THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FRETWORK 
 
 ^ ^aal 0f ^omn. 
 
 BY 
 
 C. E. BOURNE 
 
 LONDON : 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO 
 
 [all rights reseeved.]
 
 MANCHESTER : 
 JOHN HETWOOD, EXCELSIOR PRINTING WORKS, HTJLME HALL ROAD.
 
 
 Y 
 
 In none of these Poems is there any attempt to depict the whole 
 of a life. Some portions only has the vrriter taken, and drawing 
 out in simple lines the tracery into which they form themselves, he 
 has sovght to Jill some recess, that the mightier artificers may have 
 passed by, within the place where the deeds of men's lives have their 
 memorial. And if there he little sunlight here, — if the hues he 
 sombre, and the pictures, for the most part, of the world'' s mournful 
 sights, — yet have we not found sometimes, where the shadows were 
 the closest, and the early gladness had most utterly passed away, 
 thai even there faiths have arisen, and hopes been gathered, of the 
 better time when " The shadows shall fiee away ? " 
 
 Some of the following pieces are cast in the form of half -dramatic 
 monologues ; and there are many thoughts expressed in them which, 
 belonging solely to the characters that the writer has sought to 
 interpret, it would he an injustice to attribute to him as his own 
 convictions. C. E. B. 
 
 October, 1872. 
 
 868770
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 7AGB 
 
 TOM MORLAND 9 
 
 HELEN 74 
 
 A l'outrance 87 
 
 TRANSIT 99 
 
 LOTTIE ...,....• 112- 
 
 THE INCANTATION 129 
 
 REST 133 
 
 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA 136 
 
 A LEGEND OF NORWAY 141 
 
 IN PARADISI GLORIA 146 
 
 ROSES - . 151 
 
 A NOCTURNE 155 
 
 AT THE LAST . 165 
 
 THE INSURGENT. — 1 173 
 
 „ 11 175 
 
 AT BILLIARDS . 177 
 
 MISSED HIS VOCATION ...... 181 
 
 ARISE AND SHINE 184 
 
 SANS FOI 187 
 
 ON THE SAND 191 
 
 UN8TERN 196
 
 TOM MOELAND. 
 
 To DIE to-night ! 
 
 I thank you for the pains 
 You took to break the news so gently, Doctor — 
 Yet they were needless. Many days have passed 
 Since first I knew the end was near, and now 
 I little care how long this life, that others 
 So prize and toil for, stays — how soon it leaves me ; 
 And of your words my tired brain can but take 
 One message in glad keeping — change at hand ! 
 
 You wonder. Doctor 1 Ah, the difference Hes 
 In this, that you are strong, and I am weak,
 
 10 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 And you have hopes in store, and I have none. 
 The game is ended ; he who knows his last 
 Was staked and lost, must straightway leave the scene- 
 No use to loiter watching others play, 
 Cursing his fate, and jealous of their gains ! 
 If in some other life there be a part 
 For me, I'll do my best there. Now I wait, 
 Beholding with calm eyes the parting strands 
 That bound me to this life — I hear the voice 
 Of many waters, and across the main 
 The day-star gleams, and dawnlights show the land ! 
 
 You have many times seen dying men, and heard 
 Their last confession ? How they drape themselves 
 For death, and praying a light judgment, give 
 The expose of a life's long policy, 
 Intended they show plainly for the best, 
 Whatever action proved it — adding then
 
 TOM MORLAND. 11 
 
 Some maxims short and striking for the world 
 To talk about and cai-ve upon their tombs ! 
 Better like beasts and birds to hide away, 
 And die in silence and in solitude ! 
 
 Yet I would also speak before I die ; 
 Not to the world — I care not for its voice 
 Pronouncing judgment, be it good or ill, 
 Or only nought, — for unto higher courts 
 I do appeal for judgment ; 'tis to you 
 That I would speak — who found me here alone, 
 A sullen, thankless brute, and would not leave me, 
 But many days have climbed these garret stairs. 
 And, with a nobler skill than athlete's, fought 
 The fever preying on me. 'Tis to you 
 That I would speak o' the life I leave behind. 
 Bear with me ; — 'tis not long — perchance the tale 
 May help you to think gently afterwards
 
 12 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 0' the poor morose old man who once lay here. 
 
 Doctor, I sometimes see you fix your eyes 
 Upon me, with a doubting wondering glance. 
 And when I speak you seem to gauge each word, 
 While on your face there dwells a look, which says, 
 " What is this man. A foundry worker this ?" 
 Is it that in my words there lingers still 
 Some trace of what I was, ere twenty years 
 Of labour changed me 1 Strange that men adjudge 
 The man, whose words are choicer than his thoughts, 
 Who for the grace of outward seeming barters 
 The simple and true nature that were seen 
 Noblest in that the creed of wordly fashion 
 Obscures the most — as born of purer race, 
 Of higher nature, than the man whose words 
 And thoughts and toil are true ! Well, be it so ; — 
 Once I was called a gentleman, and now —
 
 TOM MORLAND. 13 
 
 " That man at the works, the fellow at the forge." 
 
 My father was a merchant, rich in mills, 
 
 And stocks, and ships, whose life had shaped itself 
 
 To a great piirpose — riches ; as he neared 
 
 One height of fortune, a remoter one 
 
 Of fairer and more glistening golden peaks 
 
 Allured him on, and thus in old age still 
 
 One fierce insatiate passion swayed his life, 
 
 Gold and more gold ! I was his only son, 
 
 And in the life of Eton and of Oxford 
 
 Had changed my father's doctrine, and for riches 
 
 Read — pleasure ! Oh, the world was fair to me. 
 
 The boy who gazed on it with fresh young eyes. 
 
 And knew its art, its music, its fair women 
 
 Waited to deck the revel of my life ! 
 
 Years passed ; there came a change. I wearied thus 
 
 To sit at the great feast, receiving all
 
 14 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Delights by others ministered, myself 
 
 Content like many a fool who feasted there, 
 
 To dwell in sloth, ignoble, purposeless ! 
 
 I chose to labour also — what availed 
 
 The hoarded gold to those who dwelt beneath 
 
 The tall smoke-laden chimneys, where the grass 
 
 Was blighted, and trees withered, and the streams 
 
 Were black and foul 1 I looked afar and saw 
 
 The realms of art, where aU our common Hfe 
 
 Transfigured shone with glorious Eden-light, 
 
 And there I swore to dwell and minister. 
 
 Ah ! I dreamt my task was easy — gazing down 
 
 Into my soul to draw the vision shapes, 
 
 The beauteous thickly-thronging flitting forms 
 
 That hau.nted there, into the outer light 
 
 For men to gaze on ! Then I struggled long. 
 
 Yea, almost broke my heart to compass it — 
 
 Yet ne'er by words, or tones, or pencil gained
 
 TOM MORLAND. 15 
 
 The power that I so yearned for. 
 
 Thus it was, 
 That at the age when most have found their place 
 I' the world's great army, still I stood alone 
 And waited, while an instinct in my heart 
 Told me sometimes of other days at hand. 
 
 I loved aU books, and cared not what their creeds, 
 So that some new thing lay within their core, 
 Some beauty I might pluck forth, wearing it 
 Among my secret thoughts. To feel the joy 
 Of roots of subtle strength cleaving the soul 
 And making all its air a perfumed realm 
 Rich with the odours of a thousand chmes — 
 The power that holds a soul, as oak roots earth — 
 The beauty that, like songbirds' sweet wild note 
 In shadowed forest ways, delights the heart — 
 These loved I in my books, and little cared
 
 16 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 What creeds and schools of thought they pleaded for ! 
 
 Sad doctrine, is it not 1 For some, I think, 
 
 The orthodox, the narrow, sexless life 
 
 Is best, — to know the good, ignore the ill ; 
 
 For others, and for me — it may be, made 
 
 Of lower type than they — there is a need 
 
 Of diverse broader methods, to behold 
 
 All things, and choose. 
 
 My fortune 'twas to light 
 One day, upon some books of quaint strange names. 
 And full of stranger creeds — in calm disdain 
 Unheeded by the world, for who need care 
 For simple faiths of a forgotten time, 
 What charm can dwell in idle dreams of days 
 That ne'er shall visit this pale star of earth 1 
 Stern voices in them spoke of social changes. 
 Abuses to be righted, justice claimed,
 
 TOM MORLAND- 17 
 
 And the great temple of idolatries 
 Laid low unto the earth, anew revealing 
 The old foundations of the common-weal, 
 The common brotherhood, 
 
 I know not why 
 I read these books, except that at the first 
 I found the heresy was new and piquant — 
 My father and the men who dined with him, 
 When first I broached it, listened in amaze, 
 Then raged at this new madness ! Ah ! no despots 
 Are like the men who once themselves were serfs. 
 No proud patricians like the men who once 
 Herded with "those plebeian turbiilents !" 
 Incited by their wrath, I read the books 
 And searched their teachings, till I felt them true, — 
 At first, against my will, believed the words, 
 And then — with glimmering hopes that changed my life
 
 18 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 And thrilled my soul with visions of the day. 
 
 When in the federation of the free 
 
 The nations shall arise, henceforth to claim 
 
 For this fair earth amid her sister spheres 
 
 A nobler, wider, purer empery — 
 
 I clave to it, believed it wholly true. 
 
 At first they laughed, those magnates, when I spoke 
 
 Of equal rights, of wealth and wisdom's power 
 
 Meaning but greater duty heaven-imposed — 
 
 "Vile sociaHsm, this !" said they (forgetting 
 
 That e'en the Teacher whom they worship spoke 
 
 Words bolder, keener far than those I dared). 
 
 " This talk of yours is startling, — ah, we know 
 
 Young men love declamation ! You will change. 
 
 From you we hear it, Morland, but if one 
 
 0' the canaille of our workmen spoke the same, 
 
 We soon would silence him. In actual life 
 
 These fancies breed rebellion, discontent,
 
 TOM MORLAND. 19 
 
 Presumption, idleness. — The team of the world 
 Is ever driven by the few ; the rest 
 Must feel the yoke, and in their mouth the bit, 
 And harness of compulsion girding them ! " 
 " Have you no better simile than the beasts ? 
 And are the men so different, you can label 
 This, master, that one, servant, this, a god. 
 And that, a beast of burden 1 Wait and see, 
 If but the parts be changed, how well their hands 
 Can grasp the reins, your shoulders bear instead 
 The galling harness ! " 
 
 " Pshaw," my father said, 
 " He raves to-night. Tom, pass the claret there. 
 And cease this jargon of the demagogues ! 
 A wise man you, to talk of men oppressed. 
 Of workmen's wrongs, — what know you of all these 1 
 Wrongs ! their own making — bonds ! the rightful laws.
 
 20 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 You see a dirty drunkard in the street, 
 
 Or beggar whining out a tale of hes, 
 
 At once you take the role of Moses — cry, 
 
 ' Death to all Egypt — freedom for the slaves ! ' 
 
 The slaves will thank you little for your pains." 
 
 The others stared at me, as if to say, — 
 
 Strange fledgling this ; and like the bird that finds 
 
 An alien 'mongst its brood, they clamoured loud 
 
 Of ancient landmarks, good old institutions, 
 
 Of babbling fools, who, heeding nought of these, 
 
 Would change the world that had endured so well, 
 
 Take riches from the few, and scatter them 
 
 Broadcast among the people. " Ruinous 
 
 And damnable this creed ! " And silenced then 
 
 I listened, not convinced. I thought the more, 
 
 And chiefly learnt my father's words were true ; 
 
 I know not what I spake of — who was I 
 
 To judge my fellows, knowing just as much
 
 TOM MORLAND. 21 
 
 Of soundings in the Atlantic as of all 
 
 The poor were suffering in their lot each day 1 
 
 I would go forth and judge of it myself — 
 
 Ah, yes, I claimed, in those young days, to judg^ ! 
 
 But there were others who had claimed the like. 
 
 The strike had come, and all the streets were filled 
 
 With bands of men who idly, silently 
 
 "Wandered they cared not whither. Some I marked 
 
 Moving with daz^d eyes beneath the sunlight — 
 
 'Twas almost new to them, — and then the change 
 
 Came with bewilderment, this day of rest 
 
 I' the midst of the week; and forthwith went they home, 
 
 Vowing that they were fools to leave the work. 
 
 But others saw I roaming through the squares, 
 
 And gazing on the sights there, like to strangers 
 
 Exploring a new land — as if the deed 
 
 But lately done wrought transformations vast,
 
 22 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Eevealing meanings and relations new 
 
 In sights familiar, and awakening 
 
 New questionings within their souls — " What part 
 
 Bear we in this 1 No part is ours." 
 
 Methought 
 Of the old tale, how, through the open gates 
 And silent streets of Rome the Goths once trod. 
 With child-like wonder at the stately show 
 Their hovel-nurtured eyes then first beheld. 
 They passed into the halls where sat enthroned 
 In solemn silent conclave, all the chiefs 
 Time-honoured of the land, still, motionless, 
 As statues of the gods. — See the rude men, 
 With reverent eyes and wonder-parted lips. 
 Spell-bound before them ! But a moment's space, 
 A touch, and lo, enchantment vanishes, 
 And hell flares out with swift consuming breath !
 
 TOM MORLAND. 23 
 
 Bitterly then I thought — our senators, 
 God-like and passionless 1 — How stands it now 
 Between them and the Goths that circle them — 
 Men of no alien blood, but alien souls ? 
 
 That night, disguised I joiirneyed forth to find 
 
 The hall where I had heard the mutinous crew 
 
 Met in their councils nightly. Poor and mean 
 
 The place, with blackened rafters, dust-stained walls, 
 
 Whereon in the gi'eat gloom few scattered lights 
 
 Shed forth a flickering gleam upon the crowd 
 
 Of men assembled. On the heavy air, 
 
 Hot and polluted, came more scorching breaths 
 
 Of passionate voices. As I listened there, 
 
 Man after man rose up, and evermore 
 
 The burden of their speech was, — " we are wronged. 
 
 Ground to the dust and tortured — to your feet 
 
 Men, in the might of manhood still your own.
 
 24 TOM MORLAND, 
 
 Repay upon your taskmasters the full 
 
 Of all the wrongs ye suffer, — ill for ill, 
 
 Torture for torture ! " Louder grew the roar 
 
 Of voices that applauded, like to beasts 
 
 That know the hour of ravening slaughter near. 
 
 Was it for this I came 1 I heard no words 
 
 Of justice and the right they claimed their own, 
 
 But mean and senseless clamour as of babes 
 
 That scream i' the dark. Not this the scene I pictured 
 
 When the fair angel Liberty descending 
 
 Might heal all stricken hearts ! 'Tis as of old, 
 
 They waited, crippled, blind, and impotent, 
 
 Waited and dreamed that in the troubled waters, 
 
 Stained with the slimy filth o' the lowest depths, 
 
 Their healing lay. But One in ancient days 
 
 Came near to such as these, and when they touched 
 
 Cool tender hands stretched forth, and heard the voice 
 
 So calm, in which there dwelt not any scorn,
 
 TOM MORLAND. 25 
 
 Commanding they should stand upon their feet 
 As men, forgetting every craven hope 
 And squalid resting-place — to follow Him 
 Away beyond the Kidron brook to dwell 
 Upon the hills, where calm soft breaths of heaven 
 Might with pure ministrations heal their souls 
 From fleshly taint of cankering sores — new life 
 Came, with enfranchisement from all the past ! 
 Ah, for the leader ! But no answer came. 
 
 Yet who should wonder if, poor souls, their chief 
 Resolve should be deliverance from their pains. 
 No matter how, so that the end be compassed 1 
 Weapons 1 The nearest, wrested from the hands 
 Of the masters that now wield them ! Strategy ? 
 To force their way by the directest path. 
 Sheer weight 'gainst crafty scheming ! Time enough, 
 Thought they, when once the heights are gained, to search
 
 26 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 The path by which each reached them, time enough 
 When once enfranchised, for the slaves to learn 
 Rules of new life, and laws of liberty ! 
 
 I turned to go, yet something held me still, 
 
 I think 'twas thi^ : beneath the rant and froth 
 
 Of idle words, I felt a spirit moved 
 
 To me unknown before. You have learnt to fence — 
 
 But has it chanced that you were forced, some day. 
 
 Standing alone, to fight with hand and eye 
 
 E'en for your life ] Mightily different then 
 
 The strokes from those you plied i' the school ; — like 
 
 these 
 Their words, some glancing off, some lost in air, 
 Some wounding e'en themselves, but weighted all 
 With dire intent to slay, — No child's play there ! 
 
 Silence an instant : then from out the crowd
 
 TOM MORLAND. 27 
 
 A great gaunt man rose up. " Old Hearne again !" 
 
 The people shouted, some as greeting him 
 
 They trusted in their leader, some in wrath 
 
 That other words might cool the fever heat 
 
 The multitude were roused to. Then he spoke, 
 
 And as the slow and deep-toned words were heard 
 
 A silence fell around. He spoke of God, 
 
 Of truth and Heaven — strange news for them to hear ! 
 
