THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES MINSTRELSY OF WAR; § H 3L M € T 2 Where strange ships come unhail'd ; The same loud surges angry roar, But England's might hath vail'd. " The seaman, once our country's boast, Dismiss'd, neglected, spurn'd, Hath sail'd for ever from our coast, And foreign wages earn'd. " We see the Frenchman boldly ride Where once we spread dismay ; For Britain's glory, like a tide, In shame hath ebb'd away. " The songs that us'd to soothe our rest Where we are coldly laid, Would seem like some sad empty jest, Since England is betray'd. " The mermaid sang them round our graves, In azure depth below, Beneath the cool pellucid waves, Where coral treasures grow. " Those stirring songs of by-gone years, We may not hear them more ; For England, trembling in her fears, Hath still'd her lion-roar. 14 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " No more ' Britannia rules the waves,' Stripp'd by her own behest; Awake, ah ! be not willing slaves, Arm yet each manly breast. " No fight disash-ous hath been fought, No conqueror trod her deck ; Her flag not struck, the deed not wrought- Her soul the only wreck. " Curst be the sentimental fool That preaches disarray, And thrice more curst the hireling tool Who scribbles to betray ! " And curst be he, whose aid is slack To gird our native land, To hurl defiance doubly back On the invading band. " Go, shake your rulers up from sleep ! The day approaches fast ; We heard the Spirits of the deep Speak hoarsely through the blast. " They told of Cherbourg's proud array And mourn'd our ancient flag, That from each yellow hulk's decay Now flutters like a rag. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 15 " ' The fate of England still,' " they cried, " ' Is in her children's power; She still may flourish Freedom's bride, Or fall in one sad hour. " It is her own to do or die, To perish or be great; The shot is cast, the day is nigh, Prepare ye, ere too late.' " " By Albion's coast in evening skies We saw the fight rehearsed, "We gaz'd aloft with upturn'd eyes On watery fleets revers'd. " We heard the thunders fast and loud, We saw the foe advance ; We might not pierce that sulphurous cloud Though with a spirit glance. " None, none could tell, save One alone, The issue of the fight ; The flag that last proud held its own, Was snatch'd by coming night. " But this we know, soon comes the fray Ye may not shun — Prepare ! " Then died the warning voice away Athwart the sullen air. 16 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. And soon I heard a moaning sound As if through cordage stray 'd, Or when the wind sweeps o'er the ground Where hollow guns are laid — All in the rank long grass that grows By some dismantled fort, Where rusty cannon shot in rows Are pil'd for children's sport. Unto their briny chambers fast Down sank the spectres grim : Old Ocean whiten'd 'neath the blast Of morning chill and dim. Nov. 1850. THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. Toll for the great departed ; And let each passing bell From abbey and cathedral Ring out its deep-ton'd knell. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 17 *From village spire and hamlet — Let all bear solemn part ; The aged oak is wither'd That grew from every heart. Set is the sun of glory That on a hero shone, To rise but in remembrance — Our Wellington is gone ! Like some tall ship at twilight, Seen through a summer day, Softly, as evening shadow, His presence pass'd away. Let England's meteor banners In heavy folds float low, For him that never vail'd them Before her mightiest foe. A people's prayers are wafting On high the spirit fled, A nation's sighs are stirring The plumes around his bed. Let Britain's tearful Genius Gaze on his face once more, Her sable garments sweeping The consecrated floor. 18 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. In the green leaf of honour His old age sank to rest; Fresh is yon crown of laurel That lies upon his breast. As when new-wreath'd by Fortune It deck'd his brow in youth, Stamp'd with the noble bearing Of valour, wisdom, truth. There is a cloud o'er Britain, A shade athwart the land ; Like marble figures mourning The sadden'd Hours stand. Our spell of peace is broken, Our guardian angel fled ; Dimm'd is the Past's great token, Since Wellington is dead. Weep not for him, but England, Toll for her loss alone : Death is the latest triumph Our Wellington hath known. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 19 II. Sleeps he ? And will he waken To combat once again ? As when he slumber'd calmly On India's tented plain — To rise up like a bridegroom And snatch a deathless name, The chosen heir of victory, The certain child of fame. Sleeps he by duty cradled, To start to life at morn, Like some proud god of battle To gorgeous triumph borne ? No ! he will never waken To drum or trumpet's sound ; No more at clash of cymbal His lion heart will bound. But when the loud Archangel Shall pour his fearful blast, Girt by the world's great army, He shall arise at last : Not mid the first and foremost Of perish'd glory's van ; The grave still claims the hero,— God summons but the man. 20 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Mourn, mourn with weeping England, There lies her chosen son ; His full-orb'd day is ended, His race of duty run. Clos'd are his sunken eyelids, But ne'er to open more ; Vainly a thousand cannon Might round him angry roar. A million armed foemen Might trample o'er his grave, But not wake Britain's champion To conquer and to save. His eagle glance is blinded, His fiery pulse hath stopp'd ; The cherish'd gem of England Hath from its setting dropp'd. Our hero lies unburied — The pomps of grief are slow ; Or doth a lingering nation Pause fondly in her woe ? Tread proudly ye who enter His coffin'd state to view ; The countersign is " Victory ! " The password, " Waterloo ! " MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 21 III. Toll for the great departed ! Though Britain in her need May find full many a hero To conquer or to bleed ; She may not find another To match his wondrous fame, Who spoil'd the page of history To deck a single name. But let her not too fondly Hang o'er that honour'd tomb, Lest on her blind devotion Fate close the doors of gloom ; Lest, dying with her soldier, She fill the self-same grave With him, who living battled Her liberties to save. Rob'd with a nation's sorrow, He gently sank to rest ; Would that some mighty warning Had wrung his patriot breast ! Had rais'd him from his pillow To whisper with short breath, And snatch with stern emotion A prophecy from Death. 22 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Toll for the spirit parted — Enough doth England owe To him whose star of honour Hath set in peace below. Old men shall haste to follow, And children born this year Shall boast their cradles shelter'd Beneath his warrior bier. Whatever be the sequel Of Britain's shadow'd doom, Her Wellington rests calmly In honour's sacred tomb. His Glory's rich escutcheon Hath lost no grain of gold ; Before his aged body Returns to dust and mould. Perchance some bright-helm'd Seraph His prayer to Heaven bore, Ere England meet disaster, That he might be no more. Yet, were we arm'd and ready, I would not care for one To see the challenge given, The "Tragedy" begun. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 23 Then, in each future war-cry, Our hero's name should ring, Then, to his tomb triumphant Fresh wreaths should England bring. Then, seen mid clouds of battle, His bright form should career, Like Rome's twin guardian spirits, The sign of victory near. Toll for the great departed ! Speak out above the knell, Whate'er his country's future, He did his duty well. Sept. 1852. THE PATRIOT. (INSCRIBED TO JOSEPH MAZZINI.) Angel of Earth ! to thee 'tis given, Alone, mid mortals, not to die ; For when thy bleeding breast is riven, Thou snatchest immortality : Upon thy cheek the rose of Heaven, The fire of Freedom in thine eye. 24 MINSTRELSY OP WAR. And when men see thee not again, They speak most of thy presence near, Nor on thy spirit call in vain To urge, to rally, and to cheer; Whate'er thou hadst of human stain, Is wash'd out by a nation's tear. The sword or bolt that lays thee low, "While sceptres break, rich gems are sold, More hallow'd relic still shall grow — The Past is purchas'd not by gold: With thought of thee pure hearts shall glow, When Hope herself lies wintry cold. Not in sad breasts to be sole-coffer'd, As now, thy glorious future lot ; For smiling Fate this boon hath proffer'd To be by good men ne'er forgot: By tyrants' souls what price were offer'd, Perchance to be remember'd not? THE TRAITOR. (TO THE BETRAYER OF HUNGARY.) Speak ! who hath seen the traitor live That bade his tortur'd country die ? To him no joy hath life to give, And hissing serpents mock his sigh : MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 25 He dies before his time — a thing Despis'd, shunn'd, pvayerless and alone — Repentance vain ; remorse, the sting Of hydras, in a heart of stone. Mark, how the wretch with downcast glare Steals forth to breathe sweet evening's breath, From his damp brow the fresh free air Starts back to caves of icy death : He mutters in the storm, when gloom Is rent by lightnings, " Oh ! strike here, Shatter corpse, soul, remembrance, tomb — Existence is the doom I fear ! " Writhe, Traitor, in thy sleep. Awake ! Pcur the vain wish thou ne'er wert born, With Danaid urn to fill the lake Of Sorrow, till Hope shriek forlorn : God, who made all, may still forgive The myriad Cain thou art. 'Twere crime In man : kneel while thou still dost live — Our curses may not outlive Time. 26 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. TO MAZZINI, TRIUMVIR OP ROME 4 ''. Mazzini, raise thy standard, raise ! And doom each despot's curst decline ; On glorious deeds, on better days The sun of freedom still shall shine. The suffrage of all noble hearts Shall waft thee on the tide of right; Each hero's soul that heavenward parts Shall nerve thy bosom, steel thy might. Italia's land shall hymn thy fame O'er sapphire mountain, lake, and sea ; Her smiling children bless thy name, To freedom's birthright born through thee. *" Triumvir of Rome." In partibus Infidelium. Cer- tainly Mazzini, who was Triumvir of Rome, until the monstrous invasion of France drove him away after so gallant a contest, has more right to the title of Triumvir there than a Wiseman has to be called Cardinal here. For the latter is an entirely novel encroachment — Maz- zini has dated from the Quirinal. But there is this dif- ference, viz., that Mazzini lives in the affections of the enslaved Roman people ; while, with a few traitorous or bigoted exceptions, the Cardinal is hated in England. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 27 Mazzini, wave thine ensigns, wave ! Just vengeance waits thy bidding high ; Or laureil'd be thy soldier's grave, If midwa}' thou must pause and die. But no ! for soon shall wreathe thy crown The triumph that deserts thee now, And blossoms of mature renown Serenely deck thy thoughtful brow. The daughters of ancestral Rome Shall hail thy coming step with glee ; The peasant in his vine-clad home His deaf sire waken to be free ! Break, break yon chains, that rattling sound Grim echoes from Vesuvio's brink ; Raise Virtue, Knowledge from the ground, Man was not born in chains to think. The skies their tenderest blue will shed To kiss the captive back from gloom, Black tempests arch the scepter'd dead Who moulders in a tyrant's tomb. Each dungeon be the silent grave Of those, that smear with blood a throne ; Mazzini, save thy country, save ! Thou canst not die, like them, alone. 28 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. The sons of Tyranny may fight In selfish bands — they singly die : When Freedom's children sleep in night, A million hearts around them lie. From Alp to Apennine I heard The voice that bids thy legions come — The soul of Venice in her stirr'd ! Shout high ! Deep rolls the vengeful drum. WELCOME AND FAREWELL TO KOSSUTH (On his leaving England for America.) All hail to thee, Kossuth ! Rings from the lips of truth — Let coward despots sleep their night of crime ; For all the world we hope, In spite of King or Pope, With march heroic speeds a better time. Welcome to thee, Kossuth ! The voice of age and youth, Of man and woman, child in mother's arm, Cradled from tyrant's frown Since Herod wore a crown, Bids thee come here, sav'd from each cruel harm MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 29 A tear and smile, Kossuth ! In joy and gentle ruth, One for the past — a nation's hope s o'erthrown ; The other for the morn Of Freedom that is born, Since thy heart-eloquence her cause made known. Welcome ! We bid thee hail. O'er thee the genius pale Of Freedom, weeping, calls thy name her own ; Her name, she cries, is borne Falsely, and idly worn, A stale reproach 'mid cunning traitors grown. From boyhood's happy dreams, What bright heroic gleams, Ting'd with their rainbow hues thy waking soul ? Did music fill thine ear, As if a God were near, And clouds of glory round thee sunlit roll ? And when thy riper age, From Shakespeare's hallowed page, Drew inspiration of our English tongue, Did no prophetic thought Tell thee of wonders wrought, Far from thy home, a stranger race among ? Curst be the hireling band, That bid us coldly stand Aloof, nor seek thy bleeding land to save ! d2 30 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Curst be the scribbling crew, To Mammon only true, Whose coward hands afar dig honour's grave! No ! England doubts thee not ; She hath not all forgot [bled, How Cromwell, Hampden, Sydney fought and For gifts long since bestow'd On Freedom's lov'd abode ; Thine but the foot-prints of her cherish'd dead. Nought hast thou new begun ; Thou art but Freedom's son : Thy mother sank —thou flewest to her aid ; Fate frown'd upon the deed, Heaven saw thy country bleed, And angels mourn'd o'er Hungary betray 'd. 'Twas but a trial sent, A transient frown Heaven lent, And angels mourn not long o'er virtue's woes : Iris'd with hope each tear Hangs radiant in joy's sphere, Like glittering dew-drop in the earth-born rose. Farewell ! Kossuth, Farewell ! Too soon. Yet be the spell Unbroken, that thy magic accents weave Round all the beating hearts To whom thy voice imparts Sweet hope thy Magyar race shall cease to grieve. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 31 A land now calls thee — go ! Where mighty cities grow 'Mid forests green that whisper Liberty ; "Where patriot hearts ne'er grieve, Nor despot may deceive, And Niagara's roar bids tyrants die ! Thither his stern, deep eye, "When dark grew England's sky, Dauntless, but hopeless of his country's good, Turn'd Cromwell — there drew breath The noblest soul* that Death [stood. Hath reap'd since Rome in ancient splendour There, blue lake to blue sky Peaceful reflects on high The calm of Freedom to the calm above ; There Nature boasts aloud A destiny more proud, Than souls are promis'd here that Freedom love. Not so ! Be thou the bond, In union firm, yet fond, To link us to our giant child afar : Then be defiance hurl'd To all the tyrant world, When Britain's glory weds Columbia's star. * Washington. 32 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. THE WARNING OF THE SLAIN*. [Written on the occasion of the apparent hesitation and timidity of the British Government with respect to Russian aggression.] Not lov'd of friend, not feared by foe, Shall this be Britain's fate ; For cringing slaves' respect too low, Beneath a tyrant's hate ? But short while since, on every coast Her lion voice was law ; The Bear withdrew his growling boast, The Tiger sheath'd his claw. Her name in every clime was known, The watchword of the free ; A shadow o'er that name hath grown, Like sunset on a sea. The stormy Ocean gaz'd in pride On her triumphant brow ; Her thunders shook his rolling tide — Why sleep those thunders now ? No more beneath each proud ship's lee Grim Neptune hurrying fast * The author is aware, that this poem possesses some- what too great similitude in its ideas and imagery to the " Vision of Trafalgar," which precedes it by a few pages in this volume, but he trusts there is sufficient variety to justify its insertion. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 33 Flings coronals of victory And woos her in the blast. Silent those old heroic lays, The sword-wreaths of her song ; Shrunk are the tame, inglorious bays That crown a nerveless throng. The harp lies mouldering on the ground, Up-hung the shatter'd lyre ; The poet-band are slumbering round That struck their chords to fire. Had we been conquer'd in the field, Or worsted in the fight ; Not e'en in death be taught to yield, Known no eclipse save night — I had not mourn'd in wailing verse The dark decree of fate ; Nor branded traitors with a curse In burning words of hate. Late, while dark fancies fill'd my breast, Ere slumber o'er me stole, Like tapestry in strange unrest, A vision scar'd my soul. Methought I gaz'd o'er sea and land, And heard a voice proclaim Each spot where fought a patriot band For Britain's honour'd name. 34 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. And then a spectre crowd 'gan rise From out the chilling main, Like hollow gusts of wind their sighs When dead leaves scour the plain : And where the grass and waving corn Grew tallest on the mound, Dark serried shapes were sudden born In blood-mist from the ground ; Like shadowy host in midnight cloud When lightnings lurid gleam, Methought appear'd that thronging crowd Of phantoms in my dream ; Until a ghostly moon up-came As from another world, And like some pale, uncoffin'd dame, Her winding-sheet unfurl'd. Each form then grew distinct and bright, The vapours downward glide ; Methought in that strange wizard light I saw each as he died ; Save that their fix'd accusing eyes Were solemn turn'd on high, Each pointed upward to the skies And grieving seem'd to sigh. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 35 Wrapt in torn banners, red with gore — Ah ! vainly was it shed ? Their stern death-smile is lit no more, Their victor-joy hath fled. Though girt is every martial thigh, A blade in every hand, Great tear-drops from each hollow eye Weep a dishonour 'd land. And then their voices to my ears Came rushing on the blast, 'Twas thus mourn'd England's coward fears, Her heroes of the past : — " Afar in foreign clime we fell, Or where the salt wave rolls, What echo from Time's sullen knell Hath lied unto our souls ? " And with the news our sleep hath stirr'd, 1 England is great no more !' It cannot be. We have not heard The battle's furious roar. " If that a myriad foe her doom Had borne across the wave, Until that narrow isle lack'd room To find them all a grave. 36 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Had but her manhood only died, With harness on the back, And seven days seen the salt sea tide Run crimson on its slack. " But oh ! to think the precious fame, Which we so nobly won, By fitting heirs to sordid shame Should reckless be undone. " Ah ! wretches wedded to disgrace, Ah ! base and canting crew — Ah ! bastard sinners, impious race, To Mammon only true. " Disarm ye England ? 'Tis to steal The poor man's paltry wage ; Ye mock the peace ye least can feel, Inflam'd with greedy rage. " We hear, sad work of yon starv'd crowd, Your shuttles ply no more ; But in their place there hurtles loud The mighty loom of war. " Fierce Thor, avenger of the gods, Hath grasp'd his iron mace ; His crest like awful pine-top nods O'er some thick burial-place. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 37 "' Far in the north the giant stands — A harvest waits ye there ; 'Tis not of corn, but bristling brands That pierce the sleety air. " Think ye soft speech or shuffling tame Will cool his savage ire 1 Go, thrust your right hands in the flame, And supplicate the fire ! " Arm ! and command the peace ye crave, Be warriors once again ; Still o'er our graves let Albion wave Her flag without a stain. " Hear not those eunuchs of decline False philanthropic knaves ; We tell you that no voice divine Bids Englishmen be slaves. " Boast your bloat commerce : 'twas begun But by the bold and free ; In storm, not calm, was snatch'd and won The Empire of the sea. " From England's threaten'd wreck now steals Its gain, yon selfish band : Your foes' approval loud reveals The falsehood wc would brand. E 38 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " In their own country's foul disgrace Traitors are best alive ; As maggots eat their breeding-place They crawling feed and thrive. " So when they bid you scorn the means To hold your own, beware ! From lore historic wisdom gleans One counsel, to prepare. " By that great hero's hallow'd sleep Who late was laid to rest — Soon may Britannia cease to weep O'er follies so unblest. " The foeman hides his fierce grimace 'Neath preparation's mask, And smooths Bellona's wrinkled face, But girds him to the task — " His task revenge — his hope the hate Of many a bygone year, Hell-hounds held back thus long by Fate In leashes lent by Fear. " That Fear is fled. The leash o'erstrain'd Shall burst at one fell sound ; The trading friendship, basely feign'd, Be worthless flung to ground. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 39 " Then at your throats with one accord Shall leap with frantic yell Yon drill'd, insatiate, restless horde, Like myrmidons of hell. " Sacred the deed they perpetrate — Self-murderers no more ; But warriors, bent at beck of fate To waste a hostile shore. " Religion, envy, greed unite, Call'd glory by the brave, Whose martial music play'd all night Round Dahra's shrieking cave. " Think ye not sweeter still your blood Than that of Afric's race ? E'en tigers have their choice of food, That ne'er show lingering grace. " Arm ! lest the stern upbraiding Dead Should in your Senate rise ; Arm ! lest the blood we freely shed Accusing stain the skies. " Look, how America doth wear Great Cromwell's glorious boast, A heritage to proudly share, Not part with from our coast. 40 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " It should have been a Briton spoke In Smyrna's crowded bay, ' Come, clear the decks, my hearts of oak, The despot claims his piey.' " Ah ! thus again be England heard : 'Twill soothe us in our graves ; No more to cruel anguish stirr'd Beneath the salt sea waves. " Ah ! thus" — methought a gun's loud boom Dispers'd the rear of night ; Down sank the spectres to their tomb, I woke to morn's dim light. But still one parting word did seem To vibrate in the air, The ling'ring echo of a dream, It syllabled "Prepare!" Such warnings dreamt I in the night Those solemn ghosts did give ; They faded ere the sunbeams bright Bade other shadows live. I would their accents, sad and cold, Each English soul might hear ; The timid then were not so bold, The brave were freed from fear! MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 41 KOSSUTH'S RETURN. Not a shout rose to welcome the Exile's great name, As he sadly return'd to our shore ; Not a breath of the free wind blew freshly his fame, Which it wafted so proudly before. In silence and sorrow the hero came back ; For he felt that his bright dream was broken, As the ship rose and heel'd on her billowy track, And he brought back no heart-cheering token. Oh ! long gaz'd the Exile towards the bright West, Till the crimson sun sank 'neath the wave ; Oh ! deep rose the sigh from his sorrowing breast, As he thought of a nation's wide grave. "Wan and pale was his cheek as a slain martyr's wraith, But his eyes were still lustrously glowing, Like beacon-fires guiding a lorn shipwreck'd Faith, When the storms of life loudest are blowing. e 2 42 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Can ye wonder that heart should be scarcely controll'd By the thin hand press'd tight o'er his breast ? Since its precincts a people's whole sorrows in- fold, And within it their griefs are comprest. Soon I thought that his lips broke the silence around, As the tall masts by evening were shrouded j Would that sunshine returning as certainly found Each worn soul by misery clouded ! And I fancied I heard him thus pour forth aloud, In a voice full of music, his plaint ; Ere his head, in deep prayer, 'neath the mid- night he bow'd, And the Hero was lost in the Saint. " Are, then, Columbia's sons so selfish grown As not to heed my bleeding country's cry ? Can they no other freedom proudly own Than that which blooms beneath their native sky? " Is Albion sunk so low, she dares not hear The insults loud by Freedom's tyrants given ? Stoops she beneath her robe, as if in fear Of gazing at the wrathful signs of Heaven ? MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 43 " Alas ! for thy fair breast, my Magyar land, Water'd with tears, and red with Cossack hoof — The slavish aid of Austria's broken band — If from the wrong'd, the free thus stand aloof. " Alas ! for thee, and for the whole wide world — The child of Freedom that will own no other, Down from his bastard birthright fitly hurl'd, Shall live to hail the lowest slave his brother. " Our cause was one — is one. Why came ye not When the dark Russ o'erwhelm'd our gallant race ? Why have ye left on history's page a blot Not e'en the tears of Angels can efface ? ; Great are ye, mighty nations, but the power Of one ere long shall tremble, haply falling In the wide ruin of a single hour, On her own palsied Genius vainly calling — " For none shall aid thee ! Then shall Poland's ghost Shriek from the summit of thy lofty spires, And pale Italia's slaughter'd patriot host Point from their graves to Albion's lurid fires. 44 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Lo ! Panic glares around, then cries ' To arms !' But shrinks back swordless ; while the cow- ards flying That counsell'd peace, alone spread base alarms — The best and bravest in the front are dying. " Lust, murder, rapine — such a fearful tale "Was never told of nation lost like thee So idly. All the pictur'd Past grows pale Compar'd with that red living tapestry " Rising before my vision, like a dream Of injur'd Dante. May'st thou still take warning, Great country, and thy weapons' warlike gleam Dazzle the hosts, thy false repose is scorning. " The doom of nations is their armies' fate, In peace disbanded, or in war destroy'd ; So, Albion, spake thy bitterest foe of late, By martial pomp around him overjoy 'd. " If not to aid us, for thyself prepare Thine armaments — to glorious battle sounding, Ere fierce invasion's terror fill the air ; With stern delight each manly spirit bounding. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 45 V Fools at thy councils prating ; at thy heart Th' insidious bigot gnaws and sows dull hate : Rise, Albion, rise, and choose thy noblest part; "While yet 'tis time to tear the bond of fate. " And thou, Columbia ! be not lust alone Of tall dominion thine, remembering not How thou wert nurtur'd — Freedom's child full grown : Ne'er yet had land so blest and fair a lot ! " Thy limbs were moulded by the grandest soul A people's voice united bid to Heaven Sainted ascend, since Heaven itself bid roll The spheres in music, and to man was given " The earth to be a garden, not a place Of slaughter and of hatred. Therefore think What 'tis ye do, oh daring, restless race, Ere Albion's blood your thirsting weapons drink. " 'Tis but the mean are jealous. Oh, what bond Should ye twain give unto the world together Of peace and glorious freedom ! Union fond, No human power should have the force to sever. 46 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Methinks I see your flags triumphant ride O'er the blue ocean ; Liberty inshrin'd Beneath them, smiles apparell'd like a bride, And holds each tyrant's downfal doubly sign'd. " But if for purpose slight, or greed of gain, Thou should'st, Columbia, falsely choose ; pre- ferring To bear the multitudinous brand of Cain Upon thy brow, from Nature blindly erring, " A parricide 'mid nations shalt thou be, If great, yet guiltier than the world e'er saw ; Free ? From the stain of bloodshed never free ! The mad perverter of mankind's great law. " It shall not be so ! From the dai'kness round, Wherever patriot blood in earth ne'er sinking Has fall'n — where'er of late the conscious ground A nation's tears with silent purpose drinking " Hath rais'd a form of mist unto the skies, The kneeling Genius of a country's woe By Hope's bright rainbow diadem'd — shall rise A mighty Spirit arm'd to strike the blow ! MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 47 " A voice of thunder leaps from hill to shore, At whose command forgotten prisons falling Show dazzled captives of an age before, E'en now, to God alone, for mercy calling. " A voice like to an earthquake ! whose dread sound Rolls up the echoing vale of distant years, And bends the impious forehead low to ground, And blasts the wicked with portentous fears. " The tread of armies, victors' drums, unheard Fade into nought before that mighty warning, As o'er the sea to joyous ripples stirr'd, And the glad earth, it heralds Freedom's morning. " Whereat the howling despot hangs his head With bafHled perjuries. The priest in vain Perverts the living, and insults the dead : Rome shall not rear her hideous front again. I There is a silent thought within the breast Of men and nations. Long it hath been sleeping, Save in the bosoms of the few, whose rest Like mine, hath broken been with midnight weeping. 48 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " A Principle of Freedom mild, yet strong, To lead us staggering from Delusion's grave, Kindling the eyes with light forgotten long, "With hope to cheer us and with power to save : " Nought shall resist it ! yet who in the van Of nations, Evil foremost stand defying, Shall earn the thanks of universal man, And Heaven itself shall stoop to bless them dying. " Jn the lone circle of my prison days I have thought this, and bided still the hour ; Joy fill'd my bosom with prophetic rays, Hope budded still, like some sweet winter flower. " Mourn not for me, my friends. The still small voice Of Conscience is a flatterer more dear Than lives in Palaces. She bids rejoice, And answer outrage with a pitying tear," Thus the Exile. Hung Silence entranc'd on his speech, Deck'd with gems by her dark sister Night; Till the Morn blush'd to being o'er Albion's near beach, Whose loud surges broke with the light. , MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 49 A PEACE LYRIC. FOB THE NEXT SOIREE OF THE MANCHESTER ATHENAEUM. Dedicated to all " Moral Bullies," " Canters," " Pro- Russian Quakers," &c. &c. &c. Oh ! there's no use in arming at all — Let us give all we can to our brother ; 'Tis a pity for nations to brawl, So our old-fashioned notions we'll smother ; Give the foes of our country their fling, 'Tis their turn now to ravish and plunder ; Let it be quite an understood thing, 'Tis an Englishman's pride to knock under. Bully Br — ght is the man for our money, With his twin " Moral Bobadil" ranter, So loyal, frank, sober, and funny, Just the " Cob," boys to win in a "canter:" Sing sentiment, soirees, and drab, Bland Hypocrisy sipping weak tea ; Who'll in speech sidle up like a crab, May retreat like a snake, sirs, for me. What is prudence ? A thing that costs gold : What is fame, but a middle-age story ? What is freedom ? A name bought and sold ; Talk no more now of Nelson and glory : F 50 MINSTRELSY OF WAR Leave the doors of your homes open wide, Should a burglar be tempted to enter, You may reason, but never should chide — Yes, from Nature's first law be dissenter ; Bully Br— ght, &c. There's " Sir Cotton," who slanders so wildly, Cheap philanthropist all the world over, If the French came invading, quite mildly "Would preach from a soiree at Dover, Saying, " Friends, brothers, do t'other thing, Pray believe me 'tis cruel to slay man" — ('Twere a blessing such preachers to string On a gallows thrice higher than Haman). Bully Br— ght, &c. " What's your fun coming here ? We don't fight ; Asses can't be by tigers invaded ; We have no woundy swords — there, good night; Lord ! we can't have our streets barricaded : We've a true 'moral force,' the Police, And our goods are all ticketed under ; Buy and sell, never let the job cease, You and I, boys, we'll pocket the plunder. Bully Br— ght, &c. " We have wealth, though unguarded's our coast, If our daughters attract by their beauty, Don't come here. Our Army's a ghost, And our Navy's forgotten its duty ; MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 51 We have arms made for export alone, Lots of " Brummagem," none can be finer ! Muskets, bayonets — not for our own Wicked use ; but for Dahomy, China. Bully Br— ght, &c. " 'Tis the sale at a very low price Of the whole over-tax'd British nation ; If her enemies take my advice They'll await her own self-wrought dam- nation : What's a Briton to Br — ght or to me ? We've an interest in the whole world, sirs ; Hoist the standard of self o'er the sea, And the " Jack" of Old England be furl'd, sirs. Bully Br— ght, &c. " We're enlighten'd Philanthropy's sons ; What's one nook of land, more than t'other ? Knock the priming from Englishmen's guns, Let us cheat, but not vanquish a ' brother' ; Starve the child, sweat the artisan lean ; We have ' mills' of our own worse than battle ; Useful falsehood — no, knowledge, I mean — > Be the prize of our dull human cattle. Bully Br— ght, Sec. 52 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " There's a great Greek historian, once Utter'd truth for all times, 'tis quite true of him ; Now a secret I'll tell Mr. Muntz, 'Tis that one single Times* is worth two of him ; Don't be thinking it dirty and small, That I butter this falsehood diurnal ; 'Tis a way with us orators all, P'rhaps, in turn, I'll be prais'd by the Journal. Bully Br— ght, &c. " There's your poet and good honest fool, Who prate about Britons and glory ; But your honesty suffers by rule, And your poet lives only in story : Give me the hard head and small heart, With the courage to brazen out fully What my friend Br — ght asserts on my part, And the strength of the great ' moral bully.' Bully Br— ght, &c. " Give me sentiment, shuffle, and cant To cram down the throats of the people, Recitations, enlightenment, rant, Notoriety tall as a steeple; * A certain platform orator addressing an enlightened audience upon one occasion, declared, that a single copy of the Times newspaper was worth all that Thucydides ever wrote. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 53 There once liv'd a Pecksniff, I'm told, A private arch-hypocrite tyrant ; I'm a Pecksniff & little more bold, To public fame greedy aspirant. Bully Br— ght, &c. " Let the labourer quit now his work And spend all he gets and can borrow, To view here the Spaniard and Turk*, Though he starve in despair on the morrow ; * The author's views respecting the Great Crystal Palace in Hyde Park were by no means popular. He considered that an Industrial Exhibition in this country should have been confined to Great Britain and her Colonies. America, a young, increasing, and vastly pro- ductive country, with enormous undeveloped resources, might, he thought, much more wisely have indulged in such a speculation. England had little to learn, and everything to impart. It is curious that in this great show, where Peace was supposed to hold so large a stake, by far the most important invention exhibited was of a warlike character, and utterly neglected by the Prize Committee. This, it need hardly be added, was the Re- volver of Colonel Colt, a weapon destined to revolutionise small-arm warfare throughout the world. Perhaps a still more curious consideration is, that this arm has been the means of introducing into this country machinery of the most exquisite construction — of bringing here American workmen — of fostering a kindly feeling between the two great kindred nations of the Anglo-Saxon race — of teach- F 2 54 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 'Tis the last fete that England may see, Is the Great Exhibition of Crystal ; If the lost wretch a suicide be, Pray what matters the cost of the pistol ? Bully Br— ght, &c. " From its roof let the glazier fall, Since workhouse, the gaol and the halter, Emigration, starvation, might all Be his fate — let the victims ne'er falter: Yet sometimes I cannot but think That the Frenchman our weakness might hit If it be thus, I'll tip him a wink, [on, And so be the Judas of Britain. Bully Br — ght is the man for our money, With his twin " Moral Bobadil" ranter, So loyal, frank, sober, and funny, Just the " Cob," boys, to win in a " canter:" Sing sentiment, soirees, and drab, Bland Hypocrisy sipping weak tea ; Who'll in speech sidle up like a crab, May retreat like a snake, sirs, for me. January, 1851. ing us how machinery may be so employed as to be the boon, not the curse of the operative — and, finally, of awakening the dormant energies of a department of the public service, which had become alarmingly slow, and phlegmatically stupid ; and here let follow as apropos to these remarks, the following not very elegant or digni- fied, but somewhat energetie "Chant for Colt." MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 55 A CHANT FOR COLT, TO BE SUNG BY THE BRITISH ARMY. (« The Girl I left behind me.") SHOT I. Amid the latest toys of Mars, Away with shams and cheaters ; Here's England with the " Stripes and Stars," Hurrah for Colt's repeaters ! We'll make the Russian bear sing small, And bid " Old Nick" knock under; Come, boys, let's quickly ope the ball And blaze away like thunder. SHOT II. They say there's millions up in arms In Russia and Circassia, False knaves that try to give us qualms By telling us we're rash here : Our British soldiers, one to three, 'Gainst foreigners we back 'em ; But with Colt's pistols, why d'ye see, One to eighteen we'll whack 'em. 56 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. SHOT III. To Kalafat and Giurgevo, And Sneezeekof-tschishupwisky , Right onwards like brave boys we'll go With bosoms light and frisky : Charge, lads, we'll show 'em now a trick, Our precious nobs they've miss'd all; There's endless music in the click Of Colt's audacious pistol. SHOT IV. The girls we leave behind are sweet, But glory is still sweeter ; Lord love ye, fighting is a treat With Colt's far-fam'd repeater; Says Nancy, " Not so much I fear Since you've got that six-shooter." She smil'd and kiss'd her grenadier, Her gallant six-foot suitor. shot v. Let Austria join the Russian bear, America befriends us ; Although the breed she cannot spare, Her famous Colt she lends us : At Ascot and Newmarket late We back'd our English horses, MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 57 The stake is still the " Emperor's Plate," But slightly chang'd the course is. SHOT VI. Then fall in, lads, to drum and fife, " Old Nick" this day shall rue it; You fought like lions in the strife With plain " Brown Bess " to do it ; Now since this famous tool you've got, All rifled, ramm'd and ready, One more hurrah for Colt's six-shot, March forward, boys ! Be steady ! A NEW DANCE TO AN OLD TUNE. Come, arouse ye ! my brave men of England, And fight ye a gallant fresh fight, Just to keep the new world at its level, And set the old world straight and right ; There is leather in Russia wants tanning, And nothing save camps in all France — Fife and drum is the music I'm planning, To play up a right merry dance. We are sick of that vulgar old Cobden, We are sick of the broad-brim of Bright; What we want is a soul-stirring " scrimmage," Inspiring fresh Dibdins to write ; 58 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. There's a German* been lately proclaiming That a war would do good to mankind ; I must own for myself I've no shame in Proclaiming I'm of the same mind. Shall a shop-keeping nation knock under To " Old Nick" and second-hand Nap ? I confess, though it may be a blunder. That I don't value Cossacks a rap. What's the use of your pic-nic at Chobham, If in sniv'ling the matter's to end, And the powder you popp'd off at Spithead, If you're spit on by foe and by friend ? I must say, 'tis a fine thing to bargain, Swap, import, trade, export, and sell ; But the nation you give but an inch to, In return will insist on an ell : British youth had of old a twin measure ; One was destin'd for wool and such gear ; But they took in the other more pleasure, A cloth-yard shaft drawn to the ear. Come, 'tis no use, Britannia ! to twaddle, In the end, my old girl, you must fight ; And, though old, to the battle-field waddle, Or to fame, purse, and honour, " good night ! ' * The historian Heinrich Leo. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 59 So the sooner you do it the better ; But first hang those snobs of the pen, Who, while Scripture they quote to the letter, With Scrip cheat their lov'd fellow-men. You must sacrifice " shop " for a season, Though "alarming" the pull on the till; Pray permit me to tell you the reason, 'Tis that others are bent on a mill — Not exactly such mills as are grinding Both body and soul to the ground, Whence the orphan's shrill prayer is up-taken, By angels who gather its sound. 'Tis your foes that invite you to labour At looms of a different kind, " Shafts for shuttles," for spindle a sabre — The description in Gray* you will find ; * See the magnificent lines entitled the " Fatal Sis- ters" .— " Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare), Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air. " GUttering lances are the loom, When the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Ranver's bane. 60 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. And they don't care a dump for your notion That might is not right any more ; And that Quakers can rule o'er the ocean, As real guns once did before. There is one thing I can't help revealing, Though some folk may look very queer, Who with Mammon prefer peaceful dealing, (Their cotton souls selling too dear) ; 'Tis that, though war's a terrible evil, And a Dutchman* has painted it so ; Yet that peace sometimes leads to the devil, And paves a smooth road down below. The truth is, with honour and glory We fought for the till and all that ; But the knaves who invent this new story Think of nought, but to send round the hat ; " See the grisly texture grow, ('Tis of human entrails made), And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head. " Shafts for shuttles, dipp'd in gore, Shoot the trembling chords along. Sword, that once a monarch bore, Keeps the tissue close and strong." * Rubens. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 61 They would furnish, for money, to others Pistols, swords, or a "best Sheffield" blade, They would sell to their African brothers, Or Chinese, cheap muskets home-made. Nay, to Britain's own foes they would tender (With an invoice) the powder* to kill ; And of gun-cotton freely would send a Large orderf, our "claret" to spill; Then before foreign foes draw first blood, boys, Or we're humbugg'd completely by Rome, Kick all traitors back into the mud, boys, Whence they sprung — and then, Britons, strike home! [1853.] * The Dutch, a great maritime and mercantile power, became so corrupted by trade, that an instance is well known to have happened when a Dutch fortified city being besieged, and on the point of surrendering, the enemy fell short of powder. Some merchants in the town finding this out, could not resist the temptation of a deal, and supplied it; so the town being taken, and the garrison put to the sword, they too very properly fell victims to their unhallowed greed. It is known that British merchants supplied the Kafirs with arms and ammu- nition, during the last year. t In the conclusion to the preface of the fourth edition of " Cobden and his Pamphlet Considered," the author lately penned the following passage ; — " Leonidas, type of patriotism, left a name sacred at the hearthstone of all nations worthy of patriots. Had the men of Manchester been ancient Greeks, they might in the hope of securing a large clothing order for the army of the Persians, have anticipated the sordid perfidy of Ephialtes the traitor." G 62 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. THE SEA KING*. I was fifteen years old when my heart beat too In thy hut, gentle mother, to dwell, [strong To feed goats seem'd weary, the days were so long, O'er my spirit strange shadows there fell ; How I dreamt, how I thought ! but my thoughts were not glad As of yore, for my bosom grew heavy and sad In the forest ! I bounded right madly the hill-top to gain Far to gaze on the fierce rolling tide, Whose surges sang sweeter than ever the rain Rang its knells in the chill forest wide. Ah! they come, ah! they come from the far shore, each wave Unfetter'd and free — how they leap, how they rave On the ocean ! One morning a bark from the shore I espied, Like a dart she sped into the bay ; Then swell'd high my bosom, it knew then the Long panted for day after day : [bride, * Translated from the Swedish of E. J. Geyer. For the original verses I was indebted to the courtesy of Mr, Edward B. Hale Lewin. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 63 I rush'd from my goats, and from thee, mother mild, And the Corsair he took me to live on the wild Bounding ocean! And into the sails rush'd the wind with his might, We flew o'er the billows' ridg'd fleece ; The sun-dazzled surge rose — then fell in deep In my bosom alone there was peace : [night, My sire's rusty sword quiver'd tight in my hand, And o'er it I swore I would win fame and land — On the ocean ! Sixteen summers were mine, when the Corsair I slew, He had scoff 'd at the down on my cheek : A Sea King I trod on the waves' boundless blue, In the death-game none now found me weak ! Then I took forts and castles ashore with my band, And with the brave fellows drew lots for the land On the ocean ! From deep horns the strong mead we merrily quaff'd, Calm in might, as our storm-couch was laid, We could swoop, as we pleas'd, from the waves where we laugh'd — In Walland I took me a maid : 64 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Her eyes wept three days, on the fourth fill'd with light, And thus fell our nuptials with sportive delight On the ocean ! And once I was lord both of castles and land, And under a roof drank as deep ; For my people and kingdom I took thought, and plann'd, While walls, bolts and locks held my sleep ; For the space of a winter that ne'er seem'd to end, Though king there, yet earth it was narrow and penn'd To the ocean ! Nought did I, save to my proud soul give offence, Each helpless wretch aiding to crawl ; To each wallet a lock, to each hovel a fence — So stoop'd I to succour them all; What with fines, oaths, and robbery — each paltry care, I listen'd to loathing — ah ! would I were there On the ocean ! Such my prayer, till that winter roll'd heavily past ; Wild anemones wav'd on the shore Sweet daughters of spring, and the minstrel waves fast Pour'd their song, " Hither ! bide thou no MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 65 The breezes o'er valley and hill flutter'd light, And the freed brooks exulting rush'd dancing so bright Unto the ocean ! Then seiz'd me the former invisible tie, As the rude waves my name raging sound ; O'er the land and its cities my broad pieces fly, Crown and sceptre I dash'd to the ground ; And poor as of yore, with a ship and my sword, Look'd fate in the eyes for the Sea King's reward On the ocean ! Free, free as the wind then our joyous course ran On the distant wave's billowy green, And we mark'd on the coast of the stranger how Was the same wretched animal seen : [man Care ever sat by him, an unbidden guest, But the Corsair's proud step spurns her far from his rest On the ocean ! And again stood I watching my heroes among, For a sail in the far distant blue, If a rival bark came, then our war-cry loud rung ; The trader we scorn'd to pursue : For the brave man by chance of the red fray doth stand, "Whilst his friendship is knit by the lance and the brand On the ocean ! g 2 66 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Firm stood I, by day, near the surge-rocking shroud, No shade the bright future o'ercast ; Like a swan 'mid the waving sedge blithely and proud, Was I borne on the rushing wave past : Each prey was mine own that my path-way then cross'd, And my hopes were as free as the white waves wild toss'd There, on ocean ! Firm stood I, by night, near the dusk reeling shroud, While the hoarse billows angrily cry, And I heard how the Fate's awful loom hurtled In the storm shooting fearfully by ; [loud As the ship rose and heel'd, I felt — Such is man's doom, Now uplifted on high, now deep sunk in the gloom As on ocean ! But misfortune s swift flock — I have fill'd years a score, The loud surges howl for my blood ; And they know it right well, for they drank it before, Where'er the hot strife thickest stood : This wild burning heart that so long hath leapt bold Soon in deep icy caverns below shall grow cold In the ocean ! MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 67 Yet I mourn not that brief was the sura of my days, Swift, yet good, must their course be confest; To the halls of the gods there ascend many ways, And the shortest that leads there is best : Let the waves chanting low now my requiem sing; I have liv'd on the waves — there my death-couch I'll flinsr On the ocean ! On a rock's lonely slab thus the shipwreck'd Sea King 'Mid the surge of the breakers in triumph doth sing — ■ In its depths the sea whirls him along: Still the billows wail on with monotonous sound, And the light breezes shifting veer playfully round ; But the brave man lives ever in song. TO ARMS. Cast the bullet, forge the brand, Play up bugle, fife and drum, Burning to invade our land, Let the haughty despot come : 68 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Man the walls — in Heaven confiding — Wooden walls, our country's boast, Let bold hearts within them riding As of yore guard England's coast. If, our gallant tars beguiling, Foemen should our homes attack, Let us still receive them smiling, Never let a soul go back : Cast the bullet, forge the brand, Play up fife and sound the drum, Weapon'd be each English hand ; Then, let earth's worst tyrants come. What, though Nelson calm reposing Slumber shrin'd in that proud tomb, O'er his brother chief late closing Midst a nation's tender gloom, Round us " England, home and beauty," Their warm magic still shall shed ; Britons, double is your duty, Think what owe ye to the dead. Stand not mute with downcast eyes On the verge of honour's grave ; Picture the sad ghosts would rise To reproach one English slave : Shades would mock us pale and gory, Wrapp'd in banners for a shroud, Curse us for their ruin'd glory, By our shame in anguish bow'd. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 69 Let each breast to fear a stranger Pant to feel its prowess tried ; Youth heroic woo sweet danger Fold her in its arms for bride : All her stanch and true defenders Arm'd and ready England needs; Hence ! ye hollow false State-menders, Babbling, while pale Freedom bleeds. Lash the cowards, spurn the traitors, Counselling accurst delay, 'Tis the self-same, selfish faitours That the poor man's toil betray ; Preaching, canting, trading, lying, Cheapening England's blood and bone ; Let them hemp for halters buying Half their base sins now atone. He, who elsewhere shall betake him, When the call " To Arms ! " is heard, May the last trump fail to wake him, Be his vile dust still unstirred ; No man know where he is buried, None be found his name to tell, Brief his life and fever hurried, Slow his death, unknoll'd his knell. Cast the bullet, forge the blade, Play up bugle, fife and drum ; Foes who would our shores invade, Arm'd — what reck we if they come ? 70 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Feel we neither fear nor sorrow, Though a million landing find, Not one footprint on the morrow Shall the red waves leave behind. Hark ! what sounds upon the east wind, With strange triumph greet the ear, "Will not Britain's foes at least find Courage equal Moslem here ? Hark ! environ'd now by numbers, The brave Turk invites our aid, Too long England's justice slumbers ; Let us quick the foe invade. Near Sinope's shatter 'd towers Where the vulture scents his prey, From the dim sea's oozy bowers, Starts each night a grim array ; And with icy, bristling fingers Points beneath the chill moon's ray, Points to where our fleet slow lingers, By dull Aberdeen's delay. " Unaveng'd our bones still rattle In the Black Sea's wintry wave, Shrink'st thou, Aberdeen, from battle, Not from murder of the brave ? — England, 'venge us basely slaughtered, In our death your honour dies" — From that dreary shore wide-water'd Ruin echoes back their cries. MINSTRELSY OF WAE. 71 Cast the bullet, forge the brand, Drum roll out your loudest strain, For the hour is now at hand Dastards would delay in vain ; Gallant Napier bears our banner Once more o'er the salt-sea foam : Britons ! in the grand old manner, He shall teach you to strike home. HARK TO THOSE DREAD SOUNDS ! Hark to those dread sounds so heavily booming, Like the fierce roar of great lions at bay ; See where those giant ships mightily looming Through the white smoke form in sternest array ; Vain all their force, vain their science tremendous, If God and right were not fang'd on our side : Freedom and Justice your bright forms defend us, Wafting o'er ocean our flag in true pride. Storms may rage wildly, and tempests loud howling, Awhile plunge our armaments deep into gloom ; But the Angel of Right calmly reads in their scowling, The frown of Fate threatening oppression's dark doom. 72 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Weird-like and grim glideth Steam o'er the waters Spread your white wings, ye huge ships of the line, Knell out revenge for Sinope's dark slaughters, The sunbeams of triumph on Britain shall shine. THE MEMORY OF SIR ROBERT SALE.