 
 Had but my courage matched my will. 
 
 This heart long since had ceased to beat. 
 
 Come, sup with me, and sleep; and when 
 Thy reckoning thou shalt seek to pay 
 
 At morn, O gentle Angel, then 
 
 Far bear me in thine arms away. 
 
 Long for thy coming I have pined. 
 
 And I with joy will be thy mate: 
 But leave, oh! leave my dog behind. 
 
 For — so — one friend shall mourn my fate! " 
 
 A STORY OF KING DAVID. 
 
 1 Chronicles, Chap. XI, 15-19. 
 
 'Twas the harvest-time, and the warrior King 
 
 In the cave of AduUam lay, 
 Weary of battles, and languishing 
 
 With the pitiless heat of day; 
 Pale he lay, as one who had died. 
 And his foes were around him on every side.
 
 146 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Through a storm-rent crevice he bent his gaze 
 
 Upon Rephaim's vale below, 
 And watched in the quivering noontide-blaze 
 
 The tents of the heathen glow; 
 For the foemen's garrisons held each place, 
 City or hamlet, that eye could trace. 
 
 A burning fever consumed the King, 
 
 And he panted with keen desire 
 For a fresh, cool draught from some mountain spring, 
 
 While his brain seemed all on fire; 
 But rivulet near him or fount was none: — 
 They had been lapped up by the fierce, hot sun. 
 
 Then he thought how his enemies slaked their thirst 
 
 At the well by Bethlehem's gate, 
 And a cry from his kingly bosom burst. 
 
 As he crouched there, desolate; 
 " Oh! the cool, pure waters of Bethlehem, 
 My parched lips' agony pines for them! 
 
 Is it some dream that I panting lie 
 
 Like a woodland beast at bay? 
 Israel's anointed King, am I 
 
 To perish of thirst this day? 
 Oh! that some help-mate a draught would give 
 Of Bethlehem's waters that I might live! 
 
 Adino the Eznite, a stalwart chief. 
 
 And warrior-comrades twain. 
 Heard the sick monarch's low cries of grief. 
 
 And vowed to assuage his pain ; 
 But for three, I ween, 'twas a hopeless task 
 To seek the boon that the King did ask.
 
 A STORY OF KING DAVID 14r 
 
 Their fleet, strong coursers flew like wind, 
 
 Their swords like lightning flashed. 
 As onward, to jeopardy seeming blind, 
 
 Like angels of death they dashed, 
 Till at Bethlehem's gate, after bloody deeds, 
 They reeled in their saddles and reined their steeds. 
 
 Ice-cold water they drew from the well, 
 
 And soon by the same red track. 
 While arrows and javelins rain-like fell. 
 
 Rode gashed and gore-stained back: 
 Then they sought the cavern, and cried, " O King^. 
 Water from Bethlehem's well we bring." 
 
 Dizzy and feeble the King stood up 
 
 To honour the mighty Three, 
 And with trembling fingers upraised the cup, 
 
 While its waters sparkled free; 
 Still he would not sip one drop, but poured 
 The blood-bought life-draught to the Lord, 
 
 And he spake: " O Lord! be it far from me 
 
 To do this sinful thing; 
 This cup is the blood of these mighty Three 
 
 Who were stricken to save their King! " 
 So he would not drink in his sore distress — 
 Could a king do more, or a hero less ?
 
 :148 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 AT LAKE MAHOLfi. 
 
 (Dedicated to Louis J. Papineau, Esq., of Montebello.) 
 
 Stretched on a hillside's wooded height, 
 
 While with faint sigh the breezes blow, 
 
 We watch the moonbeams' trembling light 
 On Lake Mahole's breast below. 
 
 Primev'al mountains, grouped around, 
 O'ergrown by immemorial pines, 
 
 The near horizon's circle bound 
 
 With their black summits' curving lines. 
 
 And all is silent as the moon — 
 
 The earth, the waters, and the sky — 
 
 -Save when some solitary loon 
 
 Wakes the weird echoes with a cry. 
 
 Here, where man's step hath seldom trod, 
 Where settler's axe hath never rung, 
 
 We muse unseen except by God — 
 
 Each nerve to new-born rapture strung. 
 
 Amid this solemn wilderness 
 
 'Twere sweet, dear friend, to dwell awhile, 
 Far from stern labour's daily stress 
 
 Too rarely solaced by a smile. 
 
 'Twere sweet — who knows ? beneath yon lake 
 To sink on some tempestuous night, 
 
 And in an after-world to wake — 
 A world of unimagined light!
 
 ODES OF HORACE 149 
 
 Peace to such thoughts. The camp-fire's blaze 
 Allures us to our transient home: 
 
 To-morrow, with the sun's first rays 
 Awaking, onward we will roam. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 FOR A BLIND BEGGAR. 
 
 Like Homer's self, or Belisarius blind, 
 
 By one slight girl, his guardian angel, led — 
 
 The alms bestowed by strangers who are kind 
 He cannot see; God watches in his stead. 
 
 BENEATH A CRUCIFIX. 
 
 Come to this God, ye mourners, for he weeps: 
 Come, ye who sufter, he will heal your pain: 
 
 Ye tremblers, come: his pity never sleeps; 
 
 Come, all who pass: Christ waits, and will remain. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ODES OF 
 HORACE. 
 
 Book I. Ode XXII. 
 
 Fuscus, the man whose life is pure, 
 And clear from crime, may live secure: 
 No Moorish darts or bow he needs. 
 No quiver stored with venomed reeds.
 
 150 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRiW 
 
 Whether on Afric's burning sands, 
 Or savage Caucasus he stands, 
 Or where, with legend-haunted tide. 
 The waters of Hydaspes glide. 
 
 For, while in Sabine glades, alone, 
 Singing of Lalage, my own, 
 I roamed light-hearted and unarmed, 
 A wolf that faced me fled — alarmed. 
 
 No monster so portentous roves 
 Through gallant Daunia's broad oak-groves, 
 Nor e'en in Juba's thirsty land. 
 That suckles lions 'mid the sand. 
 
 Place me on lifeless deserts, where 
 No tree is fanned by summer's air. 
 That zone of earth, which mist and cloud 
 With sullen atmosphere enshroud; 
 
 Set me in boundless realms afar. 
 Beneath the sun's too neighbouring car. 
 E'en there, sweet-smiling Lalage, 
 Sweet-speaking maid, beloved shall be. 
 
 HORACE TO VIRGIL ON THE DEATH OF 
 QUINCTILIUS. 
 
 Book I, Ode XXIV 
 
 Why check the yearning for a friend 
 
 So loved ? O muse, to whom belong, 
 By Jove's own gift, both lyre and song, 
 Thy mournful inspiration lend.
 
 ODES OF HORACE 151 
 
 Quinctilius sleeps in endless night! 
 
 When shall his peer be found on earth 
 For truth unblemished, modest worth, 
 
 And loyal faith that loves the right ? 
 
 The Good all mourned him; but thy moan 
 Was saddest, Virgil! Thou in vain 
 Dost ask him of the Gods again, 
 
 Unmindful he was but a loan. 
 
 Nay — could 'st thou sweeter strains command 
 Than Orpheus, whom the groves obeyed, 
 Thou could'st not animate the shade 
 
 Which Maia's son, with gloomy wand, 
 
 Closing the gate of Life, hath driv'n 
 
 To mingle with the spectral throng, 
 
 'Tis hard — but Suffering makes us strong 
 
 To meet the unchanging will of Heav'n! 
 
 Book I. Ode XXXVII. 
 
 Boy, I detest all Persian state, 
 
 And crowns with linden-bark entwined; 
 Seek not the rose that lingers late 
 For me to find. 
 
 Enough; this simple myrtle-wreath 
 
 Which decks not ill thy brows and mine, 
 As, served by thee, I drink beneath 
 The trellised vine.
 
 152 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Book III. Ode XIL 
 
 Bandusian Spring, as crystal clear, 
 
 With flowers, thy due, and pleasant wine, 
 A kid to-morrow shall be thine, 
 
 Whose horns just budding forth appear. 
 
 Portending love and war. In vain! 
 Child of the wanton flock, his blood 
 The ice-cold current of thy flood 
 
 Ere long with crimson hue shall stain. 
 
 The blazing Dog-star's scorching heat 
 Doth touch thee not. Oh! grateful thou 
 To oxen wearied of the plough, 
 
 And the faint herd with wandering feet. 
 
 Thou, too, ennobled, shalt be found 
 Among Earth's fountains, while I sing 
 Thy bubbling rills, that downward spring 
 
 From hollow crags with ilex crown'd. 
 
 Book II. Ode X. 
 
 Life's course in safety would'st thou steer, 
 
 Licinius, shun the open deep; 
 Nor to the treacherous shore in fear 
 
 Of storms too closely keep. 
 
 The giant pine by tempest oft 
 
 Is rent: towers fall with heavy crash 
 
 And mountain peaks that soar aloft 
 Attract the lightning's flash.
 
 ODES OF HORACE 153 
 
 He who selects the golden mean 
 
 Finds in no garret foul his home, 
 Nor covets, sober and serene. 
 
 The envy-stirring dome. 
 
 A mind well trained both hopes in woe, 
 And fears in weal a change of fate, 
 
 For Jove who sends the cheerless snow 
 Withdraws it soon or late. 
 
 Tears will be followed by a smile — 
 
 Apollo, with his lyre, the muse 
 Oft wakens, ceasing for a while 
 His deadly bow to use. 
 
 When nearly wrecked in times of ill 
 Prove the brave mettle of thy mind, 
 
 And wisely reef thy sails that fill 
 With too propitious wind. > 
 
 Book H. Ode XIV. 
 
 Oh! Postumus, my friend, my friend, 
 The years glide swiftly to an end : 
 No prayers can wrinkled age delay 
 Or Death's inevitable day. 
 Thrice yearly hecatombs of steers 
 From Pluto's eyes can draw no tears. 
 Sternly he holds Earth's giant brood 
 Encircled with a gloomy flood : 
 That flood which all must traverse soon, 
 All we who feed on Nature's boon,
 
 154 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Kings though we be, exempt from toil, 
 
 Or needy tillers of the soil. 
 
 What though we shun War's bloody plain 
 
 And the hoarse surge of Adria's main; 
 
 What though in Autumn's sultry hour 
 
 We dread the South wind's blighting power, 
 
 To black Cocytus, oozing slow 
 
 And the vile Danaids we must go. 
 
 Him we must view who rolls the stone 
 
 Condemned eternally to groan. 
 
 Earth, home, and charming wife must be 
 
 Abandoned, and no cherished tree, 
 
 Except the cypresses abhorred. 
 
 Shall follow there their short lived lord. 
 
 An heir thy Caecuban shall seize 
 
 Close guarded with a hundred keys, 
 
 And revelry thy floor shall stain 
 
 With choicer wine than Pontiffs drain. 
 
 " FOR VALOUR." 
 
 Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life forfhis 
 friend. New Testament. 
 
 Hector Lachlan Stewart MacLean 
 
 A " Beau sabreur " in the Swat campaign, 
 
 Will never brandish his sword again. 
 
 Boldly he charged with some troopers brave, 
 And hissing bullets they faced to save 
 A foe-girt friend from a bloody grave.
 
 THE DOVES 155 
 
 They grasped his body, and swiftly turned : 
 
 MacLean, sore-wounded, in spirit burned: 
 
 The Cross " For Valour " their deed had earned. 
 
 Death claimed his prey. In the next " Gazette " 
 
 His name was honoured, with keen regret 
 
 That he died ere his Country could pay her debt. 
 
 And thus, by laying his young life down 
 
 To save a comrade, he won renown. 
 
 His Cross he missed — but he gained his Crown! 
 
 A paragraph in the London " Daily News " says : " The Victoria Cross is to 
 be conferred on some brave Indian officers. Their acts of courage arc recorded 
 in ' The London Gazette,' simultaneously with the announcement of Her 
 Majesty's intention to give them the coveted decoration ' For Valour.' Two 
 of the decorations refer to one incident in the Upper Swat Campaign. A third 
 decoration ought to have been given, but it will be seen that in the act of 
 bravery commended Lieutenant Hector Lachlan Stewart MacLean sacrificed 
 his life and therefore his Cross. There is a pathetic memorandum in the 
 ' Gazette ' to the effect that on account of his gallant conduct he would have 
 been recommended to Her Majesty for the Victoria Cross had he survived." 
 The " Daily News " then quotes from the " Gazette " the official record of the 
 bravery of these officers. 
 
 THE DOVES. 
 
 (From Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 On yonder hillside, white with tombs, 
 A palm tree's fan-like foliage blooms ; 
 There, in the gloaming flock the doves, 
 To rest their wings and coo their loves. 
 
 At dawn the palm tree they forsake. 
 Like beads that from a necklace break, 
 And scatter airily in flight, 
 Upon some distant roof to light.
 
 156 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 My soul doth, like that palm, receive 
 White dreams as visitors, at eve: 
 They drop from heaven — a while they stay- 
 But vanish at the break of dav. 
 
 KNIGHT TOGGENBURG. 
 
 (Translated from Schiller.) 
 
 " Sir Knight! true sister-love 
 
 This heart devotes to thee : 
 No fonder seek to prove. 
 
 For oh! it paineth me. 
 Calmly I see thee near. 
 
 Calmly I see thee go: 
 But why that silent tear 
 
 Is wept, I may not know." 
 
 By dumb despair oppress'd 
 
 The warrior's heart was wrung — 
 He strained her to his breast, 
 
 Then on his charger sprung; 
 And summoned vassals brave 
 
 Forth from the Switzer's land. 
 And sought the Holy Grave 
 
 With red-cross pilgrim-band. 
 