 And calm, and clear, and strong, his voice arose 
 
 Quelling all lesser voices. Then there came 
 
 A thunder break of passion like the mood 
 
 Of the sun-god above the Grecian host ; 
 
 (I know not if I rightly can repeat 
 
 The words, which yet were somewhat like to these ) : 
 
 " Mates, hear me ! I've some words to speak to you. 
 
 Bad words, and harsh, you'll call them — let that pass. 
 
 Yet you have known me long enough, as one 
 
 Living amongst you, working by your side,
 
 28 TOM MOBLAND. 
 
 To know my purpose for a kindly one, 
 
 E'en though each word may shock and jar on you 
 
 Like ice-cold waters — let me speak my mind ! 
 
 You do defraud yourselves ! Ay ! there are some 
 
 Who start and murmur — yet 'tis true, you wrong 
 
 Yourselves ! Men, mother-borne each one. 
 
 Upheld through all the days by love of kin, 
 
 Rejoicing in earth's friendships, and the hopes 
 
 That knit men's hearts together — I tell you all 
 
 A grievous wrong you do yourselves in this, 
 
 To stand apart and curse your brother-men 
 
 With hearts that glory in new-risen hopes, 
 
 The power being yours, that you may strike them down. 
 
 The loftiest to the lowest lot of all — 
 
 You shout, with greedy looks, 'Ay, if we cotJd !' 
 
 But wait — are there no charges 'gainst ourselves 1 
 
 Are we so just that we can lift our voices 
 
 Accusing others 1 Are there none whose voices
 
 TOM MORLAND. 29 
 
 Might in their turn accuse us 1 Children, wives, 
 
 Unpitied and untended, left i' the cold, 
 
 Yea, some that at this hour must bear the marks 
 
 Of bruises in the tender flesh, that tell 
 
 How we, too, act the masters ] Hear me, friends. 
 
 The last time it may be I speak to you — 
 
 And judge if there be reason in my words ! 
 
 Be sure of this, the man who only sees 
 
 His own side in a quarrel 'is at fault — 
 
 No man on this wide earth can claim to take 
 
 His stand on absolute right, and challenge there 
 
 The whole world to the trial ! You have seen 
 
 The finest carving, delicatest work, 
 
 Or softest painting, how they show beneath 
 
 The glass in the Museum ! Rude, coarse, false. 
 
 The eyes of other men are like that glass, 
 
 Quick to discern the blemish, though distorting 
 
 The beauty that, inwrought with blemishes
 
 30 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Dwells in true work. Make those you call your foes 
 
 Your helpers even, and behold your cause 
 
 From the point where they are standing, aiding so 
 
 Your sight by theirs — and sympathy clears all ! 
 
 Seek rather, then, to teach the masters this, — 
 
 We know our cause is bound with theirs, and right 
 
 Will only come when each of us has strength 
 
 To aid the other calmly to uproot 
 
 The evil in both causes ! No use, you say ? 
 
 Yet, have we tried it fairly ? Judge yourselves. 
 
 " Your leaders tell you — Rise, and claim yoiur rights. 
 Rights — Rights ! Is there a man would breathe this 
 
 air 
 And hold the blessed gift of life, if all 
 Had but their rights 1 God, who madest all, 
 Who lovest e'en this crowd of wayward souls. 
 Who hear'st them in their bondage of hard toil,
 
 TOM MORLAND, 31 
 
 And know'st how little in that life there comes 
 
 Of pure and beautiful to tell of Thee — 
 
 Who seest how their troubles drive them on 
 
 To maddest courses, making life's strong powers 
 
 Their greater misery in the place of help — 
 
 Who watchest all blind searchings for a change, 
 
 Some change, what change they know not — my God^ 
 
 Be Thou our leader, and reveal Thyself ! 
 
 Teach us the meaning of the blessed names 
 
 Of freedom, justice, love — Thy names, God ! 
 
 And lead us from this murky night of sin, 
 
 This life down-trodden, spurned of other meU;, 
 
 Lead us to some free, nobler, better life — 
 
 Save us, oh Lord ! " 
 
 He raised his hands, as if 
 Clutching the mantle of an unseen God ; 
 Then, suddenly covering his face, sat down,
 
 32 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 While all the people, silence-bound awhile 
 
 By the strange solemn voice, when he had ceased, 
 
 In muttered whispers murmiu'ed at his words. 
 
 A moment, and he rose again. "What is't 
 
 I heard you speak of breaking down the gates, 
 
 And driving out the foreign workmen 1 Friends, 
 
 Ye will not do it ! " Then loud clamour rose, 
 
 And fierce hard-voiced contention. In the midst 
 
 I left the place, but ever in my ears 
 
 The words of Hearne were ringing. He would not 
 
 strive 
 Like others, yet I knew that he, far more 
 Than e'en the fiercest of them, scorned and loathed 
 The powers that bind the poor in poverty. 
 And then I thought of — breaking down the gates ; 
 What meant they 1 As I passed, the dingy streets 
 Were filled with crowds of women eagerly
 
 TOM MORLAND. 33 
 
 Debating how the strike went. Some who bore 
 The little babe i' their arms, with tearful eyes 
 So wistfully beseeching peace again, 
 If only bread and quiet rest at home 
 Might but content their husbands ; others fierce, 
 With flashing tigress' eyes, and strident voices : 
 And all the while pale stars of summer tide 
 Floated above in the soft hazy night. 
 
 I found my father, when I reached my home. 
 
 Sitting alone, the wine beside him still. 
 
 No pleasant thoughts were surely his ! And when 
 
 I asked what terms of peace or compromise 
 
 Were offered to the malcontents, and urged 
 
 Concessions — for I knew that violence 
 
 Was plotted 'gainst the masters — he replied : 
 
 " Eh, eh,— What's that? The strike ! Why men must 
 
 din 
 
 c
 
 34 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 The word into my ears until I loathe it. 
 
 Strike ! strike ! — I would to God that they might strike, 
 
 I'd give them quickly law to sober them, — 
 
 Cold steel and handcuffs : these would school them well, 
 
 The ruffians ! Terms, sir 1 All my terms are these : 
 
 That they may starve and rot before I bate 
 
 The terms they kick against ! " And, purple grown. 
 
 He shouted mad invective 'gainst the poor, — • 
 
 Cursed them for golden gains that he had lost, 
 
 And daily lost the more by their rebellion. 
 
 Stiff-necked, against the will supreme — his own. 
 
 The next day, wearing still the clothes that hid 
 
 My caste, I went afoot into the town, 
 
 Where, with huge chimneys crowned, my father's mill 
 
 Silent and smokeless stood ; and strange it looked, 
 
 That great dumb thing, amid the heaving sea 
 
 Of living forms that seethed and swarmed around,
 
 TOM MORLAND. 39 
 
 Pouring from every street and lane, and stormed 
 
 With tempest voices, 'neath the gaunt brick walls. 
 
 The evil day had come — the floods were loosed, 
 
 And, caught amid the eddying whirl, I stood 
 
 Powerless, alone. We neared the gates, and there, 
 
 Foremost amid the crowd and towering high 
 
 A head and shoulders o'er the rest, stood Heame. 
 
 He looked not on the gates, but on the men. 
 
 His voice, his arms, and his gTeat frame bent back 
 
 Upon them. First he shouted, then he strove, 
 
 Fiercely and wildly, as a lion caught 
 
 In the meshes ; but 'twas vain — they bore him on. 
 
 Then, by a sudden movement in the crowd, 
 
 I stood beside him. " Stop them, stop them, sir : 
 
 'Twill be the worst day's work they ever did ! " 
 
 But what were two against the thousands there ? 
 
 The fountains of the deep were opened — none 
 
 By mortal hands could stay them ! Hours it seemed
 
 36 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 While side by side we stood beneath those gates ; 
 And still the crowd pressed on, and deeper grew 
 The roar of voices yelling ceaselessly, 
 " Burst the gates open ; show him, all his bolts 
 And bars and cnrses will not keep us longer 
 Robbed of our rights and of our children's bread !" 
 A crash ! — the gates have yielded, and the mob 
 Poured in, with Hearne still, battling in the front. 
 I know no more, save that T caught a glimpse 
 Of scarlet in the court yard — cries I heard, 
 " The soldiers ! " Still the struggling mass behind 
 Surged on, and then they met, and all was dark 
 From that time forth for many days to me. 
 
 And when at last I woke and saw the light. 
 With feebly opened eyes I gazed around 
 On a small room with darkened blinds, like this. 
 " Where am I ? Who has brought me here ? " I said.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 37 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " a voice breathed near me, " Do not 
 
 speak ; 
 The doctor said you must not." And a hand 
 Upon my forehead changed the cooHng cloths. 
 But I would speak, would learn the truth, and soon 
 I knew that life indeed had come again, 
 And yet, 'twas in such strange new guise, I thought 
 ' Twas but a dream, in which the truest bliss 
 And sharpest pain were mingled. Yet I saw 
 Only a pale young girl who leant above me, 
 And laid a gentle hand upon my brow ! 
 
 ' Tis strange we dream not often what we would : 
 
 All fearfiJ, ghastly shapes are marshalled round 
 
 The circle of our ch'eams, and yet the one 
 
 That filled our waking thoughts — the one we yearned 
 
 Most to behold, and closed our weary eyes 
 
 Gladly expectant of — ne'er visits us.
 
 38 TOM MORLiVND. 
 
 We cannot, e'en in fantasy's dim realm, 
 
 A little while forget the present time 
 
 And taste the sweetness of the perished days — 
 
 Look in the eyes that glistened once for us, 
 
 And hold the hand that rested once in ours, 
 
 And hear the voice that mingled once with ours 
 
 Sweet music 'mid our rough and earthly tones ! 
 
 I never see her now ; but, do you know, 
 
 If some one said that she is waiting there 
 
 Behind that curtain, ready to come forth 
 
 And greet me as she did that day, or if 
 
 You told me that she came here every night 
 
 And watched through all my sleeping, I should say — 
 
 I know so weU that she is near me ; — Lillie, 
 
 My sweet, my only love, oh speak to me ! 
 
 Let me but see thee once, and hold thee once. 
 
 And touch thy lips with mine a moment's space ! 
 
 Heaven may be bright — and yet, methinks, sometimes
 
 TOM MORLAND. 39 
 
 Thou would'st e'en lose a little while its glory 
 To be with me again — to visit me 
 In this poor room, iu these dark winter days, 
 A little while, oh, just a little while ! 
 
 You spoke of faith just now. Ah, this is all 
 
 I can be sure of — that she dwells in rest 
 
 Eternal, whither I sometime shall come, 
 
 And, by the quenchless love within my breast — 
 
 Like to the torch in Faron's Abbey vaults. 
 
 Burning for ages steadfastly, the sign 
 
 That still in unknown realms Knight Ogier lived — 
 
 I surely know that love responsive waits 
 
 For me in that fair Avalon of rest. 
 
 Do I lack reverence, saying this ? Ah, no ! 
 
 Believe me, as I lie upon this bed. 
 
 Through the long silent days there ever broods 
 
 Within my heart one thought of gladness — this :
 
 40 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Thanks to my God, that He has taught me noW;, 
 By the dear messenger that once was mine, 
 Love everlasting, perfected through death ! 
 Once thoughts of torturing madness clave to me 
 With fiendish whisperings — no life beyond 
 This life — ^no meeting for disparted souls — 
 The heavenly land but an Atlantis dream, 
 And hopes of the Afterjoy as baseless, false, 
 As every earthly hope has proved — 
 
 Not now ; 
 The rest has come — I know the meeting sure ! 
 
 For many weeks I learnt not what had passed 
 Since the dark day when 'mongst the crowd I fell. 
 Hearne, where was he ? One afternoon she spoke. 
 Sitting beside my bed, while in her hair 
 The sunlight nestled, and bright shadows fell, 
 Through all that wealth of tresses, on her face
 
 TOM MORLAND. ■ 41 
 
 Bent down above the work her fingers held. 
 This Heaine had watched the stranger in the Hall, 
 Unknowing I was Morland's son, believed 
 . That the new cause had gained me, and that day 
 When, struck to earth, I lay beneath the tread 
 Of all the mass of rushing, striving men. 
 He raised me in his arms, and when himself 
 Struck down (some said 'twas in the fight, and some 
 That his own comrades did it), still he held me 
 Shielded beneath his form. They carried us 
 Here to his home. " Oh, sir, to see him brought 
 Amid the bustling crowd along the street — 
 Then laid upon his bed in agony. 
 While, still so brave, he clenched his teeth for fear 
 The pain should make him cry unworthily ; 
 And you beside him, lying white and still ! " 
 He died that night, but the last words he breathed 
 Were to his daughter, praying her to nurse
 
 42 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 And guard me till the troubles passed. And she 
 
 Had watched so long, and, 'mid her weeping, toiled 
 
 To aid me ! When some scanty strength had come. 
 
 And life returned with pulses as of old 
 
 And thoughts that strayed into the busy world, 
 
 She broke the news that seemed at first the hardest 
 
 Of all to bear : the vanquished men could boast 
 
 One triumph — that, before the strike had ended, 
 
 Morland, hard task-master, arch enemy, 
 
 Had fled the country, ruined not alone 
 
 In fortune, but in honour sore assailed — 
 
 Dark lines of fraud were now revealed, 'twas said, 
 
 In the fabric of his riches. When my strength 
 
 Returned, I hun-ied forth to face the truth — 
 
 Worse tidings even heard I. Yielding then 
 
 The little that remained to me, I passed. 
 
 With sickened heart, from all that had been part 
 
 In the life I stood estranged from, and I looked.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 43 
 
 With confident young eyes, to future days 
 That labour might ennoble. But I sought 
 For work long time, and fruitlessly : my name 
 Was tarnished ; men believed that I had shared 
 My father's guilt ; none listened when I spoke, 
 Begging a clerkship humbly — anything ! 
 One answer heard I — no ! 
 
 I turned away. 
 Weary and sad at heart, to find the friend, 
 The one true friend that I had found, who sat 
 Bent o'er her needle in the tiny room 
 In Lime street. " Lillie, I've no work to-day ; 
 They will not take me ! In those old past days 
 I used to wonder if a single gift 
 Were mine, and for what use this weary life 
 Was given — and now the answer comes to me — 
 Just nothing ! " " Wait a little, Tom," she said
 
 44 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 (For in my sickness we had learnt already 
 
 These names of home) ; " wait for the better times 
 
 So sure to come. Be brave ! See, even I 
 
 Can smile, and yet, you know, I too have had 
 
 My share of troubles." Glad was I to stand, 
 
 An outcast, by her side who gave to me 
 
 Smiles that were hopes, and pity that was love — 
 
 Soft healing to my heart as once the touch 
 
 Of the dear hands had been ! And then I spoke 
 
 Of work and wages, but with foolish words. 
 
 From which my thoughts had wandered far, so far — 
 
 For I was listening to the tune of love 
 
 That in the sanctuary of my heart had long 
 
 Sung softly, but was now with mighty swell 
 
 Pealing through all my being. Prudent thoughts 
 
 I cast to the winds, and clasped her hands and spoke : 
 
 "While I am with you, dear, too brave am I ! 
 
 But listen, — other voices all the day
 
 TOM MORLAND. 45 
 
 Gave cold denials, and I heeded not, 
 
 While in. my heart the tones of one sweet voice 
 
 Lingered, and anxious thoughts, — before the night 
 
 Will she have bid me leave her, like the rest 1 
 
 Or will she have some patience with the life, 
 
 That she has saved, and from its uselessness 
 
 Draw forth the truer spirit, wakening now. 
 
 That whispers of the day when, worthier grown, 
 
 My life may stand beside her, unashamed ? 
 
 See, I can offer nothing — save my love ! 
 
 But, Lillie, can j6n trust yourself to me. 
 
 And be content to share a poor man's life 
 
 While we go forth to meet the world — our lives 
 
 United 'gainst the evil, in the strength 
 
 Of wedded souls, that live with God in love 1 " 
 
 Slowly those sweet eyes rose and gazed in mine. 
 
 And gently in my own she laid her hand ; 
 
 And thus the troth-plight of our love was made.
 
 46 
 
 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 At length I got a clerkship — poor enough, 
 Yet tasking to the full my untrained powers. 
 And I was happy then ; for work had come 
 And laid its heavy hand upon my arm, 
 And shown me that the fittest place of all 
 Was that of service in a toil-built world, 
 Where right of life was but the right to toil. 
 Ever before my eyes one hope, one goal, 
 Gleamed fair and distant, in the sight of which 
 I could have suffered, striven with the strength 
 Of a Cyclops even ! So I said, one day, 
 Laugliingly, to her. Then she opened wide 
 Those dear child's eyes of hers, and listened mute. 
 While I, obedient, told the ancients' tale 
 Of Vulcan and his men, and Titan deeds — 
 Of Polyphemus in his cave outwitted 
 By Odysseus — and all the wondrous stories 
 Fresh with the life of the world's spring-time age.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 47 
 
 I learnedly discoursed of. Happy days, 
 When we two walked together in the fields ! 
 My former life was gone, and in its place 
 A simpler, truer one sprang up, where all 
 The poor parade, the finely garnished show, 
 Were something I could smile at and pass by. 
 And yet, perchance, the change was not so great 
 As then I thought it — for her presence filled 
 My being with the beauty that indwelt 
 In soul and visible form, until, abashed 
 Beneath the pure and steadfast influence 
 That breathed on it, my spirit strove to claim 
 A mastery o'er its evil, and the dream 
 Of other days was perfected in this ! — 
 The vulgar, sordid things around, transformed, 
 Seemed but as accidents I cared not then 
 To think of, with her near me. 
 