* A song of tears and fire ! To weep and praise the brave Who for England's glory fell, Her name of pride to save : Let each proud swelling note Struck in music from the lyre Upon the full winds float, And to the rapt world tell, That the child of British earth Hath a twin-heroic birth, And though crown'd upon the wave, When he rides with dauntless band He is monarch of the land, That his foes insulting gave To his sword ! * Although written some years since, this poem and the following may not be considered an unsuitable addition to these page?. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 73 A song of tears and five, To mourn and bless thee, Sale ! Though thy couch be dimly spread, And thy star of life is pale : Since on field red trampled o'er, Thou didst glorious expire, And our battle-host no more Thou may'st in triumph lead, Still thy name we will adore Till e'en glory's self be dead, And the sun of England fled, And her throne to darkness hurl'd, And her flag for ever fiul'd, In its stormy ocean bed Laid to rest ! Yet raise again the song! To honour too the brave Who fell, unknown to fame, In the blood- surge of the wave Rolling crested through the fight ; When England's shout rose strong Above that sulphurous night, With its fierce eyes of flame Flashing death-lit through the gloom, As the cannon's dreadful boom Toll'd its thousands to the grave : Let us weep their gallant doom, In our bosoms be their tomb ; Since for us their lives they gave, Far from hence ! n 74 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Far from their island home ! They must welter there away, By the jungle's burning v side, In mute and sad array : The " Mountain-girdle*" near Hath no sound of dashing foam, Or rippling cadence clear, As around the chalky pride Of the " Island-girdle" dear, "Where, with spreading canvass ride Our fleets upon the tide — No ! their English hearts cold lie 'Neath a strange and cruel sky Far away ! Far away ! Far away ! And a thousand homes are reft Of the beautiful and brave, That with beating bosoms left High in hope, warm in blood, When the mother whisper'd " stay !" And the father doubtful stood, As he thought of his own grave, But not of their young death ; * " Mountain-Girdle," a name given in India to the chain of the Himalaya. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 75 And the maiden held her breath Till her heart.nigh burst with pain, For she felt she might no more Those lov'd features wander o'er With her eyes, whose tears, like rain, Blinding fell ! Yet once more raise the song In deathless stirring note : The western shores along Let it reverberate Where in the boastful gale The "stripes and stars" wild float; Palsy the Frenchman's hate, Bend Joinville's pirate mast, And tell with trumpet blast England hath plenty of like breed, Ay, many like thee, Sale, That shall conquer at her need, And with thee victorious bleed, Or, amid the storm-shot's hail, Smile in death ! THE KHYBER PASS. 'Twas of the Khyber Pass, Where many a gallant British soldier fell, As in a magic glass, A vision o'er me came with breathed spell. * * * * 76 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Pale limbs, a fearful crop Sown by angry war and death last year, As they would never stop, Pil'd, and heap'd, and cross'd, and strewn appear : White, horrid faces stare From beneath, above, on jagged cliff, Or deep in hollow lair, As in a picture, motionless and stiff: Jacket red, with purple stain, and cloven cap, and wound Gaping fresh as when the breast that bore it gasping swoon'd. Each from his shroud of white Glares around with icy, bloodshot eye, And crack'd lips, open quite As in death's last, sobbing, wintry sigh : Sad resurrectionists, Creeping winds unfasten from strange grave Friends or antagonists, Horse or woman, child or soldier brave : Every instant, as the snow weeps heavy without sound, Grows on sight a ghastlier thing from the red bristling ground. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. *77 Stark, in arrest of fear*, See a circled throng with clasp'd hands sit, As they were waiting there Death, that vulture-like around doth flit : Seeds of life are in them yet : Beat the hollow drum and blow the fife — Shout ! to their feet they'll get — Seize their pil'd arms and prepare for strife ; Shout for England and sweet home ! unfurl their colours damp — They move ! they rise ! they form ! they march ! with quick and soldier tramp. Around is turmoil heard, Child and woman hurry, war-steed neighs ; Each from his rest hath stirr'd Forward ! 'mid their rattling, words of praise Or sharp rebuke resound ; All the warrior pageant glitters on, While time-beat rings the ground, And twice ten thousand eyes are lit as one, From under plumed shako high, bright helm, and cap, Shrill and joyous carols fife, with the drum's herald tap. * Long after writing this I was much struck at meet- ing a description of a number of dead bodies found in America, sitting in a circle, with clasped knees. They were those of a whole party, which had been starved to death, and met their fate in that posture, their corpses being dried by the sun and winds, Like mummies. h2 78 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Around, in gorgeous life, Panoramic wind the Pass along, Caparison'd for strife, Horse and man, loud cracks the driver's thong, And swart artillery, O'er the rugged path fierce bounding leap, A glorious sight to see ; Tramp, tramp, each soldier presses up the steep, Banners wave, and bayonets dance gleaming in the sky, With colours old, whose names of pride are proudly carried by. When came a hollow scream As if all earth dismayed gave up her dead — At once, with lurid gleam The idle, rattling arms to earth are shed : Then no sound comes near, Save the flapping of the vulture high in air Sailing up the gorge in fear Lest any living thing might still be there, And half wrapt in the careless snows, that ghastly wild parade Sank all again, at stern command of Death in slumber laid. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. *79 TO THE EMBODIMENT OF A CERTAIN SCHOOL OF POLITICIANS. Pernicious wretch, that with the Cretin's grace Dost from the platform spout with vicious bent To spoil the breed of this once glorious race, With " eloquence" by lying demon lent, Where now were Glory, Honour, Freedom, Life, Did England on thy treacherous counsels hang, Still drink, unconscious, deaf to loud-voic'd strife, The frothy ferment of thy venom'd fang ? Events now brand thee with continuous lie ; Sweet Peace hath died by ravishment of War ; She must be born anew, ere rais'd on high, Once more on Freedom's bright triumphal car ; With thine own cotton stuff 'd in mouth and ears, Thou surely now art siienc'd — Traitor, no ! Lest Right should triumph, howl thy basest fears, And plead the cause of England's baffled foe. Thou Sadducee, with Pharisaic mask, Stealing the toll on bridge to nearest Hell, Whereon thou build'st tall marts with greedy task, And grinding mills to glut thine avarice fell, Say now what valiant deed thy dark soul pains, While cunning Greeks thine odious friendship claim ? The trading Moloch gilds Siberia's chains, The Quaker smiles on red Sinope's flame. 80 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Thou tyrant's friend, thou perjur'd slave of self, Thou drab pretender to religion's name ! Who on the altar of thine idol, Pelf, Would'st cut the dazzling throat of England's Fame; Curst spoiler of existence' holiest charm, Though Scorn forbids to spill thine insect blood, Lo ! Britain, rous'd by battle's stern alarm, Spurns thee forgotten to thy kindred mud. SINOPE. With Turkish blood the sea is red, Incarnadin'd with flame ; But deeper, wider still shall spread The blush for Britain's shame. Four thousand true and gallant souls By dastard deed lie slain ; Each dark wave o'er them hurrying rolls And shudders at the stain. But England's vengeance since hath slept, Cold friend and false ally ; O'er their sad fate have gathering wept Dim shapes that haunt the sky. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 8 The mountains drear in horror gaz'd, The white waves curl'd with fright, The eddying rivers shrank dismay 'd, Pale Evening pray'd for Night. Methought the news to Old St. Paul's Came riding on the breeze ; 'Twas whisper'd round his mammoth walls, Like storms in distant trees. Each warrior starting in his shroud, Hath turn'd him in his sleep ; " Ah ! whence those thunders long and loud, That vibrate o'er the deep ?" " Is it Britannia's ' hearts of oak,' That point each furious gun ? Nay, by the * Duty' ye invoke, "What battle hath been won ?" " No battle now hath England gain'd, No duty hath she done ; Though on her friends destruction rain'd Erom morn to set of sun." " No floating bulwarks then," they cried, " Of England's might were near ! Perchance afar her seamen ride, And distant bravely steer." 82 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Not so," a solemn voice did say, " With twice five thousand men, Close by a British Admiral lay, Nor heav'd an anchor then." " Is this the breed proud Britain boasts ?" Each doleful Shade replied ; " Sink coward-white, ye chalky coasts, That once the world defied : " And be forgotten each lov'd name, Which we once proudly bore ; Ah ! bubble false of treacherous fame, So fondly prized of yore." " Nay, at the council board of state, There rules a traitor crew ; Blame not, but mourn his cruel fate, To cold instructions true." " Had he no deaf ear ? speak and say, When base commands of shame Stole with fork'd tongue, and lied away A century of fame ? " Had he those orders disobey 'd, He had been true and right ; Nor thus his country's wish betray 'd, Or palter'd with her might. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 83 " Would he, like Hosier, lurid rise, To vex the wan moon's light, With ghosts whose hollow, pearl-fed eyes Chill gleam through tropic night ? " Or did he reck not of the deed, That doth applause command, When conscience speaks a nation's need, Though cowards rule the land ? " England he best obeys who spurns The secret hint of shame ; No punishment obedience earns, Where punishment were fame. " Yet soon shall stern revenge blot out Each murderous delay ; Shout, Britons, down the storm-gale shout, For freedom's holiday. " See the dun clouds from iron lips Spread round each death-lit flash, To mock the slave-god's black eclipse, 'Mid empires' falling crash. " Stand to your guns, ye Britons bold, Revenge Sinope's fate ; Or be the doom of England told, To gild a tyrant's hate. 84 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Full many a wreath hath Britain worn, That cost full dear to gain ; But ne'er before to battle borne Her banner with a stain." THE TYRANT'S BURIAL PLACE. It was a goodly fellowship to be In death, amid yon countless mouldering crew; My spirit once in silent reverie, To find a burial place enquiring flew, For one, who shed the blood of empires wide, To feed the craving monster of his mind, Ambition. Was it fitting by his side Should lie the frame-work of his murder'd kind? Upon the green and billowy deep there roll'd A black dismasted hull ; but one was there, One rotten oar he grasp'd with rigid hold, His hollow eyes star'd sightless in the air. But there was life amid the wild sea foam, There came a huge bird shrieking on the wind ; That crazy coffin bark might staggering roam, And thousand living fellows onward find MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 85 'Till the blue lightning grave it in the soul Of some stout captain, hailing loudly " Ho ! Whence are ye bound ?" The mighty billows roll, And darkness falls again — above, below. So pass'd my spirit to a burning sand, Where the red sun rose daily still the same, And cloudless sank — afar I mark'd a hand That pointed up from a bleach'd human frame. 'Twas the lone centre of the furnac'd plain ; For sentinel, its own round, polish'd skull Sat cushion'd, plac'd apart in solemn reign, And seem'd of strange and silent jesting full. A grim portcullis arm'd with teeth its jaw, To guard the empty castle, where the brain Held once its ceaseless revel ; and I saw As 'twere two shatter'd loopholes time-worn stain. In silence lay it ever ! Breath, nor air, Nor living thing disturb'd its mighty rest ; The blood-red orb, whose slant rays lit it there, Seem'd the strange shell of some old globe unblest. And when that wide world's edge drew down the sun In sullen grandeur rob'd with shadows deep ; I knew still how that mystic silent one Grinn'd 'mid the gloom of nature's awful sleep. i 86 MINSTRELSY OF WAE. Thus should he lie, until the archangel's hand Shake in Time's glass earth's shrivell'd dust- like clay ; Before accusing millions then to stand, His red sight dazzled by Heaven's blinding ray. BRITAIN, RISE AGAIN! From her trance of dull dishonour See majestic Britain rise, Shrivelling each foul spell upon her With the lightning of her eyes ! Again her thunders shake the deep, No more her grim Supporters sleep ; But heard around her sea-girt shore, Whose booming caves repeat the roar, A voice of anger shouts " Britannia, rise ! Stretch forth thy right hand to the answering skies, Quell the proud tyrant who thy power defies, And be thyself once more." Martial sounds new glory telling, Round our island-home are rife ; With deep, grand emotion swelling, Britain's Genius hails the strife ; And bids with Freedom freighted ride Her warrior ships upon the tide, MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 87 While rainbow'd in the foam-drops bright, That gem their frowning sides with light, Is seen the charter of our glorious land ; To dazzling flash awakes each full-voic'd band, Tim'd by great guns, whose dun smoke wreathes the strand, Crowning each cliff's tall height. Many a hot tear forth is stealing, Many a long sigh forth doth stray, Bitter griefs and fears revealing For the lov'd ones borne away, As yonder white sails slowly sink Ere evening, o'er the horizon's brink: Yet none bids them stay, whom Britain calls To man, at need, her wooden walls ; None wish them back, whom Freedom, Justice claim, And wounded Honour bids defend her name ; Who arms to strike for England's righteous fame, He conquers — or he falls. Unseen weep, deserted beauty ! Children, mothers, hide your pain, Ye must wait till stern-voic'd duty Sends your heroes back again ; Though many shall return no more To gaze upon yon mist-clad shore, 88 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Yet, if they knew destruction won, Not for a moment would they shun Death — to lift proud England's flag of glory, Death — to live enshrin'd in her bright story, Sinking they smile and kiss the surges gory: Thus be their duty done ! GOD SPEED THEE, SIR CHARLES NAPIER! God speed thee, Sir Charles Napier, Across the Baltic foam, And guard each gallant mariner That sails with thee from home ! Would that each bosom daring Might 'scape the waters cold ; Grim iron Death be sparing Of Britain's children bold ! O name belov'd of story, Brave leader of the brave ! Be this thy bond with glory To conquer and to save. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 89 The wild Norse waves befriend thee, By inlet, fiord, and floe ; The stormy winds but lend thee Rough triumph's healthful glow. God speed thee, gallant Napier, But steer far from the land, From gulf and narrow bay clear, From eddy, shoal and sand. Be Lion in the offing, But Serpent on the coast ; Ne'er heed dull jest or scoffing, Be this thy manly boast. Thou'lt challenge on mid ocean The foemen one to three, And hail with stern emotion The certain victory. But dash not on their granite Our English hearts of oak, 'Tis thus the foe would plan it, To deal a coward stroke. With fifty fathom sounding Swoop on them far at sea, Nor dare the risk of grounding With batteries on thy lee. i M 90 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Methinks each curling billow Should leap to drown a slave ; Let Freedom choose her pillow Where tyrants fear a grave. God speed thee, gallant Napier, By gulf and dark fiord ; On shore, through mists of slander, Thou bor'st undimm'd thy sword ; Thus, where wild Furies grieving Loom through the vaporous air, Their black spells busy weaving, May Britain's star shine fair. Thus, may each foul charm perish ! Within that floating shrine Whose hallow'd name we cherish, Our warm hearts beat with thine. Where she now sweeps the water The Sea-king U*od of yore, And couch'd on purple slaughter His flag of terror bore. Where now thou sail'st, brave Napier ! Heroic gleam'd each wave ; But ne'er sail'd squadron statelier, Or Admiral more brave. MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 91 God speed thee back, bold Napier, Though grey and worn thy brow, No laurels ere grew brighter Than those which wait thee now. April 1854. M'CLEVERTY THE BRAVE*. Old England still hath heroes, By land and on the wave ; And among the best and bravest, Fights M'Cleverty the brave. * In thus particularly alluding to the conduct of Captain M'Cleverty, the author is far from wishing to depreciate the gallantry of others, who were engaged at Odessa. Captain Jones of the Sampson, who commanded our division, fought as bravely and as well as England could expect. Still Captain M'Cleverty, who fired the first shot and blew up the enemy's magazine, and hap- pened to stand in nearest, and who on carrying the des- patches was cheered by the whole combined fleet, may, I believe, from all accounts, be considered the hero of that day. When off Tangiers, some five or six years since, I was indebted to this gallant officer, then commanding the Polyphemus, for an act of great courtesy ; and I may mention that about ten days or a fortnight before the news came from Odessa, while talking to an American friend, about the probabilities of the approaching con- test, I said, " The first man you will hear of, when anything decided is done, will be Captain M'Cleverty of the " Terrible." 92 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. " Nearer, nearer still !" he shouted As the red shot hiss'd around ; " Ever nearest to the danger Shall the ship I rule be found." As fiery dragons wheeling Breathe flame in airy flight, The huge black steamers circling Maintain'd the dreadful fight ; " Lay her nearer to the bastion" Were the words our sailor said, As if in river pleasance, His bridegroom vessel sped. But his mission was destruction, The bridegroom there was Death ; Each felt he might be breathing Each moment his last breath ; " Keep her in !" loud cries the captain, " 'Till we sight them well on land ;" Firm as rock or sculp tur'd marble "Was the glass in that firm hand ; As he stood upon the paddle box, And smiling cheerful spoke, 'Till the word terrific, " Fire !" From his lips there sudden broke; Then England's vengeance waken'd Like lightning in a cloud, That o'er some silent city Hath all day lurid bow'd. MINSTRELSY OF AVAR. 93 Thus the " Terrible" stood in, 'till From battery, fort and mast, Leapt the roaring flames in anger, Like Etna's furious blast ; 'Twas a shot from her that shatter'd The imperial magazine, When ceas'd the Russian fire, and scarce Another flash was seen. Then the " Lion" turn'd back nobly, The " Eagle" sail'd away ; They would not touch the vanquish'd, Nor rend a prostrate prey : That generous example I fear right well is lost ; The bear growls o'er his prisoners, And true men reck the cost. In praise of England's seaman The French crews loudest cheer, To praise a valiant rival Such spirits never fear ; And I know not, if most glory Of that day be not due To our gay ally the Frenchman, With chivalry so true. Old England still hath heroes, By land and on the wave ; 'Tis hard to be the foremost, Where all alike are brave : 94 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. God prosper still our country, And guard her through the fight, And shield our gallant sailors, The right arm of her Right. WHAT SOUND IS BORNE? 'TIS VICTORY! (an anticipatory ode.) What sound is borne upon the eagle wing Of the strong North wind battling with the waves, Dark-shadow'd by his grim approaching flight, Then lifted flashing in tumultuous light 1 What mighty tidings bring The summer breezes free to this fair land, Where dreamy Neptune old, Low murmuring in the ear of listening caves, His white beard rippling to the yellow strand, Softly the favour' d shore of Albion laves ? What music doth lorn Silence sudden fill, As the tir'd storms their cloudy pinions fold On chalky cliff and lilac-tinted hill, A gorgeous pall deep-fiing'd with fiery gold, Crimson, and purple, through whose curtain seen, Pictur'd beyond in fresh and dewy green, The sun-lit landscape lies ? MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 95 Speak, o'er the stretch of wide sheep-tinkling down, Unto the thick smoke of each populous town, What voice triumphant flies ? What sound is heard ? Tis " Victory !" Champion, defendress of the right, Still rules Britannia o'er the sea, Enthron'd in warrior might. Oh, brighter than the gems of night Are Victory's sparkling eyes, And pale the roses' blushing light Near her warm cheek that lies ; When Liberty and Justice bless The sword whose gleam brings happiness ; And quicken'd pulses throb around, With hope, at war's terrific sound ; When nations fling away their chains To press around the conqueror's car, And slaves forget their frozen pains To hail with song his welcome star, Whose hallowing rays soft light the tomb Of each slain martyr forth from gloom, And gild, afar from tyrants' rage, The cradle of a new-born age. From caves of ice-mail'd Thor, Where the barbaric war-god deep hath fled, Amid the tumbling breakers' hollow roar, And hides his sullen head ; 96 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. Where trembling mermaids thickest sea-weed spread. And shrieking fly the seaman weltering dead, That seems to feel with blind and horrid care His winding way to their dark grottoed lair, A loud voice wailing like a wounded bear On his fast-melting raft quick southward borne ; Or like the groan of great pine forest torn By hurricane, comes near' — Telling of England's triumph dear, Of Russia's wild affright, Of tyrant doom'd to set in blackest night, Of fierce oppression hurl'd to deepest grave, And bids each time-bow'd, rusty-shackled slave, Stand in the sun upright. Cease ! let us mourn awhile the brave, The gallant and the true, For some sleep 'neath the rolling wave, Or tranquil waters blue; And sunken forms lie fading cold, That fought for us in life, "Whose proud hearts throbb'd with rapture bold, Unselfish through the strife — Who, who are they with sad, slow pace, A black funereal train ? No prisoners of a conquer'd race, They mourn the untimely slain : Pour, hautboys, pour your melancholy strain, MINSTRELSY OF WAR. 97 'Till it float far in faint, yet solemn dirge ; Let your wild notes die out in cadenc'd pain, Like some lost sea nymph's wail through autumn surge ; Far off it falls ; we hear it not again — Nor these the lov'd one's voice. Rejoice ! rejoice ! rejoice ! See like Minerva by the side of Jove Fresh from the rout of Titans down the steep Of green Olympus' tempest-shadow'd brow, Crown'd by the fir plumes tall of ebon grove, "Whence still anon, the lurid lightnings leap, Now harmless, and deep thunder rolls around, Britannia calmly smiles, From gleaming casque her hair unbound With braided tresses sweeps the ground, As first to Heaven she kneels in reverence low : See ! there she welcomes, o'er the swelling tide, The proud approach of each war-shatter'd prow, As her white fleets victorious homeward glide, While doting Neptune clasps his warrior isles ; No cry of lamentation lingers now, But deafening cheers from millions round arise ; No more in anger sounds the cannons' roar, Whose booming echo strikes the answering shore, Then far away in distant muttering dies ; No more, no more is heard the sharp fierce ring Of shotted gun, no more the rattling drum 98 MINSTRELSY OF WAR. To arms beats loud ; but countless myriads sing A people's poean, as their champions come Triumphant o'er the wave — Hark to the welcome of the brave ! " Long for herself Britannia fought, She gain'd the liberties she sought, And now beneath the smiles of Heaven, That boon to others she has given ; Rule, mighty nation o'er the azure sea, And in thy freedom may the world be free." END OF PART I. PAET II. SELECTIONS FROM MISCELLANEOUS 2P@HIMo MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. DEATH AND THE MAGDALEN. La jeune Fille. Fantorae! que j'abhorre, Tu me poursuis toujours — Mourir sit6t ! encore quelques jours, Encore quelques jours ! La Mort. Donne ta main, ne tremble pas, Ma main est celle d'une amie : Tu vas dormir entre mes bras, D'un sommeil plus doux que la vie ! In a sick room's poverty, Hard a broken casement by, Near which tall and spectral trees Shiver in the chill night-breeze ; Such as by some mansion lone Link'd with Murder's tale have grown — Sleeps a young girl wearily, O'er her wan face flit strange fears, The ashen trace of tears Defiles her hollow cheek : k2 102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In disorder'd dream Her light tresses stream All about her pillow, Not in fairy freak But like the heavy willow O'er a pool of woe, Sad it is to see Her neck's sharp tracery Shadow'd deeply so By the dim light in the room, Like her dying into gloom. Suddenly the moon stole there, Threading fast her shadowy hair Into silver brightness rare, Mist-like floating with soft grace Round her wan and pearly face ; And I saw a bright red streak On her eyelids, on her cheek ; But her lips were pale and lurid As a Lilv from the earth Sprung in slow and sunless birth, All in dark, cold shadows buried — Then I knew the Maiden's doom Fading early to the tomb. Whilst I watch'd her troubled dreaming, The cold moon-beams o'er her streaming, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 103 As in some old Cathedral pile The tinted light through Oriel window dies On pale, recumbent effigies, Or an ocean-pebble dries In the sun, all colour flies — And her cheek so white is gleaming, So wan, so hueless — for a while You might fancy she'd arise At once, and from that room Unto the Churchyard pass, Poor, pale Ghost, mid the grass Of the graves to glide about, As if searching for a tomb, In and out, in and out, Flashing slender through the gloom ! I thought she did wake up ! And her blue eyes' wandering light Grew quite grey and mad with fright — What is it doth her appal ? There is no shadow on the wall — Lo ! a Shape stands near her, Not with ministering cup, Not with words to cheer her, But a thing of horror As 'twere waiting for her, Saying, " I am Death ! Give me then thy breath." Rattle ! Rattle !—" To these arms, Woman, yield thy faded charms." 