rilRSES OF 
 
 VARIED LIFE 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
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 VERSES OF VARIED LIFE.
 
 VERSES OF VARIED LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 H. T. MACKENZIE BELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'the KEEl'ING OF THE VOW." 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK. 62 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 1882.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I'AGB 
 
 THE RIVER OF THOUGHT 3 
 
 A RALLYING SONG 6 
 
 WHISPERING WINDS . 8 
 
 HELPFULNESS lO 
 
 THE SOURCE OF SONG II 
 
 A STORM SONG I3 
 
 A SONG FOR POLAND IN 1 878 1 6 
 
 WHAT ALL MAY DO ....... iS 
 
 WAITING FOR THE DENTIST ...... I9 
 
 REWARD OF PARLIAMENTARY DOCILITY .... 22 
 
 SONNETS ON THE POWER OF THOUGHT .... 23 
 
 SONNET IN MEMORY 2^ 
 
 DECEMBER DAISIES AND DECEMBER DAYS ... 29 
 
 VIOLET 30 
 
 HEART ECHOES 36 
 
 THE poet's POWERLESSNESS 39 
 
 764S11
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 THE poet's thoughts 4O 
 
 THE OMNIPRESENCE OF POETRY 42 
 
 FRAGMENT FOR MUSIC 44 
 
 AN EVENING LANDSCAPE 47 
 
 THE GUERDON OF TRIBULATION NOT INCURRED BY GUILT 48 
 
 BY AND BYE 50 
 
 THE TRUE TREASURE 51 
 
 A mother's SOLILOQUY ON HER NEWLY DEPARTED CHILD 53 
 
 A MATIN MELODY 55 
 
 LORD, TEACH US HOW TO PRAY 57 
 
 ASPIRATIONS 59 
 
 EDGAR VANNING,— A SKETCH . 
 
 61 
 
 VERSES OF TRAVEL. 
 
 A BISCAYAN SUNSET 
 
 AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC, FRANCE , 
 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF THE PYRENEES . 
 
 ON SEEING SOME PYRENEAN WILD ROSES 
 
 THE SOUTHERN NIGHT 
 
 A DIRGE OF DECAY 
 
 LINES, — ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF BAREGES 
 
 91 
 
 93 
 94 
 96 
 
 98 
 100 
 102
 
 Contents. 
 
 Vll 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 FROM LA RAILLiRE TO PONT d'eSPAGNE 
 
 ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF CAUTERETS BY NIGHT 
 
 AT ORTHEZ 
 
 THE CITY OF THE CID .... 
 
 THE ESCORIAL 
 
 TOLEDO IN 1879 
 
 LINES ON PASSING THROUGH BADAJOZ . 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE TAGUS . 
 
 CINTRA IN 1879 
 
 VERSES ON A VASE FILLED WITH BEAUTIFUL 
 
 A LESTfi SUNRISE IN MADEIRA 
 
 MADEIRA — MOONLIGHT .... 
 
 AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE . 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING OFF MAZAGAN, MOROCCO 
 
 GIBRALTAR, 1880 
 
 GRANADA 
 
 PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE 
 
 A SPOT IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A SMALL GREY STONE ON 
 
 THE SUMMIT OF THE SIMPLON 
 THE CERTOSA OF PAVIA 
 
 104 
 107 
 109 
 IIO 
 "3 
 
 n6 
 119 
 121 
 122 
 124 
 127 
 129 
 131 
 133 
 135 
 138 
 140 
 142 
 
 143 
 
 146
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 \
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE RIVER OF THOUGHT. 
 
 The strong River of Thought has an aye- 
 changeful course, 
 
 Yet for ever it springs from the same changeless 
 source 
 
 Where God-given Truth in its grandeur doth 
 reign, 
 
 The regal physician of Man's mental pain. 
 
 Sometimes in high joyance it glideth along 
 With glamour of music and gladness of song : — 
 While borne on its bosom gay pleasure-boats sail, 
 Rejoicing a while in the light laughing gale.
 
 4 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Sometimes like the stream which has sunk under 
 ground, 
 
 Yet still keeps its course mid the darkness pro- 
 found, 
 
 Unknown and alone it must hold on its way, 
 
 Till emerging at length in the full light of day. 
 
 Sometimes like the mountain's fierce torrent it 
 
 flows, 
 And all that can hinder its progress o'erthrows ; — 
 Possessing the power of immutable right, 
 And strong in the strength of invincible might. 
 
 Crass Ignorance surely succumbs to its sway. 
 As boldly it takes its all-conquering way, — 
 While keen-sighted Knowledge appears in its train, 
 The sweetener of pleasure, the soother of pain. 
 
 Unceasingly hated by many, yet some 
 Unceasingly love it, though oft they are dumb. 
 Yet whatever betides, and wherever it flows, 
 'Tis the noble who love it, the weak who oppose
 
 The River of Thought. 5 
 
 Great River of Thought ! our strange world doth 
 
 not know 
 The evil you check, and the good you bestow : — 
 May Time teach the lesson, 'twill then comprehend 
 How well and how often you prove its true friend.
 
 A RALLYING SONG. 
 
 Doubting, trusting, hoping, fearing, 
 
 Are we in this world of wrong — 
 Yet whilst o'er Life's ocean steering. 
 Let this be our rallying song — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 And in gladness, 
 Nobly act, in God's strength strong. 
 
 When oppressed by deep soul-sorrow, 
 
 Joy departing like a dream, 
 Let us still some brightness borrow 
 From this heart-sustaining theme — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 As in gladness, 
 Nobly act, what e'er may seem.
 
 A Rallying Song. 
 
 When to stain our honour tempted 
 
 Some ignoble end to buy, 
 From such cowardice exempted 
 Let us resolutely cry — 
 Evil sow not, 
 That it grow not, 
 Nobly act, for God is nigh. 
 
 For, befall what may, with Conscience 
 
 Satisfied shall we be blest ; 
 So mid all Life's strange mutations 
 Still this motto must be best — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 And in gladness. 
 Nobly act, and tncst the rest.
 
 WHISPERING WINDS. 
 
 Whispering winds strange musings carry- 
 To our hearts as they sweep by : — 
 
 Thoughts that often thrilling tarry 
 Though the winds may wailing die. 
 
 To the sailor, watchful pacing 
 On the deck of ship at sea, 
 
 Bring they dreams of danger facing, 
 Mid the tempest's mockery. 
 
 To the exile, hoping, fearing, 
 Wandering on an alien strand, 
 
 Bring they memories endearing 
 Of his much-loved Father-land.
 
 Whispering Winds. 
 
 To the weary heavy-hearted 
 
 Often bring they thoughts of peace, 
 Of the peace where, pain departed, 
 
 Woe and weariness shall cease. 
 
 Sometimes bring they only sorrow 
 To the stricken in their train, 
 
 Imaging a dread to-morrow 
 
 Which will but augment their pain. 
 
 Bring they unto some new pleasure 
 And each trace of care destroy, 
 
 While to others yield a measure 
 Of distress that mars their joy. 
 
 Yet these forms of varied feeling 
 In this feature all agree, 
 
 That o'er every soul is stealing 
 Thought of an Eternity.
 
 HELPFULNESS. 
 
 Behold a fine tree growing in a field, 
 Apart from any other, and alone, 
 With nothing to preserve it or to shield 
 It from the wind, yet it is ever known 
 To thrive as well as trees whose lot is thrown 
 In sheltered woods, saved from the wintry blast. 
 And first from it in spring is heard the tone 
 Of singing birds ; for, while its branches last, 
 It is a blessing where its lonely lot is cast. 
 
 How well if often thus with man it were, 
 For surely cheering others on their way 
 Would wondrously relieve our ceaseless care, 
 And dissipate the gloom of Life's drear day, 
 By teaching us that Love will truly pay 
 An hundredfold again what we bestow 
 Upon our brother toilers ; none can say 
 The blessings that we reap when thus we show 
 O r sympathy for men by sharing in their woe.
 
 THE SOURCE OF SONG. 
 
 What maketh the true poet sing ? 
 
 Is it sense of deep injuries thrown 
 On the weak by the strong, which sting 
 
 His heart, till to song he is prone ? 
 
 Is it sight of some beautiful lake 
 
 All aflame with the dying sun's rays, — 
 
 O'er whose breast the acacias shake 
 Soft tresses of feathery sprays ? 
 
 Is it thought of some beautiful form 
 That fays well might deign to assume ; 
 
 Displaying with ardour full warm, 
 How noble is youth's early bloom ? 
 
 Is it thought of his dear mother-land, — 
 The deep longing that she be supreme : 
 
 Aspiration as loyal as grand, 
 
 Which to sons should be more than a dream ?
 
 12 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Is it pleasure in physical health — 
 The supreme unacquirable dower, 
 
 Far greater in blessing than wealth, 
 And almost as mighty in power ? 
 
 Is it simple desire to excel ? 
 
 Or ambition that 's highest and best, 
 Which longs among mankind to dwell, 
 
 To show by true life what is blest ? 
 
 With such things the poet must strive, 
 And sometimes they impel him to sing, 
 
 Till in fortunate hour they may drive 
 Him for aid to re-touch his lute's string. 
 
 But the primary cause which impels, — 
 More resistless than aught of these things,- 
 
 Is this : that within him there dwells 
 A soul which but lives when he sings.
 
 A STORM SONG. 
 
 The surges in anger are beating 
 
 On the rocks and the shingle-strewn shore, 
 And though with a hiss aye retreating, 
 
 They come in fierce fury once more. 
 
 Most sternly the billows are breaking 
 In wreaths white with purest of spray, — 
 
 Still further their great wrath awaking, 
 As forward they dash on their way. 
 
 The wild wailing wind that is blowing, 
 The dreariness far out to sea, 
 
 The feelings that come without knowing 
 In truth what their nature may be.
 
 14 Miscellaneoits Pieces. 
 
 All these, and much more now oppress me 
 As musing I gaze on the strand : — 
 
 Yet though in some sense it distress me, 
 How noble a storm is, — how grand ! 
 
 The ships in the bay are so swaying. 
 Their cables can scarce bear the strain :- 
 
 Their beams with the water are playing 
 While sailing is utterly vain 
 
 As the gale is against them completely ; 
 
 The rain how it ceaselessly falls. 
 Clouds scud o'er the sky, ah how fleetly! 
 
 And harsh are the sea-birds' shrill calls. 
 
 The storm is now spent and departed 
 And yet its effects still remain, — 
 
 Two mothers are made broken-hearted, 
 Their boys will not greet them again.
 
 A Storm Song. 15 
 
 How wondrous it is that Creation 
 
 Is aye in perpetual strife, 
 And shows not, for man's emulation, 
 
 How calmness should regulate life ! 
 
 Can it be that when Man in his madness 
 To Evil at first became thrall, 
 
 All Nature was forced with sore sadness 
 To join his unspeakable fall ?
 
 A SONG FOR POLAND IN 1878. 
 
 Ah, how cruel the thraldom and bitter the bonds 
 
 Of our wretched and down-trodden nation ! 
 Not a throb of our hearts but in anguish responds 
 
 To the sight of such dire desolation : 
 And in scarce-spoken words we are heard to 
 declare 
 
 Woe hath made us wellnigh broken-hearted, 
 Dark and dreary the prospect ; dear Poland, 
 despair. 
 
 Since thy liberty now hath departed. 
 
 Other peoples get freedom, while we in the dust 
 
 Alone and forsaken are lying ; 
 Ever lower and lower continually thrust, 
 
 Men's love of their country fast dying. 
 While the Government check with malicious 
 intent 
 
 Any change for our good which is started. 
 Dark and dreary the prospect ; let Poland lament, 
 
 Since her liberty's light hath departed !
 
 A Song for Poland in 1878. 17 
 
 No ! Revenge on the tyrants who work us such 
 ill 
 
 Mid their bland hypocritical prating •} — 
 And arouse ye, undaunted, remembering that still 
 
 Retribution is certainly waiting. 
 Let our nation awake which now slumberine lies ! 
 
 Not a moment be longer down-hearted ! 
 For rejoicing may come if proud Poland arise, 
 
 And her freedom return which departed. 
 
 ^ The writer had in his mind when writing these lines the 
 many protestations of the Russians in favour of Freedom on 
 commencing the war with Turke)-. 
 
 B
 
 WHAT ALL MAY DO. 
 
 Our past life must perish, 
 
 Our future arise, 
 And oft what we cherish 
 Most speedily dies : — 
 There are griefs for whose changing 
 
 We helplessly long, 
 Though we feel our arranging 
 
 Is hopelessly wrong : — 
 But if we live rightly, 
 
 We have in our power 
 To gather up brightly, 
 
 From each fading hour, 
 A thought-woven treasure 
 
 Of justly-earned joy. 
 