 'Twas so new
 
 48 TOM MOELAND. 
 
 To me, this revelation of a soul 
 
 That, nurtured in the dark and tainted air 
 
 Of the city's byeways, 'mid unlovely sights 
 
 And dissonant voices, yet had walked in white. 
 
 And dreamed a dream of peace amid the storm ! 
 
 Her father, though a workman, was a student — 
 
 Ay, we have many such unknown to you ; 
 
 And she had shared his life, and wandered far 
 
 With him in fields of thought, and gathered there 
 
 The antidotes of sorrow — vision clear. 
 
 Faith in a rule outlasting human wi'ongs 
 
 And order joiu'neying to its certain end 
 
 Through seeming wild disorder. Ah ! the rich 
 
 Can scarcely know the joy that dwells in this. 
 
 The creed of vanqviished souls, that teaches them, 
 
 Foregoing weak reprisals, calm to wait 
 
 The issue of appeal from earth to heaven ; 
 
 That tells of shrouded brightness close at hand —
 
 TOM MORLAND. 49 
 
 Of pity and of love in unseen worlds, 
 
 Yea, and for ever present ; " By this sign 
 
 We conquer " — by the brotherhood of Him 
 
 Who bore the cross of old, and bears it still, 
 
 For men who sink beneath it ! Little know I 
 
 Yet of all this she taught me. Then I loved it, 
 
 First for her sake — for when I looked on her 
 
 Methought I knew the visible angel sent, 
 
 From far off heavens, to bless me. But the day 
 
 Came when I stood beside her, white and cold — 
 
 Dead — slain of want ! And all the heavens were mute ; 
 
 No sign amid the darkness, and no voice, 
 
 " She sleepeth" — Christ was dead, and love was gone — 
 
 Above me, blank and hideous void, beneath. 
 
 Oblivion. Garner well the best ye may 
 
 Of love's sweet fruitage in these human lives, 
 
 'Tis all ye gain ! — I said, and cursed the heavens 
 
 That once I trusted. But a change has come.
 
 50 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Is it in fancy only that I see 
 My angel, wearing still the human face, 
 Waiting beside the golden gate, and bright 
 With a new gladness that the hour is near. 
 To meet me and to lead me to His feet — 
 The throned One ? Ah, 'tis not all a dream ! 
 
 When we were married, 'twas the summer time. 
 Short holiday we spent beside the sea. 
 Returning then to this old house, which gave, 
 Here in the garret eyrie-like our home, 
 Some glimpses of the sunshine and the sky, 
 While, far beneath, the surges of the street 
 Were only faintly heard. And through the months 
 I toiled while daylight lasted ; and when night 
 Eeturned, it brightened for me when T came 
 Home to the eyes that sought me, and the arms 
 That, as I passed the threshold, welcomed me.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 51 
 
 ' A year passed thus. It was the winter time 
 When little Maud was born. You saw her once, 
 
 Doctor — last spring, you know once in the 
 
 spring ! 
 
 May blossoms came, and summer brightness streamed 
 Around us in our city life, but strength 
 Delayed returning to my sweet young wife, 
 Who lay upon her bed — drawn close beside 
 The window that the light might shine on her — 
 With joyous quiet glances on the babe 
 That, sleeping, nestled closely to her heart. 
 " So tired," she said ; " and yet I think sometimes 
 'Tis but the rest that comes with happiness ! 
 So happy, dear — so happy through the day. 
 While I lie here, and in my silent gladness, 
 My thoughts, like bees that with hushed joy creep 
 close
 
 52 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 To flowers that bloom iu the warm sunshine, rest 
 Upon our child and thee ! Just wait, and soon 
 I shall be strong again. Ah, do not fear ! 
 And we will walk among the fields again, 
 And through the wood, and by the river's side ! 
 This morning, when the air was clear and bright, 
 I saw — believe me if you will — a green 
 Faint line, that I was sure must be the trees 
 In our old forest ! Dearest, think ! to roam 
 Again among the trees, and hear the leaves 
 Rustling soft ceaseless murmur overhead. 
 And watch the flickering lights dart in and out, 
 As if in joyous sporting with the leaves, 
 While the broad shadows, still and peaceful, rest. 
 Changeless the while, among the sweetest flowers 
 Where ferns and grass are fairest — ^Hke the death 
 That gathers to itself and watches o'er 
 The lives of men, that in a purer life
 
 TOM MORLAND. 53 
 
 And fresher beauty they sometime may rise ! 
 Do not look grave, because I spoke of death — 
 I did not mean to grieve you. 'Tis not sad 
 To me, and yet, I would not it should come 
 Just now, we are so happy ! " But the days 
 Went on the same. With heavy heart I used 
 To climb these stairs at night, while all was still, — 
 No bormding step upon the floor above. 
 And door flung open with a joyous cry, 
 And eager hands held out to draw me in ; 
 But when I entered, ah, the gentle greeting 
 Still waited for me in those sweet eyes, bent 
 With radiant welcome of their love on me ! 
 
 She faded day by day. Ah, then I knew not. 
 And woidd not know it ; but sometimes, the sight 
 Of those thin clearly-veined hands in mine. 
 The pale face, that the masses of her hair
 
 54 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Dark on the pillow circled, by their hue 
 Revealing dazzling clear the marble whiteness 
 0' the wasted cheeks beside them, and sometimes 
 The calm and lustrous gleaming in her eyes 
 As if far other lights than earth's were near — 
 The sight of these would send strange aching pains 
 And a cold freezing terror to my heart. 
 
 The winter came, and heavier troubles ! Work 
 Now failed me, and I roamed the streets and prayed 
 For any laboui' that might give me food 
 For those at home. "The times were hard," they said ; 
 " We want not more, but fewer workmen now." 
 The keen frost seemed to strike me to the bone 
 While in those streets I wandered, but hard fate 
 Pressed with cold clutches at my heart and wrung 
 All life and hope from out it. Oh, to come 
 Back to my Lillie, in the fireless room,
 
 TOM MORLAND. 55 
 
 And hear the child's weak 'plainings, and my wife's 
 Poor feeble strivings even then to cheer me ! 
 But one resource was left — to sell my pride — 
 Not worth so much, but yet, his sister's son, — 
 My uncle could not quite refuse to me 
 Some help, if he but knew my utter need ! 
 'Twas so I thought, and stifled memories 
 Of bitter taunting words that smote me once 
 When first he heard the news — my wife had been 
 A daughter of the people. 
 
 So T wrote : 
 Crushing the cry that rose within my soul. 
 Battling with all the fiends that struggled there 
 And counselled better death than shame like this, 
 I forced my hand to move in suppliant lines : 
 At last the task was, how I know not, done — 
 The one poor hope remaining, ventured on.
 
 56 TOM MORLAISTD, 
 
 When I had ended, on the winter air 
 
 The last broad radiance of the sunlight poured 
 
 The glories of its passing. In our room, 
 
 Above the shadows of the street, the flood 
 
 Of light streamed at its will, and changed all things 
 
 To rich bright foiTBS of splendour for the while. 
 
 We sat together by the window, watching 
 
 The pageantry of clouds and wondrous depths 
 
 Of brightness in the sky, that seemed to glow 
 
 Like fountains of the blessed light unveiled ; 
 
 And then we marvelled how the gleaming tide, 
 
 Spread o'er the dim, far-reaching lii^es of roofs, 
 
 Transfigured them, no longer dark and mean. 
 
 But like to stairs that angels' feet might tread — 
 
 Broad, glistening, reaching up to the great gates 
 
 Where Heaven's glory waited. Then we looked 
 
 Upon each other's face, and we beheld 
 
 The brightness resting there ; but in her face
 
 TOM MOELAND. 57 
 
 There beamed a light I ne'er had seen before, — 
 
 Steadfast and calm, it frighted me, and yet 
 
 Thrilled me with strange, deep joy. Last night again 
 
 I saw her, and the light I saw again, 
 
 And now I know 'twas of no earth-seen sun, 
 
 But Heaven's ! And, with my arms clasped close 
 
 around 
 Sustaining her, she spoke — 'twas thus, I think : 
 " Have you not often known, and wondered much 
 Why the thought came just then — among some 
 
 friends, 
 Or by the sea, or in the crowded streets, 
 Or gazing on a sunset like to this — 
 A sure, deep knowledge sink into your soul, 
 From whence you know not, telling you that ne'er 
 That scene would be forgotten, that 'twould rise, 
 Clearly beheld as then, in after hours — 
 A memory never more to die away
 
 58 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Like all our common days 1 And, sitting here, 
 Your hand in mine, your heart so close to mine, 
 The same bright glory in your eyes and mine, 
 It seems to me — ah, yes, I surely know, 
 This hour will never wholly pass away 
 From either of us ! 
 
 " You remember, dear. 
 The poem that you read to me — Mireille — 
 In French I found so hard to understand ; 
 You know how beautiful we thought the tale 
 Of her who loved, and gave her life for love — 
 The girl who, for his sake so nigh to death. 
 Dared aU the desert's dangers, that she might 
 Gain at the holy shrine, where pilgrims' prayers 
 So oft were heard, the guerdon of his life. 
 The desert ! — you remember — in the waste 
 Of sands, beneath the glaring light, she wandered 
 Onwards in weariness, with trembling limbs
 
 TOM MORLAND. 59 
 
 And heart still struggling for some hope, until, 
 Fainting, she sank upon the sands, to die. 
 And then upon her weary, daz^d eyes, 
 Athwart the sunglare, rose a wondrous sight 
 Of glancing waters and of waving palms, 
 And city gates, and gleaming walls and domes 
 That rose to loftiest heights, effulgent with 
 The glory of the New Jerusalem. 
 Think of her gladness ! Dying in the sight 
 Of that bright vision's glory ! 'Twas a dream, — 
 The mirage only that she saw ; and yet, 
 Dearest, I think sometimes to dying eyes 
 That crystal sea, those walls and domes, gleam bright, 
 And glimpses through the open gates reveal 
 The blessed ones that dwell there. Oh, 'tis near. 
 This heaven we ofttimes think so far from us, 
 So near that land, whose lights, when earth's are 
 dimmed,
 
 60 
 
 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 Shine ever. How the brightness fades away ! . 
 . . The Lamb, the Light .... The Light !" . . . 
 
 And then she slept. 
 
 The next day passed, and on the next there came 
 
 The letter I had written, back to me : 
 
 No words — an answer plainer than all words. 
 
 The letter I had hoped so much from, thrown 
 
 As 'twere in scornful gesture at my feet. 
 
 I cared not for the scorn, — but food ! The bread 
 
 Was ended yesternight. My wife was ill, 
 
 So ill ! And then I paced that chamber's breadth, 
 
 Powerless to save her, while the hot blood surged 
 
 Through all my heart and brain, and wild mad 
 
 schemes 
 Sprang up before me. Only wanting food ! 
 And yet two lives, my wife's and child's, at stake — 
 Yea, though like storehouses of Pharaoh's land
 
 TOM MORLAND. 61 
 
 These hoards be guarded, I would storm them all ! 
 
 When calmer thoughts had come, I made resolve 
 To plead my cause with humble words and looks 
 Before my uncle. All the day my wife 
 Had slept a broken sleep. When leaving her 
 I bent to kiss her, e'en in sleep her lips 
 
 Moved as if blessing me 
 
 The way was long. 
 Ere I had reached the Hall the darkness fell, 
 And, as I passed beneath the gloomy shapes 
 Of trees o'erarching the long avenue. 
 Strange, fearful thoughts were mine — Death was 
 
 abroad — 
 Death lurking 'neath the night — Death stealing forth 
 Upon his prey with sudden, treacherous spring : 
 I shrank and cowered before this ghastly dream. 
 The blaze of lights in all the rooms, the line
 
 62 TOM MORLAND. " 
 
 Of carriages before the door, from which 
 Fair ladies, shrinking 'neath the cold, passed in 
 Where brighter lights than daylight shone, proclaimed 
 Lord Haynes was making merry with his friends 
 That night ! I crouched behind some shrubs and 
 
 waited 
 Till all had entered, and then ventured forth, 
 The last, unbidden guest. The servants stared 
 With scarce-concealed laughter. Was my dress 
 So strange, or on my mien had poverty 
 Stamped rascal so, that e'en these hirelings deemed 
 Me a poor hind beneath them — these the men 
 Who once had cringed and bowed them to the earth 
 Before — the gifts I threw them 1 When I asked 
 To speak but for a moment to "my lord" 
 They would not hear me ; I must call again 
 Next week, next month. And then they gathered round 
 To force me from the door; when, singling one.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 63 
 
 An old grey-headed man, who stood aloof, 
 
 I grasped his hand, and prayed that he would bear 
 
 My message to Lord Haynes. Perchance he felt 
 
 Some pity, or his hand held memories still 
 
 Of golden coins once laid there ; for he bowed 
 
 And passed into the presence of the host 
 
 To speak my name. 
 
 But quickly -he returned 
 With blank scared looks : " He wonders much you 
 
 came ; 
 He cannot see you — bids you leave the house." 
 The others pressed upon me with intent 
 To drive me forth. Grown desperate, I sprang 
 Through all the crowd, and, knowing well the house, 
 I passed into the room, where, 'neath the blaze 
 lights, that shed a softened brightness o'er 
 The flowers that decked the tables and the shapes 
 0' the grand old pictures glooming on the walls.
 
 64 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 The guests were seated. Eippling laughter mingled 
 
 Their music with men's voices' deeper tones, 
 
 And merry sparkling eyes glanced up and fixed 
 
 Their wondering gaze on me. Then silence fell ; 
 
 I neared my uncle's chair, and, whispering, said : 
 
 " Look on me, sir — look on your sister's son, 
 
 For her sake pity me and give me help ! 
 
 See, on my knees I beg the smallest gift 
 
 Of food — the thousandth part of all 
 
 Upon this table ! " No word answered he. 
 
 But in his eyes there burned an angry light 
 
 Whose signs the servants knew full well, — they 
 
 came 
 Stealthily near to seize me : with one bound 
 I sprang from them, and stood apart, transformed — 
 The devil of madness raging through my frame. 
 Claiming my soul, my voice, my every limb ! 
 And thus at bay I stood before them all.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 65 
 
 " Back, wi-etches ; leave me ! Here I stand alone, 
 And front you all ! Ay, gaze on me each one, 
 Old man and all of you ! A trembling man 
 Held out beseeching hands, and prayed your alms, 
 Short time ago — a man whom all the world's 
 Hai'd serfdoms and requitals of men's toil 
 In bitter coin of failure never robbed 
 Of all his hopes, of all belief in Heaven, 
 All trust in God, all trust in human hearts, 
 All trust in goodness as a nobler thing 
 Than evil, till this day. I call on you 
 To witness, I abjure all these, and stand 
 Henceforth without the camp of all your creeds ! 
 No love i' the world, no sweet dreams left at all, 
 No faith, no hopes^all blown away and lost ! 
 But other powers there are for men to gi'asp, 
 And own, and wield— their mighty heritage 3 
 These, these be mine ! All hates that seethe within
 
 66 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 My soul I gather up, and thus would fling 
 
 Them broadcast on you ! Rich and happy ones, 
 
 Who walk upon the cliffs that front the sun, 
 
 Ne'er gazing on the sea that moans beneath, — 
 
 Yet know from out those depths some time shall rise 
 
 Fierce tempest furies, that with hissing tongue 
 
 Shall pour the spume of angry seas upon you. 
 
 And crush you where in loftiness you stand ! 
 
 The poor — forget them in your banquetings, 
 
 The poor — let music sound to drown their cries. 
 
 And while within your palace of delights 
 
 Rich incense and sweet music-tones arise, 
 
 Forsret the deserts and wide-wasted lands, 
 
 Forget the desolations round your courts ! 
 
 But hear me ! By the God you feign to worship, 
 
 By every hope and purpose of your life. 
 
