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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
POEMS.
POEMS,
BY THE
REV. GEORGE EDMOND lAUNSELL.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., G5, CORNIIILL.
M.DCCC.LXI.
These pieces, with the exception of those of later date, were \
printed for private circulation in the years 1853-56. ;
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MSqr,.^
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CONTENTS.
PAGE
A Legend of Hastings Field
/
Alone .....
17
As a dead Man, clean out of Mind
. 46
Astarte .....
74
Antedilu\-ian Relics ....
. 100
A Poet's Heart ....
127
As thy Day is, so shaU thy Strength be
. 143
A ScandinaA-ian Legend
188
All Hearts are Sad by Times
. 258
A Legend of Inkemiann .
288
An early Love rejected ....
. 99
Broken-Hearted . . . ' .
102
Breath ......
. 118
Blood-black Wine ....
121
Beauty's Wreath ....
. 250
Christmas Eve ....
31
Cassandra landing in Greece
. 37
Consumption ....
44
Congenial Spirits ....
. 66
Christe, Audi Nos ....
133
Communion with the Departed .
. 279
Dreams . .
24
Distance .....
80
Darkness .....
157
Death ......
. 160
De Eance at T/a, Trappe
196
Ephialtcs .....
. 123
Execution of Maiy, Queen of Scots
180
Egyptian Feast Song ....
. 253
Forest Winds ....
3
862224
VI CONTENTS.
PAGE
Footsteps of the Gazelle
. 98
False Prophets ....
137
Forebodings .....
. 169
Foi-wards .....
204
Flowers ......
. 256
Freedom .....
274
Foxglove .....
. 290
Five Travellers ....
296
Grown Old .....
. 68
Gossamer Hall ....
88
God's Acre .....
. 239
Hallowed Ground ....
97
Hesperus .....
. 120
Hope .....
128
Home Truth .....
. 210
His Ways are not as our Ways
219
Hope on .....
. 285
Han-est Hymn ....
292
Incipient Madness ....
. 112
lone .....
191
Isiac Symbols of Death and Immortality
. 215
I love .....
221
Imagination .....
. 231
Irish Keen .....
283
John, viii. 4 .... .
. 29
Joy and Sorrow ....
40
Let not my Child be a Girl
19
Life
. 174
Long, long Ago ....
103
Love ......
. 153
La Demoiselle a marier
262
Music ......
5
Mariage de Convenance
69
My First Love .....
. 166
Momnfully, so MoumfiiUy .
171
Merry England .....
. 226
Memoirs of Departed Genius
238
Mcmoiy ......
. 272
Nia;ht-scented Flowers
18
CONTENTS.
vu
PAGE
New Year's Eve ....
. 23
NcUGwATi
. 205
Not of the World ....
217
No More .....
. 271
On a Seal .....
6
On a Seal .....
. 11.5
Our Churchyards ....
12.5
Old Things have passed away
. 1.52
One Dead .....
. 245
Psyche .....
89
Platonism . . . . .
. 229
Passed Away ....
278
Portraits . . . . .
. 294
Queen Eleanor ....
35
Runic Chant . . .
. 105
Retrospect .....
139
Romance and Reality . . . .
. 164
Rizpah .....
192
Reminiscences . . . . .
. 234
Rushton Hall
241
Speak kindly of the Dead
. 25
Song of Hueipa and Hubba
91
Spiritual Pride . . . . .
. 108
Symbols .....
146
Sleep ......
. 155
Swallows .....
233
Scutari Nurses . . . . .
. 276
Song of the Forge ....
286
Self
. 300
Think of the Silent Dead .
1
The Nuns of Coldingham
4
The Last Hours of the Infanticide . • .
11
To an old Friend . . . .
. 28
The Rejected ....
33
The Angel's Wliispcr . . . .
41
The Vigil of the New Year
47
The Yew . . . . .
. 49
The Fairy Seat at Cork-beg
50
The Knight's Ransom . . . .
70
vm CONTENTS.
PAGE
To Everything there is a Season
. 76
The Wind
82
The Battle of Crecy
. 84
The Banshee ....
87
The Mistletoe .
. 93
The Old Dutch Bible
95
The Battle of Poitiers .
. 110
To Aura .....
117
To my Old Pipe
. 129
Towton Field ....
134
The Peepul Tree
.144
The Pleasure Boat ....
148
The Inner Chamber
. 150
The Spanish Armada
162
The Irish Squatter
. 172
The Legend of the Wolfsbrunnen .
175
The Magic Pipe
. 184
The Legend of the Redbreast
186
The Curfew ....
. 190
The Harp . .
200
To a Bride ....
. 202
The Ideal .....
208
Trifles .....
. 222
To-morrow .....
224
The Battle of Sobraon .
. 236
To be Content
248
The Libraiy ....
.259
The " President " .
265
The Beautiful ....
. 281
Wulstan .....
15
"Wilham Rufas ....
. 26
Where? .....
168
Whether? ....
. 298
POEMS.
ihinii of the Mint 9ml
Think of the silent dead !
The loved, whose souls are fled,
We tiTist, unto their God.
Their place on earth is gone.
Their fiiends have looked their last ;
A dreary blank alone
Reminds us of the past.
^ - Think of the silent dead !
-J ^
B
THINK OF THE SILENT DEAD.
Theirs is a race that's ran,
Theirs is a fight that's done ;
Forgotten, out of mind !
Still in affection's bond
Let them retain their part ;
Where should their memories live,
If not within our heart ?
Think of the silent dead !
Years may have passed away.
Blithe may have sped each day,
And dulled our sorrow's edge ;
It may be still they watch.
And weep our eveiy pain ;
One thought of answering love,
Let them not watch in vain.
Think of the silent dead !
1842.
I
Api Miiul.^.
A SOUND of forest Tvinds is on my hearing,
A sound as of the distant sea at night ;
Xearing, on viewless wings still ever nearing,
Thi'ough the tree-tops it mshes in its might.
The tall elms hoarsely groan,
The ashes wail and sigh,
In deep and measured tone.
Booming, the oaks reply.
A lull — the dancing hroMn leaves downwards flutter,
The frantic tossing of the hranches stops,
The beech-tree stills midway its rustling mutter.
The whistling firs lift up theii- bended tops.
Each has a voice its own,
Answering the stoi-m-wind's call,
And yet one Power alone,
One Spirit wakens all.
So Nature's impulse, through the many going,
Strikes difierent chords, new impulses imparts ;
Think pitifully we of each, as knowing
Not ours the key-note to our fellows' hearts.
Mysteries full oft appear
Thoughts, unto others fiiir ;
Love in them all will hear
But the one Spiiit there. 1854.
B 2
^lu IJun.^ ofi CoIdiufilianL
•' III the last whereof (Coldingham), Lady Ebbe, with her
chast nunnes, to auoid theu- sauage and filthy pollutions, cut
oft' their owne noses and vpper lips, least the baite of their
beauties should proue the bane of their honours." — Speed's
Chrojiicle.
A SONG- for the holy sisters,
The God-devoted band !
Wlio wrought for themselves their safety,
When the Dane was in the land !
To our Lady with strong cryings
They lifted up their voice,
And she gave them grace in choosing,
And strength for the bitter choice.
They took no shield on the weak arm,
No sword, or spear, for strife.
But gave themselves to the tortui-e.
Their lips to the shearing knife !
And the baffled Dane with curses
Went backwards at the sight,
And the crown was left unsullied
On the martyrs' wreath of light ! *
1857.
* Bishop Taylor's Holy Living, ch. xi. sec. 3.
u s I r.
I LOVE the music that hath power to wake
A sjinpathy responsive in the soul ;
Some "nilcl and touching aii% some hallad old.
Is to me far beyond the huriying roll,
The swift, continuous clang, that tells, indeed.
Of science and hard learned mechanic art,
Calls forth and merits wonder and applause,
But mth the heart's emotion hath no part.
Nor with the rude, unthinking crowd would I
Throng to di'ink in the sounds I love to hear ;
But far apart fi'om all, and unobseiTed,
List to the notes soft stealing on the ear.
^o
strange and mysterious power ! it may be, taught
First by some fallen seraph, who with eye
Upturned to Heaven, on earth would fain essay
Sadly her yet remembered minstrelsy.
Gift to the chosen few ! full oft the heart,
Even in hours of mirth and reckless glee.
As conscious of some yearning want, some void,
Lists to thy chords, and solace finds in thee ;
As the tired eye, with gorgeous colours vexed.
From feeding on some painter's Eastern scene,
Gladly from art to nature turns her gaze.
And rests, refreshed, on cooling fields of gi-een,
1847.
n f fal
KNGEAVED WITH A BROKEN SHAMROCK AND THE lElSH
WOEI) SIGNIFYING " SOKKOW."
-*o*-
God's cliasteniug hand is on thee sore ; *
With deadly drink thy cup runs o"er ;
Bow down — no aid, lerne, more
Canst thou from mortal borrow !
Thy broken shararock droops her head ;
Thy sons are passed away, or fled.
Hang up thine harp, as of one dead,
And be thy motto, Sorrob).
Ill-fated island of the west !
Hope cheers e'en slaves with grief o'erprest
Thou hast no hope ; for one unblest
There is no bright to-morrow.
Then grave thy seal mth lines of woe.
Worn by thy tears' repentant flov/ ;
From idols turn, and seek to know
The holier part of SorrolD.
1847.
* The year of the famine.
^ Scigpnd of |)a.^fin()s ^idcl
■■' ISo that Harold, lying stript, bemangled, and goared in
his bloud, could not be known or found, 'till they sent for a
woman named Editha (for her passing beauty snrnamcd
Swan-shals, that is, Swansnecke), whom he entertained in
secret loue before he was king, who, by some secret markes
of his body, to her well known, found him out." — Speed's
Chro7iicle.
PAET I.
There came two monks* from Waltham church
To Edith Swanshal's door.
'• Rise up this night, and come vnth. us ;
Good truth ! we need thee sore."
'• I may not rise. My knees are bent
1 may not nse. My knees are b(
In prayer both night and day ;
For vigils, fasting, tears, alone
Can wipe my guilt away ' "
* Osegod and Ailric. — Speed's Chronicle.
8 A LEGEND OF HASTINGS FIELD.
" Yet rise thou up, and for a space
Leave cross and bead within,
And Waltham Abbey's mitred lord
Shall shrive thee of the sin."
" Oh ! leave me, leave me to my prayers,
My watchings in the night ;
God's coming dawn and Maiy's wrath
Would blast me in thy sight ! "
" Yet rise and come ; or if thou pray'st,
For Harold be thy prayer ;
He lies a corpse on Hastings field —
And thou must seek him there."
She started up — drew bolt and bar ;
No word she uttered more ;
But barefoot, even as she knelt.
Ran headlong fi-om the door.
PAET 11.
The thin gray mist on Hastings field
Was steaming fi-om the dead.
When at the dawn they trod the ground,
With corpses overspread.
A LEGEKD OF HASTINGS FIELD.
And all that livelong day they searched
Each blood-bedabbled spot ;
And many a knight and thane they found,
But Harold found they not.
" \Vhen God denies," old Ailric said,
" All vainly man shall try."'
But even as he spoke went forth
A shai-p and bitter cry.
There, on the rising hill where last
The Saxon fought and bled,
Knelt Edith Swanshal, bending o'er
The long-sought royal dead.
But stripped and mangled as he lay
Upon the trampled turf.
No eye save that of love had known
King Harold from a serf.
o
A monk's rough fi'ock for purple robe,
A wattled bier for throne ;
So bore they off the corj^se, and left
Fair Edith there alone.
She miglit not brook the funeral pomp,
The sorrowing people's gaze ;
But homewards turned, and in her grief
Went softly all her days.
10 A LEGEND OF HASTINGS FIELD.
Ah, Edith ! with that bitter cry
Uplifted o'er the dead,
From out thy very heart of hearts
A lingering hope had fled.
The world to thee became a void,
And on that bloody sod
The love which Harold shared before
Was wholly turned to God.
1857.
11
i^\u last gours of thtj lufuuticidc.
Am I sleeping yet, and shall the morrow
Break for me as it was wont of old,
Diy from oflf my cheek the di-eamer's sorrow,
Leave the visioned past a tale untold !
As I stii' a watchful eye is peering
Up from yonder pallet in my cell,
Whilst I almost hope, upon my hearing
Tolls the midnight from the prison bell.
Ah ! I mind me now of thronging faces,
Mocking eyed, and eager, as for sport ;
Hundreds looking up, and in high places
Men aiTayed for judgment, and a Court.
And I heard, or seemed to hear, one seeking
Answer back fi'om one he doomed to die —
Pitifully, sadly, sternly spealdug
Unto one — and oh, my God ! 'twas I !
12 LAST HOURS OF THE INFANTICIDE.
Bom to early want and hardship, never
Knew I childhood's free and careless heart ;
At the poor man's hearth the youngest ever,
As the oldest there, must play her part.
Ladies took me thence, a child unwitting
Of my low and hrutalized estate,
Clothed, and gave me learning more befitting
To the children of the rich and great.
So to early haunts again returning,
There to toil and eat the peasant's bread,
Pride arose and shame, and, undisceming
Of the futui'e ill, I turned and fled.
All my after acts and deeds confessing.
In good truth, what have I yet to tell ?
But the world-wide story : want was pressing.
And the tempter there, and so I fell.
As a feverish morning dream, departed
All the guilty splendours of my life ;
And I woke, deserted, broken-hearted.
Soon to be a mother, but no wife.
So my shame was known, and future horrors
Rose before me at my baby's cry ;
" Back to God," I said, " and shun thy sorrows
Unto thee at least 'tis gain to die ! "
LAST HOURS OF THE INFANTICIDE.
Oh ! ye mothers, in your thoughts adoiTiing
Your new-born ones with each hopeful sign,
Think ye not that I, too, saw the scorning.
And the bitter shame in store for mine !
As refasiQg comfort ye will languish,
"While your infants suffer day by day ;
Think ye not that I, too, had my anguish,
"UTien my hand was lifted up to slay !
But ye cannot know the fiend that urges
Guilty ones like me fi-om ill to worse,
"When our noblest feelings are our scoui-ges,
And our best affections but our curse.
Go, then, and in fiction's pages duly
Write our histories as of injured worth,
But remember, if ye WTite them truly,
One short line suffices — " Hell on earth."
See ! the morning of my last day shining ;
Hark ! rude voices mingling with the breeze ;
And the author of my death, reclining
In his chair shall read it at his ease !
Blood for blood — for rapine, slander, stealings.
Gaols and fines, dishonour and control ;
What for him, ye men of pious feelings.
Who hath slain the body and the soul ?
14 LAST HOUES OF THE INFANTICIDE.
He shall live, unscathed and undegraded —
Live for pleasure, quiet, or for fame :
I shall perish, hated and uphraided,
With the hrand of murd'ress on my name !
So man's justice has ordained it, giving
Record of his care for such as I,
As unfit to mingle with the living.
And, my God ! oh, how unfit to die !
1859.
15
Mtulstitn.
" Willituu the Conqueror having demanded the pastoral
staff and ring of Wulstan, Bishop of Worcester, he answered
that he had them fi-om King Edward, and would give them
back to him alone; and going to the Confessor's tomb, struck
the crozier so deeply into the stone, that no one was able to
draw it out, on which he was allowed to retain the bishopric."
— Note to Hume's History of England.
He stood by Edward's tomb,
That man of saintly mien,
Around with brows of gloom
The Conqueror's hosts were seen.
" And ye have come," he said,
" With sword and spear arrayed,
With mail, and helm on head.
And ye must be obeyed !
" From Edward, sainted king.
Ye men of haughty brow,
I hold this staff and ring,
And I restore them now."
16 WULSTAN.
He spake with awful frown,
And face almost divine,
And struck the crozier down
Deep through the marble shrine.
Then thronged they round the stone.
That evil Norman rout ;
No hand save his alone
Might draw that crozier out.
And, "Back," he cried, " of men
God's servants have no fear ;
Back to your tents again.
Lest ill befal you here ! "
And Norman William quailed,
And scoffs were heard no more,
And cheeks with fear were paled,
That fear ne'er paled before.
And silently they crushed
Back from the sainted stone ;
The voice of strife was hushed,
And he was left alone.
1848.
17
S I U C .
The seasons come and go,
The night succeeds to day,
With ceaseless, noiseless flow
The year-stream glides away.
Let days and months depart.
Let years run out their range ;
But oh, for one true heart
To share in eveiy change !
1860.
18
ItiuM-f rented Jfl'^^^'^^l-''-
Not in your comeliness the eye rejoices
Beneath the sun's broad light,
Not to the outward ear ye raise your voices,
Flower- spirits of the night !
Yet, as your still, mysterious life progresses.
Both foiTu and speech are shown
In hues, whose loveliness the soul confesses
In language all your own.
Wlien, foreordained, one change succeeds another,
^Vhen light rolls back the cloud,
Ye flaunt not in the one, beneath the other
Ye di'oop not, earthwards bowed ;
But in the weirdest darkness, or the shining
Of countless stars, your eyes
Alike are lifted up, and unrepining
Your odours heav'nwards rise.
So are ye types of faith, from God receiving
According to His will.
Meek under good bestowed, and still believing
Him present in the ill.
1857.
19
Sti not mn dIhiUl be ix 6irl.
Let not my child be a girl,
For veiy sorrowful is the lot of woman."
Pkaieii;.
A mother's words ! Is woman's life so sad,
That this should be of all her earliest prayer ?
Not for long length of days, not health, not gold,
Nought, so the unborn 'scape the woes she bear.
Yet so it is. Our fixed conventional rales
Weigh down her feelings, e'en from girlhood's spring ;
Custom and fashion wi'est her heart to earth,
And send her forth an artificial thing.
Is woman's life so sad ? Go, search the world,
From Europe's polished climes to savage land ;
Still the same lot, the same oft-trodden round.
The weaiy, sorrowing heart, the oppressing hand.
Oh, man ! creation's haughty, boastful lord,
^Vhere is thy vaunted justice '? Thou hast all
This world can offer : thou mayst choose, and tread
Thine own selected paths ; and if thou fall,
If vice allure thcc, man can pardon man.
C 2
20 LET NOT MY CHILD BE A GIRL.
The high-born fool, the gamester, and the cheat,
The adulterer, knave, seducer, aye, for each.
So they have wealth, the world is at their feet.
But woman's path is fixed, and if she fall,
She is for ever fallen.
Man may woo,
May wed for wealth, hut woman's heart must stand
Steeled to the world's first idol, and eschew
Her home, her childhood's comforts — all for one.
For one who gives her but a transient joy,
A fleeting glimpse of bliss, then casts aside.
Like to some froward child, his cherished toy.
Man's voice is free, and if, perchance, he love,
He may declare it ; woman still must keep
Her secret hidden close within her heart.
She has but one resource, to hope and weep.
To hope ! What hope for her who vainly writhes
In custom's iron shackles? She must stand
Before God's altar, not with him she sought.
But with her parents' choice, and give her hand
Where she gives not her heart ; or if, perchance,
Love's coui'se run smooth, too quickly from her eyes
Shall fall the scales, and falling, tint with gall
Those lesser faults, those bickerings that arise
E'en with the best. The gentle lover's lost
In the stem husband : she, whose slightest word
Late was his only law, now finds her spumed,
Her wish unheeded, and her will abhon-ed.
LET XOT MY CHILD BE A GIRL. 21
Yet still the same devotedness is asked,
Still the same love, as when he bowed his heart
Low at her feet. She, iu return, may claim
All that the world claims not — a meagre part !
Man may in selfish pleasures pass his day.
Free from domestic strife. In hopes to share
The old man's gold, the expectant world looks on.
Praises his msdom, and applauds his care.
But woman's wealth is but another grief.
Another stumbling-block to mar her way ;
The adventurer, the needy, polished rake.
The ruined spendthrift, mark her as their prey.
She, for awhile, perchance, is wise, but soon
Womanlike, yields her heart, and, free fi'om doubt,
Measm-ing his love by hers, esteems her blest.
Only too blest with that man, who, without
Her wealth, had never sought her. So he lives
And grows within her heart, not what in sooth
He is, but what her love would fain believe ;
All constancy, bright honour, changeless tnith !
And then the old, old lot.
All, me ! how oft
Love lights at Hymen's torch his funeral pyres ;
How oft, in after years, he learns to read
Rightly that once dark speech, " All men are liars !"'
Cease, then, ye unjust fools, your whining dirge
O'er woman's falseness, and o'er man betrayed !
22 LET NOT MY CHILD BE A GIRL.
Flesh of thy flesh she is, bone of thy hone,
And if she mock thee, thou thyself hast made
Her false and venal. Aye, for one aggrieved
Truly by woman, thousands, forced to roam.
Weep man's injustice, and those wiles of men,
That lured them first from vii'tue and their home.
Yet, like the hyaena wailing o'er his prey,
Ye wail the ruin ye yourselves have brought ;
Crush, as she springs, all nature in her heart,
Teach her to feign, unfeignedly curse her taught.
1848.
23
Ucm fjeaiffi druu.
It seems a strange, unthinking part
For mortal man to play,
That we should mark in revelry
The old year pass away.
Yes, 'tis as if round some friend's couch,
"\Mio gasps and strives for breath,
We were to lead the merry dance,
And mock him in his death.
Man ! in futurity's dark womb
The new year's boons are pent ;
Wlio may declare what sooth shall be
Ere her young hours be spent !
Cease, then, thus blindly to rejoice.
Or turn thy thoughts to Heaven ;
Pray that this year be better spent,
Or pray the past forgiven.
1848.
24
grtiims.
As the foam-bells that dance, and sport, and play,
In the fountain's fall, then pass away ;
As the shadow of clouds in April gleams,
Ye flit o'er the spirit, ye mystic dreams !
Are ye boders of ill that needs must be,
Or come ye to warn us to rise and flee ?
I know not in truth, yet I marvel not
That ye swayed, in the times of old, man's lot ;
For the spirit eternal vigil keeps.
And the soul rests not, though the body sleeps ;
And ye, like the still, small winds that stray
Through the slumberer's book on a summer's day,
Flit hither and there through memory's page.
From the youth's first hope to the grief of age,
And entwine, ere a moment's sand be run,
The future, and present, and past, as one.
1848.
25
f |jc;ili lundlLT of the pi^iuL
Speak kindly of the dead,
Or pass their memories by ;
WTien once life's spark is fled,
All thoughts but one should die.
It may be, whiles they ran
A fitful, de\dous race.
Yet who, in this their span,
Might every motive trace ?
Not ours to judge the deed ;
Enough that they are gone :
Pity the broken reed,
Or silently pass on.
1849.
26
William Sufus,
Speak not of chance or accident
Befalling mortal man,
We breathe, we move, we live ■within
A God- directed span.
And though our will or hand may seem
To govern or to force,
His finger surely turns us to
The predetermined course.
Along the forest gi'ounds at mom
The Red I&ig passed alone, i
By ruined wall, by roofless hut, ]
With brambles overgrown.
I
Small thought had he of homeless poor, '
Small care for bondsman's lack, [
Nor where his father's hand had robbed \
Restored he meetly back. \
But reckless, nithless in his sport, j
He galloped down the path, I
To rouse the wild deer from his lair 1
Upon his people's hearth. '
WILLIAM RUFUS. 27
A stag rose up : his bow in haste,
The ambushed Tprel drew,
The glancing aiTow tiuned aside.
And pierced the Red King through.
None raised him up, none sought to stay
The fast departing breath,
Forsaken and alone he proved
The bitterness of death.
Down sank the sun, the crouching fox
Went stealing round the dead,
The hind snuffed blood upon the gale.
And starting, turned and fled.
And all that night fi'om wall and tower
The flaring torches glow'd,
And menials fi'om the castle gate
Peered listening down the road ;
But in the portion of the poor.
Like Israel's King of old,*
When quiet morning's beam arose,
Lay Rufus stark and cold !
1853.
2 Kings, ix. 25.
28
i^o mi old 4/mul
As two ships at midnight meeting,
Their course a moment stay,
Exchanging ftienclly greeting.