 There deeds of daring might 
 
 Were wrought by heroes' arms — 
 
 Their helmet-plumes waved bright 
 Amid the Paynim-swarms : 
 
 And Toggenburg's dread name
 
 KNIGHT TOGGENBURG 157 
 
 Struck terror to the foe, 
 But still no solace came 
 To soothe his lonely woe. 
 
 One year he now hath pined — 
 
 Why longer should he stay ? 
 Repose he cannot find 
 
 Amid the host's array. 
 A bark from Joppa's strand 
 
 Sailed gentle gales beneath: 
 He seeks the hallowed land 
 
 Where floats her balmy breath. 
 
 And soon a pilgrim wan 
 
 Knocks at her castle-gate, 
 And hears, oh! lonely man! 
 
 The thunder-word of fate: 
 " The maid thou seekest now 
 
 Is Heaven's unspotted bride, 
 By yester-morning's vow 
 
 To God himself allied." 
 
 'Tis past! He quits for aye 
 
 His old ancestral home; 
 His arms with rust decay. 
 
 His steeds at pleasure roam. 
 Down from his natal crags. 
 
 Unknown to all, he hies: 
 A hermit's sackcloth rags 
 
 His noble limbs disguise. 
 
 He rears a lowly hut 
 
 Near scenes endeared by love. 
 Where frowns her convent shut
 
 158 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 'Mid shade of linden-grove: 
 And in that lonesome place 
 
 He sate from dawn of day, 
 With hope upon his face, 
 
 Till evening's latest ray; 
 
 Watching with earnest hope 
 
 The convent-walls above 
 To mark a lattice ope, 
 
 The lattice of his love: 
 To see but once her face, 
 
 So meek and angel-mild. 
 Low bending down to gaze 
 
 Upon the valley wild. 
 
 And then he sought repose. 
 
 Consoled by visions bright. 
 Nor thought upon his woes 
 
 At sweet return of light. 
 And thus he sate — alone — 
 
 Long dream-like days and years. 
 Waiting, without a moan. 
 
 Until the maid appears: 
 
 Waiting to see her face. 
 
 So meek and angel-mild. 
 Low bending down to gaze 
 
 Upon the valley wild. 
 And so he sate in death 
 
 One summer morning, there. 
 Still watching from beneath 
 
 With fond, calm, wistful stare !
 
 A COUP D'ETAT 159 
 
 A COUP D'ETAT. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 4tH, 1851. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 The child received two bullets in the brain. 
 
 We bore him home: the house was small and plain. 
 
 On the bare wall there hung a portrait, dress'd 
 
 With a green palm-branch that a priest had bless'd. 
 
 The aged grandmother was there, alone: 
 
 She kiss'd the victim with a piteous moan. 
 
 In silence we uncovered every limb. 
 
 His lips were open, and his eyes were dim; 
 
 And while his arms drooped, listless, to the ground, 
 
 A wooden top within his frock we found. 
 
 Deep were the wounds from which we wiped the 
 
 blood — 
 Hast thou seen berries bleeding in a wood? 
 His skull was cloven, as a log is split, 
 The woman watched us, as we tended it. 
 Crying: " How white he is! Bring near the lamp: 
 God! The poor curls around his brow are damp! " 
 When all was done, she took him on her knees. 
 The night was dreary — borne upon the breeze 
 Gunshots were heard, that told of many dead. 
 " Come — let us bury the dear child," we said, 
 And from an antique chest we drew a sheet. 
 But still the grandam strove to gather heat 
 In his stiff limbs, beside the embers warm. 
 Alas! when Death's cold fingers touch a form 
 All earthly warmth is vain. She bent her head. 
 Drew off his socks, scarce sure that he was dead,
 
 160 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And while his feet she fondled in her hand, 
 
 She said: " These things are hard to understand. 
 
 Monsieur, the child was only eight years old, 
 
 And all his teachers loved him, I am told. 
 
 When some chance letter reached me from a friend. 
 
 The boy would write — but this is at an end! 
 
 They kill the children now, it seems; Mon Dieii, 
 
 Men have turned brigands, then! Can this be true? 
 
 Before our window, there, he played at morn — 
 
 To-night, my darling from my life is torn. 
 
 They fired upon him, Monsieur, in the street. 
 
 While he was passing — he, so good and sweet — 
 
 But I am old; I have not long to stay; 
 
 Would God that Monsieur Bonaparte to-day 
 
 Had bid his soldiers kill me, not the child." 
 
 Here, she ceased speaking, for her sobs grew wild. 
 
 Soon, she continued with pathetic tone, 
 
 " What will become of me now left alone? 
 
 Explain me that, kind gentlemen. I had 
 
 Nought from his mother but this little lad. 
 
 Why did they kill him? Can you tell me? Speak; 
 
 He never shouted, Vive la Republique I " 
 
 Silent and grave we stood, with brows all bare. 
 Trembling before the sorrow of despair. 
 
 Thou hast no head for politics, poor dame! 
 Monsieur Napoleon — so, the man I name- 
 
 Is Prince, and pauper; and he fain would own 
 Unbounded wealth, a palace, and a throne; 
 Hence, wrinkled hands, to sate his lust for gold, 
 Must sew the shrouds of children eight years old.
 
 AN OLD SONG OF A YOUTHFUL TIME 161 
 
 AN OLD SONG OF A YOUTHFUL TIME. 
 
 (Translated from Victor Hugo.) 
 
 I went for a woodland walk 
 
 With Rose, whom I heeded not; 
 'Twas in old, old times — our talk 
 
 Was of trifles long forgot. 
 
 I was marble-cold, and shy. 
 
 As I roamed with listless strides: 
 We babbled of flowers — her eye 
 
 Seemed to ask, " Is there nought besides? "■ 
 
 The dewdrops hung, like pearls. 
 
 On the copse of shady dales; 
 I listened aye to the merles, 
 
 And Rose to the nightingales. 
 
 I was sixteen — sans coeur — 
 
 She twenty — blithe and free — 
 The nightingale sang to her, 
 
 And the blackbirds whistled at me. 
 
 With white arms raised, she stood 
 
 Stretched to her utmost height, 
 To pluck some fruit in the wood — 
 
 I saw not her arms so white. 
 
 A streamlet, fresh and deep, 
 
 Over velvet mosses strayed, 
 And Nature seemed to sleep 
 
 In the grand wood's solemn shade;
 
 162 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Rose lifted her robe of white, 
 
 And dipped, with an innocent air, 
 
 Her naked foot in the wavelet bright — 
 I saw not her foot so fair. 
 
 We roamed in the woods longwhile, 
 
 But never a word spake I, 
 Though I saw her sometimes smile, 
 
 And heard her sometimes sigh; 
 
 I felt not how fair that maid. 
 
 Till we left the deep woodland glen; 
 
 "Amen! we won't think of it more," she said- 
 I have thought of it oft since then! 
 
 MARGARET'S SONG. 
 
 (From Faust.) 
 
 In Thule lived a monarch old, 
 
 True even to the grave, 
 To whom a goblet, wrought of gold, 
 
 His dying leman gave. 
 
 And naught more richly did he prize, 
 At every feast 'twas drained; 
 
 And often, as he quaffed, his eyes 
 With tears o'erbrimming rained. 
 
 And when his death drew nigh, with care 
 
 He counts his cities up; 
 No wealth begrudging to his heir. 
 
 Except the golden cup.
 
 THE WANDERING JEW 16a 
 
 A solemn feast he held, with ^lU 
 
 His Knights as company; 
 'Twas in his proud, ancestral hall 
 
 That hung above the sea. 
 
 There stood that king-carouser old 
 
 His last life-draught to drain, 
 Then hurled the treasured cup of gold 
 
 Far down into the main. 
 
 He saw it splash: it filled, it sank, 
 
 Deep, deep the waves beneath ; 
 With downcast eyes he watched, nor drank 
 
 One drop again till death ! 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 (Translated from Beranger.) 
 
 Christian' a cup of water fetch 
 
 For the faint pilgrim at thy gate: 
 I am the Wandering Jew, poor wretch ! 
 
 W^hirled onwards evermore by fate. 
 I age not, though by years opprest, 
 
 The world's end is my only dream; 
 Each eve, fresh hopes inspire my breast 
 
 But still to-morrow's sun will beam. 
 Ever, ever, 
 The earth spins round, and resteth never, 
 Never, never!
 
 164 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 For eighteen hundred years, alas! 
 
 O'er Grecian and o'er Roman dust, 
 O'er countless empires quenched, I pass, 
 
 By fearful whirlwinds onward thrust. 
 Good I have seen that failed to thrive, 
 
 While lustier evil throve and grew; 
 And I have watched two worlds survive 
 
 The ancient world, from Ocean's blue. 
 Ever, ever. 
 The Earth spins round, and resteth never, 
 Never, never! 
 
 God changed me, that he might chastise — 
 
 To all that perishes I cling — 
 But, when some shelter open lies. 
 
 The tempest sweeps me on its wing. 
 How many starvelings in each land 
 
 Ask aid that I would fain supply! 
 They have no time to clasp the hand 
 
 I love to stretch while passing by. 
 Ever, ever, 
 The Earth spins round and resteth never, 
 Never, never! 
 
 If e'er beneath some leafy trees. 
 
 On cool green turf, beside the wave, 
 I seek my wretchedness to ease. 
 
 Forthwith the vengeful whirlwinds rave. 
 Oh ! why should Heaven begrudge my grief 
 
 A fleeting moment of repose? 
 Eternity itself were brief 
 
 To soothe my agonizing woes!
 
 THE VVAxNDERING JEW 165 
 
 Ever, ever, 
 The Earth spins round, and resteth never. 
 Never, never! 
 
 How oft have children, pure and bright, 
 Called up the phantoms of mine own! 
 
 But, while I feast upon the sight. 
 On by the whirlwind I am blown. 
 
 aged mortals! wherefore lust 
 That age may be prolonged awhile? 
 
 My weary foot shall stir the dust 
 
 Of those sweet babes on whom I smile. 
 
 Ever, ever, 
 The Earth spins round, and resteth never, 
 
 Never, never! 
 
 1 scan dim traces of the home. 
 
 Where, ages since, I had my birth : 
 The whirlwind mutters, " Onward roam! 
 
 Thy steps must traverse all the earth. 
 Such is the penance for thy sin 
 
 Till the spent universe expires: 
 For thee no place is kept within 
 
 The crumbling vault that holds thy sires." 
 Ever, ever, 
 The Earth spins round, and resteth never. 
 Never, never! 
 
 I taunted with inhuman jest 
 
 The Man-God, as he breathed his last! 
 
 Since then my feet have had no rest— -i.. ■' ! > 
 
 Farewell! I travel with the bl^st. 
 
 Ye who sweet charity disown.
 
 166 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Behold my pain that none can cure: 
 'Tis not for Godhead scorned, alone, 
 But outraged manhood I endure! 
 Ever, ever, 
 The Earth spins round, and resteth never, 
 Never, never! 
 
 THE AVENGED CROW. 
 
 (Imitated from the French.) 
 
 You have all heard the tale of the Fox and the Crow, 
 But the sequel, I fancy, that few people know: 
 Permit me to tell the "denouement," for I 
 Was a witness, alas! of poor Renard's last sigh. 
 
 His Papa, his Mamma, and the nearest of kin 
 Who kissed his cold muzzle were filled with chagrin, 
 W^hen the doctor (called in to determine the question) 
 Pronounced his death caused by severe indigestion! 
 
 "My Friends," said Papa, "this deplorable case 
 Will brand us, I fear, as a gluttonous race; 
 'Twill be said this dear child, whom we idolized so, 
 Died from eating the cheese of that imbecile Crow." 
 
 All groaned at these words. The dead "gourmand" 
 
 next morn 
 In a hearse with white plumes to the grave-yard was 
 
 borne : 
 The Foxes in black — some three hundred in all — 
 Walked two and two, chanting the "Dead March" in 
 
 "Saul."
 
 THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER 167 
 
 When they stood round the pit, they again groaned 
 
 aloud, 
 And the Mayor made a heart-rending speech to the 
 
 crowd : 
 What he said I don't know — but of this there's no 
 
 doubt 
 That each Fox held a handkerchief up to his snout. 
 
 Just then Madam Crow (perched hard by on a tree) 
 Croaked " Renard is dead ! W^hat a grand day for me! 
 He sneered at my singing, and pilfered my cheese — 
 In return, he lies there, carried ofT by disease!" 
 
 MORAL 
 
 The Moral is this: when we rob friend or foe. 
 It seldom brings weal, but it often brings woe. 
 Had Renard not been an inordinate thief. 
 Dyspepsia would never have brought him to grief! 
 
 THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 (Translated from Uliland.) 
 
 Three students over the Rhine have hied: 
 To the Inn of a Hostess they turn aside. 
 
 "Say, Hostess, hast thou good beer and wine, 
 And where is that lovely daughter of thine? " 
 
 "My wine and ale are both bright and clear: 
 My daughter lies shrouded upon her bier." 
 
 Softly they entered her sleeping-room. 
 And there she lay in the coffin's gloom.
 
 168 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 The First, he Hfted the maiden's veil, 
 And sadly gazed on her features pale. 
 
 "Would thou wert living, O fairest maid! 
 
 I would love thee dearly, henceforth," he said. 
 
 The Second covered her face again. 
 And turned aside to shed tears like rain, 
 
 "Ah, me! thou art lying upon thy bier, 
 Thou, whom I cherished for many a year." 
 
 The Third uplifted once more the veil, 
 And kissed the maid on the lips so pale: 
 
 "I love thee now, as I loved before — 
 I will love thee fondlv for evermore! " 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 (From the French of N. Martin.) 
 THE BIRD OF GLOOM. 
 
 High on a snow-clad branch a gloomy bird 
 Sat, silent as despair, and never stirred! 
 