 Whose bountiful measure 
 
 No grief can destroy.
 
 WAITING FOR THE DENTIST. ^ 
 
 Though many dismal years I've been 
 To dull old Care apprenticed, 
 
 The worst of the small woes I've seen 
 Is — waiting for the dentist ! 
 
 How dreary is the cheerless room 
 In which you bide his pleasure, 
 
 The very chairs seemed steeped in gloom, 
 And sorrow without measure. 
 
 As if so wild mute-molar grief, I 
 So uncontrolled its swelling, — 
 
 That its fierce tide had sought relief 
 By deluging the dwelling. 
 
 * As lines have recently been added, this piece is here re- 
 printed.
 
 20 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 What though of literature a store 
 
 Is lying on the table, 
 You only think the books a bore ; 
 
 To read you are unable. 
 
 What from the window, though, perchance, 
 
 You see forms full of graces. 
 They merely make you look askance, 
 
 And think how sore your face is. 
 
 On many chairs and sofas, too, 
 More martyrs round you languish. 
 
 You glance at them, they glance at you, 
 And give a groan of anguish. 
 
 You deem it hard, their turn arrives 
 
 Before you in rotation. 
 Or they wax wroth that your's deprives 
 
 Their case of consolation. 
 
 You muse upon the ruthless wrench 
 Which buys a tooth's departing —
 
 Waiting for the Dentist. 2 1 
 
 Or how the stopping-pangs to quench, 
 In which you may be starting ; 
 
 Or haply on these ivory chips 
 Harsh Nature may deny you, — 
 
 But which the * golden key' equips 
 Man's genius to supply you. 
 
 No words your mood of mind express, 
 'Tis a state devoid of quiet, — 
 
 In which pain, pleasure, and distress 
 Mingle in hopeless riot. 
 
 Yes, though much sorrow one must know. 
 While to old Care apprenticed, 
 
 The greatest unheroic woe 
 Is — waiting for the dentist.
 
 REWARD OF PARLIAMENTARY 
 DOCILITY. 
 
 A Brother to a Sister. 
 
 My dear 
 
 As words though sincere, 
 Are at best but * small beer,' 
 My party (in office) have made me a peer : 
 A step which the press I do hope won't deem queer, 
 Nor question its justice, nor slightingly sneer, 
 (What I've done to deserve it is not very clear, 
 Save doing as bid, when divisions were near — 
 Thus causing our Whip's drooping spirits to cheer,) 
 But be that as it may, I subscribe myself here 
 John Anthony Snobbins, 
 
 {jiow) Lord Abinmere.
 
 SONNETS ON THE POWER OF 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 In Converse. 
 
 Who can predict what power for distant days 
 Toward good or ill lies centred in a Thought 
 Which flashing through the mind unmeant, 
 
 unsought, 
 Is uttered suddenly in careless phrase ? 
 Ill that no future good can stingless make 
 In the effects wrought by its blighting force ; — 
 Great good that floweth from the all-good Source, 
 The Fount from which all purity we take. 
 Sometimes thought's mighty aims in secret lurk 
 And labour silently, their aim concealed, 
 Until the crisis comes ; sometimes revealed 
 They zealously pursue their varied work. 
 Reflecting wisely thus may we be taught 
 Not rashly to express each flippant thought.
 
 In Writing. 
 
 If so it be with speech, how much the more 
 With written language ! Speech perforce decays, 
 'Neath Time's destroying touch. Ere many days 
 Gone is mayhap the fruit which wise words bore : 
 That written doth remain, — its import not 
 Dependent on frail Memory's brittle thread 
 To keep it safe, or number with the dead 
 At her capricious will. None can say what 
 Momentous destiny may be assigned 
 To some brief trivial letter. Authors too 
 Who lightly pen, to please the public view. 
 Works strenuous and yet stained with vice, will 
 
 find 
 A day of certain retribution come 
 When all their loud excuses will be dumb.
 
 In Art. 
 
 The power of Thought in art ! Who has not 
 
 found 
 And marked its subtle influence ? We see 
 Its magic in a picture wondrously, 
 Whose canvas by its presence made renowned 
 Bears witness to the fact. When we behold 
 A stately building, and perceive the skill 
 Which shapes each column at the sculptor's will 
 Till it attains at length th' exquisite mould 
 That he has long desired. When we are thrilled 
 By some soft cadence rippling on the ear 
 Of sweetest music, — as though far and near 
 With a celestial choir the air were filled : — 
 Then, and then always, may we truly find 
 What power of thought lies in the human mind !
 
 In Proverbs, &c. 
 
 The power of Thought in Proverbs ! — oftentimes 
 We find its glittering essence centred there, 
 All crystallized, as if indeed it were 
 A bright and flawless diamond. — Silly Rhymes 
 Which oft we hear repeated are not dross 
 Entirely, — here and there rare pearls of thought 
 Appear upon their surface, genius-wrought ; 
 Had they not been, we must have borne a loss. 
 O mighty power of Thought, it may not be 
 Within the sphere of any man to find 
 Thought undiscovered by a brother-mind, 
 Though deep and boundless is thy shoreless sea : — 
 And yet thy potent pathway is the groove 
 In which, by thee propelled, the change-girt world 
 doth move.
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 The gallant men who fell fighting at Isandhhvana, 
 
 South Africa, in a surprise by the Zulus, 
 
 2}id January 1879. 
 
 Steadfast they stood, — nor feared to face the 
 
 foe 
 Though twenty-fold outnumbered, — calm, alone 
 They bore the brunt of battle on them thrown, 
 And bravely strove against the ignoble blow : 
 Yet doubtless mid the din of deadly strife 
 Came softened thoughts of home and loved ones 
 
 dear : 
 And many a prayer was prayed in faith sincere 
 That they might meet anew in deathless life. 
 We mourn their loss (a wound Time scarce can 
 
 heal)—
 
 28 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yet we are proud such courage doth remain 
 
 Among us. May we soon efface the stain 
 
 From England's flag, — while more and more we 
 
 feel 
 A sense of joy, which in our hearts will stay, 
 That Britain still can boast these ' heroes of to-day.' 
 
 Feb. 22d, 1879.
 
 DECEMBER DAISIES AND DECEMBER 
 
 DAYS. 
 
 December 3</, 1881. 
 
 Ah, how the sight of fair untimely flowers 
 Awakes a subtle sentiment, and fills 
 The soul with quiet pleasure. Something thrills 
 Our being to the core and softly showers 
 Strange yearning thought upon us. When the 
 
 close 
 Of a December day is stirless, mild 
 As is this twilight hour, we are beguiled 
 By its seductive softness : and there grows 
 (As one by one from out the placid sky 
 The tranquil stars appear), the half-formed doubt 
 Whether the scene be real. For without 
 A question kindly Auster cannot try 
 To bring a greater boon. Joys that arise 
 All unexpected we most keenly prize.
 
 VIOLET. 
 
 ' A TALE of sorrow ' ? Ay, I know, 
 One fraught with sharp and sudden woe, 
 A story of undoubted truth, 
 Beclouding all my sunny youth ; 
 And though with arbitrary sway 
 Stern Time has turned my locks to grey, 
 Though furrowed wrinkles on my brow 
 Proclaim that I am aged now. 
 Though signs of trouble you may trace 
 In the expression of my face, — 
 Though trembling is my bloodless hand, 
 And scarcely under due command, 
 Though devious is my tottering tread, 
 Though bent with weight of years my head ; 
 Though my whole look, my gait, my air, 
 Show sad though common signs of care, 
 Yet fadeless, unforgotten, clear, 
 To mental sight its scenes appear.
 
 Violet. 3 1 
 
 Of sisters I had only one 
 
 As playmate, — brothers I had none. 
 
 A lovely rose-lipped child was she, 
 
 Dear as my very life to me ; 
 
 Now, almost mournful in their birth, 
 
 Rise thoughts of these dead days of mirth ; 
 
 I see her framing daisy-chains 
 
 While I assist, and for my pains 
 
 Receiving, as repayment meet. 
 
 The chaplet from her when complete. 
 
 And as o'er both the restless years 
 
 Resistless rolled their hopes and fears, 
 
 They only bound us by a bond 
 
 More durable and just as fond. 
 
 O happy he who thus hath known 
 
 Such union ere his lot was thrown 
 
 Amid the changes and the strife 
 
 And heart-wounds of the world's strange life ! 
 
 Even dreams of such communion to the bruised 
 
 and wearied soul. 
 Are ever found the truest balm to make it 
 
 strong and whole.
 
 32 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yes : years rolled on, with little change 
 
 For us in Duty's daily range. 
 
 My sister — Violet her name, — 
 
 In beauty grown, remained the same 
 
 In character. Her guileless grace, 
 
 Almost a proverb in the place, 
 
 To those she loved exceeding fond, 
 
 And gentle unto all beyond. 
 
 Ever for right most firm and strong, 
 
 Aye valiantly rebuking wrong, 
 
 And seeking in whatever mood 
 
 To shun the ill and do the good. 
 
 Her figure pleasing as her mien. 
 
 Her summers numbering seventeen ; 
 
 Her rippling hair of darkest hue, 
 
 Her eyes not oft described blue. 
 
 But some rare tint, — and pen can ne'er 
 
 Portray the radiance glowing there. 
 
 There was a youth whom Violet thought 
 Worthy her love, and he had caught 
 A kindred flame of chaste desire ; 
 A truer love could none require, 
 Parents and friends were satisfied, 
 And well they might be ; all descried
 
 Violet. 33 
 
 That union of such virtuous worth 
 Would prove the happiest on earth. 
 
 Our lawn stretched to a deep broad stream : 
 On summer eves 'twas like a dream 
 To watch the gentle moonbeams play- 
 Across its wide and glittering way ; 
 To trace the tremor of the trees 
 Slow moving in the soft night breeze, 
 And as on either side they bend 
 Each towards the other as a friend 
 Talking with comrade dear, — to think 
 These trees, converse they, on this river's brink ? 
 
 On the stream's tide we kept a boat, 
 
 Not often did it idly float 
 
 In peace near to the summer shore ; 
 
 For one alone could ply its oar 
 
 With pleasure. In the sultry noon, 
 
 With bees and birds and trees in tune, 
 
 How sweet to glide in it, and screen 
 
 'Neath willows from the scorching sheen ; 
 
 Thus Violet full oft had been. 
 
 c
 
 34 Misceiianeotis Pieces. 
 
 And so one day — the heat was great, 
 And, we conjecture, to abate 
 Its force, she to the water dipped 
 To lave her hands, — in quickly slipped 
 The boat's light oar ; that then she tried 
 To reach it, bending on one side, — 
 Till gone too far to stay, 'twould seem, 
 She slid into the treacherous stream. 
 
 Too late an oarless boat was found, 
 And near, a maiden, soul-less, drowned, 
 In whose fair face and gloomless mien 
 Death in his gentlest form was seen. 
 One lover more o'erwhelmed with grief. 
 Whose tears as yet brought no relief, 
 Who, righteous and untouched by guile, 
 Ne'er sought another maiden's smile ; 
 A brother who through all his coming years 
 Will strive to dry his brethren's bitter tears. 
 
 ' A common story, this,' I hear one say, — 
 
 * Not worth the telling.' Nay, stern critic, nay ;
 
 Violet. 35 
 
 Each man's heart-tragedy, if truly told, 
 Will interest some, although to most 'tis cold 
 And commonplace. No case of mental pain 
 Which crushes not, but strengthens, can be vain.
 
 HEART ECHOES. 
 
 While the sunlight's glory dying 
 
 Tints the pebbly sea-kissed strand, 
 And the night-chilled breezes sighing, 
 
 See the shadows wrap the land — 
 Faint, yet powerful, sad, yet tender, 
 
 Come fond thoughts of vanished years,. 
 Waking sweet soul-thrills that render 
 
 Joy that is akin to tears. 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 Visions of a gentle maiden 
 Beautiful and pure as fair, 
 
 And of eves whose gales love-laden 
 Wanton with her auburn hair :
 
 Heart Echoes. 37 
 
 For 'twas when soft summer's beauty 
 Made the earth with gladness rife 
 First I felt, as well as duty, 
 
 What deep joy might be in life : 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 Memories are swiftly thronging 
 
 Of that span of treasured past, 
 When the joy to me belonging 
 
 Was, alas ! too bright to last : 
 Still do I remember clearly 
 
 What I asked with trembling voice, 
 And her words, ' I love you dearly, 
 And am proud to be your choice.' 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 We were * wedded, happy-hearted,' 
 
 And our future path seemed bright, 
 
 Who could tell we should be parted. 
 Love's glad sun obscured in night .■*
 
 38 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yet before another spring-tide 
 
 Shed abroad its myriad charms, 
 Bitter blow ! my darling left me, — 
 Dying calmly in my arms. 
 Ah, how real, fraught with woe, 
 Rise these dreams of long ago ! 
 
