A = — ^ A- ^^_ C/"^ - t_ ^— — 1 n = =^ ja u = = 33 2 m =^ O 9 = J> 7 = n H JU 7 ^ b ^ =^^ 1 — 1 alifornia' rional jility THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES > His 3-, 4. s 4 5^5 -^ »^ tJ S i ^ p ^ ^ « "5 it T i I i si d hi '^J vj W 1 !^ 4 ^4, ^:^ r,r,i THE Child Set in the Midst By Modern Poets ("And He took a little child and set him In the midst of them.") Edited by Wilfrid Meynell. WiiA a facsimile of the MS. of " The Toys" by COVENTRY Patmore. LONDON : # The Leadenhall Prefs, Ltd : 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. Simpkin, cMar shall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd : O^ew York : Charles Scriiner's Sons, j^y & ^45, Broadway. # The Leadenhall Press, Ltd : 50, leadenhall street, london, e.c T 4,591- rDE'DICoATIOV^. TO OF Sebastian Monica EVERARD Madeline Viola Vivian Olive AND Francis. 86(}7-'13 COC^TET^TS. PAGE Preface ----- i Holy Thursday - - - - - 25 Infant Sorrow - - - - - 27 Introduction to "Songs of Innocence" - 28 The Land of Dreams - - - - 29 The Little Boy Lost - - - - 30 The Little Boy Found - - - 31 A Cradle Song - - - - 32 Infant Joy ----- 34 On Another's Sorrow - - - 35 The Lamb . . - - 37 Three Years She Grew - - - - 38 Lucy Gray; or Solitude - - - 40 Ode : Intimations of Immortality from Recollec- tions of Early Childhood - - - 43 Children Playing in a Churchyard - 51 To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness 52 The Death Bed - - - - 55 Threnody - - - - - - 56 The Reaper and the Flowers - - 67 CONTENTS. PAQE The Changeling - - - - - 69 The First Snow-Fall ... - 72 Letty's Globe - - - - - 74 A Child Asleep- - - - - 75 The Cry of the Children - - - 79 A Portrait ... - - 86 The Romance of the Swan's Nest - - 89 Isobel's Child ----- 94 The Little Girl's Song - - - - 115 Brother and Sister - - - - 119 Youth and Age - - - - - 121 A Rhyme of One - - - - 122 To Lina Oswald - - - - - 124 Within a Mile of Edinburgh Town - - 126 The Dead Mother - - - - 129 Baby . - - - - - 134 The Mother's Dream - - - - 136 Death in Childbirth - - - - 138 The Boy - - - - - - i39 My Sister's Sleep - - - - - 140 Alone - - - - - - i43 The Toys - - - - 145 Martin's Puzzle - - - - i47 Daisy's Valentines - - - - - 151 The Cradle - - - - - i54 CONTENTS. PAGE A Bristol Figure - - - - - i55 Flowers and Snow - - - - 158 Philip, my King - - - - - 164 To R. L. S. 166 Questions of the Hour - - - - 167 Last Words over a little Bed at Night - 169 The Watch of a Swan - - - - 170 The Thought of Astyanax beside Iulus - 171 The Confession of my Neighbour - - 173 Self-Comforted - - - - - 176 Bund Man's Holiday - - - - i77 A Child's Day - - - - - 178 Loquitur Mater - - - - 182 Daisy - - - - - - - 183 The Poppy - - - - - 186 A Song of Youth and Age - - - 190 To my Godchild - - - - 193 ^^ w^^^iV HESE are Poems about Children, not for them : gathered together for mature Readers to whom the Child is already dear and delightful, and to whom he shall be yet dearer and delightfuller before the Modern Poet has done with him. Such Readers must mostly be Parents : since intimacy with the Child is the key to this Literature of the Child. But the Parent, even while he is interpreting the Poet, will discover that the Poet in turn unexpectedly interprets the Parent, and gives the Child a new meaning and glory. The Child has at last taken his proportionate place in Poetry. The nineteenth century has done two things for literature — it has put man on a lover's footing with nature, and it has, one may almost say, ( ii ) discovered the Child. Him the Modern Poets have Set in the Midst of us, even as he was Set in the Midst of men by the Lord of Poets. We read love's tender lessons taught As only weakness can : God has His small interpreters — The child must teach the man. We wander wide through evil years, The eyes of faith grow dim ; But he is freshest from His hands And nearest unto Him. So Mr. Whittier sings, and his words are well enough as in part a text for this collection. Homer's home-group, with Astyanax perturbed by Hector's plume, has given place to Mr. Coventry Patmore's innermost circle after all the husks of the community have been penetrated : In the centre then he showed a tent Where, laughing soft, a woman bent Over her babe ; and, her above, Leaned, in his turn, a graver love. " Behold the two idolatries By which," cried he, "the world defies Chaos and death ; and for whose sake All else must war and work and wake," Where Achilles is made to talk lightly of the little maiden who blockades her mother's path, and pulls her gown to be carried, the modern poet has a nobler vision of the child " fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, with light upon him from his ( iii ) father's eyes." Sappho had cognizance of the human baby — among other animals : Hesperus brings the goat to rest, Brings the baby to the breast : But the children's bedtime was never truly sung till the last half of our own century. How many white little beds, I wonder, have been nightly visited under the influence of Mrs. Piatt's "Last Words," I like to think of the multiplication of their number by this reprint of her perfect poem. As Love took the likeness of Dido's child before he had access to her heart ; even so the God of Heaven became as a Little Child to enter the narrow heart of His own creatures. Great poetry upon the Nativity did not wait till our spacious age for its production ; and a collection brought down to date may yet be offered to the Reader in a separate form. It is not, therefore, attempted now and here. As a child, Christ came ; but the advent of the common child in poetry as the messenger of Heaven was delayed. He was still to appear as a chattel, a toy, an intruder — at best a blessing in disguise ; to be apologised for or to be patronised ; a peg for plati- tudes, an audience for lectures, a substitute for our- selves in the practice of small perfections. Arthur is a figure of the footlights, but Shakspere formally offered homage to The most replenished sweet work of nature, ( iv ) and has real, if adult, feeling when Constance cries : Grief fills the room up of my absent child ; Lies on his bed ; walks up and down with me ; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me in all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form. There is a hint of child-feeling in Mamillius, but of Mamillius his mother has little to say except : Take the boy to you : he so troubles me 'Tis past enduring. The child to whom Nicholas Breton makes his " Sweet Lullaby " is Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief. Sephestia's child is imagined by Robert Greene as no more than his "mother's wag," while Sir Philip Sydney addresses his own : Thy cries, O Babe, do set my head on aching ! The flower of Chivalry has withered down to that. Matthew Prior is not content to take the little maid as she is — he peers at the future woman and rues : For, as our different ages move 'Tis so ordained (would fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Mr. Frederick Locker, with a touch more delicate, has reversed the order. He sees his grandmother at seventy-nine and imagines her at seventeen : What an arm — what a waist For an arm ! ( V ) Henry Vaughan seems indeed to have " intimations of immortality " in the Poetry of Childhood. His " striving eye " Dazzles at it as at Eternity in his verses on " Childhood " ; and in " The Retreat " he says : Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white celestial thought, When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love. And looking back at that short space Could get a glimpse of His bright face. With that thought Wordsworth was to transform, when the time became due, the Child Poetry of the World. Meanwhile, in extolling the Modern Poet, the reader may not forget to offer his homage to by-gone names other than those already given — from Chaucer, Herrick, Crashaw, Wither, and South- well, down to Cowper ; and from Marvell, Drayton, Waller, Wotton, and Sir William Jones, even to Isaac Watts. Yet it was William Blake who first peopled Poetry h-om the nurseries : O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London-town ! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs. Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. ( vi ) Wild the rhymes may be, but the child-spirit had been caught at last and prisoned in Poetry. And who is the Child but the young brother of the Poet ? The man of genius, says Ruskin, differs from the ordinary man, inasmuch as he goes through life with the wide-open eyes of a child. At last in Blake the man of genius frankly accepted his position, and did not dissemble his words. The movement was a matter of time, however. The poet could not accustom himself to step into the nursery without stilts — still less to skip and to kneel in it. Man's breathing miniature, thou mak'st me sigh, moralised Coleridge over the babe ; and now we sigh who read. Walter Savage Landor at least runs a race with a little girl, but, boor that he is, he does not allow her to win ; and then, when he foregoes his victor's right of a kiss, he makes her complain to her mother — a potman's child rather than a Poet's : Such modesty I never knew — He would no more kiss me than you. Even Charles Lamb forgot to be really the " frolic and the gentle " in his verses for the nursery ; and Shelley ranted to his son. " Come with me, thou de- lightful child ! " remains as the one memorable line, ( vii ) amid pages of invocation to the infant to "fear not the tyrants will rule for ever." Tom Hood's I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above, shall be forgiven, and worse than that, to the author of " The Death-bed." Beside " The Death-bed " T print Mr. Matthew Browne's " Flowers and Snow," Mr. Cosmo Monkhouse's *' Bristol Boy," with both of which I made a first memorable meeting in maga- zines — and with these Mr. Gerald Massey's " Within a Mile of Edinburgh Town " comes to mind, for it too is full of tears. What modern England has achieved in this department, the most moving in all Letters, is seen by a comparison of any of these poems with Milton's " Fair Infant Dying of a Cough," in which he laments But oh ! why didst thou not stay here below To bless us with thy Heaven-loved innocence. To slake His wrath whom sin hath made our foe ? and, redeeming dulness for an instant, bids the mother Think what a present thou to God hast sent. On to Wordsworth went the magic of Blake. The child as " father of the man" became an object of the world's solicitude. His destiny, past, present and future, was declared to all. A being so des- cended, and with divine possibilities, could no longer be flouted or ignored. One Poet after another be- came his hierophant. Dante Rossetti, besides writing ( viii ) " My Sister's Sleep," opens his sonnet, " Broken Music," with an allusion studied from the Child : The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears Her nurseling's speech first grow articulate ; But breathless with averted eyes elate She sits, with open lips and open ears, That it may call her twice. And when he seeks the origin of " Dante's love sub- limed to Heavenly mood," exhibited in the " Vita Nuova " and Marvelled touching his Beatitude, How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm, he finds in the Child the Teacher a solution of the mystery : At length within this book I find pourtrayed Newborn that Paradisal love of his. And simple like a child ; with whose clear aid I understood. To such a child as this, Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade Offence : " For lo ! of such my kingdom is." George Meredith sees in the child a usurper, indeed ; but how seraphic a one is shown in the poem after- wards quoted. Mr. Swinburne might not have been suspected of the tendency ; but the influence of Victor Hugo drew him also into the enchanted circle. He acknow- ledges the derivation by the title of his *' Etude Realiste," wherein he sings a Baby's feet, a Baby's hands and a Baby's eyes. "Like sea-shells pink" ( ix ) he paints a Baby's feet, and it is the happiest touch, as it ought to be, from this singer of the sea. More than a mere daintiness of form, because embodying a passage of child biography, is the same writer's poem headed " A Child's Pity " : No sweeter thing than children's ways and wiles, Surely, we say, can gladden eyes and ears ; Yet sometimes sweeter than their words or smiles Are even their tears. To one for once a piteous tale was read. How, when the murderous mother crocodile Was slain, her fierce brood famished, and lay dead, Starved, by the Nile. In vast green reed-beds on the vast grey slime These monsters motionless and helpless lay. Perishing only for the parent's crime Whose seed were they. Hours after, towards the dusk, one blithe small bird Of Paradise, who has our hearts in keeping, Was heard or seen, but hardly seen or