 Upon the desolate earth are fixed his eyes — 
 In the lone glen, perchance, he marks a prize; 
 
 Or is he dead? Not so- — he strippeth bare 
 
 The snow-clad bough, and whets his beak with care; 
 
 Then sails away on weary wing, and then 
 Drops where yon sexton digs the graves of men!
 
 CONSOLATION 169 
 
 THE BIRD OF LIGHT. 
 
 A bird sat piping upon a spray, 
 All silvered over with blossoms gay. 
 
 His crimson plumage was wondrous bright, 
 
 He seemed to have flown from the realms of light. 
 
 So clear a voice from his throat did pass, 
 The charmed soul rang to it, like a glass. 
 
 He sang such paeans of victory, . 
 
 That the hearts of all men with hope beat high. 
 
 He is dead — that bird of my golden days — 
 Oh! would that again I might hear his lays! 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 (Translated from Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 Poor restless mortal, creature of a day! 
 
 Why dost thou mourn? who wakes thy plaintive 
 sigh? 
 What though thy soul be sorrow's tearful prey. 
 
 That soul is deathless, and thy tears will dry. 
 
 Thou art the victim of some woman's whim. 
 Thy heart is crushed by one who cannot feel : 
 
 Thou seekest God, imploring aid from Him — 
 Thy soul is deathless, and thy heart will heal. 
 
 Thou say'st, unmann'd by transitory sorrow. 
 The Past conceals the Future from thy sight :
 
 170 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Weep not for yesterday, await to-morrow — 
 Thy soul is deathless — Time pursues his flight. 
 
 Thy body faints beneath thy spirit's woe — 
 
 Thy limbs are feeble, and thy brow doth bend- 
 Go, kneel in prayer, insensate creature! go — 
 Thy soul is deathless: life will quickly end. 
 
 Thy bones to dust shall crumble in the bier — 
 Thy memory, name and glory, all must die — 
 
 But not thy love: if love to thee be dear, 
 'Twill live forever with thy soul on high! 
 
 A HANDFUL OF EPIGRAMS. 
 
 (Translated from the French.) 
 
 "With perfect ease," a scribbler cried, 
 
 "I pour my verses forth; 
 "They cost me nought." A friend replied, 
 
 "They cost you what they're worth." 
 
 De Marsy. 
 
 "Silence in Court! " a Judge harangued, 
 
 "This noise is quite absurd! 
 "Five men I've sentenced to be hanged, 
 
 "Whose pleas I haven't heard." 
 
 Baraton. 
 
 Greece, that produced a warrior-host 
 
 Renowned in all our schools. 
 Could but of seven Sages boast; 
 
 W^ho, then, can count her fools? 
 
 Grecourt.
 
 AiHAXDFUL OF EPIGRAMS 171 
 
 This play-wright, arrogant and mean, 
 
 Is wont his friends to tell 
 He has the secret of Racine — 
 
 He keeps the secret well ! 
 
 Arnaud. 
 
 A bard, whose name I won't disclose, 
 
 Asserted once, with pride, 
 "I never deign to write in prose:" 
 
 His verses prove he lied. 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
 Stab as you will with venomed quill 
 
 The living and the dead. 
 Few will abuse your jealous muse 
 
 Because — she's seldom read. 
 
 COCQUARD. 
 
 My friend! you thought me stupid once, 
 
 Because I scarcely spoke: 
 
 I thought you, too, an empty dunce 
 
 Whene'er — you silence broke. 
 
 LiNIERES.
 
 172 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 BENEATH A PICTURE. 
 
 Fearfully gazing Spirit! wherefore lies 
 
 That strange, sad speculation in thine eyes? 
 
 Why dost thou shrink, as though beneath a storm, 
 
 Shedding the brightness of thine angel form? 
 
 Art thou a rebel spirit? Did'st thou fling 
 
 Proud threats of old at Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 And, crushed and vanquished, wilt thou soon be hurl'd 
 
 Down by the Victor to a demon-world? 
 
 It cannot be! Thou art not one of those 
 
 Doomed to a dark eternity of woes. 
 
 Who gnash their teeth in frenzied pain, and weep, 
 
 And vainly pray for everlasting sleep; 
 
 No ! thou are spotless — all thy sins are dead — 
 
 A wreath of glory streams around thy head. 
 
 And, if thy countenance is pale and wan, 
 
 'Tis that thy love is shown in fear for man. 
 
 Yea, fear hath cast a shade upon thy soul. 
 For worlds are shrinking like a shrivelled scroll. 
 And all things pass away, and angels gaze 
 With dim intelligence and strange amaze 
 On shadowy forms upfloating from the earth, 
 Roused by the trumpet to a second birth. 
 
 Swiftly they soar, as eagles o'er a cloud, 
 Souls from all climes, a voiceless, troubled crowd, 
 Sinners and saints, the monarch and the slave, 
 Bursting at once the bondage of the grave. 
 
 " In Orcagna's painting of ' The Last Judgment ' there is the figure {oft,an 
 Angel, who is looking with a feeling of awe and anxiety at the assembled 
 myriads awaiting the last decree of Heaven." The Parthenon (art magazine). 
 No. VII. p. 98.
 
 THE CARAVAN 173 
 
 Perhaps, amid those sinners there is one 
 Whom thou dost recognize — an only son — 
 For whom sad prayers were offered up above 
 By the deep fondness of a deathless love ; 
 Who, cold and senseless as earth's meanest clod. 
 Died as he lived, the enemy of God! 
 
 And he — the loved, the lost one — cometh now, 
 With sin's dark curse deep branded on his brow! 
 
 Therefore, it is with reason that there lies 
 That strange, sad speculation in thine eyes; 
 Therefore, thou shrinkest as beneath a storm, 
 Shrouding the brightness of thine angel form. 
 
 THE CARAVAN. 
 
 (Translated from Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 Amid the world's Sahara, by the path 
 Of doleful years that no man can retrace. 
 The human Caravan toils slowly on, 
 Quenching its thirst with bloody sweat alone. 
 The lion roars — the tempest raves — and still 
 (No tower, or dome, or minaret in sight) 
 Forward the dim horizon seems to fly. 
 High o'er our heads the vulture scents his prey 
 His ghastly shadow is our only shade — 
 While on we stagger, till our languid eyes 
 Fall on a far-off lonely spot of green, 
 A grove of cypress, dotted with white stones.
 
 174 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 God in his mercy on the sands of Time 
 
 Hath dropped one oasis — the Cemet'ry. 
 
 Lie down poor, breathless pilgrims, sleep at last! 
 
 FAME AND LOVE. 
 
 (Translated from Victor Hugo.) 
 
 When, dearest, thou dost speak of Fame, 
 
 With bitterness I smile — 
 That phantom — a delusive name — 
 
 Shall me no more beguile. 
 
 Fame passes quickly from our ken, 
 
 Pale Envy's blazing brands 
 Spare its white statue only whefi 
 
 Beside a tomb it stands. 
 
 Earth's so-called happiness takes wing, 
 
 Imperial power decays: 
 Love, noiseless love, alone can bring 
 
 True solace to our days. 
 
 I ask no blessings here below, 
 
 Except thy smile and song: 
 Air, sunshine, shade, the flowers that blow, 
 
 To all mankind belong. 
 
 When from thy presence sundered far. 
 
 In joy or sorrow's hour, 
 I miss thy glance alone, my Star, 
 
 Thy fragrance, O my Flower!
 
 FAME AND LOVE 175 
 
 Beneath the lids that veil thine eyes 
 
 Illumined from above, 
 A universe of feeling lies, 
 
 1 seek for nought but love. 
 
 My soul, that Poesy inspires, 
 
 With thoughts to man unknown 
 Could fill the world — yet it desires 
 
 To fill th\- heart alone. 
 
 Oh, smile and sing! my ecstasy 
 
 Transcends Elysian joys. 
 What matters now yon crowd to me 
 
 With all its roaring noise? 
 
 Too keen at length my rapture seems, 
 
 And so, to cause its flight, 
 1 call before me in my dreams 
 
 The poets' forms of light: 
 
 But still, regardless of their blame, 
 
 I'll love thy soothing songs 
 More than the stirring trump of Fame, 
 
 While Heaven my life prolongs. 
 
 And if my name on wings of fire 
 
 Should soar to worlds above, 
 Half of my soul would still desire 
 
 To linger here, and love. 
 
 Sadly, or pensively at least, 
 
 I'll love thee in the shade — 
 Love's radiance ever seems increased 
 
 By dusky twilight's aid.
 
 176 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Angel with the starry eyes! 
 
 O maid, whose tears are sweet! 
 Take my soul with thee to the skies, 
 My heart is at thy feet. 
 
 THE SPECTRE OF THE ROSE. 
 
 (From Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 Those marble-lidded eyes unclose. 
 Wake from thy sleep's angelic trance! 
 
 1 am the Spectre of a Rose 
 
 That decked thy beauty in the dance. 
 Thy fingers plucked me from my stem 
 
 Wet with the dews of yester e'en 
 And thou didst wear me, like a gem. 
 
 Amid the ball-room's dazzling scene. 
 
 My life's brief summer thou didst blight- 
 
 My ghost away thou canst not chase: 
 'Twill flit untiring all the night 
 
 Around thy softly-pillowed face. 
 I claim no masses for my death. 
 
 No De Profundis slowly wailed: 
 My spirit is a fragrant breath 
 
 From Paradise itself exhaled. 
 
 Torn from the world, I did not sigh, 
 
 Nor could thy fondest lovers crave 
 A happier death than mine to die — 
 
 Thy snow-white bosom was my grave: 
 And on that alabaster tomb 
 
 A Poet wrote, with loving kiss: 
 " Here lies a Rose, whose early doom 
 
 E'en kings might envy for its bliss!
 
 COQUETRY 177 
 
 COQUETRY. 
 
 (Translated from Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 O women, fated to beguile, 
 
 Your spells we all confess : 
 Ye can elate us with a smile, 
 
 Or with a frown depress. 
 
 Two words, a scornful glance, or e'en 
 
 The silence that ignores, 
 Can stab, as with a dagger keen. 
 
 The fool who still adores; 
 
 And, thanks to man, that craven hound, 
 
 Your plaything and your prey, 
 Nought but your frailty can be found 
 
 To match your boundless sway, 
 
 But when the lust of power has grown 
 
 Too rank, that power must die, 
 And thus your slaves at length disown 
 
 Their thraldom with a sigh. 
 
 Their fate, though pitiful to see, 
 
 Is still more blest than yours — 
 You torture — I would sooner be 
 
 The victim that endures!
 
 178 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 SONG. 
 
 (From Victor Hugo.) 
 
 My songs, poor ephemeral things, 
 Would fly to thy garden so fair. 
 
 If they had but the tremulous wings 
 
 That speed the light bird through the air. 
 
 Like fire-sparks that gaily up-spring. 
 
 They would fly to thy welcoming hearth, 
 
 If they had but the venturesome wing, 
 That lifts thought afar from the earth. 
 
 Night and day, they would faithfully bring 
 Sweet messages, dearest to thee, 
 
 If they had but Love's butterfly wing, 
 To waft them o'er land and o'er sea. 
 
 THE GENTLEMEN CRICKETERS' TEAM. 
 
 (Respectfully dedicated to its subject.) 
 
 I've a toast to propose you — so, Gentlemen, hand on 
 The Mumm, and the Cliquot, the Moet and Chandon: 
 The toast that I offer with pleasure extreme 
 Is the health of "The Gentlemen Cricketers' Team." 
 
 And first, here's the health of their Captain, Fitzgerald, 
 Whose time-honoured name stands in need of no herald : 
 All know that he manages matches as well 
 As a match-making mother, with daughters to sell. 
 
 A song written on the occasion of a banquet given in 1872 to the twelve 
 English cricketing " apostles " as they were called. The lines were written 
 in a great hurry and the only reason they are worthy of being preserved is, 
 that they contain the names of all the Britishers, and were printed at their 
 request.
 
 THE GENTLEMEN CRICKETERS' TEAM 179- 
 
 Next, here's to the Chief of the ball-driving race, 
 A Giant in cricket as well as a Grace: 
 Bat, bowler, or field, in himself he's a host. 
 All round, the best player that Britain can boast. 
 
 Here's to Hornby, who bears the cognomen of 
 
 "Monkey,'" 
 All muscle and nerve — never feeble or funky — 
 For pluck, skill and strength, he is hard to be beaten 
 By picked men from Winchester, Harrow or Eton! 
 
 Here's the left-handed bowler — that Lancashire swell,. 
 Whom Ottawa batsmen remember so well — 
 He bowled a whole innings (and bowled like great guns) 
 In Apple-pie order for — only three runs! 
 
 And here's to his confrere, spectacular Rose, 
 A rather quick bowler of dangerous "slows:" 
 And now to the Lubbocks, a brave pair of brothers, 
 Who rank with the Graces, the Walkers and others. 
 
 Next, here's to four stars of the Oxford Eleven 
 (With all due respect for the home-keeping seven), 
 Here's to Harris and Ottaway, Francis and Hadow, 
 May Time ne'er decrease his Herculean shadow! 
 
 Here's to Pickering lastly^his name is enough 
 To prove that he's made of good cricketing stuff — 
 Warm welcome, Fm sure, he will ever be shewn 
 For the sake of his Uncle, as well as his own! 
 
 So, here's to them singly, or taken together — 
 
 A finer set never yet hunted the leather — 
 
 Once more, then, I pledge you, with pleasure extreme,. 
 
 The health of " The Gentlemen Cricketers' Team."
 
 180 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 
 "men were deceivers ever." 
 
 (Callimachus.) 
 
 To fair lone Callignotus swore 
 None but herself to cherish or adore. 
 But men say truly that the Gods above 
 Laugh at the reckless perjuries of love — 
 See — the false boy to other lips has flown, 
 While fond lone waits and weeps alone! 
 
 the clinging vine. 
 
 (Antipater of Sidon.) 
 