Then pass by on their way ;
So we met, old friend, true-hearted !
In the early flush of life ;
But the pause was brief, we parted.
And passed on into strife.
As two ships, theii" course renewing.
Gaze on each other's light,
Every eye the spark pursuing.
Till it vanishes from sight ;
So, awhile, we watched each other,
Launching forth upon life's main ;
Thou hast passed from sight, brother !
Shall we ever meet again ?
1849.
29
John, uiih 4.
Friendless auJ outcast,
Weepiug alone,
None, save the Righteous One,
Heeding her moan ;
Mock her not, scofl' her not,
Pale, braised reed,
Rather leave judgment
Till judgment's decreed !
Happiness, honest name.
What were they all,
Weighed against him who
Hath compassed her fall ?
Liar, seducer,
Cliief in the deed !
Where is he now, in
The hour of her need *?
Oh, thine injustice,
Thou pitiless world !
Oh, the lost souls, whom
Thou downwards hast hurled !
30 JOHN VIII. 4.
Fawn on him, cherish him,
Set him on high ;
As for the stricken one, —
Leave her to die !
Sorro'R'fal sister !
Ill was thy deed ;
Meekly submit thee
To infamy's meed !
Shrinking and speechless,
Midst clamour and strife.
Circled with scomers who
Thirst for thy life,
Magdalen, Sinner,
Look upwards and trust.
Thou hast found mercy.
Though humbled to dust.
1850.
31
C!hrislnui5i §vi[.
Once more alone on Christmas eve,
I watch the glimmering embers wane,
And listening wait, yet scarce believe
Iramanuel's day come round again.
Yet so it is ; one distant note
Comes echoing softly dowTi the gale,
Then livelier, louder, nearer float
The answering peals from hill and dale,
Till all, as one, proclaim the mom
"When " unto us a child was bom."
Yea, unto us, — but days like these
(The traveller's wayside guides thi-ough life)
Have saddening thoughts which bow the knees,
And goad the slumbering soul to strife ;
For quickening conscience backward turns
Her memory doAvn the vale of tears.
Where many a dusky Baal-lire burns
In lengthening range mth lengthened years,
And wakes the thought, " If I should die
This self-same night, what part have I ? "
32 CHRISTMAS EVE.
All, soul, self-conscious, trembling soul !
Though Naaman's lord should intei-pose,
Not Israel's king can make thee whole,
Or Syrian Pharphar aid thy woes.
In humbler lands (as seemed of old)
The appointed waters took their rise,
From lowlier founts through eaiih were rolled
The healing streams, where faith descries
The smitten rock, the plenteous flood
Of heavenly waters tinged with blood.
Deem not such themes as these unapt
In Christian joy, nor have thou scorn
(Since heaven itself was hushed and wi'apped
In awe) to think u-hy Christ was bom.
So, circling round, the coming years
Shall work not gathering woe, but weal ;
Bring heavenward hopes for earth-clogged fears,
And teach the hungering soul to feel
Blest, when her eyes not only see
Bethlehem, but also Calvary.
1857.
33
mt llcjcrtnL
I THOUGHT not at first of the future, but gladly
I saw tliee, I heard thee, I felt thee ere near,
As a dream of the morning it stole on my senses ;
I wakened to find thee but only too dear.
'Tis over — ^my heart is too fall for reproaches,
Or, fitfully angry, yet Hves in the past.
And the musings on hours when I hoped are but ended
In bitter regret that they fleeted so fast.
Farewell — be the madness I cherished forgiven,
The words that I uttered with thee as unsaid,
And my name from thy thoughts blotted out, or
remembered,
Remembered only as though of one dead.
1856.
PAKT II.
In this, the busiest haunt of men,
For me the moments idly fly,
The echoing streets are filled with life,
And every soul can hope but I.
D
34 THE REJECTED.
As yet my heart is braised and sore,
Nor dares to scan the impending day,
But, sadly lingering, only sees
The darkening shade upon the way.
I dare not say of this, my grief,
" God's chalice holds no bitterer wine ; "
Nor, " Cii'cling Time, who tempers all,
Is powerless here to temper mine."
What shall be, will be. Every year
May find me soiTowing as before,
May find me happier, and resigned
To lose what was, and is no more.
God grant it so — and if, perchance,
Some natural clouds obscure thy sun,
His guardian angels interpose.
And pitying Mercy spare thee one.
1857
n
35
Queen dj^aniir.
The summer's sea, the courtier's knee,
The whispering vdnds that stray ;
Oh ! some make oath that woman's troth
Is fair and false as they.
It may be so, but this I know,
And this I vnll defend.
Her once fixed love no power can move,
Nor death nor tortures end.
Then hear me tell what once befel
Our king in Holy Laud,
How woman's art and woman's heart
Wrought more than leech's hand.
The princely wight to death was dight,
He sank in torments slow ;
The venomcd knife had touched his life,
And tinged the heart's blood flow.
And though was seen our comely queen
By day and eke by night,
To seek each way his pains to stay,
And give him to the fight,
D 2
36 QUEEN ELEANOR.
'Twas all in vain ; the poison's stain
Still rankled in his side ;
Oh, then vowed she to do or di'ee,
And would not be denied.
Her watch she kept when all men slept,
And, bending down her knee.
Her own sweet lip the wound did clip,
As in a swoon lay he.
Then tell no more of poet's lore,
Or maids who false have grown.
For Edward's life his royal wife
Full freely staked her own ;
And many a maid so coy and staid.
And many a high-bora dame,
Aye, hundreds more, on England's shore
For love had done the same.
1843.
37
d^ass;uulni htndin^ in (Brn^,
I SEE the green shore fresh and fairly glowing
Fai" in the distance of the clear blue sky ;
With even stroke the well-oared barks are rowing :
A captive's bt awaits me ; Greece is nigh.
Ah, me ! those festive notes' responsive echo,
The soft, sweet breathings of the Dorian flute,
The white-anned virgins linked in choral dances.
The love-fraught measm-es of the Etolian lute !
How sadly fall the notes of hostile triumph,
The gatheiTDg people's hum upon mine ear ;
All, all their clamours sei've but to remind me
Why I, a Phrygian maid, a queen, am here.
Alas, my country, Hion ! now no longer
The unconquered, but the captive of the spear,*
Shorn wert thou of thy crown of towers, when o'er
thee
The thunder- cloud of Greece came shadowing near.
Poor wi'etch, all smoke-defiled and fire-blasted,
No more shall I thy glorious mansions tread ;
Lost, lost at midnight's hour, when thy defenders
Slept, hot ^vith Phiygian wine, and filled with bread.
* A loose translation from the Hecuba of Euripides.
38 CASSANDRA LANDING IN GREECE.
I, too, my hair in fillets deftly binding,
Was glancing back upon the mirror's light,
For sleep preparing, when, oh, sudden hoiTor !
The war- shout broke the silence of the night.
And I, half naked, like some Dorian virgin,
Sped forth for succour to Diana's fane ;
Alas ! that I prevailed not. Heart-sick, fainting,
They bore me captive o'er the briny main.
We come. I feel a sea of upturned faces
Upon me, like some fearfal vision rise ;
Hatred and triumph in each glance commingled,
Glare wolf-like on me from their fierce dark eyes !
I hear a fitful sound of joy and wailing.
Loud bursts of triumph, weeping for the slain ;
They ask them at my hand, the countless numbers
Who rot, afar, on Ilion's blood-soaked plain.
Who waits with downcast look and guile dissembled
To bid Atrides welcome to his throne ?
What mean those ghastly shades, yon axe uplifted.
The entangled robe, the low-drawn, quivering groan ?
I see, I see fell visions round me flitting,
And blood-red vapours floating in the air ;
The baths are all prepared, the victim ready —
Strike ! strike ! 'tis destiny, adulterous pair !
Hades is moved beneath my feet ; upheaving
Sound forth the pasans of the Phrygian dead ;
" Art thou become as us, great son of Atreus ?
How are thy triumphs passed, thy glories fled ! "
CASSAXDKA LAXDIXG IN GREECE. 39
Not there ! not there ! Oh, drag me not within !
Dark, undistinguishable forms are there ;
The ftiries leap around, and, murder-tainted.
Sickens upon my very sense the aii*.
"V\Tiere am I ? Oh, those shapes, those fearful
visions !
The gift of Phoebus in an ill-starred day.
Lead onwards in your train, proud, vaunting monarch.
The gods ordain it, man can but obey.
1850.
40
Sou and ^mm.
Joy and Soitow— names combining ,
In themselves the lot of all ;
In two words a life int^ining,
Whatsoever may befal. i
Old familiar sounds, and duly ^\
In the mouths of grave and gay,
Yet we know not either truly,
Till its hour be passed away.
1857.
41
ghe Jmcjcr^ 'aulliispcr.
" I know that the angels are -whispering with thee."
Lover's Irish Song.
In Erin's isle, wtere yet is told
Full many a tale and legend old
Of pale banshee and wandering sprite,
Phooka, and fay, and blue coqise liglit,
Still do tliey in the faith abide,
That often by the cradle's side
Angels, unseen, their vigils keep.
Guardians of those who calmly sleep.
So, if some happy dream awhile
Light up the slumbering infant's smile,
Fondly they deem that, hovering near,
Angels are whispering at its ear.
Idle, perchance, and vain the thought.
Yet, as I deem, full surely taught
First by that spark from heaven above,
That holiest thing, a mother's love.
42 THE Alf gel's whisper.
Aye, and though learning's broadening ray
Chaseth. such mist-like di-eams away,
Though now our hearts respond no more
To the wild tales of ancient lore,
May it not chance that still there he
In the young soul some sympathy
'Twixt heaven and earth, that lingering clings
Unto the realms from whence it springs ?
May it not chance, that as two fi-iends,
Whose hilar'ous span of meeting ends,
Linger, and stand, as loth to say
Their farewell words, and turn away ;
So the bright beings of seraph birth
Cling to the souls new clad in earth.
Whispering the yet remembered strain,
Pointing from earth to heaven again,
As if to lure them thence to fly
Back to their common home, the sky.
Idle the thought ! Oh 1 would that we
(Boastful and proud although we be)
Gave to our creed the faith that they
In theu' wild legends oft display !
Would, when at some ill deed or word.
Conscience, our angel guard, hath stirred,
We with their humble, child- like fear
Did but incline our hearts, and hear ;
So, floating down Time's shoreless sea
To the vast gulf, Eternity,
THE angel's whisper. 43
As we began, so might we end,
And heavenly things with earthly blend ;
Till, to GUI- dying eyes revealed,
Stood those bright forms, no more concealed.
Thronging the gates of heaven's high dome,
To bid the wanderer welcome home.
1851.
u
Consumption.
" Thy will be done, thy will be clone ! "
God grant thee strength to say,
Wan mother, in whose anguished sight
A daughter fades away !
We watched her pale and wasted face,
We turned a greedy ear
To every proffered cure, till doubt
Gave way to sickening fear.
We felt, we knew, there was no hope,
Yet, as at times a trace
Of flickering colour tinged her cheek,
Hope, yet scarce hope, found place.
We could not bring ourselves to deem
The last dread change so nigh ;
We could not, would not, bear to think
That one so young must die.
CONSUMPTION. 45
And eveiy ■word, and look, and deed
Of cliildisli "work or play
Rose up at once into our minds
As though 'twere yesterday.
Then came the simple wiles, to hide
Each pain, however bad ;
The faint, wan smile, the cheerful word.
So exquisitely sad.
And day by day, as still she strove
To raise some hope again,
It seemed as if we never knew
How dear she was till then.
At last that little chamber's quiet
Was deeper than before ;
And every still small sound of life
Therein was heard no more.
A passing bell — deep, trastful prayers,
A mound of grassy sod ;
The dust to dust had back returned,
The spii'it unto God.
1851.
46
3is a dead Pan, dmx out of <Pind.
We met to bear the dead away
To its appointed place,
And gloom and awe their shadow flung
On every mourner's face.
Again we met — that room was decked
To greet a careless band,
And where the foot of Grief had passed,
There Folly took her stand.
So soon, so soon ! — alas, for thee,
The much-beloved, the young !
Thy place is gone, thy very name
Unuttered by each tongue.
So soon, so soon ! yet there was one
With whom thou hadst thy part ;
Wherein thou hast, will ever have.
Thy shrine — a mother's heart.
1851.
47
&i^ 0if|ll of titc ITcir ga\[.
[There is a superstition in some of the noi-them counties,
that those who watch at midnight, in the churchyai'd, on New
Year's Eve, shall see the spirits of those lately dead, and the
forms of those about to die, pass, and vanish in the churcli
porch.]
A GUSTY night — the wind and rain
Beat on the old churchyard,
And in the elemental strife
The year seemed djdng hard.
Wild, stormy, dark — ^yet still we watched,
To see them gliding by ;
The shroud-clad siDU'its of the dead,
And those about to die !
No foi-m came up, no spirit passed
Within the gi'ay porch door ;
The midnight stroke tolled out, was gone.
And all was as before.
No fonn came up ; but when retm-ned,
They asked us how we sped ;
It seemed as if on each had passed
The shade \v of the dead.
48 THE VIGIL OF THE NEW YEAR.
No jest, no laugh, — at last one spoke
In grave and altered tone,
" Wliat, if among those fonns we sought,
We had espied our own ?"
Each looked on each — no need to tell
How all had thought the same ;
A sj'mpathetic shudder ran
At once through every frame.
Tnith, truth ! although we knew it not,
Nor saw the shadows there,
Through every heart that hour had passed
The spirits of the air.
Silently spake they ; yet, we trust
Not vainly, as they said,
" Brother, perchance, the message waits
To join thee to the dead ! "
So come they ever unto souls
Yet prisoned in the clay :
Not in the panoply of death.
Or visible array ;
Not with the outward eye of man.
The spirit-world hath part :
Those who would see their shadows pass
Must watch them in their heart.
1852.
49
i^ It 5 gem.
Old, funereal yew !
How thick thy branches spread
Upon then- grass-grown graves,
The long forgotten dead !
Like to a worn pall wa^^ng,
And flajiping in the wind.
Old, funereal yew !
Thy glories are departed
With those thou bendest o'er,
The true, the English hearted ;
Like oars in water lavin".
That leave no trace behind.
Old, funereal yew !
Thou still with death find'st grace,
Not on the foughten field,
But in a humbler place.
0"er time-gnawed bones low bending.
And iron scraps rusting red.
Old, funereal yew !
Thy spoilers are laid low.
Death hath lopped off thy loppers.
The bowman feeds the bow !
And thou, thy wrongs amending
Art battening on the dead. 1849.
E
50
W\u S^xlr^ ^mi at CJoi:li-bcjg.
It was a cloudless summer's nigM,
A quiet scene of shade and light,
When, by chance, my wandering feet
Bore me to the Fairy seat.
Beneath me far, with sullen swell,
The broad Atlantic rose and fell ;
Around me wide, with cold, gi-ey sheen,
The moonbeams tipped each rugged scene ;
The wailing wind, the billow's roll
With pleasing sadness filled my soul ;
I stood and mused, I scarce knew why,
On themes that raised, unchecked, the sigh.
Till, by degrees, with sleep o'ei-prest.
Within that bower I sank to rest.
I know not, then, if still I slept.
Or if my sense some elf- spell kept ;
But whilst I lay in slumber bound.
Through all the air a still, sweet sound
Passed swift, as if the staiTy sky
Was filled with unknown minstrelsy.
THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG. 51
Each wave-wom stone, each floweret's bell
Sent forth some inmate from its cell ;
Each wi-eathed sea-weed with spray bedight,
Gave back a flickering, elfin light.
I saw them come, the fairy rout,
In many a linked band dxuvra out ;
Elves and fays, and sylphids there
GHding softly in mid-aii*.
Bright and glitteiing was their march,
As, after summer rain, the arch,
The heaven-bom arch, that bending laves
Its point within the glowing waves.
S^aft they pass, as svd&, descend,
Ai-ound the seat they cii-cling bend.
" Tenant of the garish day,"
Thus they said, or seemed to say ;
" Mortal, who hath dared to spy
Sights ne'er seen by mortal eye.
Be thy limbs with faintness bound,
Touch not, stir not, breathe no sound,
Till our queen, at midnight's hour.
Bear thee to the faiiy bower."
Thi-ice they spoke the fairy charm,
Thi-ice I stirred in wild alarm :
Voice and strength had passed away ;
NeiTeless on the gi-ound I lay.
Soon a bright and sudden blaze
Flashed o'er every moonlit maze.
And afar a silveiy shout
Over hill and cM' rang out, —
e2
52 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
" Haste ye here, ye spirits fair,
Dwellers in the sea, the air,
Soon again will day be seen,
Haste ye, greet the Fairy Queen."
Up, in many a shell-wrought boat
The azure water-spirits float ;
Instant from the heaving main
Echoeth the choral strain.
From the green bed of the ocean upstaiiing,
Borne on the billow-foam hither we speed ;
White spray is dashing,
With elfin light flashing.
Haste ye, and hither the faiiy bride lead.
Come from your deep haunts, the bridal song chaunting,
Sprites of the forest, the fountain, the mead !
Beauty is blushing
With shame and joy flushing :
Haste ye, and hither the fairy bride lead.
The song has ceased, and o'er the tide
Swift the ocean spia-its glide ;
As the grey mist-wreaths that fly
In many a shape that mocks the eye,
O'er the hills at break of day,
Thus they pass and melt away.
Instant, like a falling star,
Gleams a meteor fr'om afar,
Spiked with many a lurid flame.
High in air it rushing came ;
THE FAIRT SEAT AT CORK-BEG. 53
Softly opening in midway,
Down the glittering sparkles stray.
Eacli a wann-eyed, dusky sprite,
Crowned and wreathed with fire-fly light.
StiTiggling with the glowing train,
Cii'cled in a red rose chain,
In the midst a boy they bore,
Captive from the Eastern shore.
Flushed and crimson was his cheek.
As the opening May-day's streak ;
Soft and glistening beamed his eye.
As the genial April sky.
Puri^le wing and bee- strung bow
Well the treacherous godhead show ;
Elfin sprite and mortal heart
Feel alike his honied dart.
Round and round the laughing crew.
Light in mimic triumph flew ;
Sweetly, as a silver bell.
Thus theii' choral notes they swell :
" In a lotus cup, sly hiding,
Down our sacred Gunga gliding,
First we spied our urchin toy.
Softly as the panther creeping
Where our beauteous prize lay sleeping.
Panting, pouting, struggling, weeping.
Fast we bound the truant boy.
54 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
" Seek ye not from bonds to free him,
These who loose shall quickly see him
From their longing eyes depart.
Heed ye not his mute appealing ;
If ye pity him when kneeling,
Through the throbbing bosom stealing.
He will surely touch the heart.
" Sylphs, beware his glowing kisses,
Venom' d pleasures, treacherous blisses ;
In their honey lurks a sting.
Would ye keep the heart from grieving ?
Be not, piythee, too believing,
Love at best is but deceiving ;
Not for nought he wears a wing."
A plaintive, wild, and stin-ing strain,
An echoing shout — again, again !
With downcast eye, but regal mien,
I saw her come, the Elfin Queen.
In June when flowers awake anew,
Hast marked the opening rosebud's hue,
The inmost leaflet of the flower
Wet with spray of the new di'opped shower,
Of tint intense, yet pure and meek ?
Such was her fau* and rounded cheek.
Hast marked the larch in early spring
Her bursting buds to the sunbeam fling.
THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG. 55
Tipped with fresh and lovely green,
Studded vdth crimson knots between ?
Such the robes that flickering played
Round the limbs of the Elfin maid.
A wreath of glow-worm light she wore,
A silvery wand her right hand bore.
She touched the rock whereon I lay,
Leapt fr'om the stone a vi^id ray ;
She touched the rock — a gulf profound
Cleft apart ia the solid ground.
Shouts of glee and gibbering mirth,
Down, down to the middle earth.
Clinging, clutching, and tempest-tossed,
Striving ever, yet onwards forced ;
Down, dowTi to the inmost cell,
"WTiere the gnomes of darkness dwell ;
Up, as the auturan breezes curl
Withered leaves in eddying swii'l ;
On, through the fields of boundless space,
Many a wild and mocking face ;
Air above, around, below,
Arrowy sleet and diiving snow.
Sudden bursts of lurid fire,
Shriekings, yells, and words of ii-e ;
On to the Elfin realms we came,
Plunged in a sea of molten flame —
A strain of music thi'illing sweet —
We stood at the Elfin monarch's feet.
56 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
There is a legend often told
By wandering seers in days of old,
That fays who range our earth and sky
Were glorious spirits once on high :
But since in heaven's revolt no part
They played, nor showed a loyal heart,
Unfit in realms above to dwell.
Unfit to mate with sprites of hell ;
Not wholly cursed, not blessed, they dree
A restless, vague uncertainty.
And so it seemed, for on that face
Shone flickering yet a seraph grace,
Some hues of heaven, some stains of grief.
As if the spiiit sought relief
In revellings wild, yet mourned to see
His changed and fallen dynasty.
" Mortal ! " these the words he said :
" Child of earth, whose daring head
Slumbered on the hallowed ground
Where the fay may circle round,
At the stroke of midnight's hour
Wast thou given to our power ;
Here a captive thou must stay
Till the fearful Judgment day.
Yet, if now we grant thee grace
Back to wander to thy place,
Touched with fond and vain desire
Of the poet's sacred fire,
THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG. 57
Thou must bide the scoff and jeer,
Folly's laugh, the dunce's sneer ;
Ever yearning after fame.
All obscure shall be thy name.
Pass thou on ; behold a sight
Never seen by mortal wight ;
Back returning, pray to heaven
That the fay may be forgiven."
They thronged me round, the foiry crew,
Each organ touched with faiiy dew;
On every sense there came new light —
On taste, on heaiing, touch, and sight.
I passed me on thi-ough deep gi-ecn spots,
Through woodland dells and wave-worn grots,
Until from far, across the plain.
The winds brought up this wailing strain :
" Our pleasant homes on earth.
The lands that gave us birth,
Our joyous houi's of mirth.
Lost, lost for ever !
" Alas, for broken tnist,
Alas, for sins of lust.
Foul deeds of mortal dust ;
Lost, lost for ever !
" Memory giieveth sore,
Even hope is o'er.
We may return no more ;
Lost, lost for ever !"
58 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
Then saw I those, who in the hour
When, for a space, the fays have power
Their restless wanderings to hegin,
Were found hy them in act of sin.
Each form was human to the waist,*
But on that trunk was deftly placed
The upper part of serpent, newt,
Or some unclean and evil brute ;
Whatever thing in faiiy sight.
Had most of that same appetite
Which swayed their senses in the hour
That gave them up to fairy power.
Yet not of sense or human mind
Were they bereft, but wept to find
Their former beauties thuswise changed.
Themselves fi'om every hope estranged ;
Yet, by that selfsame glamour held,
Each twofold form was there compelled,
Low bending down, to seek and find
His loathsome food, each after kind.
With hatefuUest disrelish there
They cropped the weed and pasture bare ;
Of slime and carrion, foul and black,
With quivering nostrils, eyes turned back,
They ate, and shuddering o'er their meat —
Paused, but again to shrink and eat.
Homer's Odyssey, book x.
THE FAIRY SEAT AT COKK-BEG. 59
Tlu-ough this ^vilii scene of dole and din,
This very hell for petty sin,
I passed me quick, and came to where
Sweet infant fonns of upper aii",
In floweiy groves of rosy sheen.
In sunlit glades of emerald green,
Unchecked, untended, ceaseless kept
Theii- revelliugs shi-ill, or wearied, slept.
Shadowy seemed each glowing child,
Fonns that the stedfast eye beguiled ;
As a sunbeam that has strayed
Through the leaves, on a forest glade.
Shimmers and dances here and there,
Midway flitting 'twixt earth and air ;
Ever thus the laughing crew,
Flickering, mocked the earnest view.
Now, for a moment fall in sight.
Now, in a gleaming flash of light
Utterly lost, confused, and blent
With the cceiTilean fij-mament.
