UC-NRLF 
 
 157 5Mb 
 
 fUMANfA 
 
/BERKELEY^ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 I UNIVERSITY OF 
 
VOX HUMANA 
 
Vox HUMANA 
 
 
 
 poems 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN MILLS 
 
 WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 Xonfcon 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 MDCCCXCVH 
 
[All rights reserved.'] 
 
J/s^r V* 
 
 FATHER, uplifted wondering to thy Face 
 Were our first glances. Slowly did we grow 
 To feel its charm and influence, and to know 
 By heart the lines of mingled power and grace. 
 Thought's sculpture round thine eyes we loved to trace, 
 Grave eyes, yet lit with humour, and aglow 
 With tenderness from deeper fires below. 
 Dark now, and cold, and empty is thy place ! 
 
 Yet still for us, athwart the gathering gloom 
 
 That morning vision shines, a beckoning Star; 
 
 And still, beyond the silence of the tomb, 
 
 For us thy voice rings, sounding from afar 
 
 Its " Comfort ye ! " voice of a vanished Home, 
 
 Enshrined where Love and Home unclouded are. 
 
 FILIA. 
 
 November, 1896. 
 
 065 
 
PREFACE 
 
 JOHN MILLS was born at Bank Top, Ashton- 
 under-Lyne, on December 16, 1821, and died at 
 Northwold, Bowdon, on September 26, 1896. 
 His was a unique and many-sided nature. A 
 student of statistics, an authority in banking and 
 finance, a man of shrewd sense and of keen 
 humour, he was yet at heart a poet ; and born 
 a musician. 
 
 He owed his real education rather to his own 
 thirst for knowledge, steady reading, and enthu- 
 siastic sympathy with the great thinkers of his 
 day, than to any special teaching. His mind 
 was shapecj by Wordsworth and Coleridge, by 
 Richter, Emerson, and Carlyle. His lifelong 
 friend, Prof. W. B. Hodgson, of Edinburgh, 
 early drew him into touch with projects of 
 reform in educational matters, and deepened his 
 interest in social, economic, and financial pro- 
 blems. In these last he was also closely asso- 
 ciated with Prof. Jevons, and for many years 
 he found sympathetic society in the group of 
 
 vii 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 thinking men who were drawn together by the 
 genial influence of his earliest and closest friend, 
 the late Alexander Ireland. 
 
 That this book did not appear during the 
 writer's lifetime is due partly to his native 
 shrinking from prominence or self-assertion, .but 
 still more to the severely critical and fastidious 
 taste which made it hard for him to feel that 
 what he had written might not yet be amended 
 or more perfectly finished. It is hoped that 
 some interesting reminiscences of his life may 
 be issued before long, but those to whom his 
 poems are a precious legacy offer, at this time, 
 no biography. It seems better to let him speak 
 for himself in the following pages. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SONNETS : PAGE 
 
 Lux in Tenebris Lucet . . .3 
 
 Life in Death . .4 
 
 Thanks . 5 
 
 At Rydal .... 6 
 
 To Charles Swain . . . .7 
 
 To Charles Cowden Clarke . . 8 
 
 S. E. L. . . .9 
 
 Two Sonnets to Professor Jevons . . 10 
 
 Garfield . . . . .12 
 
 Vox Humana .... 13 
 
 Stoic and Christian . . . 14 
 
 Damien .... 15 
 
 Beethoven Deaf ! . . .16 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS : 
 
 The Law . . 19 
 
 Dualities ... .20 
 
 The Loom . 21 
 
 To Alexander Ireland . . -24 
 
x CONTENTS 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS (continued) PAGE 
 
 Albertine .... 25 
 
 Llyn-y-Cai . . . . -27 
 
 To his Father .... 32 
 
 The Lost Fairy . . . -34 
 
 North and South . . . 38 
 
 Profit and Loss . . . -39 
 
 No Cotton .... 40 
 
 The First Snowdrop . . -45 
 
 The Bat .... 48 
 
 Thirlmere . . . . 50 
 
 The Plaint of the Primrose . . 52 
 
 In Memoriam, W. B. Hodgson . . 54 
 
 Epitaph on his Brother Samuel . . 54 
 
 To A. S. Lipscomb . . . -55 
 
 To Alfred Tennyson ... 56 
 
 A " Nineteenth Century " Trilogy . . 57 
 
 An Irish Song .... 58 
 On the Departure of Sir Charles and Lady Halle 
 
 to Australia .... 60 
 
 The Dead Pansy . . . .62 
 
 On Two Portraits . . 64 
 BIRTHDAY SONNETS TO His WIFE : 
 
 To Isabel : May 18, 1849 ... 69 
 
 1850 . . 70 
 
 1857 . 71 
 
 1859 . 72 
 
 1862 . 73 
 
 1863 . . .74 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XI 
 
 BIRTHDAY SONNETS TO His WIFE (continued)- 
 To Isabel : May 18, 1865 . 
 1868 
 1869 . 
 1870 
 
 75 
 76 
 
 77 
 78 
 
 
 TRANSLATIONS : 
 
 In Memoriam. (From Uhland) 
 
 From Schiller : " Giite und Grosse " 
 
 " Das Kind in der "Wiege " 
 
 Heine's Sonnets to his Mother . 
 
 From Juvenal 
 
 The Dedication of " Faust " 
 NOTES 
 
 81 
 83 
 83 
 84 
 86 
 87 
 91 
 
SONNETS 
 
LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET 
 
 DARK is the north with storm from cope to base, 
 And lightning, like a wrathful seer of doom, 
 Scrawls a fierce Scripture on the solid gloom, 
 
 Blanching for one white moment the earth's face 
 
 With a shot glare that's gone and left no trace ; 
 But westward, o'er black bastions rimmed with 
 
 bloom 
 Of sunset, lo ! a field of sky with room 
 
 For all the wain to throb in tranquil space. 
 
 The passionate fire-streak from the cloud has 
 
 passed, 
 
 The sunset bloom is blotted into night ; 
 Yet those inexorable stars hold fast 
 
 The secret of that yet serener light 
 Which, somewhere, curtained thick from sense 
 
 and Time, 
 Shines on, shines on, eternal and sublime. 
 
 1851. 
 
LIFE IN DEATH 
 
 HEROES ! The light that from your levelled steel 
 Flashed as ye charged up Alma's fiery hill 
 Quickened more life in men than ye could kill ; 
 
 And when our flame-girt steedsmen could but reel 
 
 To hideous death beneath a bloody heel, 
 Each as he fell smote myriads with a thrill 
 Of the great sense of man's unmastered will 
 
 That may be crushed, but does not bow nor 
 kneel. 
 
 'Twas the same shock of your unfaltering line 
 Struck tenfold legions down the misty steep 
 
 And from our souls the deadly Anodyne 
 Of sensual calm that drugged us into sleep. 
 
 Waking, we gazed on the white face of death, 
 
 Then stood a nation, breathing deeper breath. 
 
 1855- 
 
THANKS ! 
 
 NOT only that ye score our righteous hate 
 With a sheer dint upon the tyrant's cheek, 
 Nor that ye shield the injured and the weak, 
 
 Snatching from Wrong's red grasp the brand of 
 fate, 
 
 Nor that ye bar with steel the Golden Gate, 
 That the barbaric tide may never break 
 In thunder o'er the West, and drown the shriek 
 
 Of freedom, once again made desolate : 
 
 For these great gains be thanked ! But more 
 than all 
 
 Be thanked that ye have given to man again 
 Assurance of his manhood, and the call 
 
 Which like a trumpet shakes the souls of men, 
 Kindling that old heroic fire which shone 
 Alike o'er Inkermann and Marathon ! 
 
 1855- 
 
AT RYDAL (i). 
 
 I MARVEL not, ye music-stricken trees 
 
 And winds and waters, that ye ne'er are mute, 
 
 For here, I know, as on a passive lute, 
 
 With mystic mastery doth the Poet seize 
 
 On Nature, and with mild majestic ease 
 
 Through all her forms his own strong ardours 
 
 shoot. 
 
 Great thoughts of his lie hoarded at the root 
 Of each huge pine through which the mountain 
 
 breeze, 
 
 Laden with an emotion, sighs or sings, 
 Rocking the while, with soft caress, the bird 
 Whose lyric rapture through the valley rings : 
 And lo ! the bosom of yon mere is stirred 
 With stress of Fancies, while o'er far-off streams 
 Imagination flings her golden gleams ! 
 
 i8 4S . 
 
TO CHARLES SWAIN 
 
 UNDER blue skies and by clear stream the song 
 Of bird and bard makes antiphon complete, 
 And dewy harebells at a minstrel's feet 
 
 Compel from his quick brain an answering throng 
 
 Of floral fancies ; but what spell among 
 
 The thunderous discords of a smoke-clad street, 
 Could from the Nature-loving lute entreat 
 
 Music that was so tender, yet so strong ? 
 
 Deep in this poet's soul, strung tense and true, 
 Thrilled one fine chord, touched to the under- 
 tone 
 
 Of the pathetic human, breathing through 
 The dissonant war of city mirth and moan. 
 