 By all earth's joys and loves that you have known, 
 
 By aU the hopes and aims that make man's life
 
 TOM MORLAND. 67 
 
 Above the brutes — old man, I curse, I curse you ! 
 May heaven above you be as brass, and earth 
 A fiery pavement 'neath your feet ; may scorn 
 Of all men hunt you from your home and drive 
 
 you, 
 An abject maniac, through the pitiless world ; 
 May all the pride and beauty of the lands 
 And palaces you hold, be withered up — 
 A barren wilderness for woodlands fair, 
 A ruined, lightning-scathed wreck where now 
 Your feasts are spread — no dwellers there save owls 
 And beasts unclean, where, in the midnight hours, 
 Through paneless windows, forms of grinning fienda 
 By peasants may be seen in lonely paths 
 Who flee * the house of the old wicked lord ! ' 
 Ay, in your life may hopes be cut from you. 
 All loyal friendships change to treacherous hates, 
 All tender loves " —
 
 68 TOM MORLAND, 
 
 As T tlius spoke, I felt 
 A touch upon my arm, a soft-toned voice 
 Beside me, and a hand that pressed in mine 
 A purse, and jewelled rings, and bracelets set 
 With diamonds. Then, as I looked, T knew 
 The giver, and before my eyes there came 
 A mist of darkness ; at her feet I fell — 
 Helen ! my cousin, whom I once had loved. 
 Or played at love with, finding at the first 
 A pleasure in her gentle clinging ways 
 And childlike meek devotion — acting then 
 A part impassioned, winning for myself 
 Her heart's first love, and never questioning 
 How much of this was jest, how much was earnest, 
 Till at the last the truth came, and I knew 
 The play was ended truly, — there remained 
 No hero ! So I left her, I had ne'er 
 Spoken of love, or plighted troth with her —
 
 TOM MORLAND. 69 
 
 Thus speciously I reasoned with myself; 
 
 Yet well I knew within my heart that I, 
 
 Though the world might not blame me, had done wrong, 
 
 A changeless wrong, to that soft loving heart. 
 
 And this was her return ! She whispered to me, 
 
 " Quick, for your wife and child !" And at the word, 
 
 Forgetting all but them, I rushed away 
 
 Through the dark shadows of the park, by ways 
 
 All lonely in the moonlight, then through streets 
 
 Where glimmering gas lamps shed a sickly light 
 
 I ran in breathless haste, nor lingered save 
 
 To buy some food and wine ; and darted on, 
 
 Up the great flight of stairs, to reach my home. 
 
 My wife was dead ! .... 
 
 What have I said 1 Methinks I see her face. 
 With soft reproaches in those eyes, bent down 
 To me. miserable, I cannot cleanse
 
 70 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 My heart from tempest-passions that have stained 
 The thoughts I would keep pure for thee, Christ ! 
 Forgive me ! I have spoken hard bold words 
 Against a soul whom Thou thoughtst not too mean 
 To love and give Thy life for. 
 
 Since that time 
 I had one purpose only — to fulfil 
 The hopes that she and I had cherished long. 
 I failed ; and, looking on my life's long track, 
 With eyes that death has cleared, I now see plain 
 What once was dark and terrible to me. 
 I thought to compass much ; I dreamt that all 
 The hopes and rights I had resigned must needs 
 Be, in some higher gifts for me and those 
 Whose cause I had espoused, returned to me. 
 I would be one of them — I wore their clothes, , 
 
 Worked at the forge with them, and sought to speak
 
 TOM MORLAND. 71 
 
 With rough, plain diction such as theirs. I failed, 
 
 And little marvel was there ! If I spoke 
 
 Among the workmen of reforms in them 
 
 And in the world, soon in my words the taint 
 
 Of leanings to the cause of tyranny 
 
 Was scented by these critics ; why, I know not. 
 
 Save that I spoke of progress, not reform 
 
 Or changes merely, for I strove to show — 
 
 Remembering the words of Hearne — that life, 
 
 Compact by mutual indebtedness, 
 
 t 
 Is truly free and noble only when 
 
 Each soul rejoices in its brother's weal. 
 
 Each class beholds and venerates the strength 
 
 And virtues of the other. j 
 
 As I lie 
 
 Upon this bed, and think of all the past, 
 
 It seems to me that if my words had been 
 
 Of Christian progress more, and social less,
 
 72 TOM MORLAND. 
 
 My work had been a different, nobler one — 
 
 More rich, it may be, in results than now. 
 
 But through those years, if ever thoughts repentant, 
 
 Ajid wistful longings for the far-oflF rest 
 
 Rose in me, straight one thought had strength to 
 
 quell 
 And crush them all. ... My wife had died of want ! 
 Pity of God 1 That left my love to die- 
 Love 1 That had quenched 'neath black, tierce waves, 
 
 the one, 
 One love I had, one flower upon the earth ! 
 
 Yet — yet I know not, for a strange new sense 
 Has crept upon me, of a hidden way 
 In all things human, far above our thoughts, 
 And bringing at the last to baffled souls 
 Reversions sweet, joys of the past renewed. 
 Made perfect in long absence from the soul.
 
 TOM MORLAND. 73 
 
 Ah ! may it be — the tale of heavenly love, 
 True, despite all our doubtings ; may it be — 
 God's love, and human love made like to God's, 
 The same as at the first, but purged and cleansed — 
 Made tenderer, purer, truer — ours at last! .... 
 Ah, may it be ! 
 
 I shall know all to-night.
 
 HELEN. 
 
 I MUST not open the window, though the stars are 
 
 shining so bright, 
 I promised Bessie I would not, and I know she is 
 
 always right ; 
 Yet a little while I can sit here, and gaze, and gaze, 
 
 till I seem 
 To pass away from myself — floating on in a long still 
 
 dream !
 
 HELEN. 76 
 
 II. 
 
 Dear stars, I may speak to you, you can keep my 
 
 secret so well — 
 And, perhaps, when I am not here, some time you will 
 
 gently tell, 
 With the calm soft speech of your light, to those who 
 
 still think of me. 
 The message I send you — the love that has part in 
 
 the tears you see, 
 
 HI. 
 
 In the daytime I laugh and sing — 'tis so sweet in my 
 
 father's eyes. 
 When he thinks I am better and stronger, to watch 
 
 the new gladness rise ; 
 And he talks of our plans next summer, and he never 
 
 dreams that I see 
 Only the little white cross o'er the grave where I then 
 
 shall be.
 
 76 
 
 HELEN, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet sometimes, in the morning sunlight, when I sit 
 
 beneath the trees 
 In the garden, and hear the twitter of birds and the 
 
 hum of the bees, 
 And the dewy leaves rustle above me, and each flower 
 
 on its slender stem 
 Smiles in sweet tranquil beauty — who can help to be 
 
 glad with them 1 
 
 V. 
 
 And to-day when Charley and I rode so far o'er the 
 
 moors together, 
 And climbed to the breezy height and camped 'mong 
 
 the ferns and heather, — 
 My heart was as light as a child's, but not long, for 
 
 somethins' ag-ain — 
 The sunset 1 the tones of his voice 1 — -made me feel the 
 
 old weary pain.
 
 HELEN. 77 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Tis so strange — so strange, and I wonder why the pain 
 
 just then should come ; 
 Bessie perhaps would say, in her clever way, that to 
 
 some 
 Joys the deepest of all with a wonderful power are 
 
 rife, 
 And reveal by the light of their passing all the shapes 
 
 of our hidden life. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Carefully, carefully hidden away in my inmost 
 
 heart, 
 When the thrills of delight are the sweetest, I am 
 
 'ware with a shivering start 
 Of the spectral thought that has risen, and dark in the 
 
 sunlight stands, 
 And I know that I needs must follow that form with 
 
 the beckoning hands !
 
 78 HELEN. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And I think of the girl we saw in the convent garden 
 
 at Rome, 
 With the pale thin face, and the eyes that seemed 
 
 filled with a dream of home — 
 The home she had lost for ever, and the love by her 
 
 sacred vow 
 Sundered so far for ever, — and I think I am like her 
 
 now ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Is the day so near when I leave for ever this sunlit 
 
 land, 
 When far away from the sight of the loving and loved 
 
 I stand, 
 For the dear old life at an end, the utter and imknown 
 
 change, 
 Confronting alone the shapes of the new life, solemn 
 
 and strange ?
 
 HELEN. 79 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh, sometimes I camiot bear it — the thought of all 
 
 that is near I 
 Why should God want to take me, when He knows I'm 
 
 so happy here, 
 When my life each day, like a flower, seems to open 
 
 more and more, 
 And I see fresh gladness and hope still half-hidden 
 
 within its core 1 
 
 21. 
 
 Ah! to some there is joy in the thought that the 
 
 flower must fade and die, 
 Sinking to quiet rest, when the winds of autumn are 
 
 high, 
 'Neath the snow in quiet rest, where none can say 
 
 "Poor thing, 
 Was there ever the bloom of beauty here in the far- 
 
 ofi" spring"!"
 
 80 HELEN. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Fading flowers, withering grass," — ah ! I seem to hear 
 
 her speak 
 The words, as she lay on the couch by the window, so 
 
 pale and weak — 
 Dear mamma ! — while, a tiny child, I nestled beside 
 
 her then. 
 And in whispers she taught me my verse — I never 
 
 saw her again. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Dear mamma, do you think of me still 1 Do you ever 
 
 a moment creep 
 To the golden gate to watch, as of old, your child 
 
 asleep, 
 And the tender arms stretch forth, if once more they 
 
 might enfold 
 The little one left behind, crying here in the dark and 
 
 coldl
 
 HELEN. 81 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Oh, sometimes when I wake, and my cheeks are wet 
 
 with the tears scarce dried, 
 I fancy they are not mine, but yours who have watched 
 
 beside 
 My bed through the night, and have left, in the rays of 
 
 light that press 
 Gently upon my eyes, the touch of your soft caress. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh, such gladness comes to me, when I sit alone and 
 
 think 
 Of mamma, while I quietly wait, and new thoughts 
 
 begin to sink 
 Peacefully, gently, down in my heart, till all is so 
 
 clear — 
 Love — only love is around me, above me, before me, 
 
 so near !
 
 82 HELEN. 
 
 XVI, 
 
 "Fading, withering," — yes, but there comes in the 
 
 music a break ; 
 From a plaint as of autumn winds, clear and grand 
 
 new tones awake. 
 Like the voice of a limitless sea enwrapping earth's 
 
 narrow shore, 
 
 Mercy from everlasting, love enduring evermore ! 
 ******* 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And the gladness has come again — though the same 
 
 dear stars are there, 
 They look not, as once, far off and lost in the cold 
 
 bleak air : 
 Closer and closer they gleam, and I watch their orbed 
 
 glories grow — 
 Am I near to the land of the flowers that no winter or 
 
 death can know 1
 
 HELEN. 83 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Oh, the joy and the rest that have come ! I do not 
 
 fear any more — 
 Brighter the dream that has come than the many 
 
 dreams before ! 
 Gently I seem to float down a stream of billowy 
 
 light, 
 With half-closed eyes that are filled with the glory 
 
 infinite : 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And there breathes, as from distant shores, the music 
 
 of voices sweet, 
 The songs of the blessed ones, who are waiting there 
 
 to greet 
 The wearied childj who has heard their voices, and 
 
 fain would come 
 Nearer the brightness and peace, nearer the rest and 
 
 home ! ,
 
 84 HELEN. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Nearer evermore, for I feel the glory of light intense, 
 That touches my eyes and my soul with the joy of a 
 
 nobler sense — 
 As I breathe it, bearing me onward in the might of 
 
 swift desire. 
 Enfolding, enthrilling, transforming my life with its 
 
 living fire ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Yet, to see one sweet face that I know in the midst of 
 
 the glory's sheen, 
 And to feel the dear clasping of hands that of old 
 
 in my own have been, 
 And to hear one loved voice 'mid the singing ! — But 
 
 again the music is stilled, 
 And with softened lights as of summer sunsets the 
 
 air is filled :
 
 HELEN. 85 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And the solemn stillness deepens — yet I know that One 
 is near, 
 
 As I bend to the earth, above me a tender voice I 
 hear — 
 
 " Come to me, little one !" — and my eyes behold Him 
 now, 
 
 The Christ with the pierced hands and the thorn- 
 encircled brow ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Hast Thou sought me so long, and waited so long 
 
 through the earthly days. 
 When I sought but the human love, heeding only the 
 
 human praise 1 
 Ah ! so foolish and blind was I, I knew not that all 
 
 the while 
 In the music spoke Thy voice, in the sun-light was 
 
 Thy smile !
 
 m 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Take me, oh ! take me, Jesus ! for my heart has found 
 
 its rest 
 Here at Thy feet — at the touch of Thy hand on my 
 
 forehead pressed, 
 All the tremblings leave my heart, and with glad and 
 
 undimmed eyes 
 I behold Thee, and hear Thee say — " Enter my 
 
 Paradise ! "
 
 A L'OUTEANCE! 
 
 Confession ! I think, as a rule, the word only means 
 
 that a man 
 Finds he has got from the world the most of its sweets 
 
 he can — 
 When all other zests are gone, there's a savoxir potent 
 
 and rare 
 In licking his lips, and confessing "The sad young" 
 
 dogs that we were ! "
 
 88 1 l'outranck 
 
 II. 
 
 You saw Falstaff last night, and you know how the 
 
 people laughed and roared 
 At the jolly old sinner, trapped so often, yet never 
 
 floored : 
 Yet there was tragedy there, ghastly and grim in the 
 
 sight, 
 'Mong the Shadows, and Shallows, and fools — the 
 
 dishonoured, friendless old knight ! 
 III. 
 In a fashion he rules them : he knows in his soul he is 
 
 greater than they, 
 Greater by right of the manhood long ago he has 
 
 squandered away. 
 " What is honour 1" Ah ! once he knew — no matter, 
 
 not now — and he tells 
 Of wild doings, in years long past, 'neath the sound of 
 
 the midnight bells.
 
 1 l'outrance. 89 
 
 IV, 
 
 Old fellow, you stare, and no wonder ! I feel strange 
 
 to myself to-night — 
 You don't look from a scamp like me for reflections 
 
 sage and trite : 
 'Tis the moment's mood — let me rave — 'twill soon 
 
 pass, then forget I spoke, 
 Or think 'twas a piece from a play, or a dreary sort of 
 
 joke ! 
 
 V. 
 
 You know what I am — that I take this life very 
 
 calmly now, 
 Every day the same old round, — every day I have 
 
 learnt to bow 
 My neck to the yoke, and plod on like a sturdy ox 
 
 content, * 
 
 For the sake of the handful of com to be munched 
 
 when the day is spent !
 
 90 A L'oUTEAiTCB. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Suppose that you took a child, who knew nothing of 
 
 life at all, 
 Who lived in a hill-side hut, where the sound of the 
 
 waterfall. 
 And the hills, and the trees, and the sky, were the 
 
 only things he knew — 
 And brought him here, where no hills, no trees, no 
 
 sky are in view : 
 
 VII. 
 
 Every cry that he raised for help, by your voice's harsh 
 
 tones rebuffed ! 
 And you watched him lie in the gutter, cursed at, and 
 
 kicked, and cuffed. 
 And, as days went on, you saw how the child-spirit 
 
 passed away. 
 Till he loved the darkness and filth, and was quite 
 
 content to stay.
 
 A l'outrance. ' 91 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sometimes lie dreamed of his home, and sometimes he 
 
 looked at the sky — 
 But these were so far away, and so long he'd forgot 
 
 to cry 
 That any should lead him back — ^"twas no use when 
 
 he did — never mind ! 
 He had learnt, in the dance and the drink, something 
 
 better than these to find. 
 
 Away with supposing and hinting ! There's no room 
 
 for this phrasing here — 
 I say it straight out in the face of Him whom men 
 
 cringe to and fear — 
 With a life-long wrong He has wronged me, driving 
 
 out in the paths of hell 
 A soul yearning for all, knowing nothing. Let Him 
 
 answer me — was it done well 1
 
 92 1 l'outrancb. 
 
 X. 
 
 Thou, the maker of souls, and lord of the earth and 
 
 stars ! 
 Is there never a voice that ascends to Thy palace gates, 
 
 and jars 
 Just for a moment's space on the full-toned music 
 
 there 1 
 Make no more children, God! only men who can 
 
 suffer and bear ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 1 was a child, and trembled with joy at the brightness 
 
 nigh, 
 I dreamed that my spirit had part with the woods, and 
 
 the streams, and the sky, 
 In the cycle of nature's rejoicings, and I knew that a 
 
 voice was mine 
 To waken men's hearts to the knowing this heritage, 
 
 theirs, divine { 
 
 <»
 
 k l'outrancb. 93 
 
 XII. 
 
 T felt the mystic vibrations of the ether that stretches 
 
 afar, 
 That thrills in the souls of men, and broods o'er the 
 
 furthest star. 
 Love — love — 'twas in love the whole xmiverse rested, 
 
 I cried — like an ass ! 
 Some more brandy, Tom. — While I talk, I think you 
 
 might fill my glass. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 That's enough ! Ah, I wish that life were a draught to 
 
 be drunk like this. 
 Tossed off in a fiery glow — all summed in a moment's 
 
 bliss ! 
 'Tis the fault of most pleasures I find — too diluted ; 
 
 where all's so bad. 
 The one thing you can do is just this, make sure of 
 
 the best to be had !
 
 94: 1 l'outrancb. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I was telling some tale? I remember j there's not 
 
 so much more to be said, 
 No Seven Ages of Man, with an epic to be prosed 
 
 through under each head ; 
 The world met me, and scorched me, and crushed me. 
 
