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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
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 HORJE POETICS.
 
 *4
 
 HORJE POETIC^E: 
 
 yjjrwal anb otl^w ^otms 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. GEORGE LENOX-CONYNGHAM. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, AND ROBERTS. 
 
 1859.
 
 
 TO 
 
 THE YISCOUNTESS DONERAILE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 
 
 BT 
 
 HER AFFECTIONATE MOTHER.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Tomb of Archimedes . 
 
 . 1 
 
 The Lady op my Love 
 
 . 6 
 
 Death of a young Girl . . . . 
 
 . 9 
 
 Hope on, Hope always 
 
 . 11 
 
 Life's Eealities 
 
 . 13 
 
 The Safeguard of a State 
 
 . 17 
 
 Buried Love 
 
 . 23 
 
 Questions 
 
 . 27 
 
 Hope 
 
 . 29 
 
 Il DOLCE far NIENTE .... 
 
 . 32 
 
 The early Dead 
 
 . 35 
 
 Pleasure's Tour 
 
 . 37 
 
 The Life- weary 
 
 . 46 
 
 Love mislaid 
 
 . 48 
 
 The Cypress Tree .... 
 
 . 50
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 
 • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An Imprecation 
 
 . 52 
 
 An Adieu 
 
 . 54 
 
 Diplomacy's Choice 
 
 . 56 
 
 National Evening Hymn .... 
 
 . 67 
 
 Waii Song 
 
 . 69 
 
 The Dying Girl's Dream .... 
 
 . 72 
 
 Memory's Joys 
 
 . 78 
 
 To Die is nothing in itself 
 
 . 82 
 
 The Minstrel's Warning .... 
 
 . 85 
 
 The Revenge of Vettor Pisani 
 
 . 87 
 
 The Memory op our Dead. 
 
 . 91 
 
 The Unchanged 
 
 . 95 
 
 The Tomb of Heroes .... 
 
 . 100 
 
 Indifference 
 
 . 102 
 
 Grief 
 
 . 104 
 
 The dying Painter's Dream 
 
 . 107 
 
 Songs of the Trausi 
 
 . 114 
 
 BiRTU Song. Death Song. 
 
 
 On ! GIVE me back my happy youth . 
 
 . 118 
 
 Separation 
 
 . 120 
 
 The Grief of Psammenitus 
 
 . 123
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 V 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Euthanasia 
 
 129 
 
 Legend of a Fountain in Sicily . . . . 
 
 131 
 
 Reminiscences of the South .... 
 
 135 
 
 Solon's Experience 
 
 138 
 
 A Doom 
 
 140 
 
 The Pleasures of Sleep . . . . 
 
 144 
 
 The Old Long Ago 
 
 146 
 
 The Wanderer 
 
 148 
 
 The Legend op the White Rose 
 
 153 
 
 The Old Story 
 
 158 
 
 Ornaments for a Bride 
 
 165 
 
 A Farewell 
 
 168 
 
 Love Asleep 
 
 170 
 
 A Destiny 
 
 174 
 
 The Aberrations of Poetry (A Fable) 
 
 176 
 
 The Changed ....... 
 
 189 
 
 The Rival Spirits 
 
 . 192 
 
 Not what I wish be granted me . . . 
 
 . 205 
 
 The Young Mourner 
 
 . 208 
 
 War Song 
 
 . 211 
 
 The Fair Rosalie 
 
 . 213
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Moonlight 
 
 . 220 
 
 Toleration 
 
 . 222 
 
 The Fairy of the Lily 
 
 . 224 
 
 The Orphan 
 
 . 232 
 
 The Turret Chamber .... 
 
 . 237 
 
 True Nobility 
 
 . 257 
 
 A Dream 
 
 . 259 
 
 Legend of a Fountain in Thrace 
 
 . 262 
 
 Be not with Joy elateb 
 
 . 268 
 
 Flowers for a Grave .... 
 
 . 270 
 
 Parting Song 
 
 . 272 
 
 Woman's "Worth 
 
 . 274 
 
 Legend of the Red Lily . . . . 
 
 . 277 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 . 280 
 
 Life and Death 
 
 . 282 
 
 An Exile's Lament .... 
 
 . 284 
 
 Life's Holyday 
 
 . 287 
 
 The Spinning Spectre .... 
 
 . 289 
 
 To be the thing we seem . ... 
 
 . 299 
 
 Love abdicant 
 
 . 301 
 
 Gifts from the Dead .... 
 
 . 308
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Portrait 
 
 . 310 
 
 Affection's Instinct 
 
 . 331 
 
 Turbid run the Waters .... 
 
 . 333 
 
 The Bridal and the Scaffold . 
 
 . 335 
 
 The Italian in England .... 
 
 . 338 
 
 The Lady of the Looking Glasses . 
 
 . 348 
 
 Recollections 
 
 . 365 
 
 Flowers and Pearls 
 
 . 369 
 
 The Ransom of Bertrand du Guesclin 
 
 . 375 
 
 Childhood 
 
 . 382 
 
 Submission 
 
 . 384 
 
 The Maiden's Thoughts upon War . 
 
 . 386 
 
 Old Friends . . . . . 
 
 . 389 
 
 A Dirge 
 
 . 392 
 
 Count not on Tomorrow .... 
 
 . 394 
 
 Weep not 
 
 . 396 
 
 The Throne and the Bier .... 
 
 . 398 
 
 A Character 
 
 . 401 
 
 The Fruitless Quest 
 
 . 404 
 
 To-day and To-morrow .... 
 
 . 406 
 
 Cold Words 
 
 . 408
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Glory before Wealth . . . 
 
 . 410 
 
 Where may not Love be found ? 
 
 . 413 
 
 Truth-telling 
 
 . 416 
 
 Flowers 
 
 . 419 
 
 Old German Grave Song .... 
 
 . 421 
 
 Translation of an old German Song 
 
 . 422 
 
 Gipsy Songs 
 
 . 424 
 
 From Tyrt^us 
 
 . 427 
 
 From Simonides 
 
 . 428
 
 THE TOMB OF AECHIMEDES. 
 
 Ita nobilissima Grseciae Civitas, quondam vero etiam doctissima, sui 
 Civis unius acutissimi monimentum ignorasset, nisi ab homine Arpinate 
 didicisset.— Cicero, Tusc. Qucest., lib. 5, cap. 23. 
 
 A THREE years' siege an ancient city stood ; 
 Her men were valiant, and her walls were good; 
 Yet neither soldiers brave, nor bulwarks strong 
 Could have resisted Roman force so long, 
 But for the genius of a single man, 
 Whose intellect's gigantic grasp could span 
 The circle of all science ; and at will 
 Its secrets use his purpose to fulfil. 
 
 B
 
 THE TOMB OF ARCHIMEDES. 
 
 He kept the baffled enemy at bay; 
 
 Deferring still his country's fatal clay. 
 
 That man was Archimedes;— honoured name, 
 
 First in the roll of scientific fame ! 
 
 And Syracuse that city. When at length 
 
 Subdued by mighty Kome's o'erwhelming strength, 
 
 Her haughty head indignantly she bowed 
 
 To the dominion of a foe as proud, 
 
 The generous conqueror, merciful as brave. 
 
 Wept for the victims whom he could not save. 
 
 In victory's flush, it was his earliest thought 
 
 That Archimedes should, unscathed, be brought 
 
 Into his presence; — this his first command. 
 
 They found him tracing figures on the sand. 
 
 In musino- lost : he heeded not the strife — 
 
 Or loved his problem better than his life : 
 
 A savage soldier cut the thread of both — 
 
 Impatient of delay, perhaps, and loth
 
 THE TOMB OF ARCHIMEDES. 
 
 To tarry longer from the scene of spoil, 
 Rich ^vith the harvest of victorious toil. 
 All he could do, Marcellus did, to show 
 How Romans reverenced an illustrious foe. 
 'He gave him funeral honours ; paid each rite 
 Of holy ceremonial due, which might 
 Appease the Dead he vainly sought to spare : 
 He raised his monument ; and sculptured there 
 The symbols by the Sage himself designed. 
 To note the immortal labours of his mind. 
 
 A century and a half had not yet passed; — 
 The doom of Syracuse was still o'ercast : 
 Her bondage weighed not heavily; — but she, 
 Who had been glorious, was no longer free : 
 And slavery's creeping canker had effaced 
 The characters which Gratitude had traced 
 
 B 2
 
 THE TOMB OF ARCHIMEDES. 
 
 With zealous finger, in a happier age, 
 
 [Jpon her menaory's Jong unopened page. 
 
 Of cold forgetfulness the mouldering prey, 
 
 Her patriot Sage's sacred ashes lay, 
 
 Till Cicero sought the sepulchre unknown, ' 
 
 Where slept a spirit kindred to his own ; 
 
 And consanguinity of genius gave 
 
 The clue to guide his footsteps to that grave. 
 
 He had inquired of many ; but in vain : 
 
 None knew the place: so, with a wondering train 
 
 Of Magnates, he passed through the gate that led 
 
 To the sepulchral dwellings of the Dead 
 
 Which lined the Street of Tombs. He saw appear, 
 
 Through choking weeds, the Cylinder and Sphere ; 
 
 Tokens whereby to recognize the spot 
 
 Which Kome remembered — Syracuse forgot. 
 
 Upon the apex of a shaft of stone. 
 
 With tangled weeds and brambles overgrown.
 
 THE TOMB OF ARCHIMEDES. 5 
 
 Those sculptured emblems caught the wandering glance 
 
 Of Tully's searchnig eye. See him advance 
 
 With rapid step and eager gesture ! Hear 
 
 His quick demand for implements to clear. 
 
 In haste, the long neglected precincts round, 
 
 And give him space to tread the hallowed ground. 
 
 Fancy him stooping at the column's base, 
 
 The half-obliterated lines to trace, 
 
 Which, worn, corroded, gave him still to know 
 
 That Archimedes was interred below. 
 
 Thus, in that fallen city where had reigned 
 Science and Learning, not a thought remained 
 Of him, her Benefactor, whose renown 
 Had been the brightest jewel in her crown 
 Of pride and glory. Nay ! she knew not where 
 He lay, untended by his country's care. 
 Until a stranger from the conqueror's land, 
 With pious heart and reverential hand, 
 Dispelled oblivion's sacrilegious gloom. 
 And gave to light and memory his Tomb.
 
 THE LADY OF MY LOVE. 
 
 A creature not too bright or good, 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 The lady of my love is fair, 
 And joyous as the things of air, 
 
 Which neither think nor toil; — 
 I hope old Time will never dare 
 To touch her heart with grief or care, 
 
 Its sinless mirth to spoil. 
 
 She dances like the graceful Queen 
 Of Fairies, revelling on the green, 
 
 Beneath the moon's soft light, 
 To elfin tunes ; for there have been, 
 Nay, doubt not ! mortals who have seen, 
 
 Or dreamed they saw, that siglit.
 
 THE LADY OF MY LOVE. 
 
 Her laugh is music ; she can sing 
 As sweetly as the birds in spring, 
 
 Whose little hearts rejoice; 
 Or like that maid who used to bring 
 An angel down, on eager wing, 
 
 To hear her human voice. 
 
 Her smile is glad, her glance is clear, 
 Her soul untroubled by the fear 
 
 Or consciousness of wrong : 
 Full well she knows that she is dear 
 To young and old ; — that, far and near, 
 
 We all have loved her long. 
 
 She is as innocent and good 
 As any child that ever stood 
 
 Beside his mother's knee ; 
 Or frolicked through the flowery wood 
 With every creature that he could. 
 
 Bird, butterfly, or bee.
 
 8 THE LADY OF MY LOVE. 
 
 I know not whether she is wise ; 
 I never asked her to advise 
 
 What I should say or do ; 
 I only know that when she tries 
 To read my wishes in my eyes, 
 
 The reading 's always true.
 
 DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 We watched her slowly fade away, 
 
 All beauty to the last ; 
 And felt, but could not bear to say, 
 
 That every hope was past. 
 
 We saw the hollow cheek grow bright 
 
 With fever's fatal bloom ; 
 We marked the eye's more brilliant light. 
 
 And read our darling's doom. 
 
 We knew it was God's holy will, 
 
 What He had given to take, 
 To dwell with Him in Heaven ; but, still. 
 
 Our hearts were like to break.
 
 10 DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 Without a sigh she loosed her hold 
 Of this world and its ties ; 
 
 As flowers at eve their petals fold, 
 She closed her weary eyes. 
 
 Earth ne'er gave forth so fair a flower 
 As this we give her here ; 
 
 Alas ! that love should have no power 
 To save what was so dear ! 
 
 Now every pious rite is paid ; 
 
 As on a mother's breast, 
 Our loved and lovely one is laid, 
 
 To take her dreamless rest. 
 
 Her body lies beneath the sod, 
 To mingle dust witli dust ; 
 
 Her spirit upwards soars to God, 
 Wliosc mercy was her trust.
 
 HOPE ON ! HOPE ALWAYS ! 
 
 'EXirfirOai xp^ iravr, iirei ovk '4<tt oiibev aikiTTOv ' 
 PaSta iravTa Gfw reXeirai, kcll dvrjvvTou ovbev. 
 
 Linus. 
 
 Hope on, hope always ! Amid night's deep gloom, 
 Hope for the sunshine of the coming day ; 
 
 In winter, hope for summer's blush and bloom ; 
 In sorrow's night and winter, hope and pray ! 
 
 Is thy soul filled with aspirations high ? 
 
 Hope for success, and reckon on renov/n ! 
 There is no race which mortals may not try ; 
 
 No toil, for which Hope does not hold a crown. 
 
 There is no prize above the reach of Hope ; 
 
 The earnest Sjnrit cannot strive in vain ; 
 He who has courage with his fate to cope. 
 
 Fails not at length the victory to gain.
 
 12 HOPE on! hope always! 
 
 If on a stormy sea thy ship be tossed, 
 
 Where death seems sweeping- on with every wave, 
 Hope still, hope steadfastly ! all is not lost, 
 
 While man can trust that God has power to save. 
 
 If in the wilderness thy lot be cast, 
 
 Hope that a fountain in the waste may spring ! 
 Hope that the rose may blossom there, at last, 
 
 And the green-plumaged bird of promise sing ! 
 
 Hope is the Spirit's guardian from its birth ; 
 
 The guide to cheer it on through doubt and woe : 
 Certain possession is not known on earth ; 
 
 Hope is our minister of good below. 
 
 To God all things are easy, and He leaves 
 
 No work unfinished — though beyond our scope 
 
 It be to comprehend what He conceives : 
 'Tis His to order : it is ours to hope.
 
 LIFE'S REALITIES. 
 
 Orav drvxe'iv <Toi (rv^near] ri, deairora, 
 'EvpiTTibov fxvT](T0rjTi, Koi pacov ear] ' 
 
 " Oi/K 'icrriv oaris ttiwt avi]p evdaijiovfl. 
 Eii/ai S'vTroXa^e Koi ere rav ttoWojv eva. 
 
 Philippides, 
 
 Thou mourner o'er fictitious woe, 
 
 Or trivial, transient, selfish pain ! 
 Dry up tliy foolish tears, and go 
 
 Where actual grief and suffering reign 
 Forget thyself; go forth and learn 
 
 How men, thy fellows, wage the strife 
 With destiny : go see the stern 
 
 Realities of human life.
 
 1 4 life's realities. 
 
 Go listen to the infant's cry, 
 
 Upon a starving mother's breast ; 
 And note the dying father's eye, 
 
 Which will not weep, and cannot rest. 
 See the gaunt children gathering round, 
 
 To crave their crumbs of daily bread ; 
 And when no single crumb is found 
 
 Retreating, silent and unfed. 
 
 Hunger has hushed each childish voice; 
 
 Faintness has quelled each baby will ; 
 They never heard the word "Rejoice!" 
 
 They only suffer and are still. 
 How full they look of age and care 
 
 And penury-developed thought ! 
 Unmurmuringly to want and bear. 
 
 The life -long lesson they are taught.
 
 life's realities. 15 
 
 Go hear the lonely widow's wail, 
 
 Moaned out in agony and shame ; 
 Her cheek turns more than deadly pale 
 
 With anofuish at a dausfhter's name. 
 Behold her writhe in quivering fear 
 
 Lest justice claim an erring son : 
 Her crushed heart sinks to feel how dear 
 
 Are still the guilty and undone. 
 
 Mark the consumptive outcast sob 
 
 With pangs that medicine cannot cure, 
 While every breath excites a throb 
 
 Worn nature scarcely can endure. 
 Watch her glazed, anxious eyes which strain 
 
 For comfort they shall never see : 
 Close them, poor wretch ! 'tis all in vain ; 
 
 No earthly comfort comes to tliee.
 
 16 life's realities. 
 
 These are but atoms in a mass 
 
 Of miseries never counted o'er ; 
 Glimpses of scenes that hourly pass — 
 
 Perhaps around thy very door. 
 Grief is man's lot : hast thou a right 
 
 To shrink from thine appointed share ? 
 Thank God thy burthen is so light, 
 
 And help thy brother his to bear.
 
 THE SAFEGUAED OF A STATE. 
 
 Oil \i6oi, oide ^ii\a, ov8e 
 Tey(vrj reKTovaiv, ai TroXfis eicnv, 
 AXX'ottow TTorav axriv 'ANAPE2 
 AvTovi aa^eiv eldores 
 'ENTAYGA Tf'ixrj Koi noXeis. 
 
 " Not stones, and wood, and all the arts that show 
 The builder's skill, the strength of Cities make : 
 But wheresoever there are Men who know 
 How to defend themselves against all wrong, 
 And peril life for home and country's sake, — 
 There stands a City in her bulwarks strong." 
 
 Thus spake the poet of a State whose fame 
 Lives on, immortal; linked with Freedom's name. 
 Ages have rolled away ; but still, as then, 
 The strength of States is in the hearts of Men. 
 
 c
 
 18 THE SAFEGUARD OF A STATE. 
 
 For good, for ill, the world hath known much change ; 
 And modern manners find old customs strange. 
 But still, from sire to son, from age to youth. 
 Is handed down, immutable, one truth : 
 "All minor means are in the hands of Fate : 
 Men are the noblest safeguard of a State." 
 
 Of late that truth, of vital import, fell 
 
 From lips imbued with eloquence to tell 
 
 The great conceptions of a master mind, 
 
 Whose home-born sympathies embrace mankind ; 
 
 Whose cherished scheme of glory is to see 
 
 The world itself, through England's influence, free. 
 
 The patriot's jirobity ; — the statesman's skill 
 
 To mould inferior spirits to his will ; 
 
 Integrity of purpose to defy 
 
 The open slander and the covert lie ; —
 
 THE SAFEGUARD OF A STATE. 19 
 
 Disdain of i^altiy means to mighty ends ; 
 Justice to foes and constancy to friends ; 
 The power to use, the pride to scorn, all art ; 
 Athenian genius with a British heart : 
 These are the inspirations of the tongue 
 Upon whose words a listening Senate hung, 
 And cauo^ht that thrillincr sentiment which found 
 An answering chord in every bosom 'round. 
 " Doubt not the people ! Only let them know 
 "■' Their Country's need of their exertions : show 
 " That they hold balanced in their hardy hands 
 " Their children's freedom and their native land's ; 
 " Chill not their sympathy by cold neglect 
 " Of what they cherish ; prove that you respect 
 " Of their own dignity the sturdy sense : 
 '•' Then trust the people with their own defence.. 
 " Teach them the value of that trust to feel ; 
 " And stake success upon the people's zeal. 
 
 G 2
 
 20 THE SAFEGUARD OF A STATE. 
 
 " Walls cannot make a threatened State secure : 
 " The j)eople's courage is a bulwark sure. 
 " Proudly the Nation lifts her standard, when 
 " Invasion comes, — whose strength is in her Men.* " 
 In every land, in every clime, we find 
 The patriot's visions fill the people's mind ; 
 The patriot's tongue the people's hopes inspire ; 
 The patriot's zeal the people's ardour fire ; 
 The patriot's thoughts the people's fancy charm ; 
 The patriot's courage nerve the people's arm : 
 At Nature's altar placed by God's own hand, 
 The love of Country still maintains its stand. 
 . Shall all the nations scattered o'er the Earth 
 
 Defend the spot of ground that saw their birth ; — 
 For the dear ties that make that spot so sw^eet, 
 A ten-fold foe, unscared, unshrinking, meet ; 
 
 * See Lord Palmerston's Speech in the Debate on the Local Militia 
 Bill, February 20, 1852.
 
 THE SAFEGUARD OF A STATE. 21 
 
 And let the invader's thirsty weapon drain 
 
 The last life-drop from every patriot vein, 
 
 Rather than own a foreign yoke, or yield 
 
 To foreign force a single native field ? — 
 
 Shall every country feel this instinct, save 
 
 Britain, the mother of the free and brave ? 
 
 Shall she, the universal champion known 
 
 Of general liberty, neglect her own ? 
 
 And should whatever foe — suppose from France — 
 
 Upon her shores unfortified advance, 
 
 Shall she sit still and plead as her excuse, 
 
 " My sword is rusted by long want of use " ? 
 
 And they whose names are as a rallying word 
 Wherever Freedom's cry of war is heard ; 
 Whose memories, like the prophet's mantle, cast 
 O'er coming times the spirit of the past ; —
 
 22 THE SAFEGUARD OF A STATE. 
 
 Are they to see, from those blessed seats above, 
 
 Where patriots dwell, the country of their love 
 
 Peopled, alas ! by a degenerate race, 
 
 Who shrink from death but do not dread disgrace ? 
 
 Banished for ever be the doubt profane ! 
 
 What Britons have been, Britons will remain ! 
 
 Stout hearts, strong arms, devoted to the cause 
 
 Of England's liberties and England's laws ; 
 
 Zeal tempered by obedience ; valour ruled 
 
 By discipline and order ; patience schooled 
 
 To bear all hardships and endure all pain, 
 
 Except the galling of a foreign chain ; 
 
 Courage to dare what wisdom shall have planned ;— 
 
 These are the bulwarks Britain can command. 
 
 February 23, 1852.
 
 BUKIED LOVE. 
 
 I KNEW her well when we were young ; 
 
 And well I loved her too : 
 And she loved me, if woman's tongue 
 
 E'er uttered what was true. 
 I do not call her false to me, 
 
 For she is only changed ; 
 Nor am I what I used to be ; 
 
 And so — we are estranged.
 
 24 BURIED LOVE. 
 
 Oh, for those joyous days again ! 
 
 Those loving days of old ! 
 Existence was a treasure then ; 
 
 A mine of more than gold : 
 Time's only business was to fling, 
 
 Along our path, fresh flowers ; 
 And every day seemed but to bring 
 Fairer and rosier hours. 
 
 Kiglit merrily we held together, 
 
 With sunshine on each heart, 
 Until there came some wintry weather; 
 
 And then, we fell apart. 
 But do not seek — 'twere all in vain — 
 
 To rivet, as of yore. 
 Those broken links ; affection's chain. 
 
 Once snapped, unites no more !
 
 BURIED LOVE. 25 
 
 There is a Love, I know, whose light 
 
 Burns with unchanging flame, — 
 Or changing but to grow more bright, 
 
 'Mid grief and care and shame ; 
 Unquenched by this world's chill and damp, 
 
 Unwavering through the gloom. 
 On, on, for ever ; — like the lamp 
 
 Which shines within a tomb. 
 
 I know such Love exists : — but ours 
 
 Was of a different mould : 
 His wreaths were of exotic flowers. 
 
 And could not bear the cold. 
 His torch glowed very bright and warm 
 
 While all was clear around ; 
 And only fell when raged the storm. 
 
 Extinguished, to the ground.
 
 26 BURIED LOVE. 
 
 The blossoms shaken from the tree 
 
 Which o'loried in their bloom, 
 Will flourish there again, ere we 
 
 Our early faith resume. 
 Bid meteors, shooting down the sky, 
 
 Keturn and shine above ! 
 But from his grave, oh ! never try 
 
 To wake up buried Love.
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 
 O'er busy brain, which took no rest 
 From many a self-inflicted task ; 
 
 Of answers in perpetual quest, 
 To queries no one cared to ask ; 
 
 Thy subtleties are with the past : 
 Are all thy problems solved at last ? 
 
 Fond heart, which yearned for human love. 
 And, still, enough could never find ; 
 
 Is not thy measure full above, 
 
 Amongst thine own angelic kind ? 
 
 Do they who love in that high sphere, 
 Remember those who loved them here ?
 
 28 QUESTIONS. 
 
 Enthusiast, whose ardent soul 
 
 Chafed to shake off Earth's dross and dust, 
 Hast thou not reached the Spirit's goal 
 
 Of liberty and truth and trust ? 
 Can'st thou look down and long to free 
 All who abhor their chains like thee ? 
 
 Pilgrim among the thorns of life. 
 
 Thy journey's o'er ; thy work is done ; 
 
 Thou did'st not flag in race or strife : 
 Is not thy crown of glory won 1 
 
 And we, who follow in thy track. 
 
 Oh ! can we wish to call thee back ?
 
 HOPE. 
 
 'Audpwnos a.TV)(o}V (ra^erai rais iXTnai. 
 
 The wary yield not to the bliss 
 Of Hope's delusive sway ; 
 
 Yet, what a dreary world were this, 
 If Hope were cast away ! 
 
 In every season, every age. 
 
 She soothes the mourner's pain : 
 
 She smiles away the tyrant's rage ; 
 She breaks the captive's chain.
 
 30 HOPE. 
 
 She hath a charm to dry all tears ; 
 
 A balm all wounds to heal ; 
 A spell to lull the wildest fears 
 
 A troubled soul can feel. 
 
 The Exile forced, unloved, unblessed, 
 
 Throuofh foreiofn lands to roam, 
 Sleeps in some bower which Hope hath dressed, 
 
 And dreams himself at home. 
 
 The Mother sighs to think her child 
 
 Must share an orphan's fate ; 
 Looks onward then, by Hope beguiled. 
 
 And sees him good and great. 
 
 The fair young victim marked by Death, 
 Through night's long sleepless hours. 
 
 Listens to Hope's melodious breath, 
 Whispering of sun and flowers.
 
 HOPE. 31 
 
 The fond and faithful, torn apart. 
 
 As is the lot of men, 
 Despair ; till, touclied by Hope, each heart 
 
 Feels they must meet again. 
 
 And when we mourn the untimely doom 
 
 Of buried Joy and Love, 
 Angelic Hope stands by their tomb, 
 
 And points to worlds above.
 
 IL DOLCE FAE NIENTE. 
 
 Avmravais eari Ta>v KOKav dnpa^La. 
 
 They say that to work we were sent upon earth, 
 
 With spirit untiring and bold ; 
 And, that this is the Heaven-imposed law of our birth. 
 
 By sages and saints we are told. 
 I fain would discredit the doctrine of both ; 
 
 For (I blush while the truth I declare) 
 There is nothing to me so alluring as sloth ; — 
 
 No form of enjoyment so fair.
 
 IL DOLCP] FAR NIENTE. 33 
 
 'Tis my luxury, hour after hour, to sit 
 
 Doing nothing, beneath the green trees, 
 And look at the insects that carelessly flit, 
 
 Carried lightly along by the breeze ; 
 Or watch the gay dance of the flickering motes. 
 
 Where the sun through the shade darts a beam ; 
 Or gaze on the leaf, as it lazily floats 
 
 On the scarce-rippled breast of the stream. 
 
 I never could see the advantage of toil ; 
 
 My wealth is from care to be free ; 
 To others I leave all the greed and the spoil ; 
 
 Inaction is treasure to me. 
 I envy the lot of the moss-cradled rose : 
 
 How calmly she passes her days ; 
 Till, at eve, rocked by Zephyr to deeper repose. 
 
 While the nightingale sings in her praise ! 
 
 D
 
 34 IL DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
 
 You say there's a duty confided to each ; 
 
 A talent he must not abuse : 
 That may be ; but your duties are out of my reach : 
 
 My talent is — only to muse. 
 You bid me observe that all creatures fulfil 
 
 The doom Mother Nature decrees : — 
 No doubt ! But I'm sure she meant me to sit still ; 
 
 Or just glide on through life at my ease.
 
 THE EAKLY DEAD. 
 
 We buried her while morning's light 
 
 Was stealing o'er the sky ; 
 Ere yet the tears of dewy Night 
 
 On Nature's face were dry. 
 
 We buried her while still the sun 
 Was on the horizon's verge ; 
 
 The lark, before our task was done, 
 Began to sing her dirge. 
 
 We laid our sleeping flower among 
 The just awakening flowers ; 
 
 Like them she was so sweet and young ;- 
 That blighted bud of ours ! 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 She died at dawn ; we laid her where 
 The sun's first smiles will rest ; 
 
 He will not look on aught more fair, 
 Before he gains the West. 
 
 We did not leave a trace of gloom 
 
 About her grassy bed ; 
 All should be bright around a tomb 
 
 Which holds the early dead. 
 
 Her being had but dawned on earth. 
 Before she passed away : 
 
 Death is the Spirit's better birth ; 
 The dawn of perfect day.
 
 PLEASURE'S TOUR. 
 
 Pleasure had once a. mind to travel : 
 
 She always has been given to roam : 
 Let the wise look shocked and cavil ; — 
 
 She is not a great stay-at-home. 
 She had not fixed her plans at present : 
 
 What most she wished she did not know : 
 The world around looked gay and pleasant ; 
 
 So romid the world she thought she'd go.
 
 38 pleasure's tour. 
 
 She started early ; taking only 
 
 Some trifling gauds of mingled hues ; 
 She is not fond of being lonely : 
 
 But for this once she meant to muse. 
 I grieve to say that, soon, however, 
 
 She found her own society 
 Tedious ; and vowed she must endeavour 
 
 To seek out some variety. 
 
 Just then she reached a bower of roses, 
 
 Whose blushes brightened every minute ;— 
 The earliest that the Spring uncloses ; 
 
 A lovely child was nestling in it, 
 " Here," she cried, '' oh ! here 's a treasure ! 
 
 " Come out, fair creature ! come and play." 
 Tlie infant heard the voice of Pleasure, 
 
 And bounded forth, as glad as day.
 
 pleasure's tour. 39 
 
 Oil ! the tracing and the chasing 
 
 Of birds and butterflies and bees ! 
 And the merry dance-hke racing 
 
 With the blossom on the breeze ! 
 Oh ! the frolic spirits, flinging 
 
 New delights o'er hill and dell ! 
 And the joyous laughter, ringing 
 
 Lightly as a fairy's bell ! 
 
 But see ! pale Evening's shades are falling 
 
 Softly on the weary world ; 
 Gentle thoughts of rest recalling, 
 
 Ere Night's wings be quite unfurled. 
 Each day -flower hangs its heavy head ; 
 
 The dewy night-flowers wake to weep ; 
 And, sinking on a mossy bed, 
 
 That happy child falls fast asleep.
 
 40 pleasure's tour 
 
 Pleasure sansf sweet song-s to wake liim : — 
 
 But he did not hear even her : 
 Loth still was she to forsake him ; 
 
 She almost thought she would not stir : 
 But, at length, she left him sleeping : 
 
 Who, alas ! of woman born, 
 E'er closed his eyes in Pleasure's keeping, 
 
 To open them on her next morn 1 
 
 And now heaven's glories, without number, 
 
 Thronging thickly, poured their light : 
 Pleasure is not prone to slumber ; 
 
 And she loves a starry night. 
 So, on she sped : — but, did I mention 
 
 One half that on her walk occurred, 
 You'd swear it was my own invention ; 
 
 Or say, at least, 'twas "too absurd."
 
 pleasure's tour. 41 
 
 She saw a sage intently gazing 
 
 At all the wonders of the sky : 
 She heard a youthful poet praising 
 
 The " Ladye-Moon," and passed both by. 
 She left a maiden and her lover 
 
 Disputing, as she just could hear, 
 Too much in earnest to discover 
 
 That Pleasure had been very near. 
 
 As she approached a stately dwelling, 
 
 She heard the sounds of revelry, 
 Upon the tranquil night-air swelling, 
 
 And felt her heart bound high with glee. 
 There was music ; there was dancing ; 
 
 There was mirth's harmonious din ; 
 Bright gems and brighter eyes were glancing 
 
 More brightly still, as she came in.
 
 42 pleasure's tour. 
 
 More flower-like bloomed eacli young cheek's blushing, 
 
 When her springing step drew near ; 
 Softer eloquence seemed gushing 
 
 From many a tongue on many an ear. 
 But some chaperonish yawning, 
 
 Long before the night was spent, 
 Made her fancy day was dawning ; 
 
 And, in haste, away she went. 
 
 Hist ! on her ear a gentle greeting, 
 
 Like remembered music, fell : 
 Ah ! it was a happy meeting : 
 
 That dear voice ! she knew it well. 
 Yes 1 'twas Love, her own twin- brother ! 
 
 From the bright world of their birth. 
 They had come with one another, 
 
 Bringing down a heaven to earth.
 
 pleasure's tour. 43 
 
 While they could they clung together. 
 
 Sharing many a happy heart ; 
 But this world's inconstant weather 
 
 Drove tlie twins at length apart. 
 From time to time they meet, with gladness ; — 
 
 Early sympathies are strong : — 
 But Love is grown so used to Sadness, 
 
 He cannot live without her long. 
 
 They bade good bye ! On flitted Pleasure : 
 
 I cannot say she felt regret ; 
 'Tis not her line ; nor has she leisure, 
 
 If even she knew the way, to fret. 
 Her cheek with morning's light was glowing, 
 
 With smiles her rosy lip was wreathed ; 
 She flitted on, bright glances throwing 
 
 Upon all things that grew or breathed.
 
 44 pleasure's tour. 
 
 She caught a ghmpse of Hope, divining 
 
 With her deep, clear, prophetic eyes, 
 Some light to come ; — some glory shining, 
 
 Like a bright rainbow, in the skies. 
 That symbol of a fair to-morrow, — 
 
 That mystic sign with promise fraught, — 
 That type of gladness after sorrow, — 
 
 Say was it not for Hope first wrought ? 
 