These are they of mortal birth,
Snatched away fi'om the upper earth ;
If the mother, in hour of woe,
Spiiitual hope and help forego :
If seven weeks shall pass away,
Ere for 'the new-bom babe she pray,
Coming in at the midnight hour.
Then, in part, the fays have power ;
Yet, although they have their will,
They may do the child uu ill.
60 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
Bome away to fairy land,
It shall join the happy band ;
Peace and joy are for its soul,
For the parents, ceaseless dole.
Though the outward form be there,
Like to child of upper air.
Yet an evil-working sprite
Dwelleth in it fi-om that night ;
They shall see it, day by day,
Wither, pine, and waste away ;
Work its little playmates haiTa,
Give to all around alarm.
Till the hand of early death
Cutteth short its impish breath.
I could have gazed for ever there.
On those young forms so passing fair,
But swift a hid, resistless power
Impelled me onwards fi'om their bower.
The woods and meadows passed away.
The rosy tints paled out to grey ;
I stood within a shamble, wide,
Hung round with flesh on eveiy side ;
Yet was each loathsome mass I viewed
With power of speech and life endued.
Gibbering, panting, heaving fast.
They seemed to mock me as I passed ;
Great fish-like eyes fi'om every joint
Stared out, and fingers strove to point ;
A sickening, faint, and fleshy smell
Upon the upturned nostrils fell ;
THE FAIRY SEAT AT COEK-BEG. Gl
A curdling stream of clotted gore
Crept slowly round the noisome floor,
And in the midst, as on a throne,
Ou pui-pling carcase, whitening hone,
Sat Ephialtes,* hideous hag,
Girt with a single squalid rag ;
Orange-spotted, like a newt.
Was the skin of the unclean brute.
Like to loathsome toad squatting
On some can-ion foul and rotting ;
There the evil phantom dwelt.
Bane of banquets, often felt
By the rich, luxurious wight
"WTio will feast him high at night.
Round her seat there went, slow crawling,
Chattering, yelling, muttering, squalling,
Many a foul, fantastic shape,
Funeral pall, and cat, and ape ;
Pallid faces tlu'onged the room.
Undistinguished forms of gloom
From the corners, here and there,
Peered, with long, dishevelled hair.
Quickly the hag espied me out,
Summoneth up her rabble rout.
Leaped her down from off her thi'one.
Muttering out a palsied groan ;
Circling round on either hand.
Thus in chorus yelled her band : —
* The nightmare.
62 THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG.
" Thou art in the realms of the midnight queen,
Whose power is over all ;
On the whirlwind hlast she rideth fast
To the stately banquet hall.
Ho! ho!
Well ye know
We have a spell to work thee woe !
" Look, look on the piles of slaughter here-
All died that man might eat ;
When not content with the blessings sent,
Then ive serve up his meat.
Ho! ho!
Whether or no
Mortals will it, our power they know.
" Thou hast come to the realms of the midnight's
queen.
But thou shalt not depart.
Then bow thee straight, for the night-hag's weight
Must ride upon thine heart.
Ho ! ho !
Down ye go,
We have a charge to work thee woe !"
As a swarm of wasps, whose nest the share
Of the plough has left all torn and bare.
Spring from the startled rustic's feet.
Striking and wounding all they meet.
THE FAIRY SEAT AT CORK-BEG. G3
Thus on me leapt the evil crew ;
Smelt they the smell of fairy dew :
Back recoiling fi-om off their prey,
All the dark phantoms pass away ;
Again at the Elfin monarch's throne,
Scathless and scared, I stood alone.
'Twas a sight most fair and strange to see,
That vision of faiiy majesty:
One while like to the mei-maid's cave,
Deep in the depths of the ocean wave ;
Ceiling and wall swam in the sight,
Dripping with floods of azm-e light ;
One while a warm and reddening gleam
Tints each foiTQ with a rosy beam.
Like the rays of the setting sun,
'\\Tien for the day his race is run.
The sprites of the forest, the eai-th, the air.
The Naiad, the Indian fay, were there ;
All who on earth that selfsame night
Met at the fairy seat my sight.
Long dra-ttTi out, in a garish band.
Gathered around on either hand.
Lately a captive, now a king.
High in the centre of the ring.
Saw I a form upon the throne.
Standing, in triumph, all alone.
The king of the Elfin land, the queen
Girt with her robes of fairy green,
64 THE FAIRY SEAT AT COEK-BEG.
All, as at once, with one consent, i
Low at the shi-ine of Cupid bent, !
Hymning before bis sapphire fane
Praises and prayer in such like strain: ]
" Far- shooting archer god,
Sitting on high.
Ruler of mortals.
Lord of the sky ;
Cupid, whose empire
Is over us all.
Be thou propitious
To Oberon's call.
" Come not, as oft of old,
Bringing fierce strife,
Come not with earthly
Bickerings rife ;
Prone and submissive,
Before thee we fall;
Be thou propitious
To Oberon's call."
I saw the laughing godhead's eye
Glisten with hidden meaning sly ;
Never a word he spoke, but sprung
Up from the throne, and passing, flung
THE FAIRY SEAT AT COIiK-BEG. Go
Down at the monarch's feet a scroll.
'>
These were its words, and these the whole :
" Greeting and health, most lo\nng sprite !
Fare thou the same as mortal wight."
Quickly I turned to gaze upon
The glittering bands, but all were gone ;
Palace and elf had passed away,
I woke in the fairy seat — 'twas day.
1841.
66
(3{onrjctti;tl ^uirjts.
How rarely in this world of ours we find
A soul in all tMngs answering to our own ;
Heart echoing back to heart, mind unto mind ;
These are not, or, at best, but scautly known.
And yet it is not that the soul would keep
Itself withdrawn in solitary rest ;
The yearning to be loved, to love, is deep,
Most deep implanted in the human breast.
We see its germ even in the little child,
Fondling, with real love, its simple toys ;
We see it more, when creatures tame or wild,
As years flit by, are all to girls and boys.
Nor yet in manhood stifled, though it shrink
More back into itself. The captive pent
Within the dungeon, though he mourns to think
All hope of freedom banished, yet has bent.
Will bend his love unto some trifle there ;
A weed, an insect, rather than endure
That loneliness of heart, that dead despair.
Which none can banish, and no time can cure.
But man in social intercourse with man
Rejects the good he has not learned to ])nze ;
He feels, but deems it weakness, views life's span,
CONGENIAL SPIRITS. 07
Not with his own, but with another's eyes,
And moulds his heart upon their model : — prone,
Too prone to shiink back from the heartless sneer,
Too weak, too proud (be't what it may) to own
His natural feelings, and declai-e them dear.
Scarce two minds think alike, but wherefore feicn
An apathy we feel not ? wherefore blight
Feelings we know not of with om- disdain ?
Brother, walk in thy path as thou hast light.
Leave me to follow mine. — One common weal
We cannot hold, yet in thy strength mock not.
Thou hast the smoother, easier path ; to feel
Too keenly is no enviable lot.
1851.
F 2
68
(Brown 61 d.
A SCENTED leaf, a withered floTacer,
A ribbon scrap, a glove :
Inglorious records of the hour
When we could trust and love !
A backward glance at olden days,
A smile, perchance a sigh,
A transient thought, a listless gaze.
And so we fling them by.
And so we fling them by, as rife
With folly or with pain ;
Yet many a one would give a life
To live their hours again.
1860.
69
Itlariitigc ih €mmu\tt
She stood by the altar coldly,
And calmly spoke her part ;
And she gave, unmoved and boldly,
Her hand, but not her heart !
On earth there were words of gladness
To greet the purchased name,
In heaven were tears and sadness
Over a sister's shame.
1860.
70
ik JiniDht's gimfiom.
A Paynim chief to a kniglit has gone
In donjon where he lay,
" What wilt thou give for fi'eedom,
Thou Christian warrior, say?"
" I have silver and gold in England,
And lands fall fair to see ;
All that I have, for freedom
Will I freely give to thee."
" Oh, I will none of thy gold, sir Knight,
Or ransom from thy lands ;
But I will have of thy ladie-love
One of her lily hands."
" Though I should bide in Palestine
Until my dying hour,
Never shall such a tale be told
Within my ladle's bower.
THE knight's ransom. 71
" Though I should rot in donjou keep,
Till such a ransom be ;
Ow're God forbid," quoth Sir Grimbald,
" That she should give it thee ! "
All this then heard his trusty squire.
And he has ta'en the bent,
And over the seas to fair England
Full speedily he went.
And when he came to fair England,
He rode o'er moss and moor,
Until he came to his liege ladie.
And stood without her door.
" Now Christ thee save thou tinisty squire,
What news dost thou bring me,
What of my lord in Palestiae,
Across the raging sea ?"
" The tidings I bring thee of thy lord
Will cost thee many a tear,
But the word I have conceniing thee,
Is worst of all to hear.
" 111 speeds my lord in Palestine,
With gyves and fetters tied ;
He lies in the Paynim's donjon keep.
And there he must abide.
72 THE knight's ransom.
" For they will none of his gold, ladie,
And they will none of his lands,
But they will have for his ransom,
One of thy lily hands ! "
Pale and wan grew the fair ladie,
Yet stately up stood she.
And, " Ave Maria, help I " she said,
" This, mine extremity.
" Well hast thou played thy part, good squire,
And shall not I play mine ?
Now, God forhid, that a Christian knight
In Paynim-hold should pine !
" Boot, and saddle, and mount, and ride,
Thou shalt bear back with thee
The price that the cruel Paynim chief
This day hath craved of me.
" And say to my lord, in Palestine,
To set thee fi^ee, thy wife
Would give, not only one of her hands,
But if needs were, her life ! "
As she hath said so hath she done.
Or ever the sun did wane,
And she hath won back from Holy Land
Her own dear knight again.
THE KXIGHT'S RANS03r. 73
And e'en to this day in Cowarao cliurcli,
Their sculptui-ed fomis are seen ;
A knight in his harness all yclad,
A dame of saintly mien.
One hand is folded across her breast,
And (if men rightly read),
The other is coupled at the wrist,
In memoiy of her deed.
And ever and still the tale is told,
Where minstrel's tale is rife,
How the knight of the ilk, Sir Grimbald,
Was ransomed by his ^nfe.
1851.
74
^^iiivii.
I KNEW her in her youth, ere yet
The hand of time had lightly set
Its seal to womanhood ;
And even then she seemed to me
One formed above the herd to be
For evil or for good :
One, in whose veins ran liquid fire,
Whom most would love, and more admire —
A yet unsullied page.
Whereon a master-hand might trace
The lineaments of every gi'ace
From childhood unto age.
So passed she by — but when I heard
That she was wed, a feeling stirred
Within my heart — of fear.
An equal or superior mind
I knew in her would surely find
A helpmate ever dear :
t
ASTAETE. 75
But if her lot witli one were cast,
Wlio, when Ms love's first flush had passed.
Would coldly tiun away,
I felt she would not tamely hear
The altered tone, the wild despair,
Of that all evil day.
As, when the rising sun at dawn
Gilds the gi'ey streaks of early morn
With reddening hues of light ;
Black clouds full oft come up that day,
And, gathering round, ohscui'e each ray
Too prematui'ely bright.
Even so with her ; a season passed
Too radiantly fair to last.
And then the soul awoke
As fi-om a di'eam of all things dear.
To prove how fearfully, how near,
The muttering thunder broke.
Alas ! the bolt of sin hath sped !
It smote the self-devoted head.
She fell, to rise no more :
Down bowed beneath the furious gale,
A nameless bark with shivered sail.
Lies stranded on the shore.
1851.
76
®j) i!tJ£rnt!un|} i\\m is a ^^ajjou.
To eveiything there is a season.
J£ccl. iii. 1.
They err who deem that life was sown
Within man's frame for life alone,
And that all else with youth is flown.
Who to one level all would bring,
And fancy's visions from them fling,
Haii)ing upon a single string.
Who turn with sneering, scomftil gaze,
From lover's sighs, and poet's lays.
As follies of our early days.
In close cocoon of self enrolled
Their nobler aims are quickly told ;
To gather, or to lavish gold.
They eiT : the lover's discontent,
The poet's vision heavenwards sent.
Have not for all the same intent.
A man may love, and yet be wise,
Be sober-minded, and yet prize
Nature in true poetic guise.
I
TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON. 77
The lonely shepherd, on whose sight
The starry hemispheres of night
Gleam with a strange, uncertain light,
The wanderer on the Arctic main,
The humblest tiller of the plain.
May feel, yet scarce feel hoiv, the strain
Of voiceless music, as they gaze
On God's immeasureable ways,
That lead the heart to prayer and praise.
By natui'e poets still, although
In utterance of ideas slow.
And scant of words to give them flow.
That life is real who may deny,
A blank scroll given from on high,
For all to fill up ere they die ;
With stains and spots soon interspersed ;
But God, who foi-med us at the first.
Sends of the best as well as worst —
A mingled lot — and yet the mind
Who rightly seeks, may mostly find
The evil and its cure combined.
Moreover, as in this our earth
Scarce two are found alike from birth,
In outward form or inward worth.
78 TO EVERTTHINa THERE IS A SEASON.
Even so tliat subtle essence blent
With every fragile in wise intent,
Finds not a one or selfsame vent.
We view our lot with varying eyes,
And oft the boons tbat some despise
We'see anotlier chiefly prize.
Nor only so ; at times we find
A second self wthin the mind,
Mysteriously undefined,
And yet a certainty — else why
In the same man do we espy
Such varying natures bud and die ?
One while the grosser soul hath sway.
Chasing ethereal dreams away,
Living but to the present day ;
One while the subtler essence wakes,
Mounts up, her every fetter breaks.
And over all dominion takes.
One touch, the sluggish, dormant brain
Starts as fi-om death to life agam.
Kindling in many an ancient strain ;
Old impulses rise up anew.
And Hope's own azure opening through,
Lends to the whole its proper hue.
TO EVERTTHIXG THERE 13 A SEASON.
One touch, again the visions fly,
Earth-mists again steam up on high,
And heaven-hora fancies wane and die.
Such is man's life, and who shall say,
When either phase hath passed away, ,
" I have outlived the happier day."
The slackened bow retains its force,
The ever-bended waxeth worse.
Nor diives the arrow on its course.
The mightiest stream that we can name
Is not in summer drought the same
As when the winter toiTents came.
Lay up the moral in thy breast,
And prize as meet the old behest,
" Whatever is, is surely best."
1852,
80
i i s t a n r e
DiSTAJSTT, far distant — oli, for tliose who love
There is a vagueness in the very word,
A dread uncertainty that makes us pause
Even in our happier hours — some chord hath stirred
In memory's shadowy, moonUt halls that finds
An echo in the heart ; and so we glide
Down from the present to the past, and float
Backwards with time, as with an ebbing tide.
And we recall the hours, and in their train
Old shapes come up, dim, mist-veiled faces rise,
A host of half-remembered, once loved forms,
Looking us through with their sad, earnest eyes.
Distant, far distant from us ! and the while
We think not of them, it may be, they lie
Stretched on the bed of pain, and, scorching hot.
In fever's red delirium, toss and cry
To those who cannot hear. Perchance their souls,
Even now, are bending o'er us, and the aii',
Balm-fraught to us, fanned by the last life-breath
Of those for whom we have no thought, no care.
Not that their memories are from our hearts
"Wholly estranged or banished, but this life
DISTANCE. 81
Brings daily cares and tm-moil in its wake,
And we must play our parts. Hopes, wants, and strife
Pi'ess hard upon us, and the hand of Time,
Slowly, but surely working, doth, in part,
Loosen the ties of blood, the silver cords,
That eai-ly fi-iendship twined about our heart.
One leaf, and then another, stealing down
From waning summer's thick-clad boughs, are passed
Unheeded, unremarked, yet still they be
Presagers of the time, when, showering fast.
Autumn shall pour them, withered, on the ground.
So fai-es it with man's heart ; a change comes on,
Gradual at fii'st, then faster, till we stand
Alone, bereaved — scarce knowing what is gone,
Yet feeling we are changed. Life's winter, age,
Nipping the greener blossoms of the heart,
Ripening us for the grave, in wise intent
That calmer, at God's hour, we may depart.
1852.
G
82
S^k WimL
" Wailing, low wailing, melancholy wind,
Thou wakest thoughts of grief with every blast ;
Hast thou no notes of joy, no sounds beseeming,
For those whose happy hours are not yet past,
Thou melancholy Wind ? "
'' I come, fast sweeping o'er this earth of thine ;
Whence should I gather notes like those ye seek ?
The few joy-notes I glean are lost in moanings,
The heart-worn moanings of the oppressed and
weak ;
These, these alone I find."
" Then sound thy trumpet-blasts, for thou art free ;
Roar like the ocean lashed by thee to rage ;
Go forth, and bid the slaves, as one uprising,
Write down in blood their names on history's page.
Go forth, they wait for thee."
" Myriads of shuddering souls are ever speeding
Forth on my pinions into boundless space ;
I bear them onwards, I, the spirit-ridden.
Each one unto his own appointed place ;
How canst thou call me free ? "
THE WIND. 83
"• Dost thou, too, breathe of death, low wailing Wind ;
I deemed thee but the playmate of the flowers ;
A fitful, wandeiing sprite, in winter giieving,
In springtime pregnant but with genial showers ;
Hast thou a chamel breath ? "
'• Change, ceaseless change, is written on the world,
Mark all that voiceless, fixed decree obeying,
Time hasting onwards to eternity,
Man, beast, tree, flower, each at his hour decaying,
Aye, all things breathe of death."
1849.
G 2
84
mx{ iattlc 4 (^m
A SOUND as of an army
Who march, with might and mam,
A sound of foot and horsemen
Quick tramping o'er the plain.
We stayed our bands at Crecy.
That day the foe had fill
Of lusty push of pikemen,
Of English how and hill !
First came the Genoese men :
Uncase we each his how ;
And down, as lightning-stricken.
The Genoese men go.
Each crushed back on his fellow,
They might not stand or flee ;
Such slaughter as on that day
Great pity 'twas to see !
THE BATTLE OF CRECY. 85
Up spake then Count Alcncon,
" Cui'se on these shrinhiug slaves ;
Ride at them, gallant horsemen,
And slay the coward knaves ! "
Up iTished the mail-clad horsemen ;
We hent our hows again.
And horse and mail-clad horseman
Lay rolling on the plain.
The cannoneers on that day
Shot sharp, as all might know ;
Oui' howmen they rushed forward,
And cast aside the bow.
Then down went stout Alencou,
LoiTaine, and Bourbon's duke,
The Earl of Blois, and Flanders,
"Who ne'er the fight forsook.
Spake then Bohemia's blind king
(A woeful man was he),
" Alack, alack, for Franco, that
This day should ever be.
" Now lead me to the battle,
A knight on either side ! "
He rushed among the billmen.
And so right kingly died.
gg THE BATTLE OF CRECY.
Now joy to England's monarcli,
And glory to our prince ;
Such victoi7 as Crecy
Was ne'er before or since !
And honour to our bowmen,
Who stemmed the battle's tide,
Thi-ee kings stood not before them,
Three monarchs in their pride !
r^
1847.
87
Mi S^nifilicij.
'TwiXT heaven and earth, like a fleecy cloud,
The •wailing Banshee flies ;
No spii-it of health is she, I ween,
No sprite of evil with pale, blue sheen.
To startle the wanderer's eyes.
Yet often her fitful croon at eve
Falls on the shuddering ear ;
Woe, woe, to that mansion's inmates where
She waileth and weeps in upper air —
The shadow of death is near.
To many an ancient hearth some spell
Has bound the wandering sprite,
Arid when aught of ill befalls that race,
At some casement high her coi-pse-like face
Peers in, an ominous sight.
Oft as a hag is seen her form,
Oft as a maiden fair ;
But fair or foul, her errand is one :
Welcome tidings she bringeth to none,
Save to him who must despair.
1839.
88
60Ti5iitmi;r Jail
Gossamer Hall, I often wonder now
If thou art as of old, or if the hand
Of that sprite called Improvement, from the hrow
Of Cork-beg's cliff hath swept thee to the sand.
And yet I think thou art, for there was one
Who loved to linger in thy rubble screen.
Basking and joying in the morning's sun,
Whese memoiy is inwoven in thy being :
An old, good-hearted man. I see him yet
In his bright buttoned coat, or blue cloak flung
Loose on his shoulders, toddle down, and sit,
The merriest of us all, and we were young.
Peace to his kindly soul ! For he is gone
Where we must one day follow in our turn.
And years have slided by, and time rolled on.
Since last I trod those paths embossed with fern ;
And many a change hath been : some are grown old.
Some gone, I know not whither, but each place
Comes often up before me, and I hold
Stni dear to me each well-remembered face.
I too am changed, but not in all. Old friends,
Believe me, ye have yet with me a part ;
God keep me so ! and grant me, till life ends,
Memory's best, rarest gem — a grateful heart.
1852.
89
|3fiuc[lu.
Wheee hath the soul her seat ?
Where in this earthly frame
Finds she a temple meet
For her up-pointed flame ?
Viewless, all unconfined.
Yet to one end designed,
Is the immortal Soul.
Askest thou where she be ?
Thou mayst not find her throne ;
Let it suffice to thee,
She dwelleth not alone.
Two forms, one fair as light,
One dusk as ebon night,
Watch ever o'er the Soul.
One weaves a starry crown
Of that thou doest well ;
One forgeth, bending down,
Thine ill to gyves of hell.
Gazing with earnest eyes.
Silently each one plies
Her labour for the Soul.
90
PSYCHE.
Ah, careless one, and slow
To change this fleshly heart !
When wilt thou learn to know
And choose the better part !
Night clouds are gathering fast,
And who, when life is past.
Shall claim thee, my Soul !
1852.
I
91
f oitf} of guerpii and gnblja.
THE WEAVING OF THE DAXES' KAVEN STANDARD.
We t^rine not the white robe for
Maiden's adorning,
Not the mantle for banquet, or
Blithe bridal morning.
Our fingers, quick weaving.
Keep pace \^ith our song,
And the distant isles, grieving,
Shall mourn for it long.
On, on o'er billows hoaiy !
On, on to death or glory !
Long shalt thou live in story,
Swart flag of victory !
Forth from your dark haunts, yc
Spii'its of might !
Forth, forth ye fatal Three,
Dwellers in night ;
Why do ye linger,
Stem Givers of doom ?
A Reimkennar's finger
Now weaves at the loom.
92 SONG OF HUEEPA AND HUBBA.
Loud is tlie tempest beating ;
Forth, forth the night is fleeting,
. Forth, forth — we give ye greeting,
Dread Powers of destiny !
Now darker and thicker
Dun clouds fill the air.
And brighter and quicker
The red lightnings glare.
I hear ye ! low wailing
Ye steam from the ground,
On bat-wing up-sailing,
Ye circle around.
Weave, weave with hasty finger.
Weave, weave whilst yet they linger.
Gift, thou for bold Vikinger,
Swai't flag of victory !
The gi'oaning loom shaketh.
With magic spells rife,
The war raven waketh,
It stai-teth to life !
Dread gift of fierce Odin,
Go forth in thy might !
With black wing foreboding
Of conquest or flight.
Faint, hot, the scents of slaughter
Steam up from yon blue water !
On, Denmark's vengeful daughter,
On, on to victory ! 1848.
93
u Mifitletoc.
The mistletoe plaut in days of yore
Was famed in the heathen Druid's lore ;
Her boughs were cropped with sickles of gold,
But oh ! the gatherer's hand was old.
Far better the use she now doth know,
When Christmas biddeth the brown ale flow,
For the young and the fair she now doth grow,
Hurrah ! for old England's mistletoe.
Her place is the old baronial hall ;
She hangs from the peasant's and yeoman's wall :
He knows but little who knows not this.
Who plucks a berry may claim a kiss.
The holly beads like the red lips glow.
The mistletoe pearls like the teeth below ;
What matter, though maids sometimes say " No !
Hun-ah ! for old England's mistletoe.
94
THE MISTLETOE.
Oh ! never may fashion's frown beguile
The mistletoe's use from this our isle ;
Though many a custom has passed away,
Hold fast the custom of Christmas day !