heard. For pity weeping. He was so sorry, sitting still apart, For the poor little crocodiles, he said. Six years had given him, for an angel's heart, A child's instead. Feigned tears the false beasts shed for murderous ends. We know from travellers' tales of crocodiles ; But these tears wept upon them of my friend's Outshine his smiles. What heavenliest angels of what heavenly city Could match the heavenly heart in children here ? The heart that hallowing all things with its pity Casts out all fear ? B ( X ) The Child the Reconciler is given to us by the Poet Laureate. Walter Scott had devised the situa- tion of the mother mourning her dead husband- warrior, consoled only by seeing in her son the future avenger. A gentler inspiration marks the passage of time, and Lord Tennyson gives it lyrical expression : Home they brought her warrior dead ; She nor swooned nor uttered cry. All her maidens watching said. " She must weep or she will die." * * * * Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee. Like summer tempest came her tears : " Sweet my child, I live for thee." The Child, by the mere fact of living, here puts the widow upon terms with life ; and the Child, by the mere fact of being dead, reappears in the Laureate's loveliest lines to put husband and wife upon^terms with each other — the Child is the Reconcilerj»alike in life and in death : As through the land at eve we went And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I, We fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears. * * * * For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave, O there above the little grave We kissed again with tears. ( xi ) The Laureate leaves behind his lyric splendours when he goes into the " Children's Hospital," though one verse in it is a study from child-life. Emmie has overheard the doctor give her up, and she solves a problem of theology with the girl in the next cot : " He says I shall never live through it ; O Annie, what shall I do ? " Annie considered. " If I," said the wise little Annie, " was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for Emmie, you see. It's all in the picture there, ' Little children should come to Me : ' " (Meaning, the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about. His knees). " Yes, and I will," said Emmie, " but then if I call to the Lord, How should he know that it's me ? such a lot of beds ia the ward ! " That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and said — " Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed — The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you tell it Him plain, It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counter- pane." ******** He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her asleep again — Her dear, long, lean little arms lying out on the counter pane. n2 ( xii ) To his grandson, Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate dedicates his " Ballads and Other Poems " : O mine, and mine of mine, Glorious poet who never hast written a line, recalling Ben Jonson " On his First Son " : Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry. Mr. Charles Tennyson-Turner's " Letty's Globe " will be found in its place, a perfect poem and a perfect allegory. Mrs. Browning was the first among the poets to fulfil the ideal of the woman writing of the child. In her earlier poems she devoted to him a large space, as in " Isobel's Child." In her later poems there was more compression, and sometimes she contented herself with an allusion. By " Cowper's Grave " she sang : Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, That turns his fevered eyes around, " My mother, where's my mother?" As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other : The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bend- ing o'er him, Her face all pale from watchful love, the unwearied love she bore him : Thus woke the poet from the dream his life-long fever gave him. Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in Death to save him. ( xiii ) In words as noble and moving she addresses a father and mother who have lost a child, and have remaining to them " only a curl " of the bright locks put away " out of reach beyond kiss in the clay." " God lent him and takes him," you sigh — Nay there let me break with your pain : God's generous in giving, say I, And the thing which he gives, I deny That He ever can take back again. He gives what He gives. I appeal To all who bear babes— in the hour. When the veil of the body we feel Rent round us — while torments reveal The motherhood's advent in power ; And the babe cries ! has each of us known By apocalypse (God being there Full in nature) the child is our own : Life of life, love of love, moan of moan, Through all changes, all times, everywhere. He's ours and for ever. Believe O father ! O mother, look back To the first love's assurance. To give Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. He gives what He gives. Be content ! He resumes nothing given — be sure ! God lend ? Where the usurers lent In His temple, indignant He went And scourged away all those impure. ( xiv ) In "Little Mattie" a girl's death is again the theme; Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death. Meek, obedient, in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday 1 Yours, Answering you like silver bells Lightly touched ! An hour matures : You can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid : By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows. You, you had the right, you thought, To survey her with sweet scorn. Poor gay child, who had not caught Yet the octave stretch forlorn Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, Now your places are changed so, In the same superior way She regards you dull and low. As you did herself exempt From life's sorrows. Grand contempt Of the spirits risen awhile. Who look back with such a smile ! There's the sting oft. That, I think. Hurts the most a thousandfold. To feel sudden, at a wink, Some dear child we used to scold. Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease, Teach and tumble as our own, All its curls about our knees, Rise up suddenly full grown. ( XV ) Who could wonder such a sight, Made a woman mad outright ? Shew me Michael with the sword Rather than such angels, Lord ! At " A Child's Grave at Florence," a babe's whose life " by months, not years, was reckoned," the same thoughts crowd in, and the Mother goes out to the Mother : Arms, empty of her child, she lifts With spirit unbereaven. " God will not take back his gifts ; My Lily's mine in Heaven. " Still mine ! " maternal rights, serene, Not given to another ! The crystal bars shine faint between The souls of Child and Mother. " Meanwhile " the mother cries, " Content ! Our love was well divided : Its sweetness following where she went, Its anguish stayed where I did. " Well done of God, to halve the lot, And give her all the sweetness ; To us the empty room and Cot, To her the Heaven's Completeness. " To us this grave, to her the rows. The mystic palm-trees spring in ; To us, the silence in the house. To her the choral singing." So speaks the Mother. What of the Father ? Mr, Coventry Patmore, as if to save the supremacies he has maintained in theory, came to tell the world what the Masculine mind can conceive of tenderness ( xvi ) for the Child. The poet who has invested Domes- ticity with its native and lapsed dignity, and has transformed dowdyness into distinction, he presents to us the Boy, the Explainer of God to man. A parent, touched by the sight of the trivial compensations his child takes in time of banishment, comprehends the Heavenly Father's attitude to his great family on earth, erring, and comforted by such trifles. The favour of Mr. Patmore enables me to give xn facsimile the manuscript of "The Toys" — a poem, most poignant yet most supporting, which, more pro foundly than any other, marks the literature of the age in which it was produced. It first appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette of Mr. Greenwood's editing, signed by the initials " C. P." The association is worth recalling, for it was Mr. Greenwood himself who, years later, touched the heart of the town in a few lines of prose. I repeat from memory. A child is at its mother's door. " Is that you, darling?" she cries. " No mother, it's me," the child answers, not being the pet whom its mother would so address. There must be another world, says Mr. Greenwood, to redress the inequalities of this. Wherein we have again the Child as the argument for Immortality. The leaven has spread. Take up a book by any typical modern poet and see the hold the Child has on him. If he does not actually write poems about Children which I can take for quotation, none the ( xvii ) less do I find that the Children beset his paths. He shows that they expound and elucidate Heaven and earth for him. At every difficult turn they are among the constant allusions of life, a population to be referred to and reckoned with. One such work is at my hand. O Spring I know thee ! seek for sweet surprise In the young children's eyes, exclaims the writer, at the very opening, unable to elude the child. In a time of deprivation, the child remains as comforter and compensation : Although my life is left so dim, The morning crowns the mountain brim ; Joy is not gone from summer skies, Nor innocence from children's eyes ; And all these things are part of him. And there comes a new pity for " children in their lonely hour," since man feels that it answers to his own recurring sense of isolation : indeed, a new pity for them since it is perceived that they share the latent mysterious melancholy which invades all objects of beauty : No, not sad ; we are beguiled. Sad with living as we are ; Ours the sorrow, outpouring Sad self on a selfless thing. As our eyes and hearts are mild With our sympathy for spring. With a pity sweet and wild For the innocent and far. With our sadness in a star Or our sadness in a child. ( xviii ) Then we have the Child the Legislator — giving to the young bough the bend which will stay with the ancient trunk. Well may this Poet address her own childhood : But how dare you use me so ? For you bring my ripe years low To your child's whim and a destiny your child soul could not know. And that small voice legislating I revolt against with tears, But you mark not through the years. I rebel not, child gone by, but obey you wonderingly, For you knew not, young rash speaker, all you spoke and now will I, With the life and all the loneliness revealed that you thought fit. Sing the Amen, knowing it. And more says the Modern Poet to this young Arbiter of fate. Nay, now we cannot kiss the common child without a multitude of emotions, knitting together the past, the present, the future : So, child, I kiss you tall and changed In that one kiss, and kiss you a man and old, And so I kiss you dead. Andjthe Child as the final Model remains — where Poet and Saint may unite to testify : Failing in penitence, I who fail in all. Leave all my thoughts alone, and lift mine eyes Quietly to One who makes amends for me. Less than I knew, less than I know, am I, Returning Childless, but, O Father, a Child ! ( xix ) One of our younger Poets, Mr. Francis Thomp- son, who has eluded Fame as long as Shelley did, but cannot elude it longer, passes from the place of pre- paration to the place of fruition, and gives the clue to his own eternal whereabouts : Look for me in the Nurseries of Heaven ! To most readers the poems of Mr. Francis Thompson given in this collection will come as the revelation of a new personality in Poetry, the last discovered of the Immortals. It would not be poetical justice had the Nurse no share in the new glory given to her charge. Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson has placed her, with his own perfection, on a dedication page "To Alison Cunningham :" For all the nights you lay awake, And watched for my unworthy sake ! For your most comfortable hand Which led me through the uneven land : For all the story books you read : For all the pains you comforted : For all you pitied, all you bore, In sad and happy days of yore : — My second Mother, my first Wife, The angel of my infant life — From the sick child now well and old. Take, nurse, the little book you hold ! And grant it. Heaven, that all who read. May have as dear a nurse at need ! ( XX ) The watches of a mother by the bed of fever are made with magic in verses which Mr. Stevenson contributed to a friend's newspaper and which he called " The Sick Child." Child. O, mother, lay your hand on my brow ! O, mother, mother, where am I now ? Why is the room so gaunt and great ? Why am I lying awake so late ? Mother. Fear not at all ; the night is still. Nothing is here that means you ill. Nothing but lamps the whole town through, And never a child awake but you. Child. Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, Some of the things are so great and near, Some are so small and far away, I have a fear that I cannot say. What have I done, and what do I fear. And why are you crying, mother dear ? Mother. Out in the city sounds begin, Thank the kind God, the carts come in ! An hour or two more, and God is so kind. The day shall be blue on the window blind. Then shall my child go sweetly asleep. To dream of the birds and the hills of sheep. So in the dream-beleaguered night, While the other children lie Quiet, and the stars are high. The poor unused and "playful mite Lies strangling in the grasp of fright. ( xxi ) O, when all golden comes the day, And the other children leap, , Singing, from the doors of sleep. Lord, take Thy heavy hand away, Lord, in Thy mercy, heal or slay ! Strange it is that Child-fear had waited to be so poignantly touched until it came under hand of a gay and buoyant singer. It is more appropriate than most things are in life that the author of these verses has had his own childhood sung as Mr. W. E. Henley sings it in the lines " To R. L. S." And is the nurse, to whom the child ran, the real Alison Cunningham ? Happy nurse to be twice sung ! In his delightful " Garden of Verses," Mr. Stevenson shews us the man of genius devoting all his delicate art to the service of the nursery, so that, children's poems though they are, the grown-up lector delights in his lesson. Mr. Coventry Patmore made his selections for " The Children's Garland " on the basis of their doing double duty by being such as appeal to both youth and age, while Mr. Eric Robertson's " Children of the Poets " includes poems which remain in the world for young readers only. The breadth of these collections is the mea- sure of the limitation of mine, for the poems of Childhood given here are not those that appeal to the Child, but those that appeal rather to the world on behalf of the Child. They may not mould the boy ( xxii ) or girl, but they will mould the Age, newly informed, in its attitude towards Infancy. The boy is pro- claimed by the Poet as the last instructor. By him is human and Divine Truth taught. And in return for the lesson, the great company of Parents recognize in the Child an individuality once denied him, and devote to his separate career a tenderer care. It is fitting that the generation which limited the labour of little ones and was more moved than its predecessors to protect infancy against physical wrong, should be the age also in which Poets have proclaimed "the cloud of glory," in which the child comes " from God who is our Home." He comes as a King's messenger — the link between " the kindred points of Heaven and Home : " Heaven which can be entered by only those who become as little children, and the Home on earth which is his own creation. In making these selections I have been bound — and very narrowly bound — by space ; and I have kept this rule before me, that the worship of the Child should be fostered, directly or indirectly, in each poem published : at times by the divine right of the art devoted to the subject, and at times by the subjects treated in hands that looselier touch the lyre. And if this happy worship is increased in any reader, already devout, by what he makes or renews acquaint- ance with in this book, I shall regret the less the renunciations made in this narrowing of its bounds. ( xxiii ) Half the poems copied in preparation have been put aside for one cause or another. The volume is not,, therefore, in any sense a complete anthology ; yet he who has the spirit of what it contains needs no other sustenance or intuition, but has already entered the Paradise of the poet and the child. Palace Court House, London, W. MAY-DAY, 1892. 5f The Child Set in the Midst. HOLY THUT^DqAY. 'WAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green : Grey - headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow. Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town ! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their inno- cent hands. c 26 'BLq^KE. Now like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among : Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor ; Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William 'Blake. ^^L mLoAKE. 27 IV^FA7I^Y mother groaned, my father wept : X I ^ Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud. Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands. Striving against my swaddling-bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast. William *Blake. C2 28 "BLoAKE. lU^TTiOrDUCT lOV^ TO '^SOT^GS OF lUHiUHiOCEU^CEr r\lPING down the valleys wild, (^1/ Piping songs of pleasant glee, 1 On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me — " Pipe a song about a lamb ! " So I piped with merry cheer. '' Piper, pipe that song again ; " So I piped : he wept to hear. " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy song of happy cheer ! " So I sang the same again. While he wept with joy to hear. *' Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanished from my sight ; And I plucked a hollow reed. And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. William 'Blake. "BLoAKE. 29 T:HE LQAVHiT> OF ^%EqAqMS. ^TI WAKE, awake, my little boy ! / 1 Thou wast thy mother's only joy. ^ Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep ? Oh wake ! thy father doth thee keep. " Oh what land is the land of dreams ? What are its mountains and what are its streams ? Oh father ! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair. " Among the lambs clothed in white She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight. I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn — Oh when shall I again return ? " " Dear child ! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams ; But, though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side." " Father, O father ! what do we here. In this land of unbelief and fear ? The land of dreams is better far. Above the light of the morning-star." William 'Blake. 30 'BLcdKE. THE LITTLE "BOY LOST. " r? ATHER ! father ! where are you going ? 1 O, do not walk so fast. Speak, father, speak to your little boy, Or else I shall be lost." The night was dark, no father was there ; The child was wet with dew ; The mire was deep and the child did weep, And away the vapour flew. William 'Blake. ^ "BLoAKE. 31 THE LITTLE "BOY FOUU^Tt. 7^^ HE little boy lost in the lonely fen, \^ Led by the wandering light, Began to cry ; but God, ever nigh, Appear'd like his father in white : He kiss'd the child, and by the hand led, And to his mother brought, Who, in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale, Her little boy, weeping, sought. William 'Blake. ^ 32 'BLodKE. 'WEET dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head, Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams. Sweet sleep with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown. Sweet sleep, angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child. Sleep, sleep, happy child ; All creation slept and smiled. Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, While o'er thee thy mother weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace. Sweet babe, once like thee Thy Maker lay and wept for me. "BLcAKE. 33 Wept for me, for thee, for all. When He was an infant small. Thou His image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee. Smiles on thee, on me, on all ; Who became an infant small. Infant smiles are His own smiles ; Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. William 'Blake. J^ 34 'BLedKE. iu^fqau^t joy. I HAVE no name — I am but two days old. What shall I call thee ? I happy am, Joy is my name. — Sweet joy befall thee ! Pretty joy ! Sweet joy but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee, Thou dost smile, I sing the while, Sweet joy befall thee 1 William 'Blake. ^ 'BLodKE. 35 OUHi cAU^OTHE'KS SO%%OW. CAN I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too ? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share ? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd ? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear ? No, no, never can it be, Never, never can it be. And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small. Hear the small bird's grief and care. Hear the woes that infants bear. And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast ; And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear ; 36 "BLqAKE. And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away ? O ! no never can it be, Never, never can it be. He doth give His joy to all ; He becomes an infant small ; He becomes a man of woe ; He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh And thy Maker is not by ; Think not thou canst weep a tear And thy Maker is not near. Oh ! He gives to us His joy That our grief He may destroy : Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. William 'Blake. 'BL(24KE. 37 THE LcAm'B. kITTLE lamb who made thee ? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee hfe and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead ; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; Gave thee such a tender voice ; Making all the vales rejoice ; Little lamb who made thee ? Dost thou know who made thee ? Little lamb, I'll tell thee. Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name. For He calls Himself a Lamb : He is meek and He is mild. He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee, Little lamb, God bless thee. William 'Blake. 38 WO'Ji'DSWOIiTH. ( TH%EE YEqAT{S she G%EW. HREE years she grew in sun andgshower ; 'J Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm And hers the silence and tlie calm Of mute insensate things. wo 'KT>S WOTiTH. 39 " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. " The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake — the work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. William Wordsworth. 40 W01iT>SW0TiTH. LUCY CHcAY; or, SOLITVDE. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The soHtary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew j She dwelt on a wild moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. " To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'Tis scarcely afternoon — The minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon ! " wo Tiros WO'KJH. 4 1 At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot band ; He plied his work ; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time : She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide ; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet ; " — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. D 42 wo Tilts wornTH. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small ; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall ; And then an open field they crossed : The marks were still the same ; Th-ey tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none ! — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. William Wordsworth. ^ wo Ti'DS WO TiTH. 43 Oi:>E: Intimations of Immortality from T{ecollections of 6>arly Childhood. ' The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." 'HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore, — Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day. The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose ; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare ,* Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; D2 44 WOTi'DSWOIiTH. The sunshine is a glorious birth ; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief : A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong : The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity. And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ; — Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy ! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. WOT^CDS WO "KTH. 45 evil day ! if I were sullen While the earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning ; And the children are pulling, On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone : The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar ; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, 46 W01iT>S WO 'KTH. But he beholds the Hght, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy ; The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim. The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man. Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! See where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human Hfe, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart. wo 711)5 WO 1SW0'KTH. Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus bHndly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast': Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionirgs Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections. Those shadowy recollections, I wo 1iT>S WO TITH. 49 Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain hght of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy. Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither ; Can in a moment travel thither. And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play. Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight. KO W01i1>SW01lTH. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might : I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often he too deep for tears. William Wordsworth. Lq4V^'T>0'K. 51 CHU'KCHYqA'K'B. CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play ; Your kinder angels plainly say, By God's authority, ye may. Be prompt His holy word to hear, It teaches you to banish fear : The lesson lies on all sides near. Ten summers hence the spriteliest lad, In Nature's face will look more sad, And ask where are those smiles she had. Ere many days the last will close . . . Play on, play on ; for then (who knows ?) He who plays here may here repose. Walter Savage Landor. ^ 52 LEIGH HUD^T. TO T. L. H., Six Years 0/d, during a Sickness. 'LEEP breathes at last from out thee, My Httle, patient boy ; And baimy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, Thy thanks to all that aid. Thy heart, in pain and weakness. Of fancied faults afraid ; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, — These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. LEIGH HUU^T. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, midst my dear ones, Have wasted with dry brow ; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, — The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother. When life and hope were new. Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too ; My light, where'er I go. My bird, when prison-bound. My hand in hand companion, — no. My prayers shall hold thee round To say " He has departed " — " His voice — his face — is gone ; " To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on ; Ah ! I could not endure To whisper of such woe. Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so. 54 LEIGH HUU^T. Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping ! This silence too the while — Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile : Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." Leigh Hunt. * w HOOT). SS THE "DEqATH "BET^. w E watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the tide of Hfe Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears. Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers. Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. Thomas Hood. S6 EmETiSOU^. THTIET^O'BY. 'HE south-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire ; But over the dead he has no power. The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return. I see my empty house, I see my trees repair their boughs ; And he, the wondrous child. Whose silver warble wild Outvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round — The hyacinthine boy, for whom Morn well might break and April bloom- The gracious boy, who did adorn The world whereinto he was born. And by his countenance repay The favour of the loving Day — Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; Far and wide she cannot find him ; My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. E^ET{SO:Ni. 57 Returned this day, the south-wind searches, And finds young pines and budding birches ; But finds not the budding man ; Nature who lost, cannot remake him ; Fate let him fall, Fate cannot retake him ; Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, O, whither tend thy feet ? I had the right, few days ago. Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; How have I forfeited the right ? Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? I harken for thy household cheer, O eloquent child ! Whose voice, an equal messenger. Conveyed thy meaning mild. What though the pains and joys Whereof it spoke were toys Fitting his age and ken, Yet fairest dames and bearded men, Who heard the sweet request, So gentle, wise, and grave. Bended with joy to his behest. And let the world's affairs go by, A while to share his cordial game, Or mend his wicker waggon-frame. Still plotting how their hungry ear That winsome voice again might hear ; E 58 EoMETiSO^. For his lips could well pronounce Words that were persuasions. Gentlest guardians marked serene His earthly hope, his liberal mien ; Took counsel from his guiding eyes To make this wisdom earthly wise. Ah, vainly do these eyes recall The school-march, each day's festival, When every morn my bosom glowed To watch the convoy on the road ; The babe in willow waggon closed, With rolling eyes and face composed ; With children forward and behind. Like Cupids studiously inclined ; And he the chieftain paced beside, The centre of the troop allied, With sunny face of sweet repose, To guard the babe from fancied foes. The little captain innocent Took the eye with him as he went ; Each village senior paused to scan And speak the lovely caravan. From the window I look out To mark thy beautiful parade. Stately marching in cap and coat To some tune by fairies played — A music heard by thee alone EmETiSOU^. 59 To works as noble led thee on. Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, Up and down their glances strain. The painted sled stands where it stood ; The kennel by the corded wood ; His gathered sticks to staunch the wall Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall : The ominous hole he dug in the sand. And childhood's castles built or planned ; His daily haunts I well discern — The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — And every inch of garden ground Paced by the blessed feet around, From the roadside to the brook Whereinto he loved to look. Step the meek birds where erst they ranged ; The wintry garden lies unchanged ; The brook into the stream runs on ; But the deep-eyed boy is gone. On that shaded day. Dark with more clouds than tempests are. When thou didst yield thy innocent breath In bird-like heavings unto death, Night came, and Nature had not thee ; I said, " We are mates in misery." The morrow dawned with needless glow : Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow ; E2 6o EmEHSOU^. Each tramper started, but the feet Of the most beautiful and sweet Of human youth hath left the hill And garden — they were bound and still. There's not a sparrow or a wren, There's not a blade of autumn grain, Which the four seasons do not tend. And tides of life and increase end ; And every chick of every bird, And weed and rock-moss is preferred. O ostrich-like forgetfulness ! O loss of larger in the less ! Was there no star that could be sent, No watcher in the firmament, No angel from the countless host That loiters round the crystal coast. Could stoop to heal that only child. Nature's sweet marvel undefiled. And keep the blossom of the earth, Which all her harvests were not worth ? Not mine — I never called thee mine, But Nature's heir — if I repine. And seeing rashly torn and moved Not what I made, but what I loved, Grow early old with grief that thou Must to the wastes of Nature go — 'Tis because a general hope Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope. E£METiSO:K' 6 1 For flattering planets seemed to say This child should ills of ages stay, By wondrous tongue, and guided pen. Bring the flown Muses back to men. Perchance not he but Nature ailed ; The world, and not the infant failed. It was not ripe yet to sustain A genius of so fine a strain, Who gazed upon the sun and moon As if he came unto his own. And, pregnant with his grander thought, Brought the old order into doubt. His beauty once their beauty tried ; They could not feed him, and he died. And wandered backward as in scorn, To wait an seon to be born. Ill day which made this beauty waste, Plight broken, this high face defaced ! Some went and came about the dead ; And some in books of solace read ; Some to their friends the tidings say ; Some went to write, some went to pray ; One tarried here, there hurried one ; But their heart abode with none. Covetous death bereaved us all, To aggrandise one funeral. The eager fate which carried thee Took the largest part of me ; 62 EmETiSO^. For this losing is true dying ; This is lordly man's down-lying, This is slow but sure reclining, Star by star his world resigning. child of paradise ! Boy who made dear his father's home, In whose deep eyes Men read the welfare of the times to come, 1 am too much bereft. The world dishonoured thou hast left. O truth's and Nature's costly lie ! O trusted broken prophecy ! O richest fortune sourly crossed ! Born for the future, to the future lost ! The deep Heart answered, " Weepest thou ? Worthier cause for passion wild If I had not taken the child. And deemest thou as those who pore, With aged eyes, short way before — Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast Of Matter, and thy darling lost ? Taught he not thee — the Man of eld. Whose eyes within his eyes beheld Heaven's numerous hierarchy span The mystic gulf from God to man ? To be alone wilt thou begin When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? EmEliSOCN:. 63 To-morrow when the masks shall fall That dizen Nature's carnival, The pure shall see by their own will, Which overflowing Love shall fill, 'Tis not within the force of fate The fate-conjoined to separate. But thou, my votary, weepest thou ? I gave thee sight — where is it now ? I taught thy heart beyond the reach Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, As far as the communicable ; Taught thee each private sign to raise, Lit by the supersolar blaze. Past utterance, and past belief, And past the blasphemy of grief. The mysteries of Nature's art ; And though no Muse can these impart. Throb thine with Nature's throbing breast. And all is clear from east to west. " I came to thee as to a friend ; Dearest, to thee I did not send Tutors, but a joyful eye, Innocence that matched the sky. Lovely locks, a form of wonder, Laughter rich as woodland thunder, That thou might'st entertain apart The richest flowering of all art : 64 EoMETiSO^Ni- And, as the great all-loving Day Through smallest chambers takes its way, That thou might'st break thy daily bread With prophet, Saviour, and head ; That thou might'st cherish for thine own The riches of sweet Mary's Son, Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon. And thoughtest thou such guest Would in thy hall take up his rest ? Would rushing life forget her laws, Fate's glowing revolution pause ? High omens ask diviner guess ; Not to be conned to tediousness. And know my higher gifts unbind The zone that girds the incarnate mind. When the scanty shores are full With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; When frail Nature can no more, Then the Spirit strikes the hour : My servant Death, with solving rite. Pours finite into infinite. " Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow, Whose streams through Nature circling go ? Nail the wild star to its track On the half-climbed zodiac ? Light is light which radiates, Blood is blood which circulates, E<£ME1iS0U^. 65 Life is life which generates, And many-seeming hfe is one — Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? Its onward force too starkly pent In figure, bone, and lineament ? Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? Nor see the genius of the whole Ascendant in the private soul. Beckon it when to go and come. Self-announced its hour of doom ? Fair the soul's recess and shrine. Magic-built to last a season ; Masterpiece of love benign ; Fairer that expansive reason, Whose omen 'tis and sign. Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? Verdict which accumulates From lengthening scroll of human fates, Voice of earth to earth returned. Prayers of saints that inly burned — Saying, W/iaf is excellent^ C/ls God lives, is permanent ; Hearts are dust, hearts'' loves remain ; Heart'' s love will meet thee again. Revere the Maker ; fetch thine eye Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 66 EcME'KSOC^C- Not of adamant and gold Built He heaven stark and cold ; No, but a nest of bending reeds, Flowering grass, and scented weeds ; Or like a traveller's fleeting tent, Or bow above the tempest bent ; Built of tears and sacred flames, And virtue reaching to its aims ; Built of furtherance and pursuing. Not of spent deeds, but of doing. Silent rushes the swift Lord Through ruined systems still restored, Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless, Plants with worlds the wilderness ; Waters with tears of ancient sorrow Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. House and tenant go to ground. Lost in God, in Godhead found." ^alph Waldo Emerson. m LONGFELLOW. 67 THE ^EqA'PE'^ qAU^T) the FL0WE1{S. 'HERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. And the flowers that grow between. " Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he ; " Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. *' My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled ; " Dear tokens of the earth are they. Where He was once a child. 68 LOZSZGFELLOW. " They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain. The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; ' Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. \^ LOWELL. 69 THE CHoAU^GELIT^iG, iHAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her. But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. 70 • LOWELL. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also. And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me ! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage-door. My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel child, That seems like a bud in full blossom, And smiles as she never smiled : When I wake in the morning, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky ; LOWELL. J I As weak, yet as trustful also ; For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward. Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bless it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair. And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. Jaines Ti^issell Lowell. ^ 72 LOWELL. THE FI%ST SU^OW-FqALL 'HE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swans'-down, And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn, Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently. As did robins the babes in the wood. LOWELL. 73 Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow ? " And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep -plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall ! " Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she kissing back could not know That tny kiss was given to her sister. Folded close under deepening snow. Jajnes T^icssell Lowell. r/» 74 TEU^C^YSOUX.-TU'K^E'K. w LETTY'S GLO'BE, HEN Letty had scarce passed her third glad year, And her young artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a coloured sphere Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd Between her baby-fingers ; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss ! But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry — " Oh, yes ! I see it : Letty's home is there ! " And while she hid all England with a kiss. Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. Charles Tennyson-Turner. ^ mrs. "BTiOWU^IU^G. 75 cA CHIUD qASLERP. (s| I OW he sleepeth, having drunken 1 1 Weary childhood's mandragore ! From his pretty eyes have sunken . Pleasures to make room for more. Sleeping near the withered nosegay which he plucked the day before. Nosegays ! leave them for the waking, Throw them earthward where they grew. Dim are such beside the breaking Amaranths he looks into. Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do. Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden From the palms they sprang beneath, Now perhaps divinely holden, Swing against him in a wreath. We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath. F2 76 mrs. "BliOWCNil^NiG. Vision unto vision calleth, While the young child dreameth on. Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth With the glory thou hast won ! Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn by sum- mer sun. We should see the spirits ringing Round thee — were the clouds away. 'Tis the child-heart draws them singing In the silent-seeming clay. Singing ! — stars that seem the mutest go in music all the way. As the moths around a taper. As the bees around a rose, As the gnats around a vapour, So the spirits group and close Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose. Shapes of brightness overlean thee, Flash their diadems of youth On the ringlets which half screen thee, While thou smilest, not in sooth Thy smile, but the over-fair one, dropt from some ether ial mouth. €Mrs. 'BTiOWU^IU^G. 77 Haply it is angels' duty, During slumber, shade by shade To fine down this childish beauty To the thing it must be made, Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade. Softly, softly ! make no noises ! Now he lieth dead and dumb, Now he hears the angels' voices Folding silence in the room. Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come. Speak not ! he is consecrated. Breathe not breath across his eyes. Lifted up and separated On the hand of God he lies, In a sweetness beyond touching — held in cloistral sanctities. Could ye bless him — father — mother, Bless the dimple in his cheek ? Dare ye look at one another And the benediction speak 1 Would ye not break out in weeping and confess yourselves too weak ? 78 ^rs. 'B'KOWU^i:NiG. He is harmless — ye are sinful. Ye are troubled — he at ease. From his slumber, virtue winful Floweth outward with increase. Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by his peace — and go in peace. Elizabeth 'Barrett 'Browning. ^ oMrs. "BTIOWU^IV^G. J 9 THE CT{Y OF THE CHIUBT{EU^. \\0 ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, /ajx' Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers. And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others. In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow, Why their tears are falling so } The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in long ago. The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending with the frost. The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. 8o ^rs. "BTiOWU^IV^G. The old hope is hardest to be lost. But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are dread to see. For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy. " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ; Our young feet," they say, " are very weak ! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children ; For the outside earth is cold ; And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. " True," say the children, " it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year — her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her. Was no room for any work in the close clay ! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ' Get up, little Alice, it is day.' SMrs. 'B'KOWU^IU^G. 8i If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries. Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes. And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime ! It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have. They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from a grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city. Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do. Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds a-near the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows. From your pleasures fair and fine ! " For oh," say the children, " we are weary And we cannot run or leap. If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 82 Qdrs. "BTiOWU^I^HiG. And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burdens tiring Through the coal-dark, underground — Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning — Their wind comes in our faces — Till our hearts turn — our head, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places. Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling. All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels' (breaking out in mad moaning), ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ) )) Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth ! Let them touch each other's hand in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals. Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! — mrs. "BTiOWV^IU^G. 83 Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray ; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheel is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us, Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door. Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our weeping any more } " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, * Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber. We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand, which is strong. * Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) 84 ^rs. 'B'KOWV^IVX^G. Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' " But no ! " say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone. And they tell us of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! " say the children — " up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving — We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving. And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run. They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory. Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man without his wisdom ; They sink in man's despair without its calm ; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm — Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap — Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places. With eyes turned on Deity ! "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart- Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, .\nd tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And its purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." Elizabeth 'Barrett drowning. 86 mrs. 'BTiOWV^IUX.G- WILL paint her as I see her ; Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty. Oval cheeks encoloured faintly, Which a taint of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air. And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child, — Though too calm, you think, and tender For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child — simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, — waiting still On the turning of your will. oMrs. 'BTiOWV^rJ^G. 87 Throwing light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat, When the wind blows over it. Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure — Taking love for her chief pleasure. Choosing pleasures, for the rest. Which come softly — just as she When she settles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks — Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more fair Then our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her He would sing of her with falls Used in loving madrigals. 88 mrs. 'BTiOWD^I^NiG- And if any painter drew her He would paint her unaware With a halo round the hair. And if reader read the poem, He would whisper, " You have done a Consecrated little Una." And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, " 'Tis my angel with a name ! " And a stranger when he sees her In the street even — smileth stilly Just as you would at a lily. And all voices that address her Soften,,^ sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes, With the thymy scented grasses. And all hearts do pray " God love her ! " — Ay, and always in good sooth, We may all be sure He doth. Elizabeth Barrett 'drowning. mrs. 'B'KOWV^ltNiG. 89 THE %pmQAU^CE OF THE elTTLE Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face. 'o She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow : Now she holds them nakedly In her hands all sleek and dripping While she rocketh too and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. G 90 cMrs. 'BTiOWV^I^NiG. Little Ellie in her smile Chooses — " I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds : He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. " And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath : And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. " And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind ; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. " But my lover shall not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face : He will say, ' O Love thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace .' ' mrs. 'BTipWD^IV^G. 91 " Then, ay, then he shall kneel low. With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.' " Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With 2i yes I must not say ; Nathless Maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' I will utter and dissemble — ' Light to-morrow with to-day ! ' " Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river There to put away all wrong ; To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. ** Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet — ' Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting ! What wilt thou exchange for it ? ' G2 92 ^rs. "BTiOWT^ilU^G. " And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time a glove ; But the third time I may bend From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon, If he comes to take my love.' " Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will run faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee : ' I am a duke's eldest son, Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but tJjee ! ' " He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds And when soul- tied by one troth. Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward round a mile. Just to see, as she did daily, ' What more eggs were with the two. mrs. "BTiOWV^IV^G. 93 Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the bough she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnawed the reeds ! Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds Sooth I know not ; but I know She could never show him — never That swan's nest among the reeds ! Elizabeth Barrett 'Browning. ^ 94 ^rs. "BTiOWV^IV^G. ISO'BELS CHIUD. — So find we profit, By losing of our prayers. — Shakspere. 'O rest the weary nurse had gone, An eighth day watch had watched she, Still rocking beneath sun and moon The baby on her knee, Till Isobel its mother said " The fever waneth — wend to bed For now the watch comes round to me." Then wearily the nurse did throw Her pallet in the darkest place Of that sick room and slept and dreamed. For as the gusty wind did blow The night lamps' flare across her face She saw, or seemed to see, but dreamed, That the poplars tall on the opposite hill, Did clasp the setting sun until His rays dropped from him, pined and still As blossoms in frost ! Till he waned and paled, so weirdly crossed, mis. 'B'KOWU^IV^G. 95 To the colour of moonlight which doth pass Over the dark ridged Churchyard grass. The poplars held the sun and he The eyes of the nurse that she should not see Not for a moment, the babe on her knee, Though she shuddered to feel that it grew to^be Too chill, and lay too heavily. She only dreamed, for all the while 'Twas lady Isobel that kept The little baby — and it slept Fast, warm, as if its mother's smile, Laden with love's dewy weight. And red as rose of Harpocrate Dropt upon its eyelids, pressed Lashes to cheek in a sealed rest. And more and more smiled Isobel To see the baby sleep so well — She knew not that she smiled. Against the lattice dull and wild Drive the heavy droning drops, Drop by drop, the sound being one — As momently time's segments fall On the ear of God, who hears throughfall Eternity's unbroken monotone. And more and more smiled Isobel To see the baby sleep so well — She knew not that she smiled. 96 ^rs. "BTiOWU^IU^G. The wind in intermission stops Down in the beechen forest, Then cries aloud Self-stung, self-driven, And rises up to its very tops, Stiffening erect the branches bowed, Dilating with the tempest-soul The trees that with their dark hands break Through their own outline and heavily roll Shadows as massive as clouds in heaven, Across the Castle lake. And more and more smiled Isobel To see the baby sleep so well ; She knew not that she smiled ; She knew not that the storm was wild, Through the uproar drear she could not hear The Castle clock which struck anear — She heard the low, light breathing of her child. O sight for wondering look ! While the eternal nature broke Into such abandonment. While the very mist heart-rent By the lightning, seemed to eddy Against nature with a din, A sense of silence and of steady Natural calm appeared to come From things without, and enter in The human creature's room. oMrs. 'B'KOWD^I'KG. 97 So motionless she sat, The babe asleep upon her knees, You might have dreamed their souls had gone Away to things inanimate, In such to live, in such to moan ; And that their bodies had ta'en back. In mystic change, all silences That cross the sky in cloudy rack, Or dwell beneath the reedy ground In waters safe from their own sound. Only she wore The deepening smile I named before, And that a deepening love expressed ; And who at once can love and rest ? In sooth the smile that then was keeping Watch upon the baby sleeping. Floated with its tender light Downward, from the drooping eyes, Upwards from the lips apart, Over cheeks which had grown white With an eighth day weeping. All smiles come in such a wise, Where tears shall fall or have of old — Like Northern lights that fill the heart Of heaven in sign of cold. 98 mrs. 'BTiOWU^IU^G. Motionless she sat. Her hair had fallen by its weight On each side of her smile, and lay Very blackly on the arm Where the baby nestled warm, Pale as baby carved in stone Seen by glimpses of the moon Up a dark Cathedral aisle. But, through the storm, no moonbeam fell Upon the child of Isobel — Perhaps you saw it by the ray Alone of her still smile. A solemn thing it is to me To look upon a babe that sleeps ; Wearing in its spirit deeps The undeveloped mystery Of our Adam's taint and woe, Which, when they developed be, Will not let it slumber so ! Lying now in life beneath The shadow of the coming death, With that soft, low, quiet breath, As if it felt the sun ! Knowing all things by their blooms, Not their roots, yea, sun and sky, Only by their warmth that comes Out of each — earth only by mrs. "BTiOWt^aiVKG- 99 The pleasant hues that o'er it run — And human love, by drops of sweet White nourishment still hanging round The little mouth so slumber-bound. All which broken sentiency And conclusion incomplete, Will gather and unite and climb To an immortality Good or evil each sublime Through life and death to life again. O little lids now folded fast. Must ye learn to drop at last Our large and burning tears ? O warm quick body must thou lie, When the time comes round to die, Still, from all the whirl of years. Ban of all the joy and pain ? O small frail being, wilt thou stand At God's right hand, Lifting up those sleeping eyes Dilated by great destinies. To an endless waking ? thrones and seraphim, Through the long ranks of their solemnities. Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise^ But thine alone on Him? — Or else, self-willed to tread the godless place, (God keep thy will) feel thine own energies Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead man's clasp, loo €Mrs. 'BTiOWV^I^KG- The sleepless, deathless life within thee, grasp — While myriad faces, like one changeless face, With woe not love's^ shall glass thee everywhere, And overcome thee with thine own despair ? More soft, less solemn images Drifted o'er the lady's heart, Silently as snow. She had seen eight days depart Hour by hour, on bended knees, With pale-wrung hands and prayings low And broken, through which came the sound Of tears that fell against the ground, Makmg sad stops : — " Dear Lord, dear Lord ! " She still had prayed, (the heavenly word, Broken by an earthly sigh) — " Thou Who didst not erst deny The mother-joy to Mary mild. Blessed in the blessed Child, Which barkened in meek babyhood Her cradle-hymn, albeit used To all that music interfused In breasts of Angels high and good ! Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — Oh, take not to Thy songful heaven, The pretty baby Thou hast given. Or ere that I have seen him play Around his father's knees and known mrs. "BTiOWU^IV^G. loi That he knew how my love has gone From all the world to him. Think, God, among the Cherubim, How I shall shiver every day In Thy June sunshine, knowing where The grave-grass keeps it from his fair. Still cheeks ! and feel at every tread His little body which is dead And hidden in the lurfy fold. Doth make Thy whole warm earth a-cold ! God, I am so young, so young — 1 am not used to tears at nights Instead of slumber — nor to prayer With sobbing lips and hands out-wrung ! Thou knowest all my prayings were ' I bless Thee, God, for past delights — Thank God ! ' I am not used to bear Hard thoughts of death, the earth doth cover No face from me of friend or lover. And must the first who teaches me The form of shrouds and funerals, be Mine own first-born beloved ? he Who taught me first this Mother-love ? Dear Lord, Who spreadest out above Thy loving transpierced Hands to meet All lifted hearts with blessings sweet — Pierce not my heart, my tender heart, Thou madest tender ! Thou Who art I02 mrs. ^"KOWV^l^KG. So happy in Thy heaven alway ! Take not my only bliss away ! " She so had prayed : and God Who hears Through seraph-songs the sound of tears, From that beloved babe had ta'en The fever and the beating pain. And more and more smiled Isobel To see the baby sleep so well, (She knew not that she smiled I wis) Until the pleasant gradual thought Which near her heart her smile enwrought, Now soft and slow, itself did seem To flock along a happy dream, Beyond it into speech like this. " I prayed for thee, my little child. And God has heard my prayer ! And when thy babyhood is gone. We two together undefiled By men's repinings, will kneel down Upon his earth which will be fair (Not covering thee, sweet) to us twain. And give him thankful praise." Dully and wildly drives the rain. Against the lattices drives the rain. " I thank Him now that I can think Of those same future days. cMrs. 'B'KOWC^CIO^G. 103 Nor from the harmless image shrink Of what I there might see — Strange babies on their mothers' knee, Whose innocent soft faces might From off mine eyelids strike the light, With looks not meant for me ! " , Gustily blows the wind through the rain, As against the lattices drives the rain. " But now, O baby mine, together, We turn this hope of ours again To many an hour of summer weather, When we shall sit and entertwine Our spirits, and instruct each other In the pure loves of child and mother ! Two human loves make one divine." The thunder tears through the wind and the rain. As full on the lattices drives the rain. " My little child, what wilt thou choose ? Now let me look at thee and ponder. What gladness from the gladnesses Futurity is spreading under Thy gladsome sight ? Beneath the trees Wilt thou lean all day and lose Thy spirit with the river seen Intermittently between 104 ^rs. "BTiOWU^IV^G. The winding beechen alleys — Half in labour, half repose, Like a shepherd keeping sheep. Thou with only thoughts to keep Which never a bound will oveppass, And which are innocent as those That feed among Arcadian Valleys Upon the dewy grass ? '' The large white owl that with age is blind, That has sat for years in the old tree hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind ! His wings could bear him not as fast || As he goeth now the lattice past — He is borne by the winds ; the rains do follow : His white wings to the blast out-flowing, He hooteth in going. And still, in the lightnings, coldly glitter His round unblinking eyes. " Oh, baby, wilt thou think it fitter To be eloquent and wise — \ One upon whose lips the air ,'• Turns to solemn verities, '| For men to breathe anew and win A deeper-seated life within ? Wilt be a philosopher, By whose voice the earth and skies mrs. "BT^OWV^IJ^iG. 105 Shall speak to the unborn ? Or a poet, broadly spreading The golden immortalities Of thy soul on natures lorn And poor of such, them all to guard From their decay — beneath thy treading, Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eden — And stars drawn downward by thy looks To shine ascendant in thy books ? " The tame hawk in the Castle yard. How it screams to the lightning, with its wet Jagged plumes o'er-hanging the parapet : And at the lady's door the hound Scratches with a crying sound. " But, — O my babe, thy lids are laid Close fast upon thy cheek — And not a dream of power and sheen Can make a passage up between ; Thy heart is of thy mother's made, Thy looks are very meek. *' And it will be their chosen place To rest on some beloved face, As these on thine — and let the noise Of the whole world go on, nor drown The tender silence of thy joys ! H io6 mrs. "BTiPWV^ia^G. Or when that silence shall have grown Too tender for itself^ the same Yearning for sound to look above And utter its one meaning, Love, That He may hear His Name ! " No wind, no rain, no thunder ! The waters had trickled not slowly The thunder was not spent, Nor the wind near finishing. Who would have said that the storm was dimin- ishing ? No wind, no rain, no thunder ! Their noises dropped asunder From the earth and the firmament, From the towers and the lattices, Abrupt and echoless As ripe fruits on the ground unshaken wholly — As life in death ! And sudden and solemn the silence fell. Startling the heart of Isobel As the tempest could not. Against the door went panting the breath Of the lady's hound whose cry was still, And she, constrained howe'er she would not, Lifted her eyes and saw the moon Looking out of heaven alone Upon the poplared hill — mrs. m'KOW^lV^G. 107 A calm of God made visible That men might bless it at their will. The moonshine on the baby's face Falleth clear and cold. The mother's looks have fallen back To the same place ; Because no moon with silver rack, Nor broad sunrise in jasper skies Has power to hold Our loving eyes, Which still revert, as ever must Wonder and Hope, to gaze upon the