 So, with his last breath dying on the wind 
 
 Mingles the deathless music of the mind. 
 
 i8 74 . 
 
TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE (2). 
 
 AMEN ! my brave old friend, to all thy prayer 
 Amen, I say, and may thy faith still stand 
 Serenely trustful to the Guider's hand, 
 
 Which, tempering ruthless force with ruthful care, 
 
 May shatter empires, yet each silver hair 
 Touch kindly on a brow whose memories grand 
 Of genius clustered in thy dear old land, 
 
 Make Age with Youth's immortal graces fair. 
 
 O happy he, who, ere his prayer be spoken, 
 For answer sweet finds ever at his side 
 
 A loving wife, Heaven's best and purest token 
 Of purposed good, whatever may betide ; 
 
 So stands thy Mary, " peace and trust" unbroken 
 By Time's dread wheel, thine own perennial 
 bride. 
 
 1876. 
 
5. E. L. (3) 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 So best. Though hearts must bleed and eyes will 
 
 weep 
 
 For their own loss and for quick pity's sake, 
 Yet if I could with touch or whisper take 
 
 From off thy wide white brow the seal of sleep 
 
 God's sudden hand hath laid there, and the deep 
 Impassioned soul of thee again awake 
 To song, I would not move nor breathe to break 
 
 The tryst which thou and the choired angels keep. 
 
 For thou wast weary ; hid wounds of thine own 
 Opened to all barbed woes o' the world thy 
 breast 
 
 Till from its depths broke that melodious moan 
 For the dove's homeward wings and quiet nest ; 
 
 And He inclined His ear and the last tone 
 Falls faintly from the stars, " At rest at rest." 
 
 1880. 
 
10 
 
 TO W. S. JEVONS 
 
 (Drowned, August, 1882) 
 
 I 
 
 PACING the western strand, I said, " O Sea, 
 For boon and benison, ne'er till now denied, 
 Came I, remembering how of old thy tide 
 
 Chased ruddy youth through the wild heart of me, 
 
 And thy bold breath so swept my being free 
 From Care, that a quick surge of song defied 
 Thy multitudinous thunder. Now I bide 
 
 In vain all challenge of that stormful glee. 
 
 What ails thee, Ocean ? Bold and blithe no more, 
 Thy foamless crest, curse-conscious and blood- 
 
 red, 
 (With no sky-flush !) back from the shuddering 
 
 shore, 
 
 Reels in sick silence till the low clouds shed 
 Wide blots of darkness like a pall cast o'er 
 
 Thy waste of murderous waters and their dead ! 
 
TO W. S. JEVONS ii 
 
 II 
 
 DEAD ! For the old pale mystery once again 
 Sits silent on cold lips. Mere swoon of will 
 Beneath a tyrannous wave, can such thing kill 
 
 At once the noble heart and strenuous brain, 
 
 Quenching for ever in a moment's pain 
 
 Thoughts that with harmonies of law could fill 
 All spheres of thought ? And lies he stark and 
 still 
 
 As the brown weeds tossed with him from the 
 main ? 
 
 Not he, be sure, nor any gift God gave 
 Through him to man. The prescience that 
 
 divined 
 Truth in her ambush, and the spirit brave, 
 
 To dare all proof, and flash old falsehoods 
 
 blind 
 
 These know no lethal waters, fear no grave 
 But live to blend with the Eternal Mind ! 
 
12 
 
 GARFIELD 
 
 (September ig, 1881) 
 
 So, having nobly lived, divinely dies 
 
 One Greatheart more into the luminous line 
 Of souls that through Time's black oblivion shine, 
 
 And lift us toward their light with beckoning eyes. 
 
 Hushed is the surge of party's lust and lies ; 
 And murder mad to baffle God's design 
 Sees from the hell-flash of its countermine 
 
 A sacrificial flame to Heaven arise. 
 
 Watching long anguish men have held their breath, 
 And for rent chords of love they needs must 
 weep ; 
 
 But, for the martyred chief, Life conquers Death. 
 The heart-beat from his bosom did but leap 
 
 Into the nation's heart, where his just will 
 
 Rules a new Union, though his voice be still ! 
 
VOX HUMANA 
 
 u No Sanctus let the sinner sing," you say, 
 " Let saints and angels chant the perfect song 
 Unmarred by any dissonance of wrong, 
 
 And so make vocal God's eternal day." 
 
 Not thus, my friend, you learn His lyric way 
 Who from all chords of life smote out the throng 
 Of varied elements that, winding long, 
 
 Evolved at last His own consummate lay. 
 
 Ah me ! Can any white-souled Seraph know 
 More beauty of a spotless Christ than he 
 Whose human minor trembles through the 
 
 strain ? 
 
 Ah 1 Heaven's Hosannas pause to catch the low 
 Pulsations of such music as may be 
 
 Distilled from tears of penitential pain ! 
 
 1888. 
 
STOIC AND CHRISTIAN 
 
 SAITH one to me, " Endure, and still endure, 
 And if thy wound still sting, endure it still 
 Till pain turn blunted from thy granite will ; 
 
 But if it turn not, and thou find no cure, 
 
 Stand to thy resolute will, though Death be sure 
 So pain, that cannot vanquish though it kill, 
 Shall from thy pausing blood this truth distil, 
 
 Less is it to be happy than be pure." 
 
 Dear Christ ! Shall then this poor proud will of 
 
 mine 
 
 Dare o'er again the conquest Thou hast won, 
 Rending the chords of human and divine 
 Tuned by Thy death to living unison ? 
 Stretch forth and take with that pierced hand of 
 
 Thine 
 This Will, that only wills " Thy Will be done ! " 
 
DAMIEN 
 
 DEATH makes a solemn music of thy name, 
 Damien ! And we that hear it bend the knee 
 And droop our eyes before the Christ in thee ; 
 
 And though thy life lay hid from flattering fame, 
 
 Death kindles round thy brows the golden flame 
 Of sainted sacrifice, that men may see 
 How flesh may fail, yet the strong soul stand free 
 
 From the self-curse that is our leprous shame. 
 
 O mystery of light from darkness born ! 
 
 Love that the leper's loathsome fate would share 
 Makes all our woe less utterly forlorn ; 
 
 And from dim isles where Asrael's wings 
 
 unfurled 
 Beat a slow terror through the tainted air, 
 
 God's wind blows sweet o'er a distempered 
 world ! 
 
 1889. 
 
i6 
 
 BEETHOVEN DEAF ! 
 
 SOME spheral whisper fires the brooding night 
 When the weird lightning to earth's bosom 
 
 leaps, 
 Or touch of God stirs the massed thunder-heaps 
 
 To shake the world with melodies of might. 
 
 Tell us, seer-minstrel, on thy shrouded height 
 With eyes that dare the lightning to their deeps, 
 And brows round which the cloudland music 
 sweeps, 
 
 Tell us, what sings the tempest in its flight ? 
 
 Alas, if when we hear his answering strain, 
 The minstrel sighs to feel with baffled breath, 
 
 He storms a toneless universe in vain, 
 Where sound to silence swoons, as life to death ! 
 
 God ! through Thine JEons when the angels sing, 
 
 Shall he not hear those Hallelujahs ring ? 
 
 1891. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 
THE LAW 
 
 As a man chooseth, so he is, and so is Nature." EMERSON. 
 "The Kingdom of God is within you." LUKE xvii. 21. 
 
 To the pure there is no taint ; 
 
 Peril comes not nigh the brave ; 
 Free man dreadeth no constraint ; 
 
 Truthful living shuts the grave. 
 
 Will, and Work, and Fate alway 
 
 In a certain cycle run : 
 Eastward gaze brings dawn of day, 
 
 Battle given is battle won. 
 
 Waking dreamer ! Shut thine eyes, 
 That thou see more clearly this 
 
 Deep in thine ow r n being lies 
 
 Heaven's expanse, as Hell's abyss. 
 
 1847. 
 
2O 
 
 DUALITIES 
 
 " Alike, but O how different ! " WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE winds, like viewless squadrons, trample down 
 
 the ancient woods ; 
 The winds, with wooing whispers, thrill the little 
 
 vernal buds. 
 
 The waters, with a whelming sweep, go surging 
 
 on their way ; 
 At matin, trembling tenderly, the dew is on the 
 
 spray. 
 
 'Tis Love whose mad convulsion leaves a blackened 
 
 path behind ; 
 'Tis Love which is the bloom upon a chastely 
 
 tempered mind. 
 
 Fiery hearts have worshipped God with flashing 
 
 steel, and faggot flame ; 
 There be silent deeds of mercy done in Jesu's 
 
 holy name. 
 
 1847. 
 
21 
 
 THE LOOM 
 
 FLY, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
 Through warp strike woof 
 
 For body's behoof ; 
 
 Knit Faith with deed 
 
 For the soul's need ; 
 
 Track gain through loss, 
 
 And joy through pain ; 
 
 While the threads cross, 
 
 Man grows amain. 
 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
 Like and unlike 
 
 Athwart must strike, 
 
 Before the mind 
 
 Its world can find. 
 