 Pleasure perceived her very plainly, 
 
 Although before her floating far; 
 She tried to overtake her, vainly, 
 
 As children do a flying star. 
 Oh ! how should she, earth -skimming Pleasure, 
 
 Whose limits are this world's, keep pace 
 With her who can, at will, out-measure 
 
 The boundaries of time and space ?
 
 pleasure's tour. 45 
 
 She called her ; but Hope never turneth 
 
 At any call, however sweet ; 
 Her eager glance still onward biirneth, 
 
 The Spirit of her love to greet. 
 He comes ! The bright Dream-spirit, banished 
 
 From life's realities ! The air 
 Buoyed up her radiant wings ! She vanished, 
 
 And left poor Pleasure j)lantee there.
 
 THE LIFE- WEARY. 
 
 Oh ! ye beloved ! do not grieve for me ; 
 
 I go where I have prayed and pined to be : 
 
 I go to join the holy, happy throng, 
 
 Whose visioned joys have been my dream so long. 
 
 I have been laden heavily ; my breast, 
 
 As hunted deer's for water, pants for rest : 
 
 Fain would I cast my burthen off and soar 
 
 Where grief and care shall weigh me down no more. 
 
 Ye know how I have suffered here on earth ; 
 Ye know how utter is my young life's dearth 
 Of all which makes life's value : — how the course 
 Of my heart's hope was ice-bound at its source.
 
 THE LIFE- WEARY. 47 
 
 Ye know how my affections clustered all 
 Round one alone ; and how the idol's fall 
 Crushed the love-nurtured faith, the clinging trust 
 Entwined about it, to the very dust. 
 
 Ye know it well. Then, do not seek to stay 
 My Spirit, winged to take its heavenward way, 
 And hovering on the brink of the abyss 
 Which lies between that better world and this. 
 
 Think of me, dear ones ! as a ransomed slave, 
 Wliose road to liberty lies through the grave ; 
 An exile, through a desert doomed to roam. 
 And summoned now to an eternal home.
 
 LOVE MISLAID. 
 
 We parted to meet again soon ; 
 
 We have met, and I wish we had not ; 
 Amongst things garnered up in the moon 
 
 Is the love which embelhshed our lot. 
 I do not know how 'twas mislaid ; 
 
 But I'm sure we shall find it no more : 
 If we did, it could never be made 
 
 What we cherished so fondly of yore.
 
 LOVE MISLAID. 49 
 
 They tell us, wherever we go, 
 
 That true love to one object is bound ; 
 1 wish they would tell, — if they know, — 
 
 Where the love which they speak of is found. 
 They say, from the love which is new, 
 
 That we always come back to the old : 
 This may be ; but, I fear, if we do, — 
 
 That 'tis only to find it grown cold. 
 
 E
 
 THE CYPRESS TREE. 
 
 Elena Corner Piscopia, a young Venetian lady, distinguished alike for 
 her talents, her learning, and her virtues, a short time before her death, 
 1684, dissuaded her father from cutting down a Cypress near their house, 
 by assuring him that the life of the tree would, ere long, fail contempora- 
 neously with her own. She begged that the first use made of its wood 
 might be to form her coffin. Her prediction and her wish were both 
 fulfiUed. 
 
 Oh ! cut not down the Cypress tree ! 
 
 I love its stately gloom ; 
 Its mournful asj^ect speaks to me 
 
 Of my approaching doom : 
 I find a type of things above 
 
 In its unchanging hue ; 
 A symbol of eternal love, 
 
 Immutable and true.
 
 THE CYPRESS THEE. 51 
 
 It will not cumber long the ground ; 
 
 Its destiny draws nigh ; 
 Its fragile life with mine is bound ; 
 
 Together we shall die. 
 No human care or kindness could 
 
 Either avail to save ; 
 Make me a coffin of its wood, 
 
 And let it share my grave. 
 
 Gently she drooped to early death ; 
 
 The tree drooped at her side ; 
 And when she drew her latest breath, 
 
 The faithful cypress died. 
 A coffin from the wood was made, 
 
 And in its fragrant breast 
 The loved of many hearts was laid, 
 
 To take her last, long rest. 
 
 E 2
 
 AN IMPEECATION. 
 
 Lives there a slave 
 
 Whose bondage doth not gall him ? 
 Scorned by the brave, 
 
 His country's curse befall him ! 
 
 Honour shall veil 
 
 Her face at his appearing ; 
 Freedom's voice fail, 
 
 When he comes within hearing. 
 
 Hope's opening bud 
 
 Beneath his glance shall wither ; 
 Glory's proud flood 
 
 Kecede if he draw thither.
 
 AN IMPRECATION. 53 
 
 True men shall spurn 
 
 The caitiff, humbly suing ; 
 True women turn, 
 
 Indignant, from his wooing. 
 
 Lone be his lot, 
 
 His love for ever sliorhted ; 
 His kindness forgot ; 
 
 His friendship unrequited. 
 
 The grass, round his tomb, 
 
 Heaven's dew shall never nourish ; 
 
 No flower there shall bloom, 
 
 No sheltering tree shall flourish.
 
 AN ADIEU! 
 
 Quedate a Dios, agua clara, 
 Quedate a Dios, agua fria, 
 Y quedad con Dios, mis flores, 
 Mi gloria, que ser solia. 
 Romance de Don Duardos y Flerida. — Anonymous. 
 
 Adieu, ye rivers of my native land ! 
 Adieu, ye flowers by southern breezes fanned ! 
 Adieu ! I go to a far distant sliore, 
 And I shall see this lovely land no more. 
 
 Gardens, the glory of my childish heart, 
 Adieu, adieu, for ever ! I depart, 
 To languish in that chilly northern isle 
 Where Nature's face so seldom wears a smile.
 
 AN ADIEU ! 55 
 
 Yet, I shall oft come hither in my dreams, 
 And wander gladly by the clear cool streams 
 Of mine own sunny country, gathering flowers, 
 As I was wont to do in happier hours. 
 
 Henceforth, my waking doom will be to weep : 
 But faithful Memory, watching while I sleep, 
 With joys and loves long-lost will people night, 
 And steep my soul in visions of delight.
 
 DIPLOMACY'S CHOICE. 
 
 While timorous Knowledge stands considering, 
 Audacious Ignorance hath done the deed. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Diplomacy, not long ago, 
 
 (I mean our own, of course, you know) 
 
 Was called on to decide the fates 
 
 Of two young rival candidates. 
 
 Aspiring, in her service bland. 
 
 To serve, or save, their native land. 
 
 'Twas a great bore ;— for now her choice, 
 
 Obedient to the people's voice.
 
 diplomacy's choice. 57 
 
 Which a jobation lately gave her, 
 Must go by merit, not by favour ; 
 Examination, too, must test 
 Who met the State's requirements best. 
 She had not always had this trouble, 
 Which was, she vowed, an empty bubble : 
 She only wished that it would burst. 
 And leave things as they were at first. 
 What was the use of taking pains 
 To find out an Attaches brains ? 
 How could it signify a pin, 
 What corner they were hidden in 1 
 They would be sure to come to light, 
 If ever wanted, sound and bright. 
 For trifles to make such a fuss. 
 Was, she declared, preposterous. 
 She held out gallantly, in fact. 
 Although with virulence attacked
 
 58 diplomacy's choice. 
 
 From various quarters, for neglect 
 
 Of shoals — where England might be wrecked ; 
 
 Till seven-league-booted Intellect 
 
 Downrightly swore that he would make, 
 
 CTnless she followed in his wake, 
 
 A dire example of the dame, 
 
 And hold her up to public shame. 
 
 So, what on earth was to be done, 
 
 Excepting with the age to run ? 
 
 In short, though loth, she has consented, 
 
 (I'm sure she often has repented) 
 
 To make it indispensable 
 
 For all who in her shadow dwell, 
 
 Henceforth, for ever, to profess 
 
 And even, if possible, possess 
 
 A little specious information ; 
 
 Enough to satisfy the nation 
 
 That there's some cry, if little wool ; 
 
 And to convince that sage, John Bull,
 
 diplomacy's choice. 59 
 
 Who knows not much himself, 'tis true, 
 
 That those who represent him do. 
 
 She thouDfht it miMit faciUtate 
 
 Her measures, if each candidate 
 
 Tor her approval, sent a proxy 
 
 To answer for his orthodoxy ; 
 
 And vouch for his being duly grounded 
 
 In all the points whereon were founded 
 
 The requisitions, from whose root 
 
 Knowledge should bear such golden fruit — 
 
 Some one well known to all the nation. 
 
 In person, or by reputation. 
 
 Those under her consideration 
 
 Just now, had, therefore, each deputed 
 
 The advocate he deemed best suited 
 
 To set forth his deserts at length, 
 
 And plead his cause in all its strength. 
 
 The first who to the ordeal came 
 
 Was Ignorance — you've heard her name !
 
 60 diplomacy's choice. 
 
 Diplomacy had heard it too ; — 
 
 Nay, more — the lady well she knew. 
 
 Not Ignorance, the dogged, dull, 
 
 Whose heart is numb as is her skull ; 
 
 Whose blood's mean current Sloth impedes 
 
 Like sluggish rivers choked with weeds : 
 
 No link of amity hath she 
 
 With quick-witted Diplomacy. 
 
 The Ignorance of whom I tell, 
 
 Is one we all know very well : 
 
 A genial, careless, merry creature, — 
 
 Contentment stamped on every feature, — 
 
 Whose head has never been perplexed 
 
 With questions vexing more than vexed ; 
 
 Who always sets us at our ease, 
 
 By noting no deficiencies — 
 
 A very patent way to please ! 
 
 She and Diplomacy had been 
 
 Associates in many a scene ;
 
 diplomacy's choice. G1 
 
 And always got on well together, 
 
 Save in some bouts of stormy weather, 
 
 When Ignorance, by zealous snatches, 
 
 Wotdd take to writing the Despatches. 
 
 She, then, it was who, in compliance 
 
 With earnest prayers, and in reliance 
 
 On her experience, year by year. 
 
 Of what shone most in the career. 
 
 Came forward now, to recommend 
 
 To the protection of her friend, 
 
 A favourite protege of hers, 
 
 Who longed for Diplomatic spurs. 
 
 To state his merits when desired, 
 
 She answered frankly, as required : 
 
 ^' He's not by any means a fool ; 
 
 '' He learned all sorts of things at school ; 
 
 '' Skimmed through a university, 
 
 '' And might have taken a Degree."
 
 62 
 
 DIPLOMACY S CHOICE. 
 
 ' So far so good ! Pray ! can he spell ?" 
 
 " All easy words — he dances well ; 
 
 ' His waltzing is a glorious thing ! 
 
 ' He can compose a polka ; sing 
 
 ' Like a moustachioed nightingale ; 
 
 ' Expound a riddle ; tell a tale 
 
 ' Of modern belle or ancient ghost ; 
 
 ' I know not which he deals in most." 
 
 ' Is he well up in all the tenses 
 
 ' Of all French verbs ?"— '' Ahem ! he fences 
 
 ' With skill and science ; takes a joke, 
 
 ' When sharpened fine ; — knows how to smoke ; 
 
 ' Has charming manners ; much aplomb ; 
 
 ' And always makes himself at home." 
 
 ' Most satisfactory ! Can he write ?" 
 
 ' I think so — I'm not certain quite : 
 
 ' Yes, but I am though ! for I've seen 
 
 ' Small notes of his — pink, blue, and green.
 
 DIPLOMACY S CHOICE. 63 
 
 " He punctuates without a blunder, 
 
 " From commas up to pops of wonder." 
 
 " But tell me now, how stands his grammar ?" 
 
 " Well ! I don't think it needs a crammer." 
 
 " All right ! I hope, besides, that he 
 
 " Knows history and geography." 
 
 " Of course ! At school he used to trace 
 
 " Maps ; dotting down each famous place : 
 
 " And he can throw off names, facts, dates, 
 
 " As glibly as a parrot prates ; 
 
 " Coupling the former with the latter — 
 
 " If not correctly, no great matter ! 
 
 " Whether the living miss or hit 
 
 " Such truths, the dead care not a whit. 
 
 " A Diplomate predestined, for 
 
 " He's more than half a conjuror ; 
 
 " An adept in all carpet sports, 
 
 " And formed to fascinate at courts ;
 
 64 DIPLOMACY S CHOICE. 
 
 " He'll do you credit in a line 
 
 " Where Britons do not always shine ; 
 
 " And prove that English heart of oak 
 
 '^ May take a polish ; though some folk 
 
 '^ Aver that it is all in vain 
 
 " To work on such a knotty grain. 
 
 " Upon the whole, I know you'll find 
 
 '^ The youth exactly to your mind. 
 
 " J trust that my advice you'll take ; 
 
 " If but for old acquaintance sake." 
 
 Diplomacy looked quite benign, 
 
 And made her a good-natured sign 
 
 To stand a little bit aside, 
 
 Until the other suit was tried. 
 
 The sponsor that came next was Learning, 
 
 Who, wishing to appear discerning, 
 
 Descanted, in a pompous tone, 
 
 On facts not generally known ;
 
 DIPLOMACY S CHOICE. Q5 
 
 Touched upon multifarious topics, 
 Around the poles — between the tropics ; 
 Called things right, by their hardest name, 
 And said her pupil did the same. 
 Taking a scope thus wide and high, 
 The whole harangue was rather dry 
 And tedious, as may be supposed. 
 Diplomacy, I fancy, dozed : 
 For, else, she never could have sat 
 While Learning lectured her like that ; 
 And stated that her youthful friend 
 Had powers of mind to comprehend 
 All that she lightly had glanced through ; 
 And tongue to lecture on it too. 
 Diplomacy gulped down a yawn 
 At first, and next a sigh long-drawn : 
 Then, like a person just awoke 
 From unrefreshing slumber, spoke.
 
 66 diplomacy's choice. 
 
 " All you have uttered is sublime ; 
 
 " But, to digest it, needs more time 
 
 " And deeper thought than I can spare, 
 
 " At present, from a grave affair. 
 
 " As you perceive, 'tis rather late, 
 
 " And I have business of some weight, 
 
 " Which can't be pat off 'till to morrow : 
 
 '• I say it with exceeding sorrow. 
 
 •' Your protege, no doubt, is clever, 
 
 " And does you honour. I'll endeavour, 
 
 " Some day, to do myself the pleasure 
 
 " To question him ; — when more at leisure. 
 
 " I hope sincerely 'twill be soon : 
 
 " I wish you a good afternoon." — 
 
 * So now, dear Ignorance ! this once, 
 
 I e'en must choose your charming Dunce '
 
 NATIONAL EVENING HYMN. 
 
 All Mighty ! Thou who sendest on his way 
 The giant Sun to rule the radiant day ; 
 Thou, at whose bidding, with a softened Hght, 
 The Moon comes forth to cheer the mournful Night ; 
 Thou, from whose glory's unimagined source 
 The stars derive effulgence for their course ; 
 Ancient of days ! from whose unerring hand 
 Earth's ages drop, like grains of falling sand ; 
 Before Thy throne we stand. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 NATIONAL evp:ning hymn. 
 
 Benign Creator ! whose inspiring word 
 Exulting myriads into being stirred ; 
 God ! self- existent, self-dependent ; known 
 In thy reflected Majesty alone ; 
 Wielder of destinies ! on whose dread breath 
 Trembles the balanced doom of life and death ; 
 Immutable ! Eternal ! deign to bow 
 An ear of mercy to Thy creatures now ! 
 Accept our evening vow ! 
 
 Father ! we thank Thee for the day just past ; 
 Those yet to come upon Thy love we cast ; 
 We bless Thee for the Dead whose griefs are o'er ; 
 For us who live, Thy grace we still implore. 
 Grant, Thou, the stranger's God! sweet dreams of home 
 To those who, far away, in exile roam. 
 Our sleep o'ershadow with Thy fostering care ; 
 Best where we may, All Present ! Thou art there. 
 Lord God ! make good our prayer !
 
 WAR SONG. 
 
 Ti yap TTarpcoas dvbpl cfiiXrepov XOovos ; 
 
 Come on ! come on ! The strife 
 Is not alone for life, 
 
 That doubtful good : 
 To struggle we are here 
 For all that makes life dear, 
 
 As brave men should. 
 
 The Foe draws near our walls ; 
 The voice of Honour calls ; 
 
 Accursed the ear 
 Which drinks not in the sound !- 
 The heart which does not bound 
 
 That voice to hear !
 
 70 WAR SONG. 
 
 Old men, wliose strength is gone 
 In youth whose valour shone 
 
 With steady flame ! 
 Your blood is in our veins : 
 Come see us spurn all chains, 
 
 In Freedom's name ! 
 
 Mothers ! ye shall not blush, 
 When ye behold us rush 
 
 Forth to the field : 
 Our graves may there be spread 
 Ere night : alive or dead, 
 
 We will not yield. 
 
 Children ! come out and see 
 The warfare of the Free ! 
 
 For you we fight : 
 Learn how a patriot draws 
 His good sword in the cause 
 
 Of Home and Kiglit !
 
 WAR SONG. 71 
 
 A day may come when yon 
 Must fight a battle too, 
 
 Upon whose fate 
 Kindred's and Country's doom, 
 Of glory or of gloom, 
 
 Balanced shall wait. 
 
 Maidens ! 'tis yours to stay 
 Within your homes and pray, 
 
 With trusting heart, 
 That God His Hosts would send 
 Of Angels, to defend 
 
 The righteous part.
 
 THE DYING GIRL'S DREAM. 
 
 A WIDOWED fatJier watched beside the bed 
 
 Of one, whose life was fluttering on Death's brink 
 
 Between his heart and its beloved Dead 
 This was the single still unsevered link. 
 
 He knew her sj)irit soon must pass away 
 
 And leave him desolate on earth. He wept, 
 
 In voiceless agony, while there she lay. 
 
 Like a young folded flower at eve, and slept.
 
 THE DYING GIRL's DREAM. 73 
 
 She opened suddenly lier lustrous eyes 
 
 Filled with that deep, mj^sterious, holy light, 
 
 The setting Spirit's radiance, whose clear dyes 
 Tinge the dark confines of sepulchral night. 
 
 '' Father ! dear father ! do not weep for me I 
 T go, in hope, to join God's angel throng ; 
 I go, in joy, my Saviour's face to see ; 
 My father, thou wilt follow me ere long. 
 
 " Even now, I waken from a happy dream 
 
 Where Heaven was opened to my distant view ; 
 And all the aspiring fantasies that seem 
 Too bricrht for truth, were imao^ed forth as true. 
 
 '' I saw that world where joys are felt and known 
 Which were but dimly shadowed forth in this ; 
 Where Jesus sits upon His mercy-throne. 
 And hope is merged in certainty of bliss.
 
 74 THE DYING GIRL's DREAM. 
 
 " Thus was the vision : At that dreary hour 
 Which ushers in the newly risen day, 
 As was my wont while still I had the power, 
 I went, methought, in yon old church to pray. 
 
 (( 
 
 Alone I passed along the solemn aisle, 
 
 And marked a quaint memorial here and there 
 
 Alone in all that venerable pile, 
 
 I bent my knee and raised my heart in prayer. 
 
 " I know not in my dream how long I knelt ; 
 For I was lost to thoughts of all below ; 
 Until at last in every sense I felt 
 
 A gush of transport through my being flow. 
 
 '' I raised my eyes. Lo ! at an open door, 
 
 Radiant in loveliness — not that of earth — 
 I saw a group, remembered well of yore, 
 Centred by her to wliom I owe my birth.
 
 THE DYING GIRL's DREAM. 75 
 
 " Yes ! there she stood, — the mother early lost, — 
 Smiling amongst her beautiful and brave ; 
 Her home-shed buds ; — her war and tempest-tossed — 
 The gallant boys who found a foreign grave. 
 
 " I saw them, beauteous in ethereal bloom ; 
 A glory stamped on each immortal brow : 
 Let me 2:0 down into the dark, cold tomb, 
 To rise again and be as they are now ! 
 
 '' My own beloved sister twin was there ; 
 
 She glided towards me from the angel band : 
 A wreath of deathless flowers was on her hair ; 
 A wreath of deathless flowers was in her hand. 
 
 " This laid she gently on my bending head : 
 
 Straightway my eyes were opened to behold 
 The unimagined glories of the Dead. 
 To living ears they may not yet be told.
 
 76 THE DYING GIRL's DREAM. 
 
 " I see those heavenly forms before me still ! 
 I feel their balmy breathings on my face ! 
 Their whispers, floating round, the chamber fill : 
 ' Come, Sister ! come to thine appointed place ! ' 
 
 *' I come ! — Dear father, yet a parting kiss ! 
 Devoid of bitterness thy tears must fall : 
 My soul is winged for everlasting bliss ; — 
 
 Thou would'st not hold me back when Angfels call. 
 
 " I go before thee to the world unknown : 
 But if it be indeed a world of love, 
 Thou shalt not be all desolate and lone 
 While I am happy in those realms above. 
 
 " When, as I know thou wilt, at evening hour 
 My favourite haunts thou visitest again, 
 And tendest, for my sake, the fairy bower 
 I loved so much, I shall be with thee then.
 
 THE DYING GIRL's DREAM. 77 
 
 '' And when thy patient soul pours forth a prayer 
 For strength to bow unmurmuring to the rod, 
 My watchful Spirit shall be near, to bear 
 Thy supplication to the throne of God." 
 
 She died. They sculptured o'er her place of rest 
 A budding lily drooping to the dust — 
 
 A butterfly emerging from its breast ; 
 Meet emblems of her purity and trust.
 
 MEMORY'S JOYS. 
 
 Nam, fruendis voluntatibus, crescit careudi dolor. 
 
 Pliny the Younger, Lib. 8, Epist. 5. 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria. 
 
 Dante. — Inferno, canto 5. 
 
 Talk not to me of Memory's joys ! 
 
 Tell me not how she can restore 
 The blessings ruthless Time destroys, 
 
 As fresh and vivid as of yore ! 
 Boast not to me her potent spell, 
 
 The good, relinquished, to regain ! 
 I know, alas ! her magic well ; 
 
 And how it works on heart and brain.
 
 MEMORY S JOYS. 79 
 
 I know that when our human cup 
 
 Is mantling high with mingled woes, 
 She adds some drops to fill it up, 
 
 And watches while the draught o'erflows. 
 I know that if she bring back flowers, 
 
 Such as around us used to bloom, 
 Just when we fancy they are ours, 
 
 We see them scattered o'er a tomb. 
 
 I know that it is Memory's vaunt 
 
 To mimic Pleasure's mouldered form. 
 And bid the mocking semblance haunt 
 
 The soul its type was wont to warm ; 
 And that when, yielding to her skill, 
 
 We trust the fair illusion most. 
 And at the phantom gras}), a chill 
 
 Reminds us 'tis but Pleasure's ghost.
 
 80 MEMORY S JOYS. 
 
 Eemember ! Teach me to forget 
 
 A bliss too exquisite to last ! 
 My grief becomes more poignant yet 
 
 By contrast with the happy past. 
 Go bid the plundered miser count 
 
 Among the worthless baubles left, 
 The irrecoverable amount 
 
 Of wealth of which he is bereft ! 
 
 Believe ye that the blind from birth 
 
 Can languish for the glorious light, 
 And pine to look upon this earth 
 
 Like him who lately lost his sight ? 
 Can the hereditary slave, 
 
 Who never moved without a chain, 
 Chafe at his bondage, like the brave 
 
 Brought up all fetters to disdain ?
 
 memory's joys. 81 
 
 I find no comfort in the thoug'ht 
 
 That, wretched now, I have been blessed : 
 With tenfold agony is fraught 
 
 The dearth of treasure once possessed. 
 Lost joy remembered 'mid despair 
 
 Dyes it of deeper, darker hue ; — 
 The life-long wretch may calmly bear 
 
 The want of what he never knew.
 
 '^ TO DIE IS NOTHING IN ITSELF." 
 
 To yap 6ave7v ovk alaxpov, clW alaxpSiS davelv. 
 
 To die is nothing in itself; — a breath — 
 
 A pulse suppressed, — no more. To die with shame, 
 And leave the memory of a blighted name ; — 
 
 This is the sting and bitterness of Death. 
 
 To die is nothing — on the battle-field, 
 Obedient to the call of Duty's voice : — 
 That Death is but the Patriot's dearest choice, 
 
 Whose Country's freedom with his blood is sealed.
 
 " TO DIE IS NOTHING IN ITSELF." 83 
 
 To die is nothing — when beside the bed 
 Where slowly, peacefully, we sink to sleep, 
 Watch anxious eyes which tell us, while they weep, 
 
 That, loved in life, w^e shall be honoured dead. 
 
 To die is nothing — while the ardent mind, 
 Exulting in the work already wrought. 
 Is planning, with its eager powers of thought, 
 
 New schemes to raise and purify mankind. 
 
 To die is nothing — while some Dream of bliss 
 Is hovering o'er us, with bright wings unfurled. 
 And whispering hopes which in that unknown world 
 
 May be fulfilled ; but never could in this. 
 
 To die is nothing — while fair Childhood's bloom. 
 Is still unfaded ; and the rosy Hours 
 Dance gaily onward, garlanded with flowers, 
 
 Bearing the unconscious victim to his tomb. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 " TO DIE IS NOTHING IN ITSELB\" 
 
 To die is nothing — in the flush of youth, 
 
 While Glory fills the brain, and Love the heart ; 
 And the frank spirit, not yet warped by art, 
 
 Feeling its own, believes another's truth. 
 
 To die is nothing — in strong Manhood's prime 
 Of noble energy ; — when o'er the past 
 The parting glance of retrospection cast 
 
 Finds Life's fair reckoning balanced well with Time. 
 
 To die is nothing — while, in tranquil Age, 
 
 With loosening hold on all the things of Earth, 
 The trusting soul awaits its second birth 
 
 Where Grief can enter not, or Passion rage. 
 
 To die is nothing in itself ; — The scorn 
 
 Of those who see us die gives Death its pang : 
 Rather than feel such Death's envenomed fang 
 
 Far better were it not to have been born.
 
 THE MINSTREL'S WARNING. 
 
 Como estoy alegre, 
 Tristezas temo, 
 Porque vienen mil penas 
 Tras un contento. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 One day, a Minstrel sat and sang, 
 
 Not idly, as I think : 
 '^ The brightest flowers of joy o'erhang 
 
 A precipice's brink : 
 Pleasure is seldom free from pain ; 
 
 A smile may cause a tear ; 
 Loss may come hand in hand with gain 
 
 And Hope is twin with Fear.
 
 86 THE minstrel's warning. 
 
 " Then wisely listen to my voice 
 
 Which warns you of your doom ; 
 Prepare to grieve when ye rejoice ; 
 
 To wither when ye bloom : 
 Amidst all good remember ill — 
 
 It soon must be your share ; 
 If light your load, be ready, still, 
 
 A heavier load to bear,"
 
 THE REVENGE OF VETTOE PISANI. 
 
 (1379.) 
 
 Ungrateful Venice ! In those palmy days 
 For ever gone, when Glory's crown of rays 
 Shone, still undimmed, upon thy haughty head, 
 And patriot chiefs thy patriot people led 
 O'er the calm bosom of thy deep blue sea. 
 To conquer other States, and keep thine free, 
 How often, Queen of Ocean ! didst thou doom 
 Thy best and noblest to a dungeon's gloom ; 
 Or brand the memory of thy true and brave 
 With the dishonour of a Traitor's grave !
 
 88 THE REVENGE OF VETTOK PTSANI. 
 
 Yet liow tliey loved thee ! witli wliat filial pride. 
 In tliy mysterious service lived and died ; 
 Deeming the destiny supremely blessed. 
 To lie at anchor in thy heartless breast ! 
 But harsher mandate, sentence more unjust, 
 Never disgraced thine annals of distrust, 
 Than when, to expiate thy Senate's fliult, 
 Pisani lano'uished in San Marco's vault. 
 He, whose proud name no blot had ever stained. 
 With wounded honour and with limbs enchained, 
 Like any common felon fettered lay, 
 To fret his wi'onged and gallant heart away. 
 How his indignant spirit must have spurned 
 The charge of inefhciency, and burned 
 With the remembrance of the o-lorious fio-hts 
 Won by his arm for Venice and her rights ! 
 How chafed at life, and wished a Hero's death 
 Had been his safeguard against Slander's breath !
 
 THE REVENGE OF VETTOR PISANI. 89 
 
 Day after day rolls on its heavy round, 
 And still he there remains in fetters bound 
 Whose iron cankereth.— At length a foe 
 Appears, whom Venice well has learned to know : 
 The fleet victorious of that rival State, — 
 Her equal in ambition and in hate, — 
 Exulting Genoa's triumphant host, 
 With taunts, draws near the Adriatic coast. 
 Insulted Venice proudly to their oars 
 Summons her people to defend her shores. 
 The people rush, in wild, tumultuous bands. 
 To where the Lion of San Marco stands ; 
 Around tlie palace of the Doge they crowd. 
 And rend the air with shoutings fierce and loud : 
 '^ Give us our Admiral once more, and then 
 Undaunted see us face the foe again ! 
 Without him, never ! Forth our Hero give ! 
 Long live Pisani ! Long Pisani live ! "
 
 90 THE REVENGE OF VETTOR PISANI. 
 
 Those honest shouts his dungeon's echoes filled, 
 
 And through the captive's generous bosom thrilled. 
 
 Slowly he rose ; and, crawling on in pain, 
 
 Close to the grated window dragged his chain. 
 
 Thence the pure Patriot's loyal accents fell 
 
 On ears which loved those long-known accents well, 
 
 And manly hearts which had been often stirred 
 
 To noble action by his lightest word : 
 
 " Pause, fellow Citizens ! Venetians, pause ! 
 
 Obey our Country and respect her Laws ! 
 
 ^ Long live San Marco ! ' is the only cry 
 
 Venetian lips should ever send on high ! " 
 
 The prudent Senate heard the People's voice. 
 And gave them forth the leader of their choice.
 
 THE MEMOEY OF OUR DEAD. 
 
 A Year has vanished, bearing down the tide 
 
 Which flows not back — the Ocean of the Past — 
 Hopes, fears, joys, sorrows ; dreams of human pride 
 And passion ; all irrevocably cast 
 
 Within the inexorable keeping 
 
 Which yields not up its trust, 
 For threat or prayer or weeping 
 Of Earth's poor sons of dust.
 
 92 THE MEMORY OF OUR DEAD. 
 
 A Year has vanished, and the treasures 
 
 She gathered on her varying round ; 
 The sparkling schemes, the bright-hued pleasures 
 That scattered o'er her path she found ; — 
 Alas ! the reckless Year 
 
 Hath flung away the store 
 Of all she garnered here, 
 
 Whence it may rise no more ! 
 
 The memory of our Dead, the slain 
 On Eastern height and battle-plain ; 
 The glory of our gallant-hearted, 
 
 Bought with their sweat and blood ; — 
 Has it too with the Year departed, 
 To sink and perish in that flood, — 
 The abyss of Time still deepening on for ever, 
 Engulphing all things and disgorging never ?
 
 THE MEMORY OF OUR DEAD. 93 
 
 There is no Past for them. — Their deathless fame 
 
 Is present now and shall be present still, 
 So long as England owns a Nation's name, 
 
 And English hearts with patriot feelings thrill. 
 They sleep afar in foreign earth ; 
 But English maids shall sing 
 Their dirge by many an English hearth, 
 And feel that 'tis a glorious thing 
 To be of English birth. 
 
 The English sire shall teach his son, 
 
 Through age succeeding age. 
 To scan their deeds on History's page. 
 
 And do as they have done ; 
 And English children at their play 
 
 Shall pause to think upon the story 
 Their mothers told with tears, that day, 
 
 Of English bravery and glory.
 
 94 THE MEMORY OF OUR DEAD. 
 
 Where'er the Enghsh tongue is spoken, 
 
 Where'er men honour noble deeds, 
 Unflinching zeal, and faith unbroken, 
 
 And Valour that for Freedom bleeds, - 
 Their memory shall be a token 
 For Victory, till Time's o'erflowing sea 
 Mingle its waters with Eternity. 
 
 January 1, 1855.
 
 THE UNCHANGED. 
 
 How many years have passed away 
 
 Since last I saw thy face ! 
 Yet scarcely seems it that a day 
 
 Hath printed there its trace. 
 Thy smiles are joyous as of yore ; 
 
 Thine eyes as full of light ; 
 The rosy blushes mantling o'er 
 
 Thy cheek, are just as bright.
 
 96 THE UNCHANGED. 
 
 Yes ! there thou art, all brilliant still ; 
 
 All tranquil too ; no sign 
 That cares which other bosoms fill 
 
 Have ever entered thine ! 
 Have all these years no shadow thrown 
 
 Upon that surface fair ? 
 Hast thou no sorrows of thine own ? 
 
 No loved one's griefs to share ? 
 
 How hast thou hoarded girlhood up ? 
 
 How stayed the fleeting hours ? 
 What magic draught has brimmed thy cup, 
 
 Freshening its crown of flowers ? 
 How hast thou bribed old Time, who flings 
 
 His evil gifts o'er all, 
 To let the down from his dark wings 
 
 On thee so softly fall ?
 
 THE UNCHANGED. 97 
 
 Yet once the river of thy life 
 
 Thus calmly did not roll : 
 Thou hast had thine hour of inward strife ; 
 
 Thine agony of soul ; 
 Thy struggles between pride and love ; 
 
 Th}^ tears which ivoiild be wept 
 O'er vows by all on earth — above — 
 
 Plighted— but never kept. 
 
 The very memory hast thou lost 
 
 Of woe thou scarce could'st bear ? 
 Few could have lived on, having crossed 
 
 A gulf so like Despair. 
 But thou hast crossed it ; — and thy bloom 
 
 Pales not ; nor does it glow, — 
 Like roses which conceal a tomb, — 
 
 To hide a wreck below. 
 