 A vine o'er me, a withered plane, hath grown, 
 And shrouds my limbs with foliage not their own, 
 Grateful — because my boughs, once verdant, trained 
 Her tender shoots, her clustering grapes sustained. 
 So choose, fond boy, a partner like the vine, 
 Whose love around thee, e'en in death, may twine. 
 
 ON A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 (Nicarchus.) '. 
 
 Ten of Alexis' patients once were ill : 
 
 To three a draught, to two he gave a pill. 
 
 And five he blistered. Well, what followed then? 
 
 One night, one grave, one Hades for the ten! 
 
 the mirror of LAIS. 
 
 (Plato.) 
 
 I, Lais, once of Hellas the delight, 
 
 To Venus consecrate my mirror bright. 
 
 What I am now, I do not care to see- 
 
 "What I was once, I ne'er again can be!
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 181 
 
 A DEAD CHILD. 
 
 (Lucianus.) 
 
 Five years alone had vanished since my birth, 
 When ruthless Plato snatched me from the earth. 
 Mourn not my fate; for, if my life was brief, 
 I learnt but little of life's sins and grief. 
 
 XERXES AND LEONIDAS. 
 
 (Philippus Thessalonicensis.) 
 
 Ere brave Leonidas had breathed his last, 
 
 A purple cloak around him Xerxes cast. 
 
 The warrior cried: "Thine honours I reject — 
 
 Stretched on my shield, my corse is amply decked. 
 
 No Persian I — to Hades I will go, 
 
 Sparta's true son, in life and death, thy foe." 
 
 Thou art not dead, but thou hast sought a calmer place 
 of rest, 
 
 Sweet Prote, thou art blooming in the Islands of the 
 Blessed 
 
 And dancest o'er Elysian plains in quiet, holy mirth 
 
 Culling soft flowerets, far away from all the woes of 
 earth ! 
 
 Thou dost not faint with summer-heat, nor shrink 
 beneath the storm. 
 
 No thirst, no hunger, no disease can mar thy gentle 
 form, 
 
 For mortal life thou dost not sigh : enshrined in cloud- 
 less light 
 
 Thou wand'rest by the Heav-enly Hill, a virgin pure 
 and bright.
 
 182 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON A TOMB. 
 
 (Author unknown.) 
 
 I seek, Sabinus, by this little stone 
 Great love for thee, departed friend to own: 
 My love will last — thy love for me to show. 
 Drink not of Lethe in the realms below. 
 
 ON VENUS ARISING FROM THE SEA, 
 
 (Antipater, of Sidon.) 
 
 Charm'd by Apelles' magic, here thine eyes 
 May view sweet Venus from the waves arise. 
 Twin'd in her hair, her glowing fingers press 
 The dews of ocean from each dripping tress — 
 So fair, that Juno's self and Pallas sigh, 
 With thee 'twere vain in loveliness to vie." 
 
 THE SHRINE OF VENUS. 
 
 (Antipater, of Sidon.) 
 
 Small is the chapel where I make my home. 
 Queen of these shores all white with ocean foam. 
 But still 'tis dear: my presence calms the waves, 
 And oft the mariner from shipwreck saves. 
 Pay court to Venus — she will succour thee. 
 In love's wild storms, or on the raging sea. 
 
 THE SHRINE OF VENUS. 
 
 (Anyte.) 
 
 Fair Aphrodite, from this marble fane 
 Delights to gaze upon the glassy main. 
 Smoothing the sailor's pathway — while the deep 
 Beholds her image, and is luU'd asleep.
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 183 
 
 DISCONTENTED. 
 
 (Author unknown.) 
 
 Poor, when a boy, but opulent, when old, 
 Twice have I suffer'd misery untold: 
 Wealth, when I could have used it, I had none — 
 I have it now, when life is nearly done! 
 
 A i,over's prayer. 
 
 (Polemon.) 
 
 Sweet Cupid! kill my power to love, 
 
 Unless I'm loved again: 
 Thus, free from passion I shall prove, 
 
 Or share the blissful pain. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 (Callimacbus.) 
 
 The gentle maids of Samos' isle 
 Miss their sweet fellow-weaver's smile: 
 For Crethis oft with prattle gay 
 Would while the hours of toil away, 
 But now she sleeps beyond recall, 
 The sleep that must be slept by all! 
 
 ON THE STATUE OF A BACCHANTE. 
 
 (Author unknown.) 
 
 Restrain that Bacchante! ere the marble maid 
 Leaps from the shrine, and seeks the forest glade.
 
 184 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF VENUS BY APELLES. 
 Qulian of Egypt.) 
 
 Stand back! while Venus quits her ocean home, 
 Or her wet locks will sprinkle thee with foam. 
 
 LOVE AND WINE. 
 (Rufinus.) 
 
 Love, by himself, I can defy. 
 
 With Reason for my shield : 
 When Bacchus fights as Love's ally 
 
 To two such Gods I yield. 
 
 THE ZONE OF VENUS 
 
 (Antiphanes, of Macedonia.) 
 
 When Venus loosed the cestus of desire 
 
 From her white breast, the love-compelling zone 
 
 Was lent thee, Ino, all mankind to fire — 
 But thou hast used it against me alone! 
 
 THE STUDENT'S WIFE. 
 
 (From " Les Contemplations " of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 She said, "It is true, love; how foolish my sighs! 
 
 It is true that the hours pass enchantingly so; 
 You are here, and I gaze unreproved on your eyes, 
 
 Where I trace all your thoughts as they come and 
 they go.
 
 SONG 185 
 
 "To see you is bliss; bliss to me incomplete; 
 
 Don't fancy I murmur at all at my lot; 
 I watch that nought irksome invades your retreat, 
 
 For I know what you love, dear, and what you do 
 not. 
 
 "In a corner I nestle most wondrously small, 
 For you are my lion, and I am your dove; 
 
 I pick up your pens should they happen to fall. 
 And the soft rustling sound of your papers I love. 
 
 "No doubt I possess you; I see you no doubt. 
 Still, thought is a wine with which dreamers 
 get drunk; 
 You should dream but of me; I have reason to 
 pout 
 When each eve in old books your whole being 
 is sunk. 
 
 "There's a shade in my loving heart's inmost recess, 
 When you ne'er raise your head, never speak, never 
 smile. 
 
 And I never can see you completely, unless 
 
 You look at me sometimes yourself for a while!" 
 
 SONG. 
 
 (Translated from Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 I said to my heart, to my restless heart: 
 "Love one — one only — nor seek to part: 
 "The love that wanders from flower to flower 
 "Wastes in stray fancies each blissful hour."
 
 186 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 But my heart replied: "For my Paradise 
 "Eve's self — Eve only — would scarce suffice: 
 "To change one's love with the changing year 
 "But makes the joys of the Past more dear." 
 
 I said to my heart, to my wayward heart: 
 "What charm can lie in each varied smart? 
 "The love that ever delights to range 
 "But finds fresh sorrow in each fresh change." 
 
 But my heart replied to me: "Manhood scorns 
 "To pluck sweet roses devoid of thorns: 
 "To change one's love with the changing year 
 "But makes the pains of the Past more dear!" 
 
 THE TOILET OF CONSTANCE. 
 
 (From the ballad of Casimir Delavigne, as abbreviated J!by Riiskin, in 
 Vol. III. of his " Modern Painters.") 
 
 " Haste, Anna! Did you hear me call? 
 
 My mirror, quick! The hours advance: 
 To-night I'm going to the Ball 
 At the Ambassador's of France. 
 Just think — those bows were^fresh and fair 
 
 Last eve — ah! beauty fades apace: 
 See, from the net that binds'my hair 
 
 The azure tassels droop with grace. 
 Your hands are awkward, girl, to-night — 
 
 These sapphires well become my brow: 
 A pin has pricked me — set it right — 
 
 Dear Anna, I look charming now! 
 He, whom my fancy has beguiled
 
 LE MONDE EST MECHANT 1S7 
 
 (Anna, my robe!) will be a guest — 
 (Fie, fie! that's not my necklace, child! 
 
 Those beads the Holy Father blest). 
 Oh! should his hand my fingers press 
 
 (At the mere thought I tremble, dear), 
 To-morrow, should I dare confess 
 
 The truth in Pere Anselmo's ear? 
 Give me my gloves — now, all is well — 
 
 In the tall glass one final glance — 
 To-night, I long to be the belle 
 
 At the Ambassador's of France." 
 
 Close to the hearth she stood and gazed: 
 
 O God! a spark ignites her dress — 
 "Fire! Help! " When every hope was raised. 
 
 How sad such death for loveliness! 
 The flame voluptuously gnaws 
 
 Her arms — her breast — around — above — 
 And swallows with unpitying jaws 
 
 Her eighteen years, her dreams of love! 
 Farewell to all youth's visions gay! 
 
 They only said: ''Ah! poor Constance! " 
 And waltzed until the dawn of day 
 
 At the Ambassador's of France. 
 
 LE MONDE EST MfiCHANT. 
 
 (From Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 The world is malevolent, dear, 
 And it says, with a cynical sneer. 
 That your bosom conceals, ma petite, 
 A watch, where a heart ought to beat!
 
 188 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Still, your breast, when emotion enthralls, 
 Like a wave ever rises and falls, 
 With the ebb and the flow of the tide. 
 That o'er your young body doth glide. 
 
 The world has maliciously said 
 That your eyes, full of passion, are dead, 
 And revolve in their orbits on springs. 
 Like patent, mechanical things! 
 
 Still, ofttimes a crystalline tear 
 On your eye-lashes trembles, my dear, 
 Like a pearl-drop of luminous dew 
 That clings to some violet blue. 
 
 The world is malicious — it swears 
 That your brain is as light as a hare's, 
 And that sonnets composed for your ear 
 Are riddles in Greek to you, dear! 
 
 Still, oft on your lips that unclose 
 Like the leaves of an exquisite rose, 
 A subtle, intelligent smile 
 Alights, like a bee, for a while. 
 
 'Tis because you are fond of me, dear. 
 That the world in your case is severe; 
 Discard me — and then they will say 
 What feeling and wit you display!
 
 THE BALLAD OF JEAN RENAUD 189 
 
 THE BALLAD OF JEAN RENAUD. 
 
 This popular song of Valois may be found at p. loS of " L'>; Filkf Du Fru" 
 by Gerard de Nerval: and also at p. 77 of the same writer's "La Bohinie 
 Galante." It begins as follows: — 
 
 Quand Jean Renaud de la guerre revint, 
 II en revint triste et chagrin; 
 " Bonjour, ma mere," " Bonjour, mons fils! 
 " Ta femme est accouchee d'un petit," etc. 
 
 Back from the war came Jean Renaud — 
 His face was dark with a secret woe! 
 
 " Good-day, my Mother; " " Good-day, my Son, 
 " Thy wife hath borne thee a Httle one." 
 
 "Go in, my Mother, go in," he said, 
 " Bid them prepare me a fair white bed; 
 
 " And let them silently serve my need, 
 " So that my wife may pay no heed." 
 
 When midnight's hour was drawing nigh, 
 Jean Renaud breathed his latest sigh! 
 
 "Ici," in the words of Nerval, "la scene de la ballade change et se trans- 
 porte dans la chambre de I'accouchee: — 
 
 " Prythee, tell me, my Mother dear, 
 
 " What is the wailing that now I hear? " 
 
 " It is the bairns in the room beneath; 
 
 " They cry because of their aching teeth. " 
 
 " But prythee, tell me, my Mother dear, 
 " What knocking and nailing now I hear? "
 
 190 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 ' It is the carpenter— nothing more — - 
 ' Busily mending a plank i' the floor." 
 
 ' But prythee, tell me, my Mother dear, 
 * What is the singing that now I hear? " 
 
 ' 'Tis some procession, my child, I wot, 
 
 ' That chants while passing around our cot." 
 
 ' But prythee, tell me, my Mother dear, 
 
 ' Why from thine eyelid there drops a tear? " 
 
 ' Alas! the truth I no more can hide, — 
 ' Jean Renaud in this house hath died." 
 
 ' My Mother, haste to the sexton old — 
 ' Let him dig a grave for two i' the mould, 
 
 ' And let the pit be wide and deep, 
 ' My baby also therein shall sleep! " 
 
 THE CID AND THE JEW. 
 
 (Translated from Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 The Cid, stern victor in each fight. 
 Hero, of more than mortal height, 
 In the grand church of San Pedro 
 ('Twas Don Alfonso will'd it so) 
 Embalmed, and seemingly not dead, 
 Clad in bright steel, and helmeted. 
 Sits rooted to a stately chair 
 Raised on a tomb of sculpture rare.
 
 THE CID AND THE JEW 191 
 
 Like a white cloth, his beard of snow 
 His coat of mail doth overflow, 
 While to defend him, at this side 
 Hangs Tisona, his boast and pride. 
 The polished and elastic blade 
 That Moor and Christian oft dismay'd. 
 Thus seated — dead — he seems to keep 
 The semblance of a man asleep: 
 Thus for seven years he hath reposed 
 Since death his life of daring closed, 
 And, on a certain day, each year. 
 Crowds gaze upon his corpse in fear. 
 
 Once, when all visitors had gone, 
 And the great Cid was left alone 
 In the broad nave with God — a Jew 
 Nigh to the sleeping champion drew, 
 And thus he spake: " Here sits the frame 
 Of one whom men still dread to name. 
 'Tis said the strongest warriors feared 
 Even to touch his grizzled beard: 
 Here now he resteth, mute and cold, 
 His arms, which scattered fee of old, 
 Hang stiffened by the hand of death. 
 Lo! since he hath no longer breath, 
 Myself will stroke his beard of snow — 
 I wot the mummy will not know, 
 
 And none are present to forbid 
 My laying hands upon the Cid." 
 