 >Tis the bent ray 
 
 That gives us sight ; 
 
 The glowing day 
 
 Dawns red from night. 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
22 THE LOOM 
 
 So sun and star, 
 
 That flash afar, 
 
 Weave God's design 
 
 In web divine. 
 
 Even human will, 
 
 With fleck and flaw, 
 
 Is weaving still 
 
 Beneath His law. 
 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
 Hearts mated beat, 
 
 As matched threads meet ; 
 
 The shuttle's dart 
 
 Tears them apart. 
 
 Life's changeful dream, 
 
 Takes the shot clue ; 
 
 With each fresh beam 
 
 The Heavens are new. 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 AndUhe web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
 Love in one whole 
 
 Weaves soul with soul, 
 
 Even God with Man, 
 
 So vast the plan ; 
 
 Uplifted high, 
 
 The symbol stands 
 
 'Twixt earth and sky 
 
 Of their crossed hands. 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
THE LOOM 23 
 
 And as we weave, 
 
 And joy or grieve, 
 
 That symbol sheds 
 
 On the swift threads 
 
 A crimson hue 
 
 To mortal sight, 
 
 That in God's view 
 
 Will be wool's white. 
 Fly, shuttle, fly, for the end draws nigh, 
 And the web comes under the Master's eye. 
 
 Hushes the boom 
 
 Of the thunder-loom, 
 
 Falters the wheel 
 
 Of the whirling reel : 
 
 To the shuttle's flying 
 
 The eyes grow dim ; 
 
 The worn worker, dying, 
 
 Leaves the web to Him. 
 Stand, shuttle, stand, at the Master's com- 
 mand, 
 The web is finished and in His hand ! 
 
TO ALEXANDER IRELAND 
 (on his 35^/j birthday^ with Tennyson's Poetts) 
 
 Now let me place with reverent hands 
 On the memorial-cairn which stands 
 At thy mid-point of life, a book 
 Within whose pages thou may'st look 
 To find the glowing grace of youth 
 Mingled with manhood's fearless truth 
 As 'twere thy mirror ! Fitted, too, 
 With bloom and verdure, to renew 
 Perennial pictures of the Past, 
 When Autumn skies be overcast. 
 My friend, ill-fortune harms not thee, 
 And the years touch thee tenderly ; 
 If sorrow comes, the missioned pain 
 Leaves, as it found, a healthy brain, 
 An open brow, a vision clear 
 To front the future without fear. 
 And thus seven lustres have departed, 
 And left thee strong and genial-hearted. 
 So be it with thee to the end 
 Of life and labour, O my friend, 
 Treading with steady step the earth, 
 Even to the Death, which is the Birth. 
 
ALBERTINE 
 
 THIS old Earth no fairer sight 
 Shows than when the morning light 
 From ideal worlds breaks in 
 Through the clouds of doubt and sin, 
 Gliding to those spirit-deeps 
 Where a virgin fancy sleeps, 
 And the spell of slumber breaking, 
 So that Fancy, at her waking, 
 Sendeth back through yearning eyes, 
 Dreamy looks of soft surprise, 
 To the blue and boundless skies. 
 
 This the dawn whose mystic sheen 
 To the eyes of Albertine 
 Wins her soul, and in a glance 
 Sums all Nature's pure romance. 
 O how bright the heaven must be, 
 How enchanting earth and sea, 
 Touched by that new light which lies 
 Moist and mild in her large eyes ! 
 
 For as yet no sword of fate 
 Flames before her Eden's gate ; 
 
26 ALBERTINE 
 
 Flowers of light and fruits of gold 
 Yet hide well the snaky fold, 
 Terror comes not with the name 
 Of the mysteries, Death and Shame, 
 Heaven shines through all human clay, 
 Angels greet her by the way, 
 Love is here, and beauty there, 
 God and goodness everywhere ! 
 
 Fact is great, but Faith's divine, 
 And the gracious heavens, that shine 
 On the sinner and the saint, 
 Sometimes open, far and faint, 
 With a vista' d vision dim 
 Of the wings of Seraphim, 
 Which a moment flash, and fade, 
 Lost in reason's sensual shade, 
 And I know not (would I knew !) 
 Which of these is false or true, 
 Whether sense be only seeming, 
 Whether thou or we be dreaming, 
 Only this, as God, is sure, 
 Truest wisdom must be pure, 
 And 'twere happy could the wise 
 See this world through thy fair eyes. 
 
 1855. 
 
LLYN-Y-CAI 
 
 (" THE LAKE SHUT IN ") 
 
 O ! QUIET Llyn-y-Cai, 
 
 Is it from earth or sky 
 Thou winnest this great depth of calm ? 
 Whether, down in the hollow there, 
 Of Father Idris' wrinkled palm, 
 There is some pulse-beat of the love 
 Which holds thee up from taints below 
 And wards the gusts that roar above 
 From ruffling of a face so fair, 
 
 How can I know ? 
 Or whether, all athirst for light, 
 Like one with sleepless lust of lore, 
 Thou, never breaking gaze away 
 From searching the blue deeps of day 
 Or lustred labyrinths of night, 
 Hast chanced to look into God's eye, 
 So can be troubled never more, 
 
 O ! tell me, Llyn-y-Cai ! 
 
 But I yearn and speak in vain, 
 For the pure and plumbless dark 
 
28 LLYN-Y-CAI 
 
 Which gives no answering hue 
 To the zenith's living blue 
 Nor the slant sun's yellow stain, 
 Heeds not nor hears me, hark ! 
 How the words in echoes die 
 Up the sheer cliffs to the sky 
 While thou dreamest as before, 
 And I, standing on thy shore, 
 Will question thee no more, 
 Sphinx of waters, Llyn-y-Cai ! 
 
 Ah ! but if with this handscoop from thy wave 
 I could drink in a drowsing draft of peace, 
 Or in the keen-cold flood at once could lave 
 My glowing limbs, and soul's too torrid heat, 
 That so the panting pulse and the brain's beat 
 Might droop together and the fever cease ! 
 
 But no scarred memories of the Past 
 
 With peace can shut us in, 
 As these torn cliffs, thy guardians vast, 
 
 Shut thee, O tranquil Llyn ! 
 
 For evermore the soul 
 
 Lies open to the roll 
 Of all the importunate winds of fate : 
 
 And every vagrant cloud 
 
 That, for its little day, 
 Trails festive purple on our way 
 
 Or draws a threatening shroud, 
 Blots the reflected splendour of Heaven's Gate ! 
 
LLYN-Y-CAI 29 
 
 With no self-centred power 
 Can we shut out the influent spells of life, 
 
 And cheat the dialled hour 
 To win some pauses in the weary strife ; 
 
 Nor can a strenuous will 
 
 Put down the traitorous heart 
 
 That with the foe takes part, 
 Or bid the waves of passion " Peace, be still ! " 
 
 Not masters even of our joy, 
 
 If some soft light but flash 
 
 From under a dark lash 
 And break upon a troubled breast 
 A trembling Iris in its mirror glows, 
 
 And we forget the last annoy, 
 
 And for a time are blest ; 
 
 But raptures are not rest, 
 The billowing passion rocks not to repose. 
 
 We, too, against the stars 
 
 Wear out an aching gaze 
 
 As they vanish and return, 
 
 Weaving still the golden maze 
 
 That inexorably bars 
 Our vision from that trans-siderial bourne 
 
 Where silent truth stands still 
 Firmly founded in the one potential Will. 
 
 And yet, even when the sight 
 Dulls to that strain of barren light, 
 And, whirled from law to law, we feel 
 Broken upon a restless wheel 
 
30 LLYN-Y-CAI 
 
 That beats the air, but finds no road 
 
 To bear a human spirit's load 
 
 There comes some transient tint or tone, 
 
 Or flash of a pure pencil-ray 
 
 As from the girdle of God's throne, 
 
 Cleaving the darkness of the common day 
 
 And then, like one with sudden gleam 
 That wakes, and heaves dread thoughts away, 
 We sigh, " Thank God, it was a dream ! " 
 
 Up ! I will yearn no more 
 
 Upon this sheltered shore, 
 Sighing, O lake, thy peace to share 
 But will go where the strong winds blow, 
 
 Blowing strength to do and bear 
 
 And in labour's gathering zest, 
 
 Finding better than blank rest, 
 Will follow that eternal hope 
 Which beckons from the craggy slope 
 To heights where we may dare to be and know ! 
 
 For, somewhere rooted in the tracts of Time, 
 Yet towering o'er the cloudy range 
 And all the belts of elemental change, 
 There stands a mount of God sublime, 
 
 Crowned with His rose of light 
 
 That knows nor day nor night ; 
 
 And men that gazed afar 
 Have sometimes its true radiance seen, 
 Though dimmed or warped by mists between 
 
 To crescent, cross, or star, 
 
LLYN-Y-CAl 31 
 
 And mortal grew immortal with the sight ! 
 
