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 6 
 
 
 
 Song Stream 
 
 BY 
 
 J. Gregory.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SONG STREAMS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. GREGORY, 
 
 Author of " Idyls of Labour," etc. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, 
 
 31, WALPOLE ST., STAPLETON EOAD, BRISTOL, 
 
 1877.
 
 PLYMOUTH: 
 PRINTED KY G. P. FRIEND AND CO., UNION STREET.
 
 fR 
 
 Qj- 5" 5. 3^ 
 
 TO MANY KIND HELPERS 
 
 OF MY MUSE, 
 
 FEOM THE OBSCURITY OF LIFE, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME, 
 
 WITH 
 
 PLEASANT MEMORIES, 
 
 AND 
 
 MUCH LOVE. 
 
 J. Gregory. 
 
 853727
 
 I^I^EF-A^OE. 
 
 Courteous Eeader, by the dim light of a few 
 "bottled glowworms I once saw a countryman reading 
 the Bible. This anecdote I pen that you may com- 
 prehend the extreme di£&cu]ty a toil drudge has to 
 overcome ere he accomplishes the feat of launching 
 into the flood of literature such a volume as this. 
 
 Hope not then to find within the compass of my 
 waif -fold the wonders of poesy. Yet here shall you 
 discover flowers you will not disdain, and among the 
 leaves thoughts that shall not be forgotten. 
 
 Out on the sea of time I have floated my waifs 
 away as urchins sail j^aper boats. Here have I 
 again gathered them in ; and unto the grace of your 
 indulgence, that they may not with the author soon 
 pass down to greater obscurity, I respectfully com- 
 mend them.
 
 OOlsTTIBnsrTS. 
 
 PAGE, 
 
 Summer Clouds... ... ... ... ... ••• 1 
 
 ^YIXTER Rain 5 
 
 Eesukrection of Flora ... ... ... ... 11 
 
 Easter Dreams •• 14 
 
 The Storm 19 
 
 To Winter 22 
 
 In THE Garden 24 
 
 Leah ... ... ... ... ... ... •• 26 
 
 Jack's Surprise... ... ... ... ... ... 31 
 
 The Northfleet ... ... ... ... ... 32 
 
 Frolicsome Fan 34 
 
 Isolintha 36 
 
 Wooing ... 39 
 
 Saint Monday 40 
 
 Eve in the City 42 
 
 AYhat Art Thou Worth? 44 
 
 Gold ... ... ... ... 45 
 
 Decay 46 
 
 Questions ... ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 Dust Thou Art 50 
 
 Unsought Pleasure ... ... ... ... ... 51 
 
 Searching for God ... ... 52 
 
 The Christmas Box ... 55 
 
 A Memory 58 
 
 The May Queen and Her Lovers ... 59 
 
 Eldorado 66 
 
 Down Home 68
 
 VIU. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Bells 71 
 
 The White Sleeper 72 
 
 The Bkokex Eing 7(> 
 
 Sketches of Twelve 7*7 
 
 England Neutral 81 
 
 The Beautiful AVatcher 83 
 
 Eain Through the Roof ... ... 88 
 
 The Orphans' City, Ashley Hill, Bristol ... 92 
 
 Under a Cloud 95 
 
 Hymen's Acid 98 
 
 The Funeral 100 
 
 To The World 103 
 
 The Old Pauper's Song 105 
 
 A Book 107 
 
 Sonnets on Chatterton's Church, Bristol ... 108 
 
 How Mary Died llo 
 
 Resignation Ill 
 
 Fame 112 
 
 Blighted Hopes 113 
 
 A Christmas Idyl 114 
 
 Bertha IIG 
 
 Spring Joys 137 
 
 To Cupid 139 
 
 Happy Bob ... HO 
 
 The Meeting of the Emperors HI 
 
 Where Is Heaven? 142 
 
 Weary' op Life 143 
 
 My Garden 145 
 
 The Dying Hangman 14(3 
 
 Mother To Baby 147 
 
 The Red May 149 
 
 Going to Bed 150
 
 ■^^^^TiinS. 
 
 Summer Clouds. 
 
 THKOUGH iny prison windows gazing 
 On the "blue midsummer sky, 
 And tlie sj)lendour, soul-amazing, 
 
 Of the vapours passing "by, 
 I behold a panorama. 
 
 Motioned by the zephyr's breath. 
 Passing westwards, 'neath the heavens, 
 To the kingdom claimed by death ; 
 
 Drifting wrecks of Eldorado, 
 
 Bearded bards, with broken lyres ; 
 Temple, palace, and pagoda, 
 
 Turrets, pinnacles, and spires ; 
 Chariots drawn by pi-ancing dragons, 
 
 Mounted knights, and castles grand. 
 Built on blocks of alabaster, 
 
 Floating o'er my mother-land. 
 
 Clouds of every form and tissue, 
 Coral tinted caves, from whence 
 
 B
 
 Liglit-robed i>liaiitoms rise and issue 
 To the realms of space immense ; 
 
 Magazines of summer thunder, 
 And a host of shapes uncouth, 
 
 With the Storm-king's black battalion. 
 Marshalled in the misty south. 
 
 Headland, peak, and promontory ; 
 
 Heaven-piercing hills of snow, 
 Varnished Avith a flash of glory, 
 
 Or the sun's seraphic glow ; 
 And the fair earth far beneath it, 
 
 By the heirs of Eden trod. 
 Lying like a massive emerald, 
 
 Shining in the palm of God. 
 
 Fleecy clouds like cherubs' pillows. 
 
 Soft as beauty's silken curl , 
 Bays of violet with billows, 
 
 Climbing rocks of argent pearl ; 
 And the mighty dead of ages — 
 
 Monarchs, prophets, saints, and seers- 
 Marching in a vast procession 
 
 To a sepulchre of years. 
 
 Svmbols of all things uncertain. 
 Visions of the empires dead. 
 
 Painted on a splendid curtain. 
 
 Fringed with silver, blue, and red:
 
 Pictures sad and pictures pleasant, 
 Framed iu purple, gold, and dun. 
 
 Hung on the blue wall of heaven 
 By the palace of the sun. 
 
 Winds of summer, while ye wander. 
 
 All the world of glory through. 
 Tell us what is this new wonder, 
 
 Gliding in my vision new ? 
 It is like a grand cathedral. 
 
 But my fancy seeth more, 
 She can count the twelve apostles 
 
 Grouped about its lofty door. 
 
 Do they listen to a pDean 
 
 From Old England's Sabbath bells^ 
 To the merciful Judean, 
 
 And the tale of love it tells ? 
 Can the bell notes ever wander. 
 
 Wander up and not expire. 
 Till they reach the heavenly highlands 
 
 Through this sea of summer fire? 
 
 There is one day out of seven, 
 When a weary child I seem, 
 
 Sleeping on the stairs of heaven, 
 And it may be all a dream ; 
 
 But I see the summer angels 
 Bearing banners wide and white.
 
 Waving in the summer sunshine 
 To tlie world a sweet good night. 
 
 All our lives are drifting tombward, 
 
 While I watch the pageant fair, 
 " Sheeted shadows" wander homeward 
 
 Through the scented summer air ; 
 And the land is green with beauty, 
 
 But my charm is on the skies. 
 When the June rose falls to slumber, 
 
 And the Sabbath evening dies. 
 
 Faithful hopes of flying treasures, 
 
 Emblems of the hopes we had, 
 Evanescent as our pleasures. 
 
 Visions, beautiful and glad, 
 Of the future float above me, 
 
 But my joys are in their shrouds, 
 \Vhile I learn this painful lesson 
 
 From the painted summer clouds. 
 
 What is honour, if we gain it. 
 But a ffoblet dashed bv fate 
 From the lips of those that drain it. 
 
 Or a guest that comes too late ? 
 WJiile we ivait the banquet endeth, 
 Willie ive ho^pe the cloud expands, 
 WJtile we ivor'k some needy brother 
 Weaves our shroud with weary hands.
 
 Winter Rain. 
 
 A 
 
 S a bird bereft of feather, or a harp devoid of 
 string, 
 In this wild, wet, winter weather, I can neither soar 
 
 nor sing ; 
 I can only sit and listen to the soul-disturbing strain 
 Of the hissing, seething, leaping, labour- killing 
 
 winter rain. 
 It is neither light nor darkness ; it is neither day 
 
 nor night ; 
 
 It is gloom in all its starkness ; it is water in the 
 
 might. 
 
 Shape and mood 
 
 Of a flood, 
 
 That the winds, a busy brood. 
 
 For the love of ruin striving, are all up, and madly 
 
 driving 
 
 World-ward from the bursting fountains. 
 
 Whence it breaks 
 
 On the peaks 
 
 Of the black and jagged mountains, 
 
 Where the frightened eagle shrieks 
 
 To the blind 
 
 Whirling wind. 
 
 That has not a home to gain, 
 
 Nor a grave wherein to moulder 
 
 When it dies.
 
 That is why Boreas tries 
 To ui^root the bedded boulder 
 From the stony giant's shoulder — 
 He would hurl it on the valley, 
 
 He would dash it on the plain, 
 Where the water spirits rally 
 All their might continually, 
 And the rain — 
 " Winter rain"— 
 On the rolling river dances, 
 Like a sea of silver lances, 
 To the stormy utterances 
 
 Of the wind that has no j^ity — 
 How it beats 
 On the streets 
 Of the smoke-enveloped city, 
 Where the people that you meet 
 Are a race with " flvins' feet " 
 Seeking shelter, 
 Helter skelter, 
 From the flood wherein they welter, 
 To the sad sonorous chorus 
 Of the turbulent, uproarious, 
 Winter winds, that wander howling. 
 To the heavens black and scowling. 
 Like a herd of lions growling 
 In a melancholy strain, 
 To the trilling 
 Of the chilling, 
 Labour killing " winter rain."
 
 In my cottage chamber sitting, on its roof I hear 
 
 the rain, 
 Dash'd from heaven like the splitting of a planet's 
 
 pall in twain, 
 
 By the bluff, 
 Burly, gruff, 
 Ghostly, gusty, shai'p, and rough, 
 Forest sacking, 
 Ocean racking. 
 Winds that wander mercy lacking, 
 With no home on earth to gain. 
 What with me. 
 Can the three 
 Winds, that are a trinity, 
 Want so badly. 
 That they madly 
 Wail about my bolted door 
 
 In the flood descending sadly 
 Prom the sea that has no shore '? 
 How they mob me, 
 Rack and rob me ; 
 Will they never more refrain ? 
 
 By the soul of my dead mother ! 
 
 'Tis no other 
 Than the winds that drown' d my brother 
 In the mad Atlantic main. 
 
 'Tis a crowd of things immortal, 
 Void of body, shape, or form, 
 'Tis the spirit of the storm ; 
 
 Wailing round my bolted portal,
 
 Ill tlie raiu — 
 " Winter rain." 
 What with me can they want hither ? 
 How they murmur and complain ! 
 Till my death-sick fancies shiver 
 As the thought 
 Flits before my soul, unsought, 
 That my brother dead may be 
 
 Here with me ; 
 From his grave beneath the free, 
 Greedy sea, 
 Where the savage natives wrangle, 
 For the flesh and blood they mangle. 
 And the clammy rock- weeds tangle. 
 
 Round their white limbs noiselessly 
 Is it he ? 
 Hear I not strange footsteps walking 
 On my haunted chamber floor ? 
 Lord ! how loud my fears are talking 
 In this horrible uproar 
 Of the rain — 
 Wind and rain — 
 That enthrals me in the chain 
 Of a spell wherein I ponder, 
 
 Sick Avith wonder, 
 At a tragic scene out yonder, 
 
 On the mad Atlantic main, 
 Where the winds, that shift and hufiie 
 On the flood they lift and ruffle,
 
 With the white-maned monsters scuffle ; 
 Ah ! the prize they hope to gain 
 Is a ship, 
 That they strip, 
 Torture, toss, and overtip. 
 Till the water-witches clasp her 
 In a shroud of boiling jasper. 
 And she disappears for ever, in the reservoir of rain. 
 Now the widow's eyes are raining 
 
 On the shore. 
 Now her children are complaining, 
 
 Sorrow sore; 
 But the mercJiant trader, gaining 
 
 By the loss that made them poor, 
 Hears the flighty. 
 Wild, and mighty 
 Winter rain he " wishes further," 
 Saying sounds that seem like murder. 
 
 And what more f 
 Hears a master spirit seeking 
 
 No man's honour, praise or fame, 
 Hears the noble Plimsoll speaking 
 
 Trumpet- tongued, in mercy's name. 
 Pleasure fright'ning, 
 Anger brightning [ning* 
 
 Truths, that burn their paths like light- 
 To the core 
 Of the trader's heart, that trembles 
 As his palsied fear assembles
 
 10 
 
 All liis memories terrific, that lie fancied dead before 
 Dares the traitor do as Judas did of yore, 
 When he dashed a damning token 
 Of a greedy spirit broken. 
 At the feet of bearded rabbis on King David's 
 temple floor, 
 
 With the moan 
 And the groan 
 0/ a soul by God forsaken ? 
 Oh ! the pain 
 Of the rain, 
 And the troubles that awaken 
 To my spirit, sorrow shaken, 
 How it strives 
 As it drives 
 Comfort from a host of lives. 
 Now the toiler in the cottage, that hath life and 
 
 body sold 
 For a doubtful mess of j^ottage to the god whose 
 
 name is gold. 
 For his famished lovers caring with his rain be- 
 clouded eyes. 
 Through the window looks despairing on the black 
 
 unbroken skies. 
 Deeper, wider, passion furious, fetter bursting, 
 
 freedom fond, 
 Dashing, with a joy luxurious, down their banks 
 and miles beyond.
 
 11 
 
 Torrents leap, 
 Bound and sweep, 
 While tlie toiler's children weep — 
 Breadless, wretched, wan, and ghastly, 
 Famine-pinched and sinking fastly — 
 Helpless, idle-handed, starving, God have mercy on 
 
 the poor — 
 When the winter rain is on them, then the wolf is 
 at the door. 
 
 The Resurrection of Flora. 
 
 k' 
 
 LL summer- ward flowing, 
 The spring days are growing : 
 Aloud March is blowing his trumpet profound. 
 Because 'tis his duty 
 To waken up beauty. 
 And summon the dead from their graves in the 
 ground. 
 
 o' 
 
 Swift sunbeams are streaming. 
 
 On primroses beaming. 
 Where wood-doves sit dreaming in wind-shelter'd 
 dells, 
 
 And bird music gushes 
 
 From fresh-budding bushes 
 To violets smiling in moss-matted cells.
 
 12 
 
 The ice-king is dying, 
 
 The frost fiends are flying 
 From sj)ring, hither hieing o'er mountain and plain ; 
 
 See ! where they have striven 
 
 A snow robe lies riven, 
 The spear of the crocus hath piere'd it in twain. 
 
 Away from Death's keeping 
 
 Fair things that were sleeping 
 Come timidly peeping — awoke by the blast 
 
 Of March, the spring angel, 
 
 In summer's evangel, 
 Proclaiming to Flora that winter is past. 
 
 Where all things seemed blighted, 
 
 Dear daisies are sighted. 
 And lambs leap delighted to see them spring up ; 
 
 No king in his palace 
 
 Lifts such a fair chalice 
 As my fairy goblet, the bright buttercup. 
 
 The dead are ascending. 
 
 From sepulchres rending — 
 Their death night is ending, their rising is grand ; 
 
 Their freedom is spoken. 
 
 Their bondage is broken. 
 The spirit of life is abroad in the land. 
 
 Behold them assembling, 
 All tenderly trembling —
 
 That future resembling, of which we have fear, 
 
 When life shall he given 
 
 To spirits sin-shriven, 
 And they shall be lifted to heaven's high sphere. 
 
 I love for their daring, 
 
 Beyond all comparing, 
 My March flowers bearing a message of love : 
 
 From them we can borrow 
 
 This solace in sorrow — 
 Like them we may blossom all trouble above. 
 
 Through darkness uptoiling. 
 
 All troubles outfoiling, 
 No neighbour despoiling to be what they are ; 
 
 They blow on our mountains, 
 
 They glow by our fountains. 
 And sparkle like gems on the brow of a star. 
 