 Still amid my sore dejection, 
 
 In its comfort ever new, 
 Comes the soothing, sweet reflection. 
 
 To each other we were true. 
 For some end God sendeth sorrow. 
 
 And when this at length is gained 
 I shall meet my bride in Heaven 
 
 Happy, holy, and unstained. 
 There no longer fraught with woe 
 Rise the dreams of long ago.
 
 THE POET'S POWERLESSNESS. 
 
 Unto the poet's mental eye how clear 
 Appears a scene he would in wise words weave 
 Into the varied texture of his verse ! 
 A scene it is of beauty unsurpassed, — 
 Of hoary mountains whose gigantic peaks 
 Approach the sky, — of a fair wooded vale, — 
 And of a rushing rivulet, whose sound 
 Re-echoes in his ears. A simple theme 
 Methinks to handle, yet at once he finds 
 How hard it is to choose the magic words 
 With which to make the spell he trusts will bind 
 The senses of his readers. Ever thus 
 He feels it in description, — also when 
 Depicting subtle feelings of the soul, — 
 Indeed in every subject meet for song : — 
 And so he feels that words are at the best 
 Most ineffective colours to paint well 
 A theme Imagination-glorified.
 
 THE POET'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 That dotard soul I cannot comprehend, 
 
 Nursing no hope that, after many years. 
 
 His name should be preserved by other means 
 
 Than by an entry in the parish-books — 
 
 A man who harbours in his heart no hope 
 
 To be remembered in the unborn days 
 
 By some good deed accomplished, that should 
 
 leave 
 A blessing and a benefit behind 
 To such as follow after. 
 
 Therefore now 
 I make this sacred resolution strong : 
 I shall redeem the time, and though the days 
 Are evil, yet it shall be my delight 
 To labour patiently : that when I reach 
 My goal of pilgrimage it shall be seen 
 That I at least have lived not all in vain.
 
 i 
 
 The Poet's Thoughts. 4 1 
 
 Most men but live, as sacred Scripture saith, 
 * They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die.' 
 Few daily doings are of much account 
 In fifty years ; then let my mind be set 
 On themes more fit to fill the soul of man.
 
 THE OMNIPRESENCE OF POETRY. 
 
 There's poetry in everything, 
 
 If poets could but find 
 How best its subtle power to bring 
 
 To breathe upon the mind. 
 
 It lurks in all of Nature's store, 
 
 Alike on land and main, — 
 Where far from shore the breakers roar. 
 
 And on the quiet plain. 
 
 'Mid lofty mountains whose proud peaks 
 
 Appear to pierce the sky, — 
 In valleys where the farmer seeks 
 
 His busy tasks to ply. 
 
 'Mid scenes where babbling brooklets haste. 
 
 Engirt with flowery strand ; 
 Where man's harsh turmoil makes a waste 
 
 Of erst a beauteous land
 
 The Omnipresejtce of Poetry. 43 
 
 In mighty cities never dumb 
 
 With sounds of human life, 
 In villages where seldom come 
 
 Cares born of human strife. 
 
 'Mid friends and kindred everywhere, 
 In talks with those we love 
 
 When happy intercourse we share ; — 
 In thoughts of things above. 
 
 Enwove with every feeling here, 
 Part of each joy and pain, 
 
 And permeating love sincere 
 Which never can be vain. 
 
 For Poetry's white hands can mould, 
 From all of Earth, pure leaven ; — 
 
 And who shall say it will not hold 
 A noble place in Heaven !
 
 FRAGMENT FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Softly swaying 
 
 Are the flowers, 
 Scents betraying 
 
 'Mid the showers : 
 Gently moving 
 
 Are the trees, 
 Not reproving 
 
 The rude breeze. 
 
 Stars shine quiet 
 
 Though the storm's 
 Cloudlets riot 
 
 O'er their forms : 
 Moonrays mildly 
 
 Shed their light, 
 Though still wildly 
 
 Wails the night.
 
 Fragment f 07" Music. 45 
 
 Mountains never 
 
 In their might 
 Care if ever 
 
 Lost to sight : 
 Plants must wither 
 
 And be lost 
 When comes thither 
 
 Biting frost. 
 
 Lower creatures 
 
 Scarce complain, 
 Nor their features 
 
 Change with pain ; 
 Though Toil's burden 
 
 Ne'er is done, 
 Though no guerdon 
 
 Can be won. 
 
 At each season 
 
 Man makes moan 
 Though glad reason 
 
 Is his own ; —
 
 46 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Notwithstanding 
 In his might 
 
 Earth commanding, 
 Wrong or right.
 
 AN EVENING LANDSCAPE. 
 
 The sun has set, and shades of evening close, 
 And all around there reigns profound repose ; 
 And not a sound is heard, save when the breeze 
 In fitful gusts comes rustling through the trees ; 
 And with its facile force their branches sways. 
 Like spectres moving in the moon's faint rays. 
 
 Ah, little change the face of nature knows. 
 Compared with life's oft-changing joys and woes, 
 And while poor, puny man departs as fast 
 As smoke is scattered by the wintry blast ; 
 Its aspect will continue as of yore, 
 Till God decrees that Time shall be no more.
 
 THE GUERDON OF TRIBULATION 
 NOT INCURRED BY GUILT. 
 
 Oh say not that the world is sad 
 Without redeeming feature, 
 
 Oh say not that the world is glad 
 And holds no hopeless creature. 
 
 No life is ever filled with woe 
 
 However great its sadness, 
 No lot can be all joy, although 
 
 Most glorious seems its gladness. 
 
 With endless grief Life is not fraught. 
 Nor with all bliss and beauty. 
 
 By varied influence we are taught 
 How to fulfil our duty.
 
 The Guerdon of Tribttlation. 49 
 
 If happy be our lot assigned, 
 
 Of sorrow slight our burden, 
 Yet work on still with steadfast mind 
 
 Assured shall be our guerdon : 
 
 But a crown more rich to those shall be 
 From pain much less exempted, 
 
 If conquering the same foes as we, 
 Although more sorely tempted. 
 
 Thus every woe our souls within, 
 Though stem its present sadness. 
 
 If meekly borne, nor caused by sin. 
 Augments our future gladness. 
 
 D
 
 BY-AND-BYE. 
 
 How oft our course in life is fair and gay, 
 And full of happiness from day to day ; 
 
 But by-and-bye 
 Will bring some grief to cast its shadow on our 
 way. 
 
 And then our path proves drear and dark as night, 
 For happiness, our sun, is lost to sight ; 
 
 But by-and-bye 
 Will bring a time when all the way again grows 
 bright. 
 
 Swiftly we travel through Earth's joy and woe, 
 Though rough our path, even there the flowerets 
 
 grow ; 
 
 And by-and-bye 
 Will bring a Restful Life where nought of change 
 
 we know.
 
 THE TRUE TREASURE. 
 
 Living brings us bitter sorrow, 
 Oft our hearts refuse submission, 
 
 While we yearn for a to-morrow 
 
 Which shall change our dark condition. 
 
 Love may bring us bitter sadness 
 When we find our love can never 
 
 More impart the sense of gladness 
 Which we thought it would for ever. 
 
 Joy may bring us bitter trouble, 
 
 Faith give place to Falsehood's anguish, 
 Hope may prove an empty bubble 
 
 When bereft of it we languish.
 
 5 2 Miscellaneo7is Pieces. 
 
 Worldly peace may bring us only 
 More of pain and less of quiet,— 
 
 And departing leave us lonely, 
 Battling in the world's rude riot. 
 
 Faith in man may bring delusion, 
 Oftentimes, when it has perished, 
 
 We discover with confusion 
 
 'Twas a phantom that we cherished. 
 
 Trust in God is truest treasure, 
 
 For of change it holds no leaven, — 
 
 If we live aright, its measure 
 Makes us holy, worthy Heaven.
 
 A MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY ON HER 
 NEWLY-DEPARTED CHILD. 
 
 My darling dead ! Is all the long endeavour 
 For life-restoring vain ? These wistful eyes, 
 
 So Truth-illumed and loving, will they never 
 Check by a glance again my futile sighs ? 
 
 And shall I weep — although for him the gladness 
 
 Of human life for ever now is o'er, 
 And I am left with anguished sense of sadness, 
 
 A sadness which on earth is lost no more ? 
 
 A cripple's lot were his, had he, remaining, 
 Striven to take his part in earth's stern strife, 
 
 Thus less of sinless happiness obtaining, 
 While feeling all the woe of mundane life.
 
 54 Miscellayieous Pieces. 
 
 The Master, seeing this, hath gently made him 
 Fitter among His ransomed ones to be, — 
 
 And day by day more fully hath arrayed him 
 In Christ's rich blood-bought robe of purity ; 
 
 So shortening the period of probation 
 Which otherwise were necessary here, 
 
 And raising him to an immortal station 
 
 Where maimed and suffering ones no tauntings 
 fear. 
 
 Then shall I cherish an abiding sorrow 
 For him whom God in mercy takes away ? 
 
 Nay, rather let me muse on that blest morrow 
 Which joins our severed souls in bliss for aye.
 
 A MATIN MELODY. 
 
 Sweet-voiced songsters softly singing, 
 
 Tell a new day is begun, 
 Its appointed portion bringing 
 
 Of fresh duty to be done. 
 
 Last day's deeds have gone for ever, — 
 Seems it not most passing strange 
 
 Their results remain, and never 
 
 Can be touched by time-wrought change.^ 
 
 Like a child who, pebble throwing 
 From a streamlet's sedgy marge, 
 
 May not mark the ripples growing 
 Though they one by one enlarge. 
 
 ^ It is possible to reverse the results of one day's deeds by the 
 action of another, but the results of one day, as far as their effect 
 on subsequent ones is concerned, are immutable.
 
 56 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 So with influence increasing, 
 Widening o'er Life's mystic sea, 
 
 Are effects of actions, — ceasing 
 Only with eternity. 
 
 Many yesterday, unthinking. 
 
 Chose the path which leads to doom, — 
 While a few with souls unshrinking 
 
 Sought the road which cleaves earth's gloom. 
 
 Thus I muse with rapt devotion 
 Whilst the moments speed away, 
 
 Till I feel with meet emotion 
 All the issues of to-day.
 
 LORD, TEACH US HOW TO PRAY 
 
 Luke xi. i. 
 
 A VAST enigma is our life 
 
 Without Thy guiding ray ; 
 But Thou, who willed, canst calm its strife, 
 
 By teaching us to pray. 
 
 Prayer ! true solution of the fears 
 
 And doubts along our way ; 
 Whose influence, coming, sweetly cheers, — 
 
 What bliss it is to pray ! 
 
 So when its mysteries distress, 
 And gloom enshrouds Life's day. 
 
 We plead that Thou wouldst make them less, 
 By teaching us to pray.
 
 58 MiscellaneotLS Pieces. 
 
 Dark is the path of weary woe, 
 Whilst in Earth's night we dwell, 
 
 Yet prayer will prove a sun to show 
 That still Thou leadest well.
 
 ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 O FOR the feelings which abide 
 
 Within the poet's mind, 
 That softly through his bosom glide 
 
 And leave strange joy behind ! 
 
 O for a little of the power 
 
 Strong, piercing, pure and clear, 
 Which is his ever-potent dower, 
 
 To reach the cold world's ear ! 
 
 O for a little of the fruit 
 
 Untinged with earthly leaven, 
 
 Not fame alone, nor vain repute. 
 
 But something caught from Heaven.
 
 6o Miscellaneoits Pieces. 
 
 Assurance that one's strain has cheered 
 Even though it be but one, 
 
 And shed on the dark path he feared 
 A little glimpse of sun.
 
 EDGAR VANNING 
 
 A SKETCH.
 
 EDGAR VANNING 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Edgar Vanning. — A young man near the close 
 of a siiccessfiil University career. 
 
 Alethea Stanton. — His betrothed. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Edgar's college rooms. Edgar seated at a table, holdingin his hand 
 an open letter, which informs him that he has succeeded in 
 obtaining a tniich-coveted University honour. 
 
 Edgar. 
 Truly a grand — a noble thing is life, 
 And with what joy a young man's Hfe is fraught, 
 When, with a mind matured, a happy heart, 
 And resolution firm, he gazes forth 
 Upon the boundless world ! He knows its snares,
 
 64 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Its pitfalls, and its quicksands ; yet to him 
 
 'Tis given to avoid them. He is not 
 
 A foolish simple boy fired with strange thoughts 
 
 Of schemes impracticable, which should cure 
 
 The ills that are the bane of social life 
 
 In these our modern days. 
 