 And could we higher climb, and higher, 
 
 TO purge our vision with that fire, 
 
 The close reticulate threads of natural Law 
 
 That stifled us before with fruitless awe 
 
 Should lucid grow as the fine films of dew 
 
 Hung over autumn woods when morn looks thro', 
 
 And we should front their semblance without fear, 
 
 Meeting the glance of God, that makes all clear. 
 
 Sept., 1859. 
 
TO HIS FATHER (4) 
 
 FOR heroes, piles of sorrowing stone 
 For poets, wreaths upon the bier 
 Father, for thee a filial tear, 
 
 And words thy quiet heart would own. 
 
 Thou hast loved much much good hast tried 
 With patient courage fought thy fight, 
 Day's burden borne, then bade good-night, 
 
 Seeing one beckoning from Christ's side. 
 
 All speech of mortal praise might sleep, 
 
 Since thou hast heard thy Lord's " Well done ; " 
 But memories break like glints of sun 
 
 O'er love by sorrow shadowed deep. 
 
 And this our love were blind and vain, 
 If we had missed the covenant sign, 
 Which, in each God-set task of thine, 
 
 Made sacraments of work and pain. 
 
 In social storm or civic strife 
 
 In murky roar of mart or mill, 
 
 Clear lights of mild but earnest will 
 Touched all the heaving crests of life. 
 
TO HIS FATHER 33 
 
 Lo ! the wan weaver cannot speak 
 His sobbing sorrow o'er thy grave ; 
 Lo ! the great engine's grimy slave 
 
 Scores memories on his channelled cheek. 
 
 God's " little children " know the hand 
 
 Which lifted them into his breast ; 
 
 Some gave thee welcome to thy rest 
 Some bear thy blessing through the land. 
 
 Rest, rest ! To thee the mystery's known 
 
 Of the long grating to and fro 
 
 Of those dark gates which crushed thee "so ; 
 Thou meanest not we will not moan. 
 
 Rest, rest ! A hand's familiar touch 
 
 Has led thee in behind the vail ; 
 
 Faith shall not faint though flesh be frail, 
 Nor will we mourn thee overmuch. 
 
34 
 
 THE LOST FAIRY 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 GONE ! She was a tricksome child, 
 
 Her very baby-blood ran wild ; 
 
 Her laugh set million buds a-breaking, 
 
 And all the little birds match-making. 
 
 Hither thither she flashed from the watcher, 
 
 Not fleetest foot nor eye could catch her ; 
 
 But she, true Fay, herself unseen, 
 
 Left dancing tracks of vivid green, 
 
 And oft on meadows dropped in flight 
 
 A mantlet blue or jerkin white, 
 
 Bestud with gold of pure assay, 
 
 But fairy gold, that lasts a day ! 
 
 Once she crept with silent stealth 
 
 Up to the top of the sleeping elm, 
 
 And with caws and screams broke his winter 
 
 dreams, 
 
 Then gathered in armfuls the slant sunbeams, 
 And poured such a drench of the yellow wealth, 
 That laburnums were fringed with the fee of a 
 
 realm, 
 
THE LOST FAIRY 35 
 
 And the golden drip of its overflow 
 
 Made a prince of the pauper furze below, 
 
 Who, at quick fortune, grew overglad, 
 
 And glared, and flared, and stared, stark mad ! 
 
 The prankish thing would slyly move, 
 
 On an April day, the curtain spray 
 
 Where, in a thick thorn's darkness, lay 
 
 A round nest, soft with leaves and love, 
 
 And would drop therein, with noiseless finger, 
 
 An egg of her famous advent singer, 
 
 And lie perdu 
 Till the true mother bird fluttered back to her 
 
 nest, 
 And her mate poised him proudly, to sing her his 
 
 best; 
 
 Then the elf, in the tones of her herald bird, 
 
 Would flute (with a fall from the minor third) 
 
 Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! 
 
 How she mocked our human hearts, 
 And played at once our many parts ! 
 In painting, so natural, you'd almost believe 
 Her scenes had been touched up by Telbin and 
 
 Grieve ; 
 From a sky's tawny flush to the breast of a 
 
 thrush, 
 
 Nothing came wrong to her marvellous brush, 
 But the way that she stippled a dawn or a dusk in 
 Was a secret she never told any but Ruskin. 
 
36 THE LOST FAIRY 
 
 She touched a pulse like learned leech, 
 Proved heart and lungs gave fillips to 
 
 ( each, 
 
 And only overplayed this role 
 By curing patients of their dole. 
 
 She preached in cathedral woods sublime 
 
 Of the great new birth and the better clime ; 
 
 In the west wind's voice she intoned the creed 
 
 Of love and warmth and kindly deed, 
 
 And she only frowned at the east wind's schism, 
 
 Full of ill nature and rheumatism. 
 
 But most the Fairy loved to play 
 
 The part of chorus-master ; 
 She called her choir at break of day, 
 Touched the key-note on Memnon's string, 
 And bird after bird began to sing 
 
 Andante, allegro, presto, and faster, 
 
 Till the song flew along, swift and strong, and 
 
 ne'er lost a 
 
 Tittle of tempo, for she, like King Costa, 
 Could shoot her own soul through the wild- 
 surging notes, 
 
 And draw music at will from a thousand throats, 
 As her baton of light smote out the clear time, 
 Even I was caught up, and chirped in with a 
 rhyme. 
 
THE LOST FAIRY 37 
 
 But yesterday, at noon, 
 Faint with the glow of June, 
 The child was wandering slowly ; 
 When, with a thrill and start, 
 As of a pang at heart, 
 She paused and bended lowly ; 
 For on the blown roses a beautiful maiden 
 Lay couched, with her eyelids slumber-laden ; 
 On her bosom a name in bloom-cypher was 
 
 wreathed, 
 
 And heaved with the deep beat of life as she 
 breathed. 
 
 The child with a kiss woke up the new comer, 
 Looked wistfully round her, and fled. 'Tis 
 Summer ! 
 
 1858. 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH 
 1861 
 
 BRAVE North ! thy Franklin, bold and wise, 
 Drew Freedom's lightning from the skies, 
 And flashed it through thy living chain 
 Of hand-linked States from main to main ; 
 Its southward course a fetter stayed, 
 Round which its lambent omens played ; 
 But now, from clouds of living thunder 
 It leaps, to blast the bond asunder ! 
 
39 
 
 PROFIT AND LOSS 
 
 BETTER lose all, if all the soul shall cost, 
 
 For if the soul be missing, all is lost ; 
 
 But win a soul, though that be your sole winning, 
 
 Your profit has no end, and no beginning. 
 
NO COTTON! 
 AUTUMN, 1862 
 
 HEAVY and cold as Death, 
 
 On the breast of the troubled land, 
 Sits Fear, and heaves with the heaving breath, 
 
 And clutches the clammy hand ! 
 
 For the thing we thought but an evil dream 
 Is near, is here : 'tis a wind of doom 
 
 Has frozen the fount of the snow-white stream 
 That flowed to the lips of the thirsty loom, 
 
 And has palsied the giant, Steam, 
 
 Till his lusty limbs shaft, piston, and beam, 
 Stand stark and still in the gloom. 
 
 Thunder-born Silence ! Is it not strange 
 That we find no peace in the change ? 
 We that have felt the live brain roll round 
 And grate like the wheels with an iron sound, 
 That have watched the engines that crushed and 
 
 tore 
 
 The fair white fleece, flowing evermore, 
 And the thousand "throstles" that whistled and 
 
 whirred, 
 (Alas, for a soft-breasted woodland bird !) 
 
NO COTTON . 41 
 
 And the restless mule, like a living rack, 
 Twisting out the frail clews, clashing thither and 
 
 back 
 
 To grasp them, and tug them, and twist them again 
 (So demons may twist the frail heart-strings of 
 
 men !) 
 
 And in long low spaces, with bickering yell, 
 Looms, lashing the air with a frenzy of hell, 
 As the warp was shed, and the weft was sped, 
 And the broad piece lengthened, thread by thread, 
 While shuttle and batten, with shocks of pain, 
 Smote the pattern deep in the quivering brain ! 
 
 And now, when the wheels stand still, 
 Through all the dreary mill, 
 
 How is it their silence stuns us more 
 
 Than their old habitual roar ? 
 How, when the cold columnar flue 
 Breathes not a smut on^the limpid blue, 
 
 Our sky grows darker than before ? 
 
 Alas, the thunder, the smoke and strife, 
 
 Shot, once for all, through our tissue of life. 
 
 This purer air, this clearer light, 
 
 Cuts short our breath, brings graves in sight. 
 
 The very engines, that seem stark-dead, 
 
 Famished for Cotton, as we for Bread, 
 
 Front us with dull, pathetic stare, 
 
 Like engine-ghosts in the weird white air, 
 
 Till we shudder to feel the cold link of our fates ; 
 
 The rust gnaws already, the sure worm waits ! 
 