 All summer-ward flowing. 
 
 While spring days are growing, 
 And March is here blowing his trumpet profound ; 
 
 With them we are going 
 
 From all we are doing — 
 Like them mav we rise from our beds in the ground. 
 
 './.^l
 
 14 
 
 Easter Dreams. 
 
 WHEN to the playground of tlie lamb, 
 Over the lea from dainty cells, 
 The helted, hronzy, brown bees swam 
 To kiss the golden cowslip bells, 
 
 And more than this, 
 In the delightful Easter hours 
 When Psyche from her prison foul, 
 
 In search of bliss. 
 Sprang out to life a winged soul, 
 I nestled on a bank of flowers. 
 
 Breathing the breath 
 Of blossoms bright, 
 
 That were from death 
 To life and light. 
 Woke by the children of the sun, 
 
 Which ye call beams, 
 Who do the Poets' banquet shun, 
 Or fail to feast your souls on dreams, 
 And from my bed of green and gold 
 Beneath the boughs, above the mould, 
 I saw in the blue wold aloft 
 A fleecy, fair, fantastic, soft 
 Slow-sailing swarm of silver white 
 Summery clouds, that in my sight 
 Swam as a vessel on the deep 
 Swims when the saucy sea winds sleep,
 
 15 
 
 And Fancy of the clouds above, 
 Sang thus to please my happy love. 
 
 After the days of mighty March, 
 
 The burly trumpeter of Spruig, 
 Are numbered 'neath the world's blue arch, 
 
 When orchard trees are blossoming. 
 It is a joy the Father grants 
 Unto the blest inhabitants 
 Of that high home all else above, 
 Where all the people live on love, 
 That they may quit their blissful spheres, 
 To live and smile 
 A happy while 
 On this wild wilderness of tears, 
 Which is the star God loveth most. 
 Of all the great harmonious host. 
 And a death-haunted orb from whence 
 
 Christ, for the love of Adam's race, 
 Arose to the magnificence 
 
 Of endless life, from Death's embrace. 
 
 Therefore the pilgrim angels leave 
 That bliss, for which we fret and grieve, 
 In happy crowds 
 " And fleecy clouds. 
 Sailing above this world so far. 
 Are unto them as ships afloat 
 In the blue sea about a star, 
 Or each of them a pleasure boat.
 
 16 
 
 Wherein tlie pilgrim angels glide 
 From Leaven in the Easter-tide. 
 
 Hark ! o'er the land 
 
 A joyful band 
 Of minstrel birds on blissful wings, 
 
 Ascend to meet 
 
 The angel fleet ; 
 All the green wood with music rings ; 
 
 And spirits sweet, 
 From blossoms fair 
 
 Arise to greet. 
 
 On wings of air, 
 
 Them to this world that we call ours : 
 
 Hence they are wafted by the breath 
 
 Of wonders from the house of death 
 
 Called April flow'rs ; 
 For all these pilgrim ships that glide 
 
 Along the blue 
 Bright heaven in the Easter-tide 
 
 Are made of dew — 
 The dainty dew of herbs and flowers, 
 Which, in the holy Easter-hours 
 Fell on them in the starlight mild, 
 As tears upon a sleeping child 
 Fall from the milder orbs of love. 
 Bending its virgin babe above. 
 And there are clouds of which we know 
 They were not from the seas below, 
 Nor from the rolling river's breast 
 Kaised to such peaceful states of rest.
 
 17 
 
 There is among 
 
 That snowy throng 
 Of sunny clouds that swim and shine 
 
 Fp in the bright 
 
 Blue sea of light, 
 A floating fount of love divine, 
 Made of that passion-tide which swept 
 From mercy's heart when Jesus wept ; 
 And when the pilgrim angels glide' 
 From heaven in the Easter-tide ; 
 'Tis from that fount, the world above, 
 They drink his tears, and say, " What love !" 
 
 Thus to the muse that I love best 
 Fair fancy sang at love's request, 
 And even as I heard her sing 
 Her happy theme — 
 Was it a dream ? 
 I saw the heavens opening ; 
 Not with the sound of sudden haste, 
 
 But as a languid lily's mouth 
 Opens at noon to catch the chaste 
 Kiss of an air wave from the south ; 
 So softly opening more and more, 
 Up in the skies. 
 Until mine eyes 
 Seem'd looking in through heaven's door, 
 And through that door an angel throng, 
 With tender sounds of holy soag. 
 
 i^'u
 
 18 
 
 Came ; and before the angels flew 
 Down to our planet's beach of blue, 
 A flock of doves, and by that beach. 
 Within the pilgrim angels' reach, 
 
 So light afloat 
 A cloud of dew. 
 
 Shaped as a boat, 
 Swam in my view. 
 And then — and then, that fairer boat. 
 Than ever fancy found afloat, 
 Drawn by a flock of doves along. 
 Came sailing with the angel throng; 
 Nearer, and nearer yet, until, 
 High on a heaven-piercing hill, 
 
 Out in the west, 
 
 I saw it rest, 
 And from its bounds the happy band 
 Leapt light as snow flakes on the land. 
 Then from the earth beneath their feet 
 Brake a bright host of blossoms sweet, 
 Such as were never brought by spring, 
 Save to a soul's imagining ; 
 So I believe that they were brought 
 From heaven by the happy thought. 
 For mine were as that blissful throng 
 Of doves that drew the boat along ; 
 And if thine inner eyes are good, 
 When that thy mind is in the mood.
 
 19 
 
 And if on such a bank of flowers, 
 You nestle in the Easter hours, 
 More than I saw you may behold, 
 And sweeter may your dreams be told ; 
 Mine is a little earth child's lay 
 With whom 'twill pass away. 
 
 -ee<^90H-@^- 
 
 The Storm. 
 
 THE winds are up, the clouds are down 
 About the mountain's waist. 
 The sky is black as murder's frown, 
 
 And wild as anger's haste. 
 Death rides the blast that flings the spray 
 
 High as a forest tree 
 Over the doom'd ship in the bay. 
 And tumult shakes the sea. 
 
 Hark ! how the gusty monsters roar. 
 
 The stoutest vessel's form 
 Shakes as a reed on Albion's shore 
 
 In this tremendous storm. 
 God or Britannia ? which is now 
 
 Chief Euler of the waves ? 
 To whom do the tall breakers bow 
 
 Above our sailors' graves ?
 
 20 
 
 Come down to the rock-belted beach, 
 
 And the wild ocean's rim ; 
 There you shall hear the sea-gull screech, 
 
 To see the lifeboat swim : 
 Lord ! how she leaps from wave to wave 
 
 Toward the sinking bark ; 
 It is a chariot of the brave, 
 
 And the sea lions' ark. 
 
 See, how they bend the ashen blades 
 
 To climb the seething wall ; 
 Now bulwark deep she bravely wades 
 
 The flood at duty's call. 
 She cleaves the breaker's crest in twain. 
 
 And, like a thing of life, 
 She revels in the stormy main, 
 
 And glories in the strife. 
 
 What pale spectator of the fight 
 
 In this wild midnight noon 
 Is this, that trembles with affright ? 
 
 'Tis the fair Lady Moon. 
 The pall of clouds is rent to rags, 
 
 And shatter' d fragments fly 
 Before the blast like hunted stags, 
 
 Or aught that fears to die. 
 
 God speed the lifeboat to and fro, 
 And hear us while we plead —
 
 21 
 
 It is a fearful task we know- 
 To dare tte noble deed. 
 
 Oh, which will win, the wind or flood ? 
 There will be calm — but then, 
 
 This is the fear that chills our blood — 
 The stakes are living men. 
 
 Weird voices haunt the troubled air — 
 
 Hush ! there it is again ; 
 I wish mad Fancy would not swear, 
 
 'Tis like the soul of Cain 
 Wailing for shelter from the fiends 
 
 That mob it by my door ; 
 I pray that it may be the winds — 
 
 The winds, and nothing more. 
 
 Just where the robin loves to sing, 
 
 Atop my chimney gray. 
 There is some horrid howling thing 
 
 That will not go away. 
 A violent hand my window shakes, 
 
 I wonder why 'tis so ; 
 There may be peace when morn awakes — 
 
 But what a night for woe ! 
 
 Brides of the bold that plough the deep 
 
 For glory, love, or hire, 
 With you we will this vigil keep. 
 
 Till all your hopes expire.
 
 22 
 
 The storm that blew your joy away 
 
 Our pity woke to life ; 
 'Tis hard to keep despair at bay — 
 
 God help the sailor's wife. 
 
 She wanders in her chamber's girth, 
 
 The sport of horror foul ; 
 Love tells her of a brave man's worth, 
 
 Fear whispers to her soul : 
 The blast that shakes your cottage door 
 
 Blew from his graveyard wide : 
 Woman, you will not see him more — 
 
 God help that sailor's bride. 
 
 She bends, she kneels, she tries to pray, 
 
 But 'tis so wild and dark ; 
 Distracted love may lose its way. 
 
 And prayer might miss its mark. 
 Her fancies are a raven flock. 
 
 Her faith a wounded dove, 
 Down by the beach, on a bai-e rock — 
 
 God bless that woman's love. 
 
 ®e<»J0^^6 
 
 To Winter. 
 
 A VAUNT ! Away, thou gloomy ghoul, 
 Exalt thy shadows from my soul;
 
 23 
 
 And from tlie sky its grimy sliroud, 
 Or give me strength to burst this cloud 
 Of dense depression, foul, and vast, 
 Wherein my wings are tangled fast, 
 So that I cannot soar to sing ; 
 Avaunt, that I may welcome spring. 
 
 Up ! and shake off thy dusky guise. 
 Awake the airs which clear the skies, 
 That I may see the winter stars ; 
 This is the time when gallant Mars 
 And belted Saturn dance above 
 Our world with Venus, Queen of Love, 
 And silv'ry beams of glory flow 
 From fair Diana's graceful bow. 
 
 Come in thy better raiment clad. 
 Bring rosy health to make us glad, 
 Let the dry sands of Afric drain 
 Deep, as it loves, thy gushing rain, 
 From fountain clouds that never tire. 
 Then will I hail thee, glorious sii'e 
 Of gentle Spring, thy Master gave 
 To roll the stone from Flora's grave. 
 
 It is not day, it is not night, 
 When shall I see the angel Light 
 In the blue heavens, lifting high 
 His splendid torch ? Avaunt ! and die.
 
 24 
 
 Or speed tliy change, for with thy gloom 
 Thus, thou hast made this world a tomb, 
 Wherein some sickly sunbeams stray 
 To tell us when it should be day. 
 
 >5«e 
 
 In the Garden. 
 
 IT is the hour we used to meet 
 When thou wast in thy prime, 
 So we for love will make a fete. 
 
 In mem'ry of the time — 
 In mem'ry of the time we met. 
 
 When first I came to woo, Nan ; 
 And just that we may not forget, 
 I'll tell thee what to do. Nan. 
 
 The king of day out in the west. 
 
 Wrapt in his golden gown. 
 Sinks on his crimson couch to rest. 
 
 So drop your knitting down ; 
 And let us in the garden spread 
 
 Our supper on the mould, Nan, 
 Then will we dream of bliss ahead. 
 
 Just as we did of old. Nan. 
 
 Down where the tall sunflow'rs flare 
 Their blossoms to the bees.
 
 25 
 
 There we will turn our backs on care, 
 
 And give the hours to ease ; 
 My arm about thy waist shall creep, 
 
 Just as it did of yore, Nan, 
 When all the wealth I longed to keep 
 
 Lay clasped within its store, Nan. 
 
 There ! it was just like this we sat, 
 
 Down in our wooing days ; 
 And then you gave my cheeks a pat. 
 
 Because I sang your praise ; 
 And then I saw your blushes flower 
 
 In all their pretty prime, Nan, 
 Ah ! that was young Love's sowing hour, 
 
 But now's the harvest time, Nan. 
 
 Bring out the Holy Book, good dame, 
 
 Ere doth the day expire. 
 And read a chapter by the flame 
 
 Of God the Father's fire ; 
 And then let all the children sing 
 
 Their evening hymn aloud. Nan ; 
 There may be angels listening, 
 
 By yonder shining cloud, Nan. 
 
 Look at our bouncing bairns, my lass, 
 
 Are they not joys of ours. 
 Skipping about the garden grass, 
 
 Breathing the breath of flowers ?
 
 26 
 
 Now give tliem eacli a kiss for me, 
 
 Unto the little last, Nan ; 
 And I will do the same to thee, 
 In mem'ry of the past, Nan ; 
 The past. Nan — 
 Thou wast. Nan, 
 A wit more fond of Love's salute 
 "When wooing in the past, Nan. 
 
 Leah, 
 
 SHE walks the earth with such a grace, 
 As grief alone can wear ; 
 And when I meet her face to face, 
 
 'Tis more than love can bear 
 To see the seal of sorrow set 
 On all that once was fair. 
 
 The glee is gone from her blue eye. 
 
 And from her life the light ; 
 Where the sea-wind wails wanderby, 
 
 She starteth with affright, 
 As if she heard a sad man's voice. 
 
 Saying, " My love, good-night ! " 
 
 And this was how it came to be ; 
 (I know her sorrow well)
 
 27 
 
 There was a cot from trouble free, 
 
 Down in a sea-land dell, 
 Where loving Leah's laughter rang, 
 
 Blithe as a bridal bell, 
 
 I loved her with a brother's love, 
 
 I loved her as a roan. 
 My love was as a mother's love, 
 
 So pure for her it ran ; 
 And that is why I mourn to see 
 
 That wreck of beauty wan. 
 
 There came a warrior of the wave 
 My love and hers between. 
 
 He was so gallant, good, and brave, 
 And wore a noble mien ; 
 
 'Tis more than half a sin to say 
 I wish it had not been. 
 
 She gave her life to John the Bold, 
 And well she keeps her vow ; 
 
 His love was worth a mint of gold ; 
 Where doth he linger now ? 
 
 The curlew cries his grave above. 
 And mournful breakers bow. 
 
 I wish sad Leah would not stray 
 Down where the sea weeds grow, 
 
 Watching strange vessels in the bay, 
 That wander to and fro ;
 
 28 
 
 Sure Jolin the Bold would never stay, 
 If death would let him go ! 
 
 Down to the beach, one stormy night. 
 
 She hastened from her bed ; 
 Her cheeks were of a ghostly white, 
 
 Her lips were like the dead, 
 And burning tears fell from her eyes. 
 
 As drops of molten lead. 
 
 The winter winds like demons glad 
 
 Did rave, and bark, and yell ; 
 Crash on the coast the breakers mad 
 
 In dreadful fury fell ; 
 The stars were in a pall of cloud. 
 
 Black as the roof of hell. 
 
 Along the beach the life-boat men. 
 
 Smitten with terror sore. 
 Beheld a woman's shape ; and then. 
 
 Above the tempest roar. 
 Three times they heard her shriek aloud 
 
 "JohnHorc! JohnHore! JohnHore! 
 
 You said that you would come to me. 
 
 And yet thou art not here ; 
 I lift my hands in vain to thee, 
 
 I cry ; thou dost not hear ; 
 Come home, come home, come home ; O God ! 
 
 My soul is sick with fear.
 
 29 
 
 Hence from my bed, at Love's command, 
 
 I came the watch to keep ; 
 If thou art in death's icy band, 
 
 Why should I live to weep ? 
 O God ! and I am on the land, 
 
 But thou art in the deep." 
 
 That thought was as an arrow shot, 
 Deep in her troubled breast : 
 
 They led her to her sea-land cot ; 
 They laid her down to rest : 
 
 Never a cottage in the land 
 Contains a sadder guest. 
 
 She phes her needle with a sigh, 
 
 And then she tries to sing ; 
 But when her mem'ries wander by 
 
 It is a painful thing 
 To see the pent-up torrent gush 
 
 From misery's bitter spring. 
 
 Memories that wake at Love's commands, 
 
 To walk with muffled feet ; 
 They carry tablets in then- hands ; 
 
 They wear a winding sheet ; 
 And chant the praises of the past. 
 
 When life was nectar sweet. 
 
 I often say within my heart, 
 How sweet her grief must be !
 