 H
 
 98 THE UNCHANGED. 
 
 Forget ! forget ! For such as thou 
 
 Kemembrance was not made ; 
 And Nature never meant that brow 
 
 To wear a deepened shade. 
 Forget ! forget — yet can'st thou ? — all 
 
 The visions of thy youth ! 
 Let no awakening pang recall 
 
 Thy dreams of Love and Truth ! 
 
 Can'st thou forget that broken heart, — 
 
 That such a heart should break 
 For one so heartless as thou art ! — 
 
 Now mouldering for thy sake ? 
 Can'st thou forget the dawn of bliss 
 
 So suddenly o'ercast ? 
 Oh ! God ! can'st thou forget all this, 
 
 Thou Traitress to the past ?
 
 THE UNCHANGED. 99 
 
 Forget ! forget ! smile on^ smile on, 
 
 At least in semblance blest ! 
 Forget ! forget the dead and gone ! 
 
 Are not they too at rest ? 
 Almost, while thus I gaze on thee, 
 
 I think with those who deem 
 In Heaven there is no memory 
 
 Of this World's troubled dream. 
 
 H 2
 
 THE TOMB OF HEROES. 
 
 Av8pS)V yap €Tri(f)ava)v rracrn yr] Ta.<pos, Koi ov ctttjKuiv povov iv rfj oiKetq 
 crrjpaivei eTnypa(f)r], dWa Koi iv rfj fifj ■npocT'qKOva^rj aypa(pos pvrjpt] nap eKacrrtp 
 Trjs yvoojxrjs paXKov rj tov epyov evBiaiTarat. 
 
 Thuctdides, Lib. 2, Cap. 43. 
 
 When Heroes die, the World becomes their Tomb, — 
 
 The AVorld itself, — and not that spot alone 
 Where their proud Country's love records their doom, 
 
 With grateful tears, on a sepulchral stone. 
 Their glory is not for a single land ; 
 
 Not to one language is confined their fame ; 
 Where'er a Patriot's rising zeal is fanned 
 
 By Freedom's breath, their Memory feeds the flame.
 
 THE TOMB OF HEROES. 101 
 
 Wherever noble spirits may be stirred 
 
 To emulation by a deed renowned, — 
 Wherever Honour is a household word, — 
 
 Their cherished name is a familiar sound. 
 Through all the scattered nations of the Earth, 
 
 Their actions are engraved on every heart 
 Which loves the Home and Country of its birth ; 
 
 Though not on marble by the Sculptor's Art.
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 In days gone by, alas ! we two 
 
 Could scarcely bear to be apart ; 
 And not a cloud its shadow threw 
 
 O'er one, but chilled the other heart. 
 Our lives were knit together then ; 
 
 Our joys and sorrows were the same 
 Ah ! shall I ever feel again 
 
 Or joy or sorrow at thy name ?
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 103 
 
 I neither love nor hate thee now ; 
 
 Thine image wakes no hope, — no fear ; 
 I care not where thou clwellest — thou, 
 
 Whose presence used to be so dear ! 
 I know not how the change was wrought, 
 
 Or which of us was first estranged ; 
 Or who most erred in deed — word — thought : — 
 
 I only know that both are changed. 
 
 Sometimes I try to conjure back 
 
 Feelings that long have passed aw^ay, 
 And put Love on the ancient track 
 
 He has not trod for many a day. 
 In vain ! or if Affection's dream 
 
 Eecur, and bring old thoughts of thee, 
 It is but as the wintry beam 
 
 Glances across a frozen sea.
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 There is a meek and tender Grief 
 Which finds in sympathy rehef ; 
 Whicli loves to hear Compassion's sigh, 
 And see the tear in Pity's eye. 
 Soothe that gentle, trusting Sorrow 
 With bright promise for to-morrow. 
 
 There is a Woe which doth not weep ; 
 A gnawing Care which dares not sleep ; 
 There is a Thought which cannot die ; 
 A Memory which will not fly : 
 Pass that Woe ! There is no healinar 
 
 For the wounds which shun revealing.
 
 , GRIKF. 105 
 
 Sooner mayest thou gather up 
 
 The fragments of yon broken cup, 
 
 And crown them with the brimming draught 
 
 Already to the bottom quaffed, 
 
 Than link anew the loves once shattered, 
 
 Or recall the joys once scattered. 
 
 Rather mayest thou chase and seize 
 The rose-leaves dancing on the breeze, 
 And compel them by thy power 
 To bloom again, a perfect flower, 
 Than revive the banished seeming 
 Of Youth's pure and glorious dreaming. 
 
 Dost thou ask the signs to know 
 Of that self-concentred Woe ? 
 It hath neither sighs nor tears ; 
 Its worst is told ; it hath no fears ; 
 It wears an aspect unrelenting ; 
 It feeleth guilt without repenting.
 
 106 GRIEF. 
 
 Knowest thoa not the death-like hush 
 Which followeth a spirit's crush ? — 
 The cahii intenseness of Despair 
 Which shows that all is over there ? 
 Leave thy words of Hope unspoken ; 
 Here, the heart of Hope is broken ! 
 
 Pass that Grief! It doth not brook 
 Soothing word or pitying look. 
 Let it take its dreary course 
 Of bereavement or remorse. 
 Pass ! Its destiny is sleeping 
 In the God of Mercy's keeping.
 
 THE DYING PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 Honos alit artes, omuesque inceuduntur ad studia gloria : 
 jaceutque ea semper, qua3 apud quosque improbautur. 
 
 Cicero — Tusc. Qucest., Lib. i., Cap. 2. 
 
 Deae Sister ! come and give me light ; 
 
 In darkness do not let me die ; 
 Show me once more, ere all is night, 
 
 The glory of the morning sky. 
 Let me look out on Nature's face, 
 
 So worshipped by this weary heart, 
 And fancy that I yet may grace 
 
 With charms of hers her handmaid Art.
 
 108 THE DYING PAINTER's DREAM. 
 
 And sit thou down beside me, Dear ! 
 
 Thy soft, slight fingers let me hold ; — 
 Nay ! try to smile ! — and thou shalt hear 
 
 My last night's dream, — as oft of old. 
 Alas ! from childhood up, my life 
 
 Has been a dream — and nothing more — 
 A half-unconscious spirit-strife. — 
 
 Peace ! fretted soul ! The vision's o'er. 
 
 What has existence been to me ? 
 
 The chase of a still shifting flame ; 
 Feverish ambition but to be 
 
 A bubble on the breath of Fame ; 
 Wild longing to excel, and pride 
 
 Which deemed no task its strength above. 
 Say, if they ask of what I died, 
 
 That it was unrequited love.
 
 THE DYING PAINTER's DREAM. 109 
 
 Yes ! love of Art ! — A mistress fair ; 
 
 But of a fickle, thankless mood : 
 Serve her not ve who cannot bear 
 
 The stinging of Ingratitude ! 
 Her Ministers, the prosperous Great, 
 
 Who guide her councils, — frame her laws, — 
 Reck not how many a humble fate 
 
 Hangs tremblingly on their applause. 
 
 In their high sphere they little heed 
 
 The lowly, whom their hand might raise. 
 Languishing, famishing, for need 
 
 Of but a word of kindly praise. 
 They little care that, as the flower 
 
 Deprived of light will lose its bloom, 
 So Genius, chilled, will lose its power 
 
 Amid Neo-lect's unbroken orloom. 
 
 -^O^^^" " «.XXI^XV^X>.V^XX ^J
 
 110 THE DYING PAINTERS DREAM. 
 
 But to my dream ! Well ! with the Dead 
 
 I was : that part will soon come true : 
 Sweet Sister ! let no tears be shed ! 
 
 Ere long thou wilt be with them too. 
 In sleep, at least, I was among 
 
 The glorious lights of human kind, 
 Whose deeds throughout the world are sung ; 
 
 Whose thoughts are fresh in every mind. 
 
 The Masters, in my Art renowned. 
 
 To whom their Country's memory clings ; 
 The favourites of Monarchs,— crowned 
 
 With gems beyond the price of kings ; — 
 The victors in that race of pain 
 
 Where I have been compelled to yield, 
 Were there : — and they did not disdain 
 
 The vanquished on their hard-won field.
 
 THE DYING PAINTER's DREAM. Ill 
 
 They welcomed me — the weak, the foiled ! 
 
 They said I had deserved success ; — 
 I, who so earnestly had toiled ; — 
 
 And wished I had but suffered less. 
 Meanwhile, a beauteous form drew nigh : 
 
 Smiling she beckoned ; mild command 
 And power benign shone from her eye ; 
 
 A wreath was hanging from her hand. 
 
 Methought she led me towards a lake 
 
 Margined with flowers of every hue : 
 And then she seemed a pause to make, 
 
 And sweetly smile on me anew. 
 " Thou who hast bravely striven to win 
 
 Renown," she said, ^' look down and see 
 What mirrored treasure lies within 
 
 The Lake of Immortality."
 
 112 THE DYING PAINTER's DREAM. 
 
 I looked ! I saw ! and I felt blessed 
 
 With joy ne'er dreamed before or known : 
 For pictured on the lake's calm breast 
 
 Was that conception of my own, 
 On which Hope's latest die was cast 
 
 And lost. — My life redeems that game : 
 What matter if it bring, at last, 
 
 Immortal honour to my name ? 
 
 My head, bowed down with rapture, drooped 
 
 Like a dew-laden bud beneath 
 Its weight of nourishment. She stooped, 
 
 And in the lake she dipped the wreath 
 She held. Then, charmed against decay 
 
 Or blight, she laid it on my brow. 
 God ! let my spirit pass away, 
 
 And realize the vision now !
 
 THE DYING PAINTER's DREAM. 113 
 
 On his closed lids which seemed to sleep, 
 
 Eternal Peace her seal had set : 
 His sister watched and did not weep ; 
 
 She deemed not he had left her yet. 
 But those were the last words he spoke ; 
 
 He never saw another morn 
 Arise on Earth ; — no more he woke, 
 
 To meet the glance of this World's scorn.
 
 SONGS OF THE TEAUSI. 
 
 Tpnveroi Se rh fiei> riWa iravra Kara ruvra roicn oXXotcrt Opjj^l eiriTeXeovai, 
 
 Kara 5e tov yivofievov cr(pi Kal oTToyivdnepov ttouvcti t <Labe. rov fiev yiVoyLffiov 
 
 Trfpii^ofievoi ol 7rpoa7]KovTfs oXofpvpovrai, oaa piv bd., enei re eyevero, dvaTrXrjani 
 
 KaKa, dvrjyeopLevoi ra di dpuiirrfia Tvavra nddea ' tov h^ diroyfvopfvov, Tral^ovTiS re 
 
 Kal rjbopevoi y^ KpvTTTOvat, eTTiKeyovres oamv KaKav e^anaXXa^d els, eVrt eV ttuot; 
 
 evdainoviTj, 
 
 Herodotus — Terpsichore, 4. 
 
 BIETH SONG. 
 
 Wail ! Wail ! Wail ! 
 A Child is come into this World of Woe ; 
 
 His eyes have opened vaguely on Life's morn 
 How dark Life's day will be, he doth not know : 
 We know it well ! — Wail for the newly born 
 To writhe beneath Fate's scorn !
 
 SONGS OF THE TRAUSI. 115 
 
 Sing ! Sing ! Sing ! 
 And let the Song be as a lengthened moan ; 
 
 Greet him in muffled accents dull and deep ; 
 More sorrow-laden yet shall be his own. 
 He sleepeth now an all-unconscious sleep : 
 He soon must wake to weep. 
 
 Speak ! Speak ! Speak, 
 (To tell of ill is the chief use of speech) 
 
 Of all the miseries which Life's threshold throng ! 
 Say that his human language will not reach 
 The full expression of his human wrong ; 
 As he shall feel ere long. 
 
 Call! Call! Call, 
 In suppliant tones, on the Deliverer, Death ! 
 
 Call on him, ye to whom the Babe is dear ! 
 Devote to hhn the lightly heaving breath ! 
 
 Beseech him speedily to join us here, 
 
 And crown the Infant's bier ! 
 
 I 2
 
 116 SONGS OF THE TRAUSI. 
 
 DEATH SONG. 
 
 Kejoice ye in triumph ! Rejoice for the Dead ! 
 His troubles are ended ; his Spirit has fled 
 Beyond the pursuit of the passions of Earth, 
 Which harassed and hunted him on from his birth : 
 In triumph rejoice for the Dead ! 
 
 The wearisome tale of his suffering is told : 
 For him no more sickness or hunger or cold ! 
 He hath found a calm refuge on some tranquil shore, 
 Where the tempest shall buffet his weak frame no more : 
 The tale of his suffering is told. 
 
 He hath burst from his bonds ! He hath flung off his chain ! 
 The fetters are broken which galled him with pain ! 
 He is free from the heart-fretting trammels of Life ! 
 The battle is gained ! He hatli won in the strife ! 
 He is free ! He hath flung off his chain !
 
 SONGS OF THE TRAUSI. 117 
 
 Rejoice ! For the Dead, the Delivered, rejoice ! 
 Be the joy of the soul echoed forth by the voice ! 
 He is gone to the regions of sunlight and peace : 
 He is gone where the anguish of this world must cease: 
 For the Dead, the Delivered, rejoice !
 
 OH! GIVE ME BACK MY HAPPY YOUTH. 
 
 Oh ! give me back my happy youth, 
 
 So free from care and grief and sin ; 
 When all around me shone like Truth ; 
 
 All slept like Innocence within ! 
 I have been tossed about, like foam 
 
 Upon the raging Ocean's breast : 
 Oh ! give me back my tranquil home ! 
 
 I do not ask for joy — but rest.
 
 oh! give me back my happy youth! 119 
 
 My heart is seared ; my spirit bowed ; 
 
 Thought's fountain scorched up in my brain : 
 When shall I see the "little cloud," 
 
 Which promises abundant rain ? 
 When shall I hear the rising breath 
 
 Of coming Mercy floating round ? 
 Would it but whisper " Early death ! " 
 
 To me that were the gladdest sound. 
 
 It is a piteous thing to be 
 
 Alone, unloved, as I am now : 
 Nay ! spurn me not ! Thou dost not see 
 
 The stamp of guilt upon my brow. 
 I may have erred ; but I have striven 
 
 To find again the path of right : — 
 I have repented ; — have forgiven ; — 
 
 And prayed to God for better light.
 
 SEPARATION 
 
 We stood in silence on the beach, 
 
 As Evening fell : 
 We had no heart, no tongue for speech, 
 
 To bid ''Farewell!" 
 
 The ship was heaving into sight, 
 
 Which was to bear 
 Me far away, that very night. 
 
 And leave her there. 
 
 We knew our dream of bliss was o'er 
 
 With that last day : 
 We knew that we should meet no more 
 
 What could we say ?
 
 SEPARATION. 121 
 
 I felt that I should ne'er again, 
 
 In this world, see 
 That angel face, whose Hght was then 
 
 As Heaven's to me ; — 
 
 That I no more that voice should hear. 
 
 Whose music thrilled, 
 In memory, long upon the ear 
 
 It once had filled. 
 
 I knew that fond heart, beatino- now 
 
 For me alone, 
 Must soon transfer its altered vow 
 
 To one unknown. 
 
 A duty could it be to yield 
 
 Obedience blind; 
 
 -J 
 
 And ratify a compact sealed 
 By Sire unkind ?
 
 122 SEPARATION. 
 
 Has Nature gifted with a right — 
 
 A sacred power — 
 Ambitious parents, thus to blight 
 
 Affection's flower ? 
 
 "We have not, since that anguish, met ; 
 
 Nor do I know 
 Whether she, too, remembers yet 
 
 Our parting woe ; 
 
 Or whether all to her is blank. 
 
 Where used to be 
 That fated Isle of Love, which sank 
 
 In Pride's cold Sea.
 
 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 
 
 Heuodotus — Thalia. 14, 15. 
 
 Forth Psammenitus comes. Before 
 
 His ancient City's gate 
 Compelled to sit, he ponders o'er 
 
 The mysteries of Fate. 
 Ten days ago, he was a King : 
 
 He is a Slave to-day ; 
 A Captive crushed to Earth ; a thing 
 
 By Fortune flung away.
 
 124 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 
 
 Near him Egyptian Nobles stand, 
 
 In gloomy calmness all : 
 They could not save their native land ; 
 
 They dare not mourn her fall. 
 They dare not speak their thoughts aloud 
 
 And curse the Conqueror's name : 
 Their heads in silent woe are bowed ; 
 
 Their souls weighed down by shame. 
 
 In servile garb a troop advance ; 
 
 A servile load they bear : 
 Each Father's horror-stricken glance 
 
 Descries a Daughter there. 
 Led by a princess, they pass by ; 
 
 And bitterly they weep : 
 Their Sires respond with wailing cry, 
 
 And tears, and groanings deep ; —
 
 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 125 
 
 Save Psammenitus : — he no tears 
 
 Lets fall, nor heaves a groan : 
 Unmoved and rigid, he appears 
 
 Almost a shape of stone : 
 lie makes no show of grief; he sits 
 
 With eye-lids downward cast ; 
 Across his brow no feeling flits, — 
 
 No shadow of the past. 
 
 Two thousand boys, with haltered neck 
 
 And bridled mouth, are led 
 To death, at the proud Conqueror's beck : 
 
 A prince is at their head. 
 With lamentations loud and wild 
 
 The air is rent around : 
 The Father of that Koyal Child 
 
 Still utters not a sound.
 
 126 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 
 
 A squalid mendicant comes on 
 
 With feeble step and slow ; 
 To crave an alms he stops anon, 
 
 Bowed down by want and woe. 
 His Monarch's comrade oft of yore, 
 
 'Mid revelry and feast ; — 
 Now, broken-hearted and foot-sore, 
 
 He begs for bread, at least. 
 
 His Monarch's eves are raised : he knows 
 
 The suppliant's mien and tones ; 
 His pent-up agony o'erflows ; 
 
 He smites his head ; — he groans. 
 He wept not when his Children passed, 
 
 Like menials, on their way 
 To death or worse ; —he weeps, at last. 
 
 For one less loved than they.
 
 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 127 
 
 Cambyses marvels much to hear 
 
 The tale : — to ask he sends, 
 *^ Than Sons and Daughters are more dear, 
 
 " Oh ! Psammenitus ! friends ? " 
 " So dear my Children are," he cries, 
 
 " That all the tears would fail, 
 " Which ere were wept by human eyes, 
 
 '' Tlieir sorrows to bewail. 
 
 " My private griefs lie buried deep, 
 
 " Far out of mortal sight ; 
 " Their Memory will never sleep, 
 
 " But cannot bear the light. 
 "■ External signs my grief may speak 
 
 " For him who houseless stands 
 " On Age's threshold, famished, weak, 
 
 " And beg-s from stranger-hands.
 
 128 THE GRIEF OF PSAMMENITUS. 
 
 " My banquet he was wont to share, 
 
 " When Hfe's cup to the brim 
 " Mantled with joy : — now, see him there ! 
 
 " I well may weep for him ! " 
 Cambyses hears. — At length, with ruth 
 
 His heart is touched : — he gives 
 Command to spare the Royal Youth, 
 
 The boy no longer lives !
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Qv vols 6€o7s (wdpcoTTOs ev)(fTai rv-velv 
 T^s eidavairias Kpe'iTTov ouSei/ €v\eTai. 
 
 POSIDIPPUS. 
 
 Pray, if thou wilt, to Heaven to grant thee wealth ; 
 
 And pray for grace to use it rightly, too. 
 Pray for success in enterprize ; — for health ; 
 
 For prosperous love ; for friendship warm and true. 
 
 Pray for high energy ; for courage ; strength 
 Of mind and body ; — for the glorious gift 
 
 Of intellectual power. Pray for length 
 Of life ; —the longest course of life is swift. 
 
 K
 
 130 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 All fervent prayers to memory recall, 
 
 E'er wafted to the skies by human breath, 
 
 And use them for thyself. Then, chief of all. 
 Pray for an easy and a happy death.
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN SICILY. 
 
 Kal 8i6ti fVi rJjs 68ov ttjs els ^vpuKovcras Kprjvr) icrriv iv Xeifjiavi ovre 
 fj.eyu\rj, ov6 v8cop e)(ov(ra jroXv ' crvvaTravTTjcravTOi S'els tov tottov o^Xov ttoXKov, 
 TTape(T)(ev vdap a(f)6ovou. — Aristotle. 
 
 My Child ! of vanity beware, 
 
 And fondness for display : 
 Make friends and keep them : — never care 
 
 For what mere flatterers say. 
 Meekly, yet nobly, use the powers 
 
 Kind Nature may bestow : 
 Her gifts if Fortune on thee showers, 
 
 Assuage thy brother's woe. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN SICILY. 
 
 Be not like the Sicilian fount, 
 
 We read of long ago, 
 Whose waters seem of no account, — 
 
 In fact, they scarcely flow, — 
 Unless a crowd be gathered round : 
 
 Then, forth they spring and gush, — 
 Roll onward, with triumphant sound. 
 
 And through the Country rush. 
 
 That fount was once a maiden vain, 
 
 Who passed her useless days 
 In planning how she might obtain 
 
 The largest sum of praise. 
 She had no heart for Friendship's touch 
 
 No ear for Pity's call : 
 She loved herself by far too much ; 
 
 Her neighbours not at all.
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN SICILY. 133 
 
 Her face was fair ; her eyes were bright, 
 
 They told her, as the sun ; 
 Admiring crowds were her dehght ; 
 
 She scorned the love of one. 
 The tenderness of womanhood 
 
 Ne'er melted in her breast ; 
 She never thought of doing good, 
 
 Or wished another blessed. 
 
 She never did a gracious deed ; 
 
 Unworthy Woman she ! 
 Who the indignant Gods decreed 
 
 Should Woman cease to be. 
 So, living when few things looked strange. 
 
 And to transform a Dame 
 To water was a common change, 
 
 That fountain she became.
 
 134 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN SICILY. 
 
 The unfriendly fountain still retains, 
 
 Unclianged, the maiden's mind ; 
 Selfish and vain like her remains, 
 
 And useless to mankind. 
 The lonely traveller findeth not 
 
 The means there to allay 
 His thirst ; but, unrefreshed and hot, 
 
 Pursues his weary way. 
 
 If an admirino" concourse thronof 
 
 The fountain-head about^ 
 Prepared to praise, they wait not long 
 
 Ere water gushes out 
 Abundantly, and pours its tide 
 
 Afar, without a cause ; 
 Unless it be the selfish pride 
 
 That feeds upon applause.
 
 KEMINISCENCES OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Dost thou remember the old happy time, 
 
 When our hearts were as sunny as the bright Itahan 
 
 clime ? 
 When our thoughts were like whispers from the Spirit 
 
 of the South, 
 And music was the language that flowed from every 
 
 mouth ; 
 When we watched the Summer moonbeams that danced 
 
 on the waves, 
 While the merry young Sea-Nymphs danced in their 
 
 caves ; 
 When fire-flies and fancies flitted round in golden 
 
 showers ; 
 And the Sky was full of stars, as the Earth was full of 
 
 flowers ; 
 When friendship looked like love, and hope felt like 
 
 trust ? 
 Dost thou remember it ? — Say that thou dost !
 
 136 REMINISCENCES OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 t 
 
 Dost thou remember the old happy time, 
 
 When existence seemed enchantment, and despondency 
 
 a crime ; 
 Wlien all was unclouded around us and within ; 
 When we knew the World was sinful, but heeded not 
 
 its sin ; 
 When we knew it was a World of toil and grief and 
 
 care ; 
 But dreamed that it was good — as we saw that it was 
 
 fair? 
 Dost thou remember that land of Nature's bliss, 
 Where a sun is always shining that never shines in 
 
 this? 
 Where all things created rejoice — because they must ? 
 Dost thou remember it ?— Say that thou dost!
 
 REMINISCENCES OF THE SOUTH. 137 
 
 Dost thou remember the old happy time, 
 
 When Hfe was in its spring, and enjoyment in its 
 
 prime; 
 When our pulses bounded lightly, and our spirits were 
 
 as free 
 As a bird on the wing, or as foam on the sea ? 
 Dost thou remember the clinging of the vines — 
 Symbol of faith — and the glory of the pines ; 
 The gathering of the loaded clouds along the darkened 
 
 shore, 
 The blazing of the lightning — the thunder's crash and 
 
 roar, 
 And the tempest rushing wildly with a sweeping, 
 
 screaming gust ? 
 Dost thou remember all ? — Say that thou dost ?
 
 SOLON'S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 OuSe fiiiKap ov8e\s TTeXfrai (Sporos ' dWa TToprjfioi 
 ndvTes, oaovs BvrjTovs i]i\ios Kadopa. 
 
 Solon. 
 
 " Of all the mortals looked on by the Sun, 
 
 " In his diurnal course from East to West," 
 Thus spoke an old Philosopher, "not one — 
 
 " Such is Man's wretched destiny — is blessed 
 " All are inevitably doomed by birth 
 
 " To withering anguish or to fierce despair : 
 " All are condemned to drag about this Earth 
 
 " The burthen of hereditary care."
 
 Solon's experience. 139 
 
 This was the sad experience of a Sage, 
 
 Amongst contemporary Sages deemed 
 Pre-eminent in wisdom. — On that Age 
 
 The Sun of JRighteousness had never beamed 
 Spreading Salvation's light of hope around ; 
 
 And human Keason was the only guide, 
 In spiritual midnight's gloom profound, 
 
 Through the wild maze of intellectual pride. 
 
 We of the Christian world— for whom arose 
 
 That Sun of Righteousness whose light can save 
 The soul bewildered, from despair ; and shows 
 
 The way to Heaven through the Redeemer's grave ; — 
 Have we been guided by its radiance where 
 
 To joy all grief is turned, — to gain all loss ? 
 Tn faith our burthen meekly do we bear, 
 
 And lay it down before our Saviour's Cross ?
 
 A DOOM. 
 
 Go whither thou wilt, 
 
 A vision of guilt 
 Shall haunt thee for ever, — 
 Depart from thee never. 
 
 Where'er thou may'st roam, 
 Low whisperings from Home 
 
 Around thee shall flutter, 
 
 And deep curses mutter.
 
 A DOOM. 141 
 
 At Memory's call, 
 
 A shadow shall fall 
 O'er thy bright hopes when brightest, — 
 On thy light heart when lightest. 
 
 Love shall not beguile 
 
 Thy soul with his smile ; 
 For thee Love shall borrow 
 The semblance of Sorrow. 
 
 In thy moments of mirth 
 Such thoughts shall have birth, 
 
 As must turn all thy gladness 
 
 To mourning and madness. 
 
 When, ceasing to weep, 
 
 Thou sinkest to sleep, 
 111 dreams, without number, 
 Shall trouble thy slumber ;
 
 142 A DOOM. 
 
 And then thou shalt wake 
 To think how hearts break, 
 
 When requited unkindly 
 
 For loving too blindly. 
 
 A dull, heavy pain, 
 Like the chill of a chain 
 
 Which yields to no finger, 
 
 About thee shall linger. 
 
 And Nature's glad voice 
 Sliall ne'er bid thee rejoice ; 
 
 Nor Creation betoken 
 
 God's promise unbroken. 
 
 To thee shall be vain 
 
 Storm and sunshine and rain ; 
 The birds with their singing ; 
 The flowers in their springing.
 
 A DOOM. 143 
 
 The stars as they roll 
 Shall not speak to thy soul ; 
 
 The Earth in her glory 
 
 Shall tell thee no story. 
 
 On thus to thy tomb ! 
 
 What then is thy doom 1 
 Human tongue may not speak it ; — 
 Eye of man may not seek it.
 
 THE PLEASURES OF SLEEP. 
 
 Yttvos fie nacrlv eariv vyieia ^iov. 
 Ynvos 8e irelvav rrjv KaKta')(aTov 8afia. 
 
 Sleep is Death's younger brother, aud so like him that I never dare 
 trust him without prayers. — Sir Thomas Brown. 
 
 What drowsy bliss it is to feel 
 
 Sleep softly o'er our senses creeping, 
 When thought's day-fount he comes to seal, 
 
 All suffering in oblivion steeping ! 
 When he, the God who looks like Death, 
 
 And is, indeed. Death's fairer brother, 
 Hushes our spirits, calms our breath. 
 
 And lulls us like a loving mother !
 
 THE PLEASURES OF SLEEP. 145 
 
 Sometimes, in tender sport, his wings, 
 
 O'er those whom most he favours, spreading, 
 And gorgeous dreams of glorious things, 
 
 Known little, but much longed-for, shedding 
 Upon the fascinated mind, 
 
 He pictures there, in vivid seeming, 
 Joys good to have, but hard to find 
 
 In this dull World ; — except in dreaming. 
 
 The soul bereaved and an aguish-tost 
 
 He wafts in triumph on his pinions, 
 To seek and seize the treasures lost. 
 
 All safe and bright, in his Dominions. 
 Despise not such a transient rest 
 
 From actual care and real sorrow ! 
 Is it not something to be blest, 
 
 If only 'till we wake to-morrow ?
 
 THE OLD LONG-AGO. 
 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 That were most precious to me. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Remember the old long-ago, 
 
 And all who were dear to us then ; 
 Remember them fondly, although 
 
 We never shall see them again. 
 Remember the gay and the fair 
 
 Whom we frolicked so lightly among, 
 When life was unfettered by care, 
 
 And our hearts and our spirits were young.
 
 THE OLD LONG-AGO. 147 
 
 Remember our joy-ringing home, 
 
 And the tones echoed back from its walls, 
 Ere its inmates were scattered, to roam 
 
 Far away from those stranger-filled halls. 
 Kemember the tender and true, 
 
 O'er gentle and pure for this Earth ; 
 The reckless and boisterous too. 
 
 Who loved us through all their wild mirth. 
 
 Remember the scenes where we passed 
 
 The sunshiny season of youth, 
 When Hope's glories around us were cast, 
 
 And we took her bright visions for Truth. 
 Remember the noble and brave. 
 
 Who panted those dreams to fulfil : 
 Their ardour is quenched in the grave ; 
 
 But remember — remember them still ! 
 
 L 2
 
 THE WANDEEER. 
 
 Desolate^ dreary, 
 Heart-sore, and weary ; 
 Ear from her own, 
 She wanders alone ; 
 
 Far away ; — parted 
 From the leal-hearted, 
 Who, in her youth, 
 Loved her with truth. 
 
 Why did she leave them ? 
 
 How could she grieve them ? 
 Was not their love 
 All other above ?
 
 THE WANDERER. 149 
 
 Harsh words were spoken ; 
 Fond vows were broken ; 
 
 Trusting, in pride, 
 
 A fresh love untried, 
 
 She went forth too Kghtly, 
 To learn how slightly 
 
 A new faith takes hold. 
 
 In place of the old. 
 
 Who now shall tend her ? 
 Who shall defend her 
 
 From life's varied ills ; 
 
 Its storms and its chills ? 
 
 With a spirit benighted — 
 
 Its bud of hope blighted — 
 Her womanly trust 
 Trampled, crushed into dust,
 
 150 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Her haughty breast swelling 
 WitJi bitterness wellinof 
 
 From founts buried low — 
 Alone in her woe — 
 
 Not yet she knoweth 
 Where the tree groweth, 
 To sweeten life's tide 
 Of sorrow and pride : 
 
 Not yet she feeleth 
 The mercy which healeth 
 Sick heart and brain, 
 When Man's aid is vain. 
 
 Angels ! watch o'er her ! 
 
 Gently restore her, 
 Leading her back 
 To childhood's lost track !
 
 THE AVANDEREll. 151 
 
 Is Memory's light burning 'i 
 Are her thouo^hts turninsf 
 
 Homeward, at last, 
 
 Through the long joast ? 
 
 Has a bird's sing-inp" — 
 
 Or a bell's ringing — 
 
 A chance tone or word — 
 Hushed sympathies stirred ? 
 
 Is some roused feelino- 
 Tenderly stealing 
 
 Over her soul, 
 
 As summer waves roll ? 
 
 The wounded dove droopeth ; 
 Trembling, she stoopeth 
 
 Down to her nest, 
 
 Gasping for rest :
 
 152 THE WANDERER. 
 
 The hunted deer fleeth 
 
 On, till he seeth 
 
 Repose in the shade 
 Of his own glade : 
 
 Heart overloaded — 
 
 Restlessly goaded 
 
 By sleepless Despair — 
 Bring home thy care !
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 This Ballad refers to a Legend which was mentioned to me, many 
 years ago, as attached to both a Nunnery and a Monastery— I believe, in 
 Germany — the names of which I forget. 
 
 Oh ! the Rose ! the Rose ! the Royal red Rose ! 
 
 The Empress of the flowers ! 
 How stately she grows and how peerless she glows, 
 
 Like Aurora among the Hours ! 
 
 Oh I the Rose ! the Rose ! the glorious Queen 
 
 Of beauty and song and love ; 
 With her stem so sheen, and her leaves so green, 
 
 And her proud, bright head above !
 
 154 THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 The chaplet fair for lady's hair, 
 
 The posie for lady's breast, 
 Though ever so rare, if the Kose be not there, 
 
 Wants its loveliest and its best. 
 
 Gay lord and bold knight, men of mirth and of might, 
 
 Pass the brimming goblet round. 
 With laughter light : and that goblet bright 
 
 With the merry red Rose is crowned. 
 
 That Hose so red recks nought of the Dead ; 
 
 But she hath a Sister pale, 
 Whose shadowy head is a death-sign dread ; 
 
 As ye'll know if ye list to my tale. 
 
 Oh ! the Rose ! the Rose ! the pale white Rose ! 
 
 That Ghost among the flowers ! 
 Like a Spirit she knows — like a Spirit she shows — 
 
 How to number Death's gliding hours. 
 