42 NO COTTON ! 
 
 Iron and flesh, to rust and rot, 
 
 Or live by grace of cotton and coal ! 
 O God, forgive us if we forgot 
 
 Thy breath is in us, a living soul ! 
 But to feel the daily tightening knot 
 
 That binds man fast to material dole, 
 To know that the very threads we have spun 
 Must measure the course dear lives shall run, 
 That a pulse must flag with each pausing wheel, 
 That Time is wound from a dwindling reel, 
 That Love's hopes waste with warp and weft, 
 Till in our last web but a shroud is left ! 
 O ! what if some film of this world dulled our 
 
 eyes, 
 To the scripture supernal that's writ in the 
 
 skies, 
 And our ears, 'twixt the sounds and the silence of 
 
 dread, 
 Have not heard what the still small voice has 
 
 said! 
 
 Mystic fibre of the West, 
 Gleaming there so chastely white, 
 Soft to touch and fair to sight, 
 Blanched with common dews and light, 
 With thy summer snow the tropic sod 
 In a goodly raiment seems new drest, 
 As by the immediate hand of God, 
 And none would think of a curse exprest 
 With thy stainless tresses from the pod. 
 
NO COTTON ! 43 
 
 Is it thou, so soft and pure a thing, 
 
 By passionate greed anointed " King/' 
 
 Hast held thy state mid courtly revels 
 
 Fit for a royalty of devils ? 
 
 Is thy silver secreted so fairy-fine 
 
 To be twisted to fetters and whips for slaves ? 
 
 Did the dawn-dews glisten, the clear sun shine, 
 
 To paint thee with war's bloody blazon of woe ? 
 
 Dost thou need the dread tillage of human graves 
 
 For thy roots to strike in, and fatten, and grow ? 
 
 White witness, rather, of Heaven's will 
 
 That the earth be pure and gentle still, 
 
 Full well we know thou tak'st no stain 
 
 From the red grasp of guilty gain ; 
 
 That hunger and heart-break are not from thee, 
 
 And no slaves were thine, if thyself wert free. 
 
 Lo, thou art waiting in new sunny lands 
 
 For wings that may waft thee to work's eager 
 
 hands, 
 Wings of steam that may waft thee more fleet 
 
 than the wind, 
 
 O'er African deserts, down rivers of Ind, 
 From bright Austral Edens where long grasses 
 
 wave, 
 
 From islands by Britain breathed pure of a slave ; 
 And already against the black round of our night 
 Gleam beckoning signs, drawn with pencils of 
 
 light, 
 
 Calling Argonaut Commerce to ransom this fleece 
 That enwraps golden treasures of plenty and peace ! 
 
44 NO COTTON ! 
 
 Meanwhile, eyes are wistful and wet, 
 And cheeks are hollow and pale, 
 
 But a strenuous heart helps us yet 
 To smother a half-uttered wail, 
 For we meet in the shade of our narrow ways 
 An Angel with searching and serious gaze, 
 Bearing ever before her a cruse and a cup ; 
 Dear Christ ! if she faint, do Thou bear her up 
 Till her sister Angel that's weeping afar 
 Shall close with a touch the grim gashes of War ! 
 
45 
 
 THE FIRST SNOWDROP 
 
 O WEE white winsome thing ! 
 What mean'st thou, blossoming 
 Thus without rhyme or reason, 
 Like one born out of season ? 
 
 Thy tiny dome peers up 
 
 And unfolds its outer cup 
 
 With such a pearly streak 
 
 Upon its rounded cheek, 
 
 And the tinier nest between, 
 
 Inlined with palest green, 
 
 So guards with jealous fold 
 
 Its heart of clustered gold, 
 
 And thy thin thread of stem 
 
 So droops its diadem, 
 
 And in thy every delicate feature 
 
 Thou art so fairy-fine a creature, 
 
 Meseems, when Spring's first breath 
 
 Touched the white winding-sheet 
 
 That wrapped the wintry earth, 
 
 As she kissed the robe of death 
 
 One drop thrilled up, her lips to meet, 
 
 Transfigured, vital, tender-sweet, 
 
 A flower kissed into birth ! 
 
46 THE FIRST SNOWDROP 
 
 So Fancy may dissemble, 
 But here comes a biting blast, 
 And the sleet drives fierce and fast 
 To tell thee Winter is not past ; 
 And I wonder, more and more, 
 When the hurly-burly' s o'er 
 To see thou smilest as before, 
 
 And dost not tremble, 
 But tak'st the North- wind's howling stress 
 As if it were a blithe caress, 
 The very tune of tenderness ! 
 
 Verily no breath of Spring 
 Shall awake so brave a thing 
 As my wee white Winterling, 
 When, to deck her peeping pets, 
 Primroses and violets, 
 She gathers from the day each hue 
 Of sunny gold and skyey blue, 
 And from the night her diamond dew, 
 And bids the dawn-lark flood the air 
 With songs to tell them they are fair. 
 
 Unflattered and unsung, 
 Born to no splendid dower 
 Of passionate hues and sensuous lays, 
 Of dreamy nights and gorgeous days, 
 Thou, pale and saintly flower, 
 From Nature's soul hast sprung 
 While she was all too young 
 To blush and burn beneath the power 
 Of the warm Sun's enamoured gaze ; 
 
THE FIRST SNOWDROP 47 
 
 A thing of spiritual birth, 
 Too slightly mixed with aught of earth 
 To stain the earliest beam of light 
 That lit thy cheek with lucent white. 
 
 And so, as when thy face 
 First on my vision stole, 
 
 I feel some deeper grace 
 
 Pass, as from soul to soul : 
 And I wonder now no more 
 That thou smilest at the roar 
 When old Winter blows his blast, 
 And the snow drives thick and fast, 
 For I hear an undertone of psalm 
 Telling the secret of thy rooted calm : 
 
 " Heavenly Una knows no wrong, 
 
 Feeble Duty's soul is strong, 
 
 Truth listens to an inward song ; 
 Fear is for Fortune's painted slave, 
 Be pure, and thou must needs be brave ! " 
 
 1868. 
 
4 8 
 
 THE BAT 
 
 WHAT saw we as we sat, that dubious thing 
 With hairy body and with leathern wing 
 Flitting and floundering through the twilight air 
 With zig-zag dart eccentric, here and there, 
 Blind through the day, then chasing light in vain, 
 Bruising itself against a window-pane, 
 A legless mouse, a bird that cannot fly, 
 A dual monster, and a living lie. 
 
 Ghost of some witless poet this, intent 
 To rise into some finer element 
 Than God gave man to breathe in and see through, 
 And do the work his duty bids him do ; 
 Of one who, lacking power of patient thought, 
 Fooled by false Fancy, and with dreams dis- 
 traught, 
 Spurned earth's dull sod and strained his hybrid 
 
 mind 
 
 For the seer's sight until the sense grew blind, 
 And, soaring without will or vision clear, 
 Fell, dashed to earth from the supernal sphere. 
 
THE BAT 49 
 
 To be true Poet needs must be true Man, 
 Faithful in sense and soul to God's good plan, 
 Confronting with clear eyes the common day, 
 And treading with firm step the common way. 
 To such, not blinking through a twilight gloom, 
 Nor tempting with strained flights ignoble doom, 
 The heavens will open, and those visions shine 
 Which, when most human, are the most divine. 
 
 This will we say at least, without all fear, 
 Whatever may be our duty or our sphere, 
 We must be somethings self, be this or that, 
 Fish, flesh, or fowl, but not a human bat ! 
 
 1871. 
 
THIRLMERE 
 
 * 
 
 YET, as of old when first, enchanted lake, 
 Thy beauty on our youthful vision rose, 
 
 We love thee as thou art, even while we break 
 The calm that veils thy virginal repose. 
 
 Thirsting for thee, but with no ruthless touch, 
 The city woos thee for thy lucent wave ; 
 
 And for that largess fain would give thee much 
 That may befit the city's bride not slave. 
 
 We bid the tributary hills endow 
 
 Thee with new melody and ampler grace ; 
 
 And when by man's warm lips the naiad's vow 
 Is sealed, a soul shall dawn into thy face. 
 
 And thou shalt know, elected queen of lakes, 
 Use will not make thy beauty less, but more ; 
 
 Linked with humanity, all nature takes 
 A deeper speech and meaning than before. 
 
 And as thy waters, laughing, leap the brink 
 Of falls, or down the brook sing gentler notes, 
 
 With music quite as sweet the limpid drink 
 Shall gurgle down a million thirsty throats. 
 
THIRLMERE 51 
 
 Thy Wythburn's tiny temple shall point still 
 Man's vows to Heaven for floods of blessing 
 sent, 
 
 And Mercy's symbol thy broad cup shall fill 
 For chalice to our thankful sacrament. 
 
 So, running Mercy's errand, fear not thou ; 
 
 Thou shalt be sweet and sacred as of yore, 
 When first a grey cloud wrapped Helvellyn's brow, 
 
 Or sunbeams rippled to thy silver shore. 
 
 1877. 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE PRIMROSE 
 
 MY homeward footsteps paused, a sighing sound 
 Of pain upon my ear or fancy stole, 
 
 And in my path, in miry plight, I found 
 A Primrose from some Tory buttonhole. 
 