dust. The moonshine on the baby's face Cold and clear remaineth. The mother's looks do shrink away — The mother's looks return to stay, As charmed by what paineth. Is any glamour in the case ? Is it dream or is it sight ? Hath the change upon the wild Elements, that signs the night. Passed upon the child ? It is not dream but sight ! The babe has awakened from sleep. And unto the gaze of its mother Bent over it, lifted another ! H2 io8 ^rs. "BTiOWU^IV^G. Not the baby-looks that go Unaimingly to and fro, But an earnest gazing deep, Such as soul gives soul at length, When, by work and wail of years. It winneth a solemn strength, And mourneth as it wears. A strong man could not brook With pulse unhurried by fears. To meet that baby's look O'erglazed by manhood's tears — The tears of a man full grown. With a power to wring our own, In the eyes all undefiled Of a little three months' child ! To see that babe-brow wrought By the witnessing of thought, To judgment's prodigy ! And small soft mouth unweaned, By mother's kiss o'erleaned, (Putting the sound of loving Where no sound else was moving Except the speechless cry) Quickened to mind's expression, Shaped to articulation. Yea, uttering words — yea, naming woe, In tones that with it strangely went, Because so baby-innocent. As the child spake out the mother so. — cMrs. "BTiOWV^IU^G. 109 '' O Mother, mother, loose thy prayer ! Christ's name hath made it strong. It bindeth me, it holdeth me, With its most loving cruelty, From floating my new soul along The happy heavenly air. It bindeth me, it holdeth me ! Mine angel looketh sorrowful Upon the face of God. " Mother, mother, can I dream Beneath your earthly trees ? I had a vision and a gleam — I heard a sound more sweet than these When rippled by the wind. Did you see the Dove with wings Bathed in golden glisterings From a sunless light behind, Dropping on me from the sky Soft as a mother's kiss, until I seemed to leap, and yet was still ? Saw you how His love-large eye Looked upon me mystic calms, Till the power of His divine Vision was indrawn to mine ? " Oh, the dream within the dream ! I saw celestial places even. no ^Mrs. "BTiOWU^IV^G. Oh, the vistas of high palms, Making finites of delight Through the heavenly infinite — Lifting up their green still tops To the Heaven of Heaven ! Oh, the sweet life-tree that drops Shade like light across the river. Glorified in its for ever Flowing from the Throne ! Oh, the shining holinesses Of the thousand, thousand faces God-sunned by the throned One ! And made intense with such a love, That though I saw them turned above, Each loving seemed for also rae ! And, oh, the Unspeakable, the He, The manifest in secrecies. Yet of mine own heart partaker — With the overcoming look Of One Who had been once forsook. And blessed the forsaker. Mother, mother, let me go Toward the face that looketh so Through the mystic winged Four Whose are inward outward eyes Dark with life of mysteries. And the restless evermore ' Holy, holy, holy,' — through cMrs. "BliOWDsaiU^G. iii The sevenfold Lamps that burn in view Of cherubim and seraphim — Through the four-and-twenty crowned Stately elders, white around, Suffer me to go to Him ! "Is your wisdom very wise, Mother, on the narrow earth, Very happy, very worth That I should stay to learn ? Are these air-corrupting sighs Fashioned by unlearned breath ? Do the students' lamps that burn All night, illumine death ? Mother, albeit this be so. Loose thy prayer and let me go Where that bright chief angel stands Apart from all his brother bands. Too glad for smiling, having bent In angelic bewilderment O'er the depths of God, and brought ReeHng thence, one only thought To fill his whole eternity. He the teacher is for me ! — He can teach what T would know — Mother, mother, let me go ! 112 mrs. ^T{pWV^i:NiG. " Can your poet make an Eden No winter will undo, And light a starry fire while heeding His hearth's is burning too ? Drown in music the earth's din, And keep his own wild soul within The law of his own harmony ? — Mother, albeit this be so, Let me to my Heaven go ! A little harp me waits thereby — A harp whose strings are golden all. And turned to music spherical. Hanging on the green life-tree Where no willows ever be. Shall I miss that harp of mine ? Mother, no ! — the Eye divine Turned upon it makes it shine ; And when I touch it, poems sweet Like separate souls shall fly from it, Each to our immortal fytte. We shall all be poets there. Gazing on the Chiefest Fair. " Love ! earth's love ! and can %ve love Fixedly, where all things move ? Can the sinning love each other ? Mother, mother. I tremble in thy close embrace, I feel thy tears adown my face, ^Mrs. "BTiOWU^IU^G. 113 Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss — O dreary earthly love ! Loose thy prayer and let me go To the place where loving is Yet not sad ; and when is given Escape to thee from this below, Thou shalt behold me that I wait For thee beside the happy Gate, And silence shall be up in heaven To hear our greeting kiss." The nurse awakes in the morning sun, And starts to see beside her bed The lady with a grandeur spread Like pathos o'er her face — as one God-satisfied and earth-undone. The babe upon her arm was dead ! And the nurse could utter forth no cry — She was awed by the calm in the mother's eye. " Wake, Nurse ! " the lady said. " We are waking — he and I — I, on earth, and he, in sky ! And thou must help me to o'erlay With garment white this little clay Which needs no more our lullaby. " I changed the cruel prayer I made. And bowed my meekened face and prayed 114 mrs. "BTiPWV^I^G. That God would do His will ! and thus He did it, nurse ! He parted us. And His sun shews victorious The dead calm face— and /am calm, And Heaven is hearkening a new psalm. " This earthly noise is too anear, Too loud, and will not let me hear The little harp. My death will soon Make silence." And a sense of time, A satisfied love meanwhile Which nothing earthly could despoil. Sang on within her soul. Oh you. Earth's tender and impassioned few. Take courage to entrust your love To Him, so Named, Who guards above Its ends and shall fulfil ! Breaking the narrow prayers, that may Befit your narrow hearts, away In His broad loving will. Elizabeth Barrett drowning. % rOO'BELL. II THE LITTLE GIT{L'S SOC/^G. {IDX. W(ylli TI6ME.) TN O not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying qjJ for pain, Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear ; Though the wild wind is hideous to hear, And I see the snow and the rain. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? Somebody else that you love, Papa, Somebody else that you dearly love, Is weary, like me, because you're away. Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move, And I seem to know what they're going to say ; And every day, and all the long day, I long to cry, " O Mama, Mama, When will Papa come back again ? " But before I can say it, I see the pain Creeping up on her white, white cheek. As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall. And then I am sorry and fear to speak ; And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek, As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall. it6 rOO'BELL. Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall, That I might throw my arms around her neck And say, " Dear Mama, what is it all That I see and see and do not see. In your white, white face all the livelong day ? " But she hides her grief from a child like me. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? Where were you going, Papa, Papa, All this long while have you been on the sea ? When she looks as if she saw far away. Is she thinking of you, and what does she see? Are the white sails blowing, And the blue men rowing, And are you standing on the high deck Where we saw you stand till the ship grew grey. And we watch'd and watch'd till the ship was a speck, And the dark came first to you, far away ? I wish I could see what she can see, But she hides her grief from a child like me. When will you come back again. Papa, Papa? Don't you remember, Papa, Papa, How we used to sit by the fire, all three, And she told me tales while I sat on her knee, And heard the winter winds roar down the street, And knock like men at the window pane ; rOO'BELL. iiy ;;And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet To be warm and warm as we used to be, Silting at night by the fire all three. When will you come back again. Papa, Papa ? Papa, I like to sit by the fire : Why does she sit far away in the cold ? If I had but somebody wise and old, That every day I might Icry and say, " Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget ? Was she always as white as she is to-day ? Did she never carry her head up higher ? " Papa, Papa, if I could but know ! Do you think her voice was always so low ? Did I always see what I seem to see When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet ? You used to say her hair was gold — It looks like silver to me. But still she tells the same tale that she told, She sings the same song when I sit on her knee. And the hour goes on as it went long ago, When we lived together, all three. Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa, And I feel as if I could be happy no more. Is she changed, do you think. Papa, Or did I dream she was brighter before ? Ii8 rOO'BELL. She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa, That I forgot in thinking of you. The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew ! But I put it out of the sun and the rain : It was green and white when I put it away, It had one sweet ball and green leaves four ; It was green and white when I found it that day. It had one pale ball and green leaves four, But I was not glad of it any more. Was it changed, do you think, Papa, Or did I dream it was brighter before ? Do not mind my crying. Papa, I am not crying with pain. Do not mind my shaking. Papa, I am not shaking with fear ; Though the wild wind is hideous to hear. And I see the snow and the rain. When will you come back again, Papa, papa ? Sydney Dohell. ^ GEORGE ELIOT. 119 I. I CANNOT choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is. He was the elder, and a little man Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that, puppy-like, now ran, Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men go blind, though angels know the rest. If he said " Hush ! " I tried to hold my breath ; Whenever he said " Come ! " I stepped in faith. n. School parted us ; we never found again That childish world where our two spirits mingled Like scents from varying roses that remain One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled ; 120 GEOTiGE ELIOT. Yet the twin habit of that early time Lingered for long about the heart and tongue : We had been natives of one happy cHme, And its dear accent to our utterance clung : Till the dire years whose awful name is Change Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, And, pitiless, shaped them to two forms that range, Two elements that sever their life's course. But were another childhood world my share, I would be born a little sister there. George Bitot. ^ KIU^GSLEY. 121 W YOUTH qAU^'D cage. HEN all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green, And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen ; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away ; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad. And all the trees are brown ; And all the sport is still, lad. And all the wheels run down ; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among : God grant you find one face there You loved when you were young. Charles Kxngsley. ^ 122 L0CKETi-LQ4mTS0U^. qa %hyqME of OT^E. \ /OU sleep upon your mother's breast, y Your race begun, Qy A welcome, long a wished-for guest, Whose age is One. A baby-boy, you wonder why You cannot run ; You try to talk — how hard you try ! — You're only One. Ere long you won't be such a dunce ; You'll eat your bun And fly your kite like folks who once Were only One. You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and joke. Perhaps you'll pun ! Such feats are never done by folk Before they're One. Some day, too, you may have your joy, And envy none : Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy Who isn't One. LOCKETi-Lo^aMTSOV^. 123 He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll do As you have done : (You crown a happy home, though you Are only One). But when he's grown shall you be here To share his fun, And talk of times when he (the dear) Was hardly One ? Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be My little son ; I'm glad, though I am old you see — While you are One. Frederick Locker- Lampson. ^ 12 124 LOCKEI^-Lc/l^'PSOU^. TO LlU^oA OSWcALrD. {With a birthday Locket^ 'n Y darlmg wants to see you soon^ I bless the little maid, and thank her ; To do her bidding 7iight and noon I draw on Hope — Love's kindest hanker. Your sun is in brightest apparel, Your birds and your blossoms are gay. But where is my Jubilant Carol To welcome so joyous a day ? I sang for you when you were smaller, As fair as a fawn, and as wild ; Now, Lina, you're ten and you're taller — You elderly child. I knew you in shadowless hours. When thought never came with a smart, You then were the pet of your flowers, And joy was the child of your heart. I ever shall love you, and dearly ! — I think when you're even thirteen You'll still have a heart, and not merely A flirting machine ! L0CKETirLQ4SMTS0U^. 125 And when time shall have spoiled you of passion, - Discrown'd what you think sublime, Oh, I swear that you'll still be the fashion, And laugh at the antics of time. To love you will then be no duty ; But happiness nothing can buy — There's a bud in your garland, my beauty. That never can die. A heart may be bruised and not broken, A soul may despair and still reck ; — I send you, dear child, a poor token Of love, for your dear little neck. The heart that will beat just below it Is open and pure as your brow — May that heart when you come to bestow it, Be happy as now. Frederick Locker -Lampson. m 126 GE'Rq4L ^q4SSEY. WITHI7OU^qALT>. HERE did you come from, baby dear ? Out of the everywhere into here. y Where did you get those eyes so blue ? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the hght in them sparkle and spin ? Some of the- starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose 7 I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear ? God spoke, and it came out to hear. SMq4CT>0V^(i4UD. 135 Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into bonds and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherub's wings. How did they all just come to be you } God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought about you, and so I am here. George oMacdonald. ^ 136 'Bc^'K^ES. THE <£MOTHETITH. For if angels can look on such sights — never mind ! When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum. The parson declares that her woes wern't designed ; But then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come. Lose a leg, save a soul — a convenient text ; I call it tea doctrine, not savouring of God. When poor little Molly wants chastening, why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod. But, to see the poor darling go Hmping for miles To read books to sick people ! — and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles ! — Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. The more I push thinking, the more I revolve : I never get farther ; — and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve. And says, " This crush'd body seems such a sad case." Not that she's for complaining ; she reads to earn pence ; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough. Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense ? Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff. Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord ; She sings little hymns at the close of the day. Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with and pray. mE'KE'BITH. 149 What I ask is, why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all ? Answer that if you can ! Irreligious I'm not ; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man. It isn't fair dealing ! But contrariwise. Do bullets in battle the wicked select ? Why, then it's all chance-work ! And yet, in her eyes,. She holds a fixed something by which I am checked. Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall. If you eye it a minute '11 have the same look ; So kind ! and so merciful ! God of us all ! It's the very same lesson we get from the Book. Then, is Life but a trial ? Is that what is meant ? Some must toil, and some perish, for others below The injustice to each spreads a common content ; Ay ! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so. She's the victim of fools : that seems near the mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools. Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark ; He does, and in some sort of way they're His tools. It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add, If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught ; But, perhaps it's the only way, though it's so bad ; In that case we'll bow down our heads, — as we ought. 150 mEliETHTH. But the worst of me is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggHng away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance : for, question I must ! Here's a creature made carefully — carefully made ! Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why ? The answer seems nowhere : it's discord that's played. The sky's a blue dish ! an implacable sky ! Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit. They tell us that discord, though discord, alone, Can be harmony when the notes properly fit : Am I judging all things from a single false tone ? Is the Universe one immense organ, that rolls From devils to angels ? I'm Wind with the sight. It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls ! I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night. George cMeredith. ^ C4USTIU^ 'DO'BSOU^. 151 "DcAISY'S VcALEC^TICNiES. LL night, through Daisy's sleep, it seems, Have ceaseless " rat-tats " thundered ; All night through Daisy's rosy dreams Have devious Postmen blundered, Delivering letters round her bed, — Suggestive missives, sealed with red, And franked, of course, with due Queen's-head- While Daisy lay and wondered. But now, when chirping birds begin. And Day puts off the Quaker, — When Cook renews her morning din. And rates the cheerful baker, — She dreams her dream no dream at all, For, just as pigeons come to call. Winged letters flutter down, and fall Around her head, and wake her. 152 cAUSTIU^ rOOrBSO^. Yes, there they are ! With quirk and twist, And fraudful arts directed ; (Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist," Through all disguise detected ;) But which is his, — her young Lothair's — Who wooed her on the schoolroom stairs With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears, In one neat pile collected ? 'Tis there, be sure. Though, truth to speak (If truth may be permitted), I doubt that young " gift-bearing Greek '' Is scarce for fealty fitted : For has he not (I grieve to say), To two loves more, on this same day, In just this same emblazoned way, His transient vows transmitted ? He may be true. Yet, Daisy dear, That even youth grows colder You'll find is no new thing, I fear ; And when you're somewhat older You'll read of one Dardanian boy Who " wooed with gifts " a maiden coy — Then took the morning train to Troy, In spite of all he'd told her. CAUSTIU^ 'DO'BSOU^. 153 But wait. Your time wil] come. And then, Obliging Fates, please send her The nicest thing you have in men, Sound-hearted, strong, and tender ; The kind of man, dear Fates, you know, That feels how shyly Daisies grow, And what soft things they are, and so Will spare to spoil or mend her. c4iistin 1>obson. m 154 q4USTIV^ rOO'BSOV^. THE C%qA'DLE. (s| l ow steadfastly she'd worked at it ! 1 1 How lovingly had drest, With all her would-be-mother's wit, That little rosy nest ! How lovingly she'd hang on it ! — It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath its coverlet A little sleeping head. He came at last, the tiny guest. Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest — Her coffin was his bed. Q/lustin Tiohson. ^^ cMOC^KHO USE. 1 5 5 cA "BTilSTOL FIGURE. RAISED on a little carven corner shelf, Half hidden by a curtain, stands a figure, Too small to have been left there by itself, But that it seems to claim a right to space — This baby gentleman with shirt of lace, And small forefinger curving round a trigger. A trigger only, for the dainty hand Has lost the rest of what was once a pistol, But still retains the spirit of command — The dandy grace heroic of the boy — That makes me think of Dresden and of Troy, Although I recognise the paste of Bristol. So more from habit than desire to know, Down from its lonely stage I softly whisk it, And turn it up, and, sure enough, below, " A triangle enclosing two crossed swords — Impressed," a mark which plainest proof aflFords The piece is nothing less than Bristol biscuit. L2 156 mOU^KHOUSE. And then I hear a hurried cry of '' Oh, Don't touch." And, ere the sentence is completed, A slender lady with a face of woe Has gently seized the figure from my hand, Replaced it carefully upon its stand. And bid me in a chilly voice " Be seated." " Your business, sir," she says ; and I begin To tell this victim of the china fashion That I have come in search of next of kin To some one who has died without a will, And soon her eyes grow kind, attentive, still. Without a symptom of their recent passion. Yes — as she sat there silent in her chair, I thought I never saw more sweet a creature, And when she spoke I found her wise as fair ; Indeed 'twas hard my senses to convince She was the lady who a moment since Showed signs of "temper" both in voice and feature. And as I rose I said, " I thank you much For all your courtesy to me, a stranger. I fear you thought me very rude to touch Your Bristol boy. I have a piece or two Worthy of such a connoisseur as you. And know the shock of seeing them in danger. cMOC^KHOUSE. 157 ** 'Tis injured, but indubitably fine, And, if you'll trust in one who has offended, I know a man — a genius in his line — Whom I and just a very few employ. He will restore for you your little boy, So that you'll scarcely know he has been mended. " No, no, forgive me, but for me the charm " (Her face grew strangely solemn as she spoke it) *' Lies only in the little broken arm. Restore my boy — you knew not what you said. I had a little son, sir, who is dead. And I was angry with him when he broke it." Cosmo cMonkhoiise. ^ 158 'BliOm^CE. FLOWERS Qj7CHIL'D, Francis M. W. M. 'his labouring, vast Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aerial ways : And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain. It swung into its azure roads again ; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. To the sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song ; Nor is it by an all unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah ! from any other that it came. Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing : Though well may such a title him endower. For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, 194 THOzMTSOUK.- To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love !) ; He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men ; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy ; And Fletcher's fellow — from these, and not from me. Take you your name, and take your legacy ! Or if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair. Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey hest with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death. My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust. When you have compassed all weak I began. Diviner poet, and ah ! diviner man ; The man at feud with the perduring child In you before song's altar nobly reconciled ; From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me. If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright. Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps ; Think it a golden crevice in the sky. Which I have pierced but to behold you by ! THOoMTSOU^. 195 And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead ; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance. Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of God ; For if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company : Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, The dreadful mass of their enridged spears ; Pass where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet — A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet ; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer. Your cousined clusters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair ; Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven : — Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. Francis Thompson, ^ ^ ACKNOWLEDGMENT. The Editor begs to offer his cordial thanks to the Poets and their Publishers who have per- mitted him to use their copyrights : and particularly to Mr. Coventry Patmore for the form in which "The Toys" is presented in this volume. W. M. i ':. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIUTY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which It vwas borrovired^ Gl Form ,^^__ THE LIBKAKY 'imrnmUTt OF C/ill 4Xm>HMA PR Meynell - 122ii M^7c Child set in the midst - UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBBARY FACILITY AA 000 297175 2 PR 1221; M57c