Waes hael* to high and low !
Christmas biddeth the brown ale flow !
With spiky leaf and beriy of snow,
Hurrah! for old England's mistletoe.
1848.
f<
* Waes hael — Saxon for wassail.
95
gk ei(i gutdt mh.
A HUGE old volume, sullied
By Time's embrowning tints,
With massive clasp and covers,
"With thumbed and tattered prints.
Man's Eden and the Temple
Squared out by Dutchman's law,
And Easterns in the fashion
Of William of Nassau.
And yet, methinks, I mind me
Of days, as of a dream,
When all those quaint engravings
Were other than they seem.
When stories, oft repeated,
Had charms for ever new,
And all those foi-ms and figures
Were living tj'pes and true.
96 THE OLD DUTCH BIBLE.
Ah, d&vm of trustful childhood,
Undimmed by care and grief !
We lack, perchance, thy brightness,
But more thy pure belief;
And better, had we perished
Before the years of strife.
If then the Tree of Knowledge
O'ershade the Tree of Life.
1860.
97
lalloirrd Ground.
It may be that oui- love is cold ;
"VNTiose is not iu these iron days,
When Self is all to young and old,
And Duty walks on narrowed ways ?
Our mysteries now are as a tale
Thrice told ; oui- holiest shrines ai-e bare,
And broadening science strips the veil
From eveiy sign of earth and air ;
One thing remains — whose eye can bound,
Whose word can limit Hallowed Ground ?
"Where is that spot ? — it is not placed
Or measured out by human art,
On every trodden haunt 'tis traced,
With eveiy lonely nook has part ;
It rises up T^ithin our way :
To us, perchance, of priceless worth,
Yet many a fellow-man may say,
" I hold it nought but common earth."
For in the heart alone is found
The seal which stamps it Hallowed Ground.
1853.
98
J[ootsli?Uf) of ih (Sa^HIe.
Wherever those small hoofs are lightly printeil,
There, too, are also traced
Some evil beast's pursuing footsteps dinted *
Upon the sandy waste.
On other wastes than these, with other traces
Such tracks as surely blend,
By lowly paths of Life, by Life's high places,
But what shall be the end ?
The trampled sand, the blood ? — a tale of slaughter,
By voiceless hon'ors told ?
Or rest beside the green oasis water,
One added to the fold ?
1856.
* A fact.
99
fqcdnL
An early love rejected,
A tiTisted one untrue,
A faithful friend neglected :
Old tales, yet ever new !
Slightingly heard when spoken,
Bitterly mourned when known, —
By these the heaii is broken.
Or hardened into stone.
1855.
H 2
100
No fever in delirium's wildest hour,
No nightmare ever pictured forms more strange,
More hideous, than upon this earth of ours.
Ere Time waxed old, were wont to sport and range
The visions of old days, the fables quaint
Of Hydra, Geryon, and Stymphalides,
And, later still, the di'agon by our Saint
Down-trodden and destroyed ; such tales as these
Bring us almost to deem our fathers' lore
Framed on some record of that primal birth,
Ere Adam from the river-girded shore
Of Paradise, went forth to till the earth.
Wild dost thou deem such fancies ? Never yet
Sprang fabled legend fi'om the brain of man
But had its first root-fibres placed and set
On Fact's granitic rock ; far out of span
i
AIsTEDILUVIAN RELICS. 101
Of our weak mortal ken, and buried deep
By that same restless mole, liight Chronos, who
Upcasting in his progress many a heap.
Shall, at the last, return them into view.
It has been so, it vnl\ be to the end ;
Last shall in turn be first, in turn, first, last,
Till Time itself shall cease, and, ceasing, blend
Into one whole the Present and the Past.
1853.
102
Irokn-geniiiid.
Dying ! — the world with all its busy changes
Departing fast away.
Djdng ! — and memory in her backward ranges
Still fresh as yesterday !
The first, faint flush — the one fixed hope returning
In every place and scene ;
The vain appeal — and oh ! the vainer yearning
For things that might have been !
Why should that thought be ever, ever present ?
Her thoughts are not with me ;
Her paths are paths of peace, her life-ways pleasant ;
So may they ever be !
And let the shadow of my dial, waning
Go down on my despair ;
Within the grave these woes may cease from paining,
Find rest : but only there.
1857,
103
iTonij, lonc) gi()o.
Last night, in emptying out my desk
I found a lock of hair.
It had a scent of Rowland's oil,
And oh ! 't was long and fair,
Adele !
And oh ! 't was long and fair !
■'o
Yes, surely those were pleasant times,
When every day we met ;
Myself an Oxford Johnny Raw,
And you a young coquette,
Adele !
And you a young coquette !
I mind me yet how all began ;
By chance or by design.
When first you drew your hand away,
Then laid it back in mine,
Adele !
Then laid it back in mine !
104 LONG, LONG AGO.
A thrill shot up, from arm to heart
Just sinking with despair ;
I looked into a half- closed eye,
And learned a lesson there,
Adele !
And learned a lesson there !
We walked, we danced, we quarrelled too.
Were reconciled, and then i
We parted ; I was false, and you
A flirt with other men,
Adele !
A flirt with other men.
1857.
i
105
lunir djliant
THE FORGING OF THE SWOED.
Blow, blow, ye heaving bellows, blow !
Ye fiery sparkles, play !
Salt sweat down eveiy limb must flow ;
We forge the sword to-day.
Awake, ye spirits of the slain,
With blood besmeared and dank ;
Rise up, rise up from sea and plain,
And joy you in the clank.
Far distant lands our toil shall know,
When warring kings are met ;
Many a vale where streamlets flow
With redder dew be wet !
Come forth, thou sickle of the grave !
Come forth, thou glowing brand !
Be faithful to the true and brave,
Betray the coward's hand !
106 RUNIC CHANT.
Beneath, above, with ringing sound
The red-hot sparkles fly ;
For every flash that gleams around
A tear shall dim some eye.
Aye, beam ye forth as beams the main,
By evening's red sun gilt ;
Full soon a darker, ruddier stain
Shall gild thee to the hilt !
Strike on, strike on ! the steely cling
Shall wake the orphan's moans.
And blows on blows that echoing ring
Be echoed back in groans !
Shine forth, thou sickle of the grave !
Shine forth, thou glowing brand !
Be faithful to the true and brave,
Betray the coward's hand !
Ye spirits of the mighty dead,
Up-starting from the soil,
I hear ye flitting round my head
And gloating on the toil !
Full soon shall in Valhalla's Hall
Fresh bleeding cups be set,
And those who fell and those who fall
In revelry be met.
RUNIC CHANT. 107
The work is clone. We quench the blade
Within the spell-bound flood !
Be faithful as the hand that made,
Henceforth be quenched in blood !
Go forth, thou sickle of the grave !
Go forth, a warrior's brand !
Be faithful to the true and brave,
Betray the coward's hand !
1842.
108
f j^iritual pith.
Peoud Pharisee, uplifting high
Thy cold and unforgiving eye,
Oh ! why so prompt to mark and spy
The slips of poor Mortality ?
Art thou so pure ? — the rather then
Seek to excuse thy fellow-men,
Labouring to turn them back again,
Not vaunting o'er their wanderings.
Look to thy soul — her niiiTor's light
Shall give thee back a strange, new sight,
The canker-worm, the rust, the blight,
And thou in fond security !
Lo ! Pride, who heaven would scale and win,
Piling her Babel tower within.
And every stone another's sin
From summit down to pedestal.
SPIRITUAL PRIDE. 109
And Hydra-headed Slander near,
Daubing -^-ith upas slime thine ear,
Too prone before to catch and hear
Her evei7 breath of calumny.
Satan's own task. The accuser waits
Hard by the portal of life's gates,
His favourite ones, thy chosen mates.
Leading thee on deceitfully.
1853.
110
§h galtle 0f |oiii^rs.
Light up the beacon on mountain and tower,
Spread the glad tidings through castle and bower ;
Fallen is France in the power of her might,
Stark lay her bravest in Poitiers' red fight.
Vain was her chivalry's serried array,
Vain was the rush of her gallants that day ;
Full on their ranks came the steely sleet fast,
Back on their fellows the foremost were cast ;
Trampled and crushed in the tumult they lie,
Dastardly shriek they, or gallantly die.
Light up the beacon on mountain and tower.
Spread the glad tidings tlirough castle and bower ;
Long shall our children who follow our fame
Joy in the war cry of Poitiers' proud name.
THE BATTLE OF POITIERS. HI
There were the mighty ones crushed in their might,
There the pursuers were turned back in flight !
What, ho ! ye leaders of Burgundy's line,
Red di'ip our garments, but not with your wine !
WTiat, ho ! ye gallants, o'er mountain and plain
Fiercely ye followed, now turn ye again !
Light up the beacon on mountain and tower.
Spread the glad tidings through castle and bower ;
Shout for the brave ones who, scorning to yield,
Victors are hasting from Poitiers' red field.
1843.
112
Incjpimit Pattncifis.
I HEAK them say my brain is crazed,
And sometimes I believe it true,
For often I myself amazed
Start at the deeds I long to do.
It is not love, it is not grief,
Or lack of that wherewith to live ;
I have enough, or, if relief
Were needed, I have friends to give.
And I am loved, if love we call
Those common ties that link mankind,
And more than those that chance to all
I have not, neither look to find.
Within my veins I feel the taint ;
It throbs, and works its silent way ;
Eye seeth not, words cannot paint
The miseries of that slow decay.
INCIPIENT MADNESS. 113
I cannot sleep, or if I rest,
I start from di'eams of sin and pain,
And wake to find their stamp impressed
In knots of fire upon my brain.
Then conscious from man's eye I turn,
And what I am not, still would seem ;
But oh ! how much I pant and yearn,
Unseen, unheard, to rave and scream.
Present for ever on my sense
A shadowy something weighs and sits ;
I know not how, or why, or whence,
But it disturbs my failing wits.
It bends me down to pore and gloat
On blackened pools of depth unplumbed,
Whereon the oft-sought corpse may float
Beneath the surface greenly scummed.
It gives the pistol to my grasp.
It turns the cold grey mouth to mine ;
And, fingering at the razor's clasp.
Brings up the thought, " Still these are
thine!"
I saw it once — 'twas in the night —
It came in simple human guise ;
But oh ! the dread Satanic light.
The depth of evil in those eyes !
114 INCIPIENT MADNESS.
And ever since, and wheresoe'er
I turn, those eyes are on me still ;
In deep midnight, in broad sun glare,
And they at last shall have their will.
My soul revolts, my blood runs chill.
Yet come it must, the change is nigh :
The one sharp cure for every ill —
To do, to suffer, and to die.
1853.
115
6tt a feat
ENGRAVED "SIA FELICE.
SiA Felice ! — vamly said
To mortals sojourning here ;
Rather be't whispered o'er the dead
Thi'ough trembling Sorrow's tear !
Vainly, alas ! our life at best
Is but a dubious day ;
One while in smiles and sunshine drest,
One while with scarce a ray.
Sia Felice ! — oh, how oft
Such words pass idly by,
Leaving alone some bitter pang
To waken Memory's sigh.
Go, then, nor dream of happiness
Thou mayst not, canst not know ;
Flowers though there be, yet perfect bliss
Is not for man bolow.
I 2
116 ON A SEAL.
Sia Felice ! false, frail trust !
Ye hapless sons of clay !
He wlio first formed us from the dust,
Alone can point the way.
Yes, ours is here the traveller's lot,
Whose country distant lies ;
Far (though we find some resting spot),
Our home's beyond the skies.
1841.
117
io 3'Up.
Aura ! thy thoughts and words are, oftentimes,
Of guardian angels watching o'er the pure,
Of unseen ministers of good, 'Tis well,
'Tis meet that thou shouldst di'eam it, but be sure
That devils watch them too. The human heart.
That cage of unclean birds, is not a cell
Fit for a seraph's home, but reeks and steams
With pestilential sins, and smacks of hell.
Have then thy creed — but bear in mind the while,
111 eyes ai'e on thee also. Canst thou bear
Thine every action known, each thought surveyed ?
Whose are they — angel promptings ? Holy fair !
Satan peeps laughing out, and thou art weighed,
And wanting in the balance. Lands at peace
Need not their mustered aiTuies, neither thou
Thy guardian seraphs, were not blasts of hell
Frequent as airs of heaven around thy brow.
1852.
118
V i'di lu
'■■ A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference."
Sir E. BuLWER Lttton's Night and Morning.
BUEY thy dead, and then
Go forth to outer light,
Consort with other men,
And joy thee in their sight.
Thine is the hoarded store,
And thou may'st search and pr}-
Into the nooks before
Unsearched by any eye ;
Miniatures, letters, rings.
Battered, and worn, and old,
Eecords of by-gone things,
Tales that have long been told !
One hand had waved thee off.
One voice had said thee nay ;
Wonder, and search, and scoff.
Thou hast the present day.
BREATH. 119
Why should their wishes live,
Whose wish is powerless found ?
Nothing have they to give.
Whose place is undergi-ound !
Wide as from north to south
A gulf's between ye laid ;
A breath from out the mouth
Can make it, and has made.
1858.
120
!(*Hj?ti;us»
Heir of deeliuing clay, pale evening star !
Thou firstborn of the venerable night !
I see thy mild beam glistening from afar,
I see it, and rejoicing at the sight,
I bid thee, hail.
What biing'st thou in thy train ?— quiet, holy sleep,
With half-closed pinions stooj)ing down to earth ?
A sabbath to the brain, whose musings keep
Day vigils, ever seething into birth ?
These may not fail.
Thou bringest thoughts of home, the social meal,
The sheltered chimney nook, the bright fii'eside.
Rest, labom' sweetened — but to those who kneel
God-stricken from the pedestal of pride.
Oh ! not to those.
"Wliat for the wretched '? — sleep hath lost her power,
Hot tears for evening dews are plashing dovm ;
Fair flatterer ! gladdening but the happy hour,
Let night envelope these ; put off thy crown ; '
Respect their woes !
1853.
121
^loo(l=gl;iclt Valine.
"Whatever was made, was made for good,
In heaven, in earth, in fire, or flood ;
All tumeth to use, or surely should,
So, too, doth wine !
Oh ! what dost thou say to this word of mine ?
Great are the boons of mighty wine,
Trickling out fi'om flask or can
She maketh glad the heax-t of man
Doth blood-black mne I
Is thy ladie kind ? Fill up ! Love's eye
Shiueth brighter when wine is nigh :
Is she ciTiel ? Fill more ! Love's sigh
Dies, di'owned in wine !
Oh, what dost thou say to this word of mine?
Wassail to him who grows the vine !
Throwing her ray on friendship's page,
She is the Mend of every age,
Is blood-black wine !
122
BLOOD-BLACK AVINE.
Hast thou a friend ? and wouldst thou tell
What lies hid in his bosom's cell ?
Fill ! truth lurketh not in a well,
But in the wine !
Oh, what dost thou say to this word of mine ?
Truly, true are these words of thine,
Wine is a varnish wondrous clear,
She maketh all things transparent here,
Doth blood-black wine !
1851.
123
6 p^ Iti ii 1 1 £ s.*
Bar up thy* selfish door,
Alone feast on the best,
Drive back the needy poor,
Still I am there, thy Guest !
Draw close thy cmiains round,
See that thy bolts be stout,
A passage shall be found.
Thou canst not bar me out.
I mount the high-piled bed,
I bend with evil frown,
A face, as of one dead.
On thine peers ghastly down.
I come with crawling gait,
I climb the swollen chest,
A mopping, gibbeiing weight,
Sits squatting on thy breast.
The nightmare.
124 EPHIALTES.
My hot breath sears thy brow ;
Be still, thou gasping wretch !
Methinks thou knowest now
Thy banquet's well earned Fetch !
The eyeballs roll and stare,
The white lips strive to pray ;
No hope, no comfort there.
We part not till the day.
The poor, the toiling wights.
From me and mine are free ;
Who revel half their nights,
Have part with mine and me !
Aye ! be ye Lords by day.
Not my Lords ye, I ween.
Ye shall not dare gainsay,
I am the Midnight's Queen.
1853.
125
6ui| Churrliniird.^.
Is there no thought then for the dead,
Save transient grief, and tears
Shed hy us all, when those we love
Pass outwai-ds on their biers ?
Dank and o'ergrown with weeds, each grave
Looks up to heaven's blue sky,
And seems to say, " The bitterest pang,
The worst was not to die."
They have no voice or speech wherewith
To ask oui' lingering aid.
Yet, as it were, beseechingly.
Their silent prayer is made.
Then let us love the place, wherein
Their mouldering relics rest,
Let us stiU keep ('tis all we can),
Their memories in our breast.
126
OUR CHTJECHYARDS.
How can we tell, but that their souls
Look son'owing on the spot ;
How can we tell, when we forget,
That they remember not ?
Ah, careless ones ! all hallowing love.
May prove the holier dream ;
God's mysteries here, full oftentimes,
Are other than they seem.
1847.
127
S. poet's 8i;;iii
Leaning her breast against a pointed thorn,
Singeth the nightingale, so poets feign ;
A fond conceit, an allegoiy quaint,
Showing the sweetest strains are horn of pain.
A wayward and a wild thing is, in truth,
Even as we feign that bird, the Poet's Soul,
A spark of fire that eats into itself.
Waxing and waning as a kindled coal.
The self- selected thorn is clasped and pressed
Unto the heart of every child of song,
Feelings too highly wi'ought, a sense too keen
Of real or imaginary wrong.
WaiTQ, hasty, shrinking, fond of solitude.
Loving to commune with itself apart,
Sunshine and cloud, mixed, as in April's day,
Shadow and light — such is the poet's heart.
185L
128
Oh ! what a world of deep tliouglit lies
Within one little word :
Hope — hope unseen by mortal eyes,
And yet incessant heard.
From whence ? Like echo's answering tone
She hut repeats her part,
The voice went forth from Shiloh's throne
That vibrates in the heart.
As earthly music dieth, drowned
When mighty thuuderings roll, i
So earthly hopes are voiceless found ;
When heavenly touch the soul. ;
Cease we from man, and man's vain fear.
And give the one thing scope ;
Our Alpha and Omega here, !
To live, to die in Hope.
1853.
129
^0 mg md p^L
Come forth, old friend, with smoke embrowned
Of many a pleasant day ;
Grunmed record of the hours, whose round
We two have wiled away.
What, though thy merits may be few
In certain ladies' eyes.
And George the Fourth's old dandy crew
Thy votaries despise ;
I think of fair St. Leonard's nights,
Beneath the esplanade.
When by the long stretched row of lights
The wandering Germans played.
And I, upon the shingle heap,
Hard by the rippling main,
Apart from all, as half asleep,
Smoked, listening to their strain.
130 TO MY OLD PIPE.
"VVTiy not ? Perhaps my tastes are strange —
Perhaps eccentric grown.
Pass on ! I ask not you to change ;
Leave me and mine alone !
Oh ! keep your gousty drawing-room,
And prate with ladies there,
Whilst I the slandered weed consume
Out in the open air.
A stroll within the forest glade
Ere spring's wild flowers are dead,
A couch in summer's woodland shade
With last year's leaves bespread,
A midday seat upon the ling,
A crust of bread and cheese,
A mouthful from the running spring,
A whiff that scents the breeze ; j!
Such hours I prize ; you prize them not,
Nor yet content to turn
Yourself unto your chosen lot
Must, too, your fellow spurn.
" Such tastes are common, coarse, and low,
To gi'osser souls confined."
Maybe — but, brother, can you know
The well- springs of my mind ?
TO MY OLD PIPE. 131
Perchance, the wanderings that you scoff,
And idly, idle deem.
In me engender thoughts, whereof
Yourself may never dream.
Oh ! mark, up-springing from the sod.
The new year's wildling hands.
And say, did Adam worship God
In temples made with hands ?
When first His works Jehovah saw —
The earth, the seas, the wood —
He, by His own unchanging law.
Pronounced them very good.
And though His curse hangs over all.
The just reward of ill ;
Yet through the taint of Adam's fall
Shine gleams of Eden still.
Aye, more — the trees themselves have words
For those who list to hear ;
The brook's low croon, the wind, the birds,
Find language in mine ear.
The meanest and the highest plant
Are eloquent, though dumb ;
And silent Nature hath a chant
That well may silence some.
K 2
132 TO MY OLD PIPE.
The oak, foredoomed the seas to roam
With proud man at the helm, '
The cradle and the coffin home,
The sallow and the elm,
Have themes that crease with thought my brow,
Death visions of the Fall,
Musings on Love, which said, " Have thou
Dominion over all."
Yet, if more active duties claim
The best care of my heart,
I gird me up, and all the same
Can strive to play my part.
So passes life ; and if content,
What matters it a straw
Whether or no my leisure's bent
Bend unto Fashion's law.
Leave varying creeds their little span.
The Present and the Past :
God's Word, and not the word of man.
Shall judge us at the last.
1853.
133
djhmtc, 3tu(Ii Uos.
PlLGEliiS on life's journey wending,
From the outset to the ending,
Wandering, tripping, earthwards bending,
Christe, audi nos !
Whatsoe'er may be our station.
In each trial and temptation
Shield the soul from condemnation,
Christe, audi nos !
When by pride of wealth uplifted.
When with talents richly gifted,
When by want and trouble sifted,
Christe, audi nos !
What to ask, and how, unwitting.
In our fullest much omitting,
Hear, and grant as most befitting,
Christe, audi nos !
1852.
134
i
i^ouiton <^iM,
[It is said that upon Towton Field, celebrated for the battle
of that name, between the Yorkists and Lancasterians, a.d.
1461, a multitude of small red and white roses yearly spring
up, and cannot by any effort be eradicated. Si non e vera,
e ben trovato.l
Oh ! greenly grow the corn and gi-ass
That spring on Towton Field,
And yearly there the flocks and herds,
Their increase ever yield.
But be the soil with corn-sheaf decked.
Or with the grass bespread,
One other crop comes up unsown —
The roses, white and red.
And there they flourish, there they bloom,
Man knows not how, or whence,
For hand of man hath planted not.
Nor man may pluck them thence.
TOWTON FIELD. 135
Oh, greenly grow the grass and com
On Towton hill and plain,
But com, and gi-ass, and rath rose shoot,
Rise upwards from the slain.
Pahn Sunday saw two English hosts
Arrayed in order stand,
But glaives, instead of peaceful palms.
Were clenched in every hand.
And all that holy day they strove,
From mom till setting sun.
Until with night's descending shade
The field was hardly won.
The victor gave no quarter then,*
The vanquished asked no grace,
But, grimly as a boar at bay.
Fell dead beside his place.
The spring went by, the summer waned,
The dreaiy winter fled.
And with returning spring uprose
The roses, white and red.
* Speed, in his Chronicle, bears witness to the singular
obstinacy with which this battle was contested : also to the
facts of no quarter being given by Yorkists, and of the brooks
upon the field being discoloured for some distance with blood.
Thirty-five thousand and ninety-one fell in this action.
136
TOWTON FIELD.
Since then, tliree hundred years have passed, -
Three hundred years, and more,
Since wimpling stream and rivulet
Ran red with English gore ;
And yearly yet those roses bloom.
In memory of the fight.
When the red rose of Lancaster
Went down before the white.
1859.
137
<g;Ab{ |i:ouItets.
Who dares to say the world is near
To her predestined end ?
The very causes that ye fear
To other aims may tend.
Is it for works of magnitude,
Or for her craftsmen's art ?
Old buried nations rough and rude
Of such had more than part.
Though science wield in this our day
The sorcerer's fabled wand,
Yet all her lamps but light the way
To unknown lands beyond :
And as we look on cast attu*e,
Or on a thrice-told tale,
Some age may view the long stretched wire
And thunder of the rail.
138
FALSE PEOPHETS.
Some age may view. Behold the sum !
Old, young, or in her prime,
We know her end shall surely come.
We cannot know the time.
1854.
139
|lctrof5j?cd.
A STRANGE thing is woman's beauty !
A strange thing ! with man it changeth
Its form in every climate,
Even as the fancy rangeth.