 * % -Sfr % •3C-
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 155 
 
 The Convent-bell is tolling to tell 
 
 That a soul from Earth is sped : 
 Mingling voices swell the sound of the knell 
 
 With a requiem for the Dead. 
 
 Send up a prayer for the saintliest there, 
 
 Whose Spirit's bonds are riven : 
 The Angels above, on Earth had her love, 
 
 And we trust that her sins are forgiven, 
 
 Last blessed night, by the Moon's pale light, 
 
 As she knelt alone to pray, 
 The Death-Rose white was disclosed to her sight ; 
 
 At her bended knees it lay. 
 
 That Rose, 'tis said, was once bright red ; 
 
 In a lady's bower it grew ; 
 But a deed too fell for tongue to tell. 
 
 Turned white its glowing hue.
 
 156 THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 Murder was done, and the hand of a Nun 
 
 With poison imbued the steel : 
 Murder was done, and a guerdon was won 
 
 For w^ounds which no Leech might heal. 
 
 A gallant knight and a lady bright, 
 
 In that bower, were done to death ; 
 And, by the Moon's light, on the self-same night, 
 
 Was quenched an infant's breath. 
 
 The lady was dressed in her shroud, to rest 
 With her babe in the dark, cold tomb ; 
 
 And they laid on her breast the flower she loved best 
 For her sake it resigned its bloom. 
 
 The faithful Kose which no longer glows, 
 
 The flower still true in death. 
 Its fragrance throws o'er the lady's repose. 
 
 Who in life loved its odorous breath.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 157 
 
 But the Monk and the Nun by whom were done, 
 
 At the stilly midnight hour, 
 Deeds not to be breathed, to their Order bequeathed 
 
 The curse of the pale Death-flow^er. 
 
 The Rose laid on the bier of her lady so dear. 
 That turned ghostly white in her tomb, 
 
 Doth ever appear when the death-hour draws near 
 Monk or Nun, to fore- token the doom. 
 
 Oh ! the Rose ! the Rose ! the pale pure Rose ! 
 
 That in grief sighs away her breath ! 
 The red Rose glows where the wine-cup flows ; 
 
 But the white Rose is loyal in death.
 
 THE OLD STORY 
 
 'Tis the old story of a woman's truth, 
 
 And a man's falsehood. She was young : and youth 
 
 Casts its own glorious light on all around ; 
 
 Lends its own melody to every sound ; 
 
 Sees what it longs to see ; dispels all fears, 
 
 And draws Hope's rainbow colours forth from tears. 
 
 She loved him with that fondly clinging trust 
 
 Which twines so closely, because twine it must, 
 
 Through chance and change : as ivy clasps the oak 
 
 With hold unloosened, though the prop be broke.
 
 THE OLD STORY. 159 
 
 Perhaps he loved her too ; for she was fair 
 As Poet's vision, when tlie sun-lit air, 
 Breathing all flowery perfumes, flutters through 
 His leafy solitude ; and Heaven's deep blue 
 Is mirrored in the lovely lake, whose shore 
 Was never peopled with such shapes before. 
 Perhaps he loved her ; — through the transient space 
 Of his heart's leisure from the rushing race 
 Of worldly aspirations, — where the crown 
 Is his most often, who can trample down 
 Nature's affections with the least remorse. 
 When they impede Ambition's reckless course. 
 Man's love is but a wave upon life's sea : — 
 Now sparkling in the sunshine ; — soon to be 
 For ever lost amid the surging tide 
 Of mingled passions — glory, interest, pride : — 
 But woman's is life's sea itself, where all 
 The various currents of her being fall.
 
 160 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 Her brilliant dream was over. Years had passed,- 
 
 Long dreary years, — since she beheld him last. 
 
 She was forgotten wholly. He was great ; 
 
 A man of mark at Court and in the State ; 
 
 The People's idol and the Senate's pride ; 
 
 With skill to govern, energy to guide, 
 
 All- grasping genius, eloquence of tongue 
 
 Whose spell of harmony its magic flung 
 
 O'er listening multitudes entranced ; a name 
 
 Which filled the world, and in itself was fame. 
 
 He was a wise Philanthropist. His mind 
 
 Was full of plans to benefit mankind, 
 
 In soul and body. Thus, he once was led 
 
 To inspect the dwellings of the worse than dead 
 
 In intellect ; — where unthroned Keason sits 
 
 With torch inverted, and wild Fancy flits 
 
 Without control or purpose, while Despair 
 
 Asserts his claim to reign supremely there.
 
 THE OLD STORY. 161 
 
 " Preserve us, Lord ! from madness ! " is the cry 
 
 For ever wafted to the Throne on hiofh. 
 
 " Chastise us as Thou wilt ; — but leave us light 
 
 To read the chastenings of Thy will aright !" 
 
 The prayer is natural : yet who shall say 
 
 Madness is utter misery ; nor may, 
 
 In the most dread delirium of its woe, 
 
 Bring with it less of suffering than we know 
 
 When, in the plenitude of conscious thought, 
 
 We ponder o'er some deed w^th ruin fraught 
 
 To those we love or to ourselves ; some crime 
 
 Inexpiable, here, throughout all time ? 
 
 Can any phantasy of madness frame 
 
 Grief like a mother's for the guilt or shame 
 
 Of her own children ; or invent a pang 
 
 Like that inflicted by the poisoned fang 
 
 Of gnawing Disappointment, when we find 
 
 The worthlessness of what has been enshrined 
 
 M
 
 162 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 In the heart's sanctuary ? — Then the dreams 
 Of madness are so glorious ; and the schemes 
 Which busy it, so sanguine of success ; 
 Its pictured hopes so bright and shadowless ; 
 Its feelings of possession so secure ; 
 Unclouded by the doubts which oft obscure 
 The bliss of sane enjoyment ! These are things 
 Involved in mystery ; — God's mercy flings 
 A veil upon them which we must not seek, 
 Too hastily, to lift. Perhaps our weak, 
 Earth-bounded vision, in some other sphere 
 May be allowed to penetrate what, here, 
 Baffled its strength. But I digress too long. 
 He whom I speak of passed amid a throng 
 Of curious maniacs, with their peering eyes 
 Full of inquiry but without surprise. 
 As is the wont of lunatics. Alone, 
 Unheeding all external to her own
 
 THE OLD STORY. 163 
 
 Self-concentrated musing, as it seemed, 
 
 Sat a pale woman, from whose calm eyes streamed 
 
 A soft, sad radiance o'er her wasted face, 
 
 Like moonlight on a ruin. Not a trace 
 
 Of interest in the present ever changed 
 
 The expression of her countenance. Estranged 
 
 From all around her she remained. No gush 
 
 Of tears e'er dimmed her lucid eyes. No flush 
 
 E'er stirred her alabaster cheek and told 
 
 That blood was stirring in the heart. Still — cold 
 
 As Death's stern Angel sculptured on a tomb — 
 
 A form of beauty without beauty's bloom — 
 
 She sat apart. At length, the great man paused 
 
 To ask compassionately what had caused 
 
 That wreck of intellect. They could not tell. 
 
 Alas ! he should have known the cause too well. 
 
 He gazed upon her long ; but not a gleam 
 
 Of recollection, even as of a dream, 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 Across his memory flitted. Yet, of yore, 
 
 That head had rested on his shoulder. — O'er 
 
 The clustering tresses of that hair's dark mass 
 
 His hand, with loving pride, was wont to pass 
 
 Caressingly. Those eyes, which then could weep, 
 
 Had been to him the founts of many deep 
 
 And holy feelings. The warm, mantling blood 
 
 Within that cheek, of texture like the bud 
 
 Of the first-opening delicate rose of May, 
 
 Had welcomed his approach and craved his stay, 
 
 With eloquence beyond all words. He gazed. 
 
 Without a pang of conscience, in amazed 
 
 And pitying speculation, on those blank 
 
 And inexpressive features ; and there sank 
 
 No cloud — no chill — upon his heart. Those two 
 
 Had been each other's world : now, neither knew 
 
 That they had met before. Oh ! Earthly bliss ! 
 
 Human Affection ! Can ye come to this ? 
 
 '' God help her !" tenderly he said and sighed ; 
 
 Then passed. The prayer was heard ; — that night she died.
 
 OKNAMENTS FOR A BRIDE. 
 
 Around her head no jewels bind, 
 
 Symbols of pomp and pride ; 
 Fresh flowers, through the hair entwined, 
 
 Befit so young a bride. 
 No diadem shall rear its weight 
 
 Above that child-like brow. 
 The future may bring robes of state, 
 
 But dress her simply now.
 
 166 ORNAMENTS FOR A BRIDE. 
 
 Load her with roses whose sweet breath, 
 
 Like memories fond and pure. 
 Bequeaths its fragrance, after death 
 
 Still cherished to endure. 
 Heart's ease shall typify her lot ; 
 
 Her love by pinks be told ; 
 And she shall have forget-me-not, 
 
 With its true heart of gold. 
 
 Give her no pearls, — for " Pearls are tears' 
 
 To hang about her neck ; 
 No gem betokening woes or fears. 
 
 Her youthful form to deck ; 
 No opal with its changeful hue ; — 
 
 This is '' Misfortune's stone ;" 
 No sapphire, by whose depth of blue 
 
 " Kepentance " is foreshown.
 
 ORNAMENTS FOR A BRIDE. 167 
 
 Our Bride in flowers shall be drest, 
 
 Which bode not grief or sin ; — 
 As best beseems a tranquil breast, 
 
 And loyal heart within. 
 And we will wish her Joy's best wealth ; 
 
 A life with blessings fraught ; 
 But chief of all, the spirit's health. 
 
 To use them as she ought.
 
 A FAREWELL ! 
 
 I never spoke the word Farewell ! 
 But with an utterance faint and broken, 
 A heart-sick longing for the time, 
 When it no more is spoken. 
 
 Caroline Southey. 
 
 Farewell ! old friends, farewell ! 
 
 I ofo to a distant shore : 
 Where it lies I cannot tell ; 
 
 But I go — to return no more. 
 
 Farewell ! old love, farewell ! 
 
 Had'st thou but been true to me, 
 Bitter thoughts, w^hich I cannot quell, 
 
 Ne'er had forced me thus from thee.
 
 A FAREWELL 1 169 
 
 Farewell ! old haunts, farewell ! 
 
 Where I wandered, in childhood's hours, 
 Through forest and glade and dell, 
 
 In search of the earliest flowers. 
 
 Farewell ! old times, farewell ! 
 
 Too pleasant ye were to last ; 
 But it seems like hearing a knell. 
 
 To think ye are over and past. 
 
 Farewell ! old home, farewell ! 
 
 Where I knelt by my Mother's chair. 
 When the Summer twilight fell. 
 
 To repeat my evening prayer. 
 
 Farewell ! old graves, farewell ! 
 
 Where my kindred so long have lain, 
 Within sound of the village bell : 
 
 My grave is across the main.
 
 LOVE ASLEEP. 
 
 Love, one day, was very weary 
 
 Of the world, and, with a sigli, 
 Said that life was dull and dreary, 
 
 And he wished that he could die. 
 Oh ! this Immortality 
 
 Was, he vowed, a monstrous bore ! 
 He thanked all-gracious Jove, — but he 
 
 Would use the privilege no more !
 
 LOVE ASLEEP. 171 
 
 So he laid him down to sleep 
 
 Upon a fragrant couch of flowers ; 
 While some eyes, unused to weep, 
 
 Told with tears the loveless hours ; 
 And some haughty bosoms heaved 
 
 With the pangs of the forsaken ; 
 And some tender spirits grieved. 
 
 Softly wishing Love would waken. 
 
 Vain it were to try to tell 
 
 How his absence was lamented : 
 They may fancy it full well, 
 
 Who have loved — and not repented. 
 There was doubting — there was scorning, 
 
 While that lazy boy reposed, 
 From morn till night ; from night till morning ; 
 
 But Love's sleepy ears were closed :
 
 172 LOVE ASLEEP. 
 
 Till at length in Council met 
 
 The young, the fair, the fond ; whose numbers 
 Voted a close watch to set 
 
 Over Love's protracted slumbers. 
 But a question then arose, 
 
 Who fit for such a charge might be ? 
 All were ready to propose ; 
 
 None were willing to agree. 
 
 Some for Truth began to call ; 
 
 But she was gone to dwell above : 
 Constancy ; — alas ! of all, 
 
 What had she to do with Love ? 
 Grief, his hand-maid, long had been 
 
 Wailing by that flowery bed ; 
 But he heard not, and I ween 
 
 She believed the urchin dead.
 
 LOVE ASLEEP. 1 73 
 
 Many pros and cons were passed, 
 
 While the case seemed worse and worse : 
 But they fixed on Hope at last ; 
 
 For she once had been Love's nurse. 
 Hope, who never slumbereth, 
 
 Must watch, they said, her nursling till 
 Time should break that sleep like death. 
 
 Is she watching o'er him still ?
 
 A DESTINY. 
 
 To sow and not to reap ; 
 To earn and not to keep ; 
 
 To render love for hate ; 
 To watch while others sleep ; 
 For woes not thine to weep ; 
 
 Is thy appointed fate. 
 
 In rectitude of will 
 Life's duties to fulfil, 
 
 Howe'er thy lot be cast ; 
 To do and suffer, still 
 Trusting in God, until 
 
 Life's bitterness be past ;
 
 A DESTINY. 175 
 
 Undauntedly to dare ; 
 Unflinchingly to bear ; 
 
 Is given unto thee : 
 With none the task to share ; 
 With none to know or care 
 
 How hard that task may be. 
 
 Brave heart which cannot sink, 
 Spirit which cannot shrink, 
 
 High soul which cannot bend, 
 Or pause of self to think, 
 On death's or danger's brink, 
 
 On, onward to the end !
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 .... fuiigar vice cotis, aciitum 
 Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi. 
 
 HoR. — Ars Poetica. 
 
 Poor Poetry was taken ill 
 Of a disease which does not kill, 
 Some time ago. She cannot die, 
 Howe'er her zealous friends may try 
 Experiments, with daring hand, 
 Upon her health, which to withstand 
 Implies the vigour and the tone 
 Of Immortality alone.
 
 THE ABERUATIONS OF POETRY. 177 
 
 Still, Sickness makes one's life a bore ; 
 
 Her symptoms had appeared before ; 
 
 But with less virulence than now : 
 
 She felt, she could not tell you how, 
 
 Or state precisely what she ailed : 
 
 She only knew her strength had failed ; 
 
 Her spasms, too, were extremely bad ; 
 
 At times, they almost drove her mad : 
 
 Her pulse was much too high, she said ; 
 
 She had odd feelings in her head ; 
 
 A thousand fa.ncies, vague and vain. 
 
 Were always rambling through her brain. 
 
 While she poured forth, like one possessed, 
 
 Strange thoughts in stranger language dressed, 
 
 Insjoired, perhaps, — which would have vent : 
 
 Herself, she knew not what they meant. 
 
 She told her case in words like these. 
 
 At distant intervals of ease. 
 
 N
 
 178 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 It soon was generally known 
 
 How invalidisli she had grown ; 
 
 How much her thoughts, voice, ways, were changed ; 
 
 In fact, folks said she was deranged. 
 
 The Passions were profoundly moved 
 
 To hear how shaky she had proved ; 
 
 For she had done them service good ; — 
 
 Their friend, at utmost need, had stood ; 
 
 And by her eloquence had gained 
 
 Favours they had not else obtained. 
 
 Their dictates never men controlled. 
 
 As when from her soft lips they rolled. 
 
 She too was mistress of a sjoell 
 
 Their own tumultuous moods to quell ; 
 
 And her sweet voice's magic charm 
 
 Had oft withheld them all from harm. 
 
 Their sorrow then was most sincere 
 
 For one so useful and so dear ;
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 179 
 
 And though their views don't often meet, 
 Their harmony was now complete. 
 They held a conference to discuss 
 The mournful news, which ended thus : 
 They all resolved to go and see 
 Exactly what her state might be ; 
 Hoping their influence might win back 
 Her senses to their wonted track. 
 So, off they set without delay. 
 They might as well have staid away ; 
 For not one word did she appear, 
 Of all they kindly urged, to hear ; 
 But raved, as in a feverish dream, 
 With metaphysics for her theme. 
 The simple Passions, w^orst and best. 
 Are ill-instructed, and detest 
 All sorts of literary rant : — 
 Their feelings are too deep for cant. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 They could not stand this jargon new : — 
 
 Awe-struck and puzzled, they withdrew. 
 
 Dame Nature too felt very sad 
 
 At hearing Poetry was mad. 
 
 She loved her well ; for she had nurst 
 
 The Heaven-born maiden from the first ; 
 
 Had fondly trained her lovely youth 
 
 To grace, simplicity, and truth ; 
 
 Had touched her heart with reverent love 
 
 Towards God and all his works above ; — 
 
 Then bade her look on this fair Earth, 
 
 Whose flowers had sprung to greet her birth. 
 
 With generous ardour she had fired 
 
 Her sense of virtue ; and inspired 
 
 The breath of sympathy : — then taught 
 
 Nobly to render noble thought. 
 
 Closely they clung together long, 
 
 Nature still prompting Poetry's song —
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 181 
 
 Reflecting each the other's heart — 
 
 Nor ever knew a wish to part 
 
 Until, alas ! in evil hour, 
 
 Flattery resolved to try his power 
 
 O'er Poetry's too facile mind. 
 
 Poor thinof ! he found her well inclined 
 
 To listen to his silvery call ; 
 
 She is but female, after all ! 
 
 He said that Nature was a mope ; 
 
 That she should look beyond Aer scope, 
 
 Extend her views, and take her aim 
 
 To brine: down universal fame. 
 
 He told her, if she practised much, 
 
 She soon would find her magic touch 
 
 Could turn all metals into gold, 
 
 And hidden faculties unfold 
 
 In every object she drew nigh, 
 
 With all-investigating eye.
 
 182 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 He swore that it was hers to wield 
 The wand of Science ; — plough the field 
 Of abstract logic ; learn the use, 
 And teach it, of the most abstruse 
 Philosophy, in every branch ; — 
 To be a politician stanch ; 
 Raised by philanthropy, to soar 
 Her sex's prejudices o'er. 
 And, for their good, unveiled to show 
 Much they were not supposed to know. 
 For men's improvement, she must strive 
 Against her squeamish instincts ; dive 
 Through darkness, and drag forth to light 
 Facts never meant for public sight, 
 And set before a wondering age. 
 Scenes not intended for that stage. 
 These are some items on the list 
 Of her new duties; but I've missed
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 183 
 
 One half, at least. Could any brain 
 
 Such multifarious stuff contain, 
 
 And not become at last insane ? 
 
 Hers whirled at even the mere thought 
 
 Of all the work which must be wrought. 
 
 Her heart too overflowed with pride. — 
 
 So, taking Flattery for her guide. 
 
 She bade adieu ! that very day, 
 
 To Nature ; and went far away. 
 
 Her wanderings I shall not rehearse ; 
 
 They would protract too much my verse. — 
 
 How oft she failed, I will not tell ; 
 
 Her errors are known but too well. 
 
 Nature's kind heart grew very sore. 
 
 At seeing her return no more. 
 
 She yearned and languished for her still ; 
 
 And when she heard she was so ill 
 
 In body, and in mind so weak, 
 
 She said, at once, that she would seek
 
 184 THE ABERRATIO^'S OF POETRY. 
 
 Her out, and try what she could do, 
 
 Her health and visfour to renew. 
 
 She felt quite certain of a cure, 
 
 If she could but the truant lure 
 
 To come and breathe the mountain air, 
 
 'Mid scenes she once had thought so fair ; - 
 
 The wooded lake — the flowery glen ; — 
 
 And be her early self again. 
 
 She started, though perplexed with doubts 
 
 Of the crazed maiden's whereabouts. 
 
 'Twas said she had no settled home ; 
 
 Since all her pleasure was to roam. 
 
 Now here, now there, in quest of change ; 
 
 Pursuing still some fancy strange : 
 
 'Twere vain to seek her, it was feared. 
 
 Dame Nature heard and — persevered. 
 
 I say it with extreme regret, — 
 
 / think she has not found her yet.
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 185 
 
 Thus ends my fable, and I greatly fear 
 
 'Twill find but favour slight with those who hear. 
 
 At least forgiven be the zeal of one, 
 
 Who what she cannot do would fain have done ; 
 
 And longs, in loving impotence, to see 
 
 That which she loves from imperfection free ! 
 
 'Tis not for such as I, who never rhyme 
 
 Except in idleness, to kill dull time 
 
 Or hush unquiet thought ; and lack the skill 
 
 Correctly Fancy's outlines rude to fill, 
 
 To sit in judgment on the works of those 
 
 Around whose head " High Art's'' proud halo glows : 
 
 But easier than to practise 'tis to preach ; 
 
 They oft who cannot learn, attempt to teach ; 
 
 Nor, though unqualified, can I refrain 
 
 From self-induVence in the critic's strain. 
 
 Let me suggest then that our Modern School 
 
 Departs too widely from the ancient rule,
 
 186 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 By which that poetry is held the best, 
 
 Where most thoughts are in fewest words expressed, 
 
 And in the well poised line is never found 
 
 Sound sacrificed to sense, or sense to sound ; 
 
 Where all is simple and to nature true ; 
 
 Concise yet lucid ; plain but graceful too ; 
 
 Remote alike from slovenly neglect 
 
 And over-anxious straining for effect. 
 
 This was the charm of those immortal lays 
 
 Which won poetic fame in other days, 
 
 When Poetry's province was to sway mankind 
 
 Through all the pure emotions of the mind ; 
 
 To tame the savage in the untaught breast ; 
 
 Good to develop ; — evil lull to rest ; 
 
 To soothe the troubled spirit into peace, 
 
 And bid its anguish for a season cease ; 
 
 To cheer the oppressed, and animate the strong 
 
 To shield the weak and innocent from wrong ;
 
 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 187 
 
 The Patriot's zeal with added force to fire, 
 
 And teach the son to emulate the sire ; 
 
 To train all noble instincts, and refine 
 
 The human soul to sympathies divine. 
 
 Men's softened hearts a willing homage paid ; 
 
 As Goddess worshipped her, — as Queen obeyed. 
 
 Her temple is not closed even now ; but when 
 
 Shall reverent votaries throng its courts again ? 
 
 The sacred fire that on the altar shone, 
 
 Ts not extinguished, though the Priests be gone, 
 
 Whose ministry erst tended its pure light, 
 
 And kept the virgin flauie unquenched and bright ; 
 
 The oracle is in the fane ; though stilled 
 
 Be now the tongues whose inspiration filled 
 
 The world's far echoes, in the olden time. 
 
 With its high mandates and its truths sublime ; 
 
 The imaofe is not broken : thouofh effaced 
 
 The characters in earlier ages traced
 
 188 THE ABERRATIONS OF POETRY. 
 
 Upon its pedestal ; — to be renewed 
 
 When, with the spirit of the past imbued, 
 
 Poets shall sing as Nature shall inspire, 
 
 And modern fingers sweep the ancient lyre. 
 
 Ye, the successors of that chosen line, — 
 
 The Heaven-appointed servants of the shrine, — 
 
 Respect the Genius of the place ! Beware 
 
 That no ignoble votary enter there ! 
 
 Let no mean thought or aspiration vain 
 
 The glorious presence where ye stand profane ! 
 
 Forget yourselves ! Think only of your song ! 
 
 Forth let it gush, mellifluous and strong, 
 
 Upon the enchanted ear ; — in triumph roll 
 
 The flood of music o'er the yielding soul 
 
 Of all who, like myself, expectant wait, 
 
 In timid worship, at the temple's gate !
 
 THE CHANGED. 
 
 I DO not wish to see thee now, — 
 
 So changed, I hear, thou art : 
 I could not bear thine altered brow. 
 
 And still more altered heart. 
 Thy beauty is superb, they say ; 
 
 Thy bearing cold and high ; 
 And irresistible the sway 
 
 Of thine imperious eye.
 
 190 THE CHANGED. 
 
 Thine eye had once a loving glance ; 
 
 Thy lip in smiles was drest ; 
 And lightly used thy heart to dance 
 
 Within a guileless breast. 
 The lark is not more free from care 
 
 Than thou wert wont to be ; 
 No lily is more sweet and fair 
 
 Than I remember thee. 
 
 Dost tJiou remember those past hours 
 
 Of innocent delight, 
 When life was like a path of flowers 
 
 Untouched by storm or blight ? 
 They tell me now of pomp and state 
 
 Thy childhood never knew : 
 They tell me thou art rich and great : 
 
 Oh ! art thou happy too ?
 
 THE CHANGED. 191 
 
 Can the world's worship make amends 
 
 For all that it hath cost ? 
 Are they whom now thou callest friends 
 
 Worth those whom thou hast lost ? 
 A time may come when thou shalt weep, 
 
 Unpitied and in vain, 
 For all the love thou would 'st not keep, 
 
 And some thou could 'st not gain.
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 All Spirits of earth and air, they say, 
 
 Are abroad on the eve of Saint John's blessed day ; 
 
 Abroad and at large, to work their will ; 
 
 Be it weal, be it woe, be it good, be it ill. 
 
 'Twas on the eve of that holy day 
 
 The Spirit of Joy went forth on her way ; 
 
 Free, free, through the moonbeams and delicate flowers, 
 
 That shrink from the gaze of the sun-lit hours. 
 
 She floated along on the evening breeze 
 That latest had kissed the odorous trees, 
 In whose balmy blossoms nestling deep 
 The fairies who revel in fragrance sleep.
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 193 
 
 Onward she floated ; and still as she passed, 
 Hopes and visions around her she cast ; 
 And dreams of all things glorious and fair 
 Shot sparkling about through the radiant air 
 
 Onward she floated ; exulting to see, 
 Wherever she came, Nature's revelry : 
 The flowers themselves looked lovelier while 
 They slumbered beneath her gladdening smile. 
 
 Onward she floated ; and as she drew near, 
 
 The Spirits of Evil, of Horror, of Fear, 
 
 The Witches and Goblins, they shrieked and they fled. 
 
 At the cominof of Jov, to the home of the Dead. 
 
 She was wafted on to the dwellins^s of men : 
 She had long been absent thence ; but, again, 
 This night, when her presence had hallowed the air, 
 She would fain have borne a blessing there. 
 
 o
 
 194 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 The Spirit of Sorrow before her had been ; 
 The Spirit of Sorrow, the ruthless Queen 
 Of man's troubled destiny ; she whose sway 
 Endures from his birth till his dying day. 
 
 But Joy floated on still with that glorious look ; 
 
 And a shower of bright thoughts from her pinions she shook ; 
 
 Till Sorrow came forth in the midst of a cloud, 
 
 Which sailed through the air in the shape of a shroud. 
 
 '' Hence, intruding Spirit ! Bliss 
 
 Is not for a world like this ; — 
 
 Or but for this world's senseless things : — 
 
 The bee that roves, the bird that sings. 
 
 Thoughtless of to-morrow's doom ; 
 
 The flowers that know not why they bloom. 
 
 Nor feel that they may grace a tomb ; 
 
 The starry insect, gaily shining 
 
 For Nature's sport ; the ivy twining,
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 195 
 
 In wanton folly, round the oak 
 
 Marked for the woodman's speedy stroke ; 
 
 The unsuspecting lambs that play 
 
 Beneath the hand upraised to slay ; 
 
 All of earth, air, sea, or sky, 
 
 That know not they live but to die ; 
 
 All that have not learned to measure 
 
 Future pain by present pleasure ; — 
 
 These I cede, they may be thine ; 
 
 But the heart of man is mine. 
 
 Lightsome Spirit ! soar away ! 
 
 What hast thou to do with clay ? 
 
 Haste thee hence, and leave to me 
 
 Labours all unmeet for thee. 
 
 I have many a task and toil. 
 
 Which a glance from thee would spoil. 
 
 There are tears that must be shed 
 
 For the still remembered Dead : 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 There are sighs that must be heaved. 
 
 By the trusting and deceived, 
 
 For truth and honour fled ; 
 
 There is youth to be bereaved 
 
 Of the Hght that used to glow 
 
 On its bosom's altar ; woe 
 
 To be scattered far and wide 
 
 Through men's dwellings ; there is pride 
 
 To be shortened of its scope 
 
 Which would pass God's Heaven ; and hope 
 
 To be trampled to the earth 
 By whomsoever gave it birth : 
 
 There are vows that must be broken ; 
 Perjuries that must be spoken ; 
 Loves, by over-cherishing 
 Made sooner ripe for perishing, 
 That must now be plucked, or wrung 
 Whence they closest cling, and flung
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 197 
 
 Down the stream that ever flowetli 
 
 To the ocean no man knoweth ; 
 
 That unfathomed, boundless sea, 
 
 Vaguely called Eternity. 
 
 There are friendships to be slighted ; 
 
 Linked souls to be disunited ; 
 Benefits to be foro-ot : 
 
 Favours to be ill-requited : 
 For, in every human lot, 
 
 Tenfold trials such as these, — 
 
 Tenfold deeper miseries, — 
 
 Must be woven, chequered, blended, 
 
 Ere the human web be ended. 
 FroHcsome Spirit ! away ! away ! 
 Earth holds no space for a holyday."
 
 198 THE RlVxVL SPIRITS. 
 
 " Mournful Spirit ! let me linger 
 
 Yet a moment ;— but to trace 
 
 Mine own memory in the place 
 Once assigned me, by God's finger, 
 
 In the heart of sinless man. 
 
 When Creation's work began ; 
 When the Word-waked Chaos sprung 
 
 Into forms of Hfe and Hght ; 
 When the universe was young, 
 And the still unclouded sun. 
 
 Like a giant to the fight, 
 
 Eose in majesty and might. 
 His glorious course to run ; 
 Before the w^ages of sin w^ere earned ; 
 Before the lessons of grief w^ere learned ; 
 
 Ere the part of strength was but to destroy — 
 Of weakness but to endure ; 
 
 When existence itself w^as a sense of joy, — 
 A stream flowing onward, untroubled and pure.
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 199 
 
 From a source unexhausted, divine ; — 
 
 Then, Spirit of Sorrow ! man's heart then was mine." 
 
 " Vainly dost thou think to find 
 Trace of thee in human mind. 
 
 Sorrow's passage hath its mark 
 Which remaineth long behind, 
 
 Furrowed very deep and dark ; 
 My course full easily is traced ; 
 The prints of thine are soon effaced. 
 Away ! away ! No Spirit of Light 
 To the heart or the memory of man has a right." 
 
 They parted ; Joy almost beheving 
 
 Her pity had some touch of grieving 
 For Sorrow-subject men : 
 But that same night they met again, 
 
 Within a princely dwelling 
 
 Where many hearts with hope were swelling.
 
 200 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 And thanks to Heaven were soaring, 
 And blessings thickly pouring 
 Around a new-born-boy ; 
 While cheery voices called for Joy. 
 
 Swiftly she swept through the yielding air : 
 But Sorrow, uncalled for, already was there. 
 Still, the musical accents of Joy sounded first ; 
 Gushing forth like a torrent's triumphant burst. 
 
 " I give thee, dear baby ! I give thee a power 
 From the bosom of thorns to gather the flower ; 
 In life's bitterest cup to discover some sweetness ; 
 In life's wildest storms to remember their fleetness. 
 
 I give thee, fair baby ! I give thee an ear. 
 Amid life's jarring discords soft music to hear ; 
 I give thee, sweet baby ! I give thee an eye, 
 Amid life's store of baubles pure gems to descry.
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 201 
 
 I give tliee gay hopes in thy bosom to dance, 
 And thence o'er life's wilderness lightly to glance, 
 Nor pause till they come to Love's shrine, proudly placed 
 On one green spot of truth in the midst of the waste. 
 
 I give thee, dear baby ! perception of good 
 
 Amid all that is evil ; a spirit imbued 
 
 With kindness and gladness : I give thee a soul 
 
 To break through the bondagj-e of Sorrow's controul." 
 
 Thus Joy's clear tones resounded, 
 While kindred bosoms bounded, 
 And smiling lips caressed 
 The babe whom Joy had blessed. 
 
 But hark ! a murmuring melody is heard ; 
 A chilly breath the tranquil air has stirred ; 
 And Sorrow's slowly spreading melancholy voice 
 Hushes the mingled accents that would fain rejoice.
 
 202 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 " Mortal Infant, frail as fair ! 
 
 / am here to stamp thy doom. 
 Shalt thou not the portion share 
 
 Of thy brethren of the Tomb ? 
 
 / am here, with gifts of mine, 
 Such as suit thy human birth : 
 
 / am here, to intertwine 
 
 With thy flowers the weeds of earth. 
 
 I come to dull the ear 
 
 For harmony refined : 
 I come, with many a tear, 
 
 Tlie gifted eye to blind. 
 
 I come life's hopes to crush, 
 
 Ere they lead thee to Love's shrine ; 
 
 And the inspiring voice to hush, 
 Whose whispers are divine.
 
 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 203 
 
 I come my rule to claim 
 
 O'er thy human heart and lot : 
 Infant ! Sorrow is my name ; 
 
 Mortal Babe ! forget it not ! 
 
 I come to speak to thee, 
 
 Whom Joy would gently nurse, 
 Thine appointed destiny : 
 
 Infant Prophet ! 'tis a curse. 
 
 Bom on this awful night, 
 
 When unhallowed thino-s are bidden 
 To their orgies, 'tis thy right, — 
 
 Thy doom, — to fathom what is hidden. 
 
 Yes ! Prophecy is thine, poor wretch 1 
 
 Thine, Futurity to know ; 
 Thine, the unerring sight to stretch 
 
 Through the veil of distant woe.
 
 204 THE RIVAL SPIRITS. 
 
 Secrets with perdition fraught, 
 To thine eye shall be revealed : 
 
 Thou shalt unlock many a thought 
 With blood and hatred sealed. 
 