 30 
 
 She will not spare one little part 
 
 Of her full cup to me ; 
 I wish she would not bar me from 
 
 Her soul's Gethsemane. 
 
 Grief is a flower that loves the shade 
 
 Where joy can never grow ; 
 And there's a night by sorrow made, 
 
 That may no morning know ; 
 Eut night is when the spirit stars 
 
 Put on their golden glow. 
 
 So shines her love-star clear and strong, 
 
 Although my grief may say 
 " Alas : 'twill not be shining lonsr 
 
 Within its shrine of clay ; 
 Hush, when the sun burns through the cloud 
 
 I know it will be day." 
 
 Bright through the snow the crocus breaks, 
 
 The primrose from its urn 
 Wakes with a smile ; but to her cheeks 
 
 The rose will not return ; 
 'Twas John the Bold that stole the rose, 
 
 Poor LeAh lives to mourn.
 
 31 
 
 Jack's Surprise. 
 
 OVEE the silver sea afar, 
 Over the silver sea, 
 What joy hast thou brought for me. Jack Tar? 
 
 What joy hast thou brought for me ? 
 'Tis nearly a year you sailed away, 
 Over the bar and out of the bay ; 
 There's never an hour of every day. 
 But what I have prayed for thee. 
 
 What -would you have me bring you. Poll ? 
 
 What would you have me bring ? 
 A silken gown ? a monkey droll ? 
 
 Or a golden bird to sing ? 
 What was it I promised of all things fine — 
 Parrots ? or pearls ? or rings to shine ? 
 What was it I promised if you'd be mine, 
 
 From over the sea to bring ? 
 
 " You promised that if I kept my vow 
 
 A gift you'd bring to me ? " 
 " Come hither, my lass, and take it now ; 
 
 'Tis here in my mouth," quoth he. 
 " There ; that same kiss I carried away. 
 Over the bar and out of the bay ; 
 I give it back to thee to-day 
 
 Sweet as you gave it me ? ''
 
 32 
 
 The Norihpeei. 
 
 SO near the shore that she no more may gain, 
 Our pilgrim ship at anchor in the night 
 Lay trusting to her deep sea cable's strain, 
 Full manned and ready for her ocean flight. 
 
 And as a floclc of wild sea swans at rest. 
 Swam winged rovers of the distant seas 
 
 Around her on the liquid monster's breast, 
 With pinions folded to the adverse breeze. 
 
 " The watch was set, " and bright each beacon lamp, 
 Tinging the robe of night with mellow sheen, 
 
 In the black wold above our ocean camp 
 Shone as a fun'ral torch in hands unseen. 
 
 Hushed were the voices of the pilgrim host. 
 In the great gloomy hold clasped by the sea. 
 
 That hurled its breakers on the Kentish coast 
 With a strange, wild, sleep-scaring monody. 
 
 Swift as the snow-clouds sailing o'er the skies, 
 And bearing down to where the Northfleet lay, 
 
 A demon of the flood with gleaming eyes 
 
 Came on her course o'er the wind-troubled bay. 
 
 Straight as the dart of death ; on through the gloom 
 Dashed the sea-demon on our pilgrim ship. 
 
 That trembled, shook, and hasted to her doom, 
 Crashed as an egg-shell in a giant's grip.
 
 33 
 
 In leapt the green waves througli her shattered frame, 
 Drinking the pilgrims' lives, but the foul foe 
 
 Stole from the death scene, and a deed of shame 
 To friendly darkness, reckless of our woe. 
 
 Braves to the pumps, and heroes to the leak, 
 
 Sprang for the love of life, and fought the flood 
 
 The feehle shrank from, with a thrilling shriek 
 For help and mercy, in their wildest mood ; 
 
 Till the sad captain gave his weeping wife 
 
 To the bold boatswain on his shoreward route ; 
 
 Then from our helpless exodus of life. 
 
 And every heart, the Angel Hope went out. 
 
 Yet every chance of life was madly sought 
 By the convulsive clutchings of despair ; 
 
 There was a rush of frenzied crowds that fought 
 For boats entangled in the doomed ship's gear. 
 
 There were strong men that mute as statue stones 
 Of mUk-white marble crouched on their own tomb ; 
 
 There was confusion, and heart bursting groans. 
 Farewell embraces, and vain thoughts of home. 
 
 And skyward darting, signals of distress 
 In quick succession from the sinking ship 
 
 Shot o'er the troubled bay of Dungeness, 
 Sharp as a death-scream from a mortal's lip. 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 Oh ! wandering pilot, answering to the sign, 
 
 That o'er the Ibillows di-ove thy conquering steed, 
 
 I wish, good master, that the joy was mine 
 Of thy life-saving in the dreadful need. 
 
 Brave was the skipper, and his noble crew 
 Obedient to the end, well winning praise 
 
 Out of the horror that around them grew. 
 In the sad ending of their dang'rous days. 
 
 But brave in vain, when the great climbing wave 
 Over the bulwarks came on board too fast. 
 
 Folding three hundred victims in one grave, 
 And wrangling for sad clusters on the mast. 
 
 Then the great coflBn, with its living load. 
 
 Plunged as a diver to its ocean bed ; 
 The Northfleet lies at anchor on the road, 
 
 Britannia mourns for her three hundred dead. 
 
 Frolicksome Fan. 
 
 ^' AA/^HITHER away, 
 ' » Fanny, my fay. 
 Bright as a beam of this sunny spring day ? " 
 Spake a fond mother, and frolicksome Fan, 
 Under the blossoming apple-trees ran,
 
 35 
 
 Singing " Sweet motlier, I speed for a run 
 Over the meadow-land under the sun." 
 
 Down by the stile 
 
 Whist'ling the while, 
 Who is it waits for a merry maid's smile ? 
 Fanny and I when the daisies were out, 
 Went with the butterflies dancing about — 
 Dancing about in the merry May hours, 
 Over the meadow-land covered with flowers. 
 
 In a green nook. 
 
 By a bright brook. 
 Where the fringe blossoms delighted to look 
 Out from their bowers of delicate green ; 
 On their fair images shrined in its sheen ; 
 Together we chatted, and love was our theme, 
 Over the meadow-laud down by the stream. 
 
 Nobody knew 
 
 How my love grew, 
 While the lark sang to us up in the blue, 
 Beautiful, summery, heavens above, 
 Einging with music and glowing with love, 
 Down in the days when our wooing begun, 
 Over the meadow-land under the sun.
 
 36 
 
 Isolintha. 
 
 The subject of this poem was drowned in the Bristol Channel. 
 
 IF you will not ask me more 
 Till the well of grief is dry, 
 And my weeping days are o'er, 
 
 I will truly tell you why 
 'Tis I wander all in vain, 
 With my monologue of pain, 
 By the deep, sad heaving sea. 
 It is always grieving me, 
 For beneath its billowed breast, 
 Lies my first love, last, and best, 
 Isolintha ! 
 
 Through the fountains of the sun, 
 
 In a garden and a grave, 
 Where the bearded sea vines run. 
 And the wild sea flowers wave ; 
 Where the blue sea spiders crawl 
 Up the trellised coral wall. 
 Lies a sleeper, wan and lone ; 
 On a bier of ocean stone, 
 Lies the form that loved me most. 
 And the best of beauty's host, 
 Isolintha ! 
 
 By a phosphor spirit's torch. 
 
 Scaly shapes, with gleaming eyes,
 
 37 
 
 Sailing in her chamber porch, 
 
 Search the cell she beautifies. 
 And these people of the sea, 
 Crowding I'ound her curiously, 
 Lift her tresses as they float 
 To the monotonous note 
 Of the surge that beats a beach 
 You will never rise to reach, 
 Isolintha ! 
 
 Led by love, my fancy dives 
 
 Through the palpitating sea 
 To a tomb wherein she strives. 
 
 Yes, she strives to welcome me ; 
 Strives to draw her matted hand 
 From its glove of golden sand. 
 But the danky sea- weeds twist 
 Clammy bracelets on each wrist ; 
 And that sheath of yellow sand 
 Is the grave of beauty's wand, 
 Isohntha ! 
 
 To thy prison-house afar, 
 
 Was it love that lit me down, 
 
 Or that briny, blood-red star,* 
 Gloaming on thy temple crown ? 
 
 Awake ! my Isolintha, dear ! 
 
 0, my soul, she does not hear. 
 
 * The star fish.
 
 38 
 
 Do I dream, or am I dead, 
 In this hideous, deep sea bed ? 
 If my soul was not thy slave. 
 Should I love thee in this grave, 
 Isolintha ? 
 
 I have wej)t sad years to death, 
 
 Since the wild, heart-rending wave 
 Drank my darling's parting breath, 
 
 And the prayer her white lips gave. 
 Not a zephyr seaward goes. 
 With the sweets of Devon's rose, 
 But it bears a tremulous strain 
 From the gusty song of pain. 
 It is years, long years ago. 
 Since I learnt to love thee so, 
 Isolintha ! 
 
 If my love was not so blind, 
 Should I foster vain regret 
 Por the casket left behind ? 
 
 When the gem is heaven-set, 
 Where the jewels of mercy bloom, 
 Shall we seek it in the tomb ? 
 As a sea bird on the deep 
 Folds its wings and falls to sleep. 
 Thy sweet sj^irit floats above, 
 On a flood of better love, 
 Isolintha !
 
 39 
 
 Musing by the sea, I saw 
 
 Through my tear-beclouded eyes, 
 Heaven's love in nature's law. 
 
 And a path to Paradise : 
 Saw a path by spirits trod, 
 From the crucible of God. 
 When the sun was drawing rain 
 From the fountain of the main, 
 Rose a spirit from its thrall, 
 Whom her sister angels call, 
 "Isolintha!" 
 
 Wooing. 
 
 i^ pvORA dear, Dora dear, come, and sit down 
 XJ with me ; 
 
 Under the boughs of this shadowing hawthorn tree, 
 
 Hid in this mossy nook, who can discover us ? 
 
 'Tis like a summer cloud, shining all over us. 
 Here may I tell thee my love without fear, 
 Come, and sit down by me ; Dora, my dear. 
 
 Dora dear, Dora dear, be not so shy of me, 
 'Tis not a kiss I am wanting to buy of thee, 
 Talk not a word about little birds listening ; 
 For by the light of thy merrie eyes glistening, 
 They shall confess to me all that you mean. 
 Come, and sit down by me, Dora, my queen.
 
 40 
 
 Shook by the breath of the wind-spirits, whispering. 
 It is of love that the light leaves are lispering, 
 It is for love the wood pigeons are cooing so, 
 Down in the dingle, and I must be wooing you, 
 Wooing you, darling, my fate to decide, 
 Come, and sit down by me, Dora, my pride. 
 
 Dora dear, Dora dear, when shall our wedding be ? 
 Say to my heart, 'neath this sweet odour-shedding tree, 
 Whisj^er me tenderly ; tell me my dutiful ; 
 When shall our village bells warble most beautiful 
 
 Stories of love in the valley below ? 
 
 Name me the day I am longing to know." 
 
 Spake the fair Dora ; " 'Tis much that you flatter 
 me. 
 
 Sure, 'tis your tongue is a gun in love's battery ; 
 
 So my affections must certainly fall to you, 
 
 And my objections are nothing at all to you : " 
 Colin kissed Dora, and under the tree 
 Settled the day when the wedding should be. 
 
 Saint Monday. 
 
 Come on, Saint Monday ; thou art not the most 
 
 Unwelcome ghost 
 Of a dead yesterday that ever came, 
 
 In robes of flame.
 
 41 
 
 From a day's sepulchre in the far west, 
 To rouse the toiler from his Sabbath rest. 
 
 Much may I wonder why men call thee Saint, 
 
 Yet there's a quaint 
 Dash of indulgence in thine aspect odd, 
 
 As if the rod 
 Of care was broken by some angel's hand. 
 When Sabbath bells were warbling o'er the land. 
 
 Morn o'er the city breaks, the stars are few 
 
 In the great blue 
 Wide wilderness above, and fading fast 
 
 Out to the past. 
 The pilgrim day is passing through the dawn; 
 Street lights expire, and sleepy watchmen yawn. 
 
 Sharp chanticleer to the departing stars. 
 
 Up through the bars 
 Of the dim cellar looks, and trumpets loud 
 
 To the fair crowd. 
 With a brief preface made by flapping wings. 
 Cries, " AUelujah ! praise the King of kings." 
 
 Hark ! through the city ways from slumber's camp. 
 
 How the loud tramp 
 Of Labour's legions, led by duty stern, 
 
 Sounds the return 
 From Mercy's banquet to a new week's strife. 
 For home, love, beauty, fortune, fame, and life !
 
 42 
 
 For at the bidding of his master man, 
 
 Loud as he can, 
 The Giant Steam doth as a demon shriek, 
 
 And myriads break 
 From the soft bonds of sleep, with a strong will. 
 To battle Want ; they have no hope to kill. 
 
 The drowsy sluggard, like some Samson shorn, 
 
 Turns from the morn 
 His sheeted face, and for the loss of time 
 
 Cares not a dime ; 
 He will at breakfast say to sulking wife, 
 " I did not hear the whooter 'pon my life." 
 
 But come. Saint Monday, for I do not dread 
 
 My cross of lead ; 
 'Tis not the load we bear nor the road's length, 
 
 But the soul's strength 
 Which proves the hero, and if toil's a ban 
 Then 'tis the best that ever fell on man. 
 
 Eve In the City. 
 
 NOW to the toiler comes a sweet reprieve ; 
 The curfew bell of labour o'er the gate 
 Of the great factory swings, and hope elate, 
 We throng with weary hands because 'tis eve. 
 Out on our homeward paths, and silence steals 
 In the deserted wilderness of wheels :
 
 43 
 
 And busy hands in humble homes prepare 
 All that they can for the bread-winners' sake ; 
 The kettle- steam is up; new bloaters bake; 
 
 Afresh the floor is swept, and father's chair, 
 In its accustomed place, with cushioned seat, 
 Waits for a traveller in the thick thronged street. 
 
 Nor may it wait in vain, some from their toil. 
 Like weary soldiers when the fight doth cease. 
 Will with their mates to smoke the pipe of peace. 
 
 To the near tavern hie, though suppers spoil, 
 And watching wives are cross when husbands say 
 " 'Twas but one pint to help me on my way." 
 
 Now, with their torches kindled at the fount. 
 The swift lamp-lighters run ; the shadows fly 
 To the dim courts and lanes ; and as a sky, 
 
 Swarming with stars 'twere past all hope to count. 
 So glows the city, with the light that shines 
 From the fire spirits in their crystal shrines. 
 
 The streets are noisy with a host of sounds ; 
 
 His Evening EcJio the news-vendor rings ; 
 
 Fiddles are squeaking to a wight that sings ; 
 Clarionets chatter, and the harpist wounds 
 
 Music to death amid the mingling cries, [pies! " 
 
 Of "Fine new walnuts!" "Oysters!" and "Hot 
 
 It is the hour of love in every sphere, 
 And love is not a stranger to the poor ; 
 Mary the servant, at her master's door. 
 
 To hear a pleasant voice say "Well, my dear,"
 
 44: 
 
 Waits in her apron white with cheeks aflame, 
 Because she hopes to change her place and name. 
 
 And from her mirror in the sphere above, 
 Emblazoned beauty turns ; a splendid thing, 
 Reared in the lap of fashion, she will sing 
 
 In the saloon below her dreams of love, 
 Or on the sofa lounge, then to the play. 
 Ride with her lover in a graceful way. 
 
 The weary children to their beds are put, 
 And some of them will cry their souls afar 
 Unto the land of dreams where fairies are 
 
 Playing bo-peep, and til] their eyes are shut. 
 Others will lie and sing their vesper psalms, 
 Happy as cherubs 'neath the heavenly palms. 
 
 What Art Thou Worth? 
 
 WHAT art thou worth, lord of the castle proud. 
 Out of thy shroud. 
 To those that fear thy law, look, frown, or word, 
 
 As 'twere the sword 
 Of Fate suspended by one hollow hair. 
 Above the thread of life, sharp, bright, and bare ? 
 