 Ah ! fearful I thought it then ; — 
 Not as now, when I laugh at and scorn it — its gods, 
 and its fiends, and its men ! 
 XV. 
 I was poor and alone, and the work I was forced the 
 
 day long to do, 
 Just for bread, was so far from the thoughts and the 
 
 hopes that within me grew. 
 Yet, I grudged it not, for I knew there was beauty 
 
 somewhere near — 
 Fair women, pictures, and music, and a future radiant 
 clear.
 
 1 l'outrance. 95 
 
 zvi. 
 And I loved, — ah, old fellow, you laugh : of course 
 
 you've forgot the days 
 When you thought the sweetest and best the world 
 
 could show — was the gaze 
 Of two soft brown eyes, and you swore that, come of 
 
 the worst what might, 
 If the love of that fair pure girl were yours, all the 
 
 rest was right. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 It was not quite so with me — I was young, and awkward, 
 
 and shy — 
 She was a brilliant lady, and calmly she passed me 
 
 by: 
 I was such a fool ! I loved her so much, I ne'er spoke 
 
 a word. 
 She had married a millionaire, very soon was the news 
 
 1 heard.
 
 96 k l'outrancb. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Oh, blessed are dreams of the night, when cahn, clear 
 
 dawn-lights again 
 Touch weary eyes, that so long have darkened with 
 
 want and pain ! 
 No blessing in day-dreams though, when a spirit that 
 
 might have ruled 
 The world, slumbers on imwitting the while it is 
 
 tricked and fooled. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 So the spell of the dream was gone ! I awoke and 
 
 gazed around, 
 Desolate, bleak, and bare was the land that once 
 
 temples crowned, 
 Yet I knew myself the same — stronger by all I had 
 
 lost, 
 By the faiths, and the hopes, and the gladness, away to 
 
 night-winds tossed.
 
 A l'outrance. 97 
 
 XX. 
 
 Let me enjoy what remains — to myself I swore that 
 
 day, 
 And since then I have lived a man among men in the 
 
 common way. 
 I might have stood on the heights 1 In the vanguard 
 
 of nations fought 1 
 'Tis pleasanter here in the plain, 'mong the crowd — for 
 
 the rest, nHmjiorte ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I have learnt to despise what I feared, and to love 
 
 what I once despised ; 
 If you watch long enough, you find — however they be 
 
 disguised 
 In the masquerade — by some gestiu-e or word, where 
 
 goes your friend. 
 Or the foe with the hidden blade — yet it comes to the 
 
 same in the end ! 
 
 G
 
 98 A L OUTRANGE. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 In Arctic tales I have read, how a man pursued by 
 
 a bear 
 Would drop a scarf or a cap behind for the brute to 
 
 tear, 
 Till little was left, and 'tis so with me — nearly all, I 
 
 find, 
 I have cast away, yet the dark dread fate is still close 
 
 behind — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Let it come, with sure and swift ending ! I am tired 
 
 enough of the chase, 
 I shall smoke my pipe till it comes with the last 
 
 rather rough embrace — 
 And then .... but it strikes me, old fellow, 
 
 you won't again ask from me 
 A story so long and dull — ah, that's better ! vive I'eau 
 
 de vie !
 
 TEANSIT. 
 
 [Scene, a balcony ; music heard from the ball-room within.] 
 
 Forgive me if my looks and voice are strange — 
 Strange to myself I feel.— Your whispered words, 
 The clinging touch of your hand upon my arm, 
 The softened tender pleading of your eyes, 
 Have loosed a tempest forth within my soul 
 I thought was stilled for ever. Do I dream 
 Or wake ] There sound within my ears again 
 Hoarse cries from sealed sepulchres wherein 
 Were laid the perished passions of my youth, 
 And on my heart cold clutching fingers press
 
 100 TRANSIT. 
 
 0' the thralled crew of fierce desires I dreamt 
 Long since were strangled in the pitiless past. 
 
 . . . . I would to God we had not met this night ; 
 Bear with me . . . 'tis the last time we shall meet. 
 
 You say you love me — love me ! and I hear 
 The words, as some sad ghost who wanders by 
 The dwelling-place o' his mortal life might hear 
 Words of sweet love and pity yearning still 
 For him who ne'er may enter, ne'er may claim 
 His kinship with the living, for a voice 
 Ever beside him murmurs — to the night 
 And tossings of the weary winds again, 
 'Mid voiceless cohorts of all exiled souls 
 Death-severed from the living ! 
 
 I have heard 
 Your words, and yet faint echoes of a sound
 
 TRANSIT. 101 
 
 Are all that reach me. Once I dreamed your whisper 
 
 Would wake me 'mongst the dead — but there has come 
 
 Only a nameless pain 'neath which I writhe, 
 
 Striving with futile hands to grasp some shape 
 
 Fleeting above th' Inferno where I dwell, 
 
 The certitude — such as, men sometimes say, 
 
 A maniac in brief lucid hours possesses, 
 
 Who knows if he could seize one thread of the past, 
 
 Recall some one lost meruory, all were well. 
 
 Worse torture that he knows 'tis surely vain — 
 
 This torture is my own — the past is dead — 
 
 And I, who speak and stand beside you here. 
 
 Know that a gulf, unfathomable, fixed, 
 
 For ever severs us — one word alone 
 
 Can traverse it, and reach you from the land 
 
 Wherein I dwell — too late, too late for love ! 
 
 I am not worth those tears — forgive me, dear ;
 
 102 TEANSIT. 
 
 I would not pain you ! Do not weep for me, 
 For now it seems that nothing pains me much. 
 And you — ah ! think of me as once you did — 
 Yoiu- friend, your brother ! Little can I do, 
 Yet at your least word would I give my life, 
 If I might aid you so ! Men speak of love 
 As changeless and eternal, and perchance, 
 Some day, in some new life, we shall behold 
 Each other, and shall know that death is past. 
 The mortal part of this our being slain. 
 The fate that sealed my life for ever changed, 
 The night wherein I wander turned to day. 
 The love wherewith I loved you— only you — 
 Arisen in a new and better life ! 
 
 Do you remember those bright far-off days 
 When first we met 1 I loved you all the while ; 
 You knew it not. You liked me, deigned to choose me
 
 TRANSIT. 103 
 
 From others as your friend ; You praised my verses, 
 
 And prophesied a future that would bring 
 
 The world's praise and a crown of noble deeds. 
 
 No poet am I. Once methought your words 
 
 Had made me one : — more truly see I now 
 
 That if the gift had dwelt in me, all else, - 
 
 Your praise bestowed, withheld, had mattered nought. 
 
 So for a while it pleased you to look down 
 
 On me as minstrel of your court, you heard 
 
 My passionate words, and smiled. You knew not love, 
 
 And yet the sound was pretty. 'Twas a game 
 
 So nice to play at, with a spice of danger 
 
 Enough to thrill you with exulting sense 
 
 Of power within you, fleeting in the chase 
 
 O'er deeps and shallows of the perilous sea 
 
 Where others stranded lay, to pass unharmed — 
 
 The joy of the pursuit was all you sought ! 
 
 I was a child in worldly knowledge — you
 
 104 TRANSIT. 
 
 A woman skilled in all the science of 
 
 So much to hear, so much to treat as jest — 
 
 Pity the game should end ! Do T blame you, dear ? 
 
 Ah, never in my faintest, inmost thought. 
 
 How could you know 1 I dreamed, and you were waking ; 
 
 Fierce summer heats were in my blood, while you 
 
 Smiled calmly in the spring time. 
 
 Then at last 
 You undeceived me, spoke of deep regard 
 And friendship — so dismissed me. How I lived 
 From that time forth I know not : what was life 
 To such as I, but one^great battle-field 
 Where the strongest slew the most? I learnt my 
 
 strength — 
 Strength of an empty heart and hoi^eless soul, 
 I gloried in the strife, believed in earth. 
 Scoffed at the sky, and scorned all messages
 
 TRANSIT. 105 
 
 Pitiful, tender, breathed adown from heaven — 
 Lost, 'mong the brotherhood of ruined souls, 
 Beastlike, I gave the lie to all my past ! 
 What has the world missed 1 Nought perchance, and 
 
 yet 
 The peradventure may be proved to lie 
 Quite otherwise — for many a man who fails 
 A thousand are there who have never gained 
 The vantage ground to stand on, e'en to fail ! 
 God knows I would have served Him if I might — 
 God knows how once I smiled unto myself 
 In simple joy, assured I had to wait 
 Few years, and then the world would share with me 
 The grand new thoughts I nursed within my soul — 
 The man who dreamed this was a fool, men say, — 
 It may be, though they know not ! 
 
 So the end
 
 106 TRANSIT. 
 
 Has come. Believe me, that I speak not words 
 Of puling child's impatience ; Men may praise 
 My name, and count me fortunate and great, 
 And you, perchance, may deem my life has grown 
 To brighter, nobler manhood, than the boy. 
 You once knew, prophesied — ^the world's side that ! 
 But God's 1 I would not hear it if I could — 
 But day and night, the voice within my soul 
 Speaks, and will brook no silencing of men, — 
 ' Lost ! forasmuch as in this soul there dwelt 
 Not strength at the first trial to withstand. 
 That of its own free will it hath abjured, 
 Cast to the wide winds, aU its hopes of good, 
 And taken to itself the unclean brood 
 Of vile imaginations and desires, — 
 Content amid the baseness and the night, 
 Vassal of evil ! After long years, thus 
 It is decreed — no more his earthly life
 
 TRANSIT. 
 
 107 
 
 Shall know of inspirations and of love, 
 Simple and pure as in the early time ! ' 
 
 It is not often that a man thus speaks 
 
 Unto a woman whom he once has loved, 
 
 Yet it may be that in these words there dwells 
 
 A better purpose than in many words 
 
 More passionate and tender you have heard. 
 
 'Tis this — that I would save you from myself ! 
 
 And some time you will thank me in your thoughts 
 
 That thus I spoke, revealing all myself — 
 
 All that the world knows not — and saved you so 
 
 From love that would have slain you. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I have dreamed 
 So often of our meeting ! At the first, 
 Through the thick night that compassed me, I saw 
 A radiant form, with eyes and voice like yours,
 
 108 TRANSIT. 
 
 That bending o'er me beckoned me to rise. 
 
 I rose, and strove to follow with weak steps. 
 
 And then you stretched your hand to draw me forth, 
 
 And I . . I sought to clasp it, sought and sought, 
 
 Cried out with passionate prayers — but all in vain 
 
 I strove against the spell that held me fast, — 
 
 No hand I touched, the vision faded from me, — 
 
 And then I woke, with yet before my eyes 
 
 Faint glimmers of the little white hand stretched 
 
 Still from the gloom to aid me ! 
 
 Then methought 
 I stood upon a mountain peak alone. 
 And gazed on the wide fields of ether spread 
 Beneath me and above, in wondrous light 
 Bright with the morning's presence. Warmer grew 
 The air about me, more intense the glow 
 Of billowy light that wrapped me in its flood.
 
 TRANSIT. 109 
 
 I trembled and sank low upon the earth. 
 Then a strange thrill passed through me, I was 'ware, 
 Amid the flashing light, of living shapes 
 That passed and gazed with steadfast eyes on me : — 
 Borne on the chariot of the gods there stood 
 A maiden, in whose form all loveliness 
 Dwelt, mantled with the dewy bloom of youth ; 
 * There gleamed from out her eyes sweet ardours, keen 
 With passion as of love's first wakening — 
 She gazed on me, and then methought there rose 
 Within those glorious eyes a new strange thought 
 Of pitying sadness as she bent them low. 
 Then saw I at her feet a withered form. 
 That lay, with ghastly face and skrivelled limbs, 
 And eyes that glai-ed with impotent desire, 
 And quivering fingers clutching at her robe, 
 For ever powerless, doomed beneath the spell 
 Of an eternal eld ! The vision passed,
 
 110 TRANSIT. 
 
 And when I saw no more the golden gleam 
 Of streaming locks that lingered on the breeze, 
 With sudden start I rose. Within my soul 
 One fearful thought had shaped itself — I knew 
 You were Aurora, and Tithonus — 1 1 
 
 So the doom comes, — too late — too late for love ! 
 
 Dreams to the dreamers ! But to us no more 
 
 The glamour of the days when once we walked 
 
 Together in the sunlight 'mid the flowers, 
 
 Glad in the spring-time of unuttered hopes ! 
 
 But now — 
 
 See the dark night in which there gleams no star, 
 
 And only fitful glimmers, on the grass 
 
 And shapes of trees that by no breeze are stirred, 
 
 Fall from the windows, where the lights within 
 
 Blaze on the crowd of dancers ! Fitter there
 
 TRANSIT. Ill 
 
 Our place, than in the presence, calm and pure, 
 Of nature, where our lives no longer dwell. 
 Farewell — yet let me hold your hand awhile 
 Thus in my own. For the last time — Farewell
 
 LOTTIE. 
 
 Let down the window— 'tis so hot tonight, 
 And dancing tires me so ! I'm always glad 
 When the night's toil amid the glare and din, 
 The talking, dancing, smiling, drinking, all 
 Is done — to tell the man to drive me home, — 
 Such a " sweet home," you know ! 
 
 *Tis just three years 
 Since first I came here. I'd no carriage then, 
 But, foolish thing, more gladness once I felt 
 In walking through the lanes and moon-lit fields,
 
 LOTTIE. 113 
 
 Beneath soft shadows of the trees, and by 
 The brook, whose broken miu-murs, as it fled 
 The moonlight's glimpses, fiUed the intervals 
 In our more broken whispers, while the bells 
 Chimed from the village clock the hour, than now, 
 Than now — when — 
 
 Oh, you clever, clever man ! 
 You did not think the girl you met to-night — 
 That dashiog creature with the loosened hair, 
 " Deuced handsome," too, quite worth yom- lordship's 
 
 while 
 To patronise — was just three years ago 
 Poor Lottie, at the farm near Gower's court. 
 Ah, so you know me now ! I've seen you, George, 
 So many, many times, — you did not di'eam, 
 The eyes, that once dared hardly lift themselves 
 To look on you in olden days, since then
 
 114' LOTTIE. 
 
 Have often watcbed and judged you I 
 
 Do not speak ! 
 I know what you would say — 'tis very kind ; 
 And yet a foolish something makes me wish 
 To hear no words of pity from the lips 
 Whose words were once of love — 
 
 Ah, yes, you loved me, 
 Didn't you, George, — a little while you loved me ? 
 No matter, now. Yet many a time it seemed 
 To me, when in your books you told so well 
 Of lover's thoughts, and all the tender ways 
 In which the heart's first love reveals itself. 
 Sometimes you must have thought of Gower's court; 
 And of the child you loved three years ago. 
 
 Do I tease you, speaking of those foolish days ?
 
 LOTTIE. 115 
 
 You have left them far behind — the world's great gates 
 
 Have opened to you, shutting out the sight 
 
 Of all the simple, quiet, country life : 
 
 Let the past go — be buried out of sight, 
 
 Poor wretched, puny thing, beside the show 
 
 Of the great glorious future beckoning you— 
 
 Forget it ! Ah, 'tis easy for a man — - 
 
 A woman cannot, if she will, forget 
 
 The first true love she knew. 
 
 Ah, George, you thought 
 You kept so well your secret, — only looked 
 Sometimes, and spoke few words, as if you felt 
 A need to sort, from all the hidden crowd 
 Of thoughts you kept for me, the common ones 
 The world might safely hear ; and yet your voice 
 Bent towards me, and revealings in your eyes 
 Stirred in my heart sweet wonderings, and a sense
 
 116 LOTTIE. 
 
 Of something in my life unknown before. 
 You came but seldom to the farm ; 'twas said 
 That you were proud and cold, and kept aloof 
 From all the common people — and I laughed 
 Within my heart, content that 't should be so, — 
 My hero was above the world, what part 
 Had he in all our common life 1 And yet 
 The answering thought unspoken would reserve 
 One sweet exception — that he cared for me. 
 Soon came the harvest days. The fruit of aU 
 The year was garnered then ; it seemed to me, 
 The yellow corn, that waved in peaceful state, 
 Knew something of my joy, and whispered low, 
 " The crown of all the years is come for thee" — 
 And then I thought my heart was like the flowers 
 That nestled in the corn, bright, scarlet-hued, 
 Beneath the great expanse of tranquil sameness, 
 Trembling with joy in the great summer tide.
 
 LOTTIE. 117 
 
 And bright with passionate hopes to meet the sun ! 
 Apt similes, and apter than I thought — 
 The fields were bare beneath cold darkened skies 
 When last I saw the farm at Gower's court. 
 
 But, ah, those merry days of harvest time ! 
 When all the corn was housed, and at the farm 
 * The reapers gathered, each one loyally- 
 Determined to get drunk — what meaning else 
 For them had beer unlimited 1 — while we. 
 The younger ones, thought more of blind old Tom, 
 The fiddler, and the dancing 'neath the trees. 
 I was so happy then ! A tiny hope 
 Had whispered in my heart that you would come, 
 And so, when all my work was done, I crept 
 Down the long garden path where apple trees, 
 And raspberries and currants, flourished most— 
 (" What good are silly flowers ?" my father said :
 
 118 LOTTIE. 
 
 " They're nought to eat ") — to where my roses bloomed 
 
 In a far corner, out of sight to all 
 
 But me. You loved the roses, once you said. 
 