In one thing remaining the same,
In its power so wide extended,
Standing supreme from pole to pole,
Absolute queen, self-defended !
Truly, I deem, in olden times
Spake Teian Anacreon aright,
Saying, "Jove gave woman beauty
Instead of strength of arm or might."
With this one weapon, the fire-edged,
The piercer of hearts, she swayeth,
Even as she lists, her empire,
And each in his turn obcyeth.
\
140 EETROSPECT.
Why speak we of men of old times ?
Say now who is there among us
Who rememhers not in his heart
The syren strain she hath sung us ?
Even as the eye of Science
Poring on the rocks can trace
Full oft the ancient footprints
Of a now-forgotten race ;
So shall he who looks within him,
On his heart of hearts be shown
Love's small rose-tinted footsteps,
Hardened though they be to stone.
Who remembereth not the change,
At the dawn of manhood's day.
The opening of the Spirit's portals,
The shock of Love's electric ray ?
When the Dagon, self, fell prostrate,
Shivered in the fiery blast.
When on all his heart in triumph
Woman, the Conqueror, passed.
Then those dear and foolish hours,
Threads of gold and silver, twined
In the darker, homelier woof
Of departed years behind ;
Themes for well-worn scoffs and jesting
When for others broke their day,
Owned, beloved, in secret cherished,
When upon us dawned their ray.
RETROSPECT. 141
Woman, woman ! we may boast us
Of a heart thou canst not win,
But thou hast, or had, or shall have,*
Soou or late, thy part therein.
I remember, I yet can feel
How in early youth I trembled,
Quivering in eveiy pulse,
And yet what I felt, dissembled.
How I strove to speak. Stammeriug
I faltered out I know not what.
Words would scarce have told my meaning ;
Woe is me ! even words were not.
I saw others of bolder speech.
Free from false shame's most bitter pain,
Win from her, and lightly value
That which I would have died to gain.
She rightly deemed me fool, and dull,
I saw her eyes flash out the word.
But a sudden pang went through me,
Like to the piercing of a sword.
Then a voice came up within me,
" Vainly thou, thyself deceiving,
Feedest on hope as on ashes ;
Cease thy fond and idle grieving."
I broke silence, changing to mirth.
To the quips of light buffooning,
* French inscription on statue of Cupid.
'
142 RETROSPECT.
Speaking quaint devices, as 'twere jj |
My heart strings anew attuning
To the song of a stranger land.
And she— aye, she laughed, not deeming
What she duhhed light-hearted folly
Was but forced and bitter seeming.
Perish these old thoughts, I hate them !
Oh, would to God I might sever
Their memory's long dragged chain,
Breaking up its links for ever!
1851.
143
%5 thg San is, so shall thg ^tr^enigth be.
SiOK at heart, and ever pining
For the ages, whence afar
Old-world light is faintly shining,
As the glimmer of a star;
When the Spirit, earthwards bended,
Spake of things as yet untold,
And the guardian angels tended
Each her own peculiar fold.
Oh, believe it ! now, as ever,
Ai'e those unseen watchers near.
And the spirit's promptings never
Silent in the willing ear.
Open Vision, seer's revealings.
These have waned and passed away ;
Holy thoughts and Godward feelings.
These remain, and these are they.
1855.
144
Wh Bu^nl ^rn.
Supposed, by the Hindoos, to be haunted by the spirits of
the departed. — Heber's Journal.
A WILD and lovely fancy,
A fancy of ancient times,
Bome by the evening breezes
Forth from the Eastern climes !
What plant is like to thee,
Thou haunted Peepul tree ?
Beneath whose shade at eve the Hindoo lies,
And hears, or seems to hear,
His Father's Spirits near,
Thronging thy green leaves thick as summer flies.
There holds he fancied commune
With the long-departed dead,
List'ning the dreamy rustle
Of thy foliage overhead.
Is there no plant like thee,
Thou haunted Peepul tree ?
Truly, beside Life's stream down bending grows
The aspen, Memory, fraught
With yellowing leaves of thought.
Through whose moss-laden boughs a shiver goes.
THE PEEPUL TREE. 145
Lie in her shade vrhen evening
Comes fast closing in thy day,
Be sure thine eai's shall hear it
As it passes on its way.
Even as the Peepnl tree,
Her visioned leaves for thee
Shall teem with shadows whose earth-shapes have
fled;
And Spuits gathering fast,
And voices of the past
Shall give ihee, too, thy commune with the dead.
1853.
L
146
?l|nilj0ls.
We learn with toil what Science gives,
What wisdom can impart,
But universal springs and lives
The language of the heart.
By Gunga's stream when night comes down,
With cloud-wreathed vapours damp,
The Hindoo maiden twines her crown
Of flowers to deck her lamp.
She names a name, she breathes a prayer,
Then onwards thi'o' the mist
The tiny spark goes floating where
The winds and waters list.
And she is hopeful at the sight,
Or mournful as she sees
Its distant glimmer, or its light
Go down before the breeze.
SYMBOLS. 147
By Life's broad stream I see Youth stand,
(As I myself have stood,)
And hinuch with unforeboding hand
Her lamp upon the flood.
Seldom or never may that spark
Pass unextinguished on,
Wild waves are round the fragile bark,
And as we gaze, 'tis gone.
But bitter, bitter is the hour
Of wakening from that di-eam,
"\^^len Hope's fii'st lamp and first Love's flower
Go under in the stream.
1853.
L ti
148
u §li\tjiui;i? goal.
Pilot, what of the day ? — " The craft
Before the wind is running,
Forwai'ds, the crew, thy fiiends, abaft
Themselves are idly sunning."
Merrily, merrily speed we on
With harp and flute resounding ;
To-day shall be as the day just gone,
Aye, even more abounding.
Pilot, pilot ! what of the day ?
" Red streaks the sky bedizen,
The stormy petrels round us play,
A cloud looms in the horizon."
Merrily, softly breathes the aii",
What need for thought or sorrow ?
Time enough for to-morrow's care,
When upon us dawns to-moiTow.
THE PLEASURE BOAT. 149
Into lier port that vessel pressed,
Rigging and sail were tattered,
The levin bolt had smitten her mast,
And her gilded hull was shattered.
Woe for the careless ones ! the strife
On each brow was deeply graven ;
The sea they sailed was the sea of Life,
And the port of Death their haven.
1853.
150
Wlxfi Mn\uv Olhamb^r.
The world — the strange, hard world ! Presumption
wearing
The crown of Worth, for Merit, boastful Pride ;
Famine with dull, bleared eye at Plenty staring,
Miseiy and Mammon jostling side by side :
Without, incessant din,
Yet Silence reigns within
The chamber of the heart.
There enters in no stranger mdely treading,
No, not the nearest, dearest one of all ;
One vestal lamp alone burns there, and spreading
O'er many tombs the lengthening shadows fall.
There, youth's first visions sleep ;
Departed spirits keep
That chamber of the heart.
THE INNER CHAMBER. 151
The warder of the door, pale Memory, stealing
With upraised finger opens unto thought ;
So pass they in, the twain, together kneeling
Over those slu-ines, the dim, the seldom sought ;
Yet breathe they forth no sound,
That place is holy ground,
The chamber of the heart.
1853.
162
#Id Whinp kxm uassd luuag.
Old things have passed away, aud pass
Unceasing from that hour
When man, condemned to toil and death,
Went forth from Eden's bower.
Yet types are they, and shadows all
Of better things to be ;
Things, that as thro' a darkened glass,
We indistinctly see.
But all together work for good.
And more, all ever will ;
For those who to Jehovah's law
Submit them, and are still.
Like Adam, we may lose our all ;
Unlike him, count it gain ;
For two fair plants of Paradise
The Christian shall retain.
Come ye, learn wisdom and be wise.
Take — eat — yet fear no loss ;
Our tree of knowledge is God's word, —
Our tree of life, the Cross.
1853.
153
louc.
Not the boy-god, boy poets hjTiiu with praises,
Weak aud infantile as thy graven form,
Not the small satyr whom the Greek* upraises
With lips of fire, and looks unholy warm.
We will not have thee so ! a soul pervading
Earth's sphere, now whitening to its autumn, asks
Soul-worship and a shrine, whose flowers, unfading,
Breathe not their incense round fantastic masks.
So come to us as in primaeval times.
For thou wast from the first. No child-god then,
No earth-bom daemon prompt to whisper crimes,
Purpling with sin the foolish hearts of men,
liut a blest, unseen influence meetly knitting
Two parts to fashion one more perfect whole ;
Calm, changeless, spiritual — as most befitting
The young world's Lord, the newly-inspired soul.
* Anacreon.
154 LOVE.
So the first Father knew thee ; so we yet
May know thee, fainter imaged, if we will :
Uplooking to the sky the shadows flit
Earthwards of that which was, and shall he, still
Paler and paler waning as we stoop
MoTe do^Tiwards to the clay, and stooping aim
Each one to mould thee out. Creator, dupe
At once of that which our fond visions frame.
1853.
1
155
.^ I C II p .
Shadow of death, whose form with wings outspread-
Broods o'er the Universe from pole to pole,
Like him a blessing on the weary shedding,
Opening old foimtains, leading forth the soul ;
A mystery dark and deep
Thou art, and hast been. Sleep !
PrimiBval, wondrous, ending but with Time.
All hail thee as a boon, all give thee gi'eeting.
Yet di'ead art thou, and more so, since out-thrown
To the obscure thy limits lie, there meeting *
The spirit land, the shadowy, the unknown !
A little while, and then
Those boundary lines again
Are overstepped as each retumeth home.
* Uncle Tom's Cabin.
156 SLEEP.
K
Who slee^j, die for the time, and he who dies
Finds but a more abiding resting-place;
The soul by both alike is loosed, and flies ■
Forth for a time, and passes into space —
That space, so dim, so vast,
"Where future, present, past.
Are gathered into one mysterious whole.
But who shall say, when there, what visions looming
Darker or paler, meet the ear and sight.
Soft strains, and warning voices faintly booming.
And glimmering flashes of far distant light,
All dread, all vague, all strange,
Yet telling all of change.
With lengthening shadow passing on the soul.
Again Mortality resumes her reign ;
We start, we gaze around as tho' distraught ;
Half memories haunt the yet bewildered brain.
And tinge the surface of awakening thought.
Till fades each sound, each light,
Down settling into night.
And earthly mists again come over all.
1853.
157
gurlincfifi.
I KXOW not why, but liigher spheres of life
Seem to meet darkness with instinctive fear,
And share man's weaknesses as well as gifts
The more the soul-like reasoning powers appear.
Perchance "tis fi'om the first : a faint impress
Of that vague di-ead which surely fell on all
When their first sun went down, and o'er the world
Night spread again her dim chaotic pall.
Oh ! how they gazed and watched as one by one
Thro' re-appearing blue the stars came soon,
And a new clearness in the lower sky
Gave promise of the softly rising moon.
So with large thankful eyes they saw the light
And laid them down in peace.
But first of all
Was darkness truly felt by Eden's paii-,
When God had spoken, and they knew their fall.
Fancy can paint them as they lay that night,
Their first lone night of banishment ; forlorn,
And shivering in their new gained sense of guilt,
With faces eastward turned to watch for mom.
158 DARKNESS.
For they were wise indeed, but not to Life,
Knowing that Evil was, unkno^viug how.
Or when, or in what form that power might come,
Serpent, or Fiend, or marked with Seraph brow.
And knowledge seething in theii- troubled brain
Pictured ill shapes around them in the air,
Shadows half visible on dusky wings,
And de\dlisli eyes that gleamed with mocking stare ;
So longed they for the sun, for in his light
God seemed more present ; and at opening day
Prayer gushed upon their hearts, and all their fears
Went from them as a dream, and passed away.
Thence came sun-worship in the after times,
Created for Creator blindly sought,
As sin-gained knowledge waxed, and fainter waned
The purer lesson God Himself had taught.
Not even now would I deride or scorn
The dread of darkness which has secret part
In many a soul, for there I seem to see
Adam's old weakness wi-estling at the heart ;
Whence else, that innate fear in eveiy child,
Whence, in the deepest ignorance that di-ead,
Peopling the midnight air with hideous fonns,
And fancying back to earth the peaceful dead '
No, look within, and trathfully confess
Thou art partaker of the common lot.
Asketh thou, what Spirit is ? where are its dwellmgs ?
Oh ! rather ask thyself, where is it not ?
9
DARKNESS. 159
New phases on the soul are ever opening,
New unexpected gleams show here and there,
As, for a moment seen, the summer lightning
Shows out the hlue sky thro' the dim night air.
One guide alone have we, midst gathering wonders,
Scarce knowing what we are, or why, or whence,
One hright fixed star, before whose steadfast shining
Doubt fades away, and vanishes pretence.
When the soul trembluig, like the needle touched
Once by the loadstone, feels a new-bom power.
Oft turned, yet turning back to one fixed point.
Quivering, yet steadfast ever from that hour.
1854.
160
unih.
Say what we will, disguise it as we may,
Death is most awful, even to the best.
We see man's generations pass away,
But where ? — WTiose thought may ravel out the
rest ?
A mystery of mysteries is that phase
Which all must enter ; yet none read aright.
Until the day-star open on the gaze
Thro' the departing shade that dimmed the sight.
The scythe, the hour-glass, and the grim bleached
bone,
Meet sculptured emblems of a heathen creed,
'\^Tien terror had the mastery, be they thrown
Unto the moles and bats, for we are fi'eed.
Use we our freedom rightly : he who shoots
The random shaft of God-forgetting thought
Heavenwards, shall reap thereof the bitter fruits ;
Back falling on his head, the aiTow fraught
DEATH. 161
With blind security shall smite him dovm,
Or pierce him through with doubts. Death is not
rest,
Death is not peace, save only where the crown
Of glory through the grave-night on the blest
And tranquil soul shines steadfast.
Prostrate lies
The last foe, stingless is his fabled steel ;
Yet has he power to wound, and upwards writhes,
And prints his bruises on the trampling heel.
Pilgrim ! the abiding stafi' is God's ovm word,
But human wisdom is a broken reed ;
WTio turns to light or left, so far has erred
From the true path, and stumbled in his creed.
The old curse is not blotted out, not all
Death's natural terrors banished ; man must shrink
And tremble at his presence, till God's call
Shall gather Dead and Living on the brink
Of wide Eternity. And happy they
In death, and they alone, whose feet have trod,
Htraightly, though tremblingly, the appointed wfiy •
WTiich Jesus opened through Himself to God.
1853.
M
162
xi ^pnish Jirmada.
As a lion on his prey,
Leapt the proud Spaniard forth,
To the sea-girded shores
Of the Queen of the North.
He trusted in man,
In the strength of his prow ;
He came in his might,
And where is he now ?
In chapel and church
The loud paean raise ;
Not to man, but to God,
Be the glory and praise !
In triumph and pomp,
They came to our shore ;
The land that beheld them
Shall see them no more.
He spake bi the storm.
They turned them to flee ;
He blew with His wind,
They sank in the sea !
THE SPANISH ARMADA. 1G3
In chapel and church
The loud pa3an raise ;
Not to man, but to God,
Be the gloiy and praise !
It was not our might,
Nor the strength of oui' arm,
That warded the blow,
That saved us from harm.
The hand of the Lord
Was the guard of our coasts ;
The Warrior that fought
Was the Lord God of Hosts !
In chapel and church
The loud paan raise ;
Not to man, but to God,
Be the glory and praise !
1842.
M 2
164
Jlmiun\C0 and Sculit^.
When dreaming over books that pamt
Love perfect, good, without a taint,
How often back we cast
A wistful eye to real life,
With all its petty jar and strife,
The present and the past.
We cannot choose us but compare
Our lot with that depictured there.
And fancy ours had been |
The selfsame actions, had we gained
The gifts, the blessings they obtained
In fiction's fairy scene.
Oh ! change the real, or exchange
The too bright theme for one less strange
In matter and in look ;
For why should dwell the sickened heart
On things where we have little part,
Save only in a book ?
EOMANCE AND REALITY. 165
It boots US not to wander where
Such distant visions glitter fair,
The while with ill opprest,
As Dives, sunk in Hell, upraised
His eyes to Abr'ham's throne, and gazed
On Lazarus in his breast.
Tried, sorely tried, learn to forego
The hope of what thou canst not know,
And count it gain, not loss.
If it be thine to meekly wear
The crown of thorns, and daily bear
The Saviour's daily cross.
1854.
166
Mn 4ii*st SovL
My first Love ! my first Love !
Long years away have sped
Since trutlifully, as we deemed,
Our parting words were said.
Upon a broader life-track
We went forth into day,
And in its glare the love- star
Waned glimmering away.
I know not who fij.-st yielded,
But both have been untrae.
Both turned away from old love
And turned off unto new ;
What in younger days both proved,
We never more may prove.
Yet, I would not quite forget you,
Mine own first love.
My first Love ! my fii'st Love !
I would not meet you now,
When age has wrought his changes,
I feel, on either brov/.
MY FIRST LOVE. H>7
Oh ! let me still believe you
What surely once you were,
Aud tliink of her of old times,
Aud not what now you are ;
One look would break illusions
Unbroken I would keep ;
One look might strike a chord, that
Unstricken now should sleep.
I would not strive with feelings,
As once of old I strove ;
Yet I would not quite forget you,
Mine own first Love.
My first Love ! my first Love 1
The once so cherish'd name
Has ceased to wake the heart's sigh,
The ready blush of flame.
The past is parted fi'om me.
And each succeeding day
Steals onwards, onwards, — stealing
Your memoi7 av;ay.
Yet, sometimes in the gloaming.
The old, old thought will slide
Athwart me, like a shadow
Of dying eventide ;
And with the night around me,
And with the stars above.
Oh ! I cannot quite forget you,
Mine own first Love. 1847.
168
it h c r e ?
A L^LXD, whose mornings, faWy glowing,
Lie not in promise of the day ;
A life, whose flower, before its blowing,
Time treads not under on his way.
Where man's eveiy act displayeth
Unselfish soul and single tongue ;
Wliere (though with age the frame decayeth)
Yet still the heart remaiaeth young.
Ah, Land ! no foot of mortal taints thee ;
Ah, Life ! in life thou art not known ;
We see thee but when fancy paints thee —
We live thee but in dreams alone,
1857.
1G9
^iiitljotlin^s.
Despise not we the souls that shrink
And tremble as they feel
Forebodings of they know not what
Through all their being steal.
Perchance, so much of real woe
Those hearts have early known,
That through the Future's veil the Past
A darkening shade has thrown.
Perchance some chord that still unites
The living to the dead,
Touch'd first in heaven, may down to earth
A tlirill responsive shed.
For nearer often than we deem,
Our inner beings verge
On that Unknown towards wliich the waves.
Of Life for ever surge.
170 FOREBODINGS.
And thoughts may waken then for some,
That others never knew,
And gleams of that foredoom'd to be
Shine momentary through.
Not ours to know how much of truth.
How much of falsehood wears
The dimly vision'd fear, whose stamp
The prescient spirit hears.
Too vast the intervening space
For mortal eye to span ;
We can hut pray, " Thy will be done ! "
" Thy \\ill," the best for man !
1854.
171
Pournfullii, so' |flourn)[uIli|.
Soul, sad Soul ! what hidden woe
Lies hard ou thee, and brings thee low.
That still thine inner currents flow
MoiUTifally, so mournfully ?
The shadow of the bm-ied past,
Of that wliich was, which might not last,
Has thy chill'd being overcast,
Mom-nfully, so mournfully !
Thou art not dead to all things here.
And yet a spirit standeth near,
Whose voice sounds ever in thine ear
Mournfully, so mournfully !
And many days may wax and wane,
May bring thee joy, may bring thee pain,
Yet still shall sound that one refrain,
Mournfully, so mournfully !
1854.
172
Ulu Jrifih f rjuattcr.
He stood beside his ruined hut,
Unwilling yet to go ;
He heard his children cry, his wife,
Keen, swaying to and fro ;
And on his face there came a flush,
A red flush, as of fire,
And lifting up his horny hands,
So spake the homeless sire :
" The master's hearth across the sea
This night is burning clear ;
This night the master's word and Avill
Have quenched an hundred here !
" His very all for many days
Has filled the stranger's hand,
For many days our bread gone forth
To feed the stranger's land !
•' Was it so much to leave to us,
The children of the soil,
God's common gift of earth and air,
And liberty to toil ?
THE lEISH SQUATTER. 173
" Aye ! still the Orange robber's yoke
Is ready to oppress ;
Still ^ills the rich man's riches, more,
The poor man's little, less.
" They talk of alms and given help,
But tell not that each mite
Was wrested from our fathers' hands,
And ours of very right !
" They drive us out, and lavish gold
To bring the heathen nigh ;
They prate of Chi'istian brotherhood.
And doom their own to die !
" And these are good men ! these still walic
Upright beneath the sun !
Cfod's curse and mine upon the land
Wherein such deeds are done !"
So spake the old man, gazing on
The land that gave him birth,
Then, slowly turning round, went forth
A vagabond on earth.
1854.
174
Ii|«
Our life is not, in sober truth,
More real now, than when in youth
All seemed so passing fair;
But in ourselves the changes lie
Which make us view with colder eye
The selfsame colours there.
The sounding word of little sense,
The hollow phrase of mere pretence,
No more deceive or please ;
One homely touch, so it but find
An answeiing echo in the miad
Outweighs an host of these.
So backward ebbs in later days
Our choice to Nature's trodden ways,
The chords of woe and weal ;
And highest they, who most have dwelt
On Nature's rule, — What hearts have felt,
That, best the heart can feel.
1854.
175
ih(| %t^m\ of live ^df.'.brunncu
The liunt is up at Heidelberg,
The horns ring sharp and clear,
And high-born lord and serf are met
To drive the wild roe deer.
*
But where is FeiTand, he whose foot
Was foremost in the chase —
Fenand, unmatched for daring deed,
Unmatched in form and face ?
Up yonder fi-owuing mountain's side
He toils with foot and hand ;
No helpmate save his own strong arm,
No safeguard save his brand.
The hunt is o'er at Heidelberg,
The wine-cup circles round.
The ancient walls with merriment
And wassailing resound.
* A si.ring in a small valley near Heidelberg. The k-fieud
is still extant.
176 THE LEGEND OF THE WOLFSBEUNNEN.
But where is Ferrand, lie whose laugh
Eose lightest in the throng —
Ferrand, whose voice was ever first
To raise the hunter's song ?
In yonder lone enchanted hall
The reckless chieftain sits ;
Around no evil forms are thronged,
Aloft no hell sprite flits.
But hy his side, in close converse,
A maiden's form is seen.
Stately in gait and countenance,
Yet gentle in her mien.
As passed those hours, so many passed
Unheeded in their growth,
'Till Love, who springs spontaneous oft,
Spontaneous sprang in hoth.
Then sped the days as only they
Who love have seen them speed,
Valour, shy Beauty's meet defence,
And Beauty, Valour's meed.
'* Now say, fair maid," young Fen-and cried,
And seized her yielded hand,
" Thou dear one, say, what happy chance
First brought thee to this land ? "
THE LEGEND OF THE WOLFSBRUNNEN. 177
Faint smiled the maid, her rosy lip
To his she softly turned —
" Ask me not this." The chieftain's brow
With dark suspicion burned ;
And though with gentlest voice and word
She soothed his angry pride,
No prayer might touch his sullen heart,
He would not be denied,
" Then hear my tale. Far in the north .
My father holds his sway ;
The Sisters fi'owned upon my birth,
111 omens marked the day.
" And thus the prayer-regardless Three
Rhymed forth their ominous law —
' Or soon or late, Welleda's blood
Shall glut the wild wolf's maw.
" They bore me here, a new-bom child,
Fenced round by magic power.
And shaped a strong mysterious spell
To guard mc ft-om that hour.
This starry zone, yon snow-white bird.
This wi-eath, a sorceress gave ;
These be the gifts that safely keep
Welleda from the grave."
N
178 THE LEGEND OF THE WOLFSBRUNNEN.
"Oh, cast them from thee ! " cried the chief,
" Cast by the hell-born charms ;
What succour needst thou save this hand ?