 " Ah me ! ah me ! " it said with broken breath, 
 " After so sweet a life what cruel fate 
 
 Could doom a Primrose to this dismal death, 
 A torn and tainted badge of party hate. 
 
 11 Oh, Mother Nature, when thy sun and dew 
 My pale blood quickened to the bliss of life, 
 
 Was it for this my golden petals grew, 
 To blazon forth the curse of human strife ? 
 
 " Am I that Primrose of men's tranquil dream, 
 The poet's darling and the painter's pet ; 
 
 The herald flower of Spring and Hope supreme, 
 And type of love on Beauty's bosom set ? 
 
 " For death is not the sting of death to me, 
 But that man's dream of me in him is dead, 
 
 Love's type, Hope's herald never more to be, 
 Nor tender Herrick sing the tears I shed. 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE PRIMROSE 53 
 
 " Ah me ! ah me ! " The tones grew faint and 
 slow ; 
 
 I held the withered Primrose in my hand, 
 And in my soul a sympathy of woe. 
 
 And a grey silence fell on all the land. 
 
54 
 
 IN MEMORIAMW. B. HODGSON, 1880 
 
 ONE born to teach 
 
 Clear thought well-ordered speech 
 And social law, for all through each : 
 Devout on no dogmatic plan 
 But praising God by serving man ; 
 Testing all lore by honest sense, 
 Intolerant only of pretence ; 
 Wise, winning, witty to the end, 
 The trusted guide, the genial friend 
 Lies here, his work well done 
 His rest well won ! 
 
 (The last two lines are, to use the writer's own 
 words, "A Reminiscence" of the following epi- 
 taph on his brother Samuel, which he wrote in 
 January, 1878 : 
 
 " His work well done, 
 His race well run, 
 His crown well won, 
 Here let him rest.") 
 
55 
 
 LINES 
 IN MEMORY OF A. S. LIPSCOMB, 1891 (5) 
 
 SHE who by night could track the starry way, 
 Has found death's darkness made immortal day ; 
 When all the lamps of science cease to guide, 
 Christ's beckoning smile shall evermore abide. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON, POET-BARON 
 
 HE, primus inter pares, though last made, 
 
 By his sole stature shall the rest degrade, 
 
 A queen may dub him lord, but, hush your fears 
 
 What royal touch can make the lords his peers ? 
 
 1884. 
 
57 
 
 A "NINETEENTH CENTURY" TRILOGY 1 
 
 SAITH Poz, " Let man put God upon the shelf, 
 
 And if he must adore, adore himself " ; 
 
 But Weissnicht thinks " a God lest you should 
 
 doubt Him, 
 
 Is more a God the less you know about Him " ; 
 And Judex growls, " Give us but power and pelf, 
 Then if there's no God, we can do without Him." 
 
 'Tis said that man than all his creeds is better, 
 And so each leaves the Deity his debtor 
 By honouring His name with a big letter. 
 
 1884. 
 
 1 See papers in the Nineteenth Century by Frederick 
 Harrison, Herbert Spencer, Justice Stephen. 
 
IRISH SONG 
 
 OCH ! Mary O'Lairy, 
 
 She trips like a fairy 
 In moonshine jigs on the village green ; 
 
 And the boys all do sigh 
 
 Widout well knowing why, 
 She's the bliss (and the blister) of swate Clogaheen. 
 
 Her eyes full of natur', 
 
 Are pink like a tater, 
 Bad luck to their aiquils that iver I seen ; 
 
 And her bright goulden hair, 
 
 Like the dawnin' so fair, 
 Has set fire to all bosoms in swate Clogaheen. 
 
 She scured (skewered) with an arrow 
 
 My heart to the marrow, 
 And picked all my bones mighty sharp and clean ; 
 
 But the crayture grew kind : 
 
 We were both of a mind, 
 And shuicide raged in swate Clogaheen. 
 
IRISH SONG 59 
 
 There was Larry O'Rourke, 
 
 And he swore like a Turk 
 To shoot himself dead for the village queen ; 
 
 But faith, he forgot 
 
 To put in the shot, 
 
 And if he had not, 
 
 There'd have been no brains less in swate Cloga- 
 heen. 
 
 And horrid Pat Tuckitt 
 
 Put his head in a bucket, 
 
 And would have been choked, but took care to be 
 seen ; 
 
 Cold lead, steel, and water 
 
 Couldn't make enough slaughter 
 
 For the beautiful daughter 
 Of the swatest of villages, swate Clogaheen. 
 
 Och, Mary O'Lairy, 
 
 She vowed to be chary, 
 And loving and true as the ivy green ; 
 
 Next day roystering Barney, 
 
 He tipped her the blarney 
 Goodbye, my false Fairy, goodbye Clogaheen ! 
 
6o 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR CHARLES AND 
 LADY HALLE TO AUSTRALIA 
 
 (The programme of the last concert of the series just 
 closed, included Mendelssohn's " Calm of the Sea and 
 Prosperous Voyage," and Thalberg's "Home, Sweet 
 Home.") 
 
 IT is the time when, borne on balmy wings 
 Of the soft South, breaks on our sterner zone 
 A surge of song, and lyric rapture rings 
 Till all our island woods give tone for tone. 
 What fittest embassy our thanks may bear, 
 And match the boon with largess of our own ? 
 On shore and sea a peerless minstrel pair 
 Beneath the Southern Cross awhile shall roam ; 
 And thus will music, vernal everywhere, 
 In two far-sundered lands make equal springs, 
 And North and South be linked in " Home, sweet 
 home ! " 
 
DEPARTURE OF SIR C. AND LADY HALLE 61 
 
 ii 
 
 Swift but all-gentle be the waves and winds 
 As that tone-dream " Sea calm and Happy way," 
 Till the proud keel through seething silver finds 
 Welcome and rest, claspt in an Austral bay. 
 Then, Minstrels, wandering o'er the broad lands, 
 
 tell 
 
 By the tense chords that tremble to your sway 
 That secret of your art you know so well 
 How Form, the Goddess, from the ocean foam 
 Of sound emerging comes with us to dwell, 
 And Melody like Love is born, and binds 
 The life-long harmonies of " Home, sweet home !" 
 
 in 
 
 Meantime your leal old friends full surely know 
 When you the multitudinous heart enthral 
 With storm of keys or sweep of magic bow 
 Ere the strain dies upon some tender fall ; 
 Or when your summons by the flashing wand 
 Crowned kings of symphony and song shall call 
 With treasured lays from many a tuneful land, 
 Some echo from an old familiar dome 
 Shall steal upon you, memory, heart, and hand, 
 So, wistful sooth, you cannot chose but go 
 Whither that echo guides you " Home, sweet 
 home ! " 
 
 1890. 
 
62 
 
 THE DEAD PANSY 
 
 " And there is Pansies, that's for thoughts. 'OPHELIA. 
 
 POOR pet Pansy ! Not a week 
 Of sun and rain has passed since I 
 
 Touched the velvet of thy cheek, 
 
 Looked into thy golden eye, 
 And thought thy petal's colour-freak 
 Fine as the gorgeous butterfly 
 That just then came fluttering by, 
 
 Thought that if thou couldst but speak, 
 
 I might hear a fragrant sigh 
 
 Into mournful music break, 
 
 Mourning that thou couldst not fly 
 And soar, a Psyche-flower, on high, 
 But rooted to the earth must die ! 
 
 Die ! Ah, then I will not wreak 
 On the faded films that lie 
 In my palm the human shriek 
 That beats upon the steel-blue sky. 
 
THE DEAD PANSY 63 
 
 He who painted every streak 
 
 Of thy purple pageantry 
 
 Made thee to be glad and meek, 
 Unvext by any fatal " why ? " 
 And though strong manhood needs must seek 
 Assurance that may Death defy, 
 
 Yet I dare not deem thee weak 
 In thy serene mortality. 
 
 Autumn, 1883. 
 
6 4 
 
 ON RECEIVING FROM GENOA TWO POR- 
 TRAITS OF MARY COWDEN CLARKE, 
 ONE EXPRESSING HUMOUR, THE OTHER 
 SADNESS. 1883. 
 
 ONE face faces twain I see ; 
 Twain, yet one, how may it be ? 
 This with mirth's light laughter beams, 
 That in Memory's shadow dreams : 
 Here be quips, just quaintly spoken, 
 There sad silence rests unbroken. 
 If not Dolorosa hight, 
 This must be Giocosa bright, 
 But if either face and name, 
 It the other doth defame : 
 True and false, I take my oath 
 She is neither and yet both ! 
 
 Rede me now this riddle, Nature, 
 Teaching me right nomenclature ! 
 