 With no presentiment of harm 
 
 The sordid Jew outstretched his arm:
 
 192 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 But, ere that snowy beard could be 
 Soiled by his mad impiety, 
 The Cid from out his scabbard drew 
 Three feet of steel that dazed the view. 
 Scared by the ghastly miracle 
 Prone on the tomb the Hebrew fell: 
 And when good monks, at close of day 
 Had borne his palsied limbs away, 
 He told them his adventure strange, 
 And vowed a graceless life to change. 
 Soon he abjured his faith, and then 
 Entered a convent's gloom. Amen. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF M. FRECHETTE'S 
 WELCOME TO MARK TWAhN. 
 
 Come, sing, my Muse, our honoured Guest — 
 
 Before the toasts are started — 
 Of all philosophers the best. 
 
 Because the lightest hearted. 
 
 He well deserves a golden rhyme 
 
 To-night, and oft hereafter. 
 Who roused, while laughing at his time^ 
 
 Its sympathetic laughter. 
 
 Life's dearest charm in laughter lies, 
 And, if this creed were common, 
 
 The universe would scarce comprise 
 A sulky man or woman.
 
 LORD ROBERTS 193 
 
 To laugh is man's divinest art: 
 
 And — loud, or gayiy chaffing — 
 The truest echo from the heart 
 
 Of either sex is — laughing. 
 
 Let us then banish from our feast 
 
 All thoughts of melancholy, 
 And glorify the quaint high priest 
 
 Of fancy, fun and folly. 
 
 Thy health, Mark Twain! Of wits like thee 
 
 I would there were a few more, 
 To temper subtle French esprit 
 
 With fine old English humour! 
 
 LORD ROBERTS. 
 
 He came, he saw, he conquered; though his heart 
 
 Bled for his only son in battle slain 
 God's pity aided him to play his part, 
 
 And gave him glory to console his pain. 
 
 Tears we accord him in his grief, 
 
 Cheers for each triumph won, 
 England will ne'er forget her chief 
 
 Who sorrows for his son. 
 
 Dense clouds of darkness overcast the sky 
 
 When, sad but stern, the grey-haired warrior came. 
 
 Scathed the rude foe like lightning from on high, 
 And blotted out the old Majuba's shame.
 
 194 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Great God of hosts! protect our champion's life, 
 Save him, O Lord, fresh laurels still to glean, 
 And keep the memory of his valour green. 
 
 Crown him as Victor in the deadly strife 
 The idol of his country and his Queen. 
 
 THE STREAMLET. 
 
 (From Theophile Gauthier.) 
 
 A thread-like stream, that had its source 
 
 In lonely haunts beside a lake, 
 Exultingly began its course, 
 
 Resolved far pilgrimage to make. 
 
 Softly it murmured: "What delight! 
 
 Forth from the under-world I leap, 
 And in my wavelets' mirror bright 
 
 The golden clouds reflected sleep. 
 
 "The blue-eyed myosotis sighs 
 'Forget me not, when far away;' 
 
 And sunlit wings of dragon-flies 
 Upon my dimpled surface play. 
 
 "The wild birds from my crystal sip. 
 
 And when my stream hath onward roU'd 
 
 A few short years, perchance 'twill lip 
 Green vales, and rocks, and castles old. 
 
 "The foaming of my restless tide 
 
 Shall fringe stone bridge, and granite quay, 
 While steamships on my bosom ride 
 
 Down to the everlasting sea! "
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE KINGS 195 
 
 The new-born rill, with prattling glee, 
 Dared the dim future thus to paint, 
 
 And, like some geyser, strove to free 
 Her eager waters from restraint. 
 
 But oft the giant dies a child — 
 
 The cradle borders on the tomb — 
 And thus — the stream that lately smiled 
 
 Died in the lake's engulfing gloom! 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE KINGS. 
 
 (From Victor Hugo.) 
 
 An eagle sought the desert's spring beside 
 
 A lion's cave: 
 Meanwhile, two Kings (God willed it so), espied 
 
 The sparkling wave. 
 
 Beneath tall palms, where pilgrims quench their drought 
 
 Fresh strength to gain, 
 These Kings, sworn foemen, fought their duel out 
 
 'Till both were slain. 
 
 The eagle hovered o'er each lifeless brow, 
 
 And, mocking, said: 
 " Ye found the universe too small, and now 
 
 Your souls have fled! 
 
 O Princes, lately jubilant! your bones 
 
 To-morrow must 
 Be mixed with indistinguishable stones 
 
 Amid the dust!
 
 193 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Ye fools! what gained ye by your savage feud? 
 
 Behold, the end! 
 I, the proud eagle, haunt this solitude — 
 
 The lion's friend. 
 
 From the same spring we drink, each morn and eve- 
 Kings, he and I : 
 
 Hill, dale, and forest depths to him I leave, 
 And keep the sky." 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 (From the German of Heine.) 
 I. 
 
 The mother stood at her lattice. 
 
 The son lay on his bed ; 
 " Come, gaze at the holy pilgrims, 
 
 Wilhelm, arise," she said. 
 
 " I am so ill, my mother, 
 
 I scarce can see or hear; 
 On my dead Margaret musing. 
 
 My heart, alas! is drear." 
 
 " Arise, we will go to Kevlaar, 
 
 The book and rosary take; 
 The Mother of God will heal thee, 
 
 Thy poor heart must not break." 
 
 The pilgrims wave church banners, 
 
 And chant in a solemn tone; 
 And so the procession passes 
 
 Through the Rhenish town, Cologne.
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR 197 
 
 In the crowd the mother follows — 
 
 She leads her son, and he 
 Joins with her in the chanting, 
 
 " Blessed be thou, Marie! " 
 
 II. 
 
 The Mother of God at Kevlaar 
 
 Is dazzlingly arrayed: 
 To-day she is busy healing 
 
 The sick who have sought her aid. 
 
 They lay their many offerings 
 Before her shrine in prayer — 
 
 Limbs, feet and hands all modelled 
 In wax- work clean and fair. 
 
 And whoso a wax hand offers 
 Is cured, if his hand is maimed. 
 
 While he who a wax foot bringeth 
 Is healed, though his foot is lamed. 
 
 But the mother took a taper, 
 And fashioned thereof a heart; 
 
 " Take that to the Holy Virgin, 
 And she will ease thy smart." 
 
 The son knelt down to the Virgin, 
 And offered the heart with sighs; 
 
 A prayer broke forth from his spirit 
 And tears broke forth from his eyes: 
 
 " O Virgin, Queen of Heaven, 
 Thou pure and holy maid.
 
 198 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 To thee I breathe my sorrows 
 For thou my woe canst aid. 
 
 I dwelt with my tender mother 
 In the Rhenish town, Cologne, 
 
 That many hundred churches 
 And chapels fair doth own. 
 
 And near us dwelt my Margaret, 
 
 But dead she lieth now; 
 A waxen heart I bring thee. 
 
 My wounded heart heal thou! 
 
 Heal thou my heart that is broken, 
 
 And, singing fervently, 
 I will pray both late and early, 
 
 Blessed be thou, Marie! " 
 
 III. 
 
 The sick son and his mother 
 
 Slept in a lowly room. 
 When lo! the Virgin lightly 
 
 Stepped inwards through the gloom. 
 
 She bent above the sick man. 
 
 And on his heart did lay 
 Her gentle fingers softly. 
 
 And smiled and went away. 
 
 The mother saw in a vision 
 What happened in the dark. 
 
 And wakened from her slumber 
 For the dogs did loudly bark.
 
 THE LEAF 199 
 
 Her son lay stretched before her, 
 And the Hght of morning red 
 
 Fell on his cold, pale features; 
 The breath of life had fled ! 
 
 Then her hands the mother folded, 
 She felt, she scarce knew how; 
 
 And she whispered low, devoutly, 
 "O Mary, blest be thou!" 
 
 THE LEAF. 
 
 (Vincent Antoine Arnault, 1815.) 
 
 "Severed from thy native bough, 
 Whither art thou wandering now, 
 Poor sere leaf? " " I do not know. 
 When the oak, alas! too frail, 
 Crashed beneath the tempest's blow, 
 I was borne by breeze or gale, 
 Fluttering through the sun and rain: 
 And at random still I sail 
 From the mountain to the vale, 
 From the forest to the plain. 
 Murmuring now no timid wail, 
 With the wind I drift away 
 Whither all that's earthly goes; 
 Where the leaflet of the rose 
 Moulders with the leaf of bay! " 
 
 An allegory addressed to Queen Hortense, a fugitive after the fall of 
 Napoleon I.
 
 200 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S CURTAIN. 
 
 (From Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 My charming neighbour's curtain 
 
 Is moving, I declare: 
 She's coming — I feel certain — 
 
 To woo the evening air. 
 
 She wishes to discover, 
 
 (Oh how my heart doth beat!) 
 
 If I her well-dressed lover 
 Am watching in the street. 
 
 Alas! I am mistaken — 
 
 She loves a country lout — 
 
 And if her curtain's shaken 
 'Tis by the wind, no doubt!
 
 THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS 201 
 
 THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS. 
 
 (Translated irom the French of Francois Coppes.) 
 
 Messieurs les juges! my story shall be brief. 
 
 'Tis this: the foundrymen were out on strike — 
 
 It was their right. The winter had been hard, 
 
 And men were tired of keeping endless Lent. 
 
 One Saturday — the evening of our pay — 
 
 Some comrades led me gently by the arm 
 
 Into a wineshop. There, my oldest mates — 
 
 I still refuse to give the Court their names — 
 
 Spoke thus: "Pere Jean, it seems we have no pluck: 
 
 We want more wages, or we work no more. 
 
 They grind us down; it is our last resource. 
 
 We choose you, therefore, as the oldest hand, 
 
 To warn the Master — but with no big words — 
 
 That, if our pay henceforward be not raised. 
 
 Each day will be Saint Monday at the works. 
 
 Pere Jean! are you our man? " I answered, "Yes! 
 
 If I can serve you in your need, I will." 
 
 I am no communist, mon president. 
 
 But an old, peaceful man, with no great faith 
 
 In the spruce black-coats that control a strike: 
 
 (In one of Alfred Manier's letters from Paris to " The Bookman " (New 
 York: Dodd, Mead and Co.), he writes as follows: '' Copp6e's 'Greve des For- 
 gerons,' perhaps his best poem, has just had a very curious rendering. You 
 know that it is a narrative made by a striking blacksmith — of how he com- 
 mitted a murder during the strike. Jules Claretie has had Mounet Sully recite 
 it on the stage of the Theatre Francais. The stage represents the ' Cour 
 d'Assises'; the judges are there, the jurymen, gendarmes, and everything 
 else, so as to make the court scene as realistic as possible, and Mounet Sully, 
 in the dock, gives his story to the jurymen. It was a very interesting perform- 
 ance." 
 
 There was a fine picture of the murder, or, to speak more justly, the duel, 
 e.xhibited in Paris several years ago : and an engraving of it struck my fancy 
 so powerfully, that I determined to endeavour to translate the French poet's 
 dramatic monologue into English blank verse. I believe that the attempt — a 
 rather daring one — has never been made before, and I submit my humble 
 version of ic with considerable diffidence.
 
 202 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Still, it may be I could not well refuse. 
 So, pledged to act, I sought the Master's house, 
 And found him dining. Having made my bow, 
 I told him squarely how we all were pinched 
 By cost of food and lodging, and I showed 
 Things could not last so. Then I figured out 
 His gains and ours, and proved with due respect 
 It could not ruin him to raise our pay. 
 He listened calmly, while he cracked some nuts, 
 And said at last: " Pere Jean, I see you are 
 An honest man, and they who chose you knew 
 What they were doing when they sent you here. 
 For you there always shall be work and pay, 
 But their demands would cripple me at once: 
 I close the works to-morrow. All who join 
 In lawless strikes are good-for-nothing drones. 
 'Tis my last word, and you can tell them so." 
 I answered: "It is well, sir," and withdrew 
 With heavy heart and carried to my mates 
 The Master's answer, as I promised him. 
 Wild tumult followed — anarchy — revolt — 
 Then, with one voice, they pledged themselves to 
 
 strike. 
 And I too, like my fellows, took the oath. 
 
 Oh ! more than one, that evening, as he flung 
 
 On a bare table all his scanty hire, 
 
 Felt, I will warrant, anything but gay. 
 
 And failed to close his eyelids, when he thought 
 
 That, since his wages ended with his work, 
 
 He soon must learn the lesson how to fast! 
 
 For me the blow was crushing: I am old.
 
 THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS 203 
 
 And not alone. That night, on reaching home, 
 
 I took my Httle grandsons on my knees — 
 
 My daughter died in child-birth, and her man 
 
 Went to the dogs — I looked upon the two 
 
 Small mouths that soon must hunger, and I blushed 
 
 For having rashly sworn to join the strike. 
 
 Still, I was not worse stranded than the rest, 
 
 And, as we workmen scorn to break an oath, 
 
 I vowed to do my duty by the craft. 
 
 My poor old wife now entered. She was bowed 
 
 Beneath a bale of linen, newly washed. 
 
 And, when with faltering tongue I broke the news, 
 
 Poor thing! she had not heart enough to scold, 
 
 But stood long time in silence, with her eyes 
 
 Fixed on the floor. At length she said: "My man. 
 
 Thou know'st that I am thrifty, and will do 
 
 All that a woman can. But times are hard, 
 
 And we have bread for barely two weeks more." 
 
 I answered: "Things will soon come right again:" 
 
 Though well I knew, that, short of playing false, 
 
 I could do nothing, and that those on strike, 
 
 Sworn to maintain it to the bitter end. 
 
 Would make short work of men who sold the cause. 
 
 Soon came our troubles. O mes juges, mes juges! 
 
 You may believe that when our cup of woes 
 
 Was full, I never could become a thief. 
 