What guardian save these arms ?
" Then, if those vows, so often pledged,
Thine heart hath not belied.
Cast do^vTi thy spells and meet me there
By yon blue fountain's side."
. Pale grew the maid's rose-tinted cheek,
A shivering seized her frame,
And on her soul, as Ferrand spoke,
A chill foreboding came.
" cruel words ! " she softly said,
" Unworthy love and thee ;
Till death, be sure, Welleda's heart
Will ever constant be.
" Yet, reft of these my guardian spells,
I may not, dare not go ;
That selfsame hour, swift-following Fate
Shall lay thine own love low."
" Thou lov'st me not, thou ne'er didst love ! "
Imperious Ferrand cried ;
" Fool that I was to ask of thee
What love had ne'er denied ! "
THE LEGEm) OF THE WOLFSBETHSTNEN. 179
Her bosom heaved, — one bright tear-drop
Fell glistening firom her eye ;
"Then be it so, since thou must doubt.
Or poor Welleda die."
The sun has cast on Heidelberg
His last red rays of light,
And in the heavens the summer moon
Looks out, serene and bright ;
And lo ! by yon blue fountain's side
Thi'ee fonns are dimly seen —
A slaughtered wolf, a dying maid,
A youth of fi'antic mien.
His arm is round her fainting form.
Locked in a last embrace,
She looks unutterable love
Upon his anguished face.
So died Welleda in the prime
And pride of beauty's bloom,
So set the sun of Ferrand's hope
In everlasting gloom ;
And still one grass-grown mound, one tree
By lone Wolfsbrannen's side
Mark out the spot where woman fell
Through man's exacting pride.
1848.
n2
180
ferutiou of Ulanr, ^uccn n| ^cab.
She heard unmoved the fatal message told,
Her cheek blanched not, nor ran the life-blood cold
Back to the sickening heart ; but as a queen
She bore her, whilst around her maids were seen
In all the frantic attitudes of woe.
One, bending downwards, rocks her to and fro;
One stands as all aghast ; no breath, no moan,
Betrays another's grief, but marble, stone,
She sits, whilst from her eyes like thunder rain
The tears plash down; one, starting up amain.
Shrieks, bans, and curses. Near, the Kentish chief
Turns down his wolfish eyes, as when a thief
Gripped in the act stands sullen, or some sprite
Of hated darkness, by the enchanter's might
Forced- up to outer day, with evil glance
Glares from his downcast eyelids all askance.
"'Tis sudden," were the words Queen Mary spoke,
"Sudden, but not less welcome comes the stroke
That ends my sorrows ; yet I scarcely deemed
That she, my sister — she who surely seemed
EXECUTIOX OF MAEY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 181
Throned to love mercy, justice, and defend
The suppliant and the stranger — ^thus should bend
Her thoughts to slay the stranger, the opprest.
Yet he it so — to me the change is blest,
Nor deem I worthy of eternal bliss
The shi-inking soul that, at such time as this.
Bears not the body up through that short strife
That bars the passage to eternal life.
But mme stands fix'd and firm — although, perchance.
In girlhood's days, in happy, blithesome France,
Some natural di-ead had been, some tears had passed
To hear to-mon-ow"s sun must be my last.
Now, all is o'er, mine o\\ti familiar friends
Against me di-aw the sword ; a dark cloud bends
O'er Scotland's royal race ; and all I pray,
Is that from Mary's blood some happier day
May dawn on Stuart's name. For England's Queen
I have unfeign'd forgiveness ; none, I ween.
Deem gentlier of her deed. 'Tis sure no wrong
To gi-ant the fr-eedom I have sighed for long.
Weep not ! to-moirrow all shall see that I,
As Christian and as Queen know how to die ;
Nor deem them for myself, if trace of tears
On this wan cheek at early dawn appears :
My spirit joyous stirs, and in this breast
Pants but to flee away and be at rest."
The fatal hour is come, that morning's red.
Whose eve shall see thee numbered with the dead,
182 EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
Wronged Mary Stuart ! All death's liideous gear —
The axe, the hlock, the headsman — wait thee near.
Yet still, with heart unstirred, with look serene,
Moves onward to her death fair Scotland's Queen.
Calm she unrobes her, calmly bends and prays
For England's Queen — success and length of days
For her who shortens hers. " Tell each true heart "
(These her last words) " that fii-mly I depart
Fixed in the ancient faith : I know no wrong
That I have done to any ; but ere long
Before His throne we face to face shall plead,
"V\Tio sees the secret thought clear as the deed.
There I repose my trust ; His doom shall tell
Mine innocence or guilt — and now, farewell ! "
'Tis done ! one bigot voice is heard alone,
" Thus die Eliza's foes ! " One sullen tone
Singly replies, " Amen." The heaving breast.
The starting tear-di'op, show how feel the rest.
Mary Stuart ! gentlest of thy race,
Unmatched in form and loveliness of face !
How can we deem thee guilty, yet survey
Thy last calm hours, when hope had passed away !
Surely, no sullen apathy of crime
Bore up thy spirit in that awful time ;
Not the dull consciousness of hidden gniilt.
But thy firm trust on Jesu's mercy built.
EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 183
Bade thee Avitli Faith's strong eye the future scan,
And hope that mercy here denied hy man.
In the dark shadow of that gloomy vale,
Wliere e'en the mightiest spii-its bend and quail,
There wast thou proved, there counted to be pure ;
Thence hast thou passed in innocence secure.
Safe from the smiter's hand, the oppressor's rod,
Wafted on seraph wings to meet thy God.
And she, the haughty one, who bade thee die,
^Yhere were her comforts when her hour drew nigh ?
Darkly the evening's cloud obscured that sun.
Who erst tiiumphant on his course had run ;
Not as thy spirit, hastening to the goal.
Stirred in her breast the trembling conscious soul.
But sunk in lethargy she lies ; no more
Heeds she the flatterer's tongue, so loved before :
Sorrow, remorse, a vague and fearful dread.
Call up the phantoms of the murdered dead ;
Essex, Northumberland, Queen Maiy's fall.
Guilt's blood-stained finger traces on the wall.
Points to each ghastly form with glaring eye.
Bids her review her deeds, despair, and die.
1847.
184
•
9\u Pacjic §\^t
Many a tale first told in joke
For the delight of nurs'ry folk
Is, in itself, a type ;
Gather we something, if we can,
From the old story of the man
Who played the magic pipe.
When, I know not, but in old days,
Ere shepherds' pipes became short clays,
One walked across the mead, ,;
And as he passed beneath a tree, "i;
It so fell out he chanced to see i;
A long, smooth oaten reed. v
Soon with his knife he shaped the prize,
Then on the jointed pipe he tries
Some tune that came to hand.
Presto — he scarce had breathed a sound,
When fi-om all sides came thronging round
The fauies in a band.
THE MAGIC PIPE. 185
Heels over head, now here, now there,
They danced and gambolled in mid air :
Hodge stared, yet minded still
That he had heard the wise man say,
"He who a fairy sees by day,
May ask, and have his will."
So fi'om his mouth the pipe he drew ;
All in a trice away they flew.
And left him in sui'prise.
Vexed, he began once more the strain;
All in a moment, there again
They danced before his eyes.
And to the last, as he found soon,
He could not stop to ask his boon,
But they all passed away :
Nothing to them was Hodge's prayer ;
All that they wished or wanted there
Was that the pipe should play.
So in this world wherein we live,
Many will follow whilst you give
That which they chance to lack —
Like to poor Hodge : but ask yourself
Something from them, and every elf
Quickly will turn his back.
1854.
186
i^Ini St^nul of i\u llcitbititjit.
Deep awe throughout the heavenly host,
Thick gloom o'er earth and sky,
And clamouring Jew and Gentile thronged
To see the Saviour die.
No aid from hand or foot restored,
No voice from loosened tongue :
All stood aloof in timid grief,
Or mocked Him as He hung,
'Twas then, when all forsook their Lord
(The ancient legends say).
The Robin, fluttering round His head.
Would break the thorns away ;
And, labouring there with beak and claw.
The plaited crown she tore,
Until her wings and russet breast
Were all besmirched with gore.
THE LEGEND OF THE REDBEEAST. 187
Heuce, in memorial of the deed,
Her offspring yet retain
The name of " Redbreast," and the plumes
Ensanguined with the stain ;
And wandering childi'en ever o\vn
Her legendaiy worth,
And spare her nest for His dear sake
"WTio loved them when on earth.
Fond tale ! yet deem not wholly vain
"\Miate'er engenders thought.
Nor scorn the childish lore whereby
The holier truth is taught,
How alms bestowed, and good deeds done
For love of Christ the Lord,
Though lightly here esteemed, shall have
Hereafter their reward.
1860.
Note. — I am indebted to Mr. Worsley, through the inediuiu
of Blackwood's Magazine, for this legend.
188
Ji ^audinauiitu Icjgcuil
Maternal love, liow beautiful tliou art,
How fixed thine empire over woman's heart !
Not, as all other passions of the earth,
Warped in the growth, or stifled in the birth,
But prized and cherished as the vital breath,
Strong to the last ; aye, stronger still in death.
There was a mighty famine in the land,
And pestilence with hot and blasting hand,
A faithfal follower, through the remnant passed,
The gleaner of the grave, and smote them fast.
Man looked on man with dull and wolfish eye ;
All weaned of their lives, yet feared to die ;
None slept, none spoke, none stirred fi-om out his
place ;
Death's cold blue grasp was stamped on every face.
But see ! from yon huge circle, stern and slow.
To Haco's throne the priests of Odin go.
" Haco, rise up, give ear, old Norway's king !
And list the message Odm's chosen bring.
No spoils of conquest won from foreign land,
No gold, no wealth, the gods from thee demand ;
A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND. 189
Blood, only blood, can give tliy people rest —
The blood of one, thy dearest and thy best.
Haste then, be firm, as well befits the brave,
And give thy treasure to the gods who gave."
They paused. The monarch with instinctive fear
Glanced on his youthful Harold, standing near :
" Be this the sacrifice, and this the day."
The stem priests spoke, and bore the child away.
On yonder plain that stretches to the shore
^Vhat means the thi-ong, the gathering people's roar ?
Lo ! in the midst, with time's gray moss o'ergrown,
Towers giimly up the sacrificial stone ;
Fixed is the lot, the fatal hour is come.
On the huge stone the boy lies, scared and dumb ;
But Frida, Haco's loved and cherished wife,
Burst through the crowd, and thrust aside the knife ;
" Not him, not him the vengeful gods recjuire,
Not his the blood to satiate their ire :
I claim the fate, as nearest Haco's soul,
Be mine the lot to perish for the whole."
The monarch heard — in haste his arm he threw
Ai-ound her waist, and backwards Frida drew ;
" Behold the proof," the fi-autic mother cries,
" List to my voice, or vainly Harold dies ! "
One mighty effort — from his gi-asp she tore,
Hushed on the knife. The deed of blood was o'er.
1848.
190
i^hc Curfnu.
FROM THE GERMAN. — AUTHOR UNKNOWN.
Sick at heart and worn in body,
Wand'ring througli the waning light,
Hark, I hear the curfew tolling.
Tolling, tolling in the night.
And I stand me still, and musing
Listen sadly to the knell.
Young and old alike thou callest,
Tolling in, thou curfew bell !
Daily toil and daily pleasure
End their daily course with thee ;
Unto all around thou bringest
Quiet rest : — but when to me ?
1856.
191
Jon(|.
At twelve o'clock the last night
Ere she became a bride,
lone sat half dreaming
Alone at her fireside,
And from an opened desk di'awer
She held up to the light,
First one thing, then another,
Once precious in her sight.
Then in the fire before her
She cast them one by one.
" Farewell, the old is ended,
The new life is begun."
1856.
192
2 SAMUEL, XXI. 10.
Midnight, full midniglit. Famine-worn Juclea
Seems as a chastened child in that deep calm
To sleep and gather strength. The moon, the stars,
And all the heavenly host with one accord
Shine out, as if each orb would fain reflect
The pardoning smile of God upon the land.
Daughter of Zion ! sleep and take your rest.
Sleep on, and wake to bless thy Fathers' God ;
For He hath made the cup of trembling pass
From out thine hand, and dashed it to the ground.
The land once more shall yield her increase, oil
And wine shall make thee glad, for God hath blessed ;
Yea, and thou shalt be blessed at His word.
EIZPAH. 193
But whence that wailing cry ? On Gibeah's hill
One solitary mourner wakes and weeps ;
Peace — but no peace for her. Goodwill towards
men.
But all her thoughts are fixed and centered there, —
There, on the fatal tree. To her no more
The whitening haiwest, rolKng as a sea,
Brings joy and thankfulness as heretofore,
For they, the beautiful, the much beloved,
They shall not reap it, or have part therein,
Or, home returning at the evening hour,
Join in the widow's prayer. The setting sun
Beheld her there, the rising beams of mom
Shall find her in her place. Shi'unk up and crouched
On the damp rock she sits, nor turns her eye,
Nor shudders at the sight.
Corruption's power
May change those forms to others, not to her :
One thought alone is present : " They are not —
My childi-en ! " Round her head the south wind
plays
Scarce rising into sound, balm-fraught, and soft ;
But it blows chill on her, and pierces keen ;
And its sweet muimurs seem but as a dirge —
A dirge of pitying Angels o'er the dead.
Anon her wandering fancy shapes the sound
Into their well-known voices ; starting up,
She speeds her to the tree. " I come ! I come !
194 RIZPAH.
Where are ye, my sons ! " With sullen croak
Some hateful bird, from off the topmost bough
Reluctant rising, sails into the night,
And she returns, again to watch and weep.
Speed on, speed on, ye ever restless hours !
Bring joy and mourning in their wonted turns.
What is your flight to her ? A mother's heart
Shall steel each limb, and nerve her to a task
In which the mightiest warrior in the host
Had sunk and fainted. Summer's scorching sun,
The baneful moon, smite down upon her head.
But she will keep her watch. The bhds by day.
The gaunt, night-prowling wolf shall keep aloof
From these poor corpses, till the accustomed rains
Of waning autumn pour upon the earth.
Gather their bones, and hide them in the tomb
With Saul and Jonathan, thek honoured kin.
God is entreated for the land, His wrath.
Even as a summer cloud, dispelled and fled.
And thou, wan daughter of old Israel's race, '
Wasted with miseiy, and afflicted sore.
Lift up the feeble hands and di'ooping head,
And bless, yea, bless thy Father's God ; for He
Hath blessing yet in store. Turn back thine eyes,
Faith-fraught, unto the promises which stand
Fix'd, from the first recorded. He ^ill come,
EIZPAH. 195
He will not tany, who shall bear thy griefs,
And take thy shame unto Him.
They, thy sons,
Made expiation for another's guilt,
It may be, dimly shadowing forth a type
Of that gi-eat sacrifice for sin, when she.
The Virgin Mother, at the cross shall stand
Pierced thi-ough with many sorrows, even as thou.
Take thou thy part therein ; — thou, she, and all,
Who mourn, rcfasing to be comforted.
Christ, the firstfruits of them that slept, shall rise.
Bursting the bonds of Death. All, all mankind
Shall see Him, and upstarting at His word
Come forth to judgment : then thy sons shall rise,
With thy dead body shall they rise, and meet
Messiah in the clouds, and dwell with Him.
1852.
o 2
196
5^ lana at la §i;ajj|jit.
[The incident here related caused De Ranee to retire from
the world, and restore the order of La Trappe.]
Dead to the world ! Oh, solemn sonncl,
Of earthly ties and joys the knell,
Wliose common import soon I found
In those whom once I loved so well !
For where are they ? The careless herd
Have fled and left the stricken deer ;
Nor friendship's aid nor friendship's word
Are mine to prove, or mine to hear :
Like Summer leaves at autumn's blast,
The fashion of their love has passed.
Yet I can pardon those who shun
My wi-etched self in this my need,
For what is it that they have done
But walked according to their creed ?
Let them depart, let me remain
To humbly bend beneath the rod,
And vrith this sinfal body's pain
Work out the pardon of my God :
But will He, can He, ere I die,
Look pitying down on such as I ?
DE RANGE AT LA TRAPPE. 197
The relics of a life — in youth
Marked but with vaiying grades of crime,
A baud unstayed, unchecked by mth ;
A heart, life-weary in its prime —
Ai-e these meet gifts, or sacrifice.
For man to ofier unto Thee,
Who art of holier, purer eyes
Than to behold iniquity ?
These bring I. Needless care ! The scroll
Of coining judgment bears the whole.
Shall I then stand alone ? Am ong
Those countless mjTiad souls arrayed,
These ears shall hear one well-known tongue.
These eyes shall see one injured maid.
God ! God ! can even death
Bring to my \actims no respite !
My name was on her latest breath.
My fonn shall meet her quickening sight,
Not as she knew me once of old,
A mail-clad baron, stem, and bold.
But shivering, pale ; one, on whose face
Is stamped the record of his fears ;
One, whose repentance finds no place,
Though sought for earnestly with tears.
198 DE EAlfCE AT LA TRAPPE.
I hear her loath, yet forced to show
Her earthly wi'ongs, my added shame ;
I see her tears remorseful flow,
As, scarcely breathed, she names my name,
And word by word discloses all —
The sinner's wiles, the maiden's fall.
Poor child ! for thou wast scarcely more,
"When first I sought thy love to win ;
All yet were well had I forebore
To blight thy budding years with sin :
Thou wast so trusting and so pure,
From taint of earth so passing fi'ee,
Thou might' st at least have been secure.
For none but Fiends would injure thee :
Aye, none but Fiends ! Despair, and die,
Lost, guilty soul ! for such was I.
Oh, well for thee, that, early sent,
God's sternest angel burst the toils.
That, like a bird escaped, up-went
Thy spirit, saved fi-om darker soils !
But can I e'er forget the day
When, at the well-known tiysting hour,
From midnight riot I stole away
To seek thee in thy lonely tower.
No voice in whispers breathed my name,
I called thee, but no answer came.
DE RANGE AT LA TRAPPE. 199
Perchance she sleeps : with stealthy tread
I passed the narrow, winding stair ;
Once more I saw that little bed,
But, Jesu ! what a sight was there !
Death's hideous gear : strange, menial bands —
A foim fast blackening to decay —
Low, hurried words — unholy hands
All busied round the lifeless clay !
One look sufficed. I knew the whole,
E'en that thy blood was on my soul.
Peace, peace to thee ! If prayer avail,
If peace can spring fi-om such as I,
Oh, surely thou canst never fail
Of pardoning mercy from on high.
I know not. Doubts distract, and fears
Of unseen hoiTors pierce me through.
And conscience thunders in mine ears,
" Thy God is just, His threatenings true."
I feel it, and I bow the knee,
But all beyond is dark to me.
1852.
Note. — The account in the eighth stanza is fact. De Ranco
entered the room by a secret door, and found his mistress
ilcad of the small-pox, and the surgeon in the act of separat-
ing the head from the body, in order to place it more easily
in the coflSn.
200
ih« lai[|j,
The Lady sat within her tower ;
Her look was meek and mild,
Her face was pale as beautiful,
But oil ! her eyes were wild.
She looked to north, she looked to south,
Across the salt sea-shore,
She said, " My Love to battle went.
But he returns no more !
" They bid me hope — they know not all.
Or else they act a part.
Last night I saw him in my dreams.
The death-shot through his heart.
" I saw him come. — In solemn strains
I heard him pass away.
As of the distant organ's swell
Upon the Sabbath day."
THE HARP. 201
She touched her hai-p — the lofty room
Gave back a low, sweet sound,
And echoes from the wall and roof
Went floating, dying, round.
'• 'Tis he," she cried ; again her hand
Across the strings she drew ;
Again the walls and roof replied,
And back the echo threw.
And there for days incessantly.
She leaned her throbbing head
Against her haqj, and swept the strings
To commune with her dead.
So was she happy, though her soul
Was darkened of its light.
And softly smiled, when all around
Were weeping in her sight.
They said, " Perchance, her fantasy
May yield in other climes,
And newer scenes bring back the dawn
Of older, better times."
They bore her off. She breathed no cr}-,
She did not strive or weep ;
But midway there a shrouded fonn
Was lowered in the deep. 1856.
202
Wo a Sridf.
I CANisrOT speak the hollow phrase,
So often idly said,
I dare not ask upon thy days
An unmixed blessing shed :
For well I feel thou too must know
The common lot of all,
The breeze, the blast of weal and woe
Predestined from the Fall.
Yet trust in God, He can renew
The good thou dost require,
Or bring thy spirit safely through
The baptism of fire.
Then be thy life, in open sight
Of man's and angel's eyes.
The life, which, like the taper's light.
Spires upwards till it dies.
TO A BEIDE. 203
So (lark shall pale to Heaven's own blue,
Out-opeuing thi'ough the gloom,
And Grief lay by her earth- soiled hue.
As Faith's white roses bloom.
Pass, pass thou on thy pilgrimage.
Though tried, yet not unblessed.
Through youth sustained, through life's last
stage
Uplifted unto rest.
1854.
204
^onviinl^.
Brother, sick with hope deferred,
Whom no inner voice has stirred.
Lift thine head, and take the word,
Forwards !
Man of sorrow! be assured
What is past may be endured,
"What is present may be cured.
Forwards !
Bide thy time if thou hast wrong ;
Not alone the pahns belong
To the swift, or to the strong.
Fonvards !
See not with another's eyes ;
Knowing what within thee lies,
Boldly venture for the prize.
Forwards !
Want may interpose her wall,
Fashion dub thy merits small ;
Time and action conquer all.
Forwards !
1854.
205
$dl (Suintu
In London stands, or else did stand,
A little cliui'cli, on either hand *
With houses girded in :
Not much of note has it for eyes
Of connoisseurs, yet in it lies
The fair and frail Nell Gwyn.
^\niat shall I say of her ? The age
In which she lived is scarce a page
We would too closely scan :
"VAlien King and Noble fall away,
In tiTith, it is an evil day
For each and every man.
As from some cranny unespied,
"Which dust, and dirt, and cobwebs hide.
Comes forth the gilded fly,
So, like the chi-ysalis, were passed
Her childish days, and there at last
She back returned to die.
* The old church, St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.
206 NELL GWYN.
Yet may we not too harshly blame
Her course, if we her errors name
As errors of the heart ?
Chameleon-like, her virtue found,
And took the hue of all around,
When all was in the mart.
When sin unblushing stood confessed.
When vice was merit, bad the best.
She nursed no upstart pride ;
The needy, though unknown to Fame,
From her might unrejected claim
What nobler blood denied.
Where is the wonder, then, if she
In kindly guise remembered be,
Whilst many a fellow mate
From memory's page has passed away.
Or now, as in her living day,
Is mentioned but with hate.
And why ? In humbler English eyes.
No guilt, or only trivial, lies
In slips like hers, the while
Unbounded waste and pride of mind.
With foreign art and pomp combined,
Full surely stir their bile.
NELL GWYX. 207
They saw lier deeds, they felt her aid ;
The poor relieved, the bailiffs paid,*
Such acts they understood ;
She seemed, despite of common fame,
A dear, kind lady all the same,
Who loved to do them good.
God rest her soul, the untamed one,
True child of frolic, reckless fan,
And hai-mless pungent wit !
And many a soldier, who has found
A house and home on Chelsea's ground.
That prayer will echo yet.f
God rest her soul ! nor let the wise
Speak of her in that doubtful guise.
To blame so near akin :
Death hath wiped off her fleshly stains ;
The ill hath died, the good remains
Of poor Nell Gwyn.
' 1853.
* Nell Gwyn released a clergyman from bailiffs in the
street.
t Chelsea Hospital, founded by Charles II. at the request
of Nell Gwyn.
208
i^Itu J(Ual j
On the lone hours of thought
Stealeth, by times, unsought,
A ch-eamy Sprite of many-coloured hue ;
Foe to the living real.
All hail, thou vnld Ideal !
Loved, though deluding, listed, though untrue.
Whether, with swift winged hands.