 What art thou worth ? Shut up thy door and count 
 The full amount
 
 45 
 
 Of all thou hast to love and leave behind 
 
 When thou'rt a blind, 
 Poor, senseless, nothing, mingled with the earth. 
 W hat art thou now? What wilt thou then be worth? 
 
 And thou, king, that should' st all men surpass ; 
 
 What to the mass 
 Of wealth-creators art thou worth of good, 
 
 More than the brood 
 Who fawn, cringe, kneel, and lick thy royal hand 
 For a luxurious living in the land ? 
 
 The sun bears light, the clouds bear rain, the sod 
 
 Bears like a god 
 For man, brute, bird, and insect, every need ; 
 
 But man bears greed 
 That knows no limit ; Oh ! my mother earth. 
 What imto love are thy best children worth ? 
 
 Gold. 
 
 MY heaven is not paved with gold ; 
 For all that hath been writ of it, 
 I would not have it if I could, 
 There's blood on every bit of it. 
 
 I would not harm my angel's feet 
 With such a hateful use of it ;
 
 46 
 
 I loath, I scorn tlie thought unsweet, 
 Because of man's abuse of it. 
 
 Love weeps insulted by the thought ; 
 
 Shame on the saints that sing of it ; 
 The world is cursed because 'tis sought, 
 
 And demons love the ring of it ; 
 
 Love it, because that souls unwise 
 Polluted with the stain of it, 
 
 That might without to Eden rise, 
 Eun hell- ward for the gain of it. 
 
 Worms of the world, how mad you are t 
 What glory can you see in it ? 
 
 Why bear your gold god up so far ? 
 How strong your faith must be in it ! 
 
 Tear the idea from your creed ; 
 
 Let not your fancies dwell with it ; 
 My thoughts that dare a better deed 
 
 Would pave the streets of hell with it. 
 
 Decay. 
 
 WHEN shrivelled leaves are dropping dead 
 From rocking trees ; and home to bed 
 The sleepy roses haste away ; 
 There is a spirit in the land, 
 It is my grief to understand ; 
 It is Decay.
 
 47 
 
 It was to hear the robins' psalm 
 I wandered where the zephyr calm 
 
 Did sob, and moan, and seem to pray, 
 And there I saw what you may see— 
 A spirit making signs to me ; 
 It was Decay. 
 
 On mossy wall with ivy clad 
 Sweet robin sang, but I was sad ; 
 
 And yet it was a tender lay. 
 Such as I love the best of all ; 
 But then I heard a spirit call ; 
 It was Decav. 
 
 Calling me from the fight for bread 
 With man my foe, and home to bed, 
 
 As one that loved me from my play, 
 Did often in the evening hours ; 
 Ah ! she is with the sleeping flowers. 
 Gone to Decay. 
 
 Gone, in the way I have to go ; 
 
 Why should my spirit answer " No ? " 
 
 Am I not weary of the fray ? 
 If that my lamp of faith be bright, 
 Enough to last me through the night, 
 Why fear Decay ? 
 
 Why fear ? O thou weird spirit speak, 
 Hast thou not from my lady's cheek
 
 48 
 
 Stolen the last red rose away ? 
 Till there is not a bud to cull 
 Of all that once was beautiful : 
 Tell me, Decay ? 
 
 Dear brow, from which these gray hairs fall, 
 Alas ! it is the fun'ral pall 
 
 Of all my love implores to stay 
 With me because 'tis mine ; and when 
 We part it will be death. What then ? 
 Answer Decay ! 
 
 Avant ! thou foul relentless hag ! 
 My wild love weeps to see thee drag 
 
 This idol of my soul away 
 To thy dark den and clammy couch ; 
 See ! how it shrinks at thy vile touch. 
 Avaunt ! Decay ! 
 
 Art thou a friend ordained to lead 
 The weary to the rest they need ? 
 After thy night will it be day ? 
 Then gently, gently, lead us both 
 Along the road, though love be loth. 
 Welcome, Decay!
 
 49 
 
 Questions. 
 
 DO the flowers know 
 Pathways of escape 
 From the house of death "below 
 The evanescent snow, 
 
 Unto beauty, hfe, and shape ? 
 Have they hope or faith to show 
 How a mighty hand unseen 
 Leads them up the blades between ? 
 
 Does a birdie beg 
 
 Knowledge how to break 
 From its native egg, 
 
 When its yellow beak, 
 To a world unseen before, 
 
 Opes a little crisp white door. 
 And a happy mother chuckles to the sweet 
 Pretty baby chick that crieth wheet ? 
 
 Knowledge more than these, 
 Why should we desire ? 
 
 For what God doth please, 
 
 With thy soul at ease, 
 Wait ; and to life aspire : 
 
 So shall thy aspirations be 
 
 Thy wings to immortality.
 
 60 
 
 Dust Thou Art 
 
 THE weather was dry ; 
 The roads were browu ; 
 Out of the sky 
 
 The wind came down ; 
 And under the elms that shook with dread 
 Over my path, 
 Along the strath, 
 My mother I met, when mother was dead. 
 
 My mother ! how odd ! 
 
 Was she not put 
 To sleep by God ? 
 The door was shut 
 Of her chamber strange, and we made her bed 
 Under a mound 
 Of holy ground; 
 Yet mother I met, when mother was dead ! 
 
 My mother unsought 
 
 I often meet, 
 With a weird thought, 
 Out in the street, 
 Coming along in a shroud that trails 
 Over the red 
 Perishing dead 
 Leaves that follow with windy wails.
 
 51 
 
 Thy mother is just 
 
 The same as mine ; 
 My mother is dust, 
 And so is thine, 
 Whether a king, or beggar instead : 
 And so, alas ! 
 It came to pass 
 My mother I met, when mother was dead. 
 
 H^j->- 
 
 Unsought Pleasure. 
 
 WHERE the sorrows of the city most abound, 
 I was walking with a chilly autumn day. 
 Saying, " Here is not a pleasure to be found ; " 
 So I gave my thoughts to misery away — 
 
 Gave my sorrows to the people of the street — 
 Gave my pity to theii' poverty and pain, 
 
 Till I found a pretty pleasure at my feet, 
 In a little shining shallow pool of rain. 
 
 'Twas a picture of the heavens up above ; 
 
 Do you say it was a very common thing ? 
 I have laid it in the treasury of love ; 
 
 I am looking at its beauty while I sing.
 
 52 
 
 For while bending o'er the shallow water-pond, 
 I cared not for my sorrow in the street, 
 
 I was lifted all unhappiness beyond, 
 
 By the thought of heaven being at my feet. 
 
 Searching for God! 
 
 WHAT is there in this world like Thee ; 
 Thou, great Eternal ! One in Three ? 
 And Three in One Almighty ' kind,' 
 Imperial God ! must I be blind 
 Till death reveals the secret ? which 
 Of all Thy wonders vast and rich, 
 Bevond conception shall I ask 
 To aid me in this ponderous task ? 
 Say loving Sun, whose happy beams 
 
 Dance on the dazzling snow, 
 And light us through this world of dreams 
 
 With thy seraphic glow"; 
 Canst thou to me this knowledge give? 
 Art thou like Him by whom we live ? 
 Is it that power of might immense 
 Which holds the planets in suspense. 
 And will to waste no atom spare ? 
 Is it, Lord, of love and care ;
 
 53 
 
 That arch of beauty angel built, 
 Above this flowery realm of guilt. 
 The summer rainbow ? Can it be 
 That liquid monster named the sea, 
 Which folds ten thousand wonders in 
 Its awful compass ? May we win 
 The secret from Thy winds ? 'tis odd 
 And strange of sound that thought within 
 
 Should say 
 There is no power so much like God 
 As that to which the pine plumes nod 
 On the tall mountain's brow ; there may. 
 There must be truth in this, the air 
 
 Through which the happy sunbeam darts 
 Unseen, but present everywhere. 
 
 Is made of three distinctive parts 
 Essential to one whole : the wind 
 Ah ! there's the key I longed to find ! 
 
 What man, or brute, or creeping thing, 
 Blades, bees, or trees, or bii'ds that sing, 
 In the Creator's empire grand 
 Could dare its certain death withstand ? 
 Shorn of this mighty vast unseen 
 And God-like wondei-, what between 
 This star from which my fancy runs 
 To the blue sea of golden suns 
 Is there that can arrest and strike 
 The soul with truth like this ? 'tis like
 
 51 
 
 Him in its omnipresence more 
 
 Than all my tliought beheld before ; 
 
 It is the all- sustaining breath 
 
 Of life ; without it would be death, 
 
 And if it be a likeness poor, 
 
 Still am I richer than before. 
 
 Now then my soul thou shalt not fear 
 
 The sceptic's laugh, or scornful sneer, 
 
 For when they press me in the fight. 
 
 And when they grow with boastive might, 
 
 I will to save me from despair. 
 
 Invoke three spirits of the air: 
 
 Carbo shall to my aid descend. 
 
 Hydro shall be my second friend. 
 
 Bright Oxygen, the third and best. 
 
 Shall haste to conquest with the rest. 
 
 And Truth declare that there can be, 
 
 Three all in One, and One in Three.
 
 55 
 
 The Christmas Box. 
 
 How inucli shall I give for tliat smile yoti are 
 sporting ? 
 Come ; what shall I give you, my little lady ; 
 I know very well you are only come courting, 
 
 You cherry-cheeked rogue climbing up on my knee ; 
 With happy hopes feeding 
 Some joy of thy needing, 
 And eyes that are pleading most eloquently. 
 
 Come; what will you take for the ring of your 
 laughter ? 
 A how for your hair ? or a tart for your tea ? 
 I ween 'tis a kiss you are toiling up after. 
 So on, and be welcome to one, two, or three : 
 'Twas ever the duty 
 Of manhood to beauty. 
 Thus then I salute thee, my little lady. 
 
 What ! not want a kiss ? well, the next time I offer, 
 
 You may not refuse me, you shy little fox ; 
 
 Pray tell me your pleasure, my beautiful scoffer, 
 
 With white fingers tangled about in my locks ? 
 
 Now why do you tarry, 
 
 My ruby-hpped Carrie ? 
 
 *' I want you to give me a nice Christmas box." 
 
 Ah ! just like the world ; I am waiting, and wilhng ; 
 But what shall it be ? I am longing to know ;
 
 Suppose that you change me this new silver shilling^ 
 For one kiss of yours; 'neath the mistletoe bough, 
 
 Where Cupid, for pleasure, 
 
 Lurks shooting at leisure, 
 His victims that measure love ribbon below. 
 
 Well done, my wee lady ! that settles the matter ; 
 
 And now I will teU you a story beside ; 
 But first you must promise to hush your love chatter, 
 Although 'tis a pity your tongue should be tied 
 Except you were trying ; 
 The power of crying, 
 Instead of just sighing for fancies denied. 
 
 About in the kingdom of trouble and danger, 
 
 Abroad in the desert through which I have been. 
 Where grief is the native, and joy is the stranger. 
 What strange Christmas boxes there are to be seen 
 In places death- blighted, 
 Where life lies benighted. 
 And love weeps affrighted, to see what I mean. 
 
 Such quaint fashioned boxes, prepared for enshrining 
 Fair soul- worshipped jew'ls when their beauty is 
 fled, 
 Provided with pillows, and warm flannel lining, 
 So that you might fancy 'tis just like a bed 
 Prepared for a lover, 
 And then you discover 
 A name on the cover of somebody dead.
 
 07 
 
 You knew Dolly Downing, the love poet's daughter, 
 
 Dear Dolly ; of whom that we all understood, 
 How tender-armed angels to heaven up caught her. 
 Away in the spring of her life's golden-hood, 
 From caring, from fretting. 
 And all the begetting 
 Of evils besetting the pathway to good. 
 
 Well, 'twas on a time when the laurel and holly 
 
 "Were gracing our homes as you see them to-day. 
 That one of these boxes for dear little Polly 
 Was brought to her chamber, and in it she lay 
 Cold, waxen, and chilly, 
 And dreadfully stilly. 
 Just like a dead lily gone down to decay. 
 
 Ah ! now thou art weeping, my dear little lady. 
 Because I have led thee the shadows among ; 
 Thy world was all sunshine, but now 'tis so shady, 
 And I have been doing thee, doing thee wrong ; 
 Alas ; 'tis thy pity. 
 And more than my pity. 
 That sorrow should enter thy heart with my song. 
 
 
 te»-
 
 58 
 A Memory. 
 
 I WILL sing to thee, O lady of my lay ! 
 I will sing to thee sweet memories of mine ; 
 I will charm thee with a story of a day, 
 
 When thou wert the merry maiden Madoline. 
 
 By the margin of a river in the west, 
 
 We sat beneath a canopy of oak ; 
 I made thy cheek a pillow on my breast, 
 
 And the boughs came down about us like a cloak. 
 
 'Twas a sunny summer Sunday, Madoline, 
 
 And the honey winds that wandered up the dells 
 
 Came upon us o'er the wavy water shine 
 Of the river with a melody of bells. 
 
 And we listened to their music as we sat. 
 Till a butterfly, soft yellow as a moon. 
 
 Came and hovered o'er the roses in your hat. 
 On that sunny summer Sunday afternoon. 
 
 You may mind it, gentle lady, if you try ; 
 
 You may see a pleasant picture of my love, 
 In the fluttering of that yellow butterfly — 
 
 Your pretty summer coronal above, 
 
 I saw that thou wert beautiful and good ; 
 
 I knew that humble poverty was mine ; 
 I forsook thee in thy merry maidenhood ; 
 
 I have saved thee from its sorrows, Madoline.
 
 59 
 
 The May Queen and Her Lovers. 
 
 A Legend of St. Vincent's Eocks, 
 
 F 
 
 [P St. Vincent's lofty stoulder, 
 Mounted on a massive boulder, 
 In wliat time the grace of Flora decks the flowery 
 woods of Leigh, 
 You may see the spectre dreary 
 Of an old man, sorrow weary. 
 Crying " Mary, Mary, Mary," in the midnight, 
 crying " Mary ! 
 
 I am coming home to thee." 
 
 Then the shadow riseth slowly. 
 
 From its resting place unholy. 
 And with silent feet it wanders by the mountain's 
 flowery rim ; 
 
 But the raven in its eyrie 
 
 Hears a pilgrim solitary 
 Passing by its sanctuary, ciying for the soul of Mary 
 
 In the summer starlight dim. 
 
 Tombless, as the winds of heaven, 
 
 Homeless, poor, and unforgiven, [span ; 
 
 Solemnly it wanders onward to the Avon's splendid 
 
 Then the spirits of the river 
 
 Tremble with a sudden shiver, 
 And they murmur " Lost for ever," as the shining 
 waters sever 
 
 To receive the hopeless man.
 
 60 
 
 *Tis a secret worth your finding, 
 And a lesson worth onr minding, 
 
 What the expiator nieaneth by his melancholy cry, 
 In the haunts he loved of olden, 
 When the world was green and golden, 
 
 Ere his future was unfolden, ah ! this truth has been 
 withholden, 
 
 'Tis the way he went to die. 
 
 In the chronicles of sorrow 
 I have read the tale we borrow. 
 And a little, tear-stained story, written with the 
 tell-tale pen 
 
 Of a man, whose spirit weary, 
 Glideth by the raven's eyrie. 
 In the midnight lone and dreary, crying " Mary, 
 Mary, Mary ! " 
 
 By St. Vincent's hawthorn glen. 
 
 'Twas that time in merry England 
 When the butterflies went Maying 
 Through a scented sea of sunshine, 
 To the carol of the skylark. 
 To the jingle of the blue bells, 
 To the whistle of the mavis. 
 To the brown bees' psalm of labour, 
 And the cooing of the wood dove, 
 Sitting like a summer angel, 
 On a canopy of emeralds.
 
 61 
 
 Then I saw a band of damsels, 
 Saw a flock of joyful beauties, 
 Witli my merry May Queen Mary, 
 Trijjping on the soft green beatlier, 
 In and out among the daisies. 
 And my heart grew full of praises. 
 And my soul, with tender trouble. 
 Full of trouble, fond and "tender," 
 As a river's mossy cradle 
 Where the virgin waters bubble. 
 Full of passion, loved and loving ; 
 As a blossom-bannered orchard 
 In the gentle reign of April, 
 When the baby buds are peeping 
 From their cloisters in the fruit trees. 
 