 Nature answers, "She is one 
 I have wrought rare spells upon 
 Since, a cradled child, I've known her. 
 And played Santa Glaus, the donor 
 Each new year of some new gladness, 
 Checkered sometimes with sweet sadness ; 
 
ON RECEIVING TWO PORTRAITS 65 
 
 For I found her a quick soul 
 
 Capable of bliss and dole, 
 
 So I dropt from kindly skies 
 
 Light and shadow through her eyes, 
 
 That in all the future years 
 
 Might break forth in smiles and tears ; 
 
 Chanted song and organ-tone 
 
 Set her pulse to mirth or moan ; 
 
 Pensive thought and rainbow fancies 
 
 Wove her girlhood's sweet romances 
 
 Shot with many a golden clew 
 
 Spun by poets old and new. 
 
 "Then at last I touched her life 
 With Love's spell, and made her wife ! 
 Ne plus ultra, say you so ? 
 Nature could no further go ? 
 Henceforth she is caught and bound, 
 In the spin-wheel's narrow round ? 
 
 " Nay, the child I had endowed 
 With a soul of sun and cloud, 
 Knew a magic to compel 
 From my hand its final spell. 
 Grasped the secret of my power 
 To provide her noblest dower, 
 Bade me teach her to unroll 
 All the wealth of Shakespeare's soul ! 
 
 " Then a joy predestined long 
 Seized her spirit, made her strong 
 With knit nerves and calm intent 
 For a life's great sacrament. 
 6 
 
66 ON RECEIVING TWO PORTRAITS 
 
 Who but she had dared to ask 
 From the bard who pierced my mask 
 Glimpses of his stolen fire, 
 Mystic force that could inspire, 
 Neath the curtains of the brain, 
 Pomp of passion, tragic pain, 
 All the Drama's changing theme, 
 Winter's Tale and Summer's Dream, 
 Wit and madness, love and hate, 
 Writhings in the grip of fate, 
 Sung through many a mighty line 
 By my Poet's art divine ? 
 Who but she with cosmic toil 
 Garnered all the radiant spoil, 
 And through patient years re-strung 
 All the concords he had sung ? 
 
 " What then if in faces twain 
 
 Mirth you find and tragic pain ? 
 
 If between them you may choose 
 
 Features fitting either Muse, 
 
 And in both together see 
 
 Thalia-Melpomene ? 
 
 All her featured joy and woe 
 
 Shakespeare's dual genius show ; 
 
 Yet beneath the varying feature 
 
 Lives one throbbing human creature, 
 Woman, with a dash of Fairy 
 Such is she ; her name is Mary ! " 
 
BIRTHDAY SONNETS TO HIS WIFE 
 
6 9 
 
 TO ISABEL MAY 18, 1849 
 
 DEAR Wife ! Thy birth doth truly represent 
 
 Beauty's high genesis, even to this day. 
 
 No other than the young white-bosomed May 
 Could be thy natal month ; thy life was blent 
 With that love-largess she so richly sprent 
 
 O'er April's green, and while her tenderest ray 
 
 First lit thine orbs, its sister beams did stray 
 Among the opening buds with like intent. 
 From the dim blue far o'er thy cradle nest 
 
 The poised lark downward shook her mellowest 
 
 trills, 
 Soft southern winds breathed on thee fragrant rest, 
 
 Then sighed thy baby-graces to the rills. 
 
 The same deep soul to-day all Nature fills, 
 For thou art fair, and in thy wife-hood blest. 
 
MAY 18, 1850 
 
 WITH what enraptured music was expressed 
 That love of thee which moved thy mother May, 
 I told at dawn of thy last natal day ; 
 
 But with what low-breathed whispers she con- 
 fessed 
 
 That of her brooding love into thy breast 
 Had crept and nestled one as vital ray 
 As those which kindled bloom on every spray 
 
 Or woke the flutterings in each downy nest, 
 
 I told thee not ; and now I need not tell, 
 For not one suckling of the sun and dew 
 Rests on her bosom such as clings to thine ; 
 
 From throat of bird such music never fell 
 As that which laughs thee melodies divine, 
 
 And soundeth nearer heaven than lark's wing ever 
 flew! 
 
MAY 1 8, 1857 
 
 MAY'S heaven is heaped with thunder, and thy 
 
 brow, 
 
 My Isabel, whereon her first fresh light 
 Midst the wreathed flowers found wontedly a 
 
 bright 
 
 And placid home, is thunder- shadowed now. 
 In those soft-lidded eyes, which could endow 
 A loveless world with love, doth crouch the 
 
 might 
 Of the leashed lightnings, poised for their fierce 
 
 flight ; 
 God of the elements ! I fear and bow ! 
 
 This is May's mood and Isabel's to-day, 
 Love's mood that loves not to be ever calm, 
 
 A threat of storm that doth no longer stay 
 
 Than the rich dissonance trembling in a Psalm. 
 
 Even now, on brow and sky, love hath its way, 
 And Nature's soul and mine drink floating balm. 
 
MAY 18, 1859 
 
 LIFE at its full makes calm more deep than death ; 
 The noon air, lulled with harmonies of light, 
 Is peacefuller than the vague void of night. 
 
 So Love at its full noon hears with hushed breath 
 
 What the sweet past to the fair future saith, 
 But yet not then nor ever is Love quite 
 At rest ; it stirs all currents of delight 
 
 With sighs, and ever something questioneth. 
 
 Dear Wife, it is not weariness nor doubt 
 
 Moves thee to hold thy brimming cup for wine. 
 
 The years may soothe, but never quite wear out 
 That tragic strain which made young love 
 divine, 
 
 Else were this world but poor in fruitful deed, 
 
 And we were blind to Heaven's immortal need. 
 
73 
 
 MAY 18, 1862 
 
 COMES May, with haste and hope kindling a flush 
 Upon her cheek, one white fore-finger's tip 
 Deepening the dinted dimple of her lip, 
 
 The other in gay menace stretched to hush 
 
 Those clamorous throats whose torrent-welcomes 
 
 gush, 
 
 While her swift feet the dallying winds outstrip, 
 And glow till winking daisies, as they dip 
 
 Beneath them, redden with a kindred blush. 
 
 Sudden, with tense regard she stands and lists 
 Till a soft baby-whimper thrills her ear, 
 
 Then with quick sign she sets her melodists 
 All piping a wild birth-song, far and near ; 
 
 And leaning low, of her own child she wists, 
 
 In those new violet eyes, reborn and doubly dear. 
 
74 
 
 MAY 18, 1863 
 
 FROM thee, my wife, born of a transient May 
 A May immortal is assured to me ; 
 For when, at Spring's first fluted call I see 
 
 The wrinkled world put Wintry cares away, 
 
 And at the touch of soft bird-breasts grow gay 
 And break in flowery laughter, young and free, 
 I note therein a dawning dream of thee, 
 
 A soul sun-pictured on a fleeting day. 
 
 What if that drearier Winter lowered of late, 
 Rough with the rude reviling tongues of men, 
 
 And black with blotted hopes and hovering hate, 
 And cold with frozen friendships, failing then, 
 
 In the poised crisis of a dubious fate ? 
 
 I felt thy heart's beat, and was strong again ! 
 
75 
 
 MAY 18, 1865 
 
 WORK-WORN and winter-chilled, I yet can see 
 Impassioned May laugh in the violet's eye, 
 Dream in the deep blue mystery of the sky, 
 
 And cast white singing robes on the live tree 
 
 That rings with carols, votive, Love, to thee. 
 All as of old, but now doth underlie 
 A meaning deeper than in Mays gone by, 
 
 As if to seem were less, and more to be. 
 
 For these quick Mays have touched thy head and 
 
 mine, 
 With blanching fingers, and, as they would 
 
 shed 
 Some keepsake truth when transient blooms are 
 
 fled, 
 
 Have left us, here and there, a silver line. 
 O ! sweet but swift youth's May of passion swells, 
 To thought and sorrow May brings Immortelles ! 
 
7 6 
 
 MAY 18, 1868 
 
 COMES, as of old, thy natal season, gay 
 With gush of song and sudden surge of flowers, 
 And provocation from the golden hours 
 
 To weave their beauty in my festal lay : 
 
 And somewhat now, beneath this flux and play 
 Of transient forms, we know of constant powers 
 That work from change to change, through sun 
 and showers, 
 
 To culminate in some diviner May. 
 
 So, when thine eyes endow the day with light, 
 Or soothe the dark with dew of answering tears, 
 
 I dream of that which knows nor day nor night 
 But links with one clear purpose all the years, 
 
 Love, loving still through sorrow and delight 
 Till May bloom deathless in supernal spheres ! 
 
77 
 
 MAY 18, 1869 
 
 THE leaf yearns toward the shadow it trembles 
 
 o'er ; 
 
 The low-breathed dissonance thou hearest moan 
 Under sweet music, beggars the pure tone ; 
 
 The sea sighs for more beauty, though it pour 
 
 Fire-crested flakes along a shimmering shore ; 
 And to the insatiate heart mere love alone, 
 Though tender, tried, and true, and all its own 
 
 For life and death, is nothing if not more. 
 
 What means it then ? Are life and love in vain ? 
 And do these transient Mays which come and 
 
 go, 
 
 Whitening not thorns alone, and planting pain 
 From limb to limb, but mock a musing brain ? 
 