104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Life ! oh, life !" she cried, " I will not be Death's bride — I have a lover new Of earth comes me to woo." Then the flutter of her heart Hurries into beating, With a dull and muffled sound Each stroke a hunted creature's bound ! And her quivering lips apart Into sculptur'd anguish start; In the pale moon's wintry beam You might have seen her bosom striving, Like your own in fearful dream, Or a snow-wreath tossing, driving, And her breath so fleeting Might be heard in choking sob, and cry, " I am too young to die, So young to die ! " Then the Figure did deride her, And his lasting grin grew wider ; A tremor o'er the bones did pass, Heard like serpents in parch'd grass, Or as shuddering ice-plains creep, When the dim seas break their sleep. As a mighty giant bell Raging in his deafen'd cell Tolling quick with iron knell MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 105 For a plague-infected city, Smote the voice upon her ear, Hollow, hollow, and so clear, Angels, aid her for sweet pity ! There is no one near. Still more nigh, still more nigh ! With no one near to call, And farther fades the wall And more dull seemeth all To her staring eye — Save the spectral trees so tall That heavily wave b} r , Like hearse-plumes on a pall. " What hast thou to fear in me ? — Speak, what charms hath Life for thee ? Are thy living life and breath Not more frightful still than Death ? And the Spectre of thy youth Ghastlier far than mine in truth ? Is the dark street's wintry doom Not more chilling than the tomb ? Do not all mankind deceive thee ? Still betraying, none believe thee — Can'st thou number father, mother, Faithful friend, or sister, brother? Hast thou friend like me on earth ? " Fast and furious grew his mirth ; 106 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And the monster's ribs did rattle Sharp and cold, like steel in battle, Whilst his blotted, deep eye-caves Clos'd as quick as poor men's graves, When fierce Want is nigh, Then open'd horribly In the strange and wicked light — Moon ! why shinest thou so bright ? Hear the poor girl speak again, Each word tears her side with pain. " Let me, let me only live, Still to me the sky is blue, And these flowers, oh, they give E'en for me their incense true" — As she spake, the sigh of Death Shrank the flowers, her last fond care, As they felt his blistering breath Curdle in the ghastly air — " Oh, the fields, they are so bright ! There was something whisper'd, soon I might wander in the light Of the sun through fields at noon ; Then my thoughts to God I'll give, Let me, let me only live ! " Suddenly, Death grew less stern, Soon his form to air doth turn ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 10 7 And the shape that did appal Seem'd but shadows on the wall Of a naked poplar there Twirling in the gusty air. Hush ! an organ-strain doth fill Soft as flutes the chamber still ; 'Twas like memory of sound To fond souls that love ; It rose from out the ground — From beneath, above, Until that lone, lost creature felt The icy horror round her melt ; Soon fled all her ghastly fears And her dim eyes fill'd with tears Like forget-me-nots in rain Deepening into blue again; And she knew how sweet it was to die, To leave this world of pain, Of shame and earthly stain, And she cried, ''Death! wherefore dost thou fly? I am not young to die : Oh ! let me die ! " Soon a Form stood near, Not of woe or fear ; But of semblance bright, Waving in the moon's sweet, silvery light, And its face look'd like her brother, Youthful sister, father, mother, 108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Him she lov'd, ere sin had known to breathe On her sweet girlhood's bloom, Or shed one rose-leaf from her early wreath Of innocence, upon the tomb. Then fiush'd the dying Maiden's face A smile of such enchanting grace, As when the beating heart is blest With praise from lips we love the best ; Like the Spirit's grow her eyes, As the life within her dies — Like a halo streams her hair, As she breathes a thrilling prayer : "O God! O God! forgive; I would not, would not live ! " -x * -tt * Gone is the burning spot On her pale cheek that fed, Her eyes wild light beams not, Her broken voice is dead — The night wears slow, with sighings low Strange shadows come and fly As in the breeze the spectral trees Uncertain tremble nigh : To her feet soon stole The silvery bowl MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 Of the moon, that kiss'd before Her amber hair So brightly there ; But the Maiden will stir no more. Hush ! I hear the aspen leaves, Or the sprite that in them grieves, Whisper in the shadowy air, " Death is come and gone ! " Hush ! I am alone In that sick room's poverty : Farewell ! sister fair, Thy faint life hath flown, Yet how sweetly, tranquilly, Wonder ye that dare ! 'Twas her heart betray'd her, Her sad life hath paid her Foul impurities : Hot and bitter tears, Cold and ghastly fears, Ere alone she dies ; God will never judge her As her fellow-sinners here below, Though they wrought her woe, Seraphs will not grudge her Room mid serried rank and shining row, Thither she will go ! To a bright glad sphere, Far above in the blue spangled sky Angels singing waft her soul on high — Proud ones, do ye hear ? L 110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A WORLD-HYMN. A hymn of praise to God ! Behold, I wondering kneel In silent thought alone Beneath the purple swimming sky That in deep soft repose, Like the blue eyes of angels myriad-woven, Floats, nature's sunlit altar high-o'erarching ; Or like a waveless ocean spreads Its clear depths far from human ken or sorrow ; And as I kneel, a voiceless song ascends Of praise from one weak earnest human soul Unto the mighty Giver ! With me in concert sing The tiny trembling occupants Of each green living spray That waves itself with whisperings harmonious, The dash of fish that leap With joyous cadences From out the mirror'd and pellucid waters, Making bright pearl-shower'd wreaths mid silvery And orient diadems [mist Snatch'd ever by the twinkling hands of braided Unseen by dim-ey'd mortals ; [nymphs The fountain's sparkling madrigals, The spirit-hum of flowers, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ill All, all ascend to Him, whence life descendeth — God, the eternal Giver ! And weaves its song with mine An orchestra of insects myriad fluting With the soft fraying of the credulous grass, That to the light winds' changful sighing note Bends in new listening life-like wonder ever, The cry of every living gladsome thing, The giant murmuring of towns Which distance purifies — Behold ! they lie afar ; My soul remembers all their weary crimes But as an idiot's story Told when my careless boyhood laugh'd to hear it, Or as the shapes in clouds of yesterday, Or like the dreams of night when golden sunshine Chaseth blind melancholy ; And now unto my bosom's echoing song This doth lend also its wise solemn strain There deepening bright and holy. A mighty hymn to God! Leave all your hero-worshipping Of men that idly spin their little web Of tangled tortur'd framing ; Quit yon tall spires of stone The sad extinguishers of Reason's flame Where'er her pale light flickers through the city; There Mammon blindly gropes beneath high Heaven 112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. With petty blasphemy in vain blaspheming ; There the dull riddle of Religion's face That angels drop no softening tear upon, Is seen to darkly ponder: Behold ! by these unfetter'd On earth I kneel alone. Come near, ye slow and evil worshippers, Is not the glorious earth a house of prayer Better than human houses built of stone "When the mind faints and wanders ? Doth not the morning sun Light all the world to daily orisons, And the sky's vast cathedral dome Stand frescoed with the form of Truth sublime And Mercy roseate-finger'd ? Do not the winds mysterious whisper faith, While silence in the desert loud proclaims it ? Hark ! how the rolling waves eternal chant Their old Chaldean worship : See, where the winged lightnings zigzag write Their living sentences on walls of cloud To the dead hearts of trembling men that creep With grovelling purposes. A Temple of bright Song ! Beneath night's high and jewell'd canopy, The white-robed seraphs guide each several star On flashing thrones through purple space appear- The arched forests shall our pillars be [ing : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 113 Deep groin'd and fretted by no workman's hand, Save the invisible hand Of all-pervading Nature; "While mid their listening leaves Deep, solemn shadows fall, That are not known above where Heaven's floor Is pav'd with the slant beams of far-off suns, Such as we may not picture ; Light is God's shadow there — In which my frail soul, hid in its dusk cave, Yearns to bathe, soaring as the unseen lark That in the sky's blue radiance like a dream Melodious doth linger. A Pyramid of Song! The earth doth never falter, The giant mountains nearer bring to Heaven The deep low valleys' distant murmuring, And the skies stoop unto the mountain's chorus : Man is as nought — a speck on nature seen — But as I kneel there ring sweet, solemn strains Of the whole earth sublimely carolling Her panoramic song of praise around ; That in the narrow prison of this breast Strike a small answering key of echoing gladness ; Like to the tinkling of a sheep-bell heard In faintest, purest harmony afar Borne o'er the bee-suck'd heather when the sun Bringeth the sapphire morning. l2 114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE MR. JUSTICE TALFOURD. Fall'n is the tree that grew indeed full straight, And withered is Apollo's laurel leaf*; Talfourd is dead, who living knew not hate, And dying fills the world with tender grief. Yet say, if Death, disguis'd in friendliest form, Hath e'er pronounc'd less mortal doom than this, With words of mercy on his lips still warm, To be led forth, unpain'd, to endless bliss ? Weep, sad survivors ! Eliaf mild rejoice ! O'er Asphodel what well-known shape there moves Spirit-like to thee, and what well-known voice Eternal right to genial friendship proves. * The reader will doubtless recognise the avowed pla- giarism the author has committed in these two first lines. They are slightly paraphrased from a well-known passage in Marlowe's " Faustus ," and their better application may be deemed, at least by friendly critics, a sufficient excuse for the appropriation, t The name which Charles Lamb was in the habit of appending to his writings. He was one of the late Judge's most cherished earlier friends. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 115 His question now is answer'd — ye have met* Again, and shall meet others left behind On weary road ; when in God's time shall set Their life's frail star, a brighter sphere to find. Take comfort, ye who knew him — oft revolve His virtues, meek simplicity of heart, So fast inwoven with pure, high resolve ; In thought an Angel — Man in life's firm part. In him were blended with a curious care, Philosophy and purpose, justice, love ; Christ's own commandment gave the picture rare, Discreet, yet guileless as the emblem'd dove. Too soon for others, not for self, his death ; He saw not in fierce war-pangs England bleed : Shall we mourn less the minstrel's parted breath Whose song had guerdon'd every noble deed ? Fall'n is the tree, whose blossoms rich are shed, Whose glorious fruit is garner'd ; but the leaf, The laurel leaf of Phoebus is not dead ; Softly it shades the pensive brow of Grief. * " We shall meet again, Clemanthe!" Vide one of the most beautiful and popular passages in " Ion." 116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Type of that better wreath pure Spirits wear In Heaven, on Earth a lasting gift it shines ; The fragrance of his living soul we share, And feel immortal, as we read his lines. ON REACHING HIS TWENTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY. My five-and-twentieth year hath swiftly flown, And I, alas ! no nearer Heaven have grown, Than when a child I lisp'd just like the breeze, Or thought the bright moon touch'd the forest trees. And yet I've learnt 'mid sorrow, care, and strife, To reel less wildly through the masque of life; By his own torch to read the doom of Love, And label Friendship with her price above. To mark the worldling toss'd upon the sea, The crested foam of dark eternity, Dash'd 'gainst his brother atom, still grimace, And to mean worship trim his recreant face. Yet still the stars in truthful orbits roll, And Hope lives frescoed in the sky's blue scroll; And Conscience' shining legions ever fight, Waving her flag in God's own pillar'd light. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ] 1 7 Live on, thou trembling heart ! in praise below ; Beam on, ye myriad stars ! in radiant glow — Earth's joys shall point where purer joys are found, Her tears but halo your bright homes around. Feb. 17th. 1846. STANZAS. The price of Grief is but a tear. The price of Grief is but a tear, It costs no gold to mourn the dead ; The human vulture comes not near The clay-cold form, when life has fled ; But if a true friend o'er me weep, Methinks 'twill rouse me from my sleep. For living, I have found that all Bears still its price upon the earth ; Each sympathy is weigh'd out small For precious drachms — or grief, or mirth, Ye have them both, as ye can pay Unto your grinning fellow clay. 118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Where, Love and Friendship, do ye hide ? I have not found you on life's path ; But some torn blossoms scatter' d wide, Frail minions of the tempest's wrath, Unto my bosom sad I press'd, And deem'd an instant I was blest. But Fancy deck'd the worthless things In rainbow hues that might not stay, While Time or Falsehood lent them wings To flutter far from me away ; Still are my joys and griefs mine own ; Half way through life I am alone. And when my joy and grief are o'er, The only constant thing to mourn These lips that idly sing no more, Should be some effigy forlorn, A monumental prayer in stone — Nay, be remembrance e'en mine own. Scatter my ashes to the wind! In nature's part I'd nobly play, My grave, 'till call'd, in life I'll find, And bring fresh youth, and spurn decay My soul shall with the friendless sleep, And with the poor my sad voice weep. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 119 A PRAYER FOR THE WILDERNESS. To be upon the shores of some great lake And gaze on human sorrows from afar ; One daily prayer from Nature's page to take, Alone, beneath the forest sun or star : To dream of all the puppet-tricks of man, As 'twere an Angel touch'd with softest grief — Oh, such, ere all life's sands in twilight ran To their sad end, should be my blest relief! To die within a city were a curse, "Without once thinking straight up to the sky, To be borne forth within a rattling hearse With no grand, solemn, peaceful silence nigh : I thirst for Eden in a desert land, Where God still walks in gardens He has made, Where virgin Night kneels low with folded hand, And Joy primaeval smiles by Morn array 'd. THE CONVICT'S ESCAPE. The following ballad is founded on a story, which ap- peared, two or three years since, in the public journals, headed "Affecting Incident." 'Twas a convict, wan and weary, By his fears like gendarmes press'd, In a lalchless cottage peering, Thus its inmates poor address'd ; — 120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " From the prison of the city, Yonder city of Toulouse, But three hours since fled I wildly, Leaving fate my road to choose. " In strip'd dress and shackles heavy Work'd I with the negro's toil ; Once I stabb'd a proud oppressor, 'Gainst his wrongs my blood did boil. " He had wrong'd my only sister, And the evening that she died, When by accident I met him, Call'd me peasant — said I lied ! " I was poor and he was mighty — For a moment chang'd our fate ; In the dust he lay before me, "Wreath'd my lip with scorn and hate. " I was poor and he was mighty, Soon they rush'd unto his aid ; Kind hearts mourn'd o'er the betrayer, Cold alms buried the betray'd. " I to prison quick was hurried, Met the Court's indignant gaze ; And, though young, was sternly sentenc'd Thus to pass my frenzied days : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 121 " With huge shackles heavy clanking, Toiling unredeem'd by Time, Breathing 'midst a crowd of wretches, Wearing human masks of crime. " I was twenty, now am thirty, Since this death in life began ; Yet I mark'd not, save by seasons, How the dull grey moments ran. " Since that time, perchance in battle, Children guiltier far than I, France hath lost ; ah ! why in glory Did not France free me to die ? " For the bullet strikes the peasant And the noble with like blow — Elevates the humble peasant, Lays the haughty noble low. " Six months back, I dreamt I hurried From the city's opening gate ; Breath'd the free air of the heaven, Danc'd and sang with joy elate. " To my sister's cottage wander'd, Saw the vine hang round her door, Saw the trees before the auberge — All was as it was before. M 122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " From the door she leant — the evening Sunbeams kiss'd her auburn hair ; She was singing an old ballad Of gay knight and maiden fair. " And I thought that Henri, Bertrand, Comrades of my earlier hours, Brought her laughing, talking, smiling, Garlands of white perfum'd flowers. " Such as wnen a child I gathered In the chateau's brambled moat, Ere upon my young life's pages Care one crooked letter wrote — " 'Twas a dream ; but from that moment Fiery thoughts of freedom burn'd In my breast : my sister beckon'd Wheresoe'er I sighing turn'd. " With a file, right through my shackles, Night by night I work'd amain ; If I tir'd, sat Freedom near me, ' Work,' she cried, ' I'll cure thy pain !' " How I sped, no matter — see me Here with wounded hands and sore, Give me bread and give me shelter, Until night my flight be o'er." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 123 As he spoke no answer came there From the group within those walls ; But a sob of murraur'd pity On his quicken'd hearing falls. Still no word said " Enter, worn one, Take thy humble seat and meal :" It was strange ! since poor ones ever For each other's sufferings feel. And I'd rather, 'mid the lowest, Beg small alms from door to door, Than where courtly grandeur pious Sweeps with Sabbath train the floor. " Friends," the convict's voice deep falter'd, " Ye have pity — ye are kind ; Dark your chamber is ; yet warmer, Than outside the biting wind. " Give me token I may enter, Speak one word of greeting fair ; Move ye not ? Speak, aged father, Spell-bound in that old arm-chair." Hoarse and sad and deep the answer — " Enter 'neath this bare-wall'd shed, Food we've none, and soon will shelter Be denied my sick girl's head. 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Far my son for glory fighting Dies perchance as thou hast spoke, Three small childi*en and a wife he Left with us two aged folk. " Enter, thou art welcome, tir'd one, Till to-morrow's cruel dawn : Bread we've none, alas ! to give thee, Not one rag to sell or pawn." Then two little children starving Hurried to their grandsire's side, Not from fear — they were too hungry, But the stranger upward ey'd. " Grand'ther," whisper'd one, "do you think he Brings us food ?" " Hush, child, be still ! Sir, our landlord on these children Sternly wreaks a cruel will. " I am old and useless, ready Forth to wander o'er the plain, With my wife, yon aged woman, We have liv'd through many a pain. " But my daughter lies there helpless, And these tender babes forlorn :" Large tears unseen heavy trickled Down his wrinkled features worn. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 125 Silently the convict enter'd, Sat down — watch'd the skies for rain ; While the aged grandsire sighing Rock'd each hungry child again. Rose the convict — to the thicket Seeking fuel forth he went, Then came back, and in the door-way Gaz'd awhile and idly leant. Ask'd he of the cruel landlord — Each child's age, their father's name — Then within he heap'd the faggot, With his breath he fann'd the flame. " Tell me how much is it," spoke he, " That you owe in all — you say, If 'tis paid not ere the sunset He will drive you forth to-day." " Forty francs we owe him ! " — " Surely 'Tis so small a sum, though stern, If you take your children with you, To soft pity he will turn." " If we pay not ere the sunset, Harsh-voiced bailiffs at the dawn Of to-morrow's day will drive us Far hence beggar'd and forlorn — m 2 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " See you, there, my daughter lying, Thin and fever-dried — she went Last night half a league to ask him, By her children's sad eyes sent. " But the lawyer spurn'd her sinking On his step, with oath and curse, And he smote her on the shoulder, Though she bore yon child at nurse." Then the convict mutter'd fiercely — Flash'd his eyes as when he hurl'd To the ground that haughty noble, And his pale lip grimly curl'd. One step forward, backward, made he — 'Twas a man that forward strode, But an angel that turn'd backward — Seem'd he lighten'd of his load. Bright his smile — a tear-drop quivering, Dimm'd no longer by despair, Stole from 'neath his eye-lash lower'd On that mute group lingering there. All the rust that chains had gather'd Ten long years within his breast, By that tear was wash'd for ever, And his soul was wrapp'd in rest. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 127 Then unto those simple people Spake he thus with accent clear — " I am due to laws offended, I have no right to be here. " On my head a price there set is : He may fifty francs receive, Who shall take me to the city ; Haste, nor longer idly grieve. " Take your prisoner, he is willing, See, those children may not wait : Come, be quick, no crime I counsel, But a service to the State. " Forty francs your landlord covets, Fifty thus I gladly give All I ask is Heaven's blessing, That your little ones may live." Long the old man gaz'd upon him, In a corner sobbing fell ; But the choking words he utter'd None might hear and none can tell. " May destruction sooner gather Round all here," at length he cried ! " Father ! " shriek'd the fever'd woman, " See, my youngest one hath died." 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Grand'ther," said the eldest sharply, " Give my little brother bread ; Francois sleeps, I cannot wake hira, Here, with mother, in the bed." "Grand'ther," whispering breath'd the second- Favourite with the soft blue eyes — " Francois, will he more be hungry ? God feeds Francois in the skies." Spake the aged woman nothing, But she bow'd toward the ground, And it seem'd that thence there upward Came a low and mutter'd sound. " Come then ! " " Never ! I, a soldier, Thus a comrade to betray, I have stood beside the Emperor After many a hard fought day. " Go hence, seek a better shelter Than this house of tears and death : Take a blessing with thee, comrade, Wafted by an old man's breath." " Listen," said the convict coldly, " Like a hunted wolf I roam : Straight hence will I seek my prison, As 'twere childhood's dearest home. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 129 " I of liberty am sicken'd ! Better wear the convict's dress — Better labour in a prison — ■ Than be free in this distress. " If thou wilt not take this ransom, Swear I, by Christ's holy name, I will seek another captor, And this money he shall claim. " Hark ! I hear the gendarmes trampling, They will seek me far and wide ; I am weary. — Lo ! I have not Strength to flee, or soul to hide. " Heaven hath sent me here to aid ye : Dreamt I in my youth, or read, How a raven sent by Heaven, One whom man deserted fed." Spake the aged woman, rising — "Take, my son, this proffer'd aid; He hath sinn'd and God is willing, Let God's wisdom be obey'd." Then a rope the convict twisted From his prison dress he tore, Round his waist he drew it tightly — Stood erect upon the floor. 130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Kiss'd the dead child and the living, Plac'd the rope with pious care In the old man's trembling clutches, Drew him forth with cheerful air. Captive gently drew the captor — Often held the old man back; Not once did that weary convict Pause upon his onward track. Right unto the city came they Without challenge to the gate — " Captain of the guard, a prisoner Here I render to the state ! " To the fortress' stern commandant Come they with that armed guard : " Colonel, here I bring a prisoner After struggling long and hard ! " Then the fifty francs they give him — " Old man, tell me, hast thou serv'd ? " " Ask these scars upon my bosom If at Lodi's bridge I swerv'd ? " " Thou art old, and grey, and weakly, And the prisoner fierce and strong" — " 'Twas the spirit of a soldier Nerv'd my arm to vanquish wrong." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 131 " Here is gold, thou brave old soldier, Tell the story of thy need : I for thee will ask a pension ; 'Tis well earn'd by such a deed." " I must hasten to my children, They are starving — without bread ! " " Stay with us, thou veteran soldier, I will send and see them fed. " To the guard-room take your comrade, Old he is, but true and brave : Convict ! in two hours thy prison Must be chang'd into a grave. " Thou the penalty well knewest, One hour take then to prepare — One hour hence a file of soldiers 'Neath the tower's western stair ! " In the door-way stood the old man Cowering, anxious to depart ; Seem'd it, as the cruel bullets Of the soldiers reach'd his heart. Back he stagger'd to the centre, " Let me die! " he wildly rav'd: But the convict frown' d in anger, As one reckless to be sav'd. 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then he pour'd forth quickly — sadly — All the truth, with anguish wrung : " Take, oh ! take your blood-stain'd money ! — " Round his prisoner's neck he clung. Hoarsely cough'd the stern Commandant, And the wind blew in his eyes ; Then with fierceness quite tremendous Sought he pity to disguise. " Guard, remove your prisoner ! Old man, Grieves me thou hast meanly lied ; Give the prisoner food and respite — " Spake he to the guard aside. In six days there came from Paris For the convict pardon free ; And the stern Commandant gave him Land, and Life, and Liberty ! Often do that aged couple Tell the story o'er and o'er To a sunburnt soldier sitting By yon humble cottage door. " Thus he did, yes, thus my prisoner Did my trembling footsteps guide :" " 'Twas the day," low spake the mother, " Our sweet little Francois died." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 133 Often comes in pride the convict, Noble pride, in truth, has he : Merely to escape from prison Makes no human being free. 