 Fondly from the dance I won her — 
 Won my darhng May Queen, Mary — 
 When her fairy feet grew weary, 
 And we rambled from the dancers 
 O'er the glorious downs of Clifton, 
 On the flower-bespangled carpet, 
 To a temple of the Graces 
 In the groves of love and beauty. 
 Near the violet-broidered border 
 Of Saint Vincent's lofty kingdom. 
 
 Then we nestled down together, 
 And I told my love to Mary —
 
 62 
 
 To my trembling, trusting Mary ; 
 And my little, loving May Queen, 
 Till she fed my love "with kisses, 
 Purer than the pearly dewdi'ops. 
 Shining out from golden goblets 
 In the heart of Flora's palace 
 And our sacred mountain altar. 
 
 In what time our guardian angels 
 
 Wandered up through heaven's gateway. 
 
 Laden with the blessed record 
 
 Of our bhssful spirit bridal. 
 
 Up toward our Eldorado 
 
 Came my mad love rival, stalking ; 
 
 As the lithe fur-footed tiger, 
 
 As the demon of the jungle. 
 
 Came my mad love rival creeping 
 
 Up toward our sinless Eden. 
 
 In and out among the hawthorns, 
 Wheeling upward from the valley. 
 As a falcon to a dove's nest, 
 Came my wild half-brother, Walter. 
 And his cruel eyes were blazing 
 With a fearful lust for murder, 
 As he halted by a boulder. 
 By a tilted, bedless boulder, 
 Listening to a fiend that whispered 
 " Take revenge and hurl it on them ;
 
 63 
 
 Fool, or coward, liurl it on them ! " 
 Then the mass came crushing on us, 
 Eight across our narrow pathway, 
 And it smote my golden idol — 
 Smote my gentle, trusting Mary, 
 And my little, loving May Queen, 
 Lifeless — in the vale below me. 
 
 When I felt my life was blasted 
 With this horror everlasting, 
 IJp the cliff I sprang toward him, 
 Grifted with a strength Satanic ; 
 But he fled before my vengeance 
 As a stag before the hunter. 
 
 In the cavern of the giants — 
 In the Giants' Cave I found him — 
 Found the murderer of Mary. 
 Face to face I met and fought him, 
 There we wrestled in the darkness, 
 And we fought the fight of devils. 
 For my madness never left me. 
 And his fury knew no dying. 
 Till I wiped my bloody fingers 
 On the sweat- damp hair of Walter ; 
 Then I left him to corruption. 
 
 Floating down the flossy Avon 
 Came a full- winged outward bounder,
 
 64: 
 
 And slie bore me far from England 
 
 O'er a realm of tumljling waters 
 
 With one terrible companion. 
 
 For my mem'ry never left me. 
 
 Up and down the earth I wandered, 
 
 Sowing tears and reaping anguish. 
 
 I have taunted Death to take me 
 
 In the fields of England's battles, 
 
 I have tried to drown my sori'ow 
 
 In a thousand lakes of vine blood. 
 
 I can bear my woe no longer, 
 
 I will rise and go to Mary — 
 
 To my little, loving May Queen. 
 
 She will pray to the great Spirit, 
 
 " To the Queen of all the angels," 
 
 She will say " Have mercy on him." 
 
 What ? She comes ! she comes ! toward me ; 
 
 Oh, how kindly, kindly, kindly. 
 
 See ! she beckons ! 'tis no vision 
 
 Fading from me. Mary ! Mary ! 
 
 Oh, my Uttle, loving May Queen ! 
 
 Thee I follow ! thee I foUow ! 
 
 What is this between us Iving ? 
 
 'Tis the cloven skull of Walter, 
 
 And my feet are tangled, tangled, 
 
 Tangled in the hangman's halter ! 
 
 Oh, this horror ! never dying. 
 I am as a sea-fish prisoned 
 In a lake of poisoned water.
 
 65 
 
 And my heart's a haunted ruin. 
 So it was, it was a vision ; 
 Yes, my heart's a haunted ruin, 
 Where the only thing I cherish 
 Is a hate of life that blossoms 
 When I hear the laugh of children. 
 
 After forty years of penance 
 
 I am here in hated England, 
 
 Sitting where I sat of olden, 
 
 When my world was green and golden. 
 
 'Twas not love that led me hither, 
 
 But my pitiless tormentor; 
 
 She is faithful as my shadow 
 
 In this haunted grove of hawthorns, 
 
 Where the butterflies are Maying. 
 
 She is with me ; there ! before me — 
 Crouching on the silken heather, 
 Playing with poor Walter's tresses ; 
 Pointing to my bloody fingers ; 
 I will wash them in the midnight. 
 In the Avon's flossy water ; 
 I will cast my withered body, 
 I will fling my spirit's fortune. 
 Through the ambient air of heaven, 
 Fi'om the Avon's span of iron. 
 
 Here the story that we borrow 
 Prom the chronicles of sorrow.
 
 66 
 
 Cometh to its sad conclusion, and this is the reason 
 why, 
 
 You may see the spectre dreary 
 Of an old man sorrow weary, 
 Walking by the raven's eyrie, crying, " Mary, Mary^ 
 Mary!" 
 
 'Tis the way he went to die. 
 
 Eldorado. 
 
 JTHWAS on the brow of Brandon Hill, 
 
 X My lassie and her lad ! 
 Sat side by side, as lovers will. 
 
 Beneath the hawthorn shadow. 
 Dreaming dreams of a world that beams 
 
 By the name of Eldorado. 
 
 Shyly his arm about her waist 
 
 Crept in the hawthorn shadow ; 
 Four red Hps met one joy to taste, 
 
 And softly to her lad ! 
 Quoth the maid, " How far from the world where we 
 are 
 
 Is the world called Eldorado ? " 
 
 " Near, pretty near," sang a bird to the lass ; 
 " Near, pretty dear," said the^lad !
 
 67 
 
 " In a place named Morrow, to which we pass 
 Away from the hawthorn shadow ; 
 
 By the honeymoon's light we shall sail in sight 
 Of the realm called Eldorado." 
 
 He made her vows on the velvety slope, 
 And she made vows for the lad ! 
 
 He planted a flower in her heart, called Hope, 
 And blithe from the hawthorn shadow 
 
 They went through a church together, in search 
 Of the land named Eldorado. 
 
 Little maids came with the lassie's grace. 
 
 And boys grew up hke the lad ! 
 But the rose lieth dead on a mother's face. 
 
 And care is there, like a shadow 
 Of evil to meet in a life made sweet 
 
 By the search for Eldorado. 
 
 Very merry years are down with the dead, 
 
 Grief is come to the lad ! 
 The hair hangs grey from a matron's head — 
 
 They are near to their Eldorado ; 
 'Tis a bed underground, called Rosemary mound, 
 
 In the "Valley of Death's dark shadow."
 
 68 
 
 Down Home, 
 
 OH, the day is gone to rest, 
 And I revel in the beams 
 Of a moon in yellow drest, 
 
 That hath brought me happy dreams 
 Of a love-enchanting spot, 
 And a little moonlit cot, 
 Down home. 
 
 And fair spirits of my race 
 
 Crowd about me, as I lie 
 Dreaming of that happy place, 
 
 With the yellow moon on high, 
 Beaming, as it loved to beam. 
 On the joys of which I dream, 
 Down home. 
 
 Soft as butterflies that sit 
 
 On the blossoms they love best, 
 
 So my winged fancies lit 
 
 By the moon in yellow drest, 
 
 Nestle down upon my heart 
 
 Till my memories depart 
 Down home. 
 
 And I dream with open eyes 
 Pleasant dreams I must adore, 
 
 Of that pretty paradise. 
 With a being at the door.
 
 6d- 
 
 Calling, iu a gentle -n-ay, 
 To a little lad at play, 
 
 Come home. 
 
 In the molten mellow light 
 Of the yellow moon above, 
 
 She is looking very white ; 
 But her voice is full of love. 
 
 Full of love, that seems to be 
 
 Like an angel's call to me, 
 Down home. 
 
 Home again, at love's desire. 
 Merry, innocent, and glad, 
 
 Romping by my father's fire 
 With a kitten frolic mad, 
 
 And a bonnie brother boy, 
 
 Laughing like the soul of joy, 
 Down home. 
 
 Swinging on my garden swing. 
 As I swung in days of yore. 
 
 When the trees were blossoming. 
 Forty years ago or more. 
 
 Thanks to mem'ry, strong and kind, 
 
 For that swing I left behind, 
 Down home. 
 
 Sailing with the sweetest lass 
 Heaven ever made for love.
 
 70 
 
 On a liquid looking-glass 
 
 Of tlie summer stars above; 
 Singing, as we used to sing, 
 When the hills were echoing, 
 Down home. 
 
 With her, from my care afar, 
 Walking in the witching hght 
 
 Of a primrose-coloured star 
 
 That hath lit my dreams to-night ; 
 
 Happy, beautiful, and good, 
 
 In our glorious goldenhood, 
 Down home. 
 
 Leaning o'er the bridge at eve. 
 Listening to the charm that wells 
 
 O'er a scene I wept to leave, 
 Fi'om a band of dancing bells ; 
 
 Silvery bells that sang to me 
 
 Up a sacred orchestra, 
 
 Down home. 
 
 Ah ! the spell is breaking fast, 
 But the bells are tinkling still. 
 
 Faintly in that happy past, 
 And my spirit in their thrill 
 
 Trembles out, in blissful tears. 
 
 For the dear departed years, 
 Down home.
 
 71 
 
 There's a coffin cloud above, 
 With a silver-broidered pall, 
 
 And the yellow moon I love 
 Lies within its massy thrall ; 
 
 So the joys whereof I sing 
 
 Are all visions vanishing, 
 Down home. 
 
 The Bells. 
 
 MEEEILY, cheerily, hark ! how sweet 
 Old England's bells are pealing ! 
 
 Whilst the swift globe, 
 
 In her green robe, 
 Among the stars is wheeling ; 
 
 And as we race 
 
 The realms of space, 
 They blend love-peals of laughter, 
 
 As if they fain 
 
 Would banish pain 
 To death for ever after. 
 Come, gentle zephyr, whisper low. 
 And tell me, for I long to know. 
 Where do the sweet bell spirits go 
 That wander from our tower ?
 
 72 
 
 Peacefully, pleasantly, bark ! those bells- 
 Proclaiming love's evangel ! 
 
 Flow dulcet stream 
 
 Of notes that seem 
 Sung by my soul's good angel. 
 
 Blow, gentle breeze, 
 
 Bearing heart's ease. 
 For spirits upward climbing 
 
 To heaven's rest, 
 
 Are cheered and blest, 
 When Sabbath bells are chiming. 
 Many a soul, long steeped in crime, 
 Bends softened by their holy chime, 
 For mem'ries of a better time, 
 
 Float from the old church tower. 
 
 >:0£<c. 
 
 The White Sleeper. 
 
 I STOOD in the night 
 Bending over the bed 
 Of a sleeper so white 
 
 That I fancied her dead ; 
 For liUes that sleep 
 
 On the water-nymph's breast, 
 When honey winds creep 
 Out of groves in the West,
 
 73 
 
 To fan the faint flowers 
 
 Up from a sweet swoon, 
 Nor birds in tlieir loowers, 
 
 Beneath the May moon, 
 Ever slept such a sleep as my love in her bed — 
 That I leant above saying, " Alas, she is dead." 
 Not the golden-eyed stars, 
 
 Nor their yellow-robed queen. 
 Peeping in 'twixt the bars 
 
 Of our crystal-like screen, 
 Ever halted their cars 
 
 To behold such a scene, 
 Except when they sight 
 
 Eadamanthus, that steers 
 His course in the night 
 
 From the fountains of tears, 
 That gush to betoken 
 
 Love's saddest farewell. 
 When Psyche has broken 
 
 The bonds of her cell : 
 'Tis then that they brighten 
 
 Their torches of gold, 
 Lest darkness should frighten 
 
 Shorn lambs of the fold, 
 That tremble and tighten 
 
 On Jesus their hold. 
 When flying from trouble 
 
 Unto that blest shore 
 Where pure pleasures double 
 
 And pain is no more.
 
 74 
 
 These were the sweet words 
 
 Of a song by desire, 
 Hope sang to the chords 
 
 Of her iieace-making lyre ; 
 And so love delighting 
 
 Kept singing, till fear 
 My spirit affrighting, 
 
 Spake thus of my dear : 
 
 " The lark from its flight 
 
 O'er the green meadow's breast, 
 Cometh down with dehght 
 
 To its daisy-fringed nest ; 
 But her soul shall not come 
 
 From the land of its dreams 
 To this rose without bloom. 
 
 And this star without beams. 
 Where pleasure is greatest, 
 
 And purest and best, 
 Where love is the sweetest 
 
 That ever was blest ; 
 Her sweet soul is ranarinoj 
 
 Away from thine own, 
 With bliss ever chanainsr. 
 
 By mercy bestown ; 
 And thus while it tarries 
 
 With angels above, 
 Thy mother earth carries 
 
 The corse of thy love.
 
 75 
 
 Look ! man, void of valoui', 
 Look down on that bed ! 
 The fair sleeper's pallor 
 Is that of the dead ! 
 Her cheeks shall not redden, 
 
 Her eyes never shine ; 
 Those white hands, so leaden. 
 
 Shall never clasp thine. 
 Nor own thy caresses : 
 
 Haste, man, while you may, 
 Snatch one of her tresses 
 From Death, and away ; 
 So few are the blisses 
 
 Humanity sips, 
 Thy warm passion kisses 
 
 Lie dead on her lips. 
 Come ! come ! from that altar 
 
 Spill not the sweet wine. 
 Let true Love exalt her 
 In Memory's shrine." 
 Thus Fear, the inventor of horror, too wild, 
 Became my tormentor, but Hope, Heaven's child, 
 That watched the pearl wicket, detected a breath 
 Coming through the pearl thicket to say 'twas not 
 
 death ; 
 Soft eyelids are lifted, sweet pinky lips part, 
 And sorrow is drifted away from my heart.
 
 .76 
 
 The Broken Ring. 
 
 TOO loud thy lips have spoken 
 Prophetic words of woe ; 
 Our bridal ring is broken, 
 
 And we are breaking too : 
 This is our parting token, 
 Alas ! what shall we do ? 
 
 Come back, false Hope, that flattered 
 
 My loving soul to sing. 
 Before our darlings chattered 
 
 The songs of life's young spring ; 
 And thou swift Time that shattered 
 
 This dear old bridal ring. 
 
 Give me this hand, sweet weeper, 
 You gave me with your vow. 
 
 When love made thee my keeper, 
 And beauty crowned thy brow ; 
 
 Thus with affection deeper 
 Than then, I clasp it now. 
 
 Oh ! pilgrim day departing. 
 
 Can thy successor bring 
 Balm for my sj)irit smarting, 
 
 Or chase the fears that sting 
 My frightened thoughts upstarting 
 
 O'er this time-shattered rinsr ?
 
 77 
 
 Sketches of Twelve. 
 
 W 
 
 "HEN Janus leaps 
 Up from the bed 
 Of liis poor dead 
 Mother, that sleeps 
 Out in eternity ; and the winds freeze 
 Waters to ice, 
 Is it not nice 
 Over the river to travel at ease, 
 Swift as a sprite, by the skeleton trees ? 
 
 When his days ebb 
 Out to the past, 
 And in at last 
 Snowy-faced Feb. 
 Comes, is it not very pleasant to sit. 
 Warm as a mouse. 
 Home in your house, 
 ^ear as you please, where the fire lies lit, 
 Working, or reading, or learning to knit? 
 
 When it is March, 
 
 Tossing brown dust 
 
 From the earth's crust, 
 To the world's arch. 
 Over the tree tops, and sunbeams are strong. 
 
 Is it not fun 
 
 To see the run
 
 78 
 
 Of the white suow from the hills with a song, 
 Down to the valley lands laughing along ? 
 