 Thine inheritance shall be 
 The spirit-searching spell ; — 
 
 The power, in every place, to see 
 What thou must nowhere tell. ' 
 
 Much grief with little bliss shall mingle 
 
 In thy destiny of strife ; 
 Thou shalt fight, unaided, single, 
 
 The fierce battle of thy life. 
 
 With this fate do / endow thee. 
 New-born Seer ! and it is thine. 
 
 Sorrow's augur ! haste to bow thee 
 In allegiance ! Thou art mine."
 
 '' NOT WHAT I WISH BE GRANTED ME." 
 
 Zev fSacriKev, to. fiev iaffXa, Kai €V)(Oixevois K(U avtvKTOLS afifxi St'Sov, ru de 
 deiva Kal evxofievois d-nake^eiv KeXevfi. — Quoted by Plato, Alcihiades 2, 
 Cap. 43. 
 
 Not what I wish be granted me ; — 
 
 Unless my wish be right : 
 Let me receive whate'er may be 
 
 Good in my Maker's sight. 
 Ask me not what would be my choice, 
 
 If I could choose my lot : 
 I can but tell you, — I rejoice 
 
 To know that I cannot.
 
 206 " NOT WHAT I WISH BE GRANTED ME. 
 
 >) 
 
 Our wisdom's best constructed schemes, 
 
 Whose promise is so fair, 
 May melt away hke empty dreams, 
 
 And vanish into air. 
 The splendid fabric of our pride,— 
 
 Ambition's tower of trust, — 
 By unexpected tempests tried, 
 
 May crumble into dust. 
 
 To taste of joy — we know of old — 
 
 May be to taste of death ; 
 As certain beetles, we are told, 
 
 Die of the rose's breath*. 
 The avaricious King, whose touch 
 
 Made gold of bread and salt 
 By his own wish, soon found how much 
 
 That wish had been in fault. 
 
 * hiytrai Koi rovs Knvddpovs vtto rrji tcov podav ocr/xjjy dnoBvrjCTKdv. 
 
 Aristotle.
 
 " NOT WHAT I WISH BE GRANTED ME." 207 
 
 Then let me never have the power 
 
 My destiny to choose ! 
 I feel I might at any hour 
 
 The privilege abuse. 
 To each is portioned out life's share 
 
 By an Omniscient mind, 
 Which sees and judges clearly, where 
 
 Man's intellect is blind.
 
 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 Is she loitering by the fountain, 
 To watch its silvery showers ; 
 
 Or roaming o'er the mountain, 
 To greet the wakening flowers ? 
 
 Is she with the thrushes, singing 
 The music of the dells ; 
 
 Or with the fairies, ringing 
 Their merry little bells ?
 
 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 209 
 
 Are she and they together 
 
 At play beneath the trees, 
 Or scrambUng through the heather, 
 
 Or dancing with the breeze ? 
 
 Is she hid among- the roses. 
 
 Not answerino- to our call, 
 Till the laughing light discloses 
 
 That brightest rose of all ? 
 
 Poor child ! No ! she is weeping 
 
 In the garden of the dead ; 
 Where one she loved lies sleeping 
 
 In a grave with flowers o'erspread. 
 
 The tearful smiles of Morning 
 
 Are sure to find her there ; 
 And she lingers long, adorning 
 
 The spot with pious care. 
 
 p
 
 210 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 
 
 The matin of the thrushes 
 Is warbled o'er that mound ; 
 
 And the melody, in gushes, 
 Fills the silent air around. 
 
 The fairies oft attend her, 
 
 To mourn the good and brave ; 
 
 And their loving aid they lend her. 
 To dress his grassy grave.
 
 WAR-SONG. 
 
 Kai fiT]v, U) Mfve^eve, TToXXa;^?;, Kiv8vvevei koXov eivai to iv TToXe/iO) 
 
 07700 vrjiTKe IV. — Plato, Meiuxenos, Cap. 2. 
 
 Vuelta, vuelta, los Franceses, 
 Con corazon a la lid, 
 Mas vale morir por bueuos 
 Que deshonrados vivir. 
 Batalla <U los Franceses contra los Araqooieses. — Anonymous. 
 
 On ! for the foe is close at hand : 
 
 To battle, comrades ! Haste 
 To conquer for your native land 
 
 Or die ; — not live disgraced. 
 Eternal honour to the brave 
 
 Who press the gory plain ! 
 Contempt, confusion, to the slave 
 
 Who drags a foreign chain ! 
 
 r 2
 
 212 WAR-SONG. 
 
 On, comrades ! Onward for the right ! 
 
 We know what eyes will weep 
 For us, if we are left to night 
 
 Wrapped in the Hero's sleep. 
 We know what fervent prayers will track 
 
 Our spirit's course above. 
 The coward has no welcome back ; — 
 
 No word or look of love. 
 
 On ! for the foe is close at hand : 
 
 On, comrades ! to the field ! 
 The invader gloriously withstand 
 
 Or fall ; — but never yield ! 
 Kemember those whose fate and fame 
 
 And freedom rest with you : — 
 Then on, to conquer in God's name 
 
 Or die as brave men do !
 
 THE FAIK EOSALIE. 
 
 Sir Bertram is bound for the Holy Land, 
 
 With his trusty sword in his good right hand ; 
 
 In th^e sign of the Cross, hke a true Christian knight, 
 
 For the sacred Sepulchre's sake to fight. 
 
 " Adieu ! " he said, " mine own dear love ! 
 By the stars which keep Heaven's faith above ; 
 By mine honour which never hath borne a stain, 
 I swear in my plighted troth to remain."
 
 214 THE FAIR llOSALIE. 
 
 The lady, she struggled sore to speak, 
 
 While the big bright drops rolled down her cheek : 
 
 Piteous it was, yet lovely, to see 
 
 How bitterly wept the fair Rosalie. 
 
 From her heaving bosom a posie she drew : 
 Love's red rose was there ; and Faith's violet blue, 
 Whose sweet breath is a promise ; and Hope's laughing 
 
 flower. 
 The golden jonquil, with its joy-stirring power. 
 
 And there was the lily which perfumes the vale, 
 With its sheltering leaf shielding its buds pure and pale, 
 As a warrior his bride ; lest their delicate white 
 Be marred by the gaze of the sun's glowing light. 
 
 " These flowers have been dipped in a charmed lake : 
 Take them and keep them for Rosalie's sake : 
 Guard them, Sir Knight ! yea ! guard them well ! 
 For each of them bears the gift of a spell.
 
 THE FAIR ROSALIE. 215 
 
 " Wlien one, even one, shows an aspect strange, 
 Deem that thy destiny nears a change : 
 When fragrance passes and bloom is fled 
 From all, — then deem thou had'st better be dead. 
 
 " Keep them until we meet again ! 
 
 If we alter not, they will live till then : 
 
 But if to our vows or thou or I 
 
 Prove false, the enchanted flowers will die." 
 
 Sir Bertram he sped to the Holy Land, 
 With his trustinof heart and unerrino;' hand : 
 His good sword did its duty well, 
 As many a Faynim ghost might tell. 
 
 Like the flower whose life-source is the sun's glorious eye, 
 Woman's love, when the loved one is absent, may die : 
 Her faith, like the flower, would fain live through the night ; 
 But, ah ! moonbeams and memory give feeble light.
 
 216 THE FAIR ROSALIE - 
 
 In the castle hall the wassailers all 
 Are revelling deep and loud : 
 Fair Rosalie sits in her bower, and by fits 
 
 She watches the stars from Heaven that fall : 
 Over the moon is passing a cloud : 
 She shudders and thinks of a bride in her shroud. 
 
 And this is the eve of her bridal-day ! 
 Who is the bridegroom ? Sir Bertram ? Nay ! 
 She has found the music of Flattery sweet ; 
 She has lifted Ambition's gifts from her feet ; 
 She has flung her treasure of Love away. 
 
 She sits in her bower, — the fair Rosalie : 
 Sees she, or does she but seem to see, 
 Gliding across her, a form too well known ? 
 " Sir Bertram !" she murmurs. She is alone.
 
 THE FAIR ROSALIE. 217 
 
 The cloud rolls on and the moon is clear. 
 Hears she, or does she but seem to hear, 
 A deep, dull whisper ; — a breathing ; — a sigh ? 
 'Tis but the night-wind sweeping by. 
 
 Fair Kosalie lay in her silken bed : 
 Weary she was ; — yet she lay awake ; 
 Around her floated a sense of dread ; 
 She felt in the presence of the Dead ; 
 And she strove to pray for her soul's dear sake ; 
 But a curse seemed in every prayer she spake. 
 She dared not weep ; and she could not sleep 
 For the chill that around her heart did creep. 
 
 She saw not — she heard not — the thing that was near ; 
 
 But it filled her eve and it filled her ear : 
 
 It touched her not for blessing or bane ; 
 
 But it curdled her blood and it scorched her brain.
 
 218 THE FAIR ROSALIE. 
 
 She listened alone ; she heard no tone ; 
 
 But a hiowledge ofivords o'er her senses passed : 
 
 She felt them say, " Pray ! Rosalie, pray ! 
 If thou darest, fervently pray — and fast — 
 For thy perjured soul ! This prayer is thy last ! 
 
 The flowers thou did'st give have ceased to live; 
 
 Their aspect is changed ; their fragrance is fled ; 
 Their altered breath has a scent of death ; 
 They come, a token from true heart broken ; 
 
 They come, a pledge from the faithful Dead." 
 
 Merry bells are ringing ; glad maidens are flinging 
 Fresh flowers to grace the festal day : 
 
 Why comes not the bride in her beauty's pride ? 
 Why comes she not in her bridal array ? 
 
 A lady lies dead in a silken bed ; 
 
 That lady's face is fair to view ; 
 One hand is pressed on her marble breast, 
 
 And it holds a posie of ghastly hue.
 
 THE FAIR ROSALIE. 219 
 
 There are violets wan and a rose without bloom, 
 And a jonquil turned pale, like a flower of the tomb : 
 Their breath smells of death; they look starry and white, 
 Like ghost-blossoms shrinking from air and from light. 
 
 They buried the lady ; they buried the flowers ; 
 They could not loosen the fingers that clasped them : 
 
 Men of holy powers tried hard for hours ; 
 But could not unlock the small hand that grasped them. 
 
 They buried the lady with book and with bell. 
 Our Mother of Mercy rest her well ! 
 
 Many masses were said for the fair Rosalie, 
 She had died unconfessed and un shriven ; 
 
 She had died in the guilt of her perjury : 
 Pray, pray tliat her sins be forgiven !
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The moon's light is streaming 
 On true lovers dreaming 
 
 Of joys gone by ; 
 On young watchers deeming 
 That life's brilliant seeming 
 
 Is not a lie ; 
 
 On exiles still grieving, 
 
 And long-drawn sighs heaving 
 
 For childhood's home ; 
 On boyhood's brain weaving 
 Bright projects for leaving 
 
 Youth's scenes — to roam ;
 
 MOONLIGHT. 221 
 
 On anxious eyes waking 
 And faithful hearts breaking 
 
 The dead beside ; 
 On false hearts forsaking 
 Devoted hearts, aching 
 
 With love and pride. 
 
 Here, man is defiling 
 
 God's truth;— there, beguihng 
 
 The weak to fall : 
 Praying now ; — then reviling. — 
 The moon's light is smiling 
 
 Calmly on all.
 
 TOLERATION. 
 
 We will not cavil about creeds, 
 
 Or take on us the censor's part : 
 We only see each other's deeds ; 
 
 But God sees every human heart. 
 'Tis His — not ours — all thouGfhts to mark 
 
 And feelings not revealed to sight : 
 'Tis His to pierce through motives dark, 
 
 And bring them to the test of light.
 
 TOLERATION. 223 
 
 We will not labour to correct 
 
 The faults to whicli our neighbour 's prone, 
 And with too lenient eye neglect 
 
 Far graver errors of our own : 
 We will not vex him with our fear 
 
 That his salvation is not sure. 
 To God — and God alone — is clear 
 
 Whose future is the most secure.
 
 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 
 
 A Fairy once lived in a lily flower, 
 
 Beneath a wide spreading tree : 
 No lady was ever more pleased with her bower, 
 
 Than wdth that tinv home was she. 
 She nestled there when the sun was too strong 
 
 To venture abroad by day ; 
 And listened entranced to a bird s cheery song, 
 
 Or a streamlet's murmuring play.
 
 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 225 
 
 At times, close down to the bottom she crept, 
 
 To a nook which she just could fill : 
 And there 'tis supposed that the fairy slept ; 
 
 For she certainly lay quite still. 
 Anon, she would perch on the lily's brim. 
 
 And look out for some passer-by, 
 To come in and chat : through the air nought could skim 
 
 Without catching her sharp little eye. 
 
 To pay her a visit the bee often came. 
 
 When he was not too busy to stop ; 
 And sometimes he begged, without scrujile or shame, 
 
 To carry away "just a drop" 
 Of her good golden honey ; to add to the store 
 
 (He loved picking up odds and ends) 
 Of his treasure at home. She thought him a bore ; 
 
 But, still, they were very good friends. 
 
 Q
 
 226 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 
 
 The butterfly was a more welcome guest ; — 
 
 He had so much esprit, she thought ; 
 And then, he was always so very well drest ; 
 
 As so fine a gentleman ought. 
 Father long-legs's merits she did not neglect ; 
 
 She admired his meagre condition ; 
 He put her in mind, as she said with respect. 
 
 Of an honest and starved pohtician. 
 
 She hated the spider's deceitful tricks. 
 
 Which were fiend-like, in her opinion ; 
 And would not allow him his nets to fix 
 
 Anv where within her dominion. 
 But if she saw a green grasshopper skip, 
 
 She could never resist the whim 
 To go scampering down from the lily's li^D, 
 
 And have a good romj) with him.
 
 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 227 
 
 As soon as her mistress, the Moon, was up, 
 
 And had Hghted her silver lamp ; — 
 When diamonds of dew filled the eglantine's cup, 
 
 And the maiden's hair grew damp ; — 
 Oh ! then, she frisked forth to join the young elves, 
 
 As they frolicked, all dressed in green, 
 Rejoicing to have this fair world to themselves, 
 
 By slumbering mortals unseen. 
 
 There was many a prank and many a freak 
 In and out through the moon-lit flowers ; 
 
 Their laugh tinkled clear as they played hide and seek 
 
 • Among violet tufts for hours. 
 
 Sometimes they tore open a primrose bud. 
 Of some secret token in quest ; 
 
 Or peered at the dark crimson sjDots like blood, 
 On the innocent cowslip's breast. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 
 
 And lastly, to please their gay little king 
 
 And his queen with her delicate face, 
 They always joined hands and danced round in a ring ; 
 
 Which they did with peculiar grace. 
 But the moment the curtains of Night were undrawn. 
 
 And Aurora began to scatter 
 Some roses to blush on the path of the Dawn, 
 
 The fairies were off — pitter-j^atter. 
 
 Then our fairy, refreshed by her summer-night's play. 
 
 Returned to her lily once more ; 
 To while away there the long summer-day, 
 
 In the manner I mentioned before. 
 In truth she was spending a right merry life ; — 
 
 So joyous and social and free ; 
 She never had known ill-nature or strife ; 
 
 Her existence was kindness and glee.
 
 THE FAIRY OF THE LILT. 229 
 
 It happened that once ere the still, sultry close 
 
 Of a day more than commonly bright, 
 She was taking a longer than ordinary doze, 
 
 To prepare for her revels at night. 
 I do not know whether her spirit was stirred 
 
 By visions which Fancy had bred ; 
 But I'm sure that no dream of the thing that occurred, 
 
 Ever entered her poor little head. 
 
 A lady there was, who had lost a fair child ; — 
 
 In what way, it was never quite clear : 
 But rare it was not, in those old times styled 
 
 " Good," — for children to disappear. 
 That lady was wont at the altar to pray 
 
 To Him who can heal all sorrow, 
 On the eve of her darling's festal-day ; 
 
 And it was to be the morrow.
 
 230 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 
 
 She went out to gather fresh flowers, to dress 
 
 Our Mother of Mercy's shrine ; 
 And those flowers a holy priest was to bless, 
 
 In the sacred symbol's sign. 
 She gathered them fragrant — she gathered them fair ;- 
 
 Never ceasing the while to weep ; 
 And at last she gathered the lily where 
 
 The fairy lay fast asleep. 
 
 To the church those flowers, in her tears all laved, 
 
 The sorrowing lady bore ; 
 The fairy, who had not a soul to be saved, 
 
 Had ne'er been in a church before. 
 When the flowers touched the altar, a small, shrill cry 
 
 Caused the holy priest to start ; 
 But it brought a gush to the mother's eye, — 
 
 A thrill to the mother's heart.
 
 THE FAIRY OF THE LILY. 231 
 
 She knelt clown and praye before Him who died 
 
 To give life to sinners ; — and lo ! 
 When she turned her head, there knelt at her side 
 
 The child she had lost long ago ! 
 I need not describe — you can fancy them well — 
 
 The mother's fond transports then. 
 What became of the fairy I cannot tell : 
 
 She never was heard of again.
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 She was an orphan, almost from her birth, 
 Without a claim to any home on earth : 
 But He who notes the sparrows as they fall, 
 Feeds the young ravens, watches over all, 
 Left not this little one without a friend 
 Her helpless infancy to guard and tend. 
 They who at first for mercy's sake alone 
 Cherished the babe, soon loved her for her own ; 
 And the poor child of charity became 
 The household pet, with every fondling name
 
 THE ORPHAN. 233 
 
 By kindly Manhood's — fostering Age's — tongue, 
 In tender accents, lavished on the young. 
 No chiding word e'er grated on her ear ; 
 No chiding look e'er drew forth sigh or tear ; 
 Hearts clung about her, with protecting care, 
 Watchful to shelter her from childhood's rare 
 And transient griefs ; as clustering leaves unite 
 To shield a flower from scorchins: heat and blisfht. 
 Nursed in affection's atmosphere, she grew 
 A beauteous being ; pure and good and true. 
 With fairy-fleetness as she flitted by, 
 The vision brightened many a tear-dimmed eye ; 
 The merry music of her bird-like voice, 
 Floating around, bade many a heart rejoice ; 
 Nature seemed gladdened as she skimmed along — 
 A thing of life and loveliness and song. 
 Young children paused amid their boisterous play. 
 To wonder whether she would pass that way ;
 
 234 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 Old men crept forth to see if she were there, 
 And bid God bless what He had made so fair. 
 Little the orphan had to give ; — but, still, 
 She gave that little with such generous will — 
 With such bland brightening of the blushing face,— 
 None scanned the gift ; — all felt the giver's grace. 
 All loved her much ; one loved her most of all. 
 And left her only at his Country's call. 
 They parted as the young and loving part. 
 When first they feel that agony of heart ; 
 Before experience of this world of change 
 Makes grief familiar — and no parting strange. 
 News came, at length, that he had fought and died, 
 As heroes wish to die, — in victory's pride, — 
 With glory circling round his youthful head. 
 Could that console the living for the dead ? 
 Meekly she bowed to God's supreme decree : 
 " Father ! I know this sorrow comes from Thee :
 
 THE ORPHAN. 235 
 
 Thy will be done ! Give me but strength to bear 
 
 Thy chastening hand ! Lord ! hear thy creature's prayer !" 
 
 Weeping she prayed ; then wept herself to sleep, — 
 
 And slept to wake where Angels do not weep. 
 
 They found her dead. How kindly is the Death 
 
 That gently steals away a slumberer's breath, 
 
 Without one parting pang of doubt or fear, 
 
 Or grief at leaving those who made life dear ! 
 
 No trembling pause upon the awful brink 
 
 Of the Unknown ! no wrenching of the link 
 
 That binds the spirit to its house of clay ! 
 
 No night of horror ere the perfect day ! 
 
 No darkened valley's shades to struggle through. 
 
 Before Heaven's glories burst upon the view ! 
 
 They laid their darling, in the blighted bloom 
 
 Of life's young promise, in her quiet tomb, 
 
 Amongst their kindred dead, as if their own. 
 
 They sculptured on her monumental stone
 
 236 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 A lily broken by a falling oak 
 
 Just riven asunder by the spoiler's stroke, 
 
 And " Eevirescent." Not a word of woe, 
 
 To set forth feelings words can never show ; 
 
 No record of her virtues or their grief. It lies 
 
 Enshrined in faithful hearts, too deep for human eyes.
 
 THE TUKRET CHAMBER. 
 
 What stirring songs are sung and wliat wondrous tales 
 
 are told 
 Of the deeds of our forefathers in the merry days of 
 
 old; 
 When a good knight's favourite pastime was his dinted 
 
 sword to draw ; — 
 When Power had but small conscience, and Necessity 
 
 no law ; 
 
 When the warder kept his watch upon the castle walls, 
 While wine and wassail flowed within the castle halls, 
 And pilgrims were made welcome, from every spot on 
 
 Earth, 
 To the banquet and the revelry, the music and tlie mirth ;
 
 238 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 When prisoners were fettered within the donjon keep ; 
 And ladies were accustomed in their lonely bowers to 
 
 weep ; 
 When Beauty in distress was every minstrel's theme ; 
 And Beauty rescued gallantly was every page's dream. 
 
 Perhaps you won't believe what certainly seems strange 
 To us who live at present when, I own, there is a 
 
 change ; 
 But no old or ugly women, or inconstant ones, I ween. 
 In those glorious days of woman's praise, were ever to 
 
 be seen. 
 
 The men were much the same, I rather think, as now ; 
 They were not all good-looking and some wore a 
 
 scowling brow ; 
 The barons, more especially, were often hard of heart, 
 And disposed, when they were able, to oppress the 
 
 weaker part.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 289 
 
 Those simple times are gone, and will never come again : 
 There was no march of intellect ; — no railroad rushinof 
 
 then; 
 No instantaneous news, by electric telegraph, 
 To draw forth distant weeping or provoke a far-off laugh . 
 
 It was in those old times, by great courtesy called 
 
 '' good," 
 When men scarcely could be quiet, supposing that they 
 
 would. 
 That a baron of renown and of very high degree 
 In a lonely castle dwelt with young lovely daughters 
 
 three. 
 
 They were lovely, one and all, and alike ; yet differing 
 
 too. 
 As three roses on one stalk will very often do. 
 In some trifling tint of beauty, though just the same 
 
 in kind ; 
 But each was true of heart and lily-pure in mind.
 
 240 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 Their mother liad been dead and buried many a year ; 
 But still they held her name and her memory very 
 
 dear: 
 Their father loved them well, but he seldom was at 
 
 home ; 
 Being, like most other barons, extremely given to roam. 
 
 One day, to pass the time, having nothing else to do, 
 They determined to explore the quaint old castle 
 
 through : 
 For though they had been born there, they ne'er had 
 
 sought to trace. 
 Till then, the ins and outs of that very rambling place. 
 
 There were staircases and corridors and turrets without 
 
 end. 
 And galleries too intricate to discover foe or friend ; 
 And chambers so remote, so lonely, and so dark, 
 That murder might be done there — and not an eye to 
 
 mark.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 241 
 
 Particularly one, in a Turret, whence was heard, 
 At times, unearthly music, as the vassals all averred ; 
 But no foot of living mortal its threshold ever crossed ; 
 For it happened that the key of that apartment had 
 been lost. 
 
 There were very odd reports connected with the same ; 
 Affecting, not quite pleasantly, that ancient House's fame; 
 For they stated that a sister had there given a sister 
 
 death, 
 And stifled the first heavings of a new-born infant's 
 
 breath. 
 
 'Twas said there had been jealousy between that hapless 
 
 pair ; 
 And that neither was quite innocent, though both were 
 
 very fair ; 
 That, alike, their hearts were given to a most deceitful 
 
 knight, 
 Who left them to dispute, while he went away to fight. 
 
 R
 
 242 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 One had surely disappeared ;— 'twas uncertain wliere 
 
 or how ; — 
 And a shadow, from that moment, never left the other's 
 
 brow : , 
 
 But she married before long a kinsman, and became 
 The ancestress with him of a race of noble name. 
 
 These things had all occurred so many years ago, 
 That the truth of the affair 'twas impossible to know ; 
 And no whisper of the scandal had ever reached the ear 
 Of those lovely sisters three ; — so they tripped on 
 without fear. 
 
 Up and down they wandered, now stopping here and 
 
 there, 
 With footsteps full of spring and with spirits free from 
 
 care : 
 Now chattering like three damsels ; now singing like 
 
 three birds, 
 By snatches, sweet old ditties with very ancient words.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 243 
 
 At length, as they approached a Turret Chamber's door, 
 They heard a sort of music they had never heard before : 
 And yet it seemed an echo of the strain which, as it 
 
 chanced, 
 The youngest had begun to sing as that way they 
 
 advanced. 
 
 They looked at one another much surprised, as well they 
 
 might : 
 They scarcely could believe that any living wight 
 Was shut up there alone, and it entered not their head 
 That the musical inhabitant might possibly be dead. 
 
 First softly tapped the eldest sister : there was no 
 reply. 
 
 A little pause— and then the second thought that she 
 would try : 
 
 No sound but that strange melody ! — No single answer- 
 ing word ! 
 
 They paused again and drew their breath : then boldly 
 knocked the third. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 The very moment she her knuckle had applied, — 
 Imagine their astonishment ! the door flew open wide. 
 They felt inclined all further search that morning to forego; 
 But something forced them onward ; — though what 
 they did not know. 
 
 They all went in accordingly. The door made haste to 
 
 close : 
 And, mingled with the music, a low, soft laugh arose. 
 But the laughter soon subsided and then was heard no 
 
 sound. 
 Except that indescribably sweet strain which floated 
 
 round. 
 
 From the chamber was excluded every ray of outward 
 
 light ; 
 There was neither lamp nor fire nor torch to make it 
 
 brig-ht : 
 
 Yet 'twas full of some effulgence, which certainly looked 
 cold ; 
 
 But it let the sisters see that the furniture seemed old.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 245 
 
 That was all they saw indeed ; for not a human form 
 Was there, to greet their eyes, or their awe-chilled 
 
 blood to warm. 
 But still they heard that sweet and supernatural song ; 
 And its words became distinct ere they had listened 
 
 long. 
 
 " Welcome ! welcome ! sisters three ! 
 Are ye come, at last, to me ? 
 Long have I been singing here. 
 Waiting till ye should appear : 
 Of my song I am full weary. 
 And of this old chamber dreary. 
 Years ago, I sang o'er sweetly, 
 And dressed up this bower not meetly 
 For the work it was to see. 
 Welcome ! welcome ! sisters three ! 
 Fast draws on the fated hour 
 To bow the victim to my power.
 
 246 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 There is much to expiate : — 
 Blisfhted bhss ; love turned to hate ; 
 Sister's kindness changed to gall ; — 
 Three lives would not pay for all ! 
 Fondness feigned and murder planned, 
 To be wrought by kindred hand ; 
 Kindling being foully quenched ; 
 Links of full existence wrenched ; 
 A sinful spirit sent adrift, 
 To find or miss salvation's gift. 
 Without a warning moment's space, 
 To turn and supplicate God's grace ; — 
 There is vengeance to appease 
 For these wrongs and more than these ; 
 The destined victim must atone 
 For deeds of darkness not her own. 
 I have now my choice of three ; 
 And the one I choose shall be 
 A pure and guilt-untainted creature ; 
 Yet resembling, in each feature,
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 247 
 
 The guilt-stained foundress of her line, 
 Whose blood I thirst for — although mine. 
 Sisters three ! ye hear me. — One 
 Shall see me too, ere I have done. 
 Fare ye well ! When next ye rest, 
 Dream of an unbidden guest ! " 
 
 Again a soft, low laugh went ringing through the room. 
 And withal a merry hissing ; as if snakes enjoyed the 
 
 doom 
 Impending o'er a being unsullied by a spot. 
 The sisters heard the sounds; but who made them 
 
 they saw not. 
 
 Again the door flew open wide, and then they came 
 
 away. 
 I scarcely can suppose they had any wish to stay ; 
 But, if they had, they could not ; for the " Farewell ! " 
 
 of that voice 
 Was as a spell upon them, and left them not a choice.
 
 248 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 They felt o'erwhelmed with terror, though they knew 
 
 not what to dread ; 
 Having never had before any dealings with the Dead. 
 But that she might be the victim, was each generous 
 
 sister's prayer ; 
 And whatever ill hung o'er them, that the others it 
 
 might spare. 
 
 Poor things ! They had no longing any further to 
 
 explore. 
 They found they were less happy, and no wiser than 
 
 before. 
 And this, as sages tell us, is apt to be the fruit 
 Of researches of which idle curiosity's the root.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 249 
 
 They came down stairs less buoyantly by far than 
 
 they'd gone up : 
 For life's first drop of care had just fallen within their 
 
 cup; 
 And uncertain horror's mists were gathering, dark and 
 
 dense, 
 Around their souls ; and, worst of all, the sickness of 
 
 suspense. 
 
 Their hearts were very heavy. — ^They went to their own 
 
 bower. 
 Where wont they were to while away full many a 
 
 happy hour. 
 That evening, close and tenderly they all together 
 
 clung ; 
 But not a laugh was laughed, and not a song was 
 
 sung.
 
 250 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 And sometimes tbey imagined the tapers burned quite 
 
 blue ; 
 As, when Spirits are in company, all Christian tapers do : 
 Then, something like a wind kej)t sighing in their ear. 
 Or fanning their fair cheeks, as if a Ghost were near. 
 
 Fain through the live-long night would they have 
 
 watching sat ; 
 But Nature grew exhausted, and could not manage that. 
 In vain they strove their weary lids from dropping 
 
 down to keep ; 
 So, they went to bed, reluctantly, and soon fell fast 
 
 asleep. 
 
 I do not know exactly how long they had been there ; 
 Nor what the hour precisely was have I been made 
 
 aware : 
 But thus much I do know ; — before the morning broke. 
 There was light within their chamber, yet not one of 
 
 them awoke.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 251 
 
 A pale, cold light it was ; — like that which fills a tomb, 
 When exhalations phosphorescent overcome its gloom. 
 It showed the sleeping sisters, as they lay there like 
 
 shut flowers, 
 Kudely shaken into slumber by unexpected showers. 
 
 And it showed besides an outline, at first shadowy 
 and dim ; 
 
 But which grew distincter presently ; so ghastly and so 
 grim, 
 
 That had those damsels been awake to watch it draw- 
 ing near, 
 
 I fancy they would, every one, have swooned away with 
 fear. 
 
 And yet it had some beauty ; the beauty of a fiend 
 From every sort of human hope and human kindness 
 
 Aveaned. 
 Its eyes were large and lustrous ; its cheeks had livid 
 
 stains ; 
 And not a drop of blood seemed running in its veins.
 
 252 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 Slowly, stealthily, it glided on, close to the eldest maid ; 
 And, stooping down, its bluish face not far from hers 
 
 it laid ; 
 But it raised its spectral head, — shook it solemnly, — 
 
 and then 
 It glided towards the second, and did the same again. 
 
 With a gesture of delight the Ghost or Demon passed, 
 Triumphant, to the bedside of the youngest and the last; 
 And, as o'er those lovely features exultingly it bent, 
 A sound of soft, low laughter through the chamber 
 ringing went ; 
 
 And a strange, sweet song came thrilling upon the 
 
 maiden's ear ; — 
 On hers alone ; for not a note did either sister hear ; — 
 And when her eyes were opened, you may judge of her 
 
 surprise 
 At seeing fixed on hers two cruel, starry eyes.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 253 
 
 Slie liad no power to call out, being struck dumb by 
 
 the shock ; 
 And when she tried, her efforts vain the Spectre seemed 
 
 to mock ; 
 For it smiled a ghastly smile and showed a perfect row 
 Of teeth as white as ivory within lips as white as snow. 
 
 And still that soft, low laugh through all the chamber 
 
 rung ; 
 And still that sweet, strange melody flowed from no 
 
 human tongue. 
 Spell-bound the maiden listened, and much against her 
 
 will, 
 While her limbs grew very stiff and her blood grew 
 
 very chill. 
 
 " I am here and thou art there ; — 
 Young and innocent and fair ; — 
 A thing on which men's hearts might doat. 
 I am here ! I come to gloat
 
 254 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 On the semblance thou dost show 
 Of one who wronged me long ago ; 
 Looking at me with soft eyes, 
 Just like thine, in Sister's guise ; 
 Singing that same song with me, 
 Which I heard to day from thee ; — 
 (I responded to it then ; 
 None will sing it e'er again ;) 
 Feigning, as a Demon might. 
 To keep her false ends out of sight ; 
 Cooing gently as a dove, 
 Till she stole away the love 
 Dearer to me than my soul. 
 Then came the sweetened poison-bowl 
 And burial down the secret stair. 
 Where none thought of looking. There 
 She left us — me and mine — to rot. 
 Is not our curse ujDon the spot ! 
 Vengeance is at hand ! To-night 
 Will set our reckoning partly right.
 
 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 255 
 
 Vengeance is restrained to thee. 
 Oh ! could it riot on all three ! 
 Hast thou not been often told 
 Thou art like that portrait old 
 Of one whose beauty had no peer ? 
 Thou art ! and therefore am I here." 
 
 Up sprang the elder sisters, when the day was getting 
 
 high, 
 And called upon the youngest ; — but she gave them no 
 
 reply : 
 They rushed to her bedside and conjured her to awake 
 And tell them that she lived: — but no answer did she 
 
 make. 
 
 She never woke again ; and upon her stony ear 
 
 In vain they poured entreaties, in an agony of fear. 
 
 Like a form of purest marble, without colour — motion — 
 
 breath — 
 She lay in rigid beauty ; horror-stricken unto death.
 
 256 THE TURRET CHAMBER. 
 
 And never from that time did music issue more, 
 
 Or any other sound, from the Turret Chamber's door, 
 
 To shake the nerves of young or old, of lady, lord, or 
 
 clown, — 
 But this might be in part because the Turret was pulled 
 
 down. 
 
 They came upon a secret stair, and at its base they found 
 A woman's and an infant's bones, a little under o^round. 
 The story is a horrid one and makes my blood run cold. 
 I hope 'twill do the same by yours — and so my tale is 
 told.
 