 Yet though he feels 
 Not youth's enthusiasm, nor its sense — 
 So all-absorbing that success is sure : 
 Though conscious of his failures and his faults, 
 Though knowing well his many weaknesses, — 
 Yet hath he self-respect, and knoweth too 
 His capabilities ; — and hopes, ay, longs 
 By steadfast effort to effect some good, 
 Which shall, however small, still serve to show 
 That all his life hath not been barrenness. 
 But these are stern thoughts — let them pass — 
 
 there flows 
 The fresh untrammelled blood of buoyant life 
 Full joyous through my veins ; my mind is clear, 
 My intellect is cultured, and I hope 
 My heart is happy. I have lately said 
 That life to such is gladness, let me not 
 Belie so recent words.
 
 Edgar Vamting. 65 
 
 Ay, when I think 
 
 Of that great love which nestles in my soul, 
 
 Like a fair darling child of three years old 
 
 On her fond father's breast : — when it is true 
 
 That this love hath its guerdon, I should be 
 
 For ever gladsome : I remember well 
 
 The retinue of unreturning years 
 
 And many a day and hour which made them up. 
 
 Since she, who is my heart's desire, and I 
 
 Had our first meeting. We were children both — 
 
 Our parents were firm friends, and we were thrown 
 
 Often together : and as Dante loved 
 
 His Beatrice, so I Alethea, — 
 
 Save that his Beatrice was proudly cold. 
 
 While my Alethea was meek and kind ; — 
 
 And that as children we ne'er thought of love, 
 
 Although we loved so young we cannot tell 
 
 When love at first began. What subtle joy 
 
 It is to think that we are one in heart, 
 
 Together soon to tread Life's hardened ways ! 
 
 What peace to me to think — a brief time past — 
 
 There comes to me a help-meet truly meet, 
 
 No speaker of sham sentiment, or words 
 
 Of mawkish weary platitudes, but one 
 
 E
 
 66 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Who strengthens me to do the right, who strives 
 
 To urge me on to goodly deeds and great. 
 
 O how refreshing oft it is to leave 
 
 My studies stern, and theories dim and cold, 
 
 To commune with reality so bright ! 
 
 How sweet to bring at last the rich reward 
 
 Of lengthened brain-wrought labour, and to say 
 
 ' Thy sympathy hath helped me to succeed.'
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A quiet summer evening. Alethea standing in a secluded part of 
 
 the garden of her home adjacent to an old plantation. 
 Time. — A few days before the day fixed for her fnarriage. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 A FEW days more ! Ah what a change for me, 
 A happy change ! O kind few days that bring it — 
 A bhssful change ! Speed swift bright days that 
 
 bring it, — 
 A change the sense of which thrills through my 
 
 soul, 
 And makes it burst its bonds and soar in song. 
 
 A few days more, a few days more, 
 A h what a cJtangefor me ! 
 
 Then I shall enter through Loves door 
 To fnll felicity.
 
 68 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 No more alone to bear one fear, 
 Or have an untold dread, 
 
 To leave my patJi, Ids siveet voice hear 
 And choose his path iiistead. 
 
 A fezv days more, then it will be 
 
 My duty to obey, — 
 A du ty pleas an t, joyous, free 
 
 As warbler s winsome lay. 
 ril seek to do each fond behest, 
 
 To merit each fond sjnile, — 
 / 7/ strive to make his life more blest 
 
 His sadness to beguile. 
 
 He praises oft my sunny hair, 
 
 And lauds my peach-bloom cheeks, - 
 I would I were far far more fair 
 
 When thus my dear one speaks. 
 I feel unworthy him, ajid yet 
 
 He takes me for his zvife, — 
 I'll yield to him — to pay iny debt — 
 
 The service of my life.
 
 Edgar Vanning. 69 
 
 How calming is this tranquil evening hour 
 
 Of sylvan solitude ! The tall old oaks 
 
 Near which I stand have seen full many a year, 
 
 And sheltered many a maiden such as I 
 
 Beneath their branches, and in future time 
 
 Will shelter many more. My favourite flower, 
 
 The white convolvulus, climbs in the hedge 
 
 In spotless beauty as it used to do 
 
 In summers long gone by ; and as it will, 
 
 Fanned by the breath of summers yet to come ; 
 
 Nature is all unchanged, and yet to me 
 
 How changed it seems to-night! Despite my joy 
 
 A curious sense of sadness steals upon me, 
 
 When I reflect that guileless happy days 
 
 Of thoughtless youth are now for ever past. 
 
 That though life's grandest, highest, gift is mine, 
 
 A love returned tenfold, yet doubtless too 
 
 A share of sorrow is appointed me !
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A dull autumn niorning. Alethea at a window looking out on 
 the depressing ^prospect. 
 Time. — Several months after. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 The blow is softened now by kindly Time, 
 And I can breathe again. On this the day 
 Poor Edgar starts for clearer sunnier skies 
 I first can ponder on these dreary weeks 
 Which lately heavily have passed away. 
 How different from the glad and trustful days 
 I thought they would have proved ! 
 
 When first I heard 
 That he was stricken by a sickness sore, 
 A sickness nigh to death, I scarcely felt 
 Deep sorrow, but a paralysing pain 
 My senses dulled. I had no power to think, 
 And life seemed dead within me ; but at length 
 Came slowly back to me the happy thought.
 
 Edgar Vanning, ^ji 
 
 Yes — happy even 'mid such grief as mine : 
 My loved one needed help, and oh what joy- 
 Was mine to give it, and I almost blessed 
 The form of his distress, that at the least 
 It did not keep me from him. For what woe 
 Unspeakable must be endured by those 
 Whose loved ones have been smitten, and who 
 
 know 
 That they are suffering helpless and alone, 
 And that the same disease which tortures keeps 
 Apart from them the dear ones whose kind voice 
 And sympathetic touch is their chief stay. 
 If such a case of misery were mine, 
 Contagion's direst mischief I would brave 
 If I could thereby comfort those I love. 
 
 A chill received when heated and fatigued 
 
 One day in Summer's youth-time (when the breeze 
 
 Had Winter's breath still on it) was enough 
 
 To lay my Edgar low. Physicians came 
 
 And went, with faces grave and measured tread ; 
 
 The case was serious, they said, and none 
 
 Could tell the issue. They were clever men
 
 72 Edgar' Vanning. 
 
 Nor meant to be unkind ; yet when I saw 
 
 Them watch his pangs of pain and laboured 
 
 breathing 
 With interest all professional and cold, 1 
 
 It wellnigh made me mad. 
 
 The crisis came 
 And passed ; — the point once turned, he slovly 
 
 gained I 
 
 A little strength. The cautious doctors said 
 His youth would grapple on the side of life, 
 And he might yet recover. But for him 
 Should be no more of hard and brain-wrought toil 
 Or anxious eager thought : — his life must pass 
 In quiet, — and his winters he must spend 
 For several years abroad. Thus he will leave 
 Chill England's shores to-day. Ah cruel blast 
 And muddy cold grey sky that drives him from me ! 
 Oh callous North-wind, couldst thou not restrain 
 Thy blighting force and let my darling live 
 In the same land as I .■' Life-giving Sun, 
 Oh why dost thou not shine, when, if thou didst. 
 It would rejoice so many yearning hearts !
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Early morning. Edgar standing on a balcony enjoying the 
 fresh balmy air and watching the last traces of the sunrise 
 die away in the sky. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 So yesterday was Christmas-day, and yet 
 Such weather joyous and unwinter-like, — 
 In truth such weather as in recent years 
 We northerners but rarely have received 
 In sunless seasons which we summer call 
 Merely from force of custom. 
 
 Many trees 
 Retain their leaves — and fair it is to see 
 Green leaves at Christmas-time, while gorgeous 
 
 flowers, 
 Which never bloom in Britain save when placed 
 In houses cramped and stifling with damp heat, 
 Display their beauty in the open air. 
 A few^ days since I saw — exquisite sight !
 
 74 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 An avenue of fine camellia plants, 
 
 And all in fullest flower ! and as I looked 
 
 Up the long vista while the luscious red 
 
 Commingled in my vision with the white, 
 
 And as I further gazed upon the scene 
 
 Of which they were the centre, and drank in 
 
 Its wondrous loveliness, I felt deep joy 
 
 That still amid its mingled pain and grief 
 
 Such sweetness is preserved on earth to soothe 
 
 And elevate men's thoughts. They who have 
 
 lived 
 Only in climates where the fickle weather 
 Is changeful as the winds, can never know 
 The bliss of living where, come calm or storm. 
 No blighting blast can reach to wither up 
 Our vital energies and make our life 
 A misery. This is not such a clime 
 As Italy's in winter, where the sun 
 Makes summer as its warm rays penetrate, 
 But in the shade the cutting searching wind 
 Blows keenly from the snowy Apennines ; 
 Nor such a clime as that whose azure waves 
 Reflect with dazzling force the Day-king's heat 
 Upon the olive-groves and pine-clad crags
 
 Ed^a7'- Vanning. 75 
 
 Of the gay Riviera ; — but whose warmth 
 
 Dies with the day, and night is damp and 
 
 cold. 
 Here winds are never cold nor ever harm 
 With treacherous touch the trustful invalid, 
 Who, lured by the soft sunlight, walks abroad. 
 Here balmy night is pleasant and as mild 
 As is the day, while the defiled sea-shore 
 Appears, at least at night, most beautiful 
 Viewed from a distance ; and the dotted lights 
 From many a cottage on the lone crag-sides 
 Vie with the stars from out the deep blue sky 
 In forming a fair circlet round the bay 
 Like flashing jewels round the shapely arm 
 Of youth-dowered maid. 
 
 What were the lines I strung 
 Together, to employ an idle hour .'' 
 
 Christmas in the snmvicr snnsJiine ! O Jiow bemiti- 
 
 ful it seems ^ — 
 Clothed in gladness are its moments, realising poets 
 
 dreams y
 
 76 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 WJiile its hours pass swiftly /rout 7is, how we wish 
 
 they were for aye. 
 That their bright and buoyant pleasure ivith its 
 
 guilelessness might stay. 
 
 Christinas in the stumncr sunshine! softly blows 
 the scented breeze 
 
 And its coming stirs the frondage of the stately 
 staid palm-trees. 
 
 Calm the noble realm of Ocean, fair the dotted fish- 
 ing skiffs, 
 
 Atid the verdant cactus grooving on the gaunt tip- 
 rising cliffs. 
 
 All of Fiords cultured beauty freely is revealed to 
 
 view, 
 And among the vine-clad ridges of sweet wild-flowers 
 
 not a feiv, 
 Soft azaleas, rich gardenias, ope their blossoms to the 
 
 air. 
 With the rose, and trained geranium : — 7i'hile its 
 
 wild type too is there.
 
 Edgar Vanning. jy 
 
 Fitting the inootis glorious radiance for the people 
 
 as they pass 
 On the eve of merry Christmas, to and from the 
 
 midnigJit mass ; 
 And for strolling serenaders zvho invade the silent 
 
 hours 
 With what doubtless they consider some of music s 
 
 choicest fioivcrs. 
 
 Christmas in the summer siinsJiine ! neither snow 
 
 nor frost are here, 
 Which, though they may charm the healthy, fill the 
 
 invalid zvith fear ; 
 And in sooth, tvith dear ones round him, spends he 
 
 happily the day, 
 Pining not for that loved treasure — his chill home 
 
 so far away. 
 
 Yet ! 'tis the far away that makes me sad, 
 For distance is indeed a barrier, 
 Let bards say what they will ; for though I hope 
 Hale health is coming back, I sometimes /<:y/
 
 78 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 As though I had not very long to live ; 
 And if 'tis so, it seems a cruel fate 
 To have to spend my few remaining days 
 So far away from those my heart holds dear, 
 But chiefly from the one my whole soul loves.
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A quiet spot in the garden of Edgar's home. Several jnonths after- 
 wards. Edgar and Alethea. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 The doctors think that I shall ne'er be well. 
 They do not say so openly, but still 
 It is not hard to understand the drift 
 Of their calm-spoken diplomatic phrases 
 About ' much care ' and ' quiet ' and ' escape 
 From English winters to the sunny south ;' 
 And when I asked if my complaint were cured, 
 They hesitated, hemmed, then, smiling, said, 
 ' Alleviated were the better term.' 
 Ah, it is hard to hear a cruel fate 
 Thus subtly hinted at in civil words 
 And courteous commonplaces, and to have 
 One's hopes annihilated in soft tones. 
 Meant to be pitiful, perchance, but which 
 Seem by their wily softness but to scorn
 
 So Edmr Vannino;. 
 