'Tis the thought, the soul, the conscience ! Trust me, there are often found Slaves in mind, among the proudest, Worse than galley-slaves around. Soon he finds a home still dearer Than the one in youth he lost ; Oft shines manhood firmer, brighter, For a spring by storm-clouds cross'd. In a vine clad cottage chamber Bright-hair'd children on his knees — This, the Convict's simple story — Gentle ladies, may it please. THE FIR TREE*. Drowsily, on barren height, In the far-off arctic zone, Through the dim and frozen night Sleeps a Fir-tree all alone ; Round him wrapt there glitters bright His snow coverlet of white. * From the German of H. Heine. N 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Dreams he of a distant Palm That in morning's orient land 'Neath the sky's eternal calm, Like a thing forlorn doth stand, On his burning wall of stone, Grieving silent and alone. THE LANGUAGE OF THE STARS*. For thousand thousand years on high The changeless stars above Stand gazing, and each other eye With sadden'd looks of love. The language that they speak is rare, Rich-blazon'd and soul-lit, Yet no philologists declare They can decipher it. But I have learn'd this language true, Nor shall forget its trace ; My grammar, love, thine eyes of blue, And thy sweet wondering face. * From Heine. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 135 THE FISHERMAIDEN*. Thou beautiful bright fishermaiden ! Come, steer me thy skiff to the land, And sit by me, thine eyes newly laden With love, fondly link'd hand in hand. On this heart lay thy little head gaily, Nor fear me too much : the wild sea Bears thee carelessly floating far daily From the warm earth thou lovest and me. Sweet ! my heart too thy sea doth resemble, On its surface, tide, flood, storms, there be ; But in its depths sparkle and tremble Many gems, many pearls fair to see. THE LONELY TEARf . What will this lonely tear That clouds my aching sight ? Alas! it doth remain with me From times long fled in night. * From Heine. + From Heine. 136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Its many shining sisters Have flow'd away in gloom Of wind and* tempest raving Round Joy's and Sorrow's tomb. My sorrows and my joys ! Like mists Those little stars of blue, That in this heart have smil'd them So deeply, have fled too. Ah me ! my love itself Hath vanish'd like mere breath: Thou old and lonely tear Flow forth now in thy death. IN A LILY'S CHALIC'D BELL" : In a lily's chalic'd bell Soft I breath'd my fluttering soul, Till my love's name from its cell Back in perfum'd music stole. Sung then by the flower trembling, Long it quiver'd on my lip, That sweet kiss of hers resembling In a dream I once did sip. * From Heine. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 137 THE SLEEP OF BARBAROSSA*. King Frederick Barbarossa ! That Kaiser old and grim, Deep in the vaulted castle Enchantment holdeth him. He died not as men perish, A wizard life doth keep ; There, hidden in the castle, He sits, enrob'd in sleep. He has down with him taken The splendour of his sway, Some time he will return with it On the appointed day. The stool whereon he sitteth In ivory shines fair, Of marble is the table O'er which he bendeth there. His beard it is not flaxen, But flame in spiral glow ; It pierces through the table O'er which his head bows low. * From the German of Ruckert. By the black ravens is meant the priesthood. N 2 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In dreaming nods he often, Half opes his dim clos'd eye, Awhile waits and then beckons A page that standeth by. " Thou dwarf! rise up," he speaketh, " Before the castle go, There look if the black ravens Still nutter to and fro : " And if those ebon ravens Still flutter as of eld, I must yet by enchantment A hundred years be held." THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAArV i. At window stands the mother, In bed there lay the son, " Will you not rise, my Wilhelm, Ere yet the show be done ? " " I am so weary, mother, I cannot hear or see, I think of my lost Gretchen, My heart aches wearily." * From Heine. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 " Rise up ; we'll go to Kevlaar With rosary and book, God's mother, dear, shall cure thee, On thy sick heart she'll look." The holy standards flutter, The holy tunes they sing, To Cologne on the River The sacred march they bring. The mother follows closely, His faltering step doth aid ; They both sing in the chorus " Praise Marie ! spotless maid." n. God's mother bright at Kevlaar Her Sunday dress doth wear, To-day she is so busy, So many sick come there. The sick people are bringing As sacred offerings meet Limbs moulded out of wax : there were Both waxen hands and feet. A hand of wax who bringeth her His wounded hand grows whole ; And he who gives a waxen foot Straight stands on a sound sole. 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Of those who had sore fingers On fiddles all now play, On tight-ropes dance the crutch-borne To Kevlaar came that day. The mother took a wax-light And form'd from it a heart, " God's mother this accepting Shall cure thy sorrow's smart." The son the heart took sighing, And sighing did beseech ; From his sad eyes the tear-drops, From his sad heart the speech. " Thou maiden pure of Heaven ! Thou highly prais'd, ador'd, To thee, thou queen of glory ! My sufferings be deplor'd. " I liv'd there with my mother, At Cologne, in the town That hath so many churches And chapels up and down : " And next to us liv'd Gretchen, But she is now no more : This waxen heart receiving, Cure thou my heart so sore. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 " Cure thou my sick heart's sorrow ; So fervently I'll pray Both night and morning early Marie ! be prais'd alway." in. The sick son and the mother, In a small room they slept, There came God's mother gently ; Mid moonbeams pale she stept : And o'er the sick man stooping Her hand she softly laid, Quite softly on his bosom, Then smil'd, nor longer stay'd. In dreams the mother saw this, Nay more, in slumber bow'd ; Then woke she from her visions — Why bark the dogs so loud ? There lay outstretch'd close to her Her son, and he was dead ; Round his wan cheeks is playing The morning bright and red. The mother her hands folded, She knew not what she felt ; But with low accents pious In praise to Marie knelt. 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. NOW, FAREWELL! In the hour when pleasure nigh thee Gaily flits with circling cup, Ere the ghost of sin hath found thee, And thy soul hath waken'd up ; While the flatterer still approaches, Crawling o'er thy beauty's fame, Hear, oh ! hear not my reproaches, Hide, oh ! hide thy lingering shame : Notv, Farewell! When joy lights the flashing glances Shot from 'neath thy brow of pride, And thy dark eye revels, dances To the whisper at thy side — Lean back ; let thy jewell'd finger Point in scorn to this wrong'd heart, While thy days of beauty linger, Ere youth, health, and peace depart : Now, Farewell! Soon will cold deserted anguish Fling its shade across thy brow, And the proud thoughts fade and languish 'Neath thy swelling bosom now ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 143 See, the dove no more returneth, But the raven haunts thy breast, And thy soul within thee burnetii ; Vain, oh ! vain thy prayer for rest : Now, Farewell! When life's false illusions fly thee, And thy cradle meets thy grave, At that hour I will be nigh thee, In one curse around thee rave ; See thy bleeding bosom riven, Ask if God's great lightnings live ! No! I'd stoop down e'en from Heaven, Then to raise thee and forgive : Now, Farewell! Thou more vows hast idly broken Than the soul of Sappho sung ; All that lovers e'er have spoken Fell in passion from thy tongue : 'Twas thy wild caresses won me Captive to thy froward will, And those eyes that coldly shun me Drank in mine of love their fill : Now, Farewell! With thy love-encircling tresses — Eyes that once played Helen's part, Didst thou in its deep recesses Bid the traitor reach my heart ; 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To my couch and chamber guiding All the fell assassin band — " Here he sleeps, here, all confiding — Strike where points my ruthless hand ! " Now, Farewell ! God is just and Time quick passes, E'en now while I faintly sing, In the Future's magic glasses Shapes of night their shadows fling : Sternly Retribution hurries Veil'd in gloom the fateful day ; Vainly crime Repentance buries — I for thee will kneel and pray. Now, Farewell ! L'AMOUR QUI PASSE ET L'ESPOIR QUI VIENT. I. I lov'd her, I wooed her, I won her at last, And each soft spell of fondness around me she cast, As together we stood 'neath the stars, and she swore That like us none had lov'd in the wide world before ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 Whilst I drank her wild whispers deep down in my soul With their music the dashing waves sparkle and roll: And she bade me look far in the bright sapphire west For a home in the clouds where our hearts might find rest ; For she said she might lose me in this world of pain, And her breath came in sobs as she questioned again — If my heart were as true, as her heart that was mine, Might the golden chords snap that our bosoms entwine ? Would I ever be colder — another love weave, And, forgetting my vows, bid her fainting soul grieve ? And she swore that she liv'd in my smile, look, or nod, And with blasphemy called me her angel and God : 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. How little I thought her soft blasphemy flew, Wing'd with falsehood, on high, thro' the skies' deepening blue ! II. And she lay in my arms — then a dark whisper stole, Like the hiss of a snake, o'er my shuddering soul : And it said, first in dreams, then in waking, " Arise ! She is heartless, and loves thee not — look in her eyes" — And I look'd in her eyes, and I felt of a truth That an old age had crept o'er our love in its youth, And her step wax'd more haught, and her eye grew more cold, And she pledg'd not my soul with her glance as of old : But when others came round her and prais'd her, she wore A proud air I never saw in her before. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 Whilst I watch'd her in silence my heart I might hear, As it throbb'd in my breast, when her step came not near, When her step came not near me, as seated aloof I sat down rob'd in grief 'neath the dusk of my roof: And she sang not for me ; whilst each melody seem'd Like an echo of Joy I had once fondly dream'd : And her light step, that tripp'd like a fawn in my hall, Grew heavy and bounded no more to my call. III. Then I sudden gave birth to a sharp piercing cry, And I thought if another she lov'd, I would die — Could I hope for oblivion, see not her bliss, Nor my spirit be torn by the sound of a kiss — But a chill from the threshold of Death met my heart, And the midnight beyond made my soul back- ward start ; 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For I fancied my punishment might be to cling- To the world I abhorred, like a visionless thing — As the spectre of crime hovers still round the spot Where the dull clay that held it doth fester and rot, In the shadow that seems 'neath yon black Yew alive, Where the rank waving grass will not spring up and thrive : In the moonlight that quickens o'er vault and green mound, When the flight of a bat is a loud painful sound ; And the tombstones seem changing around, as the snow From the white phantom iceberg slips noiseless below, When the frozen seas tinkle and lazily creep, And the pale soul of Death seems to stir from its sleep — Thus I thought that my spirit by passion betray 'd Like a miser's might haunt where my treasure was laid : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 When the shadows of twilight should mix with her hair, If a lover knelt to her, that I might be there ; "With the chill morn unfasten the windows of gloom, And on sunbeams transfix'd be alive in her room — So I turn'd on my griefs, as a lion at bay Rends the wild dogs would make him when wounded their prey. IV. It is night! O'er my dwelling there shines down a star, Like a ray on a tomb, from a bright world afar : 'Tis the same that her tears once impearl'd in the sky, As she whisper'd her faint soul deserted would die. It is o'er ! She is gone with a treacherous wile, And the false world comes round her to proffer its smile : There's the rapture of praise from a cold lying lip, And the flatterer, wasp-like, on perfume doth sip : o 2 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 'Twas the breath of my soul — now 'tis shed all around, As the ape tears and scatters a rose on the ground : And society's hags, with thin smiles o'er a sneer, Like the paint on a death's head draw jauntily near; And the fool and the tempter, with stale selfish lies, Spread the circle around her where innocence dies: 'Tis the charm'd ring of Fashion, whose demon is Pride, And the leering sin steps forth and claims her as bride ; As she pledges her soul, lo ! one sorrowful face, 'Mid the throng briefly seen, in her breast leave* no trace. V. Round my mansion I wander ere day hath be- gun, 'Till its casements, like blind eyes, look blank in the sun. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 Like a stranger at evening I come to my gate, And within sit down hopelessly staring at fate. All the chattels are round me she threadec among, And the moments are told by the same warning tongue, That my ears met before from the time-piece of gold, Ere the fatal stroke death to my happiness told: It was here that I brought her. My heart then I set To beat time with her own, as our warm bo- soms met — For a life, for an age, that should glide softly by. Like a river sun- lit 'neath a bright summer sky : In her eyes seeking deeply and oft to unweave All the bright mystic depths where thoughts sparkle or grieve. From a neighbouring home the same music is heard, And my thoughts to fresh anguish hath wantonly stirr'd : 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O'er yon mirror her beauty hath glanc'd o'er and o'er, Like that mirror my eye-sight is gladden'd no more : Would her image as lightly had fled from my soul ; Might the dark stream of Time ne'er again backward roll, To the sad voice of Memory stretch'd on its brink, Crown'd with pale willow leaves that the cold waters drink. Would her vine-trellis'd hair had ne'er perfum'd my face, Would this breast had not miser'd each soft speaking grace — Would I'd liv'd unwaken'd to bliss that is dead Would the moments white-winged had ne'er come that are fled. It is Evening and Autumn. The winds whistle round, And the pale ghosts of Summer flit fast to the ground ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 Down the pathway they rustle, then volleying fall On the dark window, shaken from Night's drip- ping pall. Like a robber I creep to the side of my bed, To steal peace from repose— but find Sleep lying dead ; And lie down by the Sleep that is murder'd, in vain To compose in its semblance my brow knit with pain. Lo ! the billows of passion tumultuous roll, And in scorn lift and dash down the wreck of my soul ! VI. It is past, like a dream that may ne'er come again ; I have wept for my folly and smil'd back on pain. Grief hath since followed grief, sorrow kib'd sorrow's heel, Till the sear'd heart exhausted refuses to feel : 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But from Joy laid in dust springs the thirst for a name, And the coffin of Love is the cradle of Fame. For the boy-love must die on the altar of man, Ere his thoughts may in freedom the universe span ; Ere the stately ship hold on her course in the sun, Ere the strong bow be bent and the swift race be run. Tear the soft silken curtain away from the soul That would wrestle with Evil or reach Wisdom's goal; But let it in rent of the storm-cloud appear, And with sorrow be temper'd its bright Angel spear : For the world hath no pleasure not wedded to death, And our warmest hopes pass like a frail sum- mer breath. 'Tis the struggle that makes us. The hope that is dead Leaves the ash whence a Phoenix doth burst forth instead. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 O'er a tomb in this world must Ambition recline, Ere it glance back to Heaven with glories divine, As a white marble monument shines through the night, When the pure star of Faith on its forehead sheds light. 'Tis the shipwreck'd soul winneth the isle of content, Where it drifts on the lone spar by Misery lent ; And the spirit that suffers most pangs in its youth Hath but pluck'd a few thorns from the path- way of Truth. THE PARTING. Thou, whom I lov'd so dotingly, And trusted with confiding heart ; Take now this mournful verse from me, For ever, that we part — we part. The future of my life shall be A shadow of the smiling past ; Too happy days soon doom'd to flee, And leave me, like the sea, o'ercast ; 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When the cold damp of evening wakes The slumberer on the fragile deck, Ere yet God's lion tempest shakes And rends, in scorn, the reeling wreck. Take back, I tell thee, take back all — The sunny glance when first we met, Our hopes, and follies, pangs — then call Some angel power to bid — forget, The various common cares of life, Our daily counsel, thoughts, and fears, Each look of grief, love, playful strife — I see them through these falling tears, More clear than as they pass'd, when we Stood clasp'd awhile in sheltering cave Upon the brink of that dark sea, Time's bitter birth and endless grave. And now we stand on either shore, Apart — apart ! I stretch in vain My arms — I see thee not. 'Tis o'er ! We may not — cannot meet again ! In death, I'd left thee ne'er — had kept A vigil o'er thee still unseen ; But when thy quivering eyelids slept, Then present to thy soul had been. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 Now — now eternal shadows keep Between our paths their midnight gloom : Be dreams my life, my life the sleep Of one reposing on a tomb ! This shroud of memory round me worn, I'll, rending, laugh to scorn the smart; The robe of Nessus thus were torn, But never heals the bleeding heart. This is but life. We are soul-riven, Nor thus may meet in realms above ; Such heavenly boon alone is given, When souls are twins in bonds of love. THE MEETING. I passed thee. Thou'rt no longer mine Deep on my pallid cheek The flush of angry shame hath left Its sad autumnal streak. I saw thee. And e'en now my soul Thy living portrait sears ; I gaze on it, when nought beside Steals through these blinding tears. p 158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Pale flocks of leaves are falling fast, Like spirits of the slain ; But faster thoughts of anguish fall Heap'd o'er my bosom's pain : They tell me of the cherish'd wreath, Thy white and polish'd brow In dark and green luxuriance wore — Ah me ! 'tis faded now : Not like th' " immortal" wreaths bestow'd By pious hands on death; They bloom, but this has wither'd been In my warm living breath. I sought its drooping leaves to aid, I would not see them die ; They seem'd so like the hours of bliss We snatch'd at, fleeting by. The dew from Grief's night-flowers was there, With which wan cheeks are wet ; The sights that o'er faint shuddering Hope Are breath'd by stern Regret. Methinks, if thus my pains were lost, I need not wondering be ; That wreath might only hope to live If worn again by thee ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 And could thy warm shape pass me by ? And could'st thou all forget ? And have we, torn each fondest pledge, Like strangers coldly met ? And am I farther from thee now Than all the world beside ? And must I lay my heart from thee ? Would I had rather died ! In sleep I sometimes stretch my arms, And still my treasure find; Ah ! tell me why are dreams, my love, Than waking less unkind ? Is not this all a dream of woe ? Quick thy soft hand unveil ! Quick touch me, lest in sleep I die — My quivering pulses fail. Lest I should die in sleep, my love, And on thee gaze no more — One wailing cry, and I am gone Unto the silent shore ; Unto the silent shore, where Hope Prints not her footsteps vain ; I might not hear thy thrilling cry — " Come back, my love, again !" 160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I might not see thy dazzling arms Stretch'd wildly forth for me ; Dim roll between the boatless waves Of dark Eternity ! CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. I. AH ! LEAVE ME NOT. I cannot, may not, love but thee, Then smile on this sad heart : Say not those piercing words to me, " We must for ever part !" Fling back thy veil of shadowy hair, Give me a look to stay despair ! By all that thrills my memory In dreaming o'er the past, Each passion-flower of ecstasy That shed its leaves so fast ; By wan Hope's last bright, hectic spot, Each wild embrace — ah ! leave me not ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 161 II. LOVE DIED WITHIN MY STRICKEN SOUL. Love died within my stricken soul — An old man led me from the tomb : Then, pointing to the stars that roll Eternal, glittering through the gloom, He ranged their mystic alphabet To bid my earth-fed soul forget, And told me that the end was there Of pain and sorrow, grief and care. His name was Wisdom ! — as I caught The honied accents from his tongue, How nobly was the lesson taught ; My heart already seem'd less wrung — A fleeting Memory came by, Tossing her thin hands with faint cry ; The blinding tears rush'd o'er my sight : He fled — I wept, alone, in night. III. FROM YON CURTAIN'd CLOUD. From yon curtain'd cloud, her slumber leaving, Steals the moon in witchery of light, Bright the waves in soft luxuriance heaving Meet the deep sighs of the dark-tress'd night ; p 2 162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But the magic scene to me is shaded, And its power to shed sweet influence nought ; 'Tis the spirit's dim eclipse when faded, Sadly veil'd by lone and sorrowing thought. Earth with fond remembrance gently quitting, In an hour like this I would depart, Propp'd by pillows, near the casement sitting, Hear the beat of every loving heart ; See the moon-beam kiss the silent ocean, Press the hand that vainly bid me stay, Then let sleep with bitter, sweet emotion, Through the twilight steal my soul away ! IV. THE EARTH IS FAIR FOR SOME THAT SMILE. The earth is fair for some that smile, But dark for those that weep, And I have liv'd a little while, That now would only sleep : My childhood asks me of the hour, And why I wake in pain — ■ Ah ! would my spirit had the power To be a child again. Alas ! the heart that is beguil'd By joy that fades so soon, Feels but the sorrow of the child, When clouds enrobe the moon; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 For every cradle 'neath her rays, She silvers o'er a tomb ; The lamp of Wisdom only stays To light us in the gloom. V. METHOUGHT IN SLUMBER THOU DIDST o'ER ME STOOP. Methougbt in slumber thou did'st o'er me stoop, With eyes like twin soft stars of liquid light, Till on my forehead fell from pearly loop Thy tresses perfum'd as the Eastern night. Thy lips to mine like humid rose-leaves clung, In the low murmur of a tender kiss : Awhile, in turn, I raptur'd o'er thee hung, Then sank down fainting in the lap of bliss. VI. TO LIVE THUS ONCE WERE ALWAYS LIFE. I'd not be born, apart from thee, A monarch's eldest son, Or victor be of battle-fields, So thou too wert not won : 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Nor fashion's mask, nor wealth's disguise, Can save from chilling death ; Let me be mirror'd in thine eyes And perfum'd by thy breath. To live thus once were always life, While bright things still remain ; And Love, sweet truant from the skies, In young hearts bloom'd again : By twilight grove, or cadenc'd rill, Where lovers first were met, Our vows would breathe enchantment still, And bid them ne'er forget. I would not live away from thee For all the wealth of Inde ; I'd rather in a desert live, And thy sweet presence find, Hear thy voice murmur in the breeze, Salute thee in the stream, See golden sunlight kiss the trees, Then o'er thy tresses beam. VII. AH ! LITTLE DREAMT I ON THE DAY. Ah ! little dreamt I' on the day I drew thee to soft Paphian bowers, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 How soon Time's stream would bear away Love's scatter'd torch and wither'd flowers, And leave me, ere my locks grew white, To weep for morn, yet sigh for night. There is a scar beneath my hair, There is a sorrow at my heart ; The one in old age I shall bear, The other may not from me part — But I, in pride, will clasp my fate, Meet scorn with scorn, and hate with hate !, VIII. THE LIPS WHICH SPAKE THOSE SILVERY SOUNDS. The lips which spake those silvery sounds I ne'er again may see ; But, oft, like dreams of childish love, They'll haunt my memory : Looks, too, there were as one had stray'd Bright crystal gates within, Where spirits dwell and met their eyes Without reproof or sin. And she I lov'd was 'mid them all, But comes, in light, no more ; Save, when I dream by Time's dark stream, Her white robe skirts the shore : 166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I wake and fling my aching arms In sudden grief on high, To me, O World ! thou might'st have been A Heaven beneath the sky, IX. BLEED IN THE DARK, MY SOUL ! Bleed in the dark, my soul, nor let The world deride thy woes ; If thou canst not thyself forget, Let gloom around thee close : Nor yield the sacred wounds of grief To careless doubt, or cold belief. Mournful the fate of him, whom song May cheer, alas ! no more, Though swan-like he but sail along To dark oblivion's shore — ■ Sound then, my harp ! the Indian Brave In death sings for himself, the stave. X. RETURN, MY LOVE, RETURN ! I lay me down at break of day, Yet rise at early morn, To feel that something from my heart — My aching heart — is torn : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 In dreams, awake, I hear a voice, Whose thrilling accents burn, And echo in my soul, it cries — " Return, my love, return !" I'll wrap thee from the world's rude storms ; I am thy lover — friend ; Oh ! bid this dream — this hideous dream — Oh ! bid it quickly end : They love thee not, that circle thee From me, they may not learn This heart, whose world is only thine ; " Return ! my love, return !" XI. WHAT TAUGHT MY ANGUISH'D SOUL TO LOVE. What taught my anguish'd soul to love A thing so frail as thee ? No form of light from realms above Could thy false image be : Yet graven here by ruthless dart, The fiery letters burn, Thou hold'st the ashes of my heart Inclos'd in Memory's urn : Ah ! scatter them, and give me rest — Unchain the vulture from my breast. Oh ! might the spectre of the past Fade 'neath the earth away, 168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. With each bright hope that fled so fast, Remembrance too decay ; But Time, whose shadow o'er earth's flowers Doth reach ere well they bloom, Still leaves the ghosts of happier hours To glide round Memory's tomb : He will not all consume, ere death Breathes on the heart with icy breath. XII. THE STORM OF PASSION SWEEPS MY BREAST. The storm of passion sweeps my breast, Yet may not still the heart's deep grief; The dark volcano sinks to rest, Whose inward pang finds no relief: Again its bosom flings on high The fiery ashes that return ; The glowing lava tints the sky, The last green shreds of verdure burn. PALE MEMORY IS MINE. Pale Memory is mine : I married her, When Hope lay weltering like a drowned child, Whom the rude surges reach to lift and stir, Cradled in sea weed, 'neath the storm dirge wild. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6"9 Into each other's eyes we constant look, And whisper smiling, of the world around Unconscious. Like a deep and willowy brook, Time rushes past, and lulls us with his sound. I love wan Memory. She is my choice ; Fortune hath nought to leave her, but she brings A dow'r of fairest pearls, and gentle voice Whose music soft enchantment round me flings. She is my sad Ophelia, and doth glide Away from me full oft upon Time's stream, Against the current borne on magic tide, Singing faint snatches of an orphan dream ; But aye returns with treasures in her lap, A tress of hair, a perfume, wither'd leaf, And lays her cheek to mine. This is our hap, We have two quiet children, Joy and Grief. NAY, TELL ME NOT THE SKY IS BLUE. Nay, tell me not the sky is blue ; Let others court the sun's warm rays, Q 170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My heart to sorrow only true, Loves best the gloom of clouded days : When the sky weeps I grieve the less, Sunshine may gild, but cannot bless. Bright days are lost to one like me ; The shade but deepens o'er my heart: Each joyous bird, each budding tree Unkindly mocks my leafless part ; And Summer flowers reproaches fling At one whose Winter came in Spring. Yet if illusion briefly deck With child-like gifts my sadden'd breast, So round some lone and stranded wreck, Bright moon-lit rays may wanton best ; The sunniest sward where children play Is oft 'mid ruins' cold decay. When dim grey morning bids retreat Those trooping fayes from mortal ken, And vainly tracks their silvery feet, That wreck seems drearier, lonelier then; Is not the ruin doubly sad, Which chance a moment hath made glad ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 WOULD I MIGHT FALL ASLEEP AGAIN AND DREAM. Would I might fall asleep again and dream ! For Joy to me hath been so brief a thing, To index Sorrow it doth only seem, Or give advancing Time a fleeter wing — Would I might fall asleep again and dream ! Touchstone of Grief — the measure frail of Woe, Its birth and funeral on the self-same day ; A child that may to manhood never grow, A false gem stolen from a god of clay, Joy blesses none with pure or lasting ray ; Except in dreams, and I would dream again, That Hope perchance might wake me up from sleep: I care not if Hope lie, since Truth is pain, And only bids us Falsehood know, and weep Our little brackish flood of human rain. Alas ! that it is so. Alas ! that dreams, Sans motive, end, beginning, truthfulness, Should so exceed in ecstasy the gleams We have of mid-day gladness, that 'tis less To be the lord of life, than slave of dreams. 1 72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. FOR EVERMORE. I dreamt I by a river stood, And saw an Angel bright and good; And would have dwelt for evermore In the sweet lustre of her eyes ; But, oh, as on that magic shore I sought to clasp her for my prize, The broad and rapid current bore Her far away, for evermore, Ah, me, for evermore ! Still, still her form seems always near, Though nought is left but memory dear Of her who might for evermore Have turn'd to music all my sighs, Amid life's sullen wintry roar — Alas ! my heart within me dies — Fate shuts me out with iron door From her, I'll love for evermore, Ah, me, for evermore ! MORE EARTHLY THAN THE EARTH SHE IS. More earthly than the earth she is, And yet so passing fair ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 Around her head of classic grace Dark streams her billowy hair. Her eyes flash Sybil's fire — her hand Is jewell'd with less flame : Her nostril fine dilates — 'tis as A steed's ye may not tame. And oftentimes there dwells a grace Of pensive memory there, Within those eyes of thrilling light, Beneath yon cloud of hair. So calm she looks and noble, as A statue in a stream, Reflected by the cold moon's light, Might grandly chasten'd seem. But 'neath the glories of that brow A world of meanness lies, And 'neath that bosom's drapery A shrivell'd heart there plies. And in those eyes a glitter lurks Of Satan's guile and pride ; A serpent 'mid the coronal Of flowers, she may not hide. She sings : her voice delicious woe Doth breathe around the heart : She grows an angel on my sight, Ah, me ! I wake and start ! q2 1 74 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I think of dreadful tales of old, Of Circe, and the ring, On which the statue's finger clos'd, Whereof old ballads sing — The loathely ladye that by side Of bridegroom lay all night, Until the air doth choke me, and I fling myself upright ! And stretch my arms and breathe, as if I would my being try, That life is not a hideous dream, And all around a lie. MINE BE A POET'S GRAVE. Mine be a poet's grave, Close by the rippling wave, Or where the winds their mighty surges roll, Where pale Anemone Full of frail melody Shall breathe soft whispers o'er my slumbering soul. Let only children stray Seeking bright shells in play, Where I am laid — whom wild birds scarcely fly, Or some lost lover roam Like me, without a home, Save 'neath the flowers of earth, or in the sky. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 75 FIGHT ON, BRAVE HEART, F[GHT ON. Fight onwards to the breach, brave heart ! Where victory o'er Life is won ; To mourn is but the coward's part, Thou hast the warrior's now begun : Pour out thy last, best, ruddiest drop, But 'till thy wild pulsation stop, Fight on, brave heart, fight on ! The knight of old sought Christ's dear grave, When joy from earthly home had gone ; For this he dared the wintry wave, And roam'd o'er burning waste alone : Make thou a wiser pilgrimage To thine own grave, in youth or age, Fight on, brave heart, fight on ! A HYMN OF NATURE, ADDRESSED TO PAPIST, PROTESTANT, AND DISSENTER. I climb'd a mountain, as it were The first step of a giant stair That leads to God above ; 176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And on its topmost sun-bath'd rock Drank in the sweet electric shock Of universal love. In one bright moment then did seem The far-off city like a dream, Where late I sorrowing dwelt ; Its host of crimes and follies bare, Like spectral squadrons through the air Of evening mists, fast melt. Pellucid lakes around me lay Sleeping in sunlight's golden ray, Like beauty's glasses spread; Where nature tricks her tresses fair Or sleeks her dewy twilight hair, Ere stol'n cloud-rob 'd to bed. All garmented in light I stood And saw the hawk pois'd o'er the wood Beneath me hovering fly ; My shadow stretch'd far down the steep — " Let those who live in cities weep, And sin, and mourn, and die." My soul felt purg'd, my spirit free, I cried aloud in ecstasy, Then knelt — 'twas not in vain — Where breath'd the blue-bell's soft perfume; Soon o'er my spirit stole the bloom Of infancy again. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 To One unseen my prayer I rais'd, And thought not /jowHe should be prais'd — My church the world around — Alas ! those prayers that only feed The bigot's soul with envious creed Fall poison 1 d to the ground. Let him in dull polluted cell, And him that mocks with book and bell A worship pure and true — Without one thought of God above, Without one spark of Heavenly love — Go scent the hare-bells blue : The birds his choir, the sun his light, The stars his candles lit by night, Not flickering vain through day : The dark religion of his soul Like vapours chill shall backward roll, Truth crown him with her ray. Ah ! think they of a God at all, In church, cathedral, chapel small, That quarrel o'er a name — Things undefin'd, or only guess'd, Mere forms of acting things unbless'd — But Heaven's great Word defame i — Round yon grey stones what rascals caw ? Each turret-haunting chattering daw Doth mock the priestly race ; 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But senseless breeds no real spite, Kind nature bids him wing his flight — • He shows no double face. He does not call it Jesus' will, His cup with venom'd hate to fill, And scowl, and curse, and strike ; If others deem some other way, Than his may lead to realms of day And save the soul alike. He asks no paltry turnpike toll On life's dread bridge, at sin's dark goal, Nor swears no bridge beside May span the fiery waves below, No cockle-shell but his may row O'er the eternal tide. He does not use God's dreaded name As password to earth's fleeting fame, Whose substance lives in hell ; He does not steal, lie, murder, cheat, To sit down mid the Saints' elite And mock salvation sell. He does not breathe with serpent breath On one repentant ere his death, To grasp the orphan's dower ; Nor when the dream of life grows dim, To Californian Idol grim Turn Heaven's benignant power. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 He preaches in no partial strain, Causing the Angels' bosoms pain To hear their God belied ; In short he is not Wisdom's fool, Ambition's daring, frenzied tool, Dark Hate his black-rob'd bride. Come, leave your worldly spoils to pray For light within your human clay, Ere fellow souls you save ; Beneath the sky's celestial cope, Step naked forth each Priest and Pope And cunning surplic'd knave. Ask mercy on your greater sin, Ere you for others' faults begin To bend in hideous pride : Then, flung aside your worldly power, Your gifts be like the meek blue flower That decks the mountain side. As simple sad as village graves, Is the true ministry that saves Beneath approving Heaven ; As curst as Scythian's lustful tomb That yawns with sacrificial gloom, The Pharisaic leaven. To every church, sect, schism, belief, Truth's earliest loss, or latest grief, That charity belies, 180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A lesson on the mountain side Were worth a life's cathedral pride, Where true religion dies. Yet not to saint's ascetic groan, Geneva's sneer or canting moan, Be preference idly given; The humble hypocrite is worse Than purpled despot's mitred curse, And farther still from Heaven. A MOTHER'S EYES. A mother's eyes are magnets of the child To draw him up to boyhood ; then like stars They are put out by meteoric youth Dimming the pure calm of their holy ray : A mother's eyes the grown-up man forgets As they had never been — with knitted brow The godless pilot of Ambition's sea, Steering his bark to islands all unknown, He never reaches. Lo ! in dismal wreck Those isles are cover'd with the ghosts of ships, That only drift there through Oblivion's night, Touching the shore in silence. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181 In old age Remembrance from her portrait lifts the veil, And then a mother's eyes look forth again, And through the soul's dark windows gaze, like doves New lighted from the sky, and fill it thus With thoughts of innocence and dreams of love ; Until our coffin like our cradle grows, Then sleep we child-like, hush'd in sweet repose. THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. Nothing altogether dieth, Though its shape may change on earth, From the cloud that shadowy flieth To the insect's fluttering birth ; Still 'tis matter, ever breeding Some fresh form at Nature's will, And the human tide receding Beats upon a new shore still. Nought from space can ever perish, Though the brightest things decay, And the hearts we most do cherish Change the soonest into clay : Life and Death are ever playing Link'd in mystic union wild ; Death, the skeleton, goes Maying — To a grave steals Life, the child. R 182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 'Mid strange thoughts that silent quiver Falling on my soul by night, Like the snow on some broad river Dim-lit by its own pale light, Sea-ward flowing to the ocean, Whose bright waves its limit bound, O'er my spirit's sad emotion Came a vision strange of sound. Canst thou bind the evening glory Of the sky's cloud-woven dreams, Heap bright story over story Knit with sunset's parting beams ? Canst thou count the drops from fountains, Ripples of the moon-lit sea, Leaves of forests, crags of mountains, Heaven's bright stars ? — then follow me ! No more round the sun revolving But in frenzy spun and torn 'Mid the wreck of worlds dissolving, Was my subtle spirit borne : Whilst I thought all creatures waited For the speech of One above ; Each soul hoping, trembling — fated For a life of wrath or love. Flew I o'er their sickening faces, Qpturn'd to those portals bright ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 Countless seed of myriad races Gazing, blinded by the light: As I pass'd, a Voice cried near me, That my soul's foundation stirr'd " Gather, Angels good, that fear me, Every erring human word." Through the world's brief ages buried, Backward stream'd each breathed sound, To the verge of chaos hurried From its black abyss profound ; Thus upon the time-less morrow Of a fiery eve of doom, Each false earth-spoke word of sorrow, Murmuring, broke its icy tomb. Came the whisper and the slander, And the lover's plighted vow, Treacherous wile, and faithless candour Spoken with fair-seeming brow — Came the oath, retraction, folly, Light — forgotten as the breeze, That with dying melancholy Swung life's cradle 'mid the trees. Came each lie that quiver'd trembling On the crack'd and perjur'd lip, Or remorseless sat dissembling, Wasp-like beauty's dews to sip ; 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Each warm troth by red mouth plighted, Each reply that love undid, Each cold word a heart that blighted, Or the soul's emotion hid. Came the patriot's mock oration, Oaths of perjur'd tyrants faint, Dastard vile equivocation, Sneer and shuffle of the saint : Came the words of priests beguiling, God's false messengers on earth ; Worse than blasphemy reviling, Worse than unbeliever's mirth. Like the world's leaves autumn-buried, Age on age from perish'd trees, Onward, onward, swept they, hurried, Urg'd on by no living breeze : Crowding, trooping, flocking, shivering, Phantoms of each grain that ran Through Time's hour-glass shaken, quivering, Since in sin the Earth began — Time's frail glass, whose sands are measured From Eternity's dull shore, Life's gay, glittering birthright, treasured Till those faint sands run no more ; Till their glittering heap be level, And the trace is swept away ; As when sprites fantastic revel Far o'er desert plains away, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 And the mirage idly ceases, Ere the burning sun goes down, Air-drawn towers fall in pieces, Column, temple, grove, and town ; Waterfalls' light misty graces Smoke-like wreath'd o'er forests green — All dissolve, and leave no traces ; No more e'en by Hope are seen — As those voices, long forgotten, Pass'd me in that strange review, Each sad soul in sin begotten Its own frenzied utterance knew: Each a burning accusation Felt in every uttered sound, As 'twere some dark blood-libation Rising upward from the ground. Like grim Shades, with pointed finger, Rising awful from the earth, Some awhile did seem to linger, Some to vanish in their birth : Words of hatred, haste, or anger, Fled e'er scarcely they were heard ; Died away in sullen languor Sounds by idle Folly stirr'd. While Remembrance stood by sadly, Waving with her mystic wand, r 2 186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Each pale trembling soul had gladly Seal'd with Death a lasting bond, To escape that bitter anguish, Vain remorse and fierce regret ; Better this than endless anguish, Could, oh! could they but forget! Not one blasphemy e'er utter 'd But comes, wing'd with terror, back ; Not one base wish darkly mutter'd Finds not to some heart its track : Oh! 'tis strange to mark how alters Earth's dull vain opinion there ; Jn the world, Truth oftenest falters, Now Hypocrisy stands bare. In no written page recorded, All in human life e'er said, False or cruel, base or sordid, Thus accusing meets the Dead : Each word witness, each a token, Call'd forth by that Power Divine — 'Mid oath, vow, and promise broken, False one, then — then, think of thine ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 THE RHYME OF THE SPENDTHRIFT. It was a young man faded Sat shuddering with affright, And wearily upbraided A Wanton fled in night, O'er Fate's drear door-sill vanish'd ; He toy'd with her too long, And now for ever banish'd He mourn'd the bitter wrong. Sing — Oh! upon the World's door-step, I linger here in shame : I had, I gave — I lent to save. Chalk up the losing game. He thought of friends who pledg'd him, In his own ruby wine, And the sparkling faces hedg'd him Wherever he might dine, Till crimson fancies plashing Rush'd o'er his reeling sight, Like a soldier's red cloak flashing In blood-mist through the night Sing — Oh! upon the World's door-step, I grovel here in shame : I had, I gave — / lent to save. Score up the cruel game. 188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Next he pictur'd women's wiles, who Had smil'd upon his folly; Poor fool ! he wins no smiles now From his leman, Melancholy: But his Vanity stripp'd naked Flies shrieking into air, And in her place stands ragged The mocking phantom, Care. Sing — Oh! the gate is fasten d now upon the son of shame : I had, I gave — I lent to save. Curse on the mocking game. And Care's gaunt sister, Sorrow, Like a pauper famine-mad Sat bidding him foul morrow In biting accents sad : Her thin lips trembling blue Touch'd dry her misty veil, And her cry was " Wirrasthrue ! What doth my darling ail ? " Sing — / am here, the world goes on, nor recks it of my shame : I had, I gave — I lent to save. Soon finish 'd is the game. His dog crept to him whining, He spurn'd him first away ; Fiercely selfish is repining Within this human clay ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 189 But the beast still crawling closer Sat crouching 'neath his nod ; He saw no thread-bare loser, Nor question'd he his God. Sing — Oh! upon the beggar steps down from the bridge of life, The dog is there, sweet folly rare. Score up; the game is rife. He call'd him to him — marry ! How he frolick'd, bark'd — then stood For an order to go carry Or a stone, or piece of wood : There be stone hearts I know many And heads of wood enow Might be purchas'd for a penny, And little harm I trow. Sing — Dog's meat, ho ! ye human hearts that human hearts betray : The game's alive — make haste and thrive. Time's offal-cart doth stay. Then countless masques around him Seem'd glowering through the air, Dull stupor feebly bound him, He felt them gazing there — Till he recogniz'd the faces Of society's cold stare 190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Smooth world-flunkeys in their places He had known when life was fair. Sing — Hang your carpet from the window — at the mast-head clap a broom : Thin-lippd Pride is Folly s bride — Poverty take elbow-room. Thus when Fortune jilting fools us All fly from us in our need : "While sad knowledge sternly schools us, Fortune's smiles we may not read : But her wrinkles iron-wreathed Sear with pain the aching heart; Tears for water, sighs deep breathed Ease alone the burning smart. Sing — Had we known the price of it, ere yet to misery hurVd, Too late, too late, gives sneering Fate her lessons in the world. NIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. Midnight closeth o'er the waves, But the bold ship dances free, Through her shrouds the sad wind raves Still for nothing careth she : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 191 Half her scant crew warmly slumbers O'er the watery vault below, Where, perchance, forgotten numbers Midway float in ghastly show, Balanc'd in the deep, dark green Of that spectral oozy waste, Like the Moslem's tale I ween Of the coffin air-embrac'd : Hark ! what far off bells heard tolling O'er the tossing waters wide, Sound like knell of Spirits knolling For the dead on every side ? Now a wailing voice sweeps by Like a bride's from gladness hurried In the cold dark grave to lie Far from love and rapture buried : Still the sailor drowsy sleepeth Rock'd upon the dashing wave, That around him ceaseless leapeth, As his frail life it would crave : On the sails the moonlight streaming Bids strange shadows quicken round ; Till I gaze like one in dreaming, Or by goblin fancies bound ; As a dying eagle quivers, Flaps the mainsail in the breeze, While the tall mast bends and shivers Torn from midst his brother trees, Near some fierce Norwegian torrent, Where they beetling crest a hill, ] 92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Like the plumes of Odin horrent As he strides from cavern still ; Leaving wondrous Rinda sleeking Softly grand her flowing hair — Lo ! their giant boughs are creaking "With strange notes of wild despair ; As the torturing wind comes nigh them Bending down each sullen head, And with raging threats doth try them, Whispering mystic tales of dread ; Till the hunter pausing trembles, For he thinks each white line there Where the cold moon shines resembles Bone of hunter bleach'd and bare, And the wiry wolf he'd rather, Or the grizzly mother bear, Than stalk mid those shadows farther, Tempt in rage from out their lair — Thus I gaze upon yon white deck, Where the moon through rattlin'd shrouds Shadowing peeps like some world's bright wreck Driving through the rifted clouds ; And I think of sailors storm-tost Drowning in the Northern seas — See the skies yon helpless form lost Stooping mock like boughs of trees ! In his ears the waters bubble, In his eyes gleams fiery spray, Dark-pois'd 'neath the billows' trouble MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 193 Shark-like monsters wait their prey, With huge leaden orbits glare they, Finn'd like grandam's starch'd neck-ruff; Rudder-like their tails move, stare they All upon him sinking — " Luff!" Hoarsely some one near me screams ; Like a shoal of scar'd fish fly past All my fancy's fever'd dreams, As a mighty ship comes by fast ; Quick strange gleams of phosphorus bringing On she labours through the seas ; Round her bowsprit eager clinging Swarms of seamen look like bees, As they furl the jib wild striving To be free — she comes ! she flies ! Close her huge, black side is driving Near us with unearthly cries ; And her lights like fire-flies glitter Flitting round some Indian pall Quick borne by, or ebon litter Through the jungle sedges tall : Into darkness she hath vanish'd As if she had never been — Soon the morn, my night-thoughts banish'd, Rising red is slowly seen. 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE ORANGE SELLERS". A DIDACTIC POEM. '* For years past I've seen these poor wretches ill-treated And of bread, life, and freedom by law-hirelings cheated ; Not for stopping the path, or creating a crowd, Dire offences that cry 'neath God's Heaven aloud, But the trade is too small in the eyes of the proud. For vulgarity only with thousands doth buy Its mercantile license from those plac'd on high. Oh ! 'tis sad in the grey of the morn to be told To get up from a door-step when stiffen' d with cold : Of a monster like this I have oft dreamt in fear, With his hard knuckles doubled close in at your ear; Just like Fate's iron hand, as it grasps with no glove on Some sad struggling wretch that refuses to move on." We're told in Scripture, on a Sabbath morn, Christ bid the hunger'd pluck the ears of corn : When offering fruit to thirsty passers-by St. Andrew's Parish chokes the orphan's cry, Drags the poor sufferer to a living tomb, While gorgeous beadles frown in holy gloom. * Founded on a police case, when it was decided by a worthy magistrate that those who hawked small wares for their living were not necessarily committing an offence against the laws. He discharged the culprits, therefore, after they had been locked up all night for the sin of crying oranges. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195 Once, round their Lord, the " little children" press'd Whom " Christian" monsters drive from guilty rest, He bid them come to Him — His followers cold, Life, food, room — all refuse; save parish "Mould/" Yet these dare bend in Church with odious rant, As if their God were blind and deaf to cant ; As with mock words without a blush of shame They wrong Christ's memory and insult His name. See yonder infant rack'd by hungry pangs, In terror marks the fierce approach of " Fangs ;" That cruel guardian, who with ceaseless spite Molests the poor, to guard the rich man's right. "What ! sinking, place upon the ground her load? — Quick, into life his threats her numbness goad : Cold, wet, and famish'd crawls she onward home, Or with her stock unsold doth listless roam. Still sterner oft her fate, on Holborn-hill A child's faint treble late with accents shrill Cried " oranges !" whilst on the other side A Parish Guardian stalk'd to Church in pride, To utter loud response in lowliest prayer, Erect, and grac'd with Mammon's saintliest air : Next Sunday, fresh instructions arm'd " A one," Who Herod's war with children quick begun : Eliza Feeble first faint victim fell 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And smooth'd a ratepayer's prosperous path to hell, Whose " footway was obstructed" here on earth — Let angels weep and demons split with mirth To see the game of wolf and lamb thus play'd, 'Twixt the stern Guardian and the shrinking maid. " Oh ! let me go, my mother's sick," she cries, " E'en now with hunger little Tommy dies : There's seven of us — let me go, kind Sir ! " — " D — n thee, come on, or else I'll make thee stir ! " Perchance, some woman taunts the cruel deed, Whose rifled heart for others still can bleed ; Her three policemen seize with fury wild To swell their triumph o'er the fainting child : Next morn they swear what o'er their ale and gin Through night they've plann'd, while she's locked safely in : A month's hard labour sets the poor wretch free — The living ghost of man's foul perjury — Through the wet streets to seek an early grave, Stung by injustice foul to drink and rave, Till her cheap coffin meets his marriage train Whose lustful moment caus'd her world of pain. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 197 The " Inspector" views the child and basket frail, Surveys her bending form and features pale ; Then, " lock her up !" as if the deed were sweet, He cries, " we'll teach her to obstruct the street." — (As if God's air were not the boon of all, And freedom spurn'd the thing that's poor and small). To a foul den she's hurried: her scant store By rough hands pilfer'd on that perjur'd floor, Where to the poor their innocence is guilt, Belief a wanton, Truth an envious jilt — Here drunken women scream, whose noisome breath, Like scent from graves, infects the air with death ; Here curse, and oath, and jest obscene appal, While sin infectious clings around to all — Till on the morrow she may learn her fate, Where the sour clerk sits 'neath the Justice' state. Meanwhile the mute despair, the mutter'd groan, The infant's cry, the mother's anxious moan, Mark her sad absence from the squalid haunt Where ragged misery rocks her children gaunt : A drunken footstep or the dripping rain, The weeping creatures stir with hope-fraught pain. s2 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The night wears on, and hunger yields to fear, Each eye wanes hollow as the morn breaks clear : They knew some fearful chance alone could keep Yon hapless maiden from her pallet sleep — That sleep, the life of wretched souls below ; That sleep, the death of sad ones' daily woe* : They knew some dread mishap alone had kept Her whom their eyes so fondly, idly, wept ; E'en when asleep, she still came staggering back — Her tender feet still knew the stony track To that mean spot where all she lov'd were laid — Her instinct failed not, e'en had strength betray'd. Oh ! who can paint the scene of wild despair When cruel sunbeams lit that chamber bare, And told with sickening gleam she was not there? Stern look'd the angel by whose care was given Their broken prayer to One above in Heaven. The hour arrives — through smell of greasy throng The frighten'd child to court is dragg'd along : With lies close button'd 'neath their great-coats tight, Policemen whisker'd mock the soul of right : * Let me not be accused of plagiarism from the mighty master of the Drama — " Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 99 There hangs her head the Cyprian lately bold, There calls God witness to her tongue the scold ; There dull-ey'd beggary fronts the haggard morn, The dizzy drunkard hides his garments torn, The small sharp urchin caught in tutor'd theft Grins unconcern'd, of Jewish home bereft — Guilt reeks around and poverty supplies The air of guilt at least to virtuous eyes : A thief or beggar it must be confest Are much the same, save when the thief's well drest, Then proof is needed to affix the crime ; The penal stigma limping asks for time ; Then bail, and fine, and alibi are near, And • A one' fondly lingers in the rear ; No longer squinting eyes round corners see, Nor what ' B' says is back'd by ' C and ' D' ; But blindness, deafness, memory all combine, Substract the bribe and lighten thus the fine. Poor, piteous, ' Lizzy' waits for long her turn — Her cold limbs tremble, fever'd brow doth burn — A swindling case to which great interest hangs Full two hours keeps her 'neath the lee of 1 Fangs ;' He has her ready, and the basket too — Of oranges they'd only left a few ; Enough to prove her glaring Sabbath guilt ; The rest, not eaten, on the road were spilt. 200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Her blue eyes rov'd unconscious of the scene, She scarcely knew what all that throng might mean ; Thought tawdry women, rogues were only there, Because, like her, they poor and friendless were. If that her mind from present fears did roam, She only wondered what they said at home ; Her little brother's, mother's care-worn eyes 'Neath that low roof appeal with mute surprise ; Then, as she ponders o'er her wasted stock, Small images of want and misery flock, Cold bankrupt dews upon her forehead grow, E'en freedom smiles no longer, link'd with woe. Of vice no more than crochet-work she knew — No stain around her friendless soul there grew : The busy hum of rampant evil seems To her like night-mare Fancy's broken dreams. Not the small linnet in the gaoler's room Of some great prison, cag'd in whitewash'd gloom, Might less interpret oath or dismal slang, Than clogg'd with guilt her soul's white pinions hang. Not wild flower pluck'd to deck a murderer's breast Dies less polluted in that place unblest — Like her, unstain'd, it dioops its fever'd head, Life, beauty, all but modest virtue shed. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201 At length, " Next case !" the clerk impatient bawls : " This way ; stand here !" the gruff policeman calls — " What has this child done ?" Quick the case is told. The Guardian hems to clear away a cold : The fruit and basket meet the Court's stern eyes, The Justice frowns, the clerk looks wondrous wise. " What is her crime ?" — ■ " For days past we have seen The footpath throng'd by creatures vile and mean — " " Then 'twere as wise to pass on th' other side. What else ?"— " To sell their odious fruit they've tried ; E'en I myself but yesternoon, 'tis true, Fell, all amaz'd, amid the shouting crew — " " Indeed, 'tis well thus honest bread to get : What more ? If this be all, the charge is met. Policeman, speak !" — " Your vership, all I knows, This here child trod quite vicious on my toes ; And tho' she's young, I've seen her oft before, There aint a wusser girl all London o'er ; She hung so heavy, too, upon the road, 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For me and him she prov'd a precious load : Besides, this basket here — " " Step down ! What next ? Who else will preach upon this living text ?" — And is it nought the Lord's Day thus to break ? — He made it day, you blackest night would make — " " Your worship knows what pangs a Christian try At hearing children ' Oranges' thus cry ; When on his road to offer incense meet And prayer for mercy at the Eternal's feet : The little wretches e'en pollute " the Day Of Rest," by placing on the ground their tray Or basket thus, when tired — a burning shame To all who own a Christian's pious name — " " I cannot deal with such a trifling charge : Policeman, set yon helpless child at large ! Go search the poor-box. A sick Dives sent Ten shillings lately for an object meant *Not so deserving, as notorious made By Sunday Journals in the way of trade : I mark'd the morbid gift and kept it here, To aid some wretch to fashion's soul less dear ; For thousands starve and crowds in busy street * The excellent decision of a most worthy magistrate, Mr. Yardley, intercepted the gifts meant for notoriety to apply them to charity. " O si sic Omnia .'" Would all were like him ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 Rush heedless past, borne by on rapid feet : Crouch'd on the bridge the wan wretch dreams of food, His only gift the parish coffin rude. God ' visits' many with the stroke of death Whom fellow-creatures grudge their scanty breath : *If Wakley censure, murmurs loud are heard And fierce cabal to oust his worth is stirr'd: Yes, none assist, save when theatric show Adorns the deeds of " Angels here below." Methinks, there was much boldness in the frown That dar'd to look the moral despot down, And plead the cause of suffering from the Bench, From grim religion thus its prey to wrench, Rob the stern bigot of his Sabbath boast, And side with Christ when " Christians" rule the roast. Methinks, 'tis something new to see the Law Unloose such victim from its iron jaw, From cruel mesh let paltry fry escape ; While rampant wealth assumes an injur'd shape, And baffled saintship swears in vain a rape. * Mr. H. M. Wakley, late Deputy Coroner, showed much feeling in the discharge of his duties, combined with a considerable amount of spirit and discretion. He insisted on calling starvation by its name, and not the " visitation of God." 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Hail ! worthy Magistrate, who first declar'd That sky and pavement might by all be shar'd ; That while the poor endure their baskets' weight, They still may elbow footmen's liveried state,* Bearing God's sacred Book, devotion's pride, In gilt disguise, behind each Mammon bride : Nay, more, with senses dull'd by grievous load, By thee not forc'd to tempt the carriage road, Lest Sabbath wealth should grind, 'neath rapid wheel, The wretch whom misery still permits to feel. Lo ! as thy daring sentence met the light, Each stiff Policeman stood more stiff with fright, Each Beadle gasp'd, with purple nose grown pale, The "Guardian" reel'd like one o'ercome with ale ; The Vestry felt the direful shock amaz'd, And their dull eyes in solemn frenzy rais'd. " What ! Not convict a wretch, who thus profanes The cold, drab Sabbath, urg'd by hunger's pains ? While we, with full-fed stomachs, walk or ride, To kneel in Church, with hard, soft-cassock'd pride. What ! Shall the treadmill not revenge our wrong — Nor oakum grind the orphan's nail grown long ? * Mr. Coombe decided that, as long as the hawkers did not put their baskets down, they could not be convicted. The interpretation of a law is almost as important as the law itself, What would Mr. Henry have decided ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 Is idiot childhood thus to threat the face Of smooth decorum, curl'd religion's grace ? Shall shoeless poor unlicens'd hawk their wares, And thus disturb our pious, heavenly airs ? Shall perishable food not sooner rot ? (Our Sunday dinner smokes, our meal is hot.) Shall godless pence be earn'd, while souls are dead In those lean frames that only covet bread ? Shall he that hawks the base West-Indian pine With mean discomfort mock our glut divine ? No ! Let him die, while ' Cantw^ell' soothes our ears, And perfumes hell to lull dyspeptic fears." Such is hypocrisy's fierce, stupid plaint, Himself thus damns the self-accusing saint; So argue those who ne'er their bosoms probe Neath the dark fold of Pharisaic robe : So speaks th' unliveried beadle, whose broad brim, Like a black fungus, casts its shadow grim O'er God's bright earth, till Mercy shuddering flies Where camels rare thread rarer needles' eyes; Where rich men enter " few and far between," And not one parish guardian e'er was seen : So speak th' elect, who, since man bit the apple, Would farm redemption like a West-end chapel ; Hang Christ Himself, if He their " trade" should libel, And preach, but act the converse of, the Bible. T 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O curst Oppression ! darker be your fate Than that of all dark crimes begot by Hate — ■ Suspicion — Anger — fierce Revenge, with hair Whose snake-like tresses writhe aloft in air : They spring from human hearts, but you from stone ; They have some motive, you alone have none ; Save demon Malice, nurs'd in coldest pride — So 'mid the rocks may clustering adders hide. Yes, other sins may plead our purpose faint, Our human weakness, sin's corroding taint, Till passion, pardon'd, soar above the " Saint." E'en Conscience oft is Danae of all — In her soft lap bright floods of Mammon fall ; Religion thus a price we thoughtless pay, And purchase mock salvation's flowery way : All, all is labell'd : bigots thus are bred ; The living pay for prayers to aid the dead : Your drab enthusiast knows conviction's cost, And not e'en fervour need be virtue lost ; As if, when brib'd by rich Wesleyan hope, The Times refus'd to " advertise" the Pope. The bought opinion weighs down cheap belief; Till real doubt acquits the wealthy thief. Ye who would smooth the tide of bitter song, Reproof call hate and censure brand with wrong ; Because ye stand condemn'd, 'tis not for you I call down Pity from yon skies of blue ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 The storm shall best chastise your impious deeds, The heart, once frozen, shatters — never bleeds : Not rage, but tears, the glorious meed I ask ; Hate shall not crush, but mercy crown my task. Yet deem I write in sorrow, not in spite, And gaze on better things with pure delight : The sombrest Prophet in the Scripture griev'd, Not hated — thus be my fond verse believ'd : Judge not my nature sour, if thus I turn To light a moral pile for knaves to burn ; E'en the stern Muse the poison'd cup that bears Weeps as she wounds — then heals with softest cares. Borne on the current of indignant verse, I ceas'd the child's faint sorrows to rehearse : What matter those who starve unseen and hid So the bright sunbeams of their forms be rid ? Nay, bring them not to vex the flaunting proud, Or grieve in rags amid the heartless crowd : Their filthy scpualor only serves them right For being drawbacks to your smooth delight : As 'twere a sight too hideous to endure, Come blackest night, and veil those " horrid poor !" Poor Lizzy was a fiow'r, for whose soft eyes The bitterest wind that reckless onward flies Had flung a tyrant's passing light embrace, As one whose beauty decks a lowlier race ; 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. She was of those whom Nature's impulse wild Shows, as a mother lifts her favourite child To some gay pageant all in artless pride ; But Nature's darling oft is Misery's bride. Need I describe her welcome home ? — O Joy ! Pure vein of gold 'mid wretchedness' alloy, Bright pearl of dark vicissitude, up-torn By hands convuls'd from cruel depths forlorn, Thou to the rich art Fortune's harlot kiss That wakes no transport, yields no rapturous bliss ; But on the humble, when thou deign'st to shine, Sun of the heart, mak'st all around divine ! Hast thou ere seen some trifling aid bestovv'd On one who fainting sinks beneath life's load In the wet twilight of a winter's day, Homeless, not childless, with her babes astray ? Some thin, pale woman left, with sorrowing breath, By cold seducer, or relentless Death — (Seducers live ; but needy husbands die, The Emigrants of Death : he bids them fly By a quick passage to some happier shore : What matter where, since they come back no more ?) — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 209 Hast thou such creature seen, if such a gift Touch her damp hand, as will from misery lift A day, a week, perchance a month ? — " 'Tis gold !" She almost shrieks — let not the rest be told — Thou would'st not wait her thanks, or cruel say " 'Tis a mistake;" but onward wend'st thy way; Though by that light thy charity deceiv'd Thy purse left empty and thy prudence griev'd — Nay, say not " griev'd" — an Angel wrote 'twas gold, Thy willing gift, and thus in Heaven was told. On the proud bridge that yokes the city's wealth, Where beggars, nich'd and dozing, die by stealth, I saw a mother, in whose chill embrace Two children lay, with Sorrow face to face : She ask'd for alms ; a guinea met her stare ; And he that gave it left a statue there, So fix'd, so wan, so motionless — Despair Touch'd by Sui-prise — no choking cry or prayer; She could not even clasp her hands in air ; But on her knees I inark'd her grateful fall In what rich fools a tableau love to call. Such was the joy that welcom'd Lizzy back, E'en hunger smil'd oblivious of its rack : Think you the rich command such happy woe, That weep o'er novels, scenic transports know ? T 2 210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Say thou, whose cold pretension gives thy-name To gild the hollow deed of virtuous fame ; Ye, who with gracious smiles to Heaven lend Your mite of Fashion, misery's wrongs to mend ; Nor think how little may such gift bested The heart that ne'er for real sufferings bled ; Ye, who the ribbon'd stall, the fancy-fair, Blooming attend with pity debonnaire, Or weave the dance, or flirt for mercy's sake ; Till Charity seem but a tutor'd rake, A season belle, a matron there intent To marry daughters, all on goodness bent ; Say, in the compass of your daily thought, Your sweet designs, your feeling highly wrought, If such a picture haunted e'er your sleep, Bade your tir'd eyes still later vigil keep, The muslin curtains of your soul displac'd, And one true thought of outward suffering trac'd ? 'Neath the same Heav'n, 'tis true, ye kneel and pray ; But human china spurns the human clay. Yet why thus ask a question all in vain ? Why grieve for virtue, or why mourn for pain t Touch not the joys or sorrows of the poor ; Sacred the burden their sad souls endure ! Heaven watches all above yon waveless sky : Each Misery wings an angel flight on high ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211 Come, be it mine to end in pleasing strain ; With a soft touch paint out this cruel stain From human nature ; since one brightest trait Late warm'd my bosom with its genial ray. In a proud square, where wealth and power reside, Upon its loftiest mansion's steps I spied An aged woman selling her small store, Whom no rude porter frighten'd from the door, No guest disturb'd, no inmate drove away, But quite at ease, she sat there day by day ; *For she who rul'd that mansion wide had said The poor old creature there might earn her bread. Bright, blest example of a feeling heart ! There shone reveal'd religion's better part : Let the world cavil at the homely sight — Behold ! an Angel sits there cloth'd in light, That form disguis'd shall ope Heaven's gates above, For the small deed that show'd a world of love : No proud decorum whisper' d " Drive her hence!" No frigid pride cried " Elsewhere earn thy pence ; * The wife of a late distinguished Judge, whose death was tragical, as it was glorious. Those who have visited there will easily recognise the original of the sketch I have drawn. 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Hence, vile excrescence ! Beadle, seize your prey !" But kind words bid the " Orange-seller" stay. Oh ! noble contrast to the worldly crew, Whose triumphs base the feeble poor pursue — Thy constant mission consolation's gift, The kindly present, bed-side prayer and shrift — Long may thine acts endure — thy tender grace Shine undisturb'd, and leave a lasting trace ; For this more virtue in mankind I'll see, And bless the world for charity and thee. THE BALL ROOM. A FRAGMENT. In a dazzling hall they are gather'd all, 'Tvvas the last merry dance to be, Many said they had ne'er known a scene so fair, When the clock told the hour of three, And their eyes flash'd bright, for the dull morn's light With cold breath had not come there, With her pallid streak on the languid cheek And fingers in uncurl'd hair. And there were whispers mid the dances, And soft diluted smiles and glances, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213 With sphinx-like riddles of the face Where no emotion leaves a trace ; Lisp, murmur, drawl in dizzy sound With foreign jargon heard around : Some looks of adoration seen Truer than those in Church I ween, The throne of Heaven to mock ere long That blind and selfish herd among : — And jewels rare with flowers blent, And something said with nothing meant, And silks and satins softness lent To stony bosoms cold and vile, With dull pretension, languid wile, The thought suppress'd, the treacherous smile, And all the din of creatures vain, Whose grief is nought, whose joy is pain. Indeed 'twould angels down entice Such wreathed smiles and heads to view — Society's bright Paradise — Bald men and aged women too, To grave-clothes and the playful worm Perchance a trifle overdue — How gracefully they spend the term ! All smiling without thought of Death — They've deck'd the monster o'er with flowers; (You'll find him only in their breath) They've powder'd Time and roug'd the Hours ! And there were young hearts beating there, Whose bosoms were their sepulchre, 214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. So tightly lac'd and crost in love — Each vulture Mother with her clove, A trembling, peaking sacrifice To roues rich in gold and vice ; And yet the school'd, accomplish'd things Smil'd sweetly o'er their heart's despair, So dipt and scorch'd their natural wings They gasp'd quite lively in the air, Where legal Prostitution found Her priestesses enthron'd around, Maternal Vampires sitting there, With hideous, wrinkled bosoms bare, Jewell'd and feather'd in decay, Grim models of old painted clay. And there were Stars and Ribands worn By greasy heirs to ancient race, Dull, moral lepers, helpless born Nature's true butlers out of place : And there were scrubs and footmen to these butlers, Toady on toady, in obscene array, Effeminacy's minions, pimps and sutlers, Round Fashion's standard, o'er the mind's decay ; And well-bred, soulless young patrician faces, Still with their chisell'd lip and frigid sneer, Mistaking ever for the frolic graces The tawdry Thyads round slain Reason's bier. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 215 Then there were Spinsters trying to be clever And witty, but in malice ever ending ; Like busy witches some rich Author ever Buoy'd with false hopes of letter'd glory sending : With poets metaphysical and bilious, Whose wintry smile the loving sempstress pains; And brewers' earl-wed daughters supercilious, Like Venus froth-sprung — ^from a sea of grains. And there were cant religionists a few, Who ne'er themselves would sin in any way shun, Seeking their soul's bill ever to renew By promises of others' deep damnation ; And inward Atheists, who God adore, Secure in lightning-rods, beneath the steeple, " Because that kind of thing is right before One's servants and the common sort of people." Others, with fusion like of mind and look, Who ne'er, in thought, did their own being start from, Yet own'd the Bible was a dear, good book, Like evening neckcloth white, unsafe to part from. And some that long'd to be at rest, Shut from the glare of that false scene, To tear the dagger from the breast, That perchance held there close had been 216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. With fearful pang, to give them power To fritter yet another hour, To scatter still the mocking jest, And utter flattering falsehood mean — Poor actors of a role unblest ! At length, at home, ye will, unseen, The steel pluck'd out, in fierce despair, Groan forth the false life ye play'd there. ON BEING THREATENED WITH THE LOSS OF SIGHT. World of midnight, veil of sorrow, May such be my dreadful doom ? Shall I cease to bid good-morrow To the light, in lingering gloom ? No ! no ! — let me sooner perish, Better for a coffin crave ; And though few these eyes now cherish — Lead me, sightless — to the grave! One hour ye can spare, O mourners ! But a life's neglected woe, Paths of thorns, sharp-pointed corners, Great Heaven, spare me these below ! Each remaining sense with anguish Deeper thrills in night's dark womb ; For the blind man doth but languish, Feeling round a world-wide tomb. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 Yet, if eyes no longer beaming Vacant stare around on earth, On sweet sunshine, soft moons gleaming, Looks of love and guileless mirth ; If, child-led, I plaintive wander, Still I'd kiss the chastening rod, Nor in vain grief darkly ponder — Blind eyes nearest see their God. In the world slight good prevailing Meets the baffled eyes of Truth ; And the sight of age is failing, Ere it spells aright of youth : Lo ! there Want, with wan cheeks hollow, Mutely glares around in pain ; Troops of thronging shapes quick follow, 'Mid them grins the brand of Cain. No more falsehood's smiles unholy Shall deceive my aching breast, Or sad sight bring melancholy To awake my soul from rest : Look ! what visions bright of Heaven Round my darkening eye-balls play ; Who for these would not have given All the false dull dreams of day ? 218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE DIRGE OF ERIN*. Yoke-mate of bondage to the British car, Sad Ireland, stagger to thy home, the grave ; Thou hast no other, save in gloom afar Beyond the desert of the western wave. " Increase and multiply" was God's command, He gemm'd the ocean with thine emerald shore ; Man bids thy ghastly legions quit the strand, Or sink benumb'd in death to live no more. A double Charon bides his palsied freight, On each black hull is figur'd wild despair ; To quit thy country, or to die, thy fate ; One dismal sign-post meets thy vacant stare. * It may be urged, with reference to this poem, that Ireland is now in an improving state. The " sick man" is being" restored by process of transfusion. Be it so : still in the author's opinion, the depopulation of Ireland and her frightful misgovernment, including the wicked and stupid infliction of the maintenance of a dominant, hostile creed, and the cowardly, or treacherous, patronage of a rehellious one, present a picture not easily to be blotted out of the page of history. Nor is the curse ended here. Hatred towards England burns in the breast of millions of emigrants and children of emigrants in America. And when the struggle of England for greatness, or existence, shall commence, she will find her loss in the dispersion of the " Celt," and her danger in the machinations of a remorseless priesthood. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 219 The dragon's teeth are sown. Behold arise A crop of Death ! Want's fearful shadows fall ; Her icy sickle gleams 'neath frowning skies, And o'er the cradle dooms the fate of all. Time was, mirth sparkling laugh'd or legend wept, 'Mid fancy's dew-drops on thy verdant shore ; Thy daughters danc'd, thy sons athletic leapt : Alas ! nor song, nor dance, may frolic more. E'en the wild pensive notes of Moore are fled, With the ga}^ numbers of his softer lyre : Grief dares not wail amid the famish'd dead, Yon fearful charnel bids e'en grief expire. Mute is the land's despair. The wrong too deep For idle words their sad complaint to give — Hope flies forlorn, or pallid sinks to sleep ; 'Tis Hope alone bids mournful genius live. I saw one linger by the crimson'd waves, Like the last shadow round a funeral pyre ; His cheek was hollow as his island caves, His blue eyes wander'd with prophetic fire. His hair fell wildly as the gleanings snatch 'd By orphan fingers from the trampled clay ; Each dry sharp bone alternate hollows match'd, The deep-sown furrows of a live decay. 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Lazarus of a nation seem'd he there, Call'd forth to warn the rich. Methought the scent Of graves came mingled with the mountain air; Cold evening mists their blighting horror lent : Thick-flocking voices whisper'd of the tomb, Telling their woes with chill mysterious breath ; Dark Spirits cloud-like hurried through the gloom, As dead leaves eddy round the feet of Death. So stood he — whilst his mantle in the wind Stream'd like the canvass on a tottering mast : Awhile he stood, but could no utterance find, His quivering lips mov'd idly in the blast. The smile upon his lips for ever flown, Had left them seal'd with stamp of frenzied wrong — The wrong he bore from other's, not his own — At length pour'd forth the flood of broken sons' — " Strike not the harp again ! but let each string Twirl in the blast upon a gloomy shore, Where the waves moan, and phantom sea-bells ring Their island funeral — Strike the harp no more. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 221 " Touch not another string. It were to mock The ghost of pale destruction flitting round : The lightest breath of melody would shock — The shatter'd harp lies mouldering on the ground. " Come, sound another strain ! Bring forth the gong Of cavernous hunger ; let the drum be stirr'd By living Spectres rattling dragg'd along ; The sharp triangle's iron rings be heard ; " Want's hollow clattering bones ; the sad shrill fife Play'd on by children born with faces old — Starvation's lingering round — the dirge of life — By strains like these let Erin's fate be told. " Yet, 'mid the torturing pangs of slow decay, Where tugs the vulture at a people's breast- - How few the crimes, how vast the misery, say ! Let cruel rulers speak with lips unblest. " Lo ! where the savage murderer glides along, His dark soul pictur'd in his face of night ; Yet starving vengeance scorns the plunderer's wrong ; A deed of blood, not meanness, shocks the light. 222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " See the mute beggar through yon window stare, Where Plenty reigns, and food is heap'd around, Untempted ; til], with dull reproachful glare, His gaunt form sinks down on the flinty ground. " Speak out, ye nations! Back for many an age Ransack your hidden catalogues of grief: No tale like this is grav'd on Famine's page, To palsy wonder and to mock belief. " His eyes grow dim ; the voices of the crowd, Like angry waters o'er his fading brain Rush with harsh grating murmurs fierce and loud ; Then, as life ebbs, recede and die again. " Take up and hide his ghastly frame — Quick ! Heap Dark mould upon his ribs, and fill them out With unaccusing earth, six inches deep — Strew Pity's eye-dust to the world without. " Place him not deep beneath the cold, damp sod, When sounds the trumpet, on the day of love And wrath, he thus shall soonest meet his God And tell the story of his wrongs above : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 223 " Tell how he perish'd, 'mid no lack of food, Heaven's mystic doom ; read rich men's bills of fare ; Speak frightful waste in ears of angels good ; Rehearse the sorrows of his mute despair. " No lying witness then, no cunning foe Shall turn the spring of mercy from his door; No curst dissembler dare disguise his woe, Or cruel spoiler rob him o'er and o'er. " The sad Hungarian and the trampled Pole, Each at his side, their piteous tale shall plead ; The wrong'd Italian bare his injur'd soul, The brave Circassian not all idly bleed. " See yonder leprous band — how all dismay 'd Hang low their furious heads round murder'd Hope ! Each tyrant slave, who liberty betray 'd, The coward Emperor and the Judas Pope. " There, Naples quivers, Haynau crouches low, Like tiger scorch'd 'mid walls of living flame ; With that foul monster, mankind's deadliest foe, The hireling scribe who stabs a nation's fame. " There all shall meet — man's lying veil be torn By Justice from the face of Truth sublime ; The tyrant sink engulph'd in fiery scorn, Earth's greatest sufferers bear the pall of Time. 224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Strike not the harp again ! Let misery sleep. To Heaven is fled each sigh. The dirge is o'er. The tears refus'd by man let angels weep — One wailing cry — then, Erin, wake no more !" The last sounds died away, The gloomy pall Of hollow Night had swept the Autumn wave : I see the gleaming surges rise and fall, I hear the sea-bells knell their island grave. Nov. 1850. THE DEVIL'S FLIGHT. From his palace of crystal and steel, In the great park of Hades, one night, Leaving Judas a duplicate Seal, Did the Fiend up to Earth wing his flight : For he said, " All my favourites, down here below, Speak of brotherly love amid sad human woe ;" And he'd heard to the ghost of a sable Jim Crow A soul preach a sermon. " One would fancy the world were so good, So pious, so kind, and so true, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 225 If my friends I have right understood, Quite a pai'adise snug I shall view : There's an island call'd England, philanthropy's nest, Not content with themselves, they seduce all the rest Up the back-stairs of Heaven — I'm told they're the best Of the world. Let's determine." Then he spread forth his wings like a pall, Quickly fann'd the dull air into breath, And through Chaos his vast shadows fall, Like a frown on the cold face of Death : As for those who would paint the arch-framer of wrong Like a faded young noble with fair tresses long, And a scar on his brow — Why, a fork'd tail and prong Were as probable stuff, Sir. On his pinions an Earthquake astray, With a Pestilence mildew'd he caught, And some vices the Flood wash'd away To the " Great Exhibition" thus brought : There was Moloch's own cruelty banish'd from earth, Which he dropp'd upon Austria, passing in mirth ; It was pick'd up by Haynau, who gave it fresh birth ; Nay, improv'd in the rough, Sir. 226 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. He was much pleas'd with Italy's look*, She was stain'd with the blood of the free ; 'Neath Priest-rule, by hook or by crook, Squalid Liberty bent to her knee : There was stabbing abroad and police-search at home, And the prisons were cramm'd full round Peter's big dome ; While the Pope gave gilt prayer-books to butch- ers at Rome : " This will do," said the Devil. As he flew o'er the fair land of France He laugh'd for a good hour or two ; For he saw round an odd "Guy Faux" dance A fierce motley turbulent crew : 'Twas an effigy stuff'd with gunpowder and straw, * " He was much pleas'd with Italy's look, &c." — The two or three following facts illustrate this verse. The Pope has ordered 15,000 prayer books from a bookseller at Rome, to distribute to the French and Austrian soldiery. Signor Gigli, the author, was seized the other day, and thrown into prison merely on suspicion of having con- cealed his uncle, Colonel Barba. A family on the Piazza di Sant Eustachio were consigned to a dungeon for having a Protestant Bible in their house. Colonel Pichi was arrested contrary to the promises made him by the Go- vernment, and condemned to the gallies for twenty years. This I selected from accounts from Rome, in 1850. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 227 Some called it Napoleon, others Chambord — It was chance crown'd by folly. The dance was soon o'er ; Then in blood they did revel. " If I ever on earth wish to reign," Said he, " here I'll as candidate show ; For a people so fickle and vain Would soon cry, "Live old Scratch from below : We have tried every novelty that can be crown'd, Absolutist — People, the worst monavch found, Lola Montes and Gomersal, Lord Brough'm re- nown'd ; Here's the Devil, let's have him ! " Next the Channel he pass'd in a trice, But the Telegraph stopp'd to admire ; And he thought he would give some advice, Lest the flat fish should nibble the wire : " I've a terminus" quoth he, " in view for each end, To a certain small square then the news I would send, And as ' own correspondent' my services lend For a few souls per annum." When in London, the things that he saw, Would the " Chronicle Y*" sad pages fill, * See Mayhew'a " Labour and the Poor," first pub- lished in the " Morning Chronicle" 228 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Or the Blue-Books, that furnish each law, Giving license to wealth to do ill ; But the three things that pleas'd him most, throughout the nation, Were a Pharisee breakfast to lean Emigration, A cotton-mill Sadducee slurring taxation, And a foreign-paid journal. There were many small facts to his mind — How the magistrates gave their decision : " I am out-done I verily find, All my small courts below want revision :" But he voted all Chancery practice a bore, Why not rob, strip, and murder right ofF by the score ? And he said that for him it might soon be all o'er, " Zounds, what rubbish infernal! " He dwelt first by Exeter Hall, Then slunk to a Catholic Chapel — As a Bishop he bother'd them all With the secret of Eve and her apple : He thought if succession were worth but a fig, His opinion might settle friend Gorham's tythe P J g» " Can you tell the first Chartist, since I'm the first Whig?" Said one day the Devil. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 229 From the Pai'k to the workhouse and gaol, At the opera, gibbet, and race, He was seen without horns or a tail,. But Society's grin on his face ; And since riches were passport, he plac'd his account At the very first banker's, and drew each amount, With the air of a Rothschild, or fabulous Count Only seen in a novel. Then he studied " Statistics," to ring Amid plenty the nose of Starvation, And he found that the very best thing, Next to death, was a grand Emigration : It matter'd not much where the wretches were sent ; There was less hope to come back the farther they went, And the Devil Ms blessings with " young Eng- land" blent, On a Romanist show-day*. * " A Romanist show-day." — It is probable, as far as I can judge, that the "Canterbury Settlement" is an emanation from the Tractarians. — (Note 1850). These gentlemen, in relation to avowed Papacy, are — " «*• calo- mel to blue-pill." X 230 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Next he ask'd if one "patriot" liv'd? And the Government straight replied "Walker*!" As for England, had they not contriv'd Just to patch her, and mend her, and caulk her: Then they show'd him the Dock-yard bills on a back shelf, And how each in his turn grabb'd Posterity's pelf, While the Nation's pawn-ticket he sold for him- self, Mark'd " Redemption on no day." O'er his chocolate, scanning the " Post" Smil'd he oft at the Prostitute's fate, Of man's crime both the warning and ghost, Paying five-shilling fines to the State : Still the Marchioness flaunted her sin gross and stark — 'Tis your lewdness in rags at which legal curs bark ; But he saw L — ra B — 11 take her drive in the Park, With the Nepaulese Princes. * By the patriot " Walker," I mean Mr. G. A. Walker, so long opposed to intra-mural interments. The risk, expense, and fatigue incurred by this true philan- thropist, have only caused his merits to be burked by a thankless administration, after adopting the results of his labours for upwards of sixteen years. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 231 Honour, Honesty, Faith, were all gone, Competition made Industry sly, And Belief was as dead as a stone, Which Tradition sang fell from the sky : To steer clear of the law was all Virtue now sought, The whole world was a market-place — every- thing bought — Mediocrity stamp'd with lies currently wrought: Money even convinces ! He saw Generosity die, By the sons of his own bounty stricken, And the flush of Truth pass to the sky As her mute features orphan-like sicken : He saw how the world was by mischief amus'd, How feeling was ever in selfishness fus'd ; The payment of charity ; friendship abus'd, And confidence undone. The Devil saw little to mend And he liv'd on his capital gaily ; Till he met at the season's dull end, With a smart lawyer from the Old Bailey ; To the City they went, when the quid nunc lo- quacious Said, " Ask of your bankers a favour, if gracious, A letter to view Barclay's vats so capacious — 'Tis the best sight in London." 232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. He did so — The letter thus ran, " An esteem'd friend of mine and my daughter Will call, show him all that you can And astonish his mind with your porter — " When he went they a book brought with names full a score, And they said, " If you please, we'll your auto- graph store, We have Nicholas, Cobden, and Jung Bahaddor, Have the kindness to write, Sir." " What Nicholas, this?" said old Nick, " That my character steals upon earth ; By my sceptre a beggarly trick !" And he frown' d at the clerks' sober mirth: In a rage took the pen and wrote angrily shaking- Baron Satan and Lucifer, with his suite, taking A survey of England. — The clerks fell a quaking With wonder and fright, Sir. One by one they stole out of the room, And the news quickly whisper'd about, How that Satan had come in a Brough'm To take notes on the making of " stout :" Soon a strong congregation of draymen outside Gather'd gloomily round from the streets far and wide, And they swore by their eyes, they would quick tan his hide, If indeed 'twere the Devil. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 233 It was true that his name might be good On a cheque or a banker's post bill, That by fashion the brimstone was stood, But it stank in the nose of plain " Will :" " Come out, you old vagabond," cried they aloud, " Well soon show you your sort's not the sort here allow'd — " " Prithee tell me, Asmodeus, what means the crowd ?" Said the Father of evil. " Is this part of the making of ale ? It is far more like brewing a storm — " " Perhaps 'tis nought," said his page growing pale, " But a kind of rough welcome, in form — " Quick with force catapultic there came a dead cat, Hit our friend in the eye, "There, old fellow, take that !" Now the door they break in and they ' bonnet' his hat, And with mud and grains pelt him. With torn coat down Bankside he ran, In dismay seeking shelter in vain, 'Tis " Old Nick" cried child, woman, and man, " Sarve him out, we shan't catch him again — " x2 234 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Like a bustard surpris'd he'd no time to take flight, For his wings he had left off on earth the first night, Not a cab-stand was near, but the river in sight — Here a few kicks they dealt him. Few and broken the words that he said, "My friend — Rothschild — thousands a year— I've to dine with a Duke — oh ! my head — " " Lord ! Ve don't care for money nor peer ; Ve're a different style from them base sort of folk As vould velcome a hangman to dine or to polk, If they thought he vos vealthy, or bad English spoke ; Ve are snobs in a passion. " Nobs in fashion may ask you to dinner, Ve don't ape gentility's ways, And a sinner to us his a sinner, Vere he goes and votever he pays — " Here a broom-stick this lecture cut short : down he went — When there came the police, by Asmodeus sent : He had sought shelter near, where a Jew money lent, And escap'd with a splashing. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 235 Up a court full of filth Satan fled, Where a slip of old Eve hid him fast, Like a lean Falstaff, under a bed, Till the storm had subsided and past : And some dozen policemen, with big Serjeant Kite, Had secar'd two poor girls, against whom they'd a spite, "With a cabman, who cried " Here's a precious delight !" Pulling up from the city. To be short, Satan got in a barge, And arriv'd safe to Leicester's fam'd square ; And the Times did next morning enlarge On his virtues with sympathy rare : How the glaz'd cards of Fashion, to ask how he felt, On the hall-porter rain'd, might old Cerberus melt, Or the gravestones of orphans like frozen tears pelt, In the church-yard of Pity. But his feelings were sore as his bones, So he vanish'd from London next day, And a green carpet-bag full of stones, Left behind him a long bill to pay : 236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. With an odd boot and whisker-brush, ' dickey' all torn — L — dm R — 11 — n's display, when he came here forlorn, To pay gratitude's debt with the language of scorn, And lampoon his asylum. First to Palmerston wrote he — " My Lord, Satan leaves in a frenzy your coast; May an Englishman's name be abhorr'd Nor a rag left of Cromwell's proud boast : Be your mock intervention the laugh of the world, Your fleets tow'd to Cherbourg, your whiskers uncurl'd ; Be the flags of old England in misery furl'd, And the Frenchman defile 'em ! " May your Siamese Cobden and Bright, On the flood-tide of folly and wrong, To the whirlpool of gloomiest night Guide the ship of the nation along : Be your colonies lost by the rebel's dull sword, Your invention surpass'd, and your merchandise floor'd, Your Shakespeare forgotten, your burlesque ador'd, Your best home, New Zealand. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 237 " May the negroes you strive to set free Forge the chains of a deadlier hate, Than the world has had eyes yet to see, In the gloom of a proud nation's fate : Be your shopkeepers ruin'd, your commerce fast bound, And your people by taxes and steam-engines ground ; May Philanthrophy seize you, and Mammon confound That which once was a free land ! " May the Peace Congress work out its will, 'Till the soul of the pugilist die ; Whilst old women your garrisons fill, And your powder be never kept dry : May the Lion of England caught toothless asleep To a polyglot foe furnish merriment cheap, And the poor of the land o'er a Golgotha reap Ghosts of sickly potatoes." This letter he seal'd with black wax, And then flew towards home o'er the isle, "Where starvation the stern peasant racks, And the gaunt child refuses to smile : Where a ' living death' turns up the soil in despair For a coffinless grave, or a sustenance bare : There was something the Devil had never seen, there, 'Mid these bowel-torn Catos. 238 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. There came up a dull heavy moan*, But he mark'd not a tear, or a cry, 'Twas the echo of misery's groan That a sad Angel bore to the sky : As he look'd down he saw where oppression had trod, While the hearts of the people grew dull as a clod, And one skeleton face seem'd to ask for a God In the dark frowning heaven. The eyes had a dull painful stare, And the neck sank down into the chest ; On the skull grew in patches the hair, As 'twere torn from the sepulchre's rest : 'Twas the frame of man walking forth livid and grey, As if made by a Frankenstein out of decay ; And the children's bones clatter'd, but never at play : Be their poor souls forgiven ! * For this description of starvation in Ireland, I must refer my readers to a work entitled " Gleanings in the West of Ireland," by the Hon. and Rev. S. G. Osborne. " Mr. Osborne," says a contemporary, " has studied famine and its effects not only with the eye of a philan- thropist, but as a very anatomist." I have merely described what he did, and there is no exaggeration in these stanzas. H istory will record it as occurring during the manufacturing Jubilee in our sister island. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 239 There was cold pallor under black rags, And the dry skin hung down from the arm, As if loose sticks were rattled in bags, And the eye glar'd with life like a charm : 'Neath the chin was a hollow to nature unknown, O'er the brow grew the hair that had fled from the crown, Like an ape's, or an idiot's, moss on a stone, Or an aftermath buried. In the Union house, hovel, or grave, Lay in silence their tenants alike ; Round one green church-yard wall doth the wave Of the dim broad Atlantic loud strike : But the coffin of him who the people betray 'd*, In a ghastly pawn saw he at Glasnevin laid — Then the Devil he shudder'd, and, like one afraid, His flight darkly hurried. 1850. * The coffin of O'Connell was so held by creditors. 240 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. YE DYTTIE OF " ALTOUNE TOURES*." O pleasaunt is ye moneth of Maie, And swete are vernall shoures, "When sothe they bydde nice for the to staie, And dyne atte " Altoune Toures." * The following " dyttie," as it is called, was collated in April, 1851, from two manuscripts, in the Lincoln's Inn Library. We are surprised that these have escaped Dr. Percy ; hut we have much pleasure in now giving the result of our discovery to the public. We have preferred throughout the earlier of these MSS. ; hut have filled up, or amended, an ohscure line or two from the second, A learned friend supposes the "Lord Chancellere " to have been the famous William of Wykeham. For this, we must confess, wee see no reason. It is true that he held both lay and clerical ap- pointments ; but he seems to have been a man not likely to have been guilty of that which Punch would style snobbism. In the first and most valuable MS. is a black letter comment, stating that a 3'oung lady of much for- tune and more comeliness, being deserted by her relations, fell into the hands of the monks, who were desirous of sequestrating her property to their uses, and nearly suc- ceeded in the attempt. She, however, appealed to " ye kynge," as it is told, who directed her proper guardian, the " Lorde Chancellere," to hear and decide. It seems that this high functionary was much influenced by the courtesies of a bigoted aristocratic kinsman of the young lady, who is represented as feting him at " Altoune Toures," and thereby endeavouring, it must be confessed, with some partial success, to dispose MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 241 Myne herte ! thys is a gamesome worlde, The erth hath purfiled floures ; Lord Chancellere hys wigg hath curled : Hee slepes at " Altoune Toures." Come hyther, come hyther, miefaire yonge warde, Busk ye in bonny bowers ? Soe sadd, shee sayde, wilt stale, my Lorde, Ane weeke atte " Altoune Toures ?" Come hyther, come hyther, mie Ladye Abbess, Saie why thy pale fronte loures ? Now, by the roode, a boone ! lie bless Thys moneth atte " Altoune Toures." The proud Erl twies hys win hee spylt, Sir Chancellere, 'tis ours To bydde your presence, an Crist wyl't Ane yere at " Altoune Toures." him to regard with less severity the motives and conduct of the " Monkish powres." Our fair readers will be glad to learn, that finally the young lady was rescued from the cloister by Dan Cupid and Hymen. A young nobleman of distinction fell in love with her, and his influence procured her restoration to the world. The ballad writer, it would seem, contemplated a different result. It is probable that in delivering judgment, whereby the ward was restored to her convent, the Chancellor dwelt much on the hospitality he had received at " Altoune Toures." Hence the satire which is doubtless intended to be conveyed by the continued recurrence at the end of each verse of "Altoune Toures," an achievement, it must be admitted, displaying some rhyming ingenuity. The Poem, however, is only interesting now as a specimen of old English. 242 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O, " Altoune Toures" are fay re to see, And blacke are monkish povvres ; The fayre yonge maycle to the nonnerie, And the Peere to " Altoune Toures." Merily doe the smale foules synge* Whanne milke it sonest soures ; Alle in a darke veil forthe they brynge Swete Mayf of " Altoune Toures." And down hir chekis dyd yronne the bryne, Hir sadd forme quails and cowres ; Lord Chancellere hee sypped hys win Blythly atte " Altoune Toures," 'Mid lothly nonnes hir lyfe is passed, Wepynge the waefulle houres ; For weedes of blacke the gynghame'sj; cast She wore at " Altoune Toures." Ryghte to hir dethe the maden weped ; Fayre girles with meikle dowres, God send ye a Chancellere hath not sleped Or dyned atte " Altoune Toures." * " Small foules"— in the second MS. " lytel birdes," evidently the work of a more modern hand. t " Swete May." — May is probably not the actual name of the young lady. It frequently occurs in old writers, as a very pretty synonyme for maiden. J The reading in the first MS. is " wardrope," which is probably right ; I cannot find the word " gynghame" in any contemporaneous author ; nor do I know its pre- cise meaning, unless it be the modern gingham, which would be as great an anachronism as merino. \_Note by a correspondent of the " Asinceum."] END OF PART II. PART III. DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. From " Croesus, King of Lydia." A STORM. Hark ! how the angry Gods do speak above — Black-ribbed chasms and deep wide-jaw'd caves. The dim sepulchral tombs of nature's death, Terrific bass re-echo to the skies Rolling in one tempestuous symphony ; And with the shock the wild clouds weep amain ; "Whilst aged trees do part with giant boughs That silent and unheeded fall to ground, In such tremendous clatter. Blue fork'd gleams That seem as they would blind us here on earth, Pierce into graves and there light dead men's skulls With fiery amazement ; zig-zag play At in and out around the ribs of death, And in the flashing of thought strike and quell Corruption's ghastly labours. y2 246 DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. THE ACCIDENTS OF FORTUNE. Orgetes. Atys. Orcetes. Oh ! 'tis a type Of those whom I abhor ; dull loiterers that Perkt up on vain prosperity, like apes Climb'd in the precincts of Jove's temple, grin On Fortune's worthier giftless votaries : Giving false names to things, false pride to names, Loose ; yet immoral sticklers for repute, They have more shame to call their father, sire, Though he were honest (which indeed they're not), Than without trembling to blaspheme high Jove, And scoff at Heaven's thunders. Atys. Is he then Of mean extraction ? Orcetes. Yes ! and so doth seek Gilding, by vain attrition of the great, And thus he with small perseverance gains Their vices, not their virtues. THE CURSE OF WEALTH. Blot on fair Nature's Scutcheon, Nature's Laws Neglected reel wild-clutching for support, DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. 247 Which prosperous men avoid with careful ease, Holding their robes tight round them, and the air, Wherein they walk is deafen'd. They eat, drink, With curious care, forgetting some that fast For want of food despised ; they sleep well, Iron hearts in beds of down ; but they shall wake To a shrill summoning. Vain then to give The portion small that now would work our weal, Which, blinded, they deny. O Charity ! Loos'd from the awful side of Jove, descend ! Like mild-ey'd angel mourn a moment here, And give our breath such pow'r, that it may steal Into their golden palaces and frame The one small syllable distinct of " give !" Lest others feebly perish. Trumpet-tongued Speak fearful warnings lest we sink and die, But with our tyrants. CONSOLATION FOR THE POOR. Artisans. Sadyattes. Art. And, even here, the poor man doth create Round him his world of kindly sympathies, Where the usurper steals not, or in vain ; 248 DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. For the small mangiest cur thanks not a king To be his lord, if he obedience owe Unto a mere starv'd forked beggar boy ; And, from the arms that bred him, were he ta'en, Would howl within a palace. Sady. 'Tis most true ! Second Art. Methought at times the king look'd sad to-day, And one I heard that said — Who'd be a king That all commands, ivhom all obey, if joy That to the cheerful peasant sometimes comes Unsought, he cant command, and say to grief, " I know thee not, fly from my royal presence /" THE BUST OF ISIS. Lydis. Thou might'st as well deck Isis' stony bust As my poor cousin ; yesternight I pass'd By that far chamber, where the face serene Of the Egyptian goddess sculp tur'd stands ; Unearthly sentiment in marble caught From pale, ascetic priestess of old Nile, Dreamy and wild and sweetly mystical : And as I pass'd, pausing to look upon The wondrous calmness of her face, I threw The black gold-spangled veil that thou know'st well DRAMATIC EXTRACTS. 249 Upon the statue's head, where it did fall Like starry night pale lily curtaining : I'll swear a pretty oath, thou would'st have smil'd, To see how like my cousin then it grew, As she does now to it. DESCRIPTION OF HOUNDS IN A KENNEL. Atys, being restrained by the desire of his father, Cr