 TKUE NOBILITY. 
 
 No por ser hijo de un Rey 
 Y de un Emperador yerno 
 Pretendais que sois ilustre, 
 Si no lo son vuestros hechos. 
 Aquel es honrado y noble 
 Que tiene honrados respetos, 
 Que en altos pechos se crian 
 Los mas honrados intentos. 
 Porque yo sea bieu nacido 
 No cumplo con lo que debo, 
 Si en los negocios de honra 
 Doy con obraa mal ejeniplo. 
 
 Romance de Don Gm/fero.—ANOHYjiiovs. 
 
 Boast not of thy illustrious birth, 
 
 And far descended line ! 
 The universal mother. Earth, 
 
 Is ours as well as thine : 
 And when, alike, we sink to sleep 
 
 Within her tranquil breast. 
 Thy slumber will not be more deep 
 
 Than our ignoble rest. 
 
 s
 
 258 TRUE NOBILITY. 
 
 Dost thou believe that noble blood 
 
 Is of a brighter hue, 
 Or rolls a more majestic flood, 
 
 Than meaner blood may do ; 
 Or that the heart from which it flows 
 
 Is liofhter and more free 
 From human Nature's cares and woes, 
 
 Than vulgar hearts can be ? 
 
 if 
 
 Tell, if thou can'st, of noble deeds, 
 
 Becoming thy proud name ; 
 And show us that thy glory feeds 
 
 The old ancestral flame ! 
 Thou art a traitor to thy race, 
 
 Unless thou deem that death 
 Is better than an hour's disgrace ; — 
 
 Honour than vital breath.
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Aeii/oi yap dv8pi navres eapiv evKXeel 
 ZavTi (ji6ovr}(TaL, KarQavovra 8'aheaai. 
 
 MiMNERMUS. 
 
 I HAD a strange mysterious dream, one night : 
 
 I seemed to be within a spacious tomb 
 Or vault. A fitful, pale, phosphoric light 
 
 Peopled with horrid shapes the broken gloom ; 
 And there, in awful dignity, sat Death. 
 
 Beside him stood his brother, Time ; — those two 
 Who hold the balance of our human breath, 
 And to all mortals mete the measure due. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 A DREAM. 
 
 And Death, whose wonted task is to destroy, 
 
 Seemed now intent on some creative art. 
 I marvelled much what labour could employ 
 
 Those bony fingers, whose allotted part, 
 Even in my dream I knew was not to make. 
 
 But to mar all things made, however rare 
 And cunning in their workmanship ; — to break 
 
 All earthly links — all earthly webs to tear. 
 
 I gathered courage, by degrees, to draw 
 
 So near that I was able to perceive 
 The nature of his work ; and then I saw 
 
 That all his object was a crown to weave 
 Of laurel leaves with amaranth entwined ; 
 
 Like those which pious warriors sometimes vow 
 To patron saints, or grateful nations bind 
 
 Around a hero's fame-encircled brow.
 
 A DREAM. 261 
 
 And when completed was the task, he gave 
 
 The chaplet solemnly to Time, and said 
 He was to place it on the recent grave 
 
 Of one who should have honour — beino- dead ; 
 Although, in life, the meed had been denied 
 
 By Envy, ever grudging just renown 
 To living Worth ; whose doom is to abide 
 
 Till Death and Time award the well-earned crown. 
 
 A dream is but a mockery : yet, amid 
 
 Its ill-assorted remnants of stray thought, 
 Some gems of truth and wisdom may lie hid ; 
 
 By waking Reason to be found, and brought 
 To light and use. Are we not all too prone 
 
 Its due from living merit to withhold, 
 And yield it only when our praise's tone 
 
 Falls on an ear inanimate and cold ?
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 
 
 'El/ 8e Ki^xXwv^t rols 0pa|t Kprjv'ihiov ecrriv uficop e'x'^"' ^ ''".'/ Z^^'' o'^f' 
 Kadapuv Koi diacjiaves Koi rols akXois Ofioiov, otuv 8e nu] Ti ^aov i^ avrov, 
 TTapaxptJuu biaCpdelpeTcu. — ArISTOTLE. 
 
 You bid me tell you something strange, 
 
 Unusual quite, and new ; 
 So, for this once, to make a change, 
 
 My story shall be true. 
 You may believe it if you will ; 
 
 If not, you can but doubt ; 
 But listen patiently, until 
 
 My " yarn" is all spun out.
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 263 
 
 In a land famous once as Thrace, 
 
 There is a fountain, where, 
 At times, you may behold a face 
 
 Not yours — though wondrous fair. 
 You see it dimly, as in dreams 
 
 A face is seen, and while 
 You gaze on it, spell-bound, it seems. 
 
 In mockery, to smile. 
 
 You do not feel the least alarm ; 
 
 You never pause to think 
 What brings it there ; you feel a charm, 
 
 Which makes you wish to drink. 
 The water looks so pure, so clear 
 
 So cooling, to the eye, 
 Your thirsty spirit knows no fear : 
 
 You stoop — you drink — you die.
 
 264 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 
 
 When your lips touch the draught of Death, 
 
 The air is stirred around, 
 As by a gently heaving breath ; 
 
 And then you hear a sound 
 Of laughter like a silver bell ; 
 
 And, deeper as you quaff, 
 More fully does the breathing swell ; 
 
 More gaily rings the laugh. 
 
 Of old, a lovely maiden dwelt 
 
 Where now that fountain flows ; 
 She judged of others as she felt, 
 
 And thought she had no foes. 
 She had good store of friends professed. 
 
 And many lovers too. 
 Who swore she made them cursed or blessed ; 
 
 As modern suitors do.
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 265 
 
 But Treachery, like a serpent, lurks 
 
 In Friendship's garden oft ; 
 And Love with keen-edged weapon works 
 
 Beneath a semblance soft. 
 Young ladies ! 'tis a sad mistake, 
 
 And leads to grief and strife, 
 Of Love, the traitor-boy, to make 
 
 The idol of your life. 
 
 I grieve to say this Thracian maid — 
 
 Herself all trust and truth — 
 By friend and lover was betrayed, 
 
 In her confiding youth. 
 The lover had a fickle heart. 
 
 For ever on the wing ; 
 The friend was vain and full of art ; 
 
 She snared the fluttering thing.
 
 266 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 
 
 It happened all so long ago, 
 
 Perhaps you will not care 
 For the details ; but you must know 
 
 They were a treacherous pair. 
 They left that tender heart to break ; 
 
 Those radiant eyes to weep 
 In agony ; and, for their sake, 
 
 Despairing vigils keep. 
 
 She wept herself to death at last ; 
 
 And then a fountain rose, 
 O'er which a fearful spell was cast. 
 
 In memory of her woes. 
 Its waters have a fatal power 
 
 To kill, upon the spot, 
 All who drink of them, that same hour. 
 
 Few, seeing, drink them not.
 
 LEGEND OF A FOUNTAIN IN THRACE. 267 
 
 And she who used to be so kind 
 
 And courteously demeaned, 
 Has now completely changed her mind, 
 
 And turned into a fiend. 
 Of yore it was her greatest joy 
 
 To serve or save a wretch ; 
 Now, her delight is to destroy 
 
 Whomever she can catch. 
 
 The fountain's curse will never end 
 
 Till, stooping o'er its brink, 
 A lover true and faithful friend, 
 
 With tranquil conscience, drink ; — 
 A pair with world-unspotted soul, 
 
 In love and friendship proved. — 
 I fear some ages still must roll. 
 
 Before the ban's removed.
 
 BE NOT WITH JOY ELATED. 
 
 Nessun sia lieto, uessuu sia mesto ; 
 Gioie ed afFauni termiuan presto. 
 
 Be not with joy elated, 
 
 Nor yet cast down by sorrow : 
 
 Both may be fated 
 
 To end to-morrow. 
 
 Dare not the hopes to cherish, 
 Wherewith the Earth is dowered 
 Earth's hopes must perish 
 Ere they have flowered.
 
 BE NOT WITH JOY ELATED, 269 
 
 Chase not the phantom, Glory, 
 While high thy young heart beateth : 
 
 Old is the story, 
 
 How Glory fleeteth. 
 
 Be wise and take this warning^ : 
 Trust not Love's vows fair spoken, — 
 
 Made in the morning, — 
 
 Ere sunset broken. 
 
 Waste not existence, grieving 
 O'er projects without issue ; 
 
 But set to weaving 
 
 Some firmer tissue. 
 
 The work of life remember, 
 
 With, the toys of life while playing : 
 
 Think of December, 
 
 While thou art Maying.
 
 FLOWEES FOR A GRAVE. 
 
 No ! plant not roses round her tomb, 
 
 To scent, with their rich breath, the air. 
 And mock, with their unconscious bloom. 
 
 The broken heart that moulders there ; 
 Nor lilies, in their virgin pride 
 
 Of purity without a stain. — 
 They are not types of one who died 
 
 Of long remorse's lingering pain.
 
 FLOWERS FOR. A GRAVE. 271 
 
 Bring hither not a single flower 
 
 Which courts the open eye of Day, 
 And revels in the genial power 
 
 Of Summer's life-inspiring ray. 
 Brings none betokeninof love or truth, 
 
 Or spotless faith, or cloudless lot, 
 Or innocence cut ofl" in youth ; 
 
 No heart's-ease or forget-me-not. 
 
 The buds which dare not to unclose 
 Their bosoms, until pitying Night 
 
 The veil of mournful Mercy throws 
 
 O'er things which tremble at the light, — 
 
 The blossoms which their fragrance spread 
 Through solitudes few ever brave, — 
 
 Where human footsteps seldom tread, — 
 These are the flowers to deck her grave.
 
 PARTING SONG. 
 
 "We must part, ye dear, light-hearted friends ! 
 To-night our long revelry ends ; 
 For our last merry-meeting we're met, 
 Friends, I think I shall never forget ! 
 Henceforth, I shall meet with but few. 
 Adieu ! all whom I part from ; adieu ! 
 
 I am bound for a far distant shore ; 
 I shall see this, I fear me, no more. — 
 Mv fortune to seek, I must o^o ; — 
 I never shall find it, I know. 
 I wish ye were all coming too. — 
 Ye are not, alas ! so, adieu !
 
 PARTING SONG. 273 
 
 We have loved one another, with truth, 
 Through the gay trusting season of youth : 
 Should life throw us together again, 
 Our hearts may be altered ere then ; 
 Old loves ruay be lost amid new ; 
 But — such as ye are still — adieu I 
 
 T
 
 WOMAN'S WORTH. 
 
 TvvaiKos eo-^XTjff iirirvx^'iv ov pa8iov. 
 TvvaiKL jXT] TTifTTeve rov aavrov jBiov. 
 Ev yap yvvai^l tt'kttiv ovk eveaT Icelv. 
 'Sis eW aTTto-ros 17 yvvaiKela (pvais ! 
 
 " That," said the lion, " is your version of the story : let us be the 
 sculptors, and for one lion under the feet of a man, you shall have twenty 
 men under the paw of a lion." — J^lsop's Fables, The Man and the Lion. 
 
 Poets have sung, for many a day, 
 
 That women's faith, alas ! is frail : 
 But, could we sing as well as they, 
 
 The world might hear a different tale ;- 
 A tale of women sorely tried, 
 
 Who yet the trial rose above ; 
 Who lived in constancy, — and died 
 
 Martyrs to unrequited love ;
 
 woman's worth. 275 
 
 Of women, by no fault estranged, 
 
 Whose hearts unkindness could not chill ; 
 Whom changing fortune never changed, — 
 
 Unless to make them nobler still ; 
 Forgetting every injury past ; 
 
 Forgiving injuries renewed ; 
 And clinging to the very last. 
 
 In spite of man's ingratitude ; 
 
 Of generous women, to the stake. 
 
 The block, the rack, the dungeon, led ; 
 Eager to suffer for the sake 
 
 Of one beloved — or in his stead ; 
 Of women, delicate and fair. 
 
 Who perished in their tender youth. 
 Rejoicing, rather than forswear 
 
 One item of God's sacred truth ; 
 
 o
 
 276 WOMAN S WORTH. 
 
 Of womon, o'er whose steadfast soul, 
 
 Patient of contumely and wrong, 
 The waters of affliction roll, 
 
 And leave it steadfast, still, and strong ; 
 Of women, who have ne'er betrayed 
 
 A trust — a secret never told ; 
 And whose good faith is but repaid, 
 
 As woman's ever was of old. 
 
 Had we the wisdom, wit, and skill, 
 
 To use materials such as these, 
 The records, doubt it not ! would fill 
 
 Whole volumes with the greatest ease. 
 But, as it is, ah me ! I fear 
 
 Truth will not be received as true : 
 While men possess the public ear, 
 
 Women will never have their due.
 
 LEGEND OF THE BED LILY. 
 
 All lilies were once pure white, dear love ! 
 
 All lilies were once pure white : 
 The Angels of Heaven, in their gardens above, 
 
 Have no flower more stainless and bright. 
 And of old when, on errands of mercy, sent 
 
 In some human presence to stand, 
 Kejoicing, on rapid wing they went. 
 
 With a lily-branch in their hand.
 
 278 LEGEND OF THE RED LILY. 
 
 This lily grew once in a maiden's bower ; 
 
 And it well beseemed the place ; 
 For around the maid, as around the flower, 
 
 There shone a saintly grace. 
 And when, in prayer, at her Saviour's feet 
 
 The pious maiden knelt, 
 The lily gave out a fragrance more sweet ; 
 
 As if the prayer it felt. 
 
 That maiden was fair as the lily which grew, 
 
 In loveliness pure, by her side ; 
 Her soul was as free from the sullying hue 
 
 Of this world's passion and pride. 
 She had learned to count as gain all loss 
 
 In the service of truth divine ; — 
 To live in hope at the foot of the Cross, 
 
 And to die in its holy sign.
 
 LEGEND OF THE RED LILY. 279 
 
 They came and bade her renounce her God ; 
 
 And the blessed faith forswear, 
 In whose light from her childhood she had trod, 
 
 Or for instant death prepare. 
 Not the pause of a moment, in her choice. 
 
 Did the Christian maiden make ; 
 She spoke with calm eye and steady voice : 
 
 " I will die for my Saviour's sake ! " 
 
 She died. Her blood poured forth, in youth. 
 
 On the lily left a stain, 
 Witness to bear to her trust in the truth. 
 
 It beareth it not in vain. 
 So now, this lily's deep red, dear love ! 
 
 So now this lily's deep red : 
 And Saints on Earth and Angels above 
 
 Eejoice in the martyred Dead.
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Hominis est euim afEci dolore, sentire, resistere tameii, et solatia 
 admittere, iiou, solatiis nou egere. — Pliny the Youngek, Lib. 8, Epis. 16. 
 
 To suffer is the fate of Man, — 
 
 His doom, which has not been reversed 
 Since first on this world's stage began 
 
 His part, from age to age rehearsed. 
 As surely as the Summer leaf 
 
 By Autumn's finger is embrowned, 
 So surely may the tint of grief 
 
 On every human heart be found.
 
 SYMPATHY. 281 
 
 To be consoled is human too ; 
 
 And sympathy has power to throw 
 Upon affliction's mourning hue, 
 
 At least a transitory glow ; — 
 A fount of comfort to unseal, 
 
 Whose waters bear a soothing spell, 
 Alleviate what they may not heal. 
 
 And lull the woe they cannot quell. 
 
 Then, mortal ! do not thou expect 
 
 Exemption from the common lot ; 
 And, when thy sorrow falls, neglect 
 
 That Heaven-appointed comfort not. 
 Thy brother's kindness do not spurn, 
 
 As if it did thy pride some wrong. 
 Accept his sympathy. — Thy turn 
 
 To give it back, will come ere long.
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, aud our little life 
 Is rounded by a sleep. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Life is a blossom trembling to the breath 
 Of fortune's wooing breeze or angry gust ; 
 
 Now less, — now more, — but trembUng always. Death, 
 The tempest blast which sweeps it to the dust. 
 
 Life is a bubble rising on the breast 
 
 Of Time's for ever onward rolling sea. 
 Death is the wave which bears upon its crest 
 
 That froth-born bubble to Eternity.
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 283 
 
 Life is a flame — as every Poet saith — 
 
 A flickering flame — by starts now dim, now bright ; 
 Yet still aspiring up towards Heaven. Death, 
 
 The shower which quenches that uncertain light. 
 
 Life is a dream, whose vague imaginings keep 
 The soul perplexed 'twixt shifting joy and woe. 
 
 Death, an unconscious, all-absorbing sleep. 
 
 Which endeth how and where our God will show.
 
 AN EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 
 Si muero en tierras agenas, 
 Lejos de donde naci 
 
 I Quien habra dolor de mi ? 
 
 I Quien sentira el verme muerto, 
 Y tan miseramente, 
 En tierra tan diferente 
 De aqueUa donde naci ? 
 
 I Quien habra dolor de mi ? 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Who will grieve for me, if I die, 
 
 An outcast, in this foreign land ; 
 Unheeded by a kindred eye, 
 
 [Intended by a kindred hand ? 
 This country is not like my own ; — 
 
 The very sky looks different here : - 
 I am a wanderer unknown; 
 
 And who will shed for me a tear ?
 
 AN exile's lament. 285 
 
 And they who loved me long ago, 
 
 At home, when life was in its bloom, — 
 Will they feel saddened, when they know 
 
 Their distant Exile's final doom ? 
 Or have they filled my vacant place ? 
 
 Do other loves their hearts entwine, 
 And do they gaze on some new face, 
 
 As fondly as they did on mine ? 
 
 It is a dreary thing to think 
 
 That none will watch our fleeting breath ; 
 And that unnoticed we shall sink 
 
 Within the cold embrace of Death ; 
 That not a whisper of regret 
 
 W^ill float around our sleepless bed — 
 No promise never to forget 
 
 The tender past, when we are dead.
 
 286 AN exile's lament. 
 
 oil ! had it but been granted me 
 
 In mine own land at least to die, 
 And life's last agonies to see 
 
 Reflected in some pitying eye ! 
 All sufferers may find relief, 
 
 Except the wretch condemned to roam ; 
 There is a cure for every grief, 
 
 Save that of banishment from home.
 
 LIFE'S HOLYDAY. 
 
 The present moment's all our own ; 
 The next who ever saw ? 
 
 MiCKLE. 
 
 The birds are singing in the trees ; 
 Perfumes are floating on the breeze ; 
 
 The sky is bright and bkie ; 
 All Nature is awake ; the bees 
 Are gathering honey, at their ease, 
 
 From flowers refreshed by dew. 
 
 Gay butterflies are on the wing ; 
 Children are out and frolicking 
 
 Among the new-made hay : 
 See how they trip it in a ring, 
 Or dance before a mimic king ! 
 
 Their hfe's one holy day.
 
 288 life's holtday. 
 
 Oh ! tell them not that it is brief ; — 
 That life's enjoyment is a leaf 
 
 Which trembles on the bough, — 
 Ere long to be plucked off by Grief ! 
 Tell not of ''Death the reaper's" sheaf! 
 
 He is not near them now. 
 
 Let them be happy while they can ! 
 The child too soon becomes a man, 
 
 And learns his human lot ; 
 And strives, in agony, to scan 
 The aim and mystery of the ban 
 
 That intermitteth not ; 
 
 By which the destiny of Eartli 
 Is, to give Love and Beauty birth, 
 
 As food for Sorrow : — 
 To-day, to wear the smiles of mirth, 
 And weep, in tears of blood, the dearth 
 
 Of joy to-morrow.
 
 THE SPINNING SPECTEE. 
 
 A LOVELY lady lay asleep 
 
 Upon an antique bed ; 
 Her slumber, tranquil but not deep, 
 
 Just at the hour called dead, 
 Whilst, in young innocence, she dreamed 
 
 Of life's scarce tasted joys. 
 Was interrupted by what seemed 
 
 A spinning wheel's dull noise. 
 
 u
 
 290 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 
 
 She heard it buzzing whirr, whirr, whirr, 
 
 As busy as a bee : 
 Her senses soon were all astir, 
 
 But nothing could she see. 
 She fell asleep again ere long ; 
 
 Her conscience was at rest, 
 And so she felt no dread of wrong 
 
 From any ghostly guest. 
 
 The following night once more she heard 
 
 That unseen spinning-wheel ; 
 But not a single uttered word. 
 
 The mystery to reveal, 
 Of who sat there to spin at night ; 
 
 Although she begged to know : 
 She happened not to have a light 
 
 The workwoman to show.
 
 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 291 
 
 The third night, at the wonted hour, — 
 
 As twelve was on the stroke, — 
 (Ghosts then are said to have most power) 
 
 She suddenly awoke ; 
 And in a corner of the room. 
 
 By some strange radiance faint. 
 She saw a lady whose costume 
 
 Looked veiy old and quaint. 
 
 And she was spinning very fast, 
 
 With melancholv look : 
 Down on her wheel her eyes were cast ; 
 
 At times, her head she shook : 
 She did not seem to have a choice, 
 
 Whether or not she span ; 
 But, spinning still, with plaintive voice. 
 
 In murmurs thus beofan : 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 
 
 " I am weary of my spinning, 
 Never ending or beginning : 
 Full a hundred years I've spun, 
 And my work is not yet done ; 
 For endless spinning is my doom. 
 I may not rest within my tomb ; 
 Death has brought to me no peace ; 
 Toiling, toiling, without cease, 
 Everlastingly I spin, 
 As a penance for my sin. 
 I am weary of this spinning, 
 Without endino- or befrinnine. 
 
 " It was on a Christmas Eve, 
 That my wheel I would not leave, 
 Sitting in this corner warm, 
 While around me raged the storm, 
 To give shelter — comfort speak — 
 To the houseless, poor, and weak.
 
 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 293 
 
 Like a stone, that cannot feel, 
 I sat on and plied my wheel, 
 Though I heard an infant's cry, 
 While his mother, wailing nigh, 
 Craved for mercy and relief. 
 Then she cursed me in her grief, 
 Straining her dim eyes to see, 
 Through the glass, my task and me ; 
 And she prayed that it might be 
 Endless through eternity. 
 I am weary of my spinning, 
 Never ending or beginning. 
 
 " Heavy fell the curse, and chill. 
 My heart felt it, and stood still. 
 So they buried me in state ; 
 Mourning my untimely fate. 
 In my grave I may not stay ; 
 I must spin both night and day : —
 
 294 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 
 
 I am weary of this spinning, 
 
 Without ending or beginning. 
 
 *' Yet one thing there is which might 
 
 Annul the curse of that dread night : 
 
 If a maiden, good and pure, 
 
 In her innocence secure 
 
 From power of fiendish spell or charm 
 
 Of the Spirits loving harm, — 
 
 With a heart devoid of dread 
 
 Alike of living and of dead, — 
 
 Full of courage, free from fear — 
 
 Knowing well that God is near — 
 
 On Christmas Eve would go, alone, 
 
 To a grave with time-worn stone, 
 
 (By a fearful token shown) 
 
 In the churchyard near at hand, 
 
 And beside it calmly stand 
 
 Till the clock struck twelve ; — then place 
 
 (Symbol of Salvation's grace)
 
 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 293 
 
 The Image of the Crucified, 
 The Smless who for sinners died, 
 On the mound, and say a prayer 
 For the sinner buried there, 
 My long punishment would cease, 
 And my soul would rest in peace. 
 Christmas Eve will be to-morrow : 
 Wilt thou end my toil and sorrow ? — 
 I am weary of my spinning, 
 Never ending or beginning." 
 
 The maiden sat up in her bed : 
 
 In accents soft and low, 
 Yet clear and resolute, she said 
 
 " Poor Spirit ! I will go." 
 Angelic music seemed to fill 
 
 The chamber, as she spoke : 
 She lay down then, and slept until 
 
 The wintry morning broke.
 
 296 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 
 
 Tbat Cliristmas Eve was cold and bleak ; 
 
 The snow was on the ground ; 
 And sweeping winds, with moan and shriek, 
 
 Went drifting it around ; 
 Men heaped their fires with log on log, 
 
 And spread their Christmas stores ; 
 No Christian would have turned a dog, 
 
 Such weather, out of doors. 
 
 The lady heeded not the storm, 
 
 But went, with steadfast will. 
 Her task of mercy to perform — 
 
 Her promise to fulfil : 
 In faith she took her lonely way. 
 
 That bleak and bitter night, 
 Beside the sinner's grave to pray. 
 
 In her Kedeemer's sight.
 
 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 297 
 
 The Holy Crucifix she bore, 
 
 "With meek devotion pressed 
 Within her bare arms, folded o'er 
 
 Her calm, religious breast ; 
 And, through the churchyard as she came, 
 
 Her heart with pity swelled ; 
 For, sitting by a tomb, the same 
 
 Sad Spectre she beheld. 
 
 It did not, for an instant, stop 
 
 Its work, or lift its head ; 
 It never let the distaff drop ; 
 
 And not a word it said. 
 A blue, unnatural radiance streamed 
 
 Around it from the tomb ; 
 And, as it sat and span, it seemed 
 
 On fire, amidst the gloom.
 
 298 THE SPINNING SPECTRE. 
 
 The clock began to strike the hour 
 
 Of twelve : — upon the grave 
 She placed the Crucifix, whose power 
 
 That sinful soul might save. 
 The bell, forth from the House of God, 
 
 Midnight began to toll : — 
 She knelt down there upon the sod, 
 
 To pray for that poor soul. 
 
 And when at length her eyes she raised. 
 
 With reverence, from her prayer, 
 And looked around,— the Lord be praised 
 
 The Spectre was not there. 
 She saw a star across the sky 
 
 Shoot past ; — the sign she blessed ; 
 And deemed the sinner's soul, on high, 
 
 Was summoned to its rest.
 
 TO BE THE THING WE SEEM. 
 
 To be the thing we seem ; 
 To do the thing we deem 
 
 Enjoined by duty : 
 To walk in faith, nor dream 
 Of questioning God's scheme 
 
 Of truth and beauty : 
 
 Casting self-love aside, 
 Discarding human pride, 
 
 Our hearts to measure : 
 In humble hope to bide 
 Each change in fortune's tide, 
 
 At God's good pleasure :
 
 300 TO BE THE THING WE SEEM. 
 
 To trust, although deceived ; 
 Tell truth, though not believed ; 
 
 Falsehood disdaining : 
 Patient of ills received, 
 To pardon when aggrieved ; 
 
 Passion restraining : 
 
 With love no wrongs can chill. 
 To save, unwearied still, 
 
 The weak from falling : 
 This is to do God's will 
 On Earth, — and to fulfil 
 
 Our Heavenly calling.
 
 LOVE ABDICANT. 
 
 There is no living with him or without him. 
 
 Old Epigram. 
 
 Love resolved to abdicate, 
 
 Once upon a time, his throne ; 
 And, renouncing regal state, 
 
 Seek some wild to men unknown : 
 He was sick of their affairs ; — 
 
 Scorned o'er human hearts his power ; — 
 Ruling was a chain of cares, — 
 
 A bunch of thorns without a flower.
 
 302 LOVE ABDICANT. 
 
 Then his subjects were such noodles ; 
 
 Keady ever to rebel ! 
 Better reign o'er apes and poodles ! 
 
 They would serve him twice as well. 
 Oh ! the selfish human race, 
 
 By all sordid passions torn ! 
 How was Love to hold his place 
 
 In breasts so cold and hearts so worn ? 
 
 Love was very well, indeed, 
 
 While they'd nothing else to think of; 
 As the savages quaffed mead 
 
 Till they'd stronger stuff to drink of. 
 But let Ambition's voice be heard 
 
 To the tune of place or pelf, — 
 Then, the thankless crew averred, 
 
 Love was but a brainless elf:
 
 LOVE ABDICANT. 303 
 
 Or if the Phantom whom they name 
 
 Honour, looked their way, or Glory, 
 Wreathed with laurels grown by Fame, 
 
 Brandishing a sword all gory, — 
 Who, among them, might be trusted 
 
 To remember him one day ? 
 He'd go — for he was quite disgusted — 
 
 Far from human haunts away. 
 
 So the peevish little king 
 
 Orders gave, forthwith to pack 
 All his ' traps ' ; but still one thing 
 
 Kept his project somewhat back : 
 The question, namely, in his stead 
 
 Who upon the throne should sit ; 
 And the doubt what living head, 
 
 But his o^^m, Love's crown would fit.
 
 304 LOVE ABDICANT. 
 
 Truth to tell, he had a thought 
 
 Hanging, I believe, about him, 
 To return, when he had taught 
 
 How hard it is to do without him. 
 So, with excellent good sense, 
 
 He called a Council, and made known 
 His wish, being suddenly called thence, 
 
 To fill, 'pro tempore, the throne. 
 
 Then, ye Graces and ye Fates ! 
 
 There was voting and proposing ; 
 While crowds of rival candidates 
 
 Kept Love's doors from ever closing. 
 All the Passions, in a throng. 
 
 Came, at first, their chance to try : 
 But some could not tarry long ; 
 
 Many merely flitted by.
 
 LOVE ABDICANT. 305 
 
 'Mid those who stayed, on various pleas, 
 
 Friendship stood erect and staunch ; 
 But Fancy fluttered hke the breeze, 
 
 Longing Love's Kght bark to launch : 
 And Pity, tearful maiden, came. 
 
 She who comforts the forsaken, 
 With eyes that urged her gentle claim 
 
 Of being oft for Love mistaken. 
 
 Court opinions were divided. 
 
 Nor seemed likely to agree : 
 Love himself was undecided ; 
 
 But he issued a decree. 
 Stating that whoe'er was found 
 
 To use 'his arrows with most skill, 
 With his opal circlet crowned. 
 
 Love's rose-shaded throne should fill. 
 
 X
 
 306 LOVE ABDICANT. 
 
 So he made them set a heart, 
 
 But a mimic one, 'tis said, 
 As a target for each dart 
 
 By those archers to be sped. 
 Friendship was the first to shoot : 
 
 Ah ! he did not reach the mark ; 
 In the ground his shaft took root, 
 
 And shines when Love's horizon's dark. 
 
 Fancy was the next to try, 
 
 With sunny smile and waving hair ; 
 But she aimed so much too hio-h, 
 
 That her shaft was lost in air. 
 Then came Pity ; but in vain 
 
 To bend the bow did she essay ; 
 She shrank from seeming to give pain. 
 
 And glided mournfully away.
 
 LOVE ABDICANT. 307 
 
 Love was utterly provoked 
 
 At bungling doings such as these. 
 " Here I am, for ever yoked 
 
 To my royal dignities ! " 
 So he said ; — but yet he's restless ; 
 
 Threatening still to go, by starts. 
 Youths and maidens ! think how zestless 
 
 Life will be, if Love departs ! 
 
 X 2
 
 GIFTS FKOM THE DEAD. 
 
 Plant many flowers, dear children ! where 
 
 My grave they soon will make ; 
 And come and gather nosegays there. 
 
 And wear them for my sake. 
 Your little hands with blossoms fill. 
 
 Such as I used to give ; 
 A.nd be my memory with you still, 
 
 When I have ceased to live.
 
 GIFTS FROM THE DEAD. 309 
 
 Come and play there, when I am gone, 
 
 And fancy I am near ! 
 I shall be, if the Dead care on 
 
 For what in life was dear. 
 Kneel down together on the sod. 
 
 Before ye go ; and then, 
 With all your hearts, pray to our God, 
 
 That we may meet again.
 
 THE PORTEAIT. 
 
 There was a rich young Englishman, who had a 
 
 splendid home ; 
 But whose early predilections had led him much to 
 
 roam : 
 His parents both had died before his childhood's close ; 
 And he was his own master, to do whatever he chose. 
 
 His air was very noble, — his demeanour very bland ; 
 Very generous was his heart, and very liberal his 
 
 hand; 
 His spirits were unequal ; — now joyous, and then sad : 
 He was what the world in general, perhaps, would call 
 
 half mad.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 311 
 
 That is, he had some genius, with feelings very keen, 
 And a natural aversion to all thinofs coarse or mean : 
 His idol was the beautiful ; — his taste was so refined, 
 That he seldom could discover it exactly to his mind. 
 
 He loved to be alone, and to muse upon the past, 
 And also to conjecture how the future might be cast ; 
 The present he respected less and sometimes wished 
 
 it o'er : 
 To him, as to most Englishmen, it often was a bore. 
 
 The chief part of his life had in Italy been spent ; 
 
 In the land where Nature's charms are with Art's 
 
 perfections blent ; 
 In the land to lowest purpose with the highest gifts 
 
 endowed ; 
 Whose beauty hangs around her like a rich embroidered 
 
 shroud.
 
 312 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 And there he had become a deep worshipper of all 
 
 The splendours, yet unfaded, which adorn dead Free- 
 dom's pall ; — 
 
 The wondrous works, whose glory in that sun-lit 
 climate, speech 
 
 May not describe, or Fancy, in this sunless climate, reach. 
 
 It is very hard for one who has revelled, many a day. 
 In Art's and Nature's luxury, to tear himself away 
 From the scenes of their exuberance : — but my hero 
 
 heard some news, 
 Which called him home; — his agent's death, or — but 
 
 I don't know whose. 
 
 In short, he felt constrained, as a matter of stern duty. 
 To bid adieu forthwith to the sunlight and the beauty 
 On which his ardent soul had fed and, greatly to his 
 
 sorrow, 
 To set out upon his journey towards England on the 
 
 morrow.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 313 
 
 With a sympathising soul, that young Englishman I 
 
 And you wdll do so too, if you know the Eternal City, 
 Whose sources of enjoyment, at least, are never ending, 
 Where it happened, at that season, that his winter he 
 was spending. 
 
 Arrived in grim old England, he went down to his 
 
 estate, 
 In a temper much disposed to rebel against the fate 
 Which had given him English acres, and had cast his 
 
 dreary lot 
 Where by night the stars look small, and by day the 
 
 sun shines not. 
 