 When April sweet 
 
 Conies with her showers, 
 And happy flowers 
 Under your feet 
 Break from the house of death, and the birds sing. 
 Who can he sad ? 
 Tou should be glad, 
 As the brown bees that are out on the wing, 
 Over the meads where the cowslip bells ring. 
 
 When it is May 
 Is it not good, 
 Out in the wood. 
 From cities away, 
 With some one you love to sit down on the stump 
 Of an old tree, 
 Looking to see, 
 And guessing how far the red squirrels can jump. 
 Over the beech trees that grow in a clump ? 
 
 When o'er the globe 
 
 June to our isle 
 
 Comes with a smile, 
 In a green robe 
 Spangled with roses — white, yellow, and red — 
 
 And by the wall 
 
 Eipe cherries fall
 
 79 
 
 Down in her lap by the strawberry bed, 
 Is not this world like a heaven you tread ? 
 
 And when July 
 Sunbeams are shot 
 Fiercely and hot 
 From the blue sky, 
 So that fair flowers fall faint on the lea, 
 And of the pond 
 Cattle grow fond, 
 As you are fond of a shadowing tree, 
 Is it not beautiful down by the sea r* 
 
 When with her scythe. 
 Over our earth, 
 Mocking dumb dearth, 
 August the blythe. 
 Laughs like a god ! with dehght doing good. 
 And there are sweet 
 Cakes of new wheat, 
 Made for the hearty brown harvester's food — 
 Is it not merciful ? is it not good ? 
 
 But when for sport 
 
 September's in. 
 
 Is it not sin 
 Of a sad sort 
 To be out with your dog and your murderous gun. 
 
 And, without shame, 
 
 Sneaking for game,
 
 so 
 
 Along by the hedges where partridges run ; 
 The deed is ignoble, and better to shun. 
 
 October appears — 
 Leaves to decay, 
 Hasten away ; 
 Clouds arc in tears 
 For the dead that lie thick in the lanes, and we seem 
 Breathing the breath 
 Of them in death. 
 While musing amid them ; till fondly we dream 
 Of a spring that should gladden our souls with its 
 beam. 
 
 November gloom 
 Falls from above ; 
 Now let me love 
 My little room ; 
 If I look out to the skies overhead, 
 I see a stark, 
 Dirty, half dark. 
 Vapour- full wilderness, and I must tread 
 Mud in the streets, with umbrella aspread. 
 
 Brief the days die. 
 
 Long is the night. 
 
 Making its flight. 
 Under the sky. 
 When with December the year is of age.
 
 81 
 
 To be no more, 
 
 Now as of yore, 
 Holly-crowned Christmas and Pleasure his page, 
 Happy as ever are crossing the stage. 
 
 England, Neutral. 
 
 LET England watch her water gates 
 By headland, cape, and bay ; 
 While rivals fight 
 For wrong, or right. 
 Let her sons watch and pray. 
 Back from the brawl ; 
 Ah ! one and all. 
 Peace is our guest to-day ; 
 But watch ye well her water doors. 
 Prepare for come what may. 
 
 Oh, skipper ! standing at the helm 
 Of freedom's barque, what cheer ? 
 
 The war blast howls, 
 
 The tempest growls, 
 The storm vdll be severe ; 
 
 Grod keep thy heart 
 
 By honour's chart, 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 And teacli thee how to steer, 
 
 With gentle force, 
 
 A noble course 
 From the dire danger near ! 
 
 I mind a hymn I sang of yore. 
 And thus it used to go— 
 " Let dogs delight 
 
 To bark and bite, 
 For God hath made them so." 
 
 It is to me 
 
 A mystery, 
 That God the deed should do ; 
 
 Are kings to sway, 
 
 Made in that way ? 
 Is it their nature, too ? 
 
 Kings fight; I wrong them, they are grown 
 Wise in these latter days ; 
 
 Our modern kings 
 
 Are sacred things, 
 More than they were always. 
 
 The hours have been 
 
 When kings were seen 
 Armed ; at their armies' heads, 
 
 Leading the charge 
 
 Like fiends at large ; 
 But, now, they die in beds.
 
 83 
 
 So let them die, till wars are boous, 
 
 With all my throbbing heart 
 I pray ; and sing, 
 God save that king 
 
 Who plays a kingly part ! 
 But he who plans 
 That worst of bans, 
 
 War, with its blasting strife. 
 Doth quit his throne 
 To turn the stone. 
 
 While Murder grinds her knife. 
 
 The Beautiful Watcher.'^ 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 < fi \ 1 TEAVE me a song, my father," 
 
 V Y Spake my darling with a sigh, 
 And I saw the tear-clouds gather 
 Like dew in a violet's eye ; 
 
 * My son being a schoolmate of the Hero's brother, came home 
 laden with a little lock of the Beautiful Watcher's hau', and 
 entreated that I should (to use his own language) make some 
 verses in memory of the tragical occurrence. The heroism of 
 Archibald Walters must be the admiration of alh The whole 
 calendar of immortals on the muster roU of Fame does not 
 present another such. Why are the Lords of song silent? I 
 have listened in vain, and regi-et that I have not paid sweeter 
 tribute to the noble Spirit. 
 
 The tragic event related in these lines occurred on October the 
 2:^rd, 1874,
 
 84: 
 
 Like dew pearls shrined in tlie tender 
 Girth of a violet's cup, 
 
 Trembled a tear, 
 
 In the eyes of my dear, 
 When the sigh of his soul came up. 
 
 «' Of what shall I sing, my beauty ? 
 Come, give me a theme to weave. 
 To please thee is surely my duty, 
 
 With what do you come to grieve ? " 
 I looked in the face of my darling. 
 
 And watched for the sound of his breath. 
 As a maid for a kiss. 
 But alas ! it was this ; 
 " It is all about death, ' about death.' " 
 
 His cheek on my shoulder reposes, 
 
 I start at his earnest request. 
 As bees from the bosoms of roses, 
 
 Sad sighs wander up from his breast. 
 I knew they were stealing the sweetness 
 Of life from the soul of my child. 
 And leaving their sting. 
 In a blossom of spring. 
 But I said, as I mournfully smiled, 
 
 " What, love, wilt thou pay me for singing, 
 If I should obey thy command ? 
 
 And what art thou tenderly bringing 
 To me in thy lily white hand? "
 
 85 
 
 " I bring thee father, a treasure, 
 I want to be kept like a vow. 
 
 It is one golden lock, 
 
 From a death-smitten flock, 
 And a curl from brave Archibald's brow." 
 
 I look in the face of my glory, 
 
 I gather my strength for the strife. 
 And bid him relate the grand story 
 
 Of heroic Archibald's life. 
 The tears from his eyes trembled over, 
 His cheeks are all snowy and wan, 
 His loving lips part 
 With a sob from his heart. 
 And thus to my heart he began. 
 
 Saying, This is the way it was, father. 
 
 That he came to be turned into clay, 
 It was nearly the last of October, 
 
 Because 'twas the twenty-third day. 
 When he said to his mother, " Come, kiss me," 
 
 And just like a chick from a coop, 
 Sped away for the fun to be caught in a run 
 
 On the road at the back of a hoop. 
 Away from the city he wandered. 
 
 As if 'twere appointed by fate, 
 And a strange little boy that he met in his joy 
 
 Came with him to be his playmate.
 
 86 
 
 I wish you would mind to remember, 
 His age was but six when he gave 
 
 His life up so free to the lad only three, 
 That he perished in trying to save. 
 
 Away they went further and further, 
 
 Till the little strange boy said, " I know 
 If we just go up here, there's a place pretty near, 
 
 Where such bouncing big blackbei'ries grow." 
 So in the lone lane, without thinking, 
 
 What sorrow might follow their joy. 
 For the love of the sweet bramble berries, 
 
 He went with the strange little boy. 
 Until all at once, when the darkness 
 
 Fell down on the world like a blind 
 From the beautiful windows of heaven. 
 
 Their homes were a trouble to find. 
 All round by the tall tangled hedges. 
 
 They went, till 'twas growing quite late. 
 And the shadows came crowding about them, 
 
 To keep them away from the gate — 
 
 Came down from the clouds of October, 
 Around them like curtains of crape ; 
 
 And they listened with hearts beating wildly, 
 To voices of things without shape. 
 
 For when the weird shadows were wafted 
 About by the winds to and fro,
 
 87 
 
 They weut witli a moan, and they came with a moan ; 
 
 So I wish you would tell if you know, 
 Was it, father, the wicked field fairies 
 
 That wanted their lives to destroy ? 
 For I feel sore afraid, he was surely waylaid 
 
 By them, with that little strange boy. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas such a night to be out in, 
 
 So bitter, so long, and so bleak, 
 "With no home to be found, and no bed but the 
 ground. 
 
 And the strange little boy was so weak. 
 That he said, " I can't walk any longer," 
 
 And then he crouched down on the clod. 
 With his burden of pain, weeping tears like the rain, 
 
 For the want of his mother, to Grod, 
 But he went off to slumber while weeping. 
 
 And beautiful Archy above 
 Stood keeping the watch, like an angel. 
 
 Because 'twas for nothing but love. 
 For it was not for gold he kept watching. 
 
 It was not for fame to be won, 
 Nor was it for praise that he ended his days, 
 
 In the heroic way it was done. 
 
 Ah ! what was it then, my wee darling. 
 What means did brave Archy employ 
 
 When the night winds came howling and snarhng. 
 Around the poor Httle strange boy ?
 
 88 
 
 He took off the clothes he was wearinsr. 
 
 To cover his playmate up warm, 
 He stripped to his shirt, as if daring 
 
 The spirits of evil and harm. 
 And all the long night he kept watching 
 
 Alone by that horrible bed, 
 Till the strange little boy woke to give his friends joy. 
 
 But the Beautiful Watcher is dead. 
 
 -<'>^< 
 
 Rain Through the Roof. 
 
 A STOEY OF WET WEATHER. 
 
 r 
 
 'N the night, 
 When the light 
 Of my chamber lamj) was burning 
 Dim and low, 
 In its glow 
 As a life to God returning, 
 
 I heard the jolly jingle of the water spirit's feet; 
 Driven from the blotted heavens, they were merry 
 
 in the street; 
 They were bounding from the pavement, they were 
 dancing on the roof
 
 89 
 
 Of my little city cottage — and it is not waterproof ; 
 
 For tliere came, my soul to flutter, 
 
 Through a crevice in the gutter, 
 To our dormitory flooring, near the bed whereon I sat,. 
 
 Drops of water, dirty brown ; 
 
 Saying as they hastened down — * 
 
 Skit, scat, j)it, pat, 
 
 Pat-ter, scat-ter, skit-tei-, scat-ter ; 
 Pit, pat, scat-ter, scat ; 
 The voices of the water made a melody like that ! 
 
 In my shirt I sat to shiver 
 
 As the sedges by a river ; 
 Till my lady-love, awakened from her slumber by 
 the sound, 
 
 Started, screaming from her pillow, 
 
 As a mermaid from a billow, 
 Sadder than a weeping willow by a stream of water 
 bound, 
 
 Started screaming " What's the matter?" 
 
 And the rain said — pit-ter, pat-ter, 
 'Tis the water- witches' revel, you will certainly be 
 drowned, 
 
 Pe-ter, pat-ter, skit, scat, 
 
 Pat-ter, pe-ter, pit, pat, 
 Skit-ter, scat-ter, pe-ter, pat-ter, skit, scat, scat. 
 
 Then her courage overtook her, 
 For the sudden fear that shook her
 
 90 
 
 Flew before her radiant reason ; and tliese words 
 she spake to me — 
 
 " By the orbs of love that twinkle, 
 
 'Tis a melancholy sprinkle ; 
 
 I am as a periwinkle in some cavern of the sea." 
 
 But I answered, " Love, how silly : 
 
 'Tis a thought that makes me chilly, 
 You shall be my water-hly ! " and she laughed 
 melodiously, 
 
 Till a demon from the gutter — 
 
 I might weep the words to utter — 
 At my lily spat a sputter ; saying most maliciously, 
 
 At her, drat her, pe-ter, scat-ter, 
 
 Skit, scat, pit, pat, 
 
 Skit-ter, scat-ter, pit, pat, scat, scat, scat. 
 
 Up my most indignant beauty 
 Started to her noble duty ; 
 Leapt into her little slippers, and with hasty feet 
 along 
 From the haunt of slumber starting. 
 As a sheeted ghost departing, 
 Kitchenward, Avent almost darting, for 'twas passion 
 made her strong; 
 Went, and brought to suit her wishes 
 Pails and kettles, pans and dishes. 
 Till we both were wet as fishes, with our work the 
 drops among. 
 Then with faces kindly touching.
 
 91 
 
 'jSTeatli a broad umbrella crouching, 
 Like two fairies 'neath a musbroom, to tbe water 
 
 spirits' song, 
 By the fire we sat and listened, most attentively and 
 
 long, 
 And I laughed to hear this changing in the sounding 
 of their song — 
 Dip, dap, drip, drop. 
 Slip, slap, slush, slop, 
 Dip-per, dap-per, drip-per, drop-per, 
 Slip-per, slap-per, slush-er, slop-pei". 
 Slip, slap, slop. 
 
 Spake my love while we were warming, 
 " Well, if novelty be charming. 
 We have found it to remember, in this loorld of tears, 
 my man. 
 Such a world I never sat in ; 
 'Tis enough to drown a rat in ; 
 Just run down and let the cat in ; shift that bucket, 
 pail, and pan. 
 I declare, this tub is brimming ; 
 Sure, if sleep my eyes were dimming, 
 I should dream that I was swimming 
 
 In about it, like a swan. 
 For last night I dreamt of tripj^ing 
 Through a storm of something slipping 
 From the heavens, just like dripping 
 From a goose ; and thus it ran —
 
 92 
 
 Slip, slap, skit, scat, 
 
 Drip, drop, pit, pat, 
 
 Slip-per, slop-per, skit-ter, scat-ter, 
 
 Drip-per, drap-per, pit-ter, pat-ter. 
 
 Fit, fat-ter, fit, fat. 
 And my spirit in its vision heard a melody like that;" 
 Spalve my little dripping dreamer as beside the fire 
 we sat. 
 
 The Orphan's City, Ashley Hill, Bristol. 
 
 STEAIGHT as the taU poplar's shadow. 
 Lying on the bright green meadow, 
 Westward, from my chamber window. 
 
 On a flowery mantled hill, 
 Stands a city, that was neither 
 Built by kings or Commons either ; 
 But the soul of one believer. 
 
 Working out the Master's will, 
 Was the builder of that city 
 
 On the "flowery mantled" hill. 
 
 It has neither sjjires nor towers. 
 It is peopled with strange flowers, 
 Brought from Sorrow's saddest bowers, 
 Snatched from poverty and sin
 
 93 
 
 By the graces of the city, 
 Faith, Hope, Charity, and Pity, 
 But 'tis Love's twin-sister Pity, 
 
 Bears the drooping hlossoms in ; 
 From the saddest haunts of sorrow 
 
 Bears the tender blossoms in. 
 
 Tenderlings, with tear-worn faces ; 
 Wany waifs from desert places. 
 Wanting what the grave embraces. 
 
 Wanting father's knees to climb; 
 Wanting mother's hands to press them, 
 Mother's gentle voice to bless them, 
 Wanting angels to caress them. 
 
 From the labyrinths of crime ; 
 And a mighty love to teach them 
 
 How to " make their lives sublime." 
 
 So a spirit mercy-gifted. 
 
 Out of Heaven's bosom drifted. 
 
 As the odours that are lifted 
 
 When the winds and roses part. 
 And it raised the flowerets pining, 
 Till God saw their graces shining. 
 And their fond affections twining 
 
 Round their benefactor's heart ; 
 In the city of the orphans, 
 
 Eound a new-found father's heart.
 
 94 
 
 Tell me, ye carping, clever, 
 Philosopliic scoffers, whether 
 That youi- goddess Eeason ever 
 
 Has by love or duty led 
 You, in all the world's history, 
 Thus to build its crown of glory ; 
 Answer, sophist sage and hoary, 
 
 From your souls by faith unfed, 
 When did Science, in this manner, 
 
 Give two thousand orphans bread. 
 