 I sought the softest, sweetest perfumed one — 
 
 'Twould look so pretty in my new white dress ! 
 
 And then the evening came, the noisy feast, 
 
 The songs with roared-out chorus — and, at last. 
 
 The dancing, with the fiddler high enthroned 
 
 King of the rout. You came, with all your friends — 
 
 The Trevors, and the Hartleys, and the Vanes, 
 
 All so magnificent, we village maids 
 
 Were daunted, and looked shy, and blushed, afraid 
 
 To dance with you ; but when the shrill notes rose. 
 
 And bore us on in a mad breathless whirl. 
 
 Until we were content to stop, and lean. 
 
 Just for a moment, on our partner's arm. 
 
 And when you talked — we found you not too grand. 
 
 But first in aU our wildest merriment !
 
 LOTTIE. 119 
 
 I was so happy, George — I dared not look 
 
 Into your eyes, I knew so well the tale 
 
 That I should read there. As I held your hand, 
 
 While your strong arm was round me, ah, I wished 
 
 The dance would never end : I've found, since then, 
 
 That most things end so soon — most happy ones ! 
 
 And when you'd wrapped a shawl so closely round me 
 And o'er my head in gipsy guise, we walked 
 ^ Through the still meadows, where the elm trees skirted 
 The path beside the river, and the moon 
 Shed soft cool glimmerings round us : — all so still, 
 Save in a distant field the corncrake's note ! 
 You drew the shawl away, and in my ear 
 Whispered of how you loved me, while your lips 
 With passionate beseechings touched my brow. 
 You told how all the hopes of all your life 
 Were centred in me ; how your boyish dreams
 
 120 LOTTIE. 
 
 '' Of beauty, like the moon-beams, soft and clear, 
 
 And glorious as the sun-dawn, and apparelled 
 
 In gentlest graces like the flowers of spring," 
 
 (Poor foolish words, I still remember them), 
 
 " After long years had now at last come true." 
 
 . . . What could I do, poor child, but just believe you, 
 
 And fling my arms around your neck and cry 
 
 In the very ecstasy of gladness 1 Me — 
 
 You had chosen me, the village girl, from all 
 
 The throng of fairer, nobler ones ! New life 
 
 Had come, and in your love had set its seal 
 
 On me — and in the woman's love I gave you, 
 
 I rose from all the past and claimed to stand 
 
 For ever by his side whose love I held — 
 
 My God, he was that man, and I that gui ! 
 
 Ah, you sit there and listen patiently,
 
 LOTTIE. 121 
 
 Silently, and compassionately to my tale, 
 
 You cold, yovi bloodless thing — considering this, 
 
 And -weighing that, and calmly judging all ! 
 
 "Was it the moonlight frenzied you that night ] 
 
 Or the dance unnerved you ? Or, perchance, the touch 
 
 Of a maiden's hand caused tremors in the heart 
 
 That should have beat unmoved 1 
 
 An error of judgment — 
 Just that, no more — and only one weak soul 
 Damned for ever ! You are wiser now. 
 
 You thought you saved me, and you praised yourself 
 For noble lenience ! Is it counted right 
 For a man, relinquishing a purpose once 
 The dear pursuit of all his days, to claim 
 Applause and triumph for himself achieved 
 By the act of this desertion 1
 
 122 LOTTIE. 
 
 In the life 
 Of Oxford, all our quiet country ways, 
 That once you loved, looked poor and mean, the gloss 
 All gone, in contrast with the glittering pageant 
 Of the world you lived in. Yet you thought sometimes 
 Of the girl who loved you, wrote caressing words. 
 And sometimes even dreamed of her — not long ! 
 Then other thoughts came : fool that you had been 
 To think of binding down your life so low. 
 To the level of those country clods, by choosing 
 " A milkmaid for your bride!" Yet even then 
 'Twas not too late. Some silly tender words 
 Soon spoken, soon forgotten — should these mar 
 All the bright future that you knew was yours 1 
 No harm done — so you said, and wrote smooth words 
 Of parting counsel, and bestowed kind wishes 
 Of happy life and prosperous marriage days — 
 And cast me oflf. t
 
 LOTTIE. 
 
 123 
 
 None care for what I say — 
 I, the poor thing to smile at ; yet, by Heaven, 
 I tell you this, less cruel had you been 
 If taking all, and clutching for yoiu-self 
 The one poor gift that I could give, my love. 
 The gift I would have gloried to bestow, 
 Surrendering body and soul to be your own, 
 You had wrought my shame — for what is shame to love ? 
 
 You left me, George, that summer long ago — 
 'Tis here beneath these London lamps we meet. 
 
 Ah, the world talks of you, and praises wait 
 In every drawing room on you, and men say 
 To each other when they see you — "That's young 
 
 Vaughan : 
 You've read his book, of course 1 Ah, there's a man 
 Who'll soon outstrip our fleetest in the race
 
 124 LOTTIE. 
 
 For honours — if he choose ! He knows it too, 
 
 Clever and proud as Lucifer." Does the thought 
 
 Ever arise within you that a stain, 
 
 Kuown only to yourself, blots the fair record 
 
 And marks you traitor, — perjured 1 Traitor to love 
 
 In that you gave denial to the voice 
 
 Of the true soul within you ; — traitor, that 
 
 You chose the paltry pelf o' the world, and left 
 
 God's crown of loyal love ! you thought of yourself. 
 
 And then true love had vanished ; you have spoken 
 
 So many words of love since then, and yet 
 
 They have lacked a something that your boyish love 
 
 Once knew the secret of The vengeance comes 
 
 Some time to all, — and, George, methinks you feel 
 
 A portion of it as you. look on me, 
 
 Whom the world calls . , . 
 
 I Only three years are gone
 
 LOTTIE. 125 
 
 Since first you loved me ! Pardon that I speak 
 So much .of myself, and yet some privilege 
 Is granted to the dying — such am I, 
 Or shall be soon. I should not speak of this — 
 You're not to blame that I'm to die so soon ; 
 And yet the friend I look for 's sure to come — 
 Not leave me, as you did three years ago ' 
 
 I could not bear to stay where once I'd been 
 
 So happy, and I fled, not caring where. 
 
 I came to London, — and you know the rest. 
 
 Do others learn to find a mad fierce joy 
 
 In their very wretchedness — a joy in losing 
 
 All that was once so prized, all that was part 
 
 Most truly of the old poor simple self 
 
 That once had lived 1 Bury it, bury it quick, 
 
 Stamp on the grave, list to the crunched bones,
 
 126 LOTTIE. 
 
 Gloat o'er the rotting limbs — the past is dead, 
 Buried so many fathoms deep, and now 
 All is so safe, — the murdered sleep so well ! 
 I have tried, I have tried so hard, to lose myself : 
 Sometimes amid the whirling dance, beneath 
 The blaze of lights, while the rich music throbs 
 Around me,— -or when draining fiery draughts 
 0' the sparkling wines, while merry songs, and talk 
 The louder as the midnight hours are passed, 
 Beguile to brief light-heartedness — the thoughts 
 That prey on me are hushed. Soon daylight comes. 
 And the old pains cling close about my heart. 
 With sharp and stinging fangs of memory, 
 Eemorse, self-loathing consciousness. To all 
 Some hope remains ! What hope is there for me 1 
 The world and heaven shut out, I walk alone — 
 Sometimes I watch the little children play. 
 And the mother gazing on them with fond eyes
 
 LOTTIE. 127 
 
 And loving trustful glances to the one 
 Beside her, as if saying, " Yours, our own," — 
 What right have I e'en to be near them then ] 
 Where'er I go, by day, by night, I feel 
 Men's glances on me, women's turned away, 
 One secret thought in all — unclean, unclean ! 
 I have read of lepers haunting desert lands, 
 From whose approach the traveller would flee 
 As from a ravenous beast — No lepers here 1 
 We are the lepers ! And your healing art 
 Has never a cure for us. In olden time, 
 'Tis said. One feared them not, and laid his hand 
 On the hot, blenched brow, and gave them peace. 
 Where is He now 1 No pitying presence comes 
 To meet us in these cruel London streets. 
 
 Let me face the worst ! The end will soon be near. 
 Though the pale lights above me all are quenched,
 
 128 LOTTIE. 
 
 Though pitying voices all have ceased, that once 
 
 I might have heeded — though I deeper sink 
 
 Adown the black and slimy rocks beneath 
 
 The frowning cliffs of the world — and though I see, 
 
 In the abyss below, dark surging waters 
 
 Waiting to close above me, — I'll weep no more, 
 
 And cry no more for succour ! When at last 
 
 Another weary heart has gained its rest, 
 
 You'll think sometimes — but no, it will be nought 
 
 To the world and you ! 
 
 I've reached my home ; and now 
 Between us aU is over, so — Good Night !
 
 THE INCANTATION. 
 
 Who stands where the glory golden 
 Of the oriel window streams 
 
 O'er the tombs and the pillars olden, 
 In the ghostly moonlight's beams 1 
 
 He is young and of noble mien, 
 
 Yet the monk's gray robe he wears ; 
 
 But to-night he has come, I ween. 
 For no vigils or long-drawn prayers.
 
 130 THE INCANTATION. 
 
 He has chanted tinhallowed words, 
 He has closed the awful book — 
 
 Ah, that voice ! once no sweeter the birds' 
 Clear song to the woodland brook ! 
 
 Hist ! is it only the river 
 
 I hear in the still midnight 1 
 Look ! as with deathly shiver 
 
 Pales away the pure moonlight. 
 
 And up through the aisles are streaming 
 Shadowy forms with outstretched hands ; 
 
 At the windows dread faces gleaming 
 On the monk as alone he stands. 
 
 The dead he has summoned near, 
 
 And has claimed that their lips should tell 
 
 The secrets, that none may hear, — 
 Of death and the charnel cell,
 
 THE INCANTATION. 131 
 
 Of the springs of the storm and the light, 
 
 - Of the powers that create and kill, — 
 To become as the gods in might, 
 Knowing the good and the ill. 
 
 But he knew not the terror of facing 
 The throng of the dead that rise, 
 
 And he shrinks to confront the gazing 
 Of their cold and fixed eyes. 
 
 He knows not the words that command, 
 
 And for ever lost are they 
 Who falter and faint when they stand 
 
 In the path he chose that day. 
 
 They have circled him, muttering their greeting 
 To the band of the doomM dead, 
 
 Heeding never his voice's entreating 
 For the life whose hopes are sped.
 
 132 THE INCANTATION. 
 
 But, see — ^they shrink back as if hiding 
 In the darkest gloom for fear, 
 
 As a white robed form is gliding 
 Slowly, mournfully near— - 
 
 She bends o'er him, lifting her veil. 
 
 And he knows the dead one's face. 
 
 And the arms so cold, and the lips so pale 
 Pressed to his in that long embrace. 
 
 it * * * * 
 
 Mom is come, and the sunbeams are darting 
 Through the oriel their blaze of light ; 
 
 The bells toll for a soul's departing, — 
 Passed away, alone, in the night.
 
 REST. 
 
 " There is a rest that remaineth ;" — 
 
 Dear words ! when this life seems too hard, 
 
 And too heavy the burdens, how softly 
 They fall on a heart bruised and scarred ! 
 
 A rest that remaineth ! Oh sweetly 
 
 May other voices call, — 
 Voices that tell of the glories 
 
 Of a life-long festival, 
 
 But none bear such echoes of sweetness. 
 
 None, such a power to bless. 
 None, such tones like a mother's whispers. 
 
 None, such pitying tenderness,
 
 134 REST. 
 
 As these with their soft-toned requiem 
 Rising high o'er the jarring strife. 
 
 The seal of a peace eternal 
 
 To the troubled dream of a life ! 
 
 Rest ! — but no slothful slumbers ; 
 
 Rest ! — -but no paradise, 
 Where, with flowers of the lotus crowned, 
 
 With half-closed and sated eyes 
 
 We may drowse evermore, all restless 
 Hopes of the past drowned deep, 
 
 While we list to the ripples above us. 
 Of the sea of a dreamless sleep ! 
 
 Tis not this — but what is it ? T know not 
 Yet sometimes, when sad and tired, 
 
 I see the heights far above me 
 That to gain I once aspired.
 
 REST. 135 
 
 Comes a vision of pilgrims — wearied, 
 
 Foiled in a life's long quest — 
 In the golden land they sought for, 
 
 At last, and for ever, at rest I ■ 
 
 They still journey onwards, but singing 
 
 No longer the pilgrim's plaint — 
 " They shall run and not be weary, 
 
 They shall walk and shaU not fe,int,"
 
 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA. 
 
 [The story of Alexandra is given in MontalemherV s " Moines de 
 V Occident." The folloiving words in the old legend have been 
 almost literally translated in this poem : " Quidam insano mei 
 amore tenebatur, et ne cum viderer molestia afficere, malui me 
 vivam in hoc monumentum inferre, quam offendere animam quw 
 facta est ad Dei iinaginem.^'J 
 
 For ten long years a dweller in the tombs ! 
 Christ, I sometimes fear that I am mad 
 As he, whom from the tombs of Gadara 
 Thou drewest to Thy feet ! I see and hear 
 Strange signs that break the midnight silences, — 
 Ai'ticulate voices in the wind and storm, — 
 Whisperings that creep beside me in the dark — 
 And lights, the desert knows not, flashing full 
 Upon me, — gleams of torches borne by hosts.
 
 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA. IS'T 
 
 That pass innumerable with solemn tread, 
 And wondrous far-off bursts of minstrelsy — 
 I see and hear them ! I who for these years 
 Have only heard the distant twittering 
 Of birds, and seen bright fleeting shapes of clouds, 
 And hstened to the muttered tones of priests ! 
 
 Ah, Thou didst not forget him. Lord ! and we. 
 Forget not me, as in the shadows deep 
 I lie, and watch the light that gleams and wanes 
 Through trailing plants athwart the cavern's mouth — 
 Waiting, till Thou shalt pass, and call me, Lord I 
 
 'Tis noon, I think, by the still heavy air 
 And blaze of light that drives within the shade 
 The lithe green lizards, panting from the heat : 
 Noon — noon in Alexandria, — ah me ! 
 How often in the languor of this hour
 
 138 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA. 
 
 I have watched the glitter of the temple roofs, 
 The blaze of golden turrets, aud the cold 
 Clear dazzling gleam of marble obelisks, 
 With far away blue glimmers of the sea — 
 So, through the darkened lattice many a day 
 I have peered, with weary and half-opened eyes, 
 Till all the pageantry of colours melted 
 Into the vast bright fantasies of dreams, — 
 Changed — changed — changed ! 
 
 But not all changed ! for still I hold the dream — 
 Dream of a fairer city, calmer sea. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 Ten years among the tombs ! God, thou knowest 
 
 When, as he knelt before me with those eyes 
 
 Lit up with passion, and that quivering voice, 
 
 Whose words flashed forth like sword-points in the light 
 
 (And smote like them, too !) coldly answering him,
 
 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA. 139 
 
 " But dost thou count thy vows for nought, and seek 
 To change heaven's service for earth's poor base love, 
 Then I, I save thee ! " — (as I spoke he leapt 
 To his full height,)—" Thou sayest I am free 1 — 
 I claim this freedom — seek me not — I go 
 Far hence, to pray for thy sin-laden soul ! 
 Wait — for who knows but in some other world 
 The pity of God may teach us sinless love ! " — 
 Thou knowest, Lord, how wildly beat this heart 
 With yearnings for sweet draughts of love, that ne'er 
 The poor weak slave had known ; but better far 
 This life the silences have watched so long, 
 This death the day and night have waited for, 
 Than that such ill had fallen by my means 
 Upon a soul made in the image of God ! 
 
 He would not know me now. He dare not touch 
 This shrivelled hand he once so often kissed,
 
 140 THE SLAVE ALEXANDRA. 
 
 Or these poor withered limbs, that nevermore 
 
 Shall move from this hard couch. . . So best — I wait. 
 ****** 
 
 I feel soft nursing arms enfolding me, 
 And close above me voices whispering 
 In low sweet tones of . . . home . . . and rest . . . 
 
 and love . . . 
 Is it a dream ? . , . sweet dream, leave me not !
 
 A LEGEND OF NORWAY. 
 
 Through the forest of pines a maiden strayed, 
 And, blushing, spring flowers in her hair did braid. 
 
 Singing, she reached the mountain's height. 
 
 " Oh, the beauteous spring — oh, the joyous light !" 
 
 'Neath the gloom of the pines on the mountain sides, 
 Through a lonesome vale, the broad river glides. 
 
 And the falls are near ; hark, the dull deep roar. 
 Where, like shadowy wraiths, the mist-clouds soar.
 
 142 A LEGEND OF NORWAY. 
 
 The sunshine is warm, and the flowers are rare 
 
 On that mountain's height — but she rests not there. 
 
 With eager glances she gazes below, 
 
 Where with gleaming curves the dark waters flow. 
 