Thou back from foreign lands,
Bearest the wanderer to his childhood's home,
Freighted with wealth untold,
To share the hard- won gold
With those dear ones, and never more to roam.
Whether, with Love's warm light,
Thou tinge the Spiiit's sight
Wafting our vision down the stream of Time,
Until the fiercer glow
Wane, tempered in the flow
Of sweet domestic ties, and mellowed prime.
THE IDEAL. 209
Or to the needy, bread,
Or to the living dead
Giving long-absent health for ceaseless pain ;
Whether thou crown with Fame
The unknown dreamer's name,
Or dower the rained with thrice welcome gain.
Not all without intent
Of pitying Mercy sent
To soothe the careworn, guard us from despair ;
A spark of heaven-bom fire.
An echo of Hope's lyre.
Low-toned, and vague ; yet ever, ever fair.
1855.
210
gom^ i^ruth.
What ! when Progress, trumpet sounded,
Through the world has flown,
Can her march be cramped and bounded
In the rich alone ?
Science grows — and all believe her
Manifold and strong.
Knowledge comes — and all receive her,
Whether right or wrong.
Science grows — and as she groweth
Be it ours to bend
What she seeketh, what she knoweth.
To its destined end.
Knowledge comes — and in her coming.
Brothers, take we heed,
Lest her words be godless mumming,
And her staff a reed.
Not for ease, and not for pleasure.
Any art has birth ;
Not to swell the fancied measure
Of our fancied worth ;
HOME TRUTH. 211
But that, joined in trae alliance,
Hand and heart may raise
Up for man the fruits of science,
Up for God the praise.
Brothers, unto whom is given
Rule within the State,
Who are chosen out hy Heaven
To be wise or gi-eat,
Stand ye forth, as prompt and willing,
As time men and hold.
As good stewards, well fulfilling
All the trust ye hold :
Neither deem the ills besetting
England's veiy core,
But a casual evil fretting,
But a skin-deep sore ;
For the heart, though day and fallowed.
Bears the fruits of sin,
And, where God is never hallowed,
Devils enter in.
Make the Peasant's youth not only
Youth of brute-hke toil,
Nor the workhouse bread his lonely
Claim upon the soil.
212 HOME TRUTH.
Give liim also for his leisure
Whence he may aspire
Unto higher, purer pleasure
Than the ale-house fire.
Strive to make his hurdens lighter,
And his sorrows less.
And the Law, his ready smiter.
Ready to redress.
With his dwelling far more sordid
Than the pampered dog's,
With his merits worse rewarded
Than the prize-fed hog's,
Ask we, why we meet for kindness
Scant return, or none ;
Or, why he, in very blindness.
Judge of all by one ?
Give the Craftsman knowledge, learning,
Ere in random haste
From the Tree, with undiscerning
Hand, he pluck and taste.
Schools have ye of Christian calling,
Schools for great and small ? —
Lo ! their fruits in filthy scrawling
On the wayside wall.
HOME TRUTH. 213
Husband, wife, and son, and daughter,
Herded in one room,
Pent as sheep for Satan's slaughter,
Reckless meet their doom.
With no self-respect to soften
Passions instinct led,
Ground by petty tjTants often.
Often pinched for bread ;
With the scenes of sin before them.
With their home a sewer,
With the guUty ones who bore them,
How shall they be pure ?
Brothers, brothers ! whilst we slumber.
Time is moving on ;
Whilst we count them, from our number
One more day is gone.
And experience points to ages
Past, and teaches how
All the Broad of olden sages
Is but NaiTow now.
Will we that the changes da\vning
Slowly into Ught,
Come, as comes the May-day momiug
After starless night ?
214 HOME TRUTH.
Then let old abuses perish,
Though by time endeared,
And the stain of -wrongs we cherish
From the State be cleared.
Ask ye, who is equal, able,
For the coming day ?
But be faithful, time, and stable ;
God shall teach the way !
God, whose ways are ever holy
In believers' eyes,
Chooses out the weak and lowly
To confound the wise.
By the coral worm that lurketh
In Pacific seas.
By the dews and blights, He worketh ;
Are ye less than these ?
WTiether many aid, or whether
Ye be few and small.
Forwards ! hand and heart together !
God is over all !
Over all — and ranks and stations
Wane, and are as none,
When He bows the hearts of nations.
As the heart of one.
1855.
215
Isiac ^umbols df gcath mul Jmmoiilalitg.
A BEOKEN lotus branch, —
A captive bii-cl set free, —
Thus far \\ithin the veil
'Egypt by faith could see.
They graved not on their type
Of earth, conniption's blight,
But leaf and flower knot drooped
Just sentient of its might :
A helpless, stricken thing,
Yet in its death as fair
As when in life it waved
Flauntingly in the air.
But with an upturned eye
The freed bird seemed to strain
Forth to the realms of space,
And looked not back again.
216 ISIAC SYMBOLS OF DEATH AND IMMORTALITY.
Wings to the quickened soul,
Earth to its kindi'ed earth !
Whence came the ray of Truth,
That gave these symbols birth ?
So strangely near to God,
Yet stumbling as in night !
Oh ! are we nearer now —
We, who have seen the light ? .
1855.
217
Sot flf il\c morll
The earth has many who with high aspiring
March on her trodden ways,
Legions who seek with hand and heart untiring
To win, or merit praise.
But rarely seen, and seldom comprehended.
Are they, the humbler crew,
Whose round of duties is begun and ended,
Scarce known, and prized by few.
They toil not for applause, before their faces
No tramp of Fame is blown ;
And to their secret prayers, in secret places,
Makes answer One alone.
Yet many noble deeds, here unrewarded,
Those hands in faith have done.
And many erring sheep, not hero recorded,
Those quiet voices won.
218 NOT OF THE WORLD.
True household saints, whom often we, receiving
As angels unawares.
Are slow of heart to hear, and unbelieving
Of all their holy cares.
Whose gold is not of earth, and therefore numbered
With unregarded things.
And only rightly prized when, disencumbered,
The soul has gained her wings.
1855.
219
lis Nutans ait not as our Mags,
No tale of queenly palace,
Or old baronial hall ;
But of the poor man's dwelling,
The chamber close and small.
There two, in one bed sleeping,
Drew heavily their breath —
A mother and her daughter,
Both sick ; one unto death.
The child was dwarfed and weakly,
Yet struggled hard for life ;
The woman gaunt and wasted —
A lone, deserted wife.
And she had craved, in watchings
And many tears that night,
God's blessing on her daughter.
And favour in His sight.
220 HIS WAYS AEE NOT AS OUR WAYS.
Then came a visioned angel,
And bent to kiss the child ;
The little one looked upwards,
Held out her arms, and smiled.
The mother rose up trembling.
Looked down upon the bed ;
The dawn of day had broken,
The dying child was dead ;
And on its face the sunbeams
Shed glories as she gazed ;
So found she faith within her
To say, " The Lord be praised ! '"
1855.
221
3 IjJtrt
Old, old words ! the same in fashion
Now, as when the world was young ;
Blurred, profaned by sensual passion,
Sullied by the lying tongue.
Even yet their sound has part
With a Spirit fi-om above ;
And a thiill goes thi-ough the heart
At the old, old words, " I love."
And those words, once tmly spoken,
Shall remain, nor pass away
Until sealed by Death, in token
That their gold be purged from clay.
For a blessing blest their birth
As they floated from above;
And a God first dowered the earth
With the old, old words, " I love."
1856.
222
&xifU^*
Little specks of daily trouble,
Petty grievance, petty strife,
Filling up with drops incessant
To the brim the cup of Life.
Deeper import have these trifles
Than we think, or care to know —
In the air a feather floating
Tells from whence the breezes blow.
Call not happy those obliquely
Following the track of ill :
Never yet from muddy fountain
Issued out the crystal rill.
Call not wretched those who, striving
Manfully, would play their parts ;
Though Egj^tian darkness cover,
Light have they within their hearts.
TRIFLES. 223
Rather speak of those who, neither
Wholly ill, nor wholly good,
Like to Paul of old, though willing,
Do not oft the things they would.
At oui- hearths, and in our households.
Life's true index we may find ;
Tiny motes, yet still denoting
All the bias of the mind.
Cany there the smiling faces
That ye wear when little known.
Who are best deserving, think ye —
Utter strangers, or your own ?
Happiness lies not so distant
As its counterfeiting ill ;
Rightly seek, and be ye certain
All may have it, if they will.
1853.
224
i^0=mmToui.
" That ten-ible Next Morning, when reason is wide awake."
» Sir E. BuLWEK Lttton's Ernest Maltravers.
Haed by each tkresliokl
Standetli a sprite,
Waxing, as waneth
Sable clad Night ;
Never before hath she trodden the way,
Never returns she, for into To-day
With sunrise glides onwards To-morrow.
Stay thine hand, hasty
Worker of ill!
Slanderous Spirit,
Peace, and be still !
Evil unfinished, the one word unsaid,
Meditate on them, when over thy bed
Grey breaks the dawn of To-morrow.
TO-MORROW. 225
That which thou^ost, ere
Closing thine eyes,
Surely at waking
Ghost-like shall rise.
Sleep, the rest-giver, may shield thee at night,
Who shall keep from thee the Phantom of light,
Thy Nemesis, coming To-morrow.
Emhlem is she of
Things yet unseen,
Which shall be, must be.
Which have not been.
Sealing the past with Eternity's seal.
Cometh, as she comes, for woe or for weal.
The last, everlasting To-morrow.
1853.
Q
226
Pi^ni]) ^tti^land.
Merry England ! tliere is magic
In the very word and name ;
Dreams of Majdngs, thoughts of revels,
When old Chi-istmas had its fame :
And the writer in romances,
And the poet in his lays,
Grieve that ever- coming changes
Should replace the olden days.
Was it so, in truth, or are we
Idle praisers of the past,
Deeming every innovation
Still more hurtful than the last ?
Merry England ! wast thou merry,
Bending down beneath the load
Of a griping, monkish priesthood,
And a blood-bedabbled code ?
MERRY ENGLAND. 227
Death for sheep, for horse, for cattle !
Well might e'en the savage think
England's laws, like Draco's, wi-itten
Down in human hlood, not ink.
Was it when the fop's embroider^',
And the hoggish squu-e's feast.
Made the town and country differ
But as insect fi'om the beast '?
Or, retracing back Time's footsteps.
Was it of the feudal date.
In the gi-inding of the peasant.
In the rapine of the great ?
Xo ! though still the tide of evil
Cometh inwards like a flood,
Private interest oft prevailing
In the guise of public good ; — ■
Though the wisest be but en-ing,
Though the selfish be a curse,
In the sounding march of Progress
Follow better things, not worse.
Dream we here as idle dreamers
Of millenniums of Peace ? —
Not in our time, or our children's,
May the battle trumpet cease.
228 MERRY ENGLAND.
Hope we here to live as brothers
In the golden age of yore ? —
'Twas not so from mm-dered Abel,
Neither can it be so more.
But we may hope, and we do hope.
For a broader, purer light,
And for laurels more enduring
Than the laurels won in fight :
Science waxing, man progressing —
So in hamlet as in town;
But by raising up his level,
Not by drawing others down.
Peace more fiiTa, more equal justice,
Man more knit to fellow-man.
And the name of names, Old England,
Then, and ever, in the van.
1853.
229
§liitonisut.
It is a poet thought, whoe'er
He was that gave it bii-th,
That they loved first in other worlds,
^Yh.o tnily love on earth ;
That once the two were one,
One in a mystic band,
Dwelling beneath the sun
Of the bright Spiiit land.
Not here below the darkened soul,
Enveloped in the clay,
Receives, as she was wont to do,
The intermingUng ray ;
Yet strange thoughts crowd the brain,
And impulses arise,
Whene'er the severed twain
Meet in their earthly guise.
230 PLATONISM.
Love at first sight, we wi-ongly name
Those yearnings of the heart ;
Rather believe they recognize
Each one her sister part.
Seldom, as heretofore.
Blend they in union here,
Shall they not fuse once more,
Joined in some distant sphere?
1853.
231
<|)m;i()inatioiu
There sits a maiden wea^ing
Within the dome of thought,
Her produce freely giving
To every one unsought.
Athwart the brain of childhood
The web she weaves is white,
Gossamer-like, all glist'ning
With hues of rainbow light.
Changed, changed ! upon the tissue
Youth's crimson passions shine,
And earthly threads of evil
Throughout it intertwine.
The dial gnome of manhood
Gives out a longer shade,
And pale beneath it wanhig
The residue shall fade.
232 IMAGINATION.
Now other shapes are bending
Beside the maiden there,
And darker grow the shadows
Beneath the hand of Care.
He lays his yoke upon her :
In bitterness of heart
She flings the shuttle from her,
She tears the web apart.
Then upwards, upwards gazing,
As though she strove to trace
Another, better mansion,
A glow comes on her face.
She breaks the yoke from off her,
Asunder rends the bands.
As false Delilah's green withes
Were rent in Samson's hands.
And once again, and ever.
She weaves a new device.
And all its lights and colours
Are lights of Paradise,
1853.
233
juiallouis.
Worth walks on rugged ways,
Red gold has ready praise,
Come, sun and summer days,
Then come the swallows.
Poor men must live by rule.
Sharp wit may go to school ;
Broad lands, and half a fool.
Then, hey for swallows !
Lose all, and " you are rash ; "
Leam all, " it is hut trash."
Know nought, and if you've cash.
Then come the swallows.
Shut hand, and pocket numb.
Closed door, and visage glum,
" Off, off! the winter's come ! "
Heigho, for swallows !
1854.
234
^^miiiismiriiJi.
There is a charm, a mournful charm,
That clings to olden days,
As when in foreign climes our home
Depictured, meets our gaze.
Yet wish thou not to live again
Life's now half- finished task ;
Though worldly wise in much, in this
We know not what we ask.
For early days had early griefs,
Nor then was care unknowTi,
Though over each and every one
Time has his mantle thrown.
Though softening tints hang over all
The dangers of the way.
Even as the setting sun imparts
A softness, not of day.
REMINISCENCES. 235
More in their freshness lay the charm
Of those regi-etted years,
More in the yet not loosened grasp
Of all that most endears,
Than in the freedom from those ills
Which man may never shun.
Than in the absence of the doom
^^^lich they may read who run.
Yet, youth had her peculiar joys,
Too fair, perchance, to last ;
Hope gilds the future. Memory hut
Attempers down the past.
Not then we saw the snares and toils
That wait the traveller's feet.
But neither knew the Tree that makes
The bitter waters sweet.
Together, pray we, that they come.
The antidote and loss, —
The fading of all earthly things.
The brightening of the Cross.
1853.
236
x^ f attic 0f ^oljra0n.
A SONG for Britain's brave,
Who fought upon the morn,
When horse and foot alike
Went down at red Sobraon !
Full on our falling ranks
The iron shower came fast ;
We deemed, quick closing up,
Each moment was our last.
A sound, as of a stream
That bursts its yielding banks-
A sound of charging horse
From out our English ranks !
A moment's silence, — then
A sharp and steely cling,
As of a thousand smiths
Whose strokes on iron ring !
THE BATTLE OF SOBKAON. 237
As sweeps the rising stream,
Whose toiTent nought may stay,
So were the cannoneers
Swept from their guns that day !
A song for those who fought,
For all the living brave !
Honour, England's tears,
For those who found a grave !
1847.
238
mom of geprkd (bmm.
It grieves me mucli to see the veil
Tom rudely from the dead,
And every trifle noted down
Of all he did or said.
What boots it us to know that he
Was erring in his span,
That many a thought, and word, and deed,
Showed him, like us, hut man ?
He, like the image seen in sleep,*
By Babylonia's King,
Was but of mingled metal, but
An all-imperfect thing. ;
The head, fine gold, the silver breast, ^i
Shine forth in open day ; '1
Let these suffice, nor seek to spy
The brass, the iron, the clay.
1853.
* Daniel, ii. 31.
239
6od'fi S^crc,
Goi)& Acre ! gave not men of yore
Fii-stlings of that good fruit tliey bore
To Christ's new-planted creed,
When on the di-ear churchyard they placed
That name, wherein the thought is traced,
" God present in our need ? "
Present, — and in our need the same
As that dear Lord who, journeying, came
To Lazarus when he slept ;
Who wills not son-owing hearts should feign
Themselves unmoved, nor had disdain
To weep with those who wept.
God's Acre ! halloing words ! and yet
To Heavenly themes how scantly fit !
For who shall name the spot
In Heaven, or earth, in sea or air,
lu mirkiest night or sunshine, where
That olorious God is not ?
240 god's acre.
Aye, wheresoe'er our bodies rest,
Be't Earth's green sod, or Ocean's breast,
May Faith stand forth and say,
' ' No narrowing thought of man shall change
The Eternal Word, or cramp its range : —
God's Acre holds that clay ! "
1860.
I
241
guslitott ialL
Foot jom-neyiug down the eloping hill,
As I am often wont to do,
I pause awhile, and stand me still,
When first the house comes into view.
There, mulhoned window, gable peak
Shine whitening in the morning sun.
As though had scarcely passed a week
Since Tresham saw his labours done.
The hand of man lies hard on all
Thy once gray stones, old Rushton Hall !
Tis foolish, but not therefore less
A giief, to grieve that things are so.
To hate to seo thee in the dress
That modem tastes and skill bestow ;
For, running round, continual change
Is, shall be, and has ever been ;
And once, perhaps, it seemed as strange.
As hard a thing to Tresham's kin,
As now it seems to me to bear
Another name and lineage there.
242 EUSHTON HALL.
Yet so it is. The ruined fane's
Last stone is gone, the grassy sod
Lies smooth above, and nought remains
"Where once of old, man worshipped God.
The mount is levelled, Hercules
Stands on the plain, forlornly bare.
And Peter's spring, once hid with trees,
Has donned a trim and modish air.
All changed, all altered. If for good, —
I cannot think it, though I would.
For these were wonders often shown,
And in our childish hearts enrolled,
When style and date were yet unknown,
And all seemed gi'and and very old.
The echoing gallery where we raced
With clattering feet to wake the sound.
The cypress chests, the armour placed
Above the stairs, the pleasure gi'ound;
It makes me sad to think that they,
Though trivial things, have passed away.
If thoughts like these be littleness,
So be it. What I feel I speak.
Not questioning the right, much less
Denying that I may be weak.
EUSHTON HALL. 243
Nay more, I grant it passing strange
That I should feel what now I do,
For dimly down the lengthening range
Of years, stand out the things I rue,
And why should they he more to me
Than other things that cease to be ?
To me myself it is not much,
That those I never loved or saw
Lie low, exposed to every touch.
Like buried soldiers, slain in war.
To me not much, that sold and bought
Yon fabric passed to other hands ;
My claim upon it was but nought,
Nor had I portion in her lands.
Then wherefore yearns this living frame
To those dry founts from whence it came ?
By secret sympathy induced,
The face of generations gone
Full oftentimes is reproduced.
And sire to son transmits it on.
May it not bo that Spirit too
Hath sympathies as yet unknown —
That what we feel, and what we do,
Takes fi'om some parted soul its tone,
And that ancestral Spirits here
By times are busy at our ear ?
ii2
244 RUSHTON HALL.
So comes it then that oft we feel
As they had felt if still on earth,
Nor can our busier visions steel
Us wholly to their fancied worth.
But, be this as it may, old days
At times will stir the sinrit's calm,
And sad I'emembrance sorrowing gaze
On every change, and deem it harm.
So have I felt, so feel I all
Thy sundry changes, Rushton Hall.
1853.
I
245
6ttJ| gcitd.
Over the whole house
Hangeth a gloom,
Coming down, spreading,
Out of one room.
Softly on tiptoe
The servants go by,
Hushing each sound, though
Scarce knowing why ;
Speaking in whispers
Under their breath,
Fearfully owning
The presence of Death.
Long time they battled it.
Bitter in strife,
Struggling, straggling,
Death against Life.
Peacefully, quietly,
Ebbed the last day.
Into Eternity
Melting away.
246 ONE DEAD.
Close up the narrow home,
Bear it from sight ;
Open the shutters,
Let in the light ;
Breathlessly watching it
As it moves on,
Breathing more freely,
Now it is gone.
Yet, for thy sorrowful
Sohhings and sighs,
Check them, let other
Better thoughts rise.
Hallowed by memory,
Not by loud grief.
Leave in the gamer
The ripening sheaf :
Think of the better part
When eventide
Gathers thy remnant
Bound the fireside ;
Like a blest influence,
Speechfal, though dumb,
Soul unto sister soul
"Woo it to come,
Telling of hidden things
Which shall not fail,
Partly withdrawing
The iutei-posed veil.
ONE DEAD.
So when beside thee,
Close at thine ear,
Something shall whisper,
" Lo, I am here!"
Bowed in submission,
Sorrow may cease,
Changing, transfigured
To holier peace.
Love it, remembering
Thou still art free,
Sundered, re-union
Resteth with thee.
So shall remembrance,
Playing her part,
Soften the hardening
Soil of the heart.
Stealing on swiftly.
Years shall go by ;
Comes the solution
Of what 'tis to die :
Mourner, now mourned for.
Upon thee has passed
The first doom of Adam,
God grant it thy last !
247
1853.
248
i^a he djouktti
Speak not of youth as of a time
Too wholly fair to last,
Nor yet implore forgetfuluess
Of all the buried past.
The good and ill of ev'ry day
Are wi'itten on one page,
And often gleams of youth return
In sobered guise to age.
'Tis something, in this world of ours,
Although our blood be cold,
To sympathize with those who feel,
As we have felt of old.
'Tis something, when the aged bear
The burden of the day,
To aid and comfort in their need.
And cheer them on their way.
TO BE CONTENT. 249
So, thread by tliread the ties are twined
That liuk our hearts and hands,
And each succeeding phase of life
Is gathered in their bands :
New cares, new wants, new blessings spring,
To ev'ry age its own ;
It is but wholly ill with him
Whose heart is wholly stone.
1860.
250
!i[aut|3*fj Miicatlt.
What shall youug Beauty wear,
Wlaat for her wreath to-night ?
The diamond round her hair,
Shall it give back a light
Quivering as on she goes ?
Lo, in Brazilian mines
The stolen negro pines,
Wasting mth home-sick throes I
Not round her head be placed
The evil-omened gaud,
Blood- sullied, and disgraced
By rapine, violence, fraud !
Lay by the glittering braid.
Meet for a rajah's bride,
Meet for the haram's pride,
Not for an English maid.
beauty's wreath. 251
Calm, queen-like pearls are here ;
They will beseem her well,
Looped to the small white ear,
Rose-tiuted like a shell.
My di-eams are of the main ;
I heard the billows roar,
As one dived off the shore,
Who came not back again.
Bring flowers. No curse of slave
Clings to their leafy cup ;
None found, or risked a grave,
Bringing their treasures up.
The hot close air shall fade
Those buds. Ere break of day
Their life shall pass away.
Lacking its native shade.
And I, — I saw one late
A happy child, and now
Walking in altered state
With deeply fun-owed brow.
Whence came the prints of care ?
Ask her, and she shall say,
" It seems but as a day
Since I was young and fair."
252 beauty's weeath.
All things enggest one thought.
Even our festive hours
Are with the moral fraught
Of yonder gathered flowers !
Leaf, bud, and opened bloom —
Child, maiden, wedded wife :
So runs the course of life
Unto one common tomb.
Yet flowers befit her well,
The pure in thought and deed,
Since once, ere Adam fell,
They bloomed without a weed.
And still, as records found.
Unchanged the frail things stand,
Breathing of Him, whose hand
First formed them in the ground.
Then twine the wreath of flowers.
The meanest one that grows,
Grew once in Eden's bowers,
The wildling as the rose.
Pure be the floral braid,
Purer the thoughts it brings,
Thoughts of a flower that springs
Never again to fade.
1853.
253
(^Uptiatt (J[osi f oitjg.
" At the feasts of the Egyptians, they carried round an
image painted like a corpse, saying : ' Look on this, eat,
drink, and be jovial; for when you are dead, snch will you
be." '" — Hekodotus, Euterpe, ii.