 To the sceptic walking creedless, 
 As a pilgrim staff and reedless, 
 Through the valley, heaven heedless, 
 
 I will say and sing it still, 
 'Tis a city that was neither 
 Built by kings or Commons either ; 
 But the soul of one believer, 
 
 Working out the Master's will, 
 Was the builder of that city. 
 
 Up the "flowery mantled hill. 
 
 qX^.
 
 95 
 
 Under a Cloud. 
 
 THEEE are a thousand mysteries in life, 
 And this is one of them : That youth should be 
 Lifted fi'om evil and the battle strife, 
 
 While age, full ripe for death as some old tree, 
 Outlives a hundred storms that rent apart 
 And cleft the branches from their parent's heart. 
 
 I cannot help what course my fancies take, 
 
 Since that dread day wherein my boy fell down 
 
 So dead asleep that he no more may wake 
 
 Till God shall raise him from "the silent town,'' 
 
 And Mercy lead him from his mouldy bed — 
 
 I only know my thoughts are with the dead. 
 
 My stricken soul is as a bird that haunts 
 Some sacred cypress, when the storm severe 
 
 Blows on its rocking boughs, and darkness plants 
 Her banner o'er my world, in which I hear 
 
 No welcome voice, nought but my hope's farewell, 
 
 The wail of women, and a tolling bell. 
 
 Under this cloud I smite a painful lyre, 
 
 Because it was a cruel death to die. 
 Crushed* by the iron steed whose heart is fire. 
 
 No warning voice, no token, no good-bye, 
 
 * At Swindon Station, April 16th, 1872.
 
 96 
 
 To the greeu world above his dreamless bed, 
 Only one groan, and then my boy fell dead. 
 
 I wandered over the violeted heath, 
 
 Seeking faint solace where spring glories sprung, 
 The plaintive wail came from a bramble wreath, 
 
 Of a sad mavis mourning for its young ; 
 I did not dream till then that there could be 
 One Avaif in life so far from joy as me. 
 
 Save one that did the dreadful news impart. 
 Whose painful pen hath made us sadly wise. 
 
 Unhappy Mary of the tender heart, 
 
 And a pale mother with wild haggard eyes. 
 
 Weeping warm tears because she knew 'twas vain. 
 
 To weep for her dead child beyond all pain. 
 
 Sweet is the sympathy of things that grieve, 
 
 I cannot tell you why a fancy odd 
 Should sing to cheer me, but I do believe 
 
 That minstrel bird was sent by nature's God 
 To chant in our Gethsemane of pain 
 A dirge of soi-row for our darling slain. 
 
 I know a world through which I came too fast, 
 A love-lumed Queendom, glorious, green, and 
 grand ; 
 
 But now it is a graveyard called the past. 
 
 Wherein the wrecks of hope's high castles stand. 
 
 All tumbling to decay, and ruined halls 
 
 With memories ivy-bound on their gray walls.
 
 07 
 
 I would go down unto tliat realm once more, 
 But that my present is a dungeon dark, 
 
 Wherein I grope but may not find the door, 
 So that my soul is as a captive lark, 
 
 Shot down with broken wings from heaven's gate, 
 
 Waiting for halm that may he brought too late. 
 
 Time is not now to me what time hath been ; 
 
 I know my hope is dead, but I exist 
 In a care- conquered state, two worlds between, 
 
 And all my future lies enthralled in mist. 
 What shall I do that I may win heart's ease. 
 Except this storm doth beat me to my knees ? 
 
 Break out, light ! let this black cloud be rent, 
 That I may search the diamonded skies, . 
 
 To find the pathway from this mangled tent 
 Of a free spirit hid by tearful eyes, 
 
 For I am as a frightened child whose scream 
 
 Leaps in the midnight from a ghastly dream. 
 
 One blessed ray from a pale, trembling star. 
 Creeps softly down, pure as the balmy glow 
 
 Of chastened sheen from heaven's gate ajar. 
 Tell me, sweet Mercy, for I long to know. 
 
 Is it to light me from sad sorrow's cave. 
 
 Or wake a daisy on poor Willie's grave ? 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 Hymen's Acid. 
 
 MY love is cross, and so am I ; 
 I can't be happy, though I try ; 
 I long to bid the world good-bye. 
 
 But cannot part with Polly ; 
 Grief hangs her banner on my face ; 
 My household gods are out of grace ; 
 And home is such a dreary place ; 
 'Tis all through loving Polly. 
 
 How shall I break this icy wall 
 That holds my idol in its thrall ? 
 I must not let my manhood fall, 
 
 Nor bend my pride to Polly. 
 And yet; my heart, I dare not scorn 
 The sighs that 'scape her lips forlorn. 
 How shall I kiss away the thorn 
 
 That pains the heart of Polly ? 
 
 I cannot work ; I cannot rest, 
 
 With this sweet sorrow in my breast ; 
 
 I almost hate what I love best ; 
 
 'Tis just the same with Polly. 
 1 wish my love was frank and free, 
 As the old love that came to me 
 When Cupid shot my spirit free 
 
 From the blue eyes of Polly.
 
 99 
 
 Before I climb my chamber stairs, 
 I want to bear the cross she bears ; 
 I cannot pray my evening prayers, 
 
 Except I i)ray for Polly. 
 For if I i^ray, how shall I plead ? 
 Alas ! in this dear hour of need, 
 A blessed thing it were indeed. 
 
 If all was well with Polly. 
 
 I will defy my heart's desire ; 
 I will not to my bed retire ; 
 Here will I wait afront the fire, 
 
 To hear the call of Polly. 
 While that she lies in bed alone, 
 I will not let her hear me groan ; 
 I will be dumb as marble stone, 
 
 And try to conquer Polly. 
 
 How shall I end this trouble sore ? 
 'Twas twelve o'clock, but now 'tis four ; 
 It was my fault, a little more 
 
 Than 'twas the fault of Polly. 
 But how shall I this silence break, 
 When she should be the first to speak ? 
 I cannot for forgiveness seek, 
 
 Excej)t I bend to Polly. 
 
 When time for rest was drawing near. 
 She used to say, "Come on, my dear; "
 
 100 
 
 Yet she is gone, and I am liere ; 
 
 'Twas very wrong of Polly. 
 My joys are all a blighted ci-op, 
 My care a hag that comes to stop, 
 My life is one great acid drop ; 
 
 'Tis all through loving Polly. 
 
 Ah ! sweet and sour together mixed ; 
 I almost wish my fate was fixed ; 
 I am such pain and bliss betwixt ; 
 
 Shall I go up to Polly ? 
 Come on, cold feet, her touch may thrill ; 
 Love wins the fight, against my will, 
 The road to heaven is uphill, 
 
 'Tis just the same to Polly. 
 
 The Funeral. 
 
 I 
 
 EEMEMBER it was winter. 
 And that icy-fingered printer 
 Left his hideous impressions on the faces of the poor. 
 That we met while sadly strolling 
 Through the city, to the tolling 
 Of the Sabbath bells, extolling Heaven's love and 
 Mercy's store 
 
 But I heeded not their wooing, 
 For I knew that I was going
 
 101 
 
 To be parted, and for ever, from a friend beloved of 
 yore ; 
 
 Parted by a woe devasting, 
 O'er my life dark shadows casting. 
 And a grief tliat will be lasting, till my pilgrimage 
 is o'er. 
 
 Sadly, with a load I carried, 
 In the city street I tarried — 
 Tarried wan and terror-stricken by a flock of ghastly 
 things. 
 
 Beetle black and cavern- chested, 
 Raven- plumed and sable- crested. 
 That about his dwelling rested, with their heavy 
 velvet wings 
 
 Drooping dustward, in the manner 
 Of a breeze-forsaken banner ; 
 Ah, I know what they come after in a world where 
 pleasure stings; 
 
 So my heart was terror-stricken. 
 As the autumn leaves that sicken 
 When their fellows fall to quicken with the life of 
 future springs. 
 
 Then the voice of anguish stifled, 
 In a temple pleasure-rifled. 
 Bursting from its sanctuary, smote a swift respond- 
 ing string. 
 
 In my bosom comfort craving. 
 But I listened to the raving,
 
 102 
 
 To the wild unholy raving of a strange imagining, 
 Till my reason sank affrighted, 
 And my sadder spirit sighted 
 Through her misty turret windows what awoke my 
 fear to sing : 
 
 Then a taloned Trouble tore me 
 On the sin-damned orb that bore me 
 As the cortege came before me of the sin-begotten 
 King. 
 
 Clouds of crape, with fearful faces 
 Peering from their black embraces, 
 Melancholy monsters rolling o'er my heart that bled 
 in vain ; 
 
 And Despair beside me stalking, 
 Demon of the funeral talking 
 To my spirit, westward walking with the sable- 
 crested train. 
 
 Saying, " Thou shalt never meet him, 
 But his mother Earth shall eat him," 
 Till I called the Demon liar, but he answered thus 
 again : 
 
 *' What is man that God should mind him, 
 When the door is closed behind him, 
 Can thy Hoi)e or Love unbind him — ever break his 
 icy chain ? " 
 
 Then my Hope fell faint and cheerless, 
 Till a seraph bold and fearless
 
 103 
 
 Told me how a little acorn fell beneath the sudden 
 stroke 
 
 Of a ruthless blast that tore it 
 From a parent's arms that bore it, 
 
 When an angel waiting for it hid it in a dusty cloak ; 
 Whence it blossomed, green and glorious, 
 As a soul o'er death victorious : 
 
 Then the coffin of the acorn was the cradle of the oak. 
 So the mighty Father taketh 
 Tender care of all He maketh, 
 
 From the meanest mite He waketh, to a spirit in its 
 yoke. 
 
 10 the World. 
 
 THEEE is a wrong beneath the sun, 
 A wrong of fellow men, 
 With which I dare in battle run 
 
 That weapon called a pen ; 
 My pen indeed a puny thing. 
 
 Yet if my aim I miss, 
 Still for the Eight I hold the ring, 
 And charge the world like this : 
 
 ■■o"- 
 
 You cheer the man that wins the prize 
 You laud and call him great ; 
 
 But he that fails in what he tries 
 Ye trample 'neath your feet :
 
 104 
 
 The man that fails to hit his mart, 
 
 Although his aim was high, 
 Ye hurry to oblivion dark : 
 
 In mercy tell me why ? 
 
 No matter what our spheres may be, 
 
 If thei'e's a goal to find, 
 One runs the race triumphantly, 
 
 The thousands lag behind : 
 The course may be the same in length, 
 
 But some Dame Forttme starts, 
 And there are some with little strength, 
 
 That carry broken heirts. 
 
 To him that does not want your cheers 
 
 A thousand cheers you give, 
 On him that fails you pile your sneers, 
 
 Until 'tis pain to live. 
 Why are ye guilty of such deeds ? 
 
 I scorn your cruel plan : 
 "Why don't you help the thing that needs. 
 
 And cheer the proper man ?
 
 105 
 
 The Old Pauper's Song. 
 
 OH, joy is a tide that ebbs and flows, 
 Whether or whence God only knows ! 
 The poor man's cross is a pain to bear, 
 But the crown of glory is the yoke of care. 
 I have seen happiness far from wealth. 
 And misery eating a rich man's health ; 
 I have worshipped a rose whose roots ran down 
 Through the roof of a grave in the silent town. 
 There's many a cheek, where bright smiles glow, 
 That do not spring from the heart I trow. 
 Oh, Joy is a tide that ebbs and flows, 
 Whither or whence Grod only knows ! 
 
 Oh, man is little and God is great ! 
 Summer lies dead beneath my feet ; 
 The rose is withered, the lark is dumb. 
 The swallows are flown from the wrath to come ; 
 Spring will wake and summer will smile. 
 But what of the poor that starve the while ? 
 The spirit of love has sent them food. 
 But the evil of man is mixed with good. 
 Self holds the sieve while angels pour. 
 And what cares SeK for the hungry poor ? 
 Do the winds for the leaves beneath my feet ? 
 Oh, man is little and God is great ! 
 
 The swallows were wise, but the robin is bold. 
 Look up, little souls that long for gold,
 
 106 
 
 He is flinging me down a splendid proof 
 Of the Father's care fi-om my cottage roof ; 
 Except you feel you never can see 
 What that love carol is worth to me ; 
 But you may reckon, of course you can, 
 What you are worth to your fellow man ; 
 How do you gather ? and what do you give ? 
 'Twill be harder to die than it is to live. 
 Ah me ! that rohin has made me bold — 
 Look up, httle souls that starve for gold. 
 
 Oh, bride of my heart, come hither to me, 
 
 For I have a song to sing to thee : 
 
 The year of our life is in its wane, 
 
 And our pathway home is a thorny lane. 
 
 We have laughed together when our hearts were Hght; 
 
 We have wept together in care's black night ; 
 
 We've fought for each other in the days that are past; 
 
 We have lived for each other, let us love to the last. 
 
 We may meet Death in a pauper's ward, 
 
 But if Heaven is near 'twill not be hard ; 
 
 I ask no Heaven that holds not thee — 
 
 Bride of my soul, come thither with me. 
 
 
 '^.•'&'^-. 
 
 '^®®V
 
 107 
 
 A Book. 
 
 MY lady's face is as a book 
 Whereon I love with love to look, 
 Because I read the golden lore 
 Of Truth and Faith upon it blent, 
 
 Such as I never read before. 
 That happy hour when it was sent 
 To make my life magnificent. 
 
 An open book it is to me, 
 Revealing half my destiny, 
 
 And for my care a pleasant charm ; 
 My dearest thoughts it doth entrance ; 
 
 It is to save my soul from harm, 
 A shrine from whence her virtues glance 
 With more than mortal elegance. 
 
 A joy it is much joy above. 
 
 To read it by the lamps of love, 
 
 That in thought's palace windows shine 
 Ah ! that to me is joy indeed ; 
 
 But there's a pleasure more divine 
 My lady will to me concede ; 
 It is to kiss the book I read.
 
 108 
 Sonnets on Chatferfon's Church, Brisiol. 
 
 WHAT hast tliou seen, pilgrim ! in the valley ? 
 What hast thou found from this great world 
 
 of ours, 
 Rising more glorious or majestically 
 
 That this tall temple, made of sculptor flowers. 
 By Art triumphant, and her high born ally. 
 
 Seraphic G-enius ? 'Tis a palace vast, 
 On which I gaze with beauty -loving eyes, 
 
 Because I know 'twas raised in ages past, 
 For the great Queen of Hope's pure Paradise, 
 
 Sovil-saving Love. The swift-winged angel light, 
 That leaps from Heaven's window, lustre shedding. 
 
 Hath not descended from her native skies. 
 Or glanced from glory on a grander wedding. 
 
 Of airy elegance with massy might. 
 
 It is not like a temple made by men ; 
 
 A man within its compass barely seems 
 More than a miner mole that makes its den 
 
 In a tall mountain's foot. The grandest dreams 
 Of painter poets flash from shining sheets 
 Of saint emblazoned crystal. Beauty greets 
 You in this hall of Death. When that the door 
 
 Doth shut you in another world you tread. 
 Where arborescent monsters from the floor, 
 
 Shoot to the ribbed roof, whereon they spread
 
 109 
 
 Their ravelled branches till that roof appears 
 The haunt of spirits watching o'er the dead 
 
 That slumber in a sepulchre of years, 
 
 Wherein we muse by its famed founder's bed. 
 
 As a full moon, in the blue heavens dancing 
 Among the stars with harmony sublime, 
 
 Soars from her silver couch with smiles enchancing. 
 Shall this fair fabric from the grasp of time 
 Rise with replenished splendour to the chime 
 
 Of holy bells ; and melodies entrancing, 
 
 Shall float above this vale of tears and crime, 
 Up unto God like the glad gushing rhyme 
 
 Of bards who see the golden age advancing. 
 When Sharon's Rose shall bloom in every clime 
 
 Beneath the blessing sun ; then angels glancing 
 From their high home shall bless this altar prime, 
 
 As man is blest Avhen mercy doth dejjart 
 
 Out from the soul of God, in heaven's heart. 
 