 And counterfeit a kindness not heart-felt. 
 'Tis bitter to reflect my roll of years 
 Will probably be briefer than of those 
 My comrades — and no better men than I 
 (And this when life to me was ever sweet). 
 'Tis bitter to reflect that theirs may be 
 The bright career of steadfast earnest toil 
 Towards some right worthy goal, which, gained 
 
 at last, 
 Rewards them with a name, while unto me 
 'Tis given but to spend in listless calm 
 My few remaining days. 
 
 But bitterer still 
 It is, that I must loose you now, my love. 
 From cherished vows which we have interchanged. 
 For 'twere not right that I should link your fate 
 With mine as now it is, and bring perchance 
 On others — innocent — the hopeless bane 
 Of cureless sickness which I feel myself. 
 Grief is the rule of this our earthly life. 
 And joy but the exception ; wherefore then 
 Should I expect of joy a greater share 
 Than is apportioned unto thousands who 
 Have suffered, still are sufl"ering, or will suffer
 
 Edgar Vaiining. 8i 
 
 As helplessly as I : — and surely too 
 
 My mind should be far calmer than is his 
 
 Who sowed himself the seeds of his disease, 
 
 Whose every pang is now intensified 
 
 By keen remorse, and seething in whose soul 
 
 No thought save one — the ever-gnawing thought 
 
 But for himself what he would now have been. 
 
 Yet oh, Alethea, 'tis crushing grief 
 
 To lose you, darling, were it not my duty. 
 
 My duty thought and prayed about for weeks, 
 
 I could not say the word to set you free. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 The word to set me free ! that were indeed 
 Most difficult to say, for we are bound 
 Indissolubly : — and though, Edgar dear, 
 You tell me that for us all hope is o'er 
 Of earthly union : yet there still remains 
 A radiant future seen through mists of tears, 
 Since present life is not our whole existence. 
 Your name means ' happy honour,' and mine own 
 ' Truth : ' — if we live our little span of days 
 Worthy of such high names, it will be well
 
 82 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 With us, whate'er may come. Yet when I look 
 On your poor face and mark the touch of pain, 
 Then, though I feel that doubtless you are right 
 In that you say, it makes me doubly sad 
 To think the fate that makes you suffer so, 
 Remorseless and unsatisfied, compels 
 You thus to blight your life ; but if fond love 
 And sympathy can cheer, you yet may find 
 Some earthly joy remaining even to you.
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Midwinter in a certain little island abroad. A pretty room xvith 
 opened 'windows overlooking a lovely garden, and a still love- 
 lier prospect beyond. 
 
 Time. — A feiu years aftertoards, toivards sunset, and only a few 
 days before Edgar's death. Edgar and Alethea. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 Truly a grand, a noble thing is life — 
 
 This most I feel when I am passing from it ; 
 
 And life is fair, whatever cynics say. 
 
 But yesterday I lay upon my couch 
 
 And looked upon the clear wide-stretching bay, 
 
 Far, far beneath me shimmering in the sun. 
 
 I saw th' exquisite azure of the sky, 
 
 The dainty outlines of palm-branches shown 
 
 More clearly by the strong light show^ered upon 
 
 them. 
 The countless clustering vines and varied trees 
 In all the gentle ever-pleasing glow
 
 84 Edgar Vamiing. 
 
 Of vegetation almost tropical, 
 
 Which makes each cultivated garden here 
 
 Appear a paradise. Banana-trees 
 
 I saw with all their load of luscious fruit 
 
 The graceful guava-trees with light-green leaves 
 
 The loquats with their deeper verdant tints, — 
 
 The little plant they call ' Brazilian cherry,' 
 
 With bright green leaves, and fruit of strawberry 
 
 size, — 
 The stately yam-tree with its blossoms white 
 And lily-like ; — fair to the eye indeed, 
 A tree whose oval leaves afford good shade 
 In summer. Surely it is strangely sweet 
 To loiter in such gardens when cool Night 
 Has conquered the fierce ardour of the day, — 
 And see the meek moon rise o'er azure seas, — 
 And view the tranquil heavens don their jewels, 
 And hear machetes-^ swift tingling forth an air 
 Of music, — haply a soft mazy dance. 
 Yet, dear Alethea, it is decreed 
 That I must leave you, darling, but although 
 'Tis sad to leave you and this beauteous world, 
 'Tis sweet to die amid such loveliness. 
 
 ^ Portuguese guitars.
 
 Edgar Vamimg. 85 
 
 And daily I thank God that He hath not 
 Condemned me to this sickness slow and sure 
 Immured in one close room from day to day, 
 Through the long, lagging, weary winter-time, 
 But given me the means wherewith to dwell 
 In climate such as this where balmy air 
 And sunshine even in winter, are not wanting ; 
 A climate where the invalid can pass, 
 However languid, many happy hours 
 Communing with God's fair earth out of doors. 
 Do you remember, dear, some years ago 
 You told me if fond love and sympathy 
 Could soothe me that I surely should be cheered ? 
 And you have kept your word : I have been 
 
 cheered, 
 And comforted, and though no marriage-bond 
 Has been between us as we once had hoped, 
 Our souls have been as one. Take my poor thanks 
 For coming thus to sojourn where I dwelt 
 And giving me your loving tireless care 
 'Mid all my pain and suffering, made less hard 
 To bear by your kind presence.
 
 86 Ed^cii' Vanninz. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 I am glad 
 It was my lot to render you this service, — 
 A service small indeed compared with love 
 Such as I bear you, darling. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 When I die, 
 Let me be buried in my native land, 
 Not here, although I love this sea-girt shore, 
 Where graveyards are embowered mid beauteous 
 
 trees, 
 And overlook mayhap light rippling waves 
 As blue as the deep azure heavens above them. 
 Round whose rude tombs the scented roses cling. 
 And still bloom on throughout the sunny year. 
 But let me rather lie where chilling rain 
 And bitter sleet shall in the winter- time 
 Beat on my resting-place. For what care I 
 Though placid snows spread o'er my quiet grave 
 Their spotless mantle, though wild wintry winds
 
 Edgar Vanning. Sy 
 
 Sweep o'er it, be it only undisturbed. 
 
 And if 'twere here, perchance it would not be 
 
 For ever left in peace. Alethea, 
 
 For T/;;ie we shall be separated soon, 
 
 But do not grieve o'ermuch. For me 'twill be 
 
 A glad release from pain, and you and I 
 
 Shall meet in yon pure Home of Love at last.
 
 VERSES OF TRAVEL.
 
 VERSES OF TRAVEL. 
 
 A BISCAYAN SUNSET. 
 
 April lyxH, 1S79. 
 
 A GOLDEN halo gilds the sky, 
 And the wind-unruffled sea, 
 A scene it is where poet's eye 
 Could subtle loveliness descry 
 Unweariedly. 
 
 Hark ! from afar the deep-toned roar 
 
 Of the Atlantic surge — 
 Yon sail will soon be seen no more 
 Now light-illumed : 'tis fleeting o'er 
 The sea-scape's verge.
 
 92 Verses of Travel. 
 
 The stars appear — strange visions rise ; 
 
 Of man's dim destiny 
 How typical are these calm skies ! 
 While like to man the sad sea lies 
 Troubled though free. 
 
 No winged wanderer slowly cleaves 
 
 The silence in his flight ; — 
 His burning throne the Warmth-King leaves 
 While the fair firmament receives 
 
 The crown 'd Queen Night.
 
 AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC, 
 FRANCE. 
 
 April i8th, 1S79. 
 
 Day hath departed, save a few faint streaks 
 Of h'ght that fleck the bosom of the sky ; 
 These, and these only, stay to testify 
 Of proud Night's conquest. Hark! that sound 
 
 bespeaks 
 Our nearness to the Ocean, and I see 
 Its ripples at my feet ; — a soft clear song 
 Is breeze-borne from a vessel's deck aloner. 
 The crew with musical monotony 
 Raise anchor swiftly, and the ship doth glide 
 In silence, save for the chant growing low 
 Wave-wafted landwards. Little doth she 
 
 know 
 If calms will come, or fiercest storms betide : — 
 Alas, o'er life's strange sea we all must sail 
 Like her, nor know if calm or tempest will pre- 
 vail.
 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF THE 
 PYRENEES. 
 
 Majestic snow-crowned mountains distant far, 
 Yet to man's seeming near ! How oft we feel 
 In life 'tis even thus ! though there the view, 
 That seems so close before us full and fair, 
 May ne'er be realized, while here it needs 
 But purpose long-sustained to gain the goal 
 And prove the seeming real. 
 
 Whilst I gaze 
 Upon your cloud-capt summits, thoughts arise 
 Telling of eager spirits not a few 
 Who like to me have looked in ages past, 
 Filled with the selfsame dream of human change. 
 And your immutability compared 
 With man's brief mundane course. How many too 
 Have lounged and looked on your cloud-piercing 
 
 peaks, 
 Nor felt the deep reflection such a scene
 
 On a distant Prospect of the Pyrenees. 95 
 
 Is fitted well to give ! Strange ! but 'tis so, 
 And will be ever while the world endures ; 
 That which to one seems passion-fraught, sublime, 
 Another views, — deems fine, — and passes on.
 
 ON SEEING SOME PYRENEAN 
 WILD ROSES. 
 
 May 17TH, 1879. 
 
 How sweet the sight of roses 
 In an English lane in June, 
 
 When every flower reposes 
 Beneath the tranquil moon ! 
 
 How strange the sight of roses, 
 
 Albeit they are wild, — 
 Seen where a valley closes. 
 
 And mountains huge are piled ! 
 
 Upon whose sides remaining 
 Is strewn the purest snow, 
 
 Still by its presence chaining 
 The tide of Spring's soft glow.
 
 On seeing some Pyrejiean Wild Roses. 9 7 
 
 Yes, wondrous seems completely 
 
 A contrast such as this, 
 And yet, 'tis ordered meetly 
 
 And cannot be amiss ; — 
 
 For God has kept the pureness 
 Of snow upon the hill. 
 
 The roses in secureness 
 To flourish, too, at will.
 
 THE SOUTHERN NIGHT. 
 
 Ah ! how unlike the Southern night 
 
 To that of Northern skies, 
 Where tedious twilight mocks its flight 
 
 And day but slowly dies ! 
 For there pale Eve's star-studded veil 
 
 O'er all is swiftly cast, 
 Peace seemeth wafted on the gale ; — 
 
 Care for a while is past. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, 
 
 How sweet it is to stray 
 Mid scenes which the moonbeam's fairy light 
 Makes lovelier far than day ! 
 
 How fair the widely-stretching woods, 
 That clothe the spacious plain ; 
 
 While Silence, queen-like, o'er them broods 
 In solitary reign : —
 
 The Southern Night. 99 
 
 How fair the river's crystal thread, 
 
 Seen faintly from afar, 
 And glimmering pure as on it shed 
 
 Are gleams from many a star ! 
 
 CJiorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, etc. 
 
 How fair perchance the mountains lie, 
 
 Though distant wondrous clear. 
 Their snow-wrapt peaks against the sky 
 
 Viewed dimly tier on tier ; — 
 How fair the sleeping landscape seems, 
 
 While here and there are heard 
 Sounds breathing m.usic's softest dreams 
 
 Or laughter-laden word ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, etc.
 
 A DIRGE OF DECAY. 
 
 Near Argelez in the Department of the Hautes Pyrenees, France, 
 are several ruins of old castles said to have been built by 
 the English in the 15th century. 
 
 Within these walls 
 Now half-forgotten, lonely and decayed, 
 Only the birds their resting-place have made, 
 And scarce a step within them ever falls. 
 
 Yet doubtless here 
 Stupendous deeds of valour have been wrought, — 
 Deeds that to many thousands then were fraught 
 With heart-felt weal or deep and direful fear. 
 
 Brave of the brave 
 Our soldiers must assuredly have been, 
 So long to hold for our proud Island-queen 
 This land which then seemed far across the wave.
 
 A Dirge of Decay. loi 
 
 Yes, far from aid, 
 From friends, from home, must have appeared their 
 
 lot, 
 And yet (O courage great !) they faltered not, 
 Nor, filled with craven terror, were afraid ; 
 
 Not even though 
 Full oft encompassed, like unto a stag 
 By hounds engirt ; but rallied round their flag, 
 And kept its honour stainless from the foe. 
 
 Why is it then 
 That low in ruins are these castles laid ? 
 It is because old courage had decayed, — 
 It is because old fire had left our men. 
 
 This should we learn 
 While earth remaineth thus, — wars cannot cease ; 
 That everything hath limits, — even peace ; 
 So let the lamp of ancient courage burn.
 