Here we arc, a merry band
Driving care away.
Take Life as it comes to hand,
Live ye for to-day.
If we have the present hour,
We have present store ;
Present time gives present power.
Coming, can no more.
Lift up thine eyes,
To-day he wise,
To-morrow within the unknown lies !
254 EGYPTIAN FEAST SONG.
Love is like a dream of dreams,
Purple tinged in wine ;
Soul -entrancing till the beams
Of the morrow shine !
Beauty, youth, steal off; and health.
Who can call it sure ?
If we dare not use our wealth,
We are truly poor.
Then love to-day,
Wliilst yet you may :
To-morrow, thy love may pass away,
What old Time may haply bring.
Seek we not to know ;
When for flight he plumes his wing,
Drink, and let him go.
Fill the cup, the lotus flower
Bound the forehead bind ;
Isis gives the present hour,
Care may lurk behind.
Then pour the wine.
The garland twine ;
To-morrow, the chance may not be thine.
EGYPTIAN FEAST SONG. 255
Here we bring a joyless guest,
One whom all must see,
Days, or weeks, or years at best,
And thou art as he.
Eat and drink, be merij now,
Ere the time be fled ;
Yet a little while, and thou
Number with the dead.
The time draws nigh,
The moments fly ;
To-moiTOW, perchance, thou too mayst die.
1841.
256
cl'bltllllS,
Flowees of the field ! From days of old
Bywords of frailness made,
To point the tale so often told —
How all things here must fade.
Blind that we are ! Within their bloom
A holier moral lies,
Unsullied by one thought of gloom.
Faith-opened on the eyes.
Though seeming death pass on the flower,
The buried root still lives,
And in the due appointed hour
Meet blossom surely gives.
No mouldering taint clings to the shoot
That rises fi'om the sod,
Though earth retain the earth-bom root.
The flower looks up to God.
FLOWERS. 257
So might we see in all things here,
If we would rightly read,
How Life, not Death — how Hope, not Fear —
Is given as our Creed.
Pass b}' the more ignoble truth,
Upstretching to the goal ;
So shall the risen flower in sooth
Be emblem of the soul.
1853.
258
All hearts are sad by times,
Yet scarcely know the cause ;
Something is roused within
Owning not outward laws,
Not in our mortal span.
Even as the wind that blows
We know not whence or where,
That something stii's and moves.
Wakening a secret care,
Quickening the inward man.
Not when the foolish heart
Is settling on its lees.
But when Life's storms and fires
Have rent away that ease.
Listed with saving fear.
Lone, stricken, mantle-veiled.
And bowed beneath the rod.
Must that soul meet the voice —
The still, small voice of God,
Which saith, " What dost thou here ?" *
1853.
* 1 Kings, xix. 13.
259
SH libprg.
A NAREOW cell to hold in store
So much of ripened human lore,
An almost mournful sight !
How many busy hours, all bent
On immortality, were spent
To bring these books to light !
And see ! the world-wide names of old
Are strange to him whose eyes behold
Them now but little known ;
Well may the living author sigh,
For in their lot he may espy
The lot fore-doomed his ovm.
s 2
260 THE LIBEAEY.
Yet if such works he liaply found
Within a more concentred round,
Or placed on fewer shelves,
At least, 'tis something to he sought
By those who think as they have thought,
And love them for themselves.
'Tis something, and perhaps 'tis more,
For they who seek will prize such lore,
And dare to have a choice
When, fi'om a chance-discovered page,
The spirit of a perished age
Speaks with a spirit voice.
His place is fixed; and as we read,
From prejudice or envy freed,
We see with clearer eyes ;
And, better known than in his span,
The living soul, the inner man.
Before us opened lies.
Such triumph has the master-heai*t
When Time's stretched wing has fanned apart
The mingled chaff and grain ;
When all the age's tinsel, thrust
Away to darkness and to dust.
Is counted poor and vain.
THE LIBRARY. 261
For Fashion's wit has but its day,
And with that Fashion dies away ;
But he lives on, who took
A higher aim, and, while he sought
The germs of humanizing thought.
Could find them in The Book.
1854.
262
%K W^mamlk a Pat[i«r.
WRITTEN AFTER RETURNING FROM A BALL.
The blackness of the waning night
Is vanishing away,
And chilly on the brisk fire-light
Looks down the dawn of day ;
And still within my ringing ear
Conies up the music's din ;
Before my eyes, as if still near.
The twirling figures spin.
A pleasant scene, a mirthful press,
Yet sad to many there.
To whom in guise of happiness
Is given only care.
So saw I one : and yet no trace
Of sorrow caught the eye,
No outward giief upon that face
Was for the passer by ;
LA DEMOISELLE A MARIER. 263
'Twas only when she chanced to be
Alone, her look confessed
How much the spirit yearned to flee
From thence, and be at rest.
But if )-ou spoke, the cloud was gone,
And quietly once more
The old unmeaning smile came on
Her features as before.
Few words suffice for such disguise ;
All know the idol sought
Within a world whose holiest ties
So oft are sold and bought :
Yet on my heart a sadness weighs
'\\Tienever I behold
The cherished lamb of early days
Thus proffered from the fold ;
And, musing on a mother's sense
Of woman's rightful fame,
I cannot choose but wonder whence
Such mother feelings came.
Oh ! keep her, watch her, guard her still
With closest eye and care.
Search out her heart, and, if you will.
Guide each emotion there ;
264 LA DEMOISELLE A MARIER.
But spare to take from Nature's dower
The innate spark of good —
True self-respect, the fairest flower
Of sweet, sweet maidenhood ;
And let her live, whilst yet she may,
Untaught to act a part ;
Too soon that first bloom dies away
From each and eveiy heart.
1854.
265
m '* §mdm\r
The steam-ship " President" is moored
Alongside of tlie quay,
To-morrow's sun shall see her
(God willing) under way.
The place is like a market,
Her decks are like a fair,
And women, men, and children,
Scream, shout, and jostle there.
And some are bringing luggage,
And some are taking leave.
And some are merry-hearted,
And others mope and grieve.
That very night a sailor
Unto the owners hied : —
'The ' President' (God willing)
Sails with to-morrow's tide.
266 ■ THE " PRESIDENT."
"It likes me not to see her,
For she is strained and racked ;
And much I do misdoubt me
The ship is broken-backed."
Then loudly laughed those merchants
" The broken ship before
Made out a right good voyage,
And will make many more ! "
He shook his head, as doubtful,
Then slowly turned away,
" God grant that she may do so,
And me to see the day ! "
Next morning sailed the steamer.
And all those lives in freight
Were joined in one short entry —
" Sailed," (such or such a date).
And fi-iends looked out for tidings.
And soon forgot theii" giief ;
And head clerks checked the ledger.
And turned another leaf.
So days passed by. One only
Of those few men who heard
The sailor's errand spoken
Thought ever of his word.
THE "PEESIDENT." 267
Quoth he, " This dreamer's vision
May yet too true be found ;
Such words as he has spoken
Fall rarely to the ground.
" I'll get me to the wise man,
Of whose new art they say
The distance is as nothing,
The past time as to-day."
The wise man heard his en-and,
And thrice he moved his hand :
A pale, worn clnld crept forward.
And by bim took his stand.
Again that hand is moving :
" Sleep, cliild ! I vnll it so.
Now, merchant, ask, and hear of
The things thou Avouldest know."
" Oh, pale, mysterious sleeper !
Look out upon the sea,
The groat Atlantic ocean,
And tell the sights to me."
" I sec a long, black steam-ship
Fast speeding on her way ;
A white track boils behind her,
Before her jumps the spray ;
268 THE "PRESIDENT."
' ' And * President ' is painted
In letters on her stem."
" Enough," quoth the blithe merchant ;
" 'Twas this I came to learn."
And still no tidings reached them
Of that ship or her freight.
He got him to the wise man,
And asked again her fate.
" I see the long, black steam- ship ;
She pitches to and fro,
And some are sick and sorry.
And some are down below.
" The captain's look is cheery,
A smile is on his face."
" God bless him ! " quoth the merchant,
" He merits well his place ! "
And still no tidings reached them ;
'Twas strange beyond compare.
For prosperous were the breezes.
The weather passing fair.
So back again he hied him
Unto the man of art : —
" At times a doubt comes on me,
And I am sick at heart.
THE " PRESIDENT." 269
" Oil, pale, mysterious sleeper !
Look on the western sea,
As thou wast wont aforetimes,
And tell the sights to me."
'' I see the western ocean,
In all its sunlit glow,
And ships of many nations
Are passing to and fro.
" Thy ship alone I see not,
And mists, as if of night,
Hang heavy on the track where
Before I saw the sight."
" Oh, look again, thou sleeper !
Unclose again thy lip.
And name thy price, and have it,
For tidings of that ship ! "
" If thou wouldst give me thousands,
I can hut tell to thee
The sights that on yon ocean
Are present unto me.
" Great ships are there, and many.
But one I see no more ;
That ship whereof thou askest,
The one I saw before.
270 THE "PEESIDENT."
" Thus far is granted to me,
And but thus far alone.
God's path is on those waters,
His footsteps are not known."
Then homewards turned the merchant,
A woful man, to hear
The words that had been spoken
Of mingled doubt and fear.
And many times the office,
And many times the quay,
Were thronged with anxious men, who
Went comfortless away.
And years have now passed by since
That steamer left the shore ;
The mist stUl interveneth,
And we may learn no more.
1852.
271
St0 P0ll«.
No more ! — our hearts are slow in comprehending
The words, albeit their bui-den press us sore ;
Years must pass by before we truly fathom
The deep affliction hidden in, " No more."
No more ! — oh ! speak it not in idle fashion,
Whilst all things yet remain as heretofore ;
Be sure the day will come when thou shalt sorrow
In the full meaning of the words, " No more."
No more ! — it is God's will ; and those bereavements
Wliieh now we bear, our lost ones also bore ;
They know our weaknesses, and they can pardon
The thought, "In other spheres; but here, no
more."
1860.
272
nm\%
Into the coming night
The sunset melts away,
Rose, orange, golden light,
Fading to yellowed gray.
Why, at Spring's fairest hour,
Hath conscience added power ?
Wliy is thine heart so sad ?
Back runs the stream of thought,
Back to the days of old.
Life mem'ries early fraught
With tales of ill untold.
Upwards, before the eyes,
Spectres unbidden rise.
Shadows of former self.
Righteous art thou, and good ? —
Is it not also truth,
Evil was not withstood
In the hot days of youth ?
Ask not to break the seal ; ]
Opened, it will reveal >
A cage of unclean birds. J
^o'-
MEMORY. 273
Oh ! not for pleasures gone,
Or pleasant days of yore,
Not for age coming on
Sigheth the heart so sore ;
Not buried flowers, but weeds,
111 thoughts, unholy deeds,
These, these make Memory sad.
1854.
274
(^rmhxiL
What is Freedom ? Not incb'ting
Treason, if we will ;
Not the power of speaking, writing
Of another ill.
Patriots unto strife appealing
But for strife have thought,
And the eye of party feeling
Sees but what is taught.
What is Freedom ? Not the many
Trampling down the few ;
Not the sceptre wrenched fi'om any
Older Powers by new.
Strip from Greece and Rome the brighter
Legends of our youth ;
See we Freedom when the writer
Writes the simple truth ?
FBEEDOM. 275
No — like Isis, whose probations
Many proving failed,
Still athwart the march of nations
Stands the Goddess veiled :
Still, like Isis, she denies her,
Rigid and alone,
And the rash who icill be Aviser,
Searching, find her stone.
Time alone, in Time's appointed
Honr, can give her life.
And disclose her " God-anointed "
For the end of strife.
As the dial's shadow creeping.
Creeping on its way,
Slow advancing, never sleeping.
Comes her dawning day.
As we wax in Reason, Learning,
Waxes she in might, —
As our lamps gi'ow clear in burning
She too gathers light;
And men only then shall know her
When their jan'ings cease,
And the risen sunbeams show her
Sister unto Peace.
1854.
T 2
276
^{[wtailt S^itrsus.
Not with the laurel wreath, but with the oaken,
Be these our sisters crowned ;
And ne'er in old world days that civic token
More worthy brows hath bound.
Across the sea, the bleak Crimean water.
They sought the war-worn soil,
Exchanging health and home for scenes of slaughter,
Exchanging ease for toil.
The rough, rude soldier paused ere he addi-essed
them, J
And checked his ribald mirth ; "
The wounded and the sick rose up and blessed them,
As angels sent on earth.
What need have they of rank or titled station,
Who chose that higher part,
The world-wide homage of a grateful nation,
A grateful people's heart ?
SCUTARI NUESES. 277
Oh, grave not we their deeds for coming ages
On brass or costly stone ;
Their names are written down on other pages,
Their acts should speak alone !
1856.
278
§R^%d m'^.
Crushed beneath the heavy blow,
Scarcely yet we feel or know
That the Spirit whispers low,
" Passed away from earth to heaven."
Yet, though waning hope be fled,
Rest is on that weary head ;
What shall grieve or harm the dead,
Passed away from earth to heaven ?
Doubt, and fear, and pain are o'er ;
Dwell not on the world's " No more ;"
Not so lost, but gone before.
Passed away from earth to heaven !
1861.
279
d^ommuuion ujitli ilu gcuarted.
Would we have form and voice come from the Dead
Unto the eye and ear of mortal birth ?
These have departed hence. With Life they iled ;
All that was earthly has gone down to earth.
So Ibng as they were here, like ours, each heart
Gave its own feelings utterance in speech ;
Now, from the Spii'it world what they impart
Spirit alone can hear, or Spirit teach.
Would we have commune ? Seek it, then, by
thought,
By prayer that speaks and lives, though sound
be dumb,
In the last words they loved, the haunts they
sought ;
Summon them thus, and surely will they come.
280 COMMUNION WITH THE DEPARTED.
Not to thine eye disclosed, or to tliine ear ;
If thou hast hopes of these, oh ! let them cease ;
Cleansed and transfigured now, when they draw
near.
Their forms are, Love ; their answering voices,
Peace.
They bring not myst'ries down, which all shall know
In the appointed hour, so they be pure ;
Soul, sister Soul pervading, seeks to show
But the one path that makes reunion sure.
Hear them in Nature's voice, the wind's low sigh,
The rippling stream, the sea's far-sounding shore,
See them in Nature's works, the fields, the sky ;
So have we part with them. We can no more.
1854.
281
i;in» gi^autiful
We seek the Beautiful from Life's beginning,
Led by our passions, or by impulse taught,
Blinded through haste to seize, and never winnin
More than the very shadow of our thought.
It lies before us, and as best befitting,
God's gift, unsullied, and without alloy ;
We seek it, and we have it not, unwitting
We lack the rightful spirit to enjoy.
Severed too much by lines of demarcation,
Christ and our daily selves are kept apart ;
Duty with pleasure hath but scant relation.
And where the treasure is, there is the heart.
Not only when the cloud is dark above us.
Or when the daily cross is hard to bear.
Be God remembered, but with those who love us,
lu every joy, in every household care.
.i
282 THE BEAUTIFUL.
Look on Him not as harsh and unforgiving,
Not as a man of sorrow, or in pain,
But as a living friend among the living.
Or, surely, He hath sojourned here in vain.
The Christ-child at the hearth, the Christ-man
gracing,
As when on earth, the board, the marriage feast,
Christ in our hearts and homes, so ever tracing
His image on the greatest and the least !
Think of Him thus, and thus m every station
The Spirit of the Lord shall make thee wise,
Eden be shadowed out, and all Creation
Disclose the Beautiful before thine eyes.
• 1860.
283
Irish 3mx.
Air — " I wish I was by yon dim lake."
Moore's Irish Melodies.
The death-cry faintly reached mine ear,
Och ullaloo, och uUagone !
I sought the cause, and find it here,
Och ullaloo, och uUagone !
This day have we spread ^
Thy table forth with salt and bread,
But thou, who givest these, art dead !
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
The widowed wife is keening sore,
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
The dog sits whining at the door,
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
Woe, woe ! wail and weep,
Let all around the death-wake keep ;
But thou ai-t silent in thy sleep,
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
284 IRISH KEEN.
Thy years were few, thy friends were nigh,
Och ullaloo, och uUagone !
'Twas well with thee, why didst thou die ?
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
Forth, forth into light.
Heaven shall be thy bed this night ;
But thou art passing fr-om our sight !
Och ullaloo, och ullagone !
1856.
Note. — The keeners are hired mourners who attend funerals.
The above is a literal translation of a keen, with the omission
of several articles enumerated, as possessions of the deceased,
viz. tea, sugar, tobacco, and whisky. The latter part of the
last stanza refers to bringing out the body for burial. In
every keen the corpse is continually apostrophized. The
custom is fast becoming obsolete.
285
Ifl^C 0tt.
Who faints shall lose the crown he sought,
Shall lose his first, best stay.
Hope on ; though hope with fear be fraugl
The cloud may pass away.
Hope on, tme heart !
The cloud may pass away.
The ill shall have its destined course,
But not beyond the day ;
Hope on, when bad hath changed to worse,
The cloud may pass away.
Hope on, true heart !
The cloud may pass away.
Our lot is in the hand of One
"Whom all perforce obey ;
Hope on, before thy sands be run,
The cloud may pass away,
Hope on, tnxe heart !
The cloud may pass away.
18uG.
286
mQ df i\\^ <J[orjge.
Cold is the forge fire,
Seemingly dead.
Yet in its grim heart
Embers are red.
Breathe on it fiercely,
Spirit of air.
Blast it from blackness
Into white glare !
Stand to thine anvil.
Craftsman unknown !
Touch not thy fellows,
Smite on thine own.
Ape not the pattern
Others have wrought,
Self was their teacher,
Be thou self taught.
SONG OP THE FORGE. 287
Forge it as seemeth
Best to thine hand,
Mould to thy model,
Stamp with thy brand.
So in the balance
Weighed when it be,
Censure or praise shall
Centre in thee.
1856.
288
Ji S^jgcttd nf Inliniinmtttt.*
On Inkermann's heights when the grey dawn was
breaking,
Young Dermot looked round to his comrade, and
said,
" This day shall the foeman be turned back in battle,
But on the bleak hillside must Dennot lie dead.
" Last night came the vision, and thrice 'twas repeated,
The sound of a host passing by, and a Voice,
' High glory to England, if Dermot shall perish ;
Defeat, if he liveth. Speak, Dermot, thy choice.'
" Scant time had I left me for thought or for choosing,
The bugles pealed out, and loud rattled the drum.
I started from sleep, and I shouted, ' For England
Be glory and honour ! Ye spirits, I come ! ' "
* Set to music by Professor Bemhard Althans*
A LEGEND OF INKEEilANN. 289
Long hours raged the battle of tens against thonsanda.
"Twas uight ere, defeated, the stubborn Rnes fled ;
The day was to England with glory and hononr,
But on the bleak hill-side young Dermot lay dead.
1860.
290
S^Q^hVL
Foxglove, or fairy cap,*
Name we thee as may hap ;
Still art thou lovely, though, truly, not rare ;
Lightly come, lightly go,
As with men with thee so.
Many are valued who are not so fair.
Sprang from a tiny seed,
Yet on thy fellow weed
Looking as upstarts most commonly do ;
Pride goes before a fall.
When the winds rave and brawl
Those who stand highest have most cause to rue.
Lovely thy spotted bells.
Yet from their dappled cells
He who seeks honey may addle his brain ;
So do old Adam's race
Caught by a pretty face
Afterwards often have cause to complain.
* Fairy cap, the Irish name for foxglove.
i
FOXGLOVE. 291
Foxglove or fairy cap,
Call we thee as may hap ;
Emblem of man thou, if rightly we read :
WTiat matters, man or flower,
Palace or woodland bower,
Look at it, scan it — 'tis only a weed.
1852.
U 2
292
fartJiist iDum.
*
In Winter, Spring and Sn miner
Our labour did not cease,
We gave our time and foresight,
But God, the full increase ;
By his abounding mercies
His people shall be fed,
For He hath given sunshine,
And plenteousness of bread.
Hosannah to the Highest !
Who, as in days of old,
Hath sent to fill our gamers
An hundred, hundred fold!
* Arranged for parish use, by Miss L. H. ToUemache.
Cocks and Co.
HARVEST HYMN.
293
Be thankful for the blessing,
Be miudfal of the day,
That other, coming harvest,
When earth shall pass away ;
WTien man shall be the ripe com,
The gamer, Heaven's dome,
WTien Angels shall be reapers,
And God's the Harvest home.
Hosannah, to the Highest !
The Lord of Love and Light ;
Redeemer, Judge, and Saviour,
He Cometh in His might.
1861.
294
§ortntit.?i.
Triumphs of immortal Art and Genius,
Or but lifeless daubs of paint,
Records of departed youth and beauty,
Or the aged, household saint.
Once, their value was not gold or silver ;
Nor their worth, the Painter's fame,
But as spirits unto earth returning,
Seemed those forms of doubtful name :
Yes, strong men looked on them speaking softly,
Dreaming of a presence there,
And lone women came and wept before them,
Miugling with their tears a prayer.
But now, as strangers they sojourn with us.
In a land that is not theirs,
Relics of a by-gone age and fashion,
Alien to our joys and cares.
POKTEAITS.
295
Be the painter's art for those whose names are
Even as a househokl word,
But for our loved ones, the purer record
Of a fame unseen, unheard.
Within our hearts and m our memories
Surely will they live their day,
With us, and with all they loved and cherished,
Suffer them to pass away.
1861.
296
4itJi? totidkrs.
Five travelers in the morning,
Tlie morning of their day,
With wreaths their heads adorning,
Passed gaily on their way :
A fire-flood rose before them,
A flood of ancient name,
A ciimson cloud came o'er them.
Blood-coloured in the flame.
A warning voice withheld them,
But died out in the din ;
An unseen hand impelled them
To enter boldly in :
Three passed out clad in iron,
And one in silk attire ;
One strove, as strives the lion.
Yet perished in the fire.
FIVE TRAVELLERS. 297
Tlie three were worn and wasted,
Were harder, sadder men,
The one still onwards hasted,
And twined his wreath again.
But woe for those who cherished
A passing hope alone.
And woe for him who perished !
His lot may be our own :
For each, ere he retumeth
To dust, shall try the strife
Within the flood that burneth
Athwart the path of life.
1856.
298
mhihY ?
As those who die in early youth
Live in remembrance ever young,
So, Life in Death, lives on one Tnith,
Tho' mocked by heart, and hand, and tongue.
Whether 'tis best it should be so.
Or that her light go down with day ?
When fades the sunset's reddening glow,
A glimmering star can point the way.
The soul may pine for one kind word,
Yet find no kindred spirit here ;
Our hearts be sick with hope deferred,
And yet be blessed in that we fear.
Whether 'tis best it should be so,
Or that our outward life be fair ?
The stream may gently, quietly flow,
And many a hidden rock be there,
WHETHER ?
299
The ring, perchance, had chilled the love
Which, cast awa)', wUl turn to God ;
Oar thoughts may yeam to things ahove,
Yet shrink and tremble at the rod.
■Wliether 'tis best it should be so,
Or that we have our own desire ?
The Holiest One on earth below
Was proved with suffering as with fire.
1861.
300
m
Hath tliine inner Spirit yearning
Towards the annals of thy past ?
Pause awhile — m thought returning
Where Time-mists are overcast.
Ranged on either hand,
Thou shalt see them stand,
Phantoms, many shaped, yet kindred all.
And a light shall dawn, and dawning,
At the first but only seem
As a vision of the morning.
As the shadow of a dream :
Faster throbs the heart,
For their looks impart,
"What, we know not yet, and fear to know.
Yet a moment, and those faces
Are familiar to our eye,
And old thoughts, and deeds, and places
Opened up before us lie.
Strange beyond compare.
Former Self is there,
Former Self alone, they are but one.
SELF. 301
And as one those old Departed
Raise their voices on the way,
From the child, the single-hearted,
To the foi-m of yesterday :
" Be it lost or vron,
When the race is ran,
And the Spirit loosed, we meet again."
1854.
THE END.
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