 But must have died of horror at the thought : 
 
 Nor do I claim one jot of praise is due 
 
 E'en to the hopeless wretch, who, morn and eve, 
 
 Is forced to stare disaster in the face, 
 
 For never harbouring a guilty thought.
 
 204 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Still, when the winter pierced us to the bone 
 
 With icy fangs, and when my honest gaze 
 
 Dwelt on those living challenges to sin — 
 
 My hungry grandsons, and heroic wife — 
 
 And watched them shivering by a fireless grate; 
 
 Despite those wailing babes and careworn wife, 
 
 Despite that terrible and freezing group, 
 
 Never — I swear by Christ the Crucified — 
 
 E'en for a moment did my clouded brain 
 
 Conceive the thought of theft — that shameless act. 
 
 When the eye watches, and the fingers clutch! 
 
 Alas! if now my pride is broken down, 
 If now I bend before you — if I weep — 
 'Tis that I see again the three of whom 
 I spake, for whom I did what I have done. 
 
 At first we lived as we were forced to live. 
 We ate dry bread, and pawned our little all. 
 I suffered much. To men like us a room 
 Seems a barred cage, from which we long to flee. 
 Look you — since then I've had a taste of gaol. 
 And, truth to tell, I've found them much alike. 
 
 But to do nothing is a hell on earth; 
 
 Let those that doubt it have their arms tied down 
 
 By strong necessity — they soon will learn 
 
 Why men must work, and why the atmosphere 
 
 Of file and fire is what mechanics love. 
 
 Two weeks had pass'd and not a sou was left. 
 Meanwhile I walked, like one whose brain is crazed. 
 Alone 'mid crowds straight onwards — for the roar 
 Of a big city seems to silence thought,
 
 THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS 205 
 
 And deadens hunger better far than wine, 
 
 But once, on reaching home — 'twas at the close 
 
 Of a dull, raw December afternoon— 
 
 I found my helpmate crouching on the floor, 
 
 With the two babies strained against her breast, 
 
 And while I thought, 'Tis I am murdering them 
 
 She meekly spake, like one confused with shame: 
 
 "My poor, dear man! the pawn-shop has refused 
 
 This worn-out mattress — all we have on earth — 
 
 And now I know not where to look for bread! " 
 
 "Wait! " I replied; and brought, at last, to bay. 
 
 Vowed at all hazards to go back to work. 
 
 Then, though mistrustful of my welcome there, 
 
 I sought the wineshop, a repulsive haunt 
 
 That harboured all the leaders of the strike. 
 
 I raised the latch— methought it was a dream — 
 
 While others starved, those men were drinking hard! 
 
 Yes, drinking! May the Board that paid the wine, 
 
 And thus prolonged our hideous martyrdom, 
 
 Hear the loud curses of an old man's tongue. 
 
 I faced the topers, and when once they marked 
 
 My frowning forehead and tear-reddened eyes, 
 
 They guessed, no doubt, the reason why I came. 
 
 Their looks were sullen, and their greeting cold, 
 
 Nathless I spake: "I come to tell you this: 
 
 I am sixty, past — my wife is also old — 
 
 Two helpless babes are left upon my hands. 
 
 And from the garret where we starve, each stick 
 
 Of furniture is sold — we have no bread. 
 
 A bed within a hospital (my corpse 
 
 Would be a prize for students to dissect)
 
 206 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Is for a beggar like myself enough. 
 
 But for my wife and darlings it is not! 
 
 So, for their sakes, I must return to work. 
 
 But first I crave your license for the act, 
 
 Lest slander's tongue should slaver o'er my name. 
 
 Behold! my hair is white, my hands are black: 
 
 I have toiled hard for more than forty years: 
 
 Let me go back to earn our daily bread ! 
 
 I tried to beg — I could not — my old age 
 
 Is my excuse. The man upon whose brow 
 
 The constant wielding of a hammer's weight 
 
 Has graved deep furrows, hard to be effaced, 
 
 Cuts a poor figure, when to passers-by 
 
 He holds for alms a hand that still is strong. 
 
 With my two hands I pray you! 'Tis but fit 
 
 That I the oldest should be first to yield. 
 
 Let me go back again, alone, to work; 
 
 You hear — now tell me if you grant me leave." 
 
 Then, from that crowd of drinkers one advanced 
 Three steps, and called me "Coward! " to my face. 
 My heart grew cold — blood mounted to my eyes— 
 I looked at him who spake the taunting word, 
 A tall, slim stripling, pale beneath the gas, 
 A shameless dancer at the Faubourg balls. 
 With love-locks on his temples like a girl. 
 He grinned, and mocked me with malicious eyes: 
 The rest kept silence — -silence so profound 
 That I could hear the throbbing of my heart. 
 I clasped my forehead in my hands, and cried : 
 ■"My wife and darlings, then, it seems must die. 
 So be it, and I will not go to work.
 
 THE STRIKE OF THE SMITHS 207 
 
 But thou, I swear, shalt answer for thy taunt, 
 
 And we, like grander folks, will fight it out. 
 
 "My time? " At once! "My arms?" I have the 
 
 choice! 
 The heaviest hammers best will serve our turn, 
 Light in our hands as any sword or pen, 
 And you, my mates, must second each of us. 
 Quick! form a ring, and search yon corners well 
 For two good iron sledges, red with rust. 
 And thou, vile scorner of an old man! doff 
 Thy blouse and shirt, and spit upon thy hand! " 
 
 Foaming with rage, I elbowed through the crowd 
 A path, and in a corner of the walls 
 Picked out two hammers from a clustered heap. 
 Then, having weighed them at a glance, I flung 
 The heaviest tool at my insulter's feet. 
 He still kept grinning, but he seized the shaft 
 Armed at all hazards, standing on defence. 
 And cried: "Old fellow! don't be spiteful now! " 
 I deigned no answer, but drew near the wTetch, 
 And, while I teased him with my honest eyes. 
 In rapid circles round my head I whirled 
 The trusty sledge — a deadly weapon now. 
 
 Ne'er had a cur, that cowers beneath the lash, 
 Within his haggard and imploring eyes 
 So base a look of supplicating fear. 
 As that which I detected in the glance 
 Of the foul craven, who recoiled, aghast. 
 And propped his back against the filthy wall. 
 Too late, alas! too late — a mist of blood, 
 A crimson veil seemed drawn between my eyes
 
 208 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And that pale caitiff, palsied with affright— 
 
 And with a single blow I crushed his skull! 
 
 I know 'twas murder, and I own my guilt; 
 
 I want no advocate to fence with words, 
 
 And foist the name of duel on a crime. 
 
 Dead, at my feet, with oozing brains he lay; 
 
 And, as a man who on a sudden feels 
 
 All the immensity of Cain's remorse, 
 
 I stood there, shrouding both my eyes from view. 
 
 At length, some shuddering comrades sidled up, 
 
 And would have seized me, but I shook them off, 
 
 And cried: "Let go! I doom myself to death! " 
 
 They understood. Then, taking off my cap, 
 
 I passed it to them, like the bag in church: 
 
 " 'Tis for the wife and little ones, my friends! " 
 
 That brought ten francs, of which a chum took care„ 
 
 And then I went, and gave myself in charge. 
 
 Thus you have heard the plain, unvarnished tale 
 
 Of my great crime, and need not pay much heed 
 
 To what the glib-tongued advocates may say. 
 
 If I have dwelt on pitiful details, 
 
 'Twas but to prove what horrors may result 
 
 From a foredoomed concurrence of events. 
 
 My helpless babes are in the hospital. 
 
 Where sorrow killed my brave, long-suffering wife. 
 
 Whate'er my fate — the galleys or the gaol. 
 
 Or even pardon — matters little now: 
 
 And if you send me to the scaffold — thanks!
 
 WHEN CHILDREN SLEEP 209 
 
 WHEN CHILDREN SLEEP. 
 
 (From the Fronch of Leon Gautier.) 
 
 When cradled by their mothers' side, 
 The babes repose in slumber deep, 
 
 Dream not they constantly abide 
 On earth while seemingly asleep. 
 
 Ah! no; at times the angels come 
 And bear them in their arms away, 
 
 Far off to Heav'n — their fitting home — - 
 And teach the darlings how to play. 
 
 And when the mother's loving eyes 
 
 Between the snowy curtains peep, 
 To watch the baby as he lies 
 
 At midnight, wrapt in balmy sleep; 
 
 The angels swiftly downward go 
 
 To lay him in his dainty cot. 
 And near the cradle whisper low, 
 
 Though the fond mother hears them not. 
 
 And then the years in rapid flight, 
 
 Like dreams of ecstasy pass by, 
 And half those days of pure delight 
 
 Are spent by infants in the sky. 
 
 But when alas! sin's lurid stain 
 Hath tarnished souls so white before 
 
 The children bound to earth remain — 
 Their angels \isit them no more.
 
 210 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A THIEF. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 (Translated from the French of Louis Frechette.) 
 
 ^Twas a bleak winter — numbers of the poor 
 Heard the wolf Hunger howling at their door. 
 The winds blew colder, and there was a dearth 
 Of Christmas logs on many a cheerless hearth; 
 And the child Jesus, too, perchance would slight 
 The small patched shoes laid out for gifts at night. 
 
 Christmas! — The lamps illumined every street, 
 And on the pavements, crusted o'er with sleet, 
 A busy multitude besieged the doors 
 Of countless tempting, treasure-laden stores, 
 Where, by deft hands arranged, — a gorgeous sight- 
 Wares of all colours shimmered in the light. 
 Cray laughter floated round: the sparkling rime 
 Beneath each footfall almost seemed to chime; 
 And all seemed bathed in opalescent dyes. 
 
 There, for a moment, my inquiring eyes 
 Fell on a pale and feeble-bodied lad, 
 Who strayed along, and shivered, thinly clad. 
 His looks devoured the luminous display 
 •Of gilded nothings, which appear so gay 
 Before our hearts are cold, and hard, and dry. 
 The frail "street Arab" seemed in ecstasy 
 
 I was myself engaged to buy some toys. 
 Or graceful trifles, that each child enjoys, 
 And each fond parent gives on such a day,
 
 A THIEF 211 
 
 When, all at once, I heard, with some dismay. 
 Cries of: " Stop thief! Police! Arrest the child! '' 
 Then the inexorable crowd grew wild. 
 And seized the culprit. 'Twas the same poor lad 
 Whom I had seen — now more than doubly sad! — 
 Grabbed by a "cop," and panting hard for breath — 
 By the hoarse shouting frightened half to death — 
 While his numbed hand, unused to stealing, tried 
 With awkward haste beneath his rags to hide 
 A small, stiff doll, elaborately drest. 
 The thief was captured. 
 
 By grave thoughts opprest, 
 I went my way; and when I reached my home 
 I kissed my children. But my heart would roam 
 Throughout the evening — why, I scarce can tell — 
 To the pale boy locked up within a cell. 
 When midnight came, I left my bed in haste, 
 And in each shoe my stealthy tribute placed : 
 But still I saw (his cough was harsh and loud) 
 A ragged child above a show-case bowed; 
 I saw him — eagerly, but ill at ease — 
 Stretch his chilled hand the luring prize to seize; 
 I saw him ope his tatters, that he might 
 Conceal his booty, and then take to flight. 
 Next, the police, the dock, the jail, and last 
 The shame and sorrow on his parents cast! 
 An orphan, maybe — 'twas his first disgrace? — 
 I felt keen pity for the poor child's case; 
 And thus, although not loving the resort. 
 Next day I entered the Recorder's Court.
 
 212 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Between some tramps and women of the town, 
 
 The boy stood there, with tearful eyes cast down. 
 
 His story, short and sad. His only friends 
 
 Were those the law reluctantly defends — 
 
 That disinherited and hopeless class 
 
 Who have no bread, and nothing else, alas! 
 
 But their brave spirit to support their fate. 
 
 Three years before this last misfortune's date, 
 
 The orphan's sire, struck headlong by a bale 
 
 On board a harboured brig, about to sail, 
 
 Had fallen lifeless in the vessel's hold. 
 
 Then his poor mother — so the outcast told — 
 
 Had toiled incessantly their food to get, 
 
 While he himself had tried to pay his debt, 
 
 Tending his little sister well, whene'er 
 
 Some outside labour claimed his mother's care. 
 
 Soon came the sister's illness, and in turn 
 
 He struggled hard their livelihood to earn, 
 
 Pitying his mother, who, with patience mild. 
 
 Watched by the bedside of her dying child. 
 
 That fatal evening, having seen her weep 
 
 For Christmas gifts that come when children sleep, 
 
 He left the house, and l;egged, alas! in vain. 
 
 For some small present to console her pain. 
 
 "It was for her. your Honour! — nigh to death — 
 
 I stole the doll," he said with faltering breath; 
 
 " 'Tis the first time." 
 
 The lad of tender years 
 Then hid his face, and, bursting into tears, 
 Sank down, too weak his anguish to control. 
 And I went out, with pity in my soul 
 For the poor Magistrates condemned at times 
 To punish deeds their hearts reject as crimes.
 
 THE MAGIC BOW 213 
 
 THE MAGIC BOW. 
 
 (Translation from Charles Cros.) 
 
 Her hair was blond as Autumn wheat, 
 And downwards, in a golden sheet. 
 It trailed, until it touched her feet. 
 
 In music strange she spake alway, 
 
 Like some sweet seraph, or a fay; 
 
 And fringed with black, her eyes were gray. 
 
 He deigned no rivalry to heed. 
 
 When, scouring hill and dale with speed, 
 
 He bore her off upon his steed. 
 
 She on all suitors in the land 
 
 Frowned with disdain — serenely grand — 
 
 Until he came and touched her hand. 
 
 Her soul by love was so o'erborne, 
 
 That, when he smiled with heartless scorn. 
 