 LINES ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF 
 
 BAREGES FROM ST. SAUVEUR, HAUTES 
 
 PYRENEES, FRANCE. 
 
 Lo ! what a glorious prospect is revealed 
 Of mountains, snow, and verdant loveliness ; 
 Upon the sloping sides of monarch heights 
 Reposes now the mist, most gracefully, 
 In wreaths almost transparent ; presently 
 Its mass divides, and clear against the sky 
 Appears each giant summit grandly calm, 
 And seeming proud that its lone God-wrought 
 
 strength 
 So long defies decay. One ever feels 
 In gazing on such scenes how weak is man, 
 Yet still how much his art hath made increase 
 To this rare store of beauty. Each small patch 
 Perceived upon the mountain-side, reclaimed
 
 Lines on looking tip the Vale of Bardges. 103 
 
 From barren wilderness, hath wondrous power 
 To cheer the eye. To me it often seems 
 As though no prospect were indeed complete 
 Without some trace of toil to leaven it.
 
 FROM LA RAILL£:RE 
 TO PONT D'ESPAGNE AND LAC DE GAUBE. 
 
 O PATH which seems to have a loveliness 
 
 More than of Earth, 
 How can one who has viewed thy scenes express 
 The thoughts that unto them have owed their 
 
 birth ? 
 
 How can he tell of all the wondrous way 
 
 Where grandeur vies 
 With beauty, rich and rare, to bear the sway 
 In winning and retaining ravished eyes ? 
 
 How can he tell of rocks and ridges wild 
 
 Which lie around ? 
 Of mighty mountain-peaks on high up-piled ? 
 Of ceaseless cataracts' majestic sound ?
 
 From La Raillere to Pont (£ Espagne. 105 
 
 How can he well describe rich-foliaged trees 
 
 That screen the sides ? 
 Blown to and fro by gentle summer breeze, — 
 In chasms where the vale the rocks divides. 
 
 How can he well describe the stately pines 
 
 Steadfast and strong ? 
 (True type of one whose sun not always shines, 
 And yet who bravely bears grief's load along.) 
 
 High-foaming Cerizet can he portray ? 
 
 Beyond the power 
 Of language even feebly to convey 
 Its peerless beauty, wonder-working dower. 
 
 Much less the wilder falls at Pont d'Espagne 
 
 Truly sublime, — 
 Whose weird white floods sing songs of sturdy 
 
 strain, 
 For aye the same in nature-ordered time.
 
 io6 Ve7^ses of Travel. 
 
 When Lac de Gaube is reached, how can he tell 
 
 The silent sight 
 Of snow and glaciers ? Soon our bosoms swell 
 With feelings half of fear, half of delight. 
 
 The fairy rainbow tints which o'er the falls 
 
 Glimmer and play. 
 The stilly clearness of the lake enthralls, 
 Yes this and all, in us soon holds full sway. 
 
 Though none can well describe these scenes, shall 
 not 
 
 They in the mind 
 Remain to bring forth fruit, a gladsome spot 
 In memory, a gift for good designed !
 
 ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF 
 CAUTERETS BY NIGHT. 
 
 The Night is here, 
 Yet gazing pensively 
 Into its gloom, a vista strangely clear 
 In outline soft wq see. 
 
 The mountain forms 
 In solemn grandeur rise, 
 Each summit still the strength of countless storms 
 For countless years defies. 
 
 The dark-green pines 
 Clothe nearly all around. 
 How lone the slopes on which each cold star 
 shines ! 
 Nor doth a single sound
 
 1 o8 On looking tip the Vale of Cauterets. 
 
 Invade the calm, — 
 Or by its presence melt 
 The sense of awe and vastness, like a charm 
 Deeply, profoundly felt.
 
 SONNET 
 
 On seeing a Sham Fight of French Troops at Orthez, in exactly the 
 same position as those occupied by the English and French 
 Armies in the memorable action of February 14th, 1814. 
 
 A February day in years long fled, 
 
 A fiercely raging battle hour by hour, 
 
 At length gained by a mind of mighty power 
 
 Through wonder-working skill. 
 
 French troops are spread 
 Along the ridge of hills and fertile vales 
 Where that stern strife was once. For mimic war 
 They are arranged precisely as of yore, 
 Is the result as in the old men's tales 
 Who saw the real conflict .'' Nay, not so, 
 The French now hold the heights. Fictitious foes 
 Are beaten by the patriots who oppose. 
 ' The English hounds who wrought our pride's 
 
 o'erthrow,' 
 Doubtless thinks many a soldier, ' now would feel, 
 If they were here once more, the force of French- 
 men's steel.'
 
 THE CITY OF THE CID.— 1879. 
 
 Burgos, once city of the Cid, all hail ! 
 Thou standest in the plain of old Castile, 
 An interest in the land which one can feel 
 
 Although no more is heard the clang of mail 
 
 Within thy grass-grown streets. For though no 
 doubt 
 The hand of Change is working, yet it seems 
 To me as if thou wert but in my dreams 
 
 Inwove with sound of arms and warlike shout. 
 
 How noble thy cathedral's gorgeous pile ! 
 
 How quaint its frescoed front ! These carved 
 forms. 
 
 Here sculptured, had their life as many storms 
 Of care as ours throughout its weary while .-'
 
 The City of the Cid. 1 1 1 
 
 These images of saints within, whose Hfe, 
 
 Judging but from their features, seemed all 
 
 calm, 
 Had they than we more nearly reached that 
 balm 
 Which Christians find the antidote of strife ? 
 
 No ! Life was doubtless then a darker thing 
 Than now it is. For certainly our lives 
 Are moulded by our faith. He only thrives 
 
 Whose faith is true of flight and strong of wing. 
 
 And theirs though firm could never have been 
 true, 
 Since it forbade the only Light to shine 
 Which shows the truth on Earth, that Light 
 divine, 
 By which God means that man his course 
 shall view, 
 
 And haply change if needful. Thoughts like 
 these 
 Come as strange fruit seen first 'neath alien 
 skies,
 
 1 1 2 Verses of Travel. 
 
 As now I gaze around. Rich musings rise 
 While looking on thee, Burgos, — some which 
 please 
 
 And some which sadden. When at close of day 
 I stand in thy cathedral's solemn shades 
 Among its peerless chapels, none invades, 
 
 To break the sacred calm of aisle and bay.
 
 THE ESCORIAL, 1879. 
 
 The Escorial, a glooming pile, standing at the foot of the Guad- 
 arrama range of mountains, is the burial-place of the Spanish 
 Kings, and it is so vast that it looks imposing even amid 
 natural grandeur. 
 
 How sternly the Escorial stands, — 
 
 The burial-place of kings, 
 Who at disloyal Death's commands 
 
 Must leave their princely things, 
 
 And hie to this stupendous pile. 
 That looks so cold and lone, — 
 
 Where nature scarcely dares to smlle,^ 
 And verdure seems unknown, — 
 
 * The Sierra de Guadarrama are immediately behind the 
 Escorial. Their peaks are arid and bare, and the adjacent 
 country is almost treeless, and burnt up by the sun in summer. 
 
 H
 
 1 1 4 Verses of Travel. 
 
 To this sad spot where Summer's glare 
 Beats fiercest and most strong, — 
 
 Where swooping from his mountain lair 
 Winter abideth long. 
 
 Ah, yes, it must be change indeed 
 From grandeur^ such as theirs 
 
 To such a spot to come with speed, 
 To be Corruption's heirs. 
 
 For evermore to lay aside 
 
 Insignia of power, — 
 All-humbled stately monarch pride 
 
 In death's still awful hour. 
 
 And yet 'twere better thus to be 
 Entombed 'mid marble^ walls, 
 
 1 The royal palace of Madrid is reputed to be the finest in 
 
 Europe. 
 
 - Each king and queen's coffin is placed in a niche in the wall of 
 a chamber reserved for the remains of sovereigns who have reigned 
 and their wives. 
 
 A slab is placed over the niche, and name and date inscribed on it. 
 
 The chamber, whose walls are of marble, is shown to visitors.
 
 The Escorial. 115 
 
 Where even his foot who comes to see 
 In seeming reverence falls, 
 
 Than to be huddled with the rest 
 In some dank burial-ground, 
 
 Where in a few years' time at best 
 One's place could not be found.^ 
 
 Men prate that Nature ne'er obtains 
 Her long-predestined dues, 
 
 And show that we with mighty pains 
 Should alter all our views 
 
 On points of sepulchre. For me, 
 Though o'er it fall Oblivion's frost, 
 
 I trust for aye my grave shall be 
 Neither disturbed nor lost. 
 
 * On the Continent — infamous custom ! — unless the ground is 
 purchased in perpetuity, the remains of those interred are removed 
 after five or ten years, — zuhere, it were not well to say, — and the plot 
 of land prepared for others.
 
 TOLEDO IN 1879. 
 
 Toledo ! what a mint of memories, 
 
 Of olden tale and legend, round the name 
 
 Are clustered ! Mingled with such dreams as these 
 Come flashes~of its brilliant blades of fame. 
 
 How proudly must old kings in joy have thought 
 
 Of their fair city fitted to be great, 
 Placed on a hill, by streams surrounded ! Naught, 
 
 Deemed they, can alter now its high estate. 
 
 Ah ! most imperial it must once have seemed, 
 When capital of many a mighty power. 
 
 And Spanish sunshine in its fierceness gleamed 
 On lofty battlement and soaring tower. 
 
 In days when from the ' Sun-gate'^ oft at morn 
 Issued a goodly Moorish martial train 
 
 ^ The ' Puerta del Sol,' a still-remaining Moorish gateway, is one 
 of the finest relics of old Toledo.
 
 Toledo in 1879. 117 
 
 Of turbaned knights, ere starting sternly sworn 
 To conquer for the Crescent more of Spain. 
 
 With scimitars unsheathed swift rode they forth, 
 Not seldom causing terror all around 
 
 Among the peasants, — as towards the north 
 They rode, with Burgos^ as their utmost bound. 
 
 Then afterwards returning, Victory 
 
 Attendant on their standards, with what joy 
 
 Would comrades greet them who had come to see 
 Night's cooling wings Day's sultriness destroy ! 
 
 And when the sixth Alonso- conquered it, 
 Forcing it back into the Christian fold, 
 
 Made statelier still, 'twas deemed the seat of wit. 
 Its people's speech the nation's purest mould.'^ 
 
 ^ Burgos was then the Christian capital of Spain. 
 
 ^ There is an anachronism here which it is hoped will be 
 pardoned for the sake of the symmetry of the piece. Alonso VI. 
 flourished in the eleventh century, Cervantes in the fourteenth. 
 
 ^ ' To speak en propro Toledano has since the time of Cervantes 
 been equivalent to the best Spanish.''
 
 1 1 8 Verses of Travel. 
 
 When in more recent days the Spanish name 
 Had grown the most renowned of all the world, 
 
 St. Quentin and Lepanto knew the aim 
 Of keen Toledan darts at foemen hurl'd. 
 
 All these reflections come in ceaseless train, 
 While gazing sadly on its fell decay. 
 
 I feel not shame that it has given me pain 
 To think its relics soon must pass away. 
 
 Farewell, far-famed Toledo ! I shall ne'er 
 Forget thy mien, — appearing as indeed 
 
 Plunged in the deepest sleep. Few could repair 
 Spain's ancient cities ; Life is what they need.
 
 LINES 
 
 ON PASSING IN AN EXPRESS TRAIN THROUGH BADAJOZ, 
 
 NOTED FOR ITS FAMOUS SIEGE DURING THE 
 
 PENINSULAR WAR. 
 
 And is this Badajoz ? where once was heard 
 The clash of arms, and breaching cannons' roar, 
 Where from the dim-lit parallels came forth 
 The forlorn hope at Duty's stern command ? 
 Where swords and bayonets bristled on cold walls, 
 And multitudes of marksmen sought to stay 
 The assailing columns in their onward course ? 
 Where, when the town was gained, grim Plunder 
 
 stalked 
 Amid its devastated streets, and made 
 Them ghastlier even than War ? 
 
 Years yield strange fruit 
 Of alteration in forsaken paths ; 
 Yet was I strangely struck with the great change 
 Wrought here in Badajoz. 
 
 Can it be true 
 That here a most prosaic railway-station 
 Is now erected, with its telegraph,
 
 I20 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Poor restaurant, and porters to be ' tipped '? 
 And that of travellers, who tread its platform 
 When trains a moment stop, scarce any think 
 Of that bold siege which for all coming years 
 Has blazoned ' Badajoz ' on Fame's high scroll ?
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE TAGUS. 
 