 O ! anti-typal Christ, it is not so, 
 
 If, crowning all our loves, Thy love we know ! 
 
MAY 18, 1870 
 
 LET die the dream that every dream must die ! 
 
 They fade as fades the rainbow, shedding dews 
 
 That robe the grey old world with floral hues 
 As bright as those which spanned the dreaming 
 
 sky. 
 So, on this norland knoll where thou and I, 
 
 Pausing in evening walks, would sit and muse 
 
 O'er the grand plains, and say " here would we 
 
 choose 
 
 To build a home," then wake to smile or sigh 
 At the fond fancy, lo ! the walls gleam white, 
 
 The garden blooms, no dream, but truth 
 
 possest ; 
 And we, if all our dream was dreamed aright 
 
 Shall in a fair porch take our evening rest, 
 And, waiting with clasped hands a holier light, 
 
 Watch o'er the woods the sun droop to the west ! 
 
 Northwold. 
 
TRANSLATIONS 
 
8i 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 (From the German of Uhland) 
 
 THOU, mother, didst behold mine eye 
 Drink the first gleam of mortal day ; 
 
 'Twas mine to watch the sunset's ray 
 Upon thy fading features die. 
 
 ii 
 
 O ! mother mine, thy grave is fitly made 
 
 Here in a tranquil nook, to thee well known, 
 
 Hallowed and homelike with familiar shade, 
 And with unfading flowers quite overgrown. 
 
 There, as we saw thee die, thou sleep'st, no line 
 Of peace or pain from thy dear face departs, 
 
 And there a new life may be ever thine ; 
 For this thy grave is in my heart of hearts ! 
 7 
 
82 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 in 
 
 Sank silently the wind-borne moan 
 Of mourners chaunting dole, 
 
 But never dies the tender tone 
 Of thee that haunts my soul. 
 
 IV 
 
 Forth came a friend, while scarce the grave 
 
 Had closed above thy breast, 
 With roses many-hued, to wave 
 
 O'er thy calm place of rest. 
 
 With blushes twain thy head was dight, 
 Twin damasks warmed thy feet, 
 
 While blooms of pure perennial white 
 Upon thy heart lay sweet. 
 
 A leaf drops fluttering to the plain, 
 Of sunshine weary, tired of rain : 
 
 When first that leaf drank light and dew 
 My parents' faithful love I knew. 
 
 A leaf : how transient is its day ! 
 
 The pet of Spring is Autumn's prey ; 
 And yet that leaf, before it fell, 
 
 Outlived the love I loved so well. 
 
FROM SCHILLER 
 GUTE UND GROSSE 
 
 THERE be two virtues only, O that they united 
 
 stood ! 
 Were but goodness ever great, and were but 
 
 greatness ever good ! 
 
 DAS KIND IN DER WIEGE 
 
 Blest suckling ! Thy cradle to thee is an infinite 
 
 space ; 
 Grow a man, and the Infinite shall be too narrow 
 
 a place ! 
 
8 4 
 
 HEINE'S SONNETS TO HIS MOTHER 
 (From the "Buck der Lieder") 
 
 IT is my wont to bear my head full high, 
 Nor can my mind boast much of pliant grace ; 
 If even the King should look me in the face 
 
 I should not wear a downward look not I ! 
 
 And yet, dear Mother, I will not deny, 
 
 However my proud soul thus guards its place, 
 If I but feel thy blessed soft embrace, 
 
 I stand before thee timorous and shy. 
 
 Is it thy spirit that subdues me so 
 Thy lofty spirit which can pierce through all 
 
 And take its shining way in Heaven's full glow ? 
 It stings me to the soul when I recall 
 
 How many a deed of mine thy heart has riven, 
 
 That tender heart which so much love has given. 
 
HEINE'S SONNETS TO HIS MOTHER 85 
 
 ii 
 
 Once in mad mood I left thee to begin 
 A quest through all the world from land to 
 
 land, 
 
 For I would see what love I could command, 
 Dreaming that love must somewhere clasp its kin. 
 No path there was but I sought love therein ; 
 At every door I took my suppliant stand 
 And begged small alms of love with out- 
 stretched hand, 
 
 But only hatred's chilling sneer could win. 
 And ever still for love I wandered, ever, 
 Ever for love, and yet love found I never, 
 And so turned homeward, sick and sore dis- 
 traught. 
 
 But when, to welcome me, thou didst arise, 
 Oh ! what was that which swam in thy moist eyes ? 
 'Twas the dear Love which I so long had 
 sought. 
 
86 
 
 FROM JUVENAL 
 
 (WITH A MODERN TURN !) 
 1858 
 
 " Multi 
 
 Committunt eadem diverse crimina fato 
 Ille crucem sceleris pretium tulit, hie diadema." 
 
 Juvenal, Sat. xiii. 
 
 THE assassin's part, by many played, 
 Brings various guerdons down ; 
 
 Orsini's head drops from the blade, 
 Napoleon's wears a crown ! 
 
THE DEDICATION TO "FAUST" 
 
 ONCE more ye come, the glimmering shadow- 
 train, 
 
 Which met, in times of old, my troubled glance 
 Shall I attempt to grasp you once again ? 
 
 Still yields my heart to that illusive trance ? 
 Ye press upon me ! So, I own your reign, 
 
 As from your veil of vapour ye advance ; 
 Your magic breath is o'er my bosom stealing, 
 I thrill with a new stress of youthful feeling. 
 
 With you come back the glad days long agone, 
 Shades of the loved and lost salute mine eyes ; 
 
 And like an old and half-forgotten tone, 
 First-love and friendship in my spirit rise. 
 
 Their grief ye bring too ; with familiar moan 
 I track life's labyrinthic chase of lies, 
 
 Calling the dear ones who, by Fate bereft 
 
 Of their fair days, me sorrowing here have left. 
 
88 THE DEDICATION TO "FAUST" 
 
 They will not hear the song I now shall sing, 
 The souls who loved the music of my prime ; 
 
 All scattered is that friendly gathering, 
 Alas, forgotten is that early rhyme ! 
 
 To crowds unknown I now must wake the string, 
 Though my heart saddens as their plaudits 
 chime. 
 
 Those whom I would have gladdened with my 
 lay. 
 
 If still they live, have wandered far away. 
 
 Unwontedly my soul is yearning now 
 For that serene and solemn spirit-land ; 
 
 My song with inarticulate murmurs low 
 Wakes like the wind-harp to an unseen hand. 
 
 I can but tremble, till the quick tears flow, 
 And all the stubborn heart grows soft and bland. 
 
 Fact dies away into the dim Ideal, 
 
 And the dead Past becomes the only Real. 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 NOTE i 
 
 RYDAL MOUNT 
 
 This sonnet was begun whilst waiting in the garden of 
 Rydal for his first interview with Wordsworth. 
 
 NOTE 2 
 CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 In Main's " Treasury of English Sonnets " will be found 
 the following : 
 
 " THE COURSE OF TIME 
 
 " No, no arresting the vast wheel of time 
 That round and round still turns with onward might, 
 Stern, dragging thousands to the dreaded night 
 Of an unknown hereafter. Faith to climb 
 In thought to that supernal Force sublime 
 Who guides the circling wheel aright 
 Alone can steady our dismay at sight 
 Of that huge radius imaged in my rhyme. 
 91 
 
92 NOTES 
 
 Some, swept resistless through a mire of sin, 
 Some, carried smoothly on in downy ease, 
 Some, whirled to swift-destruction mid the din 
 And crash of sudden end ! Oh, may it please 
 The Guider merciful to will my course 
 Shall be in peace and trust devoid remorse ? 
 
 " CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE." 
 
 1875, in histyth year. 
 
 This evoked the following beautiful response in sonnet 
 form from a friend in England (to whom he sent a copy) 
 who desires to remain anonymous : 
 
 "Amen, my brave old friend, to all thy prayers," &c. 
 
 NOTE 3 
 
 S. E. L. 
 
 Miss Sallie E. Leese daughter of Mr. Joseph Leese of 
 Bowdon. She died suddenly. The allusion is to her perfect 
 singing of " Had I the wings of a dove," from Mendelssohn's 
 55th Psalm. 
 
 NOTE 4 
 TO HIS FATHER 
 
 At a period when fortunes were mostly ground out of 
 men and machinery indiscriminately, Mr. James Mills was, 
 by reason of his kind and sympathetic government as 
 manager of large cotton works, beloved and respected by the 
 " hands," but especially by the children, the little " minders " 
 and tenders, whom he hated to see toiling when they ought 
 to have been running free in the fresh air, and for whom he 
 had ever a kindly word and a helping hand. 
 
NOTES 93 
 
 NOTE 5 
 
 ANNIE S. PETRIE LIPSCOMB 
 
 A favourite niece. She delighted in the study of astro- 
 nomy, and her Star Maps and popular Lectures on Sun-spots 
 were well known. In the midst of a rich, full young life, 
 not long after her marriage, Death laid his hand upon her, 
 and she vanished from our sight. 
 
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