 She drooped, desponding and forlorn; 
 
 And in a last caress she said : 
 
 "With my long hair, I pray thee braid 
 
 Thy bow to charm some other maid." 
 
 Wildly and long she kissed him, e'er 
 She died. Obedient to her prayer, 
 Hisbow he braided with her hair. 
 
 Then,[like a blind-man who, for pay, 
 On his Cremona's strings doth play. 
 He woke a melancholy lay;
 
 214 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 And all with ecstasy were filled, 
 
 For in each chord the passion thrilled 
 
 Of the fond maid his scorn had killed. 
 
 The King advanced his fortunes high; 
 And the brown Queen was lured to fly 
 With him beneath the moonlit sky. 
 
 But, when he bade his music flow 
 To charm her ears, the fatal bow 
 Upbraided him with strains of woe. 
 
 When the slow dirge no longer plained, 
 They died — their goal still unattained — 
 And the dead girl her hair regained ; 
 
 Her hair, that, blond as Autumn wheat, 
 Trailed downward in a golden sheet, 
 Until its tresses touched her feet. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ABB£ PELLP: 
 GRIN'S "NOEL," 170J . 
 
 Dear Infant! tender, new-born child! 
 
 How sweet to mortals is Thy love. 
 Averse to punish, Thou art mild, 
 
 As Thy self-sacrifice will prove. 
 The world hath hope in Thee alone; 
 'Tis for our sins Thou dost atone. 
 
 To stay the wrath of God above. 
 
 Oh! how Thy sense of what is just 
 With rigor for Thyself is armed !
 
 THE ABBE PELLEGRIN'S "NOEL." 1701 213 
 
 It strikes Thyself, in whom we trust, 
 
 And serves Thy God whom man hath harmed. 
 
 For, though by clemency inspired, 
 
 Thy heart, with indignation fired, 
 Seems by our sinfulness alarmed. 
 
 Alas! no frail created thing 
 
 Hails Thee with reverential awe; 
 In Thee we fail to own our King, 
 
 Diviner than the world e'er saw. 
 Thy Father's self doth animate 
 The human race to scorn and hate 
 
 The very Author of the law. 
 
 The rudest season of the year 
 
 Doth chill Thee with its wintry blast, 
 
 Man for his Master sheds no tear. 
 Regardless where His lot is cast. 
 
 Against the Saviour of the world 
 
 The fury of the storm is hurled, 
 Prophetic of His death at last. 
 
 And, notwithstanding all Thy might. 
 
 In a rude cradle Thou dost moan, 
 And hast Thy share of life and light. 
 
 Predestined to the tomb, alone, 
 Alas! that Death itself should seem 
 Against its Lord and King supreme 
 
 To claim unprecedented right. 
 
 It is too much, Almighty God! 
 
 And we, frail mortals, in our turn. 
 Ought, since Thy hand hath spared the rod,
 
 216 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 For Thee with answering love to yearn. 
 Grant that Thy flames of Love divine 
 May in our souls hereafter shine 
 
 And through the countless ages burn! 
 
 THE BLACK POINT. 
 
 (From Gerard de Nerval.) 
 
 When to the sun a man hath raised his eye 
 Too long, thenceforth he sees persistently 
 
 A floating, livid spot; 
 I for one moment madl^- bent my gaze. 
 With youth's audacity, on Glory's blaze, 
 
 The blaze became a blot. 
 
 Since then, on all things, melancholy, dark, 
 I trace despairingly the spectral mark 
 
 I strive in vain to shun: 
 Must it forever on my life intrude? 
 Alas! none other than the eagle's brood 
 
 Unblinded face the sun! 
 
 PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE.* 
 
 The memory of a simple tale. 
 
 Called up from childhood's years. 
 With blissful charm that cannot fail 
 Compelleth gentle tears. 
 
 * (Suggested by Charles Limb's description of a picture, in which is repre- 
 sented the legend of a poor female saint who, having spun till past midnight to 
 maintain a bed-ridden mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, while angels 
 are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber an angel is tending a 
 lily, the emblem of [urity.)
 
 PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE 217 
 
 Yea, though it be a poet's dream, 
 
 Pure fantasy, forsooth. 
 Which cold, clear reason ne'er can deem 
 
 Reality or truth ; 
 Still, when we weep, our spirits are 
 
 Oft sanctified by grief, 
 For childlike faith is lovelier far 
 
 Than manlike unbelief. 
 
 There is a legend of a maid 
 
 Told by the painter's art, 
 So sweet, so sad, it cannot fade 
 
 Forever from my heart. 
 Deeply my pity it doth stir 
 
 E'en now with holy spell — 
 It needeth no interpreter, 
 
 That silent parable. 
 
 'Tis midnight: darkness, like a pall. 
 Hangs o'er a sleeping city's wall — 
 
 Many an iron tongue, 
 Slave to man's more iron will. 
 Calling through the air so still 
 
 The self-same chimes hath rung. 
 
 And at that hour, when every breast 
 From life's life-withering toil should rest. 
 
 There sitteth one within 
 That city's heart — cold heart of stone — 
 Wearily spinning all alone, 
 
 A maid scarce touched by sin.
 
 218 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 She toils within a cheerless room, 
 
 A rushlight twinkling through the gloom 
 
 Its dreariness to show: 
 Poor, pallid maid, for whom this earth 
 Hath found no dowry since her birth 
 
 Save only want and woe. 
 
 Her mother, white as are the dead. 
 Lies murmuring strangely on a bed, 
 
 As though with death at strife: 
 Thin fingers clutch the dear-bought food, 
 Bought at the price of flesh and blood, 
 
 A daughter's fragile life. 
 
 And still that maiden spins alone 
 Within that city's heart of stone, 
 
 And often turns her eye 
 To watch the lamp of life decay. 
 Well knowing that its last faint ray 
 
 Must soon in darkness die. 
 
 But hark! she speaks: " 'Tis sadly strange, 
 No rest from toil, no sign of change 
 Save when my mother dies, and she 
 Is dearer than all else to me. 
 I grow less earthly day by day- 
 Why doth the Angel Death delay 
 His summons that will set me free 
 From pain and want, and misery? 
 Hunger and winter's cold at length 
 Have bowed my feeble body's strength; 
 The power is lacking now, I feel. 
 That earned my mother's daily meal.
 
 PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE 219 
 
 Would God that from the viewless sky 
 
 Some pitying angel-band 
 Might glide to earth, and swiftly ply 
 
 The labours of my hand ! 
 Would that — but oh ! the thought is sin — 
 Seraphs might stoop these threads to spin: 
 God 'knows how oft I vigils keep, 
 God knows — alas! I sleep, I sleep! " 
 ****** 
 
 The maiden's prayer was borne to Heav^en, 
 Its rude simplicity forgiven. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Soon were heard quick-rushing pinions; 
 
 Angel-bands, with gleaming feet. 
 Floating down from God's dominions, 
 
 Flew to aid that virgin sweet. 
 See! they fill the lowly room, 
 Shedding light where all was gloom: 
 See! their hands perform the task 
 As the maid presumed to ask: 
 Toiling, spinning, they rejoice. 
 And lull the]slumberer with their voice, 
 
 "Softly sleep, O pious maiden! 
 
 Dream-enchanted lie: 
 Sorely wast thou sorrow-laden. 
 
 Deeply didst thou sigh. 
 Nurst by thee an aged mother. 
 
 Near the gate of death. 
 Fondly cherished by no other, 
 
 Drew her fleeting breath.
 
 220 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Clad in robes of spotless beauty, 
 
 Lilies of the field, 
 Burdened by no stress of duty, 
 
 Fragrant odour yield. 
 Maiden, clothed in humble raiment, 
 
 Lily of earth's soil! 
 Thou hast earned a heavenly payment 
 
 By thy saintly toil. 
 
 Cheeks made pale by ceaseless labour 
 
 Wear a sacred hue; 
 Angels claim thee for a neighbour, 
 
 Virgin, pure and true! 
 Forms, made thin by cold and hunger, 
 
 Grow more glorified, 
 Age-bowed frames seem fairer, younger, 
 
 When by suffering tried. 
 
 Starving paupers, as they languish, 
 
 Are not all alone: 
 Hearts deep-stung by piercing anguish 
 
 Still a guardian own. 
 Holy poor ones are not friendless — 
 
 He who dwells above 
 Calls them home to glory endless, 
 
 Children of His love. 
 
 Sleep, then, maiden! God will hear thee 
 
 When thou pourest prayer: 
 Angels now are watching near thee. 
 
 Warding off despair."
 
 THE BLIND IVIAN 221 
 
 THE BLIND MAN. 
 
 (From Theophile Giutier.) 
 
 As haggard as an owl by day, 
 A blind man through the town doth stray, 
 While, vaguely groping 'mid the keys, 
 A dreary flute his fingers tease. 
 
 He pipeth antiquated strains 
 Wherein scant melody remains, 
 And, like a ghost, with sightless eyes 
 Where'er his dog may lead him, hies. 
 
 For him the noon-day hath no light; 
 For him, the world is drowned in night; 
 He hears it roaring, like the fall 
 Of plunging streams behind a wall. 
 
 God knows what dark chimeras vain 
 Haunt the dim chambers of his brain; 
 What fantasies inscrutable 
 Thought writes within his reason's cell! 
 
 So oft, half-crazed by want of sleep, 
 Some captive in a dungeon-keep 
 With rusty nail obscurely scrawls 
 Strange hieroglyphics on the walls. 
 
 Still, who can tell? Perchance, when Death 
 Hath quenched Life's taper with his breath. 
 The blind man's soul, inured to gloom. 
 Shall see distinctly in the tomb!
 
 222 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 A UN PASSANT. 
 
 (From the French of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Traveller, who at night, along the echoing street, 
 With thine uneasy dog, passest accompanied, 
 
 After the burning day, why onward walkst thou yet ? 
 Where leadest thou so late the patient wearied steed? 
 
 Night! fearest thou not, far from farm house gate; 
 The robbers' warning whistle to his mate? 
 
 Or those wehr-wolves that near the highway roam, 
 Heed not the horses' heels, but stealthily creep, 
 And gain thy crupper with a sudden leap; 
 
 Mingling thy black blood with their fangs' white 
 
 foam? 
 
 Fear, above all, the wildfire's erring lamp. 
 
 That, from the road, may lure thro' marshes damp; 
 
 And, as it oft had wont, at nightfall gray; 
 Dreaming of cottage warmth and sounds of mirth; 
 And the great logs of welcome, on the hearth; 
 
 Lead thee towards lights that ever flit away. 
 
 Fear, lest thou meet a death dance, in the plain 
 When howling demons whirl, in storm and rain; 
 
 In walls accurs'd of God; profaned with their rites; 
 The magic tower deserted seems by day; 
 Hell knows its story — when the nightfall's grey 
 
 Fills its old windows with unholy lights 
 
 Thou lonely traveller, where away so fast? 
 With thine uneasy dog, at night accompanied; 
 After the burning day, when rest inviteth thee; 
 Where leadest thou so late, thy patient weary steed?
 
 VERLAINE'S "CHANSON D'AUTOMNE." 223 
 
 VERLAINE'S "CHANSON D'AUTOMNE." 
 
 The Autumn wind wails thin, 
 Like a sobbing violin, 
 Long and low. 
 How it thrills my heart with pain, 
 This monotonous refrain. 
 Sad and slow! 
 
 Passion-pale I pant, "Alas!" 
 For the chiming hours that pass 
 
 To their sleep, 
 Till the visions throng my head 
 Of the good glad days long dead — 
 
 And I weep. 
 
 But the wind so wild and fleet 
 Overbears my willing feet, 
 
 And I go 
 As the withered leaves that spin — 
 When the winter gusts begin — 
 To and fro. 
 
 THE BROOK AND THE OCEAN. 
 
 (From Victor Hugo.) 
 
 A brook from a headland was falling 
 
 In drops to the terrible sea, 
 When Ocean, the grave of the sailor, 
 
 Cried: "Weeper! What woulds't thou with me? 
 
 My life is all tempest and terror, 
 No limit I own but the sky.
 
 224 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Thou weakling! My power is stupendous, 
 What need of thy service have I '*" 
 
 The Brook said: "O, turbulent Ocean! 
 
 I noiselessly steal to thy brink, 
 And bear thee, salt Sea, what thou lackest, 
 
 A drop of fresh water to drink." 
 
 A WITHERED NOSEGAY. 
 
 (From the French of Louis Frechette. Translated in the original metre.) 
 
 Here's a posy of poor faded flowers, that I keep 
 
 As jealously guarded as gems in a heap, 
 
 For in their dead relics the fragrance I find 
 
 Of a hand that for me deigned the blossoms to bind. 
 
 And, when mem'ry floats back on the stream of the 
 
 past, 
 And I think of the days too enchanting to last. 
 On these roses, that nought but Time's hand shall pro- 
 fane, 
 Love's halo of gold will for ever remain. 
 Poor flow'rets! How often the tears from my eyes, 
 Like dewdrops, unheeded, have watered your dyes; 
 Alas! your bright crimson can never return, 
 But still in your leaves the dear past I discern. 
 Sleep here, on my heart! and my lips' latest breath 
 Shall touch you caressingly even in death.
 
 THE DEATH OF ROLL A 225 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 (Translation from Victor Hugo.) 
 
 When the gorgeous butterfly 
 
 In the jubilee of spring 
 Floats voluptuously by, 
 
 Borne on gold and purple wing: 
 Oft those damask wings are torn 
 By the faithless rose's thorn. 
 
 So — when life is fresh and gay, 
 
 Mortals, with capricious joy, 
 Flutter heedlessly away, 
 
 Whither fairest flowers decoy: 
 Soon, alas! their wings are torn 
 By perfidious Pleasure's thorn! 
 
 THE DEATH OF ROLLA. 
 
 (Translated from Alfred de Musset.) 
 