 'TiS moonlight on the Tagus ! A full flood 
 
 Of soft-spun sparkling radiance dowers the whole 
 
 With dazzling splendour, — save where shadows lie 
 
 Upon the river's bosom, sheltering 
 
 The coward Darkness now a while dethroned 
 
 By the Moon's great, though seeming gentle might, 
 
 Ah me, how beautiful ! Deep azure sky, 
 
 Deep azure sea, and steadfast-beaming stars, — 
 
 A dreamy blissful languor stealeth fast 
 
 Over my soul, whilst gazing musingly 
 
 Upon this prospect steeped in rapt repose, — 
 
 And I forget the busy throng of life 
 
 Which it presents by day, — and almost now 
 
 I could imagine it some magic realm 
 
 Enchanted in far fairy land, beyond 
 
 The power of mortal reach. 
 
 But soon a voice 
 Says, ' Supper's come at last, let's cat and then to 
 bed.'
 
 CINTRA IN 1879. 
 
 ClNTRA,^ our Byron gave thy name to fame 
 
 By his description grand, and sweet, and true ; 
 
 But though thy ' mountain's ever beauteous brow ' 
 
 And many other objects are unchanged, 
 
 Yet altered are full many of the scenes 
 
 On which the poet looked, and mused and sang. 
 
 No ' frugal monks their little relics show ' 
 
 To strangers at 'Our Lady's house of woe.' 
 
 One sees their tiny cells, their cork-wood walls, 
 
 Honorius's cave, and that is all. 
 
 The former home of ' England's wealthiest son ' 
 
 No longer has its ' portals gaping wide,' 
 
 Its ' halls deserted,' or great ' giant weeds ' 
 
 Within its garden ground : — but it is fair. 
 
 Fair as the lordly traveller declared 
 
 It was of yore. While ' Marialva's dome' 
 
 Is changed in that 'tis now historical, 
 
 ^ See Childe Harohfs Pilgrimage, canto I.
 
 Cintra in \Z']<^. 123 
 
 Its fame a lasting one, whilst in his day 
 
 Its interest was eclipsed by other themes 
 
 Of ever-varying War : — the deed performed 
 
 Within its gates too recent not to be 
 
 Left unto record of the daily gossip, 
 
 And comments of the press which rarely live. 
 
 All now is different : — a classic scene 
 
 Thou standest, Cintra, clothed with more of fame 
 
 (To English minds at least) from Byron's words 
 
 Than from thy matchless beauty, could that be. 
 
 And mayhap, in the years to come, some poet 
 
 Treading the self-same scenes will tell how one, 
 
 A writer of poor verses, tried to tell 
 
 What changes there had been since Byron wrote ; 
 
 And he, in turn, with glowing eloquence 
 
 Will paint with poet's art the tide of Change 
 
 On Cintra since these lines were given forth.
 
 VERSES 
 
 On a vase filled with beatitifiil Roses, Camellias and other floivers, 
 with different sprays of plants, grozvn in the open air at 
 Madeira, in December. 
 
 Exquisite flowers ! 
 Come ye to tell of summer hours, 
 Of balmy breeze, of lengthened days, 
 Of warblers' wondrous lays ? 
 
 Thus come ye not. 
 For not in summer lies your lot. 
 No lengthened days attend your birth 
 Nor songsters' merry mirth. 
 
 Yet gentle gales 
 Are near, and sunshine stills prevails, 
 As in frail loveliness ye lie 
 Too soon, alas ! to die.
 
 Verses on a Vase filled witJi Flowers. 125 
 
 Ah fair, how fair, 
 Here nature worketh everywhere, — 
 If thus in winter sweet to see, 
 
 What must the spring-time be ! 
 
 And yet, although 
 All plants enchant in tropic glow, 
 Upon the zephyrs is not spent 
 The wealth of fragrant scent 
 
 Of England's flowers. 
 Only the rose from Britain's bowers 
 Retains its perfume. No ! oh no ! 
 Naught equals the pure glow 
 
 Of England's spring ! 
 When every floweret seems to bring 
 New sweets to blend with the soft breeze 
 Among the blossoming trees.
 
 126 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Yet 'tis a power, 
 This grandeur of each plant and flower, 
 To make the poet's heart rejoice 
 And sing with gladsome voice 
 
 Of what he feels ; 
 Yet rarely even he reveals 
 The radiant wealth of blissful thought 
 Such flowers to him have brought.
 
 A LEST£i SUNRISE IN MADEIRA. 
 
 MANY-hued the sky this morn, 
 Beautiful the day is born, 
 Fleecy clouds on every side 
 Sunshine's coming seem to hide, 
 But the other cloudlets stand 
 Ready waiting its command. 
 
 Ay, they are a gorgeous group, 
 Almost each tint in the troop, 
 Red, and light blue, and maroon. 
 And some white appearing soon, 
 And a glorious purple shade 
 Over all is deftly laid. 
 
 ^ The Leste is a south-east wind felt in Madeira, and frequently 
 prevalent for several days. At the beginning or close of a Leste 
 the sunrises and sunsets are superb.
 
 1 28 Verses of Travel. 
 
 O'er the mountains purple clouds 
 Of deep colour hang, like shrouds ; 
 Purple masses faint are shed 
 O'er the Ocean's wave-strewn bed, 
 Fine the light which now one sees, 
 On the palms and tropic trees. 
 
 Swiftly fades the splendid sky 
 To a dimly purple dye ; 
 Gently stirs the landward breeze 
 Shapely-formed banana-trees. 
 Dawn's first freshness wears away, 
 And begins the balmy day.
 
 MADEIRA— MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Stealing softly o'er the mountains, 
 
 Skirting Funchal's scattered town, 
 To the eastward, comes the moonlight 
 
 Flinging its effulgence down ; 
 Making every object glitter 
 
 In its clear and tranquil sheen, 
 While the Ocean lately troubled 
 
 Seemeth lapt in peace serene. 
 
 Subtle moonlight ! how thy radiance 
 With a magic often shown 
 
 Touches and refines a landscape 
 With a glamour all thine own 1 
 
 So thou causest here the houses 
 Mean, nay squalid, in the light. 
 
 To appear a pearly pureness 
 
 Rather than a dirty white. 
 I
 
 I ^o Verses of Travel. 
 
 For the filth and streets so narrow, 
 
 With vile odours bred by day, 
 Save for Nature's glorious grandeur, 
 
 Takes admiring thoughts away ; 
 But the moonbeam maketh all things 
 
 Gain at least a semblance meet. 
 Till at length the wide-spread prospect 
 
 Has an aspect almost sweet.
 
 AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE. 
 
 Feb, 19, 1880. 
 
 'TiS fashionable now to say 
 That skill displayed in war is wrong, 
 
 That they who formed our England's sway, 
 And made her empire firm and strong, 
 
 Were callous cut-throats nothing less, — 
 Who joyed in war for its own sake, — 
 
 Who yearned to banish happiness, 
 Who loved with blood their thirst to slake. 
 
 And yet while landing here to-day, 
 On the same shore which years ago 
 
 Saw from its crag-encircled bay 
 Our Nelson's only overthrow,
 
 132 Verses of Travel. 
 
 I thought, Do those who grub and prose, 
 And by their Hghts their betters try, 
 
 Perform their Hfe-tasks more than those 
 Whose task is but ' to do or die ' ?
 
 SUNDAY MORNING OFF MAZAGAN, 
 MOROCCO. 
 
 March 14, 1880. 
 
 Strange spreading town of gleaming white 
 Girt round with sand and seething spray ! 
 
 A magic city, Fancy-dight, 
 Thou seemest this calm Sabbath-day. 
 
 Within thy walls can be discerned 
 The flat-roofed orient dwUing-place, — 
 
 And near are wells, whose wheels are turned 
 By pensive camel's steadfast pace. 
 
 Dark Moors in their fantastic dress. 
 In haste to reach us, leave the shore, — 
 
 And soon they make the distance less, 
 So strong the stroke of their long oar. 
 
 Now they have gained us, most with pride 
 Disdain the aid that steps afford,
 
 134 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Bare feet from heel-less slippers glide, 
 And, cat-like, swift they spring on board. 
 
 All speak at once with gestures quaint, 
 And few but in an unknown tongue. 
 
 Those in the boats take up the plaint, 
 And on the deck still more have sprung. 
 
 Ours is the only ship, save one, 
 That near to us at anchor rides, 
 
 And she content with work well done 
 Is waiting till to-morrow's tides. 
 
 And from her mizen-mast there floats 
 That flag so dear to British heart, — 
 
 The flag whose mingled hue denotes 
 A union naught should ever part. 
 
 A welcome standard ! it appears 
 A pleasant sign that even here 
 
 Are some who share our hopes and fears. 
 Who pray like us, like us revere.
 
 GIBRALTAR. 
 
 iS8o. 
 
 ' Sweet Seville ' ^ has been sung — and Cadiz too 
 By Byron,^ for the beauty of her girls, — 
 
 Yet know I not that one hath given thy due 
 To thee on whose proud crest the cloud-wreath 
 curls. 
 
 Let me attempt thy praise, then, for I know 
 That worthier pens will write of foreign towns,- 
 
 For now no place has praise with us, if so 
 It be mayhap a jewel of our Crown's. 
 
 ' Sweet Seville's ' Guadalquivir, famed in song, 
 Is nothing save a nearly stagnant stream.^ 
 
 ^ See * Seville,' by J. E. Carpenter. 
 
 ^ Vide Lord Byron's song, 'The Girl of Cadiz.' 
 
 " Excejot when in flood.
 
 136 Vei'ses of Travel. 
 
 The beauty of the Cadiz maiden throng 
 Exists, — but in a ' poet's airy dream.' 
 
 Here in Gibraltar all retains an air 
 
 Of honest truth. Odourless streets are clean, 
 And everything is made the most of, where 
 
 Man's art avails to soften down the scene. 
 
 The gardens of the Alameda, full 
 
 Of semi-tropic plants and shady trees, 
 
 Pleasant to lounge in their recesses cool 
 
 On summer eves to catch the soft sea-breeze. 
 
 Yet great the toil and patience must have been 
 Before at last was made such rocky ground 
 
 To nourish shrub, or plant, or aught of green. 
 Cheering it is to hear the home-like sound 
 
 Of English tongues, — to see our cared-for men, — 
 Contrasted with the Spaniards wan and weak, 
 
 Guarding their posts, as they with eager ken 
 Look on our cannon, which have but to speak —
 
 Gibraltar. 137 
 
 To put their lines to rout.^ How lovely gleams 
 The Rock at sunrise ! The grey looming clouds 
 
 Glow in the new-born light like glorious dreams, 
 While Shadow still the tranquil bay enshrouds. 
 
 Ay, grim Gibraltar, thou indeed art fair ! 
 
 And more than that, a place in which one may 
 Live with true home-like comfort, and a share 
 
 Of a good climate, brightening Life's dull day. 
 
 ^ A conspicuous row of white stone sentry-boxes are erected at 
 the extremity of Spanish territory, and from them Spanish soldiers 
 continually watch us. Doubtless they are within easy range of our 
 artillery, and it is equally certain that were we to fire on them, 
 they have no guns in position with which to answer us.
 
 GRANADA. 
 
 Fair Granada, our masters of the pen 
 
 Have written much of thee, and not a few 
 
 Who ne'er have seen thee, hold dream-wrought 
 
 and fair, 
 A city in their fancy by thy name 
 Seen clearly in their mental eyes, as if 
 'Twere mirrored in their senses. Thus with me ; 
 But when I saw, my fond ideal fell. 
 It was not that thy famed Alhambra hill 
 Lacked grandeur, or its silent courts were void 
 Of architectural wealth, or that the Vega,^ 
 Shut in by mountains and the silent snows,^ 
 Was aught save fair ; yet still the impressioii 
 
 stays 
 Unceasingly within me, caused perchance 
 By narrow Spanish streets, dull, dirty, white, 
 
 ^ The plain of Granada. 
 ^ Of the Sierra Nevada.
 
 Granada. 139 
 
 Or likelier that the sight of scaffoldings 
 
 And fresh-wrought antique work amid the old 
 
 In the Alhambra's courts'^ destroy their charm. 
 
 1 The Spanish government long neglected the Alhambra, but, 
 finding it a source of revenue by the attraction of visitors, they 
 have begun to renew it. Doubtless therefore, in a few years, much 
 of what is thought to be ancient will in reality be quite modern. 
 Two examples will suffice. I myself saw a boy putting up some 
 frescoes in exact imitation of the Moorish workmanship, and new 
 ears have been given to some of the stone lions so recently (April, 
 1880) that the colour has not yet had time to assimilate to that of 
 the other portion of the images to which they belong.
 
 PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE. 
 
 Palms by moonlight ! Waving palms, 
 How each thought of you embalms 
 In memory the spot whereon I saw you last ! 
 