 He found a princely mansion, in perfect order kept ; 
 And, being fatigued with travelling, very comfortably 
 
 slept. 
 When he rose and to the window went, a hasty glance 
 
 to throw 
 Around upon the landscape— he saw a fall of snow.
 
 314 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 This was not very cheering to a South-bred constitution ; 
 He felt it quite impossible to muster resolution, 
 That morning, to go out ; he had no nerves for facing 
 The breezes which in England by the natives are 
 called bracing. 
 
 So he stayed at home and listened to the hailstones as 
 
 they pattered, 
 And the wind which whistled sadly, while his teeth in 
 
 concert chattered, 
 And his poor Italian greyhound, lying near him, shook 
 
 and shivered. 
 As if the very heart within her little body quivered. 
 
 That day he mused in solitude ; he did not try to read ; 
 But on Memory's varied diet allowed his thoupfhts to 
 
 feed : 
 This did not tend to reconcile him to his present case ; 
 And yet how many persons would have gladly filled 
 
 his place !
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 315 
 
 But a country-life in England was by no means his 
 vocation ; 
 
 As a man of high position there he valued not his 
 station ; 
 
 He had not the least talent, turn, or taste for legis- 
 lation ; 
 
 And cared but little how, or by whom, was ruled the 
 nation. 
 
 Then as for English field-sports, he held them in 
 abhorrence. 
 
 No wonder ! — having never seen them, but at Rome 
 and Florence, 
 
 Where steeple-chasing, certainly, fox-hunting and fence- 
 leaping. 
 
 Are somewhat with men's manners and the climate out 
 of keeping.
 
 316 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 He thought much like a friend of mine, a Roman, who 
 
 once said : 
 " I never can imagine how those Enghshmen are led 
 To risk their necks, and nothing but a fox's tail gain 
 
 from it : 
 Myself, I would not do it for the long tail of a comet ! " 
 
 It was fortunate, however, that his house was not devoid 
 Of interesting objects in the arts he most enjoyed : 
 There were plenty of fine pictures, and of sculptures a 
 
 good store ; 
 And his favourite occupation was to scan them o'er 
 
 and o'er. 
 
 One day, as rather listlessly, and with but little pleasure, 
 He went sauntering through the rooms, being very 
 
 much at leisure, 
 He came upon a door, which before he had not heeded. 
 And thought he'd stop and open it, ere further he 
 
 proceeded.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 31 7 
 
 He did so, and he entered then a small eight sided 
 
 room, 
 Where he could not see distinctly, by reason of the 
 
 gloom ; 
 For the shutters were all closed : but he opened them 
 
 and found 
 That the walls were quaintly panelled with black 
 
 polished oak around. 
 
 Yet, with no view to mourning did it seem to have 
 
 been built ; 
 For the cornices and mouldings were most superbly 
 
 gilt; 
 
 On the floor a costly carpet was extended soft and 
 
 bright ; 
 And the paintings on the ceiling might a connoisseur 
 
 delight.
 
 318 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 The hangings were of pale green silk ; but not a single 
 
 chair, 
 Or ottoman, or sofa, of any sort, was there : 
 It seemed some former inmate of the mansion had 
 
 thought fit 
 To make it rather difficult in that small room to sit. 
 
 A crimson satin curtain over one compartment hung ; 
 And, as if unstirred for years, tenaciously it clung ; 
 But he drew it up at once and beheld before him 
 
 there. 
 The portrait of a lady, young and exquisitely fair. 
 
 In studio upon studio, in galleries untold, 
 
 He had pored o'er the great masters, both the modern 
 
 and the old ; — 
 And examining their works for hours had often sat ; 
 But he never had seen beauty to be compared with that.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 319 
 
 And yet the type was Southern ; with those dark, rich, 
 
 velvet eyes, 
 In whose depths of tender softness half concealed the 
 
 radiance lies, 
 Till some passionate emotion brings it flashing forth to 
 
 view, 
 As vivid as forked lightning, and sometimes as baleful 
 
 too. 
 
 Entranced, enraptured, he gazed on ; till at last he 
 
 almost deemed 
 That the magic light of love from those eyes upon him 
 
 beamed ; 
 And expected that the lips of that finely chiselled 
 
 mouth 
 Would open, and pour forth the sweet accents of the 
 
 South.
 
 320 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 And when, with much rehictance, he tore himself away, 
 He could think of nothing else, the remainder of that 
 
 day: 
 So he called up an old servant who had lived there 
 
 many a year. 
 In hopes of that fair portrait some particulars to hear. 
 
 The aged man at first became extremely pale ; 
 
 And then with agitation he told a fearful tale 
 
 Of how the lovely lady painted there, in former times, 
 
 All lovely as she was, had been suspected of some crimes. 
 
 She had come from foreign parts, — but he knew not 
 
 whence, he said, 
 As the bride of him who happened to be then the 
 
 House's head ; 
 And her beauty had astonished all beholders, far and 
 
 wide ; 
 So she thought herself it well might be her chosen 
 
 husband's pride.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 321 
 
 But it came to pass unluckily that, after a short season, 
 He gave her, or she thought he did, for jealousy some 
 
 reason, 
 By his over kind attentions to one who filled the station. 
 In the family, just then, of a distant poor relation. 
 
 That young orphan, very suddenly, one evening disap- 
 peared : 
 
 She had gone into the river and had drowned herself 
 'twas feared : 
 
 But nought was known for certain, as she never could 
 be found ; 
 
 Though up and down they searched the stream for 
 many miles around. 
 
 Long afterwards chance brought to light what seemed 
 
 to be the bones 
 And apparel of a woman, lying loosely on the stones 
 Of a little secret staircase, which led down from a recess 
 In the octagon apartment where the lady used to dress. 
 
 Y
 
 322 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Her husband had suspicions ; at least, his manner 
 
 changed ; 
 He asked her not a question, but his heart seemed quite 
 
 estranged ; 
 And sometimes he had been seen to writhe and shudder, 
 
 while 
 She looked upon him calmly with a cold peculiar smile. 
 
 He pined away in spirit and he wasted in his strength, 
 As if some spell were on him, until he died at length : 
 Some thought it was by poison ; others fancied the 
 
 dark eye • 
 
 Of that beauteous foreign lady had a gift to make men die. 
 
 She died herself ere long ; and when on her death-bed. 
 She sent for a confessor ; or her tire-woman did, 'twas 
 
 said : 
 But the message came too late ; the holy man did not 
 
 arrive 
 In time the lady of her sins, wdiate'er they were, to 
 
 shrive : —
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 323 
 
 A thing much to be regretted; for tlien that guilty 
 dame 
 
 No more might have been seen, save in her picture- 
 frame ; 
 
 Instead of being free, at intervals, to roam, 
 
 And doubtless with no good intent, about her English 
 home. 
 
 'Twas thus, with much solemnity, the aged servant told 
 A tale which he believed would make his master's blood 
 
 run cold. 
 I know not if it did ; but I know that, the next day, 
 To the octagon apartment again he took his way : 
 
 And he gazed upon the portrait, as if he sought to drink 
 Into his soul, the spirit which appeared to feel and think 
 In every tint and feature of the wondrous beauty there : 
 " Fiend, murderess, or false woman," lie cried " I do 
 not care ! 
 
 V 2
 
 324 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Salvation I would risk, throughout eternity, to see 
 Those eyes for ever fixed with a loving look on me ; 
 To behold that face before me, that form still at my side ; 
 And, if phantom, that bright phantom to cherish as my 
 bride." 
 
 He scarcely had pronounced these awful words — the 
 
 wretched sinner! — 
 When he heard the great hall-bell which summoned him 
 
 to dinner. 
 Though he was not very hungry, he contrived to eat a 
 
 little, 
 And his conscience interfered not with his appetite a 
 
 tittle. 
 
 Soon afterwards, not knowing exactly what to do, 
 On a most luxurious sofa his languid limbs he threw : 
 He was always rather fond of thus taking his repose. 
 Were it sleeping — were it waking. — He now fell into a 
 doze.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 325 
 
 He had drawn the curtains open, and soft moonlight 
 
 through the room 
 Came, fantastically silvering various objects 'mid the 
 
 gloom ; 
 It fell upon his forehead, while tranquilly he slept ; — 
 He started and awoke, as if a w^ind had o'er him swept. 
 
 He looked up and saw a face close bent down to his own, 
 With a wavy veil of moonlight o'er the radiant features 
 
 thrown : 
 Around a stooping form his arms eagerly were pressed ; 
 He thought so ; — but they fell down quite empty on his 
 
 breast. 
 
 Yet still the life-like figure stood beside his couch and 
 
 stooped 
 Down o'er him, with a mocking laugh upon the face 
 
 which drooped ; 
 But he heard no sound of laughter, — and not the 
 
 lightest breath, 
 Except his own, was audible; — the room was still as death.
 
 326 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 And, from that fatal hour, where'er he went or stopped, 
 The phantom was beside him ; and if asleep he dropped, 
 He saw it bending o'er him the moment he awoke, 
 With noiseless mockinof lausfh : but not a word it 
 spoke. 
 
 Now, as you may suppose, he soon bitterly repented 
 Of having called a ghost up, which never once relented, 
 Or relaxed in its attendance ; or seemed to have a 
 
 notion 
 Of e'er ceasing to remark his every look and motion. 
 
 To him alone 'twas visible ; no other eye perceived 
 The thing which seemed a part of his ; — and few would 
 
 have believed 
 The truth, had he revealed it : — so he bore about the 
 
 curse, 
 In agony and silence, while his health grew worse and 
 
 worse.
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 327 
 
 Sometimes he tried to pray; — but lie could not; — for 
 
 that face 
 Always thrust itself between him and the hope of 
 
 Heavenly grace : 
 Yet he knew that if he prayed not, he never could be 
 
 free 
 From the phantom, or the demon, or whatever it 
 
 might be. 
 
 One day he told his servants that he meant to go 
 
 away, 
 And travel for a time ; how long he could not say : 
 His face was very haggard, and his eyes were veiy 
 
 wild. 
 And he looked as if he never from his birth had 
 
 lauo^hed or smiled.
 
 32S THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Nor since that dav and hour, have thev seen him anv 
 
 more ; 
 Thev thinlv he must be sTone to some verv distant 
 
 shore ; 
 And they hope that before long he will return quite 
 
 safe and well : 
 But when asked where he is now, they rejijly they 
 
 cannot tell. 
 
 One thino;. thoucrh verv curious, I scarcelv like to 
 
 mention. 
 For fear you should imagine it to be my own 
 
 invention : 
 'Tis that, after his departure, the curtain which had 
 
 shaded 
 Tlie portrait of the lady, was drawn up — and she hud 
 
 faded .'
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 329 
 
 Yes ! faded quite completely I — 'Twas impossible to 
 
 trace 
 A line or tint or feature of that perfect form and 
 
 face ; 
 And down upon their knees to pray the awe-struck 
 
 people sank, 
 Who made the strange discovery that the canvas was 
 
 a blank. 
 
 There is a monk in Italv who wanders to and fro : 
 His countenance is youthful, but his hair is white as 
 
 snow; 
 His Hps are always moving, and his eyes are on the 
 
 ground, 
 Except when, with a sudden start, he throws them 
 
 A;\'ildlv round.
 
 330 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 They say that once the Evil One had over him a power; 
 And, to free himself, he did a fearful penance at the 
 
 hour, 
 On a blessed Easter Morn, when He who died to save 
 The souls of sinful men arose in glory from the grave. 
 
 No one questions who he is ; — but the Holy Father 
 
 knows 
 The secret of his sins, his temptations, and his woes ; 
 For he gave him absolution on that blessed Easter day, 
 And his soul is surely saved, although his mind is gone 
 
 astray. 
 
 For they tell you he is mad — but as harmless as a dove. 
 Can he be that same young Englishman whose tale is 
 
 told above ? 
 If so, let us take warning how easy 'tis to fall 
 Into deadly sin and pray, '' The Lvid have mercy on 
 
 us all / "
 
 AFFECTION'S INSTINCT. 
 
 An mihi, inquam, potest, quidquam esse molestum, quod tibi gratum 
 futurum sit ? — Cicero, De Fato, Cap. 2. 
 
 Can it be irksome to fulfil 
 
 A single wish of thine ? 
 What heart and hand may work thy will 
 
 So zealously as mine ? 
 No task which thou can'st ever set, 
 
 Will be my strength above : 
 Nay ! do not doubt it, or forget 
 
 The omnipotence of Love !
 
 332 affection's instinct. 
 
 Ask the fond bird that leaves her nest, 
 
 To seek afar for food, 
 Whether she wearies of the quest 
 
 Which nourishes her brood. 
 We know that thus the bird must act, 
 
 To Nature's instinct true : 
 My Nature's instinct is, in fact, 
 
 Thy bidding, dear, to do.
 
 ii r- 
 
 TURBID RUN THE WATERS " 
 
 Turbias van las aguas, madre, 
 
 Turbias van, 
 Mas ellas aclararan. 
 
 Refrain of an old Spanish Song. — Anonymous. 
 
 '' Turbid run the waters, mother ! 
 
 The sky is overcast : 
 We must cheer up one another, 
 
 While storm and darkness last. 
 Soon will pass away this weather, 
 
 The waters will run clear ; 
 And we two will watch, together, 
 
 The sunshine rea^Dpear."
 
 334 " TURBID RUN THE WATERS." 
 
 Thus spoke a child-like maiden, 
 
 Whose heart was very light ; 
 Her mother's heart was laden 
 
 With grief concealed from sight : 
 But she smiled upon her daughter. 
 
 With dimly beaming eye ; 
 And clear became the water, 
 
 And cloudless grew the sky. 
 
 That young maiden life's deep sorrow 
 
 Had not begun to know ; 
 But she tasted, on the morrow, 
 
 The bitterness of woe : 
 For her mother lay enshrouded, 
 
 Stretched out upon her bier ; 
 But the sky was all unclouded. 
 
 And the waters ran all clear.
 
 THE BRIDAL AND THE SCAFFOLD. 
 
 I SAW lier, in her gorgeous beauty's pride, 
 Go forth triumphantly a worshipped bride : 
 The wreath of orange -flower was on her head ; 
 Roses along her path were thickly spread ; 
 Around her prayers and blessings filled the air ; 
 For she was loved as lovely, — good as fair. 
 He walked beside her in his glorious youth ; 
 His brow was stamped with genius, power, and truth ; 
 And the calm, noble glance of his dark eye 
 Bespoke the promise of a purpose high. 
 Onward they passed with gentle, stately grace ; 
 Faith in each heart, and gladness on each face.
 
 336 THE BRIDAL AND THE SCAFFOLD. 
 
 Years rolled away ; — I saw her once again. 
 
 No light of joy was on her features then ; 
 
 No flowers to meet her buoyant step were strewed. 
 
 Upon a scaffold^ hung with black, she stood 
 
 Beside her husband. He had cherished schemes, 
 
 Such as the young enthusiast patriot dreams, 
 
 When he rebels against a tyrant's laws ; 
 
 Whom, if he triumph in his country's cause, 
 
 As her Deliverer the nations hail ; 
 
 But brand his name with treason if he fail. 
 
 He had not triumphed : he was there to pay 
 
 His failure's awful penalty that day ; 
 
 And she, the angel of his happy past, 
 
 Was there to soothe his spirit to the last ; 
 
 To pour those accents on his closing ear 
 
 He loved, alike in joy and woe, to hear. 
 
 " Let no fond fear for me thy courage shake ! 
 
 God will protect me for my hero's sake. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! we do not part for long. 
 
 Thou hast been brave through life ; in death be strong."
 
 THE BRIDAL AND THE SCAFFOLD. 337 
 
 She knelt mth him and prayed. The latest prayer 
 That either made on earth, was offered there. 
 She rose not from her knees. The God, in whom 
 She trusted through her hour of deepest gloom, 
 Was with her now : and ere his soul was sped 
 To worlds of peace and freedom, hei^s had fled.
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 
 
 i Ay Dios de mi tierra ! 
 Saqueisme de aqui ; 
 
 i Ay, que Ingalaterra 
 Ya no es para mi! 
 
 \ Ay Dios ! de la parte 
 La mejor del suelo, 
 
 Con la que reparte 
 Sus dones el Cielo, 
 Mira el desconsuelo 
 
 Que yo paso aqui ; 
 
 i Ay, que Ingalaterra 
 Ya no es para mi ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Costly gems, sparkling brightly, 
 
 Before me are spread, 
 But I value tliem lightly : 
 
 Bring flowers in their stead.
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 339 
 
 Bring them ! bring, without number, 
 
 Bud, blossom, and bell, 
 All where wearied elves slumber, 
 
 Or young fairies dwell ; 
 
 All that softly are blushing, 
 
 Like children surprised, 
 Or young happy brides, flushing 
 
 With joy undisguised ; 
 
 All that die ere to-morrow 
 
 Can wither their bloom ; 
 Shunning thus coming sorrow ; 
 
 Oh ! be this my doom ! 
 
 Bring me all that are glowing 
 
 Beneath the Sun's smile ; 
 And all such as are growing 
 
 Where I grew erewhile. 
 
 z 2
 
 340 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 
 
 They will seem to bear greeting, 
 
 And give me a sign, 
 From the kindred hearts beating 
 
 Responsive to mine. 
 
 Bring my young sister's flower, 
 The sweet rose of May ! 
 
 How she loved our rose bower I 
 Are they in it to-day ? 
 
 Could I but hear them singing, 
 
 All joyous and free ! 
 Could their voices come ringing 
 
 O'er mountain and sea ! 
 
 Is my mother there, hearing, 
 With trembhng of heart, 
 
 Their gay songs ; fondly fearing 
 Lest they too depart ?
 
 THE ITALIAN IX ENGLAND. 341 
 
 But away mournfiil dreaming ! 
 
 For is not he nio-li, 
 With Italian love beaming 
 
 From his proud English eye ! 
 
 More flowers art thou bringing ? 
 
 Beloved ! from thy hand, 
 They look fairer than springing 
 
 In mine own flower-land. 
 
 The bright Italian ! with her girlish song 
 
 Of flowers and joy ! she did not sing it long 
 
 The bright Italian ! now intensely glad 
 
 With unimagined happiness ; now sad, 
 
 In Memory's melting mood ; — her faltering voice 
 
 Struggling in vain for accents to rejoice ; 
 
 Her lustrous eyes o'erflowing with the gush 
 
 Of feelings irrepressible, which rush 
 
 From the full heart, when some awakened thouglit 
 
 Comes welling up, with home and childhood fraught.
 
 342 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 
 
 How beautiful she was, that southern bride ! 
 How rarely beautiful ! Yet beauty's pride 
 Touched not her gentle spirit ; — left no trace, 
 To mar the magic of that faultless face, 
 Where all was harmony and trust and truth ; 
 The woman's softness in the glow of youth. 
 How beautiful she was, as flitting wild — 
 In grace a nymph, in joyousness a child — 
 She sported with the birds among the trees, 
 Or seemed to float upon the wooing breeze ! 
 How beautiful she was ! How like a flower, 
 Charmed into soul and sense and thought and power 
 To enjoy and to endure ; — to love and feel 
 Those inward wounds no hand but one can heal ! 
 He who had brought her from her sunny shore, 
 The idol won — soon worshipped it no more. 
 They said he was not cruel ; — only cold. 
 Alas ! that word her tale of suflering told. 
 Her southern nature could not bear the breath 
 Of chill Indifterence. — She drooped to death.
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 343 
 
 In England do not let me die ! 
 
 In peace I never could depart ! 
 This language hath no lullaby 
 
 To hush a breaking foreign heart. 
 Oh ! bear me to mine own dear land^ 
 
 To meet the love I find not here ; 
 And let some tender kindred hand 
 
 My pillow smooth, and deck my bier ! 
 
 Oh ! let me lay my aching head 
 
 Upon my mother's pitying breast ; 
 And hear around my dying bed, 
 
 My sisters singing me to rest ! 
 And let my brothers come and tell 
 
 The sorrow-stricken all their joys ! 
 In infancy they loved me well : 
 
 I love them still ; — the noble boys !
 
 344 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 
 
 I am become a thing alone, 
 
 And all about me foreign seems. 
 'Tis long since I have kindness known, 
 
 Except in quickly passing dreams. 
 The very Sun here looks not bright. 
 
 Is he a stranger on this shore ? 
 Oh ! give me back a day of light 
 
 In glorious Italy, once more ! 
 
 And lay me not in English earth, 
 
 Where none upon my grave would weep ! 
 Amid the scenes that hailed my birth, — 
 
 Where I am loved, — oh ! let me sleep ! 
 I have so striven for love in life ! 
 
 But I shall soon have ceased to live. 
 Be still, my heart ! no more of strife ! 
 
 Thy portion now is — to forgive.
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 345 
 
 What English foot would ever tread 
 
 Less heavily upon my tomb ? 
 What English eye would ever shed 
 
 A tear of pity for my doom ? 
 What English hand would dulv bring- 
 
 Fresh flowers to waste o'er me their breath ? 
 What Eno-lish voice would ever sino- 
 
 A dirge to wail my early death ? 
 
 Oh ! take me hence ! I cannot bear 
 
 The frowns of this cold northern sky : 
 Oh ! take me hence, and leave me there, 
 
 In mine own blessed land, to die ! 
 As to behold God's light, the blind, — 
 
 As captives languish to be free, — 
 As saints for heaven, ^ — so I have pined — 
 
 So pine — mine Italy ! for thee.
 
 346 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 
 
 She died in England. Long funereal trains 
 
 Of high-born mourners followed her remains, 
 
 And laid that broken heart in form beside 
 
 The buried matrons of a race of pride. 
 
 Her latest prayer, poor child ! they heeded not ; 
 
 But laid her there in state — to be forgot. 
 
 A richly sculptured monumental stone 
 
 Was placed o'er her who longed for love alone ; 
 
 And poets strove, in solemn-sounding verse, 
 
 Her pomp of birth and beauty to rehearse ; 
 
 The simple girl's, who used to sit, for hours, 
 
 Singing sweet songs and making wreaths of flowers ; 
 
 Then dart away, exultingly and free. 
 
 In a glad spirit's luxury of glee ! 
 
 She who so revelled in God's light and air, — 
 
 How can she rest in gloomy grandeur there ? 
 
 She who so yearned her weary eyes to close 
 
 On kindred bosoms, — how can she repose
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 347 
 
 'Mid strano-er-dust, in that chill land where otcw 
 Tlie only sorrow that she ever knew ? 
 But what avails all this ? Her single grief 
 Endured not long : her life was very brief.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 There is a country bouse which stands 
 
 Within a fair demesne : 
 Around it stretch old woods, broad lands, 
 
 And fields with waving grain : 
 Its gardens are the owner's pride, 
 
 For wealth of fruit and flowers ; 
 And strangers come from far and wide, 
 
 To ramble there for hours.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 349 
 
 The house itself is full of all 
 
 Which such a house should hold : 
 Choice pictures hang on every wall ; 
 
 Some modern and some old. 
 Sculptures, mosaics, carvings rare, 
 
 Scarce books of every kind, 
 Profusely scattered here and there, 
 
 Rejoice the eye and mind. 
 
 The furniture is gorgeous too ; 
 
 Although in perfect taste : 
 For lounging with inventions new 
 
 The drawing-rooms are graced : 
 You dance or play or sit at ease. 
 
 As quiet as a mouse : 
 In short, you do just what you please, 
 
 In that delightful house.
 
 350 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 One tiling alone seems somewhat strange 
 
 In all the rooms you pass, 
 From top to bottom if you range, 
 
 There's not one looking-glass. 
 You find with luxury replete, 
 
 And comfort, every nook ; 
 But not a mirror do you meet, 
 
 To tell you how you look. 
 
 The lovely portraits, full of grace, 
 
 Do not for this atone : 
 Most people think a painted face 
 
 Less charming than their own : 
 So, now and then, guests, having been 
 
 Forewarned of this defect. 
 Have brought a pocket-glass, and seen 
 
 What they did not expect.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 351 
 
 For, thence reflected, it is said, 
 
 They have beheld, entwined 
 With flowers, a skeleton's grim head, 
 
 Slightly towards them inclined. 
 Where one's own living head should bo. 
 
 It must be not a whit 
 Agreeable, methinks, to see 
 
 A skull instead of it, 
 
 A little pocket -glass but shows 
 
 What pocket-glass may do : — 
 A large-sized mirror would disclose 
 
 A more extensive view. 
 En grande tenue, you'd there behold 
 
 The spectre, full-length now, 
 Of one who in her grave is cold, 
 
 With roses round her brow.
 
 352 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 The flowers are natural and bright ; 
 
 The robe's of costly stulf ; 
 The jewels seem alive with light ; 
 
 And there is lace enough, 
 Of richest texture, to almost 
 
 Persuade a modern dame 
 To wish that she could be a ghost, 
 
 If she might wear the same. 
 
 The whole costume, though quaint, looks fresh 
 
 But, as I said before, 
 A shape of bones, devoid of flesh, 
 
 Displays it ; — neither more 
 Than just a skeleton, nor less ; 
 
 And, if you can conceive 
 A skeleton in full ball-dress. 
 
 My story you'll believe.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 353 
 
 It seems incessantly to dance 
 
 Old steps now out of date ; 
 You see it spring, recede, advance, 
 
 And then, with altered gait, 
 It glides, as if in thrilling guise 
 
 The music touched its soul ; 
 It certainly would roll its eyes, 
 
 If it had eves to roll. 
 
 That skeleton was once, they say, 
 
 A maid of high degree ; 
 The reigning beauty of her day. 
 
 As handsome as could be. 
 Lovers on lovers every art 
 
 To win her favour tried ; 
 Love found no room within her heart, 
 
 It was so full of pride. 
 
 2 A
 
 354 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 At length, a less unwilling ear 
 
 To one she seemed to lend ; 
 Confessed that he was very dear, 
 
 And called him her best friend. 
 He was as brave and true a knight 
 
 As ever drew a sword, 
 Where soldiers good defend the right, 
 
 Or sat at festal board. 
 
 She promised to become his wife ; 
 
 The wedding day was fixed ; 
 He loved her better than his life ; 
 
 But— -(when was joy unmixed 
 With some ingredient of regret ?) 
 
 War called him thence. — Yet she 
 Declared she never would forget 
 
 Her vow his bride to be.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 355 
 
 On his betrothed the knight bestowed 
 
 An heir-loom of his race ; 
 A looking-glass which never showed 
 
 Its gazing owner's face ; 
 But which was gifted with a power, — 
 
 I know not by what fate, — 
 Consulted at a certain hour, 
 
 To show its giver's state. 
 
 You may conceive her great delight 
 
 At having such a prize ; 
 And how she longed, all day and night, 
 
 To feast her loving eyes. 
 At the appointed hour, on him — 
 
 " Her noblest, dearest, best !" 
 And hoped the glass would not prove dim, 
 
 When summoned to the test. 
 
 2 A 2
 
 356 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 The glass proved clear as truth. Therein 
 
 She traced him on his way 
 To where his prowess was to win 
 
 Fresh laurels, day by day. 
 Ere long he reached the field of strife ; 
 
 And on that gory plain, 
 She saw him struggle for his life ; — 
 
 Then sink amongst the slain. 
 
 Her sorrow was extremely deep, 
 
 As you may well suppose ; 
 And bitterly it made her weep 
 
 To think that thus should close 
 Her plighted bridegroom's proud career : 
 
 That day, their marriage-feast 
 Was to have been : — " Would she were near 
 
 To bury him at least ! "
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 357 
 
 She knew, or thought, it was in vain 
 
 To look there any more ; 
 Yet could not, the next day, refrain, 
 
 Before the hour was o'er, 
 From one glance,— ah ! to be the last '— 
 
 She let the mirror fall, — 
 Startled to see him sleeping, fast 
 
 Chained to a dungeon's wall ! 
 
 This spectacle gave some relief; — 
 
 'Twas terrible, 'tis true ; — 
 Yet still it brought a change of grief, 
 
 With room for hoping too. 
 She trusted happier change to find ; 
 
 And so, for many a week, 
 Eeturned, with fond and anxious mind, 
 
 Her lover's fate to seek.
 
 358 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 She never found the slightest change, 
 
 Save being sometimes awake : 
 He looked^ chained in that prison strange^ 
 
 As if his heart must break. 
 It made the lady very sad 
 
 To see him always there ; 
 At times^ it nearly drove her mad 
 
 To witness his despair. 
 
 She knew she could give him no aid 
 
 By dwelhng on his woe, 
 Though down her life she would have laid 
 
 For his — or fancied so. 
 Her friends all told her that her bloom 
 
 Was fading fast away ; 
 'T would not, they urged, reverse his doom, 
 
 For her to turn to clay.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 359 
 
 She owned this argument's full force ; 
 
 And therefore she resolved 
 Not to the glass to have recourse, 
 
 Till twelve months had revolved. 
 Albeit phlegmatic, I think that, 
 
 Myself, was rather long : — 
 However, she grew cheery, fat, 
 
 Kose-coloured, fresh, and strong. 
 
 She ceased so often, by degrees. 
 
 Of that j)oor knight to think ; 
 And when some others sought to please, 
 
 Forgot to frown and shrink. 
 In short — (such things do come about, 
 
 It cannot be denied)— 
 She promised, ere the year was out. 
 
 To be another's bride.
 
 360 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 She fixed the weddmg-day, again, 
 On which she was to bless 
 
 A most devoted suitor: — then, 
 She planned her wedding-dress. 
 
 Her rich dark hair she meant to crown 
 With roses in full flower ; 
 
 Of gold brocade she chose her gown ; 
 Her gems were worth a dower ! 
 
 They sparkled, when she put them on, 
 
 As if they knew their place 
 On that fair form, and gladly shone 
 
 Their best, its charms to grace. 
 When the toilette was quite complete. 
 
 Its whole effect she tried ; 
 And, from her forehead to her feet. 
 
 Was fully satisfied.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 361 
 
 Strange ! when the wedding day arrived, 
 
 The wish, so long asleep, 
 As with a sudden start, revived, 
 In the charmed glass to peep. 
 The knight, chained in the dungeon still — 
 
 Its floor his only bed — 
 No longer felt the dungeon's chill ; 
 
 For he lay stiff and dead. 
 
 The lady, though much shocked, be sure ! 
 
 Soon rallied from the shock ; 
 And made the mirror quite secure, 
 
 Beneath a patent lock. 
 Then, being dressed — can you believe, 
 
 She lightly tripped down stairs, 
 Her guests with honour to receive, 
 
 Like one who had no cares ?
 
 362 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 
 
 Before the altar as she stood 
 
 With him, her chosen now, 
 Remembered she the brave and good, 
 
 Who once had had her vow 
 To bear his image in her heart 
 
 Down to the very tomb, 
 Nor from her phghted troth depart, 
 
 Whate'er might be his doom ? 
 
 They were a very goodly pair — 
 
 The bridegroom and his bride : — 
 He looked so noble — she so fair, 
 
 Close clinofino; to his side : 
 And when at night the mirrored hall. 
 
 To lead the dance, they gained. 
 She thought not of the dungeon's wall. 
 
 Or him who there lay chained.
 
 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES. 363 
 
 That hall had mirrors all around, 
 
 The lady to delight ; 
 For, truth to tell, she always found 
 
 Herself a pleasing sight : 
 And now, ere she began to dance, 
 
 On a tall glass she threw 
 An eager scrutinizing glance. 
 
 As she was wont to do. 
 
 Young ladies who are perjured should 
 
 Keflection's power eschew : 
 It seldom does them any good, 
 
 By showing what is true. 
 With eyes dilated wide, she stared ; — 
 
 For, in the bridegroom's stead, 
 She saw, to take her hand prepared, 
 
 The lover who was dead.
 
 364 THE LADY OF THE LOOKING GLASSES, 
 
 She could not stir, — slie could not speak,- 
 
 Tliough very hard she tried : 
 At last, she gave a horrid shriek, — 
 
 And then fell down and died. 
 This happened in that mansion fair ; 
 
 And, ever since that time. 
 She haunts all looking-glasses there, 
 
 In memory of her crime.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I cauuot but remember such things were, 
 That were most precious to me. 
 
 Shakespeaue. 
 
 Where are the flowers 
 We loved to gather, 
 
 In our brisfht hours 
 Of summer weather ? 
 
 Where are the birds 
 That warbled near us ? 
 
 Where are the words 
 That used to cheer us ?
 
 '^66 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Where are the smiles, 
 Whose memory pleasant 
 
 Of gloom beguiles 
 The smileless present ? 
 
 The hearts so true 
 That yearned to meet us, 
 
 And never orew 
 Less warm to greet us ? 
 
 Where is the song, 
 Now breathing sadness; 
 
 And then, ere long, 
 Replete with gladness ? 
 
 Where is the sound 
 Of clear young voices 
 
 Ringing around. 
 Till Echo rejoices ?
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 367 
 
 Where are the eyes, 
 In whose kindly glances 
 
 A magic lies, 
 Which all joy enhances ? 
 
 Where is the home 
 Of our youthful dreaming ? 
 
 How could we roam, 
 While its light was beaming ? 
 
 The flowers are dead ; 
 The birds have perished ; 
 
 All things have fled, 
 Which once we cherished. 
 
 The words of love, 
 So fondly spoken. 
 
 Are heard above, 
 Where no faith is broken.
 
 368 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 The smiles whose play 
 In memory lingers, 
 
 Are swept away 
 By Death's cold fingers : 
 
 The hearts are stilled 
 By Sorrow's hushing ; 
 
 They soon were chilled ; 
 They bore not crushing. 
 
 All — all — are gone ! 
 The eyes, whose kindness 
 
 So blandly shone, 
 Are wept to blindness. 
 
 All — all is dearth ! 
 The light has vanished ; 
 
 The sounds of mirth 
 Have long been banished.
 
 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 
 
 A chi fiori, a chi perle. 
 