 Marie then, smiling, looked into the glass: 
 
 There she saw RoUa, but so pale, alas! 
 
 That she grew faint, and paler still than he. 
 
 " Ah! " she said trembling," what doth trouble thee? " 
 
 " Trouble? " said Rolla, " Hast thou not heard tell 
 
 That I am ruined utterly, ma belle? 
 
 I came to see thee, and to say ' good-bye ' : 
 
 Men know that I am ruined — I must die !" 
 
 " Didst lose at play? " " My ruin is complete. 
 
 And all is over — ask no further, sweet." 
 
 " Ruined! " she cried; and, like a statue, gazed
 
 226 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Downwards, with eyes dilated and amazed. 
 ■" Ruined! Thou hast no mother, then, alive? 
 No friends? no kin? no comrades that survive? 
 And thou wilt kill thyself? Oh! wherefore die? " 
 The fond sweet gaze grew fonder in her eye. 
 
 More she scarce dared to question — so she laid 
 Her lips to his, and kissed him, half-afraid. 
 " One thing, however, more I would be told," 
 At length, she said: " Ah me! I have no gold — 
 E'en when I have, my mother takes it all — 
 But here's my necklace. True, it is but small, 
 Still, it is gold, dear; tell me, shall I go 
 And sell it for thee? Nobody will know 
 And thou canst take the money for thy play." 
 With a soft smile grave Rolla turned away. 
 
 Draining a small dark phial, no word he said; 
 But kissed her necklace, bending down his head: 
 She raised it tenderly — the man was dead ! 
 
 His soul departed in that one chaste kiss. 
 And for a moment two had tasted bliss. 
 
 THE GIANT. 
 
 (Translated from Victor Hugo.) 
 
 Brave Chiefs! in the land of the Giants I was born. 
 My ancestors leapt o'er the Rhine stream in scorn; 
 I was only a. babe, when my mother, fond soul! 
 Used to bathe me each morn in the snows of the pole; 
 While my father, whose shoulders ensured him respect, 
 With three shaggy bear skins my cradle bedecked.
 
 THE GIANT 227 
 
 My Father, O Chiefs! was astoundingly strong, 
 Now, alas! he is weak, for his Hfe has been long; 
 His hair is like snow, and deep wrinkles appear 
 On his brow, telling plainly his end draweth near. 
 When he wants a new staff his frail steps to sustain 
 He can scarcely uproot a young oak from the plain ! 
 
 But I will replace him; I scoff at all fear, 
 I am heir to his steel bow, his axe and his spear, 
 I alone can succeed the old man at his death, 
 Who am able the poplars to bend with my breath, 
 And can dangle my feet in the valley at will, 
 While I carelessly sit on the top of a hill. 
 
 I was merely a boy, when I opened a road 
 
 O'er the snow peaks that form Winter's Alpine abode; 
 
 My head, like a mountain that vapour enshrouds. 
 
 Arrested the course of the galloping clouds, 
 
 And, often, uplifting my hands to the sky, 
 
 I seized the proud eagles far sailing on high. 
 
 I fought with the storm, and my breath, as it streamed, 
 
 Extinguished each flash of the lightning that gleamed,. 
 
 Or, bent upon sport, I would eagerly chase 
 
 The wallowing kings of Leviathan's race, 
 
 While I troubled far more than the hurricane's blast 
 
 The ocean, that opened its plain as I passed. 
 
 From my grasp, which was merciless, nothing could 
 
 save 
 The hawk in the sky, or the shark in the wave; 
 The bear, whose huge body my arms were thrown 
 
 round.
 
 228 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 Breathed his last in my grip without visible wound, 
 And ofttimes, while tracking wild beasts in the snow, 
 I have crushed the white teeth of the lynx with a blow. 
 
 These pastimes were only the frolics of youth, 
 For manhood's ambition too trivial, forsooth; 
 War now is my passion. I gloat o'er the fears 
 And curses of multitudes, mingled with tears, 
 I love the fierce soldiery, bounding in arms. 
 Who gladden my soul with their shouts and alarms. 
 
 When the onset is glowing 'mid powder and blood, 
 
 And the rage of the fight, like a turbulent flood. 
 
 Sweeps hurriedly onward the warrior and horse, 
 
 I rise in my might, and, directing its course, 
 
 I fearlessly plunge in the ranks of the brave, 
 
 Like a sea-bird that swoops on the dark-rolling wave. 
 
 Like a reaper alone 'mid the ripe waving corn, 
 I stand, while the squadrons in battle are torn, 
 When the roar of my voice is but heard to resound. 
 Their yells in the echoing thunder are drowned. 
 And my hand, like some rigid, hard-knotted, old oak. 
 Unarmed batters armour with death-dealing stroke. 
 
 Stark naked I fight, for so dauntless I feel, 
 
 That I scorn the protection of iron or steel; 
 
 I laugh at your warriors, and void of all fear, 
 
 Carry nought to the fray but my tough ashen spear. 
 
 And this helmet so tight that ten bulls, stout and 
 
 strong. 
 If well yoked together, might drag it along!
 
 FOR AYE 229 
 
 No ladders I need, when besieging a fort — 
 To shiver the chains of a drawbridge is sport — 
 Like a catapult formed of invincible brass 
 I crumble high towers in one ruinous mass, 
 And I wrestle, as 'twere, with the walls of a town, 
 Till its moats are filled up with the ramparts pulled 
 down. 
 
 But, Warriors! the day will arrive, when at length 
 I must follow my victims, despoiled of my strength, 
 Oh! leave not my corpse as a banquet for crows. 
 Let my sepulchre be the Alps' loftiest snows. 
 That strangers, who gaze on each far-soaring peak. 
 What mountain my tomb is may wonderi g seek' 
 
 FOR AYE. 
 
 (From an Elegy by Sully Prudhomme.) 
 
 Here, lilacs wilt beneath the blast 
 
 And short-lived song-birds cease their lay; 
 I dream of summers that will last 
 For aye. 
 
 Here, lips to velvet lips cling fast, 
 
 But the shared rapture dies away; 
 I dream of kisses that will last 
 For aye. 
 
 Here mortals weep o'er friendships past, 
 
 And fitful loves that had their day; 
 I dream of unions that will last 
 For ave.
 
 230 POEMS OF GEORGE MURRAY 
 
 THE GOLDEN DREAM. 
 
 (From the French.) 
 
 She sleeps ; her head is pillowed where, 
 On the green turf, with blossoms fair, 
 
 The hawthorn blows : 
 Strange angel maid, for whom this earth 
 Hath found no dowry from her birth 
 
 Save only woes. 
 But faintly on her youthful face 
 A sunny smile we still may trace, 
 Then, lightly tread ; she sleeps — 'tis well, 
 Break not her golden vision's spell ! 
 
 It may be that some gentle strain. 
 Whose tones the prisoned soul enchain, 
 
 Bids her rejoice ; 
 E'en while she sleepeth, she may hear 
 Fond love-words murmured in her ear. 
 
 Sweet memory's voice. 
 And then the poor deserted child 
 Seems loved and blest, by dreams beguiled. 
 Oh ! lightly tread : she sleeps — 'tis well, 
 Break not her golden vision's spell I 
 
 Alas ! that vision must be brief, 
 
 And her young heart's o'erwhelming grief 
 
 Will be more deep ; 
 Yet on each feature there is peace, — 
 Ye woodland birds, your warbling cease, 
 
 Still let her sleep 
 And pray we that our Angel's care
 
 WHITHER 231 
 
 May love and guard that maiden fair. 
 Oh ! lightly tread: she sleeps — 'tis well, 
 Break not her golden vision's spell ! 
 
 WHITHER ? 
 
 (From the Yiddish or Judeo-German of Morris Rosenfeld.)* 
 
 " Whither, sweet orphan, dost thou go ? 
 The world is not open as yet, you know. 
 Day has not broken: peace reigns around, 
 Throughout the streets there is scarce a sound. 
 The flowers are still dreaming, the birds are mute 
 Sleep clouds the eyes of each wearied brute. 
 W'hither, my child, art thou driven now? 
 What work so eager to do and how? " 
 " To earn scant food for my needs, I trow." 
 
 " Why walking, sweet girl, so late at night? 
 The world is silent and void of light. 
 Where art thou borne by the chilly breeze ? 
 Thy day has been luckless and thou wilt freeze. 
 The night is silent and deaf and blind, 
 Then whither sweet girl with heedless mind ?" 
 "Hungry, some food I am forced to find — 
 Since God, my Father, doth seem unkind." 
 
 * These were the last verses that Mr. Murray wrote, January 1910.
 
 Index 
 
 Page 
 
 After the Battle 67 
 
 Angel and the Child, The 119 
 
 Anthology, Flowers from the Greek 180 
 
 Appeal for the Deaf and Dumb 123 
 
 At Lake Mahole 148 
 
 Avenged Crow, The 166 
 
 A un Passant 222 
 
 Ballad 109 
 
 Beauty and the Beast 131 
 
 Beneath a Crucifix 149 
 
 Beneath a Picture 172 
 
 Black Point, The 216 
 
 Blind Man, The 221 
 
 Brook and the Ocean, The 223 
 
 Brotherly Love 46 
 
 Burns, Robert 37 
 
 Butterfly, The 225 
 
 Caravan, The 173 
 
 Chanson d'Automne 223 
 
 Christmas 104 
 
 Christmas-Tide, Ballad for 142 
 
 Cid and the Jew, The 190 
 
 Consolation 169 
 
 Coquetry 177 
 
 Coup d'Etat, A 159 
 
 Days That Are No More 50 
 
 Dead Woman, A 96 
 
 Deaf Girl, The 54 
 
 Death of Rolla 225 
 
 Delivered 96 
 
 Desolation • ■ ■ 140
 
 234 INDEX 
 
 Page 
 
 Doves, The 155 
 
 Dream about the Aspen, A 42 
 
 Eagle and the Kings. The 195 
 
 Eastern Judge, An . 22 
 
 Epigrams, Handful of 170 
 
 Evening Scene 102 
 
 Fame and Love 174 
 
 Fantasy, A 90 
 
 Farewell to the Guards, A 136 
 
 Flower and the Butterfly, The 106 
 
 Flowers from the Greek Anthology 180 
 
 For Aye 229 
 
 For a Blind Beggar 149 
 
 Forget Me Not . . 91 
 
 For Valour 154 
 
 Funeral of a Village Girl . 62 
 
 Gentlemen Cricketers' Team, The. 178 
 
 Giant, The 226 
 
 God's Heroes 26 
 
 Golden Dream, The 230 
 
 Gondolied 125 
 
 Grandmother, The 115 
 
 Grave and the Rose, The Ill 
 
 Greek Anthology, Flowers from. 180 
 
 Hare and the Tortoise, The. ... 130 
 
 Hopeless Man, Ballad of the 143 
 
 Horace, Translations from 149 
 
 Horoscope, The 129 
 
 How Canada was Saved 1 
 
 Humming-Bird in a Garden, To a 13 
 
 If, Darling, with Melodious Lay 81 
 
 In Futuro 92 
 
 Iphigenia at Aulis -. 66 
 
 Jacques 92 
 
 Keeper's Son, The ■ 63 
 
 King and the Peasant, 1 he 31 
 
 Knight Toggenburg 156 
 
 Lake, The 24 
 
 Lamp of Hero, The 61
 
 INDEX 235 
 
 Page 
 
 Landlady's Daughter, The 167 
 
 Leaf, The 199 
 
 Legend of the Child Jesus 27 
 
 Le Monde est Mechant .187 
 
 Lesson of Mercy 30 
 
 Lily and the Rose, The 81 
 
 Lord Roberts 103 
 
 Madonna's Isle. 70 
 
 Magic Bow, The 213 
 
 Maiden of Otaheite 92 
 
 Margaret's Song 162 
 
 Memories 104 
 
 Merchant of Venice. Prologue to 132 
 
 My Neighbour's Curtain 200 
 
 My Old Coat, To 108 
 
 Neapolitans to Mozart 55 
 
 New Year's Night of an Unhappy Man 57 
 
 Ninon, To .' 98 
 
 Noel 214 
 
 Old Song of a Youthful Time 161 
 
 Old Year, The 127 
 
 Parable, A 21 
 
 Pardoned Sin, The 15 
 
 Pauper Poet, A 140 
 
 Perhaps 79 
 
 Pilgrimage to Kevlaar 196 
 
 Present Help in Trouble 216 
 
 Red Wast , The 119 
 
 Remembrance 76 
 
 Renaud, Ballad of Jean 189 
 
 Rondeau 110 
 
 Silken Sashes 138 
 
 Song from Alfred de Musset 185 
 
 Song from Victor Hugo 178 
 
 Sonnet 83 
 
 Sower, The 60 
 
 Spectre of the Rose 176 
 
 Storv of Brother Paul 33
 
 236 INDEX 
 
 Page 
 
 Story of King David 145 
 
 Stranger, The 126 
 
 Streamlet, The 194 
 
 Strike of the Smiths 201 
 
 Student's Wife, The 184 
 
 Swiss Deserter, The 41 
 
 Terrors of Death 117 
 
 Thief, A 210 
 
 Thistle, The 16 
 
 Time will Come, The 30 
 
 Tit-for-Tat 106 
 
 Toilet of Constance 186 
 
 Two Pictures 168 
 
 Ultima Spes Mortuorum Ill 
 
 V'ilikins and his Dinah 134 
 
 Wandering Jew, The 163 
 
 Week in a Boy's Life 84 
 
 Welcome to Mark Twain 192 
 
 What the Swallows Say 121 
 
 When Children Sleep 209 
 
 Whither 231 
 
 Wild Flower, A 73 
 
 Willie the Miner 7 
 
 Withered Nosegay, A 224 
 
 Woman, A '95 
 
 Woman's Dream, A 74
 
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