 Wonderfully, softly clear, — 
 Did you on that night appear, 
 Each branch, each leaf, distinct in strange ethereal 
 sheen. 
 
 Scarce like Europe seemed that scene, — 
 Where the eye rich hues could glean, 
 Cheering the mind as doth a gentle soothing 
 dream. 
 
 But like mellow Eastern tale, 
 In which genii ride the gale, 
 Stealing among such trees on mystic errands sent.
 
 Palms by Moonlight at Alicante. 141 
 
 Soon the sweet and glowing sight 
 Made romantic with delight 
 My heart, as on its radiance I fondly gazed. 
 
 Whilst 'mid heaven of purest blue 
 The calm moon her glances threw 
 Upon these palms, soft visions floating came, — 
 
 Orient sentiments that stole 
 Swiftly, thrilling through my soul, 
 Their keenly subtle power how deeply strongly 
 felt ! 
 
 And with ravished eye and heart 
 Wished I never to depart. 
 Looking, I longed to live, and see such scene 
 for ever.
 
 A SPOT IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 A SILVERN haze is over all. At hand 
 
 Are gently swaying poplars, rippling larches 
 
 And firmly rooted firs, — while further off 
 
 Gleam azure waters of a waveless lake. 
 
 Beyond again are mountains ; not, as oft, 
 
 Gaunt snow-capped monarch peaks,' — but bright 
 
 with verdure. 
 The rocks cast shadows quaint upon the grass, 
 White chalets peep from mid close clustering 
 
 vines ; 
 Gay boats glide gently on with buoyant sail 
 Widely outspread. The scene though not 
 
 sublime 
 Seems full of happiness and calm content.
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY SEEING A SMALL GREY STONE ON THE ROAD, 
 AT THE SUMMIT OF THE SiMPLON PaSS, 
 
 September 14TH, 1880. 
 
 Quaint little common stone ! Strange may have 
 been 
 Existence with you for full many a year. — 
 
 A world of changes you perchance have seen, — 
 Although tormented by no heart-wrought fear, 
 No soul-distress, nor sorrow's blinding tear. 
 
 What direful tempests may have passed you by 
 When mid the riven mountains thunder rolled, 
 
 And sent his messengers athwart the sky, — 
 The rushing storm-clouds of shapes manifold 
 Which in deep darkness the horizon hold 
 
 Until his wrath is o'er. The silent snows 
 May oft have lain upon you, when the hands 
 
 Of winter framed his lofty couch, and chose 
 The glaciers for his lair. His dread commands 
 How ghastly ever make the higher lands
 
 144 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Doubtless in midnight hour, when tranquil stars 
 Shine down on snow-drifts, on the glaciers lone, 
 
 And on snow-laden pines : when nothing mars 
 The wondrous scene to human eye scarce known : 
 Where Nature rears mid rocks her frost-bound 
 throne. 
 
 Yet for how many ages year by year 
 
 Such prospects you have seen ! Perceiving too 
 
 Sun-risings and sun-settings the most clear 
 And most magnificent, the loveliest hue 
 Of Nature never hidden from your view. 
 
 Near you, may be, have wandered weary men 
 Mid fierce storm-battles fought on wintry 
 nights ; — 
 Near you, perchance, have happened now and 
 then 
 Most wondrous things, more strange and curious 
 
 sights 
 Than sages know who are the world's most 
 lustrous lights.
 
 Lines on Siruplon Pass. 145 
 
 Yet now you 're broken up to make the road 
 A poor despised chip ! And haply too 
 
 You will be useless in your new abode, 
 
 And in the nook, where heedlessly man threw 
 You as he passed, shrink from his callous view. 
 
 K
 
 THE CERTOSA OF PAVIA ; 
 
 A GREAT Italian Convent, and grand work of Art. 
 
 Great monument of human skill ! 
 How vast must be the power and scope 
 Of minds which can conceive, — of hands 
 That shape such edifices rare ; 
 And doth the splendid sight not show 
 Convincingly how wondrous is 
 The grandeur, mightiness of Man, 
 Despite his body frail, and train 
 Of weary woes, which almost ever 
 Attends him, ere king Death with sway 
 Imperious demands his spoil ? 
 And do such sights not educate 
 (If we may phrase it thus) the soul, 
 Leading us far more to believe 
 In the proud majesty of Art? 
 The marble cuttings exquisite
 
 The Ceriosa of Pavia. 147 
 
 Near the high altar, the mosaics 
 
 Gorgeous — yet though so finely wrought, 
 
 Designed in truly simple taste. 
 
 The stately stalls of workmanship 
 
 Replete with loveliness and rich 
 
 In cunning inlaid work. The aspect 
 
 Of the exterior, the carvings 
 
 So realistic near the door — 
 
 The outer door — of Roman coins 
 
 (Though strange to see these Pagan heads) 
 
 At entrance to a Christian Church. 
 
 All, all make up a noble whole, 
 
 And fill the heart with feelings which 
 
 'Twere better that it ne'er forgot.
 
 Foolscap 8vo, extra cloth, Price 2s. 6d. 
 
 ' Ihc ficcping of the DoId an^ q\\\zx Verses/ 
 
 BY H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. 
 LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, 62 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 
 
 ' The principal piece, wliicli lends its title to this volume, relates 
 to the well-known story of Robert Bruce sending his heart to the 
 Holy Land. The episode is narrated with much fire and rough 
 vigour. There are also a number of highly patriotic poems on 
 stirring events in history, and, besides these, there are some 
 graceful fancies expressed in very felicitous language. Mr. 
 Mackenzie Bell has a fluent style, and writes with some imagina- 
 tive fire. We congratulate Mr. Bell on having produced a volume 
 of verse which certainly deserves to find readers, and which holds 
 out promise of still better things to come.' — AUSTRALIAN AND 
 New Zealand Gazette, April jth, 1879. 
 
 ' The principal piece, whence this volume of verse takes its title, 
 relates to the well-known bequest by King Robert Bruce of his 
 heart to Sir James Douglas, to carry it to the Holy Land. The 
 episode is managed with some skill, and told in verses of not a 
 little vigour and picturesqueness. . , . The Lyrics entitled 
 "The Late Autumn is Dying" and "The Warbler's Mission" 
 are sweetly expressed and perfectly poetical fancies.' — Brief, 
 April lol/i, 1879. 
 
 'The author's /orle is evidently for humorous versification. 
 "Waiting for the Dentist" is almost worthy of Lord Neaves.' — 
 The Gkai'hic, yiaic 4//1, 1879.
 
 OPINIONS OF TIJE PRESS. 
 
 ' In this little volume we have no fewer than sixty-eight different 
 pieces of poetry, and the subjects treated are of the most mis- 
 cellaneous character. The first ten are historical, and many of 
 these are soul-stirring and highly original. "The Keeping of 
 the Vow " relates to the heroic death of Sir James of Douglas, 
 the gallantry of this dashing officer in the Spanish War between 
 Moor and Christian being set forth with much spirit. "Admiral 
 Hobson's First Exploit " is, to our mind, far superior. But the 
 numerous songs and miscellaneous pieces will be enjoyed most of 
 all, and many of these are not only very pretty but extremely 
 touching.' — European Mail, October i-jth, 1879. 
 
 ' A charming little volume.' — Kensington News, April /[t/i, 
 1879. 
 
 'The poem which gives this little volume its title tells how 
 Sir James Douglas kept the vow he made to the dying King 
 Robert Bruce. The story is told in graceful poetic language, 
 while the "Battle of Loudon Hill" is full of warlike fervour. 
 This is a right pleasant little book to read, and is full of promise 
 for higher work than is here attained.' — Edinburgh Daily 
 Review, May 2d, 1879. 
 
 ' There is much vigorous writing in these pages, the martial 
 pieces in particular being very stirring. The best of them by a 
 long way is that entitled " The Battle of Loudon Hill," descriptive 
 of a memorable scene with Graham of Claverhouse in the days of 
 the Scottish Covenanters, in which Mr. Bell makes good use of 
 the stanzas familiar to us by "The Lay of the Last Ministrel,' 
 drawing a graphic picture of the peasant host victorious over the 
 disciplined troopers of Charles II. There is much giim amuse- 
 ment in " Waiting for the Dentist," and some quaint and original 
 thought in the poet's apostrophe "To the Ink Bottle in the 
 Hotel Coffee Room." Several of the Songs, too, are creditable 
 to Mr. Bell's lyric powers, and possess the homely merit of being 
 intelligible, which cannot be said of everything set to music in 
 these days, and heard in the drawing-room.' — Liverpool Daily 
 Mercury, Apil 12th, 1879. 
 
 ' Among the multitude of singers here is a voice which makes a 
 pleasant echo, and doubtless will be heard again. Of the sixty-six
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 poems which make up the pretty little volume, we are not prepared 
 to say that the one that gives the title to the work is the best. At 
 any rate there are others that we like quite as well ; but every one 
 of the pieces is graceful, rhythmical, and stamped with the impress 
 of poetic power. The author may yet take a higher place among 
 lyric poets, and in the meantime offers us no feeble performance.' — 
 Sheffield Post, April yh, 1879. 
 
 'ThisIs a neat little book of poetry by a writer who isnot unknown 
 nor unappreciated in the literary world for the excellencies which 
 have characterised his writings. A true poetical spirit pervades 
 the effusions which form the contents of the present neatly got up 
 volume, which lovers of the divine art will not fail to estimate as 
 they deserve. The specimens are in almost every imaginable style, 
 and aftbrd evidence of the versatility of the genius of the author, 
 whose productions comprise tales of battle, songs of love, and 
 miscellaneous subjects, from which we select the following light, 
 inspiring, and seasonable little ditty, which the writer has entitled 
 "A Song of Hope.'"— Brighton Examiner, April 15, 1879. 
 
 ' This is a neat small octavo volume, rich in variety and abound- 
 ing with poetic fire. The book is issued without preface or 
 introduction, and it needs none. First comes a collection of 
 historical pieces, then a little budget of songs, and after them a 
 large number of miscellaneous pieces. There are gems among 
 them.' — Dover Express, April a,th, 1879. 
 
 ' Of the historical pieces our preference lies with " Admiral 
 Hobson's First Exploit," narrating with some amount of spirit 
 and musical rhythm the well-known legend how the naval hero in 
 his boyhood climbed the mast of the Dutch ship and pulled down 
 the flag, causing a panic and surrender of the crew, thus gaining 
 imperishable fame. In the songs the author has shown the best 
 evidence of power, and in " Unfulfilled Yearnings" we see this 
 advantageously exemplified ; the cry of unsatisfied longing has not 
 been uttered without some degree of eloquence. So again, " True 
 Inspiration" has something about it of the genuine ring. . . "The 
 Heart's Summer" will also pass muster, the soft summer sounds 
 being aptly compared to the inward peace of "a heart at rest." 
 The paraphrase on the text, " Lord, teach us how to pray," is
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 another favourable specimen. . . . Sweet and soothing verses. . . . 
 We come on another very fine piece in a " Dream of Long Ago," 
 which will strike a chord of sympathy in many a traveller down the 
 hill of life as it calls up the scenes of long-past youth. We have 
 only just room to pick out one other plum, it is the "Apostrophe 
 to an Ink Bottle in the Hotel Coffee-Room." All the ideas and 
 associations are ingeniously conceived, and skilfully woven together.' 
 — Dorset County Chronicle, October 2d, 1879. 
 
 'This volume of verse, by H. T. Mackenzie Bell, possesses 
 considerable merit. We do not know if this is Mr. Bell's first 
 literary venture. If such is the case there is much in it to be 
 proud of. In the poems, dealing with historical subjects, the 
 author does not show to so much advantage as in the less ambiti- 
 ous "Songs' which follow. The style of some of these is very 
 similar to that of Samuel Lover's shorter poems. A spirit of 
 tenderness frequently peeps out, producing results far more worthy 
 of praise than the more pretentious efforts which open the volume. 
 The other Contents are entitled "Miscellaneous Pieces;" the 
 author's frequent change of metre renders monotony impossible. 
 The book, as a whole, shows signs of undeveloped genius, and any 
 further work from the same pen will doubtless show great improve- 
 ment on the present one.' — Walsall Free Press, April 2()t/i, 
 1879. 
 
 * There is evidence of poetic power which only requires cultiva- 
 tion to attain to higher flights of poesy.' — Southport News, 
 Juty 23,/, 1 88 1. 
 
 ' A selection of historical pieces, songs, and miscellaneous 
 poems, by H. T. Mackenzie Bell, several of the collection possess- 
 ing great charm, and the true poetic ring of genius : neatly bound, 
 clearly printed, the volume forms a capital book for presentation.' 
 • — Man of Ross, April ist, 1S79.
 
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