 She shades with her hands her eyes from the light, 
 Is't the sun — or her gladness — so dazzling bright 1 
 
 And her face the soft smiles are rippling o'er, 
 As she spies a white sail beside the shore. 
 
 " He is there, he is there — my Eric dear, 
 And little he dreams that I'm so near." 
 
 Like a bird that glides to its nest on earth 
 With quivering wings and a song of mirth, 
 
 She has passed from the heights, till among the trees 
 The glimmering white of a sail she sees,
 
 A LEGEND OF NOTIWAY, 143 
 
 And she springs from beneath the gloomsome pines 
 On the river's bank where the sunlight shines — 
 
 Still and heavy the air, like an Eastern dream, 
 No sound save the rippling flow of the stream — 
 
 She creeps near the barque, with sparkling eyes, 
 And blushes and smiles at her love's surprise. 
 
 What has she seen that her cheeks are white, 
 Her eyes dull and fixed by some gruesome sight ] 
 
 What has she seen that with arms thrown wide. 
 She falls in a swoon by the river's side 1 
 
 In that boat on the softly heaving tide 
 He sleeps, — in his arms another bride. 
 
 ***** 
 
 O'er her hands and feet the cold waters creep. 
 At their touch she wakes from her deathlike sleep.
 
 144 A LEGEND OF NORWAY. 
 
 There is a silence still in the boat : — with slow 
 Weak steps, she turns, from that place to go. 
 
 Her foot has touched the great chain that wound 
 Round a tree, and the boat to its moorings bound ; 
 
 Then the storm of the madness within her breast 
 Leaps forth, with one frenzied thought possessed — 
 
 Vengeance ! She kneels, and has clutched the chain 
 It is loosened ! She flings it out amain ! 
 
 Glitter aloft its forged links, 
 
 Then with heavy splash in the river it sinks. 
 
 The boat drifts slowly adown the stream, 
 
 In the glistening path where the sun-rays beam. 
 
 She has fallen to earth and the pine tree grasped. 
 Around it her quivering arms are clasped,
 
 A LEGEND OP NORWAY. 145 
 
 And all the blood from her face is gone, 
 While her fixed eyes glare on that boat alone. 
 
 Silently, slowly it floats away, 
 
 And no mortal hand can its course now stay — 
 
 And now, but a speck on the foaming tract — 
 And now, hark the boom of the cataract i 
 
 And above the distant thunderous roar 
 
 One long wild shriek rings back to the shore — 
 ***** 
 
 All is still again, like an Eastern dream, 
 
 Save the quivering leaves and the murmuring stream.
 
 IN PAEADISI GLORIA. 
 
 In Paradisi gloriA ! — 
 
 So, — -in notes that rise like a psean song, 
 
 In their sound the rush of the battle charge, 
 
 And the clash of the steel on helm and targe 
 
 In a whirlwind swoop on the foemen's throng- 
 
 These strains from the Stabat Mater ring 
 
 Still in my heart, — 
 And breaths, as of fiery warfare, cling 
 To them, even now, and strange fancies bring, 
 
 From all other thoughts apart — 
 
 Paradisi gloria !
 
 IN PARADTSI GLORIA. 147 
 
 In glorid, ! Ah, methinks more sweet 
 Those words to me, that I shall never see 
 That sight anear — 
 That I shall never hear 
 The music of those heavenly voices greet 
 Me, as of those whose weary earthwom feet 
 Have passed those gates and tread that golden street- 
 No songs for me ! 
 
 Yet — to creep to the gate and watch the gleams 
 Of the wondrous glory that sometimes streams 
 
 For a moment's space, 
 When a soul that has won the Master's grace, 
 With the coming gladness bright on his face 
 
 Enters there ! 
 
 Will He let me stay % Ah, I would not be 
 Out in that darkness, whose shoreless sea
 
 148 IN PARADISI GLORIA. 
 
 Glimmers ne'er with the light of or sun or star, 
 Away from that glory so far — so far ! 
 Will He let me stay 1 
 
 In a dream, once — long ago — 
 
 I stood on the prow of a vessel, swept 
 
 On by the tempest, whose fury left 
 
 Ne'er a shred of the sails or mast, and cleft 
 
 "Wide rents in the deck to the depths below : 
 
 The darkness had wrapped me round. 
 In my ears the thunderous sound 
 Of the tempest's voices on high. 
 Of the breakers' great surge anear, 
 And the night-birds' cries wild and drear 
 Slxrieking down from that pitch-dark sky- 
 On through the night we swept, and I gazed 
 On the darkness in front, like a wall upraised 
 To beat back every soul that dared to flee
 
 IN PARADISI GLORIA. 149 
 
 From the death-fraught grasp of that raging sea. 
 
 A maddening terror held me, — when lo ! 
 
 Out from the blackness above me, flashed 
 
 The light-house flame with a piercing glare ' 
 
 Far above on the clifi", that dark and bare. 
 
 While to its height the white surges dashed, 
 
 Stood to shatter the barque as it heavily crashed ' 
 
 There — -there at its base ! — and the light still 
 
 broke 
 Through the night, with that fearful glare — 
 Then I woke. 
 
 Is that dream true 1 
 Shall the brightness gleam on me, alone 
 To show the black depths where my life o'erthrown 
 Struck on the rocks of this pitiless world — 
 Back in the eddying waters hurled, 
 Sinks at the last 1
 
 150 IN PARADISI GLORIA. 
 
 Paradisi Gloria ! 
 Let me but see thee, and perchance thy King 
 
 Mav see me where 
 T he within the darkness, and may fling 
 
 Some hope to me, if ne'er 
 My eyes are turned, for ages, from the sight 
 Of far ofiF splendours of thy beacon light — 
 Oh, hide not utterly ! 
 Oh, pass not quite away ! 
 Leave me some glimpse of thee, 
 Paradisi Gloria I
 
 HOSES 
 
 Evert day, by the side of her stall, 
 
 From morn to night, the old dame is sitting : 
 
 The sunlight may blaze, the rain may fall, 
 
 Yet never a bit she heeds it all, 
 
 Watching her roses — serenely knitting. 
 
 V/hat to her are the crowd and the din, 
 
 As she looks on the people hurrying past 
 
 In unceasing stream through the weary hours ? 
 
 Does she pity them all, while her needles go fast, 
 
 And think to herself — ah, my beautiful flowers 
 
 Are wiser than these, for they toil not nor spin ?
 
 152 EOSES, 
 
 They bloom all day in the dingy street^ 
 
 Those beautiful roses^ white and red, 
 
 With the tiny rosebuds so fresh and sweet, 
 
 Peeping coyly ont from their mossy bed : 
 
 And the dews^ that close to their heart have lain 
 
 'Neath the clustering petals, they breathe away 
 
 Silently, sadly, for never again 
 
 Shall they bend to the breeze on the slender spray. 
 
 Never again shall the tender night 
 
 "With its soft, cool hand close their buds to sleep ; 
 
 And never again the clear warm sunlight 
 
 In richer hues their bright blossoms steep — 
 
 Yet they bloom all day in the dingy street. 
 
 And they shed their fresh, pure fragrance round ; 
 
 In dying they bless us, though 'neath our feet, 
 
 Their resting-place ere the night is found ! 
 
 What does she think of, that grim old dame.
 
 ROSES. 153 
 
 As she sits at her knitting through all the day 1 
 
 Does she ever, I wonder, a story frame 
 
 From the faces of those who a moment stay 
 
 To choose at her stall the daintiest flowers 1 
 
 How to one, with drooped head a,nd wearied eyes, 
 
 Slow passing, the vision of sunny bowers 
 
 And the scents of far off" gardens rise — 
 
 A dream of delights in long vanished hours ; 
 
 Ah, to him a few withered and faded leaves, 
 
 Hidden away in a secret place, 
 
 Have a sweeter fragrance and brighter grace 
 
 Than the fairest that Spring in her garland weaves ! 
 
 Does she watch the poor gii'l who lingers there. 
 
 Who has bent o'er her needle from morn to night, 
 
 And thinks, as she buys a rose, how bright 
 
 'Twill gleam in her chamber small and bare 1 
 
 Or the workman, wearily plodding home, 
 
 Who chooses the largest bunch for the sake
 
 154 ROSES. 
 
 Of the little ones, who are still awake 
 And watch the door till their father come t 
 
 Or, perchance, all the while her thoughts have been 
 
 Only grave surmise of the gains of the day ! 
 
 And, see, night is come, — where bright flowers were 
 
 seen 
 Are only dull flags 'neath the gas-lamps' ray.
 
 A NOCTUENE. 
 
 On an old gateway, in a northern town, 
 
 Once, long ago, I painfully spelt out 
 
 These words — " Men say ! — What say they ? — Let 
 
 them say ! " 
 And now, as at the midnight hour alone 
 I smoke my pipe, and watch the firelight's gleam 
 With last faint flickering in the darkened room, 
 Those old words come to me. Well, " Let them say !" 
 Poor, barren wisdom, that the hardest striving 
 Of human soul for that it kno'n s the best, 
 The electric response of a brother soul
 
 156 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 To all that yearns withiu us, thwarted, foiled, 
 
 But leaves this consolation — " Let them say ! 
 
 It matters little — who can read our hearts 1 
 
 We wear them not ' on our sleeve ' for all the world 
 
 To handle at its pleasure, and, ' like birds, 
 
 To peck at,' while they shrivel in the sun. 
 
 Let the world say whate'er it list, to us 
 
 The best sole joy remains — to hold our own ; 
 
 Imprison all ourselves within ourselves ; 
 
 Forget the spiritual and viewless part 
 
 Of a man, and, moving through the visible round 
 
 Of life, think only how that suit the world." 
 
 Ah ! make the most of this — poor con) fort there ! 
 
 Men talk of fame, that sweet ethereal thing. 
 And woo it long ; yet 'tis not much they gain — 
 Only the cannon's roar above a grave ; 
 Only the flower-wreaths withering on a stone ;
 
 A NOCTURNE. 157 
 
 Only a name, whose record 'neath the feet 
 
 Of men is worn away and perishes ! 
 
 What to poor Faust the pseans of the crowd, 
 
 The worshipping glances of bright eyes that rest 
 
 Upon him, and the love-impregnated tones 
 
 Of voices whispering, " We found ourselves, 
 
 Our best, our truest selves, within thy words ! 
 
 Thou hast drawn the thoiights that mouldered in the 
 
 night 
 Within our beings' depths, that far, far down 
 The black dread chasm murmured night and day. 
 And sometimes heaved in storm, and tossed the spume 
 Of maddened waves to the sight, and made us hear 
 Strange eerie cries that echoed from the abyss. 
 Yet ever far from us— so far we caught not 
 The meaning of those voices of unrest ; 
 But thou hast drawn them forth, and shown them 
 
 clothed
 
 158 A NOCTtJRNE. 
 
 In living shapes. At last we know ourselves 
 
 In thee, whom thus we claim Interpreter, 
 
 Prophet, Revealer of the gods to us, 
 
 And closest kin to every soul of man 1" : 
 
 What boots this to the old decrepid Faust, 
 
 Who looks with bleared dull eyes on all the beauty 
 
 That bends to him and wreathes soft arms about him, 
 
 And presses fresh, warm, rosy lips to his. 
 
 And gazes love from out bright dewy eyes, 
 
 While he, Tithonus-like, knows all the power 
 
 Of joy departed, and no potion near 
 
 To give to him the youth he spent for fame 1 
 
 Ah, just to think of this— that all must end : 
 The beauty and the gladness fading down, 
 And all the fairest and the brightest doomed 
 To misuse harsh and foul, or swiftest death ! 
 Brief summer and long winter crown our lives —
 
 A NOCTURNE. . 159 
 
 No second fruitage on the yearling bough ! 
 We sit at the great feast, and garlands deck 
 White brows that harbour eyery joyous thought, 
 Beneath them flashing eyes and lips o'erfraught 
 With merry words and songs of jollity — 
 And little think we, when the night is past 
 No bloom shall dwell, no lingering fragrance 
 
 haunt 
 Within those roses that were plucked to-day. 
 Yea — but 'tis said — all beauty is but one : 
 To-morrow's garlands fresh as are to-day's ; 
 To-morrow's sunrise glorious as to-day's : 
 Next summer's harvests rich as those to-day ; 
 And, after fifty years, the children's faces 
 Shall be as fresh and pure as those to-day ; 
 And girls shall blush in springtide beauty still !: 
 'Tis true — and yet — 
 A plague on your philosophy, say I !
 
 160 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 What seek we in this ceaseless, prizeless quest t 
 Ah ! there's the worst — we know not : be it one 
 Or other of our hopes that springs to leaf 
 And flower, . yet, in our hearts sad voices tell. 
 Though blooms the flower, we gain not what we 
 
 sought — 
 Rest. Ah, the deep insatiate cry within us 
 For rest, a little rest ! But if 'twere ours, 
 Percliance — -I speak in doubt who know it not — 
 We should desire the old unrest again. 
 So the long quest goes on ! Christ, reveal. 
 At last, to those who wander seeking Thee, 
 Some Sangreal vision, token sm-e to us 
 That knightly arms and pilgrim garb shall soon 
 Be cast aside within thy Paradise ! 
 
 True, that we know Thee not on whom we call ; 
 True, that thy Paradise is an alien sound
 
 A NOCTURNE. 161 
 
 To ears the hoarse sea-voices long have dulled 
 Unto the rare and distance-softened chimes 
 0' the bells within the heavenly city, floating 
 Adown the winds sometimes to mortal men : 
 Yet — in thy kingdom, Lord, remember us ! 
 
 Drifting, for ever drifting, impotent 
 
 To steer our course, that shapes itself as the breeze 
 
 May chance to fill some wretched rag of sail 
 
 Still left above us ; and we idly watch 
 
 Our changing course, and lie upon the deck, 
 
 And dream of palm-crowned isles and golden sands 
 
 In peaceful coves beyond white-crested reefs; 
 
 And the starless night creeps on ! 
 
 Truisms these ! Yet what are all our words 
 And choicest works but new-disguised thoughts, 
 Old as the hills, well trodden as the streets,
 
 162 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 With just a bit of varnish, or some trick 
 
 Of deepened shadows or hme-light effect 
 
 To mark the new creation 1 " Nothing new 
 
 Beneath the sun ! " More easily methinks 
 
 Might men attain the vision of the new 
 
 They seek for, by less seeking — in the old, 
 
 The dust on which they trample, finding means 
 
 Of wondrous transmutations, and the seeds 
 
 Of glorious flowers of beauty, like the hues 
 
 Fashioned by art from refuse of the mire, 
 
 In old familiar things. And poetry ! 
 
 The words that move men's hearts the most, and draw 
 
 From out the stony strata of their souls 
 
 The flame divine encased there, are not words 
 
 Discoursing of abstractions infinite, 
 
 But rather those that tell of daily toil. 
 
 Of life that struggles on in weariness 
 
 By want and death encircled, — pathos born
 
 A NOCTURNE. 163 
 
 Of children's voices, of the stifled cries 
 Of hearts that in the hours supreme have passed 
 Deep waters that can never quench their love ! 
 " My little child 1" one says, and gentle thoughts 
 Cleave his embruted soul ; " My only love !" 
 Another, and a holy presence fills 
 The heart so long estranged from hope and God. 
 Truisms these ! Ah, yes ! Give me the thoughts, 
 Plain and avowed, that meet us at each turn. 
 The old sad-visaged forms that haunt our steps, 
 And, like to birds black-plumaged hovering o'er 
 Our heads, with one long note of plaintive moan 
 Cry ever — Wherefore 1— and none answers them ! 
 Once how I hated these, and wished them gone, 
 And in the world's great revel sought to lose 
 The sound of their tormenting tones ! Not now ; — 
 I listen, and the grave sad music steeps 
 My soul in strange and tranquil waitfulness,
 
 164 A NOCTURNE. 
 
 As if beneath the plaintive tones I heard 
 
 Others of sweeter meaning, hidden now 
 
 By all the sadder music — yet sometimes 
 
 Heard faintly, telling of a day to come, 
 
 When, 'neath bright morning gleams, the dusky wings 
 
 Shall change to glittering pinions of bright hues, 
 
 And melodies of dawn shall fill the air. 
 
 And, for the darkness, light shall come — clear light — 
 
 Eevealing all the glorious mountain shapes 
 
 Ai'ound us, that once barred our eager steps. 
 
 And broad smooth paths, where once we strayed and fell ; 
 
 And, in the eyes of Death, beholding first 
 
 Interpretations of all mysteries 
 
 Of the life encircling us and life beyond, 
 
 We shall know all ! 
 
 My pipe is done, and the last firelight's spark 
 Died out. The musings of a fool are ended.
 
 AT THE LAST. 
 
 What was it you whispered just now, as you stood by 
 
 the side of my bed, 
 And raised the sheet from my face and laid your hand 
 
 on my head 1 
 Ah, my sister, I sometimes think I can wish for no 
 
 higher grace 
 In the life beyond, than love like the love that shines 
 
 in your face !
 