 The coronal of pearls for thee, 
 
 The stately and the fair ! 
 The simple wreath of flowers for me, 
 
 To twine amid my hair ! 
 No pearl is whiter than thy brow, 
 
 Or purer than thy heart : 
 Here, sister ! take the pearls ; for thou 
 
 The pearl of maidens art. 
 
 2 B
 
 370 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 
 
 And thou slialt be a gentle queen, 
 
 All dignity and grace ; 
 The part will well beseem thy mien, 
 
 And thoughtful, noble face. 
 And I w^ill be thy favourite slave, 
 
 To lay me at thy feet ; 
 And, of the beautiful and brave. 
 
 Sing ditties old and sweet : 
 
 How, while a gallant Christian knight 
 
 Was gone, his sword to steep 
 In Paynim blood, his ladye bright 
 
 Remained at home to weep ; 
 And when, at last, the knight returned. 
 
 Upon a summer's day. 
 His castle to the ground was burned ; — 
 
 His ladye was away :
 
 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 37l 
 
 Or how a page, who went and came 
 
 At some proud baron's call, 
 Was found to be a beauteous dame, 
 
 And not a page at all : 
 Or how a lover bold made good 
 
 His entrance, in disguise, 
 To where his mistress sat or stood, — 
 
 Who knew him b}'^ his eyes : 
 
 Or how the daughter of a king 
 
 Loved a young troubadour, 
 And, when she heard him play and sing. 
 
 Or saw him smile, felt sure 
 She could prefer the open air 
 
 With him to royal bowers : — 
 So — Sister ! thou the pearls shalt wear, 
 
 And I will wear the flowers. 
 
 2 B 2
 
 372 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 
 
 There is a picture of those two fair girls, 
 
 One with her flowers, the other with her pearls, 
 
 And both so beautiful ! — but different. Mirth, 
 
 Ready to sport with all the things of Earth, 
 
 Which shrink not from the light and tender play 
 
 Of a young fancy, innocent as gay, 
 
 Smiles round one sister's mouth and in her eyes, 
 
 Where yet a fountain of deep feeling lies, 
 
 Which, with the gathering cares and griefs of years, 
 
 It seems must gush too surely forth in tears. 
 
 The other countenance is calmer ; fraught 
 
 With power of steadfast purpose and high thought. 
 
 And with a spirit that hath never bowed 
 
 To one mean foible ; — lofty but not proud : 
 
 Yet reigns such saintly sweetness through the whole, 
 
 You feel that Heaven alone can claim the soul 
 
 Which beams out thence, and deem that Angels trace, 
 
 Eeflected there, their own Angelic grace.
 
 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 373 
 
 'Tis long since they were painted thus ; and long 
 Since that glad maiden filled her home with song, 
 Or wiled away the happy, sparkling hours 
 In talk as bright and sweet as gems and flowers. 
 How either sister's lot in life was cast, 
 Is now a dream of the oblivious Past, 
 Which rarely gives its visions to the ken 
 Of Present- worshipping, Time-serving men. 
 They say that mirthful heart to one had clung. 
 Who broke it : so she died of sorrow, young ; 
 And the fair corpse and virgin bier were drest 
 With all the flowers which she had loved the best ; 
 Meet emblems of her flower-like life and doom, 
 Budding in hope — to be cut off in bloom ! 
 
 But she who, when young Life was on the wing 
 A thousand pleasures o'er her path to fling. 
 Set her aflections not on Earthly joys. 
 But on the treasure which no grief destroys.
 
 374 FLOWERS AND PEARLS. 
 
 Had garnered up her trust, her faith, her love, 
 
 Safe from corruption, in that world above, 
 
 Where hearts shall break not, flowers shall never fade ; 
 
 And of her coronal a rosary made.
 
 THE RANSOM 
 
 OF 
 
 BERTEAND DU GUESCLIN. 
 
 There was a Kniglit of world-wide fame ; 
 
 A Breton bold by birth ; 
 Bertrand Du Guesclin was his name, 
 
 Renowned throughout the Earth. 
 The hero of unnumbered figfhts, — 
 
 His arm was strong^ and sure, 
 And ever raised to guard the rights 
 
 Of all the weak and poor.
 
 376 THE RANSOM OF BEllTRAND DU GUESCLIN. 
 
 To Spain the bands of France he led, 
 
 King Henry's part to take ; 
 And helms were cleft and blood was shed, 
 
 A tyrant's yoke to break ; — 
 The cruel Pedro's galling yoke, 
 
 Which forced Castile to groan 
 For trampled hearts and spirits broke 
 
 Around his ruthless throne. 
 
 It was a woeful day for Spain, 
 
 Which saw Du Guesclin wield 
 His sword, for the first time, in vain, 
 
 Upon Naj era's field. 
 A grievous thing it was for France, 
 
 To see her Hero fail ; 
 And bitterly that evil chance 
 
 Did Brittany bewail.
 
 THE RANSOM OF BERTRAND BU GUESCLIN. 377 
 
 England's Black Prince performed but ill 
 
 A noble conqueror's part : 
 Amid a dungeon's gloom and chill 
 
 To cliafe away his heart, 
 The flower of chivalry he left. 
 
 Unnoticed and alone ; 
 Of every courtesy bereft, 
 
 By generous victors shown : 
 
 Till at the banquet once a word, 
 
 Dropped by some daring guest, 
 On honour's laws, compunction stirred 
 
 Within his royal breast : 
 Then conscience-stricken, straight he sent 
 
 To fetch the captive Knight ; 
 But to unseemly mirth gave vent, 
 
 When he beheld his plight.
 
 378 THE RANSOM OF BERTRAND I)U GUESCLIN. 
 
 Du Guesclin spoke, severely sad, — 
 
 Though captive, fearless still, — 
 And said : " To see me better clad, 
 
 Depends upon thy will : 
 My company of late, has been 
 
 But rats and mice ; — 'tis long 
 Since human faces I have seen. 
 
 Or heard a bird's glad song," 
 
 " Well !" quoth the prince, " Thou shalt go free ; 
 
 Thy prison life is o'er, 
 If only thou wilt promise me. 
 
 To fight for France no more ; 
 Nor yet for Henry the base-born." 
 
 " In prison I will die. 
 Rather than live at large, the scorn 
 
 Of every loyal eye."
 
 THE RANSOM OF BERTH AND DU GUESCLIN. 379 
 
 His bearing touched the prince, at length, 
 
 With keen though late remorse ; 
 He felt that soul's unvanquished strength. 
 
 And yielded to its force. 
 " Without condition thou shalt go, 
 
 Save that one always laid 
 On captive Knights, as thou dost know, — 
 
 That ransom meet be paid," 
 
 " Then send me forth on trust, nor fear 
 
 Lest I bring not the gold ; 
 The sum in hand, I shall be here 
 
 Ere many weeks be told." 
 " Thy word I know that thou wilt keep, 
 
 Like good Knight, as thou art ; 
 Compared with honour, holding clieaj) 
 
 All wealth ; and so depart ! "
 
 380 THE RANSOM OF BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN, 
 
 " Name thou the sum ! " he said again, 
 
 " I grant thee yet that grace." 
 " At sixty thousand florins, then, 
 
 My ransom I will place." 
 " Sir Knight ! To- offer such a sum, 
 
 Is mockery, by my fay ! 
 There's not a knight in Christendom, 
 
 That ransom who could pay." 
 
 " The Kings of France and of Castile, 
 
 Are true in heart and deed : 
 I've served them both with honest zeal 
 
 They'll helj) me in my need. 
 A hundred Knights I know full well. 
 
 In Brittany that be. 
 Who every rood of ground would sell. 
 
 To set Du Guesclin free.
 
 THE RANSOM OF BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. 381 
 
 " There's not a woman who can spin 
 
 A distaff- full of thread, 
 Within the realm of France, and win, 
 
 By toil, her daily bread, 
 Who would not labour with her hands. 
 
 To rescue me from thine : 
 I have not gold ; — I have not lands ; — 
 
 But wealth like this is mine ! " 
 
 So forth he sped, his honour's claim 
 
 On France's love to cast : 
 And flocking out the people came. 
 
 To see him as he passed. 
 They came to look upon the Knight, 
 
 Who had a sense so just 
 Of his own worth ; and knew he might 
 
 His King and Country trust.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 When Nature, awaked from her winter's sleep, 
 
 In her summer garb is drest ; 
 And field and garden a holyday keep. 
 
 Arrayed in their brightest and best ; 
 The rose, of all flowers which the garden grace, 
 
 Is the loveliest flower that grows ; 
 But a beautiful child's untroubled face 
 
 Is a lovelier flower than the rose.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 383 
 
 When we sit in the shade of some spreading tree^ 
 
 Where the mid-day glare enters not, 
 And think of the loved whom we fain would see, 
 
 Or muse on — we know not what ! 
 Very sweet is the song of the wood-birds wild, 
 
 As it comes with a gushing thrill ; 
 But the merry laugh of a joyous child, 
 
 In its glee, is sweeter still. 
 
 On the rippling waves the sunlight plays, 
 
 Like a sportive thing alive ; 
 And with the water the quivering rays. 
 
 In mockeiy, seem to strive. 
 Bright are the sunbeams, as gaily they dance, 
 
 Darting down from the clear blue sky ; 
 But brighter by far is the fearless glance 
 
 Of a child's unclouded eye.
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 Ylufinav S' ddavdrav cKpavrjs voos dvdpanrotcri. 
 
 Solon. 
 
 Seek not to penetrate, oh, man ! 
 
 Thy God's inscrutable design : 
 'Tis His thy destiny to plan : — • 
 
 To bow to His decree is thine. 
 Accept, unquestioning, the doom 
 
 Thou can'st not change, whate'er it be ; 
 Or joy or sorrow ; — nor presume 
 
 To search for what thou must not see.
 
 SUBMISSION. 385 
 
 Art thou afflicted ? Bear thy grief 
 
 With faith unswerving, courage firm : 
 Thou can'st not make an hour more brief 
 
 Thy suffering's appointed term. 
 Thy soul with mysteries do not vex, 
 
 Which human Keason cannot clear; 
 Do not thy intellect perplex ; — 
 
 Thy doubts will not be answered here. 
 
 Through Nature's overhanging mist, 
 
 Thine eye would strive to pierce in vain ; 
 Shall He who caused thee to exist, 
 
 Thy being's how and why explain ? 
 It is enough for thee to know, 
 
 'Mid fluctuating good and ill, 
 That happiness succeeds to woe. 
 
 As calm to tempest, at His will. 
 
 'A C
 
 THE MAIDEN'S THOUGHTS UPON WAR. 
 
 The warrior goes forth in gladness, 
 
 Kenown to reap : 
 The maiden remains in sadness, 
 
 At home, to weep. 
 
 He thinks of the soldier's glory 
 
 In death or life : 
 She thinks of the field — the gory 
 
 Field wild with strife. 
 
 She thinks of the slaughtered, lying 
 
 On that red plain ; 
 And the wounded who are dying 
 
 Amongst the slain.
 
 THE MAIDENS THOUGHTS UPON WAR. 387 
 
 She thinks of the widowed mother, 
 
 Whose son is there, — 
 The sister, whose only brother 
 
 Needs now no prayer ; 
 
 Of the young bride, left to languish 
 
 Alone, in tears, — 
 The betrothed, whose parting anguish 
 
 May last for years ; 
 
 Of the motherless, still yearning 
 
 To see the brave. 
 Loving father, who is earning 
 
 A distant grave. 
 
 She thinks of the battle's morrow, 
 
 When tears are shed. 
 That forestall a Nation's sorrow 
 
 For Heroes dead. 
 
 2 c 2
 
 388 THE maiden's thoughts upon war. 
 
 She thinks of the captured city, 
 
 Whose houseless bands 
 Go to seek a home and pity 
 
 In foreign lands ; 
 
 Of the aspect of Creation, 
 
 In peace so fair ; 
 And the hideous Desolation 
 
 Now brooding there. 
 
 She thinks of Nature's beauty 
 
 In bright, calm joy ; 
 And asks : " Can it be man's duty 
 
 God's works to destroy ? " 
 
 Thus she ponders o'er men's madness, 
 With heart that bleeds ; 
 
 While she stays at home in sadness, 
 To mourn men's deeds.
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 Come ! clear that cloudy weather, 
 
 Old comrade, from thy brow ! 
 We have lived in love together 
 
 Too long to quarrel now. 
 Life's battle, side by side, 
 
 From boyhood, we have fought ; 
 And shared whate'er the tide 
 
 Of fickle Fortune brouiO^ht.
 
 390 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 Together we have striven 
 
 To win the smiles of Fame ; 
 And prized the guerdon given, 
 
 Because to both it came. 
 We have passed through perils strange, 
 
 Linked close by hopes and fears ; 
 And shall a moment change 
 
 The constancy of years ? 
 
 As brother's unto brother, 
 
 Our hearts have fondly clung, 
 Still trusting one another, 
 
 The doubting herd among. 
 Oh ! what is human truth, 
 
 If ours was but a dream, 
 A phantasy of youth, 
 
 A sparkle on life's stream ?
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 391 
 
 Beside the loved and dying. 
 
 Too'ether we have knelt 
 In griefs communion, trying 
 
 To master what we felt : 
 Together we have soothed 
 
 The pangs of parting breath ; 
 Toofether we have smoothed 
 
 The rugged path of Death. 
 
 We have been so used to mingle 
 
 Our feelings at their source, 
 That either current, single, 
 
 "Would stagnate in its course. 
 The same as long ago, 
 
 Our sympathies, old friend, 
 United still must flow. 
 
 Till thought and memory end !
 
 A DIKGE. 
 
 The passing bell 
 
 Is tolling to tell 
 That her spirit is on its way 
 
 To a home of love, 
 
 In some region above, 
 Where shines an eternal day. 
 
 Her lot on Earth 
 
 Was cast 'midst a dearth 
 
 Of all that makes Earthly bliss : 
 Her soul's wings are unfurled 
 To seek^ in that world, 
 
 What she never found in this.
 
 A DIRGE. 393 
 
 Her portion, here, 
 Was trouble and fear, 
 
 And a restless sense of woe : 
 She will soon be where 
 Neither Sorrow nor Care 
 
 His aspect stern may show. 
 
 'Tis over ! She's gone ! 
 
 Scatter Howers upon 
 The poor corpse's painless bed ! 
 
 Free from sufferinsf to live. 
 
 Since we could not give. 
 At least, let us honour the dead !
 
 COUNT NOT ON TO-MORROW. 
 
 AvdpcjTros €cbv, /xTjiTore (pr)a7]i on yiveraL 
 Avpiov, fxrjC^ civSpa IBaiv oX^iov oacrov xpovov ecrcrfrm. 
 QKela yap ov8e ravvTrrepvyov pvias 
 OvTbos a peTiiaraais. 
 
 SiMONIDES. 
 
 AvdpcoTTOs ecTTi TTvevp-a Koi aKia povov. 
 
 Thou mortal ! count not on to-morrow, 
 
 Whose light thou mayest not see ; 
 Or which may bring thee nought but sorrow, 
 
 If livina" still thou be. 
 Human existence is a bubble, 
 
 A shadow, or a breath : 
 Its only certainty is trouble ; 
 
 Its only refuge — Death.
 
 COUNT NOT ON TO-MORROW. 395 
 
 And should'st thou find, in outward seemino- 
 
 A man supremely blest ; 
 And see upon his features beaming 
 
 The sunshine of his breast ; 
 Deem that his brow will soon be clouded 
 
 By grief and doubt and care ; 
 And his fair prospects be enshrouded 
 
 In darkness and despair. 
 
 The term of joy is quickly ended ; 
 
 Sorrow's may be less brief : 
 The insect, with its wings extended 
 
 To flit from leaf to leaf, 
 Is not so rapid in its darting 
 
 Through summer's flowery show, 
 As human gladness in departing, 
 
 And giving place to woe.
 
 WEEP NOT 
 
 Bnjuga, Fills, los ojos, 
 Que el tiempo podra curar 
 Lo que no tu cou Uorar. 
 
 No hay peligro tan ligero 
 Que con llorar se asegure, | 
 Ni mal que el tiempo no cure, 
 Por desvariado y fiero ; 
 El reparo verdadero 
 El tiempo te lo ha de dar, 
 Que no, Filis el llorar. 
 
 Lms Galvez de Montalto. 
 
 Weep not ! In vain thy tears thus wildly flow ; 
 
 No tears can ever wash away thy grief: 
 Trust to old Father Time to soothe thy woe — 
 
 Of this world's kindly comforters the chief. 
 He hath a charm the raging storm to calm; 
 
 Nor winds nor waves his magic may withstand 
 For wounded hearts he hath a healing balm, 
 
 And pours it gently forth with tender hand.
 
 WEEP NOT ! 397 
 
 Restrain thy tears ! In agony to weep, 
 
 From suffering will not purchase thy release : 
 
 Time, only Time, can lull thy cares to sleep. 
 And give to thy distracted spirit peace. 
 
 Cease then to weep, and see what Time will do ! 
 For hast thou not, dear lady, heard it said— 
 
 And dost thou not believe the saying true- 
 That Sorrow ever upon tears is fed ?
 
 THE THKONE AND THE BIEE. 
 
 Feretri e Troni awicendati, ecco il mondo, ecco la vita. 
 
 That young King wore this morning 
 
 A crown upon his brow ; 
 Death's violets are adorning 
 
 His paUid forehead now : 
 His Courtiers were inventing 
 
 New pomps to grace his state ; 
 His People are lamenting 
 
 His unexpected fate.
 
 THE THRONE AND THE BIER. 399 
 
 Another has ascended 
 
 That youth's forsaken throne : 
 Thousands of cries have blended 
 
 His name into one tone ; 
 Thousands of tongues are citing 
 
 Old stories in his praise ; 
 Thousands of souls uniting 
 
 To wish him length of days. 
 
 Glad multitudes, assembling, 
 
 With shouts the breezes fill ; 
 A Nation's ho2:)es are trembling 
 
 Upon his future will ; 
 Waked echoes are resounding 
 
 With auguries of good ; 
 His subjects' hearts are bounding, 
 
 As hearts of subjects should.
 
 400 THE THRONE AND THE BIER. 
 
 How lately they were grieving 
 
 For one as good and just, 
 Whom Earth is now receiving, 
 
 To mingle with her dust ! 
 A throne to-day, a bier to-morrow, 
 
 This is the lot of Kings ; 
 Constant exchange of joy for sorrow, 
 
 The course of human things.
 
 A CHAKACTER. 
 
 He was a man as brave and wise and ofood 
 
 As ever drew a loyal sword, or stood, 
 
 The cliamjDion of his country and his kind, 
 
 Where statesmen plead, and mind encounters mind. 
 
 He had the gift to set all hearts at ease : 
 
 The little children, gathering round his knees, 
 
 Looked up with trusting fondness to those eyes, 
 
 Whence beamed a spirit prompt io sympathize 
 
 With every childish woe and wish and joy : 
 
 At boyhood's call he was himself a boy ; 
 
 •2 I)
 
 402 A CHARACTER. 
 
 With all the eager, generous thoughts that gush 
 From happy boyhood's fount of hope, and rush 
 In light-reflecting, full, impetuous tide. 
 Through life's imagined fields of hope and pride. 
 The sunny temper his, the spotless truth, 
 That gild all ages with the glow of youth ; 
 His the clear sense, the ready tongue and bold. 
 That win a hearing from the sage and old ; 
 His the persuasive eloquence whose charm 
 Envy can soothe and Enmity disarm ; 
 The virtue his all virtue's grace to feel, 
 And borrow ardour from another's zeal. 
 His was the Charity that takes a part 
 In every pang of every breaking heart, 
 And, when its aid is vain to give relief, 
 Minof'les its sorrow with the sufferer's o-rief 
 His was aspiring Genius, plumed to soar 
 Above Earth's trammels ; yet returning more
 
 A CHARACTER. 403 
 
 Bound by Earth's sympathies, from every flight 
 Beyond the common scope of Earthly sight ; 
 As if it rose, on Heaven-directed wino^, 
 To Fancy's glorious regions, but to bring 
 From brighter worlds, to mortal ken unknown, 
 Divinely radiant visions to its own. 
 
 '1 D
 
 THE FRUITLESS QUEST. 
 
 Buscaudo el amor primero 
 Que no se olvida jamas. 
 
 Bernardo de la Vega. 
 
 Oh ! she is gone to seek 
 
 For what she will not find ; 
 If simply I may speak, 
 
 And openly, my mind : 
 For she is gone to look — 
 
 At least, she told us so — 
 For the Love that she forsook, 
 
 So very long ago.
 
 THE FRUITLESS QUEST. 405 
 
 She fain would gather up 
 
 The fragments of the past, 
 Though shattered be the cup 
 
 Which from her, then, she cast : 
 She scarcely can expect 
 
 To find Love cherished still, 
 In the heart which her neglect 
 
 So cruelly did chill. 
 
 And yet, they say, first Love 
 
 Ne'er quits the human breast ; 
 But sleeps there, like a dove 
 
 Spell-bound within her nest, 
 While Memory watches o'er 
 
 The numb and torpid form, 
 Which used to be, of yore, 
 
 So animate and warm.
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 Come ! let us only laugh to-day ; 
 
 And weep, if weep we must, to-morrow ; 
 Snatch the bright present while we may, 
 
 And give the future up to sorrow. 
 This hour, at least, is thine and mine, — 
 
 A still unalienated treasure ; 
 We'll vow it at Enjoyment's shrine, 
 
 And dedicate the gift to Pleasure.
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORllOW. 407 
 
 What though a thickening gloom enshrouds 
 
 The sky, foreboding stormy weather ? 
 The sun breaks always through the clouds, 
 
 When merry hearts are met together. 
 The sages say, and it is true, 
 
 This world is over full of sadness : 
 The fault's not ours ; — and so we two. 
 
 To-day, will think of nought but gladness. .
 
 COLD WORDS. 
 
 Cold words have been spoken, 
 The soft spell is broken 
 
 Which swayed my heart : 
 Thy beauty remaineth, — 
 But now it enchaineth 
 
 Me not. — We part. 
 
 Thy sun shines so brightly 
 To-day, that too lightly 
 
 Thy pride takes wing : 
 A darker to-morrow 
 Some deep shade of sorrow 
 
 O'er thee may fling.
 
 COLD WORDS. 409 
 
 Then while thou art keeping 
 Lone vigils and weeping, 
 
 Tliou'lt think of me, — 
 And murmur endearino- 
 Old names. — Out of hearing 
 
 Far, I shall be.
 
 GLOEY BEFOKE WEALTH. 
 
 KaXcos cLKOveiv fiaXKov fj TrkovTelv deXe. 
 
 I SAY not wealth should be despised, 
 
 As we are often told : 
 I say that Glory should be prized, 
 
 As worth far more than gold. 
 Little our wealth may be, or much, 
 
 As Fortune's die is thrown ; 
 Our Glory she can never touch : — 
 
 That treasure is our own.
 
 GLORY BEFORE WEALTH. 411 
 
 Not all the heaps of golden store 
 
 A man can save or gain. 
 Will ever make a wound less sore, 
 
 Or mitigate a pain : 
 But Glory hath a soothing charm, 
 
 To calm the struggling breath, — 
 Disease of anguish to disarm. 
 
 And take its sting from Death. 
 
 Riches will often eat and burn 
 
 The very heart away ; 
 Or, like the wizard's money, turn 
 
 To leaves, and fly away : 
 But Glory's lustre shall endure 
 
 While Ages onward roll ; 
 Awakening noble thoughts, and pure. 
 
 In every kindred soul.
 
 412 GLORY BEFORE WEALTH. 
 
 Should liappy chance, and not unjust, 
 
 Increase thy wealth's amount, 
 Remember that it is a trust, 
 
 For which thou must account. 
 In Virtue's cause thy riches use, 
 
 As prompts the inward voice ; 
 But if thou hast the power to choose, 
 
 Let Glory be thy choice.
 
 " WHERE MAY NOT LOVE BE FOUND V 
 
 5lmor ift in alkn ddm. 
 
 Karl Kdcnv. 
 
 Where may not Love be found ? 
 
 Go search the world around, 
 And mark the spot 
 Where Love is not ! 
 
 Go to the battle-field, 
 
 Where faith with blood is sealed, 
 And heroes fall 
 At Honour's call ;—
 
 414 ''where may not love be found?" 
 
 See the young soldier clasp 
 Within his dying grasp, 
 
 Convulsed and tiof-ht, 
 
 Some token slight, 
 
 Memorial of the past : — 
 That memory is the last 
 
 Which fills his prayer. 
 
 Is not Love there ? 
 
 Beside the sleepless bed, 
 
 Whence Health and Hope have fled. 
 
 For good or ill. 
 
 Love lingers still. 
 
 Amongst the rich and great, 
 Unawed by pomp and state, 
 Laughing he showers 
 Bright, odorous flowers.
 
 (< 
 
 WHERE MAY NOT LOVE BE FOUND?" 415 
 
 He does not shun the poor : 
 He lights their lot obscure, — 
 
 Their home endears, — 
 
 Their labour cheers. 
 
 While there's a human soul 
 To feel from pole to pole, 
 
 Love will remain 
 
 On Earth, — and reign.
 
 TRUTH-TELLING. 
 
 ■. . . . aXrjf'eit] fie napecrrco 
 Sot Koi efio\, TrdvTWV xprj/ia ^iKaioraTOv. 
 
 3I1MNERMUS. 
 
 " Let there be truth between us two, 
 
 Though false be all the world beside ! 
 If ever woman's words were true, 
 
 Be yours so now ! (a lover cried) 
 I know that, at your beauty's shrine, 
 
 A thousand tales of love are told, 
 And vows are paid, — worth more than mine 
 
 May be, perhaps ; — at least, in gold.
 
 TRUTII-TELLING. 41' 
 
 " Give me, at once, despair or hope ! 
 
 I will not with suspense be cursed : 
 With certain misery I can cope, 
 
 And challenge Fate to do her worst. 
 Then let me hear the very truth, 
 
 Out spoken from your heart's deep core, 
 Without reserve, remorse, or ruth ; — 
 
 Although it bid us meet no more !" 
 
 In half defiant attitude, 
 
 With quivering lip and flashing eye, 
 The haughty youth imj)atient stood. 
 
 Waiting to hear the maid's reply. 
 He waited long ; — she did not speak ; 
 
 But to her brow the pure blood rushed. 
 And mantled richly o'er her cheek. 
 
 Was it for love or pride she blushed ? 
 
 2 E
 
 418 TRUTH-TELLING. 
 
 At last, she said, with accents grave, 
 
 And countenance almost severe : 
 " I know man never yet forgave 
 
 A truth he was not pleased to hear ; 
 But, since you thus insist, the whole. 
 
 Unvarnished truth I e'en will tell : 
 (A smile across her features stole) 
 
 The truth then is — I love you well."
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 From the Germax of ScnaEiBER. 
 
 Through the Winter's storms we slumbered 
 On our mother's quiet breast ; 
 
 Friendly little sprites, unnumbered, 
 
 Called us forth, at Spring's behest, . 
 
 Streams are murmuring ; streams are bringing 
 Life, whose freshness through us flows ; 
 
 Birds awake us with their singing ; 
 Breezes rock us to repose. 
 
 2 E 2
 
 420 FLOWERS. 
 
 Hundred-coloured, our adorning, 
 Without toil, our mother weaves ; 
 
 And she makes pure dews of morning 
 Bridal gems, to deck our leaves. 
 
 Sweetest odours, lightly waving, 
 Through the glad air scatter we ; 
 
 Youthful myriads are laving, 
 Ever, in that fragrant sea. 
 
 • When rude Winter threats to rend us. 
 To our mother we'll retreat ; 
 When his storms are passed, she'll send us 
 Out, the festive Spring to greet.
 
 OLD GERMAN GRAVE-SONG. 
 
 From the German of ScnREiBBR. 
 
 He hath fallen full of glory ; 
 
 Give him in the grave his shield ! 
 From their cloudy dwelling hoary, 
 
 Now his Fathers see this field. 
 
 In the coffin ye are closing, 
 Lay his sword, blood-satisfied ; 
 
 He can never know reposing, 
 If it be not by his side. 
 
 Round his tomb, unfelled, unbroken, 
 Let a young oak-forest stand : 
 
 When he wakes, 'twill be a token 
 That he lies in German land.
 
 TRANSLATION OF AN OLD GERMAN SONG. 
 
 (/ CV 
 
 3d? tanx »oiu ^^crge i)eruber." 
 
 I CAME from afar o'er the mountain ; 
 
 The old house was standing there still ; 
 From the lattice that looks on the fountain, 
 
 As of yore, my love gazed towards the hill. 
 
 A new lover, alas ! she has taken ; 
 
 In the field and the fight I was then : 
 All is changed now, and I am forsaken : 
 
 I wish there M^as fighting again !
 
 TRANSLATION OF AN OLD GERMAN SONG. 423 
 
 High on the old oak tree I bounded ; 
 
 The forests, they murmured so hght ! 
 My horn, — oh ! how mournful it sounded, 
 
 Like a voice in a dream, all that night ! 
 
 When the birds sang at dawn, broken-hearted, 
 My love, she was weeping full sore : 
 
 Like a thought of the past, I departed ; — 
 She sees me again never more.
 
 GIPSY SONGS. 
 
 From the German of Vogel. 
 
 The howling wind sweepeth the heathy plain o'er ; 
 The glimmering stars shine in the heavens no more 
 One watch-fire still gleams in the desert alone ; 
 Beside it we sit on a moss-covered stone. 
 
 Unshrinking, we bare to the temjoest our breast ; 
 It damps not our mirth and it mars not our rest : 
 We cower or we sit or we stretch us along, 
 To the merry guitar — to the glad-ringing song.
 
 GIPSY SONGS. 425 
 
 We are here — we are there — ever roaming around ; 
 A stone is our pillow ; — our couch is the ground ; 
 The stars are our guides ; — heaven's vault is our shield ; 
 And a trusty right arm is the weapon we wield. 
 
 We sue not — we toil not — for gear or for gold : 
 The world is before us — to have and to hold : 
 We brook not to tarry where men's dwellings be ; 
 To the desert we hasten — and feel ourselves free. 
 
 Sleep well, my comrade ! sleep well in the stranger- 
 land ! 
 
 We bury thee, just where thou died'st, — all loosely in 
 the sand. 
 
 Now go we hence ; but, whither, to only Fate is known ; 
 
 And we leave thee here, behind us, in thy desert-grave 
 alone.
 
 426 GIPSY SONGS. 
 
 No mound may mark the place, upon this barren plain, 
 Where thy lonely rest thou takest, after all thy weary 
 
 pain; 
 And careless, o'er thy grave, — because he even must, 
 The traveller will pass — and trample on thy dust. 
 
 No tear-dewed face, henceforth, shall o'er this spot be 
 
 bowed. 
 Unless the moon look down upon it from a watery cloud : 
 No voice shall ever utter here another wailingf sound. 
 Unless a hungry night-wolf should come and howl 
 
 around.
 
 AjeT\ ft) ^7rdpra<; evdvBpov 
 Kovpoi, Trarepcov TVoXtrirai,, 
 
 Aaia fiev trvv Trpo/SdXeade, 
 
 Aopv evrokixcos ^dWovres, 
 
 Mr} (^eihoijuevoi ra? ^(ods' 
 
 Ov yap Trdrpiov to. ^Trdpra. 
 
 Tyrt^us. 
 
 (translation.) 
 On ! youths of Sparta's glorious race ; 
 
 Co-citizens of valiant sires ! 
 On ! on ! and shield your native place, 
 
 And hurl, with arm that never tires, 
 The well-aimed spear ! Life do not spare ! 
 Life never yet was Sparta's care.
 
 OuSev ev auOpcoTroiai fxevet XPIH^ ^/^^r^^ov alel. 
 
 "Ev he TO KciXXtcrrov Xto^ eeiirev dvijp' 
 " OlrjTrep <pvWo3v yever), TOii]Se koI dySpcov." 
 
 Ilavpot, fjLiv 6v7)T(t)V ovacrt Be^d/xevoi 
 HrepvoL^ ijKaridevTo. IldpeaTt yap cXttIs eKdcTCp, 
 
 AvSpwv 7]Te vicov arrjOecrtv ifjicfyverai. 
 OuTjTMv S' 6(f)pa Tis dvOos e')(6i TToXvijparov ^/Stjs, 
 
 Kovcpov e-^wv Ov^Jbov, ttoXX! drekeara voel. 
 Oure yap iXirlS" e^et yrjpaaae/jiev, ovre davelcrOai, 
 
 OvS\ vyir}<; orav y, (^/^oj'T/S'e^et KUfjudrov. 
 NrjTTioi, ols ravry Kelrac voos, ouSe r taaaiv, 
 
 'fls 'X^povo'i eaG' ij/Srjs koX ^lotov oX/709 
 ©UTjTOLS. AWd av, ravra /xadoov, ^lotov ttotI repfxa 
 
 ^^XV '^^^ dyaOoiV rXrjOc ;T^apt^6/xe;'09. 
 
 SiMONIDES.
 
 (translation.) 
 Change is man's lot and nought is steadfast here. 
 
 One thins" the Chian said, most wise and true : 
 
 " Man's race is as the race of leaves." But few, 
 That truth receiving witli attentive ear, 
 Lay it to heart ; for Hope to all is near. 
 
 She clings to youthful bosoms. While the hue 
 
 Of manhood's flower is fresh with youth's bright dew, 
 To man's light spirit all things light appear. 
 
 Thoughtless of Age and Death, it weaves, in vain, 
 Plans not to be completed. In the pride 
 
 Of health, none dream of sickness or of pain. 
 Fools ! who know not how speedily Youth's tide, 
 
 And Life's, must ebb. But thou, taught this, abstain 
 Not from Life's joys: — unmoved. Life's term abide.
 
 PRINTED BT HARRISON AND SONS, 
 
 ST. martin's i.ane, ■^v.(^
 
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