 166 AT THE LAST. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am dying, they say — do uot weep : I cannot tell you 
 
 how glad 
 I am that I leave this life I have found so dreary and 
 
 sad. 
 My fault ! In the strife of the world my strength was 
 
 of little worth. 
 Is there a place in heaven for those who have failed on 
 
 earth 1 
 
 ill. 
 What was it, my sister, you said, when you thought I 
 
 slept just nowl 
 " A life of lost hope and love 1 " And I felt your tear 
 
 on my brow ! 
 But it is not so : for, believe what I say with this last 
 
 weak breath, 
 I thank my God for this life, as I thank him too for 
 
 death.
 
 AT THE LAST. 167 
 
 IV. 
 
 Summer days! with their bright, rich splendours, 
 
 when I joyed in my manhood's might ; 
 Autumn sunsets and dawns 1 that taught me heaven's 
 
 jasper and chrysoUte — 
 You will see them when I am gone, how the masses 
 
 of clouds are drawn 
 Apart like the gates of a palace, and, unfolding, reveal 
 
 heaven's dawn ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The world was before me to conquer, and my spirit 
 
 was young and bold : 
 I thought its beauty was beautiful, its gilt was the 
 
 purest gold — 
 To this I have come ! Ah me ! with the last poor shred 
 
 of my strength 
 I pray that the day may end, and above me night close 
 
 at length.
 
 1^8 AT THE LAST. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All were dreams ! But my life has been passed among 
 
 shadows and dreams the most — 
 Which are real, your worldly facts, or the circling 
 
 shadowy host 
 Of visitants, constant and tender, that cling to me still 
 
 and restore 
 Life's happiest scenes, and tell of the life I am waiting 
 
 for? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Shall I tell you the one that haunts me the most and 
 
 I love the best 1 
 'Tis of the time long ago, when I stayed at the Hall as 
 
 a guest, 
 When I saw and heard her each day, so gentle, so pure, 
 
 so fair. 
 Till I made of my heart a shrine, love-lighted, and 
 
 worshipped there.
 
 AT THE LAST, 169 
 
 VIII. 
 
 We were, driving home in the carriage ; the night was 
 
 stormy and dark, 
 And I watched the gaunt tossing branches of the elm 
 
 trees in the park. 
 Bitter thoughts were in my soul : " He has nothing a 
 
 year, you know, 
 So we never mind him," her father had been saying 
 
 two days ago. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She was leaning back in the shadow ; I could only 
 
 dimly see 
 My pale beautiful angel's face, as I gazed so eagerly 
 For the last, last time, till the lights shed their radiance 
 
 on her face, 
 Lovely and pure as Madonna's — and no years can that 
 
 glimpse efface.
 
 170 AT THE LAST, 
 
 X. 
 
 my lost one ! I dare not think I shall never see 
 
 thee again, 
 See thee, God's angel of mercy, stooping down to my 
 
 baseness as then ! 
 those eyes, that gleamed in my soul and woke all 
 
 its truer life ! 
 that voice, that has calmed my spirit through long 
 
 hours of the worldly strife I 
 
 XI. 
 
 And the light of another day revisits me in my 
 dreams — 
 
 Of an afternoon in spring-time, when the sunlight's 
 slanting beams, 
 
 Borne on the crystalline air, unflecked by cloud- 
 shadows, fell 
 
 On the hills, and the trees, and the home of her whom 
 I loved so well.
 
 AT THE LAST. 171 
 
 XII. 
 
 Oh, the sweet, fresh spring-time again — after many 
 
 years were gone, 
 In the far-off eastern land, of the fight and the watch 
 
 alone 
 On our empire's frontier line 'gainst the rebel hordes — 
 
 to see 
 Again the fair land that held all of life that was dear 
 
 to me ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 1 had wandered slowly on, through the silent woodland 
 
 ways. 
 With an eager glance at each turn for the form that 
 
 might meet my gaze : 
 She came not, but in the path was a withered crone, 
 
 who said — 
 " No one has lived at the Hall, ever since the young 
 
 mistress was dead."
 
 172 AT THE LAST, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Do you wonder that, dying, still I can care to think 
 
 of this, 
 Forgetting the deeds of my life — some done well and 
 
 some amiss 1 
 I should think of Christ, you say? Sweet, sometimes 
 
 I think I know 
 More of his love from my long fruitless quest after 
 
 love below !
 
 THE INSUEGENT 
 I. 
 
 I. 
 
 The world ! I hate it ; it drives me mad ! 
 
 It weighs on my heart like a stone ; 
 And my heart is so weary, so weary-sad, 
 
 Ever bearing its burden alone. 
 
 n. 
 
 I dare not speak of my love — 
 
 Poor love ! crouching within my breast 
 " Beneath should not look on above ; " 
 
 And the world, I suppose, knows best.
 
 174 THE INSURGENT. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet — gold coin for the golden tresses, 
 Rich jewels for sparkling eyes, 
 
 Lofty mansions for tender caresses, 
 A name for love's sacrifice I 
 
 IV. 
 
 So it reigns in the heart corroded 
 Of the world, this gospel of gold. 
 
 Wealth of hearts— long ago 'tis exploded. 
 {Never whisper that beauty is sold !) 
 
 V. 
 
 Away with your basest teaching 1 
 Men may bow to it or no, — 
 
 I will none of your greybeards' preaching 
 This evangel of comme il faut 1
 
 THE INSURGENT. 175 
 
 II. 
 I. 
 
 Sweet, in my heart is ringing, through the day and 
 
 through the night, 
 Eising ever and pulsing stronger with the throbs of its 
 
 delight, 
 But one song, that weaves its music round a name I 
 
 whisper low, 
 
 A melody tender and glad, as alone through the days 
 
 I go. 
 
 II. 
 
 But I cannot speak the words of this silence-dinrtured 
 
 song, 
 For the world is ready to drown it — quick, with its 
 
 clangorous gong. 
 '' What, a man of the people aspire, and e'en dare to 
 
 beseech thy hand ! 
 Away with the wretch — stay — but treat him with pity 
 
 and silence bland ! "
 
 176 THE INSURGENT. 
 
 III. 
 
 So I keep my song to myself, aud I heed not the voice 
 of the world : 
 
 I stand and I wait alone, sword in sheath and banner 
 furled. 
 
 But the time shall come when no songs, but the battle- 
 cry, shall begin — 
 
 Down, down with your sordid customs, death to your 
 gold-greed's sin ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But not now the conflict ! Alas, I am tired and weak 
 
 and faint, 
 And I long for an hour of repose 'neath the shrine of 
 
 my own dear saint — 
 I lift my eyes to her eyes, those gentle and soft brown 
 
 eyes, 
 And I speak to my love in my dream, bold 'neath the 
 
 night's disguise.
 
 AT BILLIARDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 My ball had dropped in the pocket, 
 The red and white were in baulk : 
 
 I missed the next stroke ; so I left him 
 To win the game in a walk. 
 
 I 
 
 II. 
 " Conld you find no better stroke 
 
 Than that, after so long choosing 1" 
 Half vexed, I replied, " Tom, you know 
 
 My hazards are always losing." 
 
 M
 
 178 AT BILLIARDS. 
 
 III. 
 
 The game is done, but I think 
 Of the words I then spoke in jest. 
 
 Ah ! the strokes of my life have been made 
 Of losing hazards at best ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 In saying all this, I suppose 
 
 I'm my fortune and skill accusing ; 
 
 Confessed ! In my life's great game, 
 The hazai'ds were always losing. 
 
 I played for fame and a station^ 
 
 Of honour above the line 
 Of the meaner spirits who stoop and cringe- 
 
 'Twas a losing hazard of mine.
 
 AT BILLIARDS. 179 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then I played for a woman's love, 
 
 And beneath the light divine 
 Of her soft sweet eyes I rested awhile — 
 
 'Twas a losing hazard of mine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then I played for friendship and trust, 
 
 Of kindred spirits the sign, 
 Love denied — to me brother's troth remains — 
 
 'Twas a losing hazard of mine. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then I played for the cause of the people ; 
 
 In my heart, like a strange new wine, 
 The hope of aiding the right welled up, — 
 
 'Twas a losing hazard of mine.
 
 180 AT BILLIARDS, 
 
 IX, 
 
 Put the cues away ! For the game is done. 
 
 I have lost. 'Tis no use to whine. 
 I can play no more ; my last chance was gone 
 
 With those losing hazards of mine.
 
 MISSED HIS VOCATION. 
 I. 
 
 " He has missed his vocation," they say, 
 " Gone to the device," that is all : 
 
 " Pass him by, for you know 'tis the way 
 Of the world that some go to the wall ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 But I think of the soul that is lost. 
 
 That has struggled, and fallen — betrayed; 
 
 And I dare not think at whose cost 
 Shall the retribution be paid.
 
 182 MISSED HIS VOCATION. 
 
 Illi 
 
 " Left the path, and never regained it, 
 Lived, steeped to the lips in evil. 
 
 Did the devil's work, though he disdained it, 
 Then passed beyond reach of retrieval ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 I read the same tale every day, 
 In worn faces and weary eyes : 
 
 The defiance, " Let's live and be gay. 
 Stifling thoughts of our miseries ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 I have passed down the streets at midnight. 
 And watched, 'mid the crowd and din, 
 
 Fair forms, flitting past in the gas-light, 
 So fair, yet so smirched with sin.
 
 MISSED HIS VOCATION. 183 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah, so fair ! with God's impress upon them, 
 
 Faint tracings on form and face 
 Of His gifts, though they long have foregone them, 
 
 His gifts of beauty and grace. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I see them no more in the night, 
 
 But I stand alone, and I think, 
 my God ! is it nought in Thy sight 
 
 That the bravest and fairest sink, 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Overwhelmed in the cruel strife. 
 
 Every faith and hope crushed down — 
 
 Hearts that might beat with the noblest life. 
 Brows that might wear a crown ?
 
 ARISE AND SHINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Arise and shine, for yonr light is come! 
 
 See ye not the eastern glow? 
 And the stars are fading fast away. 
 
 And pale do your torchlights grow. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye have sat at your revels lono^ 
 
 And loud through the midnight hours 
 
 Have echoed your songs. Put away 
 Your wine-cups, your lutes, your flowers !
 
 ABISE AND SHINE. 185 
 
 III. 
 
 And ye ! With its deathly pall 
 
 Round your palace night has crept, 
 
 The reveillee has sounded clear — 
 Ye have only the deeper slept ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Arise and shine, for your light is come ! 
 
 And the purple tints of mom 
 On the clouds and the mountain peaks around 
 
 Tell a new day is born ; 
 
 V. 
 A new day is born, and the night is gone — 
 
 A bright and a cloudless day, 
 And the light that shall bathe your brows shall 
 cleanse 
 All your mortal stains away.
 
 186 ARISE AND SHINE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Arise and shine, for your light is come ! 
 
 It gleams on your helm and sword ; 
 And craven the man who shall fail to stand 
 
 In the army of the Lord I
 
 SANS FOL 
 
 I. 
 
 I STOOD alone, and heard the sound of voices singing 
 
 low — 
 A song I oft had heard before — of beauty's dazzling 
 
 glow, 
 Of honour's laurel wreath, of joys that through the 
 
 spirit stole, 
 And rapt to life Elysian the wearied, longing soul.
 
 188 8AN8 FOf. 
 
 IL 
 
 Ah, once I loved those tones, and once I wandered 
 
 onward dreaming 
 Of realms of beauty that I saw in the far distance 
 
 gleaming ; 
 The morning light was in my eyes, and all my spirit 
 
 panted 
 To gain the place where now I stand with eyes long 
 
 disenchanted. 
 
 III. 
 And yet I thought I saw so clear amid the glistening 
 
 tide 
 Those islands of the blest, and bright pure shapes that 
 
 there abide j 
 The sunlight dazed my eyes, perchance : I know not, 
 
 'tis all past, 
 Th' illusion with the sunlight — all is dark and cold at 
 
 last !
 
 SANS FOI. 189 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Didst deem thyself a hero 1 Ah ! not thine to 
 trample down 
 
 The ranks of weaker men, and gain the lonely victor's 
 crown ; 
 
 To climb the heights where darkly loom the temple- 
 gates of fame ; 
 
 To stand among the mighty ones — with theirs inscribe 
 thy name. 
 
 V. 
 
 " No hero and no poet thou — no doer of great deeds, 
 Nor one with charmed words to teach men truth and 
 
 honour's creeds, 
 Found out, discovered to thyself, a thing of little 
 
 worth, 
 A child who fain would grasp the stars, and totters on 
 
 the earth." 
 
 flr *P ^ *(• *r
 
 190 " SANS FOI. 
 
 v-i. 
 
 And the child wanders on, and wails with sharp and 
 
 bitter cry, 
 Oft falling on the mountain steep, still yearning for 
 
 the sky, — 
 Will heaven bend reveahng all the secrets of its stars 1 
 Ah, nature binds thee faster, fool, than dungeon's iron 
 
 bars !
 
 ON THE SAND, 
 
 1. 
 
 'Tis a wild and a gusty night f 
 How the river is rtoshing past, 
 
 And the storm is louder each hour f 
 But the windows and doors are fast, 
 
 I liked not the look of the sky 
 As the sun was setting to-nio-ht — 
 
 How it fired the piled masses of clouds 
 With its blood-red glare of light I
 
 192 ON THE SAND. 
 
 III. 
 
 Once I could not have slept so well 
 Through a night of storm like this : 
 
 But now — blow your worst, ye winds, 
 My night's slumbers I shall not miss ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 I looked at the river to-day, 
 
 And watched how it rose each hour, 
 Spreading out with a broader flood. 
 
 Sweeping on with a swifter power. 
 
 V. 
 
 But the bridge has stood for years, 
 And the walls are thick and strong, 
 
 And this house is my own, and I mean 
 To live here a life glad and long !
 
 ON THB SAND. 193 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ha, Ha ! I dreamed one night 
 
 That I saw the waves' stealthy creep 
 
 'Neath the "walls — on the water the moon's 
 Broken glimmer — 'twas all in my sleep; 
 
 VII. 
 
 I heard the soft lapping sound 
 
 Of the water that rose amaiu 
 In the cellars, and crept up the stairs — 
 
 'Twas the drops on the window-pane ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 On a sudden around me poured 
 The hissing and leaping stream, 
 
 The walls heaved with a mighty shudder, — 
 I dare not laugh at that dream.
 
 194 ON THE SAND, 
 
 IX. 
 
 I'll to sleep, and when morning comes 
 I will look how the buttress has stood ; 
 
 It might — if it failed — might bring down 
 All my house of carved stone and wood ! 
 
 What a long-drawn thunder crash ! 
 
 And how dark the house has grown — . 
 Now — so still, save the splash of the rain, 
 
 And the wind's shrill eerie moan ! 
 
 Hist ! that gurgling murmur again, — 
 
 Is it only the rain outside 1 
 Do I dreami Is it only the break 
 
 'Gainst the pier of the river's tide ?
 
 ON THE SAND. 195 
 
 XII. 
 
 O Terror ! the floods are loosed, 
 
 And their surge is breaking through 
 
 My strong walls — I am caught in their whirl : 
 God ! that the dream should be true !
 
 UNSTERN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Life with Unstern, that good fellow, 
 
 Very strangely was ordained : 
 Much had almost prospered with him, 
 
 Many a prize he nearly gained. 
 Stars of joy would all have welcomed 
 
 Him in chorus, beaming bright, 
 If his mother had but brought him 
 
 One hour sooner to the light.
 
 UNSTERN. 197 
 
 Warrior's fame and hero's honour 
 
 Early would have bloomed for him, 
 None in all the host was like him — 
 
 Brave in soul and stout in limb ! 
 But when, like wild billows storming, 
 
 'Gainst the fort he led his band, 
 Came a herald thither flying 
 
 With the white flag in his hand. 
 III. 
 Marriage rites are near ! A maiden, 
 
 Sweet and noble, on him smiled ; 
 See — a richer suitor coming 
 
 From his word her sire beguiled. 
 When the stolen bride, a widow. 
 
 Would at last have Unstern wed, 
 Suddenly returned the bridegroom. 
 
 Who, men thought, was long time dead.
 
 198 UKSTERN. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Rich had Unstern been with treasures 
 
 He had gathered from afar, 
 But when nigh the port a tempest 
 
 Wi'ecked his ship \ipou the bar : 
 Thence escaped, and swimming boldly, 
 
 Clinging to a floating plank, 
 He had touched the strand, when sHpping 
 
 Back into the depths, he sank. 
 
 V. 
 
 Surely then he would have gained 
 Soon in heaven a resting-place. 
 
 But a stupid devil met him 
 
 On the way, and gave him chase. 
 
 Thinks the devil, this the spirit 
 He must carry to the deep — 
 
 Clutches by the throat our Unstern, 
 .•-" -Darting oflf with. downward sweep.
 
 UN STERN. 199 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then arises a bright angel, 
 
 Rescuer from that murky air, 
 Thunders swift that wretched black thing 
 
 Down into hell's deepest lair, — 
 Floats through golden heaven-vistas 
 
 With poor Unstem on his breast, 
 
 And o'er good and bad stars safely 
 
 Bears him to eternal rest. 
 
 (From. Uhland.) 
 
 THE END.
 
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