 In these dear days this earth shall not be damned 
 
 By a dire dearth of love. Love shall with joy 
 Open her palace doors that now be slammed, 
 
 Defying entrance to the " marv'lous boy." 
 He in the cold outside stands carved in stone 
 
 Like some unshriven soul. He sang for bread, 
 And, starving, died. We to his ghost instead 
 
 Bequeath the granite that shall not atone 
 For our forefathers' shame. What deed were worse 
 
 Than this exclusion from his dearest fane,
 
 110 
 
 These are the days when juries round a corse 
 
 Of him that dares seek Death say 'twas insane. 
 What then of Chatterton ? forgive his sin, 
 Open the temple doors, and let him in. 
 
 -*T0^"=^- 
 
 Hov\/ Mary Died. 
 
 I COULD not tell you, if I were to try, 
 How that it was our darhng Mary died ; 
 Sometimes I fancy that she did not die. 
 
 But that she faded as the stars that glide 
 Out softly from the darkness, to be lost 
 
 In the full blaze of a grand summer day — 
 
 Yes that was how her sweet soul sailed away. 
 I cannot tell the pain our parting cost. 
 
 Nor name the value, which is known to God, 
 Of all the shining pearls that trembling Love 
 
 Dropt from her j^alace windows, when the rod 
 Of sorrow smote our hearts, but high above 
 
 This night wherein my stricken spirit pines 
 
 I look for Mary where the day blaze shines. 
 
 ^»
 
 . Ill 
 Resignation. 
 
 THE Hand that buried Moses 
 Has laid my babe to sleep, 
 Among tbe faded roses 
 
 His guardian angels keep ; 
 And so sweetly it reposes 
 
 That my love should never weep. 
 
 So kindly was it taken 
 
 From evil, that I know, 
 With confidence unshaken, 
 
 Whatever storm may blow, 
 I am not long forsaken 
 
 Where tears of sorrow flow. 
 
 I saw His angels leading 
 My darling from its j^lay ; 
 
 Low on my bosom bleeding 
 A little while it lay ; 
 
 Then, while my love was pleading, 
 It smiled and went away. 
 
 Once when my soul was knitting- 
 Past joy with present care, 
 
 A flock of dark thoughts, flitting 
 Like swallows through the air, 
 
 Came, and I saw Death sittins: 
 In Baby's empty chair.
 
 112 
 
 And that was all through grieving, 
 Sure love will have its way ! 
 
 Fond memory, too, keeps weaving 
 Fresh love knots every day. 
 
 Still, in my sad heart heaving, 
 Bold Faith shall sing and say — 
 
 " The Hand that buried Moses 
 Hath laid my babe to sleep, 
 
 Among the faded roses 
 
 His guardian angels keep ; 
 
 And so sweetly it reposes 
 
 That my love should never weep." 
 
 Fame. 
 
 FAME is the tinkle of a bell, 
 Suspended in a crumbling tower. 
 Of a strange realm 'twixt heaven and hell, 
 
 Where care has blighted every flower. 
 He that the steep ascent would climb. 
 To pull a peal must murder time ; 
 For all the stairs are thick with stains 
 Of blood, and tears, and wasted brains. 
 Fame is not worth the hunter's pains 
 Until he dies, then eager friends 
 Will crown his ghost to make amends.
 
 113 
 
 Blighted Hopes. 
 
 ^ ' rv VER the billows of life's troubled main," 
 
 v/ Sang a fair maid, with her eyes full of glee, 
 *' Christmas the merry is coming again, 
 
 Bearing a burden of pleasure for me." 
 What did it bring her ? A tear- spangled garland 
 
 Lies on the roof of a newly-made tomb : 
 May her sweet spirit above the blue star-land 
 
 Warble love carols in melody's home. 
 
 " Weep not, my darling," a fond mother cried ; 
 
 " Come to my heart, and glad news I will tell : 
 Home with the morning star over the tide 
 
 Father is coming, and all will be well." 
 Why does she weep ? 'Twas the cruel wind snarling, 
 
 Up ran the breaker and down went the ship. 
 Where is the hope that she offered her darling ? 
 
 Why was it dashed from humanity's lip ? 
 
 Why ? 'Tis a secret that death may reveal — ■ 
 
 God only knows why our hopes should depart ; 
 There's never a day but what cometh to steal 
 
 A love-cherished flower away from the heart. 
 Low in the dust of the paths we have travelled 
 
 Skeletons lie of the hopes that were ours ; 
 And, though our sorrows with pleasures are ravelled 
 
 Memory weeps for her fair, fallen flower.
 
 114: 
 
 Here in my bower of holly and bay, 
 
 Why should I whistle to keep away Fear F 
 Under the mistletoe pearly and gay, 
 
 Why should I mourn in this happy New Year r 
 Tis not that friendshij) or love has been slighted, 
 
 Nor for the time that flew merry and fast ; 
 But I must muse on the hopes that are blighted — 
 
 Blighted by Death in the year that is past. 
 
 A Christmas Idyl. 
 
 C 
 
 <rowned with holly, 
 Hale and jolly, 
 Even as in years away. 
 See, our snow-robed friend is hither- 
 Heaven only knows from whither — 
 Make him welcome while you may. 
 Care is vanished, 
 SeK is banished ; 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 Bells are ringing. 
 
 Bards are singing 
 Happy songs like birds in May ; 
 And we all to gladness waking 
 Eevel in a sweet love-making ;
 
 115 
 
 Hearts are warmed, and fond lips say : 
 
 Glad we see you, 
 
 Merry be you ; 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 Up and greet her, 
 
 Out and meet her ; 
 By the beggar in thy way 
 In thy pleasure pass not heedless ; 
 For the best are never needless 
 Of some want for which to pray. 
 
 Buy a blessing 
 
 Worth possessing ; 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 In the mellow 
 
 Primrose yellow 
 Softened lamp-fire's golden ray, 
 Parted friends, each other greeting. 
 Bless the merry Christmas meeting, 
 Pleasant memories wake to play ; 
 
 All exclaiming, 
 
 And proclaiming. 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 Out with sorrow, 
 
 Till to-morrow ; 
 In with pleasure, and for aye ; 
 In the way you went to gain it 
 Give it ; so thou shalt retain it,
 
 116 
 
 Pure aud perfect from decay, 
 
 To the ending 
 
 Of life's spending ; 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 Hunger scampers 
 
 From her hampers ; 
 Know you where it goes to stay ? 
 Where the widow's child lies dreaming 
 Happy dreams of dainties teeming, 
 And the angel's roundelay : 
 
 Up and find her, 
 
 Just remind her 
 Love is queen of the world to-day. 
 
 -M 
 
 Bertha. 
 
 A TALE OF THE AMERICAN WAR. 
 
 AAVAKE ! Awake ! for freedom's sake 
 The hour is come, and God shall take 
 Sure vengeance on the foes of right. 
 For manhood's tyrants in the fight 
 That will not bend to Lincoln's star 
 
 Shall perish by the sword they drew. 
 And by the blaze of ruthless war 
 Be smitten for the strife they grew ;
 
 117 
 
 As autumn leaves by wind and flood 
 Fall stricken, they shall fall in blood ; 
 It is their choice, it is their will. 
 To die in the defence of ill. 
 
 So in the North the cry, " To arms !" 
 Eang thunder loud ; and eager swarms 
 Leapt from the lap of Peace, to save 
 The nation's life. Grey parents gave 
 Their willing sons to stem the shock 
 Of war begun ; forth with his flock 
 The pastor from the temple came, 
 For manhood's right, in freedom's name; 
 Not by desire for conquest urged. 
 But for Columbia's banner purged 
 From slav'ry's blot, they come to fight ; 
 And for the love of human right ; 
 It is their will, their mind, their mood, 
 To die in the defence of good. 
 
 Peace to the land where war abode 
 Again returns — the slave is free ; 
 And young Columbia o'er the sea, 
 Fhngs to the flying winds abroad, 
 A thousand banners 'neath the skies 
 Pure as his mother England flies. 
 But there's of love a dreadful dearth ; 
 Not half so kind as mother earth, 
 Are all that have outlived the strife, 
 For labour's right, and manhood's life.
 
 118 
 
 The God that in her bosom lives 
 So full her children's crime forgives, 
 That where the strife hath fiercest been 
 Her grasses wear their grandest green ; 
 And where her warriors' graves abound 
 The fairest of her jewels are found. 
 
 Beneath a fair Virginny sky, 
 
 By a dear home to Richmond nigh, 
 
 Reposing on the garden sward. 
 In the blest hour of day's decline. 
 When spirits for communion pine. 
 
 Three sunny summers afterward, 
 Thus of the war for freedom's sake. 
 Face unto face two brothers spake. 
 The time had been when these were foes, 
 But when the strife was nigh its close 
 A strange event made friends of both, 
 And they to love were nothing loth. 
 Why do they start ? What sudden force 
 Of sound hath hushed their deep discourse ? 
 
 Down by the garden's farthest bound 
 There was a poisoned water well ; 
 And through its mouth a negro's yell 
 Shot with a sudden piercing sound ; 
 He was among a band that toiled 
 To purge the flood of waters spoiled : 
 What have they found they would not find. 
 And in their terror left behind ?
 
 119 
 
 From the well bottom deep, and dauk, 
 A corpse was lifted to the bank ; 
 And through a southern soldier's vest, 
 A rusty dagger in his breast 
 Lay driven deep ; within that sheath 
 Who was it drove the blade for death ? 
 When was it done ? why was the deed ? 
 Was such a doom a soldier's meed? 
 What was the name he bore about 
 The world before his soul went out ? 
 He that would find the answers hid 
 Should with my minstrel at his bid 
 Come to the time of war along, 
 And learn the story from his song. 
 
 Edgar, my hero, in the van 
 With Lincoln's host, a noble man, 
 Swift to the field must haste away, 
 
 And well he wears a soldier's look, 
 Although it is his marriage day, 
 
 And he hath left sweet Bertha Brooke, 
 Weeping beside the temple door, 
 Lest he, to her, should come no more. 
 For they have loved long years, and now 
 The bridegroom on her virgin brow 
 Hath left behind his parting kiss, 
 
 Beside his wealth of love profound ; 
 And must she live his love to miss ? 
 It is a thought which frightens bliss. 
 
 Her heart is trembling to the sound
 
 120 
 
 Of War awake, the trumpets blare ; 
 The roll of drums ; the banners flare ; 
 The scream of fifes, the heavy tramp 
 Of legions marching to the camp ; 
 In dread array, with ring of steel ; 
 God ! what a horrid bridal peal. 
 
 Alas ! for such a wedding-day ; 
 
 Led by her maids, she turns away. 
 
 And to her rural home afar, 
 
 Flies as a dove the demon War — 
 
 Affrighted from his presence foul. 
 
 And he, the idol of her soul. 
 
 Is gone, is gone, perchance to die ; 
 
 Ah ! now to Love and Hope good-bye, 
 
 So sang the Fears she strove to chase, 
 
 While tears were streaming her fair face ; 
 
 But now her home in sight appears. 
 
 And she must wipe away her tears ; 
 
 In Ravenhall there is a room 
 
 Where she will wait to know her doom. 
 
 A wealthy merchant was her sire, 
 
 But he was with her mother dead. 
 And she had seen long years expire 
 
 Since they went home with death to bed. 
 Her guardian was a kinsman kind, 
 A man of wealth and taste refined, 
 Who loved her for his sister flown. 
 As if the child were all his own.
 
 121 
 
 Thus from sweet youth to maiden prime 
 
 Ran with her life the stream of time ; 
 
 Alas ! that care should stir the stream, 
 
 Or fate dispel her young heart's dream. 
 
 The old man died, and she was left 
 
 Of all her earthly kin bereft ; 
 
 Then, sorrow taught, poor Bertha prayed 
 
 The mighty Father God for aid. 
 
 That aid how needful ! There was one 
 
 Who strove to win what Edgar won ; 
 
 But more than love her wealth he sought, 
 
 And when she firmly answered, No, 
 Thy passion is not worth my thought, 
 
 He said. Beware ! I am thy foe. 
 If man save me shall call thee wife, 
 I am his curse and thine through life. 
 
 Was it because his vow he kept 
 Fair Bertha bent her brow and wept ? 
 She drops a letter from her hand, 
 
 The words are not from Edgar's pen ; 
 It doth her instant flight command ; 
 
 His foe, Red Ralph, is in the glen, 
 A troop of rebel horse he leads, 
 And dares to do the worst of deeds ; 
 'Tis said the Union ranks he fled. 
 Because a comrade's blood he shed; 
 That deep he played, and deeply drank, 
 TiU deep in vice and debt, he sank ;
 
 122 
 
 That in a haunt where gamblers meet, 
 To win a stake he strove to cheat, 
 Then words arose, and swords were drawn, 
 To sheathe again, until 'twas dawn ; 
 But ere the dawn, the sentry found 
 A soldier's corpse, with a wide wound, 
 Stretched on the pavement damp and red, 
 And Ralph a traitor vanished. 
 
 A raid to-night on Eavenhall 
 
 The rebels ride ; and to their ire, 
 Enwrapt in flames the house shall fall ; 
 But in the hours before the fire 
 Begins to burn, my rival's dove 
 Shall fly afar on wings of love ; 
 Ah ! well ; 'tis well ; for he will know 
 Whose hand it was that smote the blow. 
 I told her he to death was nigh, 
 In Richmond ; thence to prove the lie 
 Fate speed the fool. Where stays my slave 
 That bore the letter ? Curse the knave ; 
 He should be here this time befoi-e ; 
 By God I'll lash his back to gore: 
 If he comes not I count the cost 
 Will be five hundred dollars lost ; 
 His mother was against her will 
 More than my slave ; if I do spill 
 His Creole blood it will be mine. 
 And slaves are slaves by right divine ;
 
 123 
 
 Thus as he rode for ruin's sake 
 
 His thoughts the reckless raider spake. 
 
 Home from the field with brief respite 
 Mj hero rides in haste ; for he 
 Had read the story of that night, 
 When Ralph the raider savagely 
 Laughed like a demon in the glare 
 Of fire-fiends dancing in the air, 
 That flung their banners red and wide 
 Over the shrine from whence his bride 
 Sped on the fretful feet of fear 
 To seek her lord ; yet he is here. 
 With feature white as marble stone. 
 Between the roofless walls alone. 
 
 Alive or dead ; where, whence, and how 
 
 Shall Edgar seek his virgin bride ? 
 These are the thoughts that rack his brow, 
 
 As from the scene he turns aside ; 
 All the long days of his respite 
 From war he sought his soul's delight, 
 Till by despair his hopes were slain ; 
 Then to the war he rode again. 
 And where more fiercely raged the strife. 
 He taunted Death to take his life. 
 
 Was he protected by a charm, 
 Or by a guardian angel's arm ?
 
 124: 
 
 'Twas strange that lie should scathless come 
 
 From the jaws of death, at the roll of the drum ; 
 
 And with the living be counted one, 
 
 A unit left of thousands gone ; 
 
 Grone where? Ah! "there's the rub," we must 
 
 Ask Grod, and not our mother dust. 
 
 Few were his words, his thoughts were more ; 
 
 Never a smile the warrior wore, 
 
 Where beams of mirth were wont to play. 
 
 As sun-gleams dance on flowers of May ; 
 
 Despair had set his seal instead. 
 
 His heart was as a tomb of lead. 
 
 Wherein his dearest hopes lay hid 
 
 From Love, till mem'ry raised the lid. 
 
 And then sad Love would weep in vain, 
 
 Until the lid was closed again. 
 
 Of all the night the blackest hour 
 Is not the worst, for from its gloom 
 
 Fair rosy morn breaks out in flower, 
 
 And light, from darkness, leaps abloom ; 
 
 So angel-lifted from the heart 
 
 Shall sorrow's deepest shades depart ; 
 
 Thus in an hour by heaven sent 
 
 A comrade came to Edgar's tent. 
 
 And as when friends each other meet. 
 
 After some salutations sweet 
 
 Were interchanged for friendship's sake, 
 
 'Twas thus the brother warrior spake.
 
 125 
 
 Edgar, my friend, I heard you say 
 You want a lielp ; along my way 
 Toward your tent I found your need, 
 A splendid fellow you'll concede, 
 A slave he was, but has forsook 
 His bonds, as fish escape the hook, 
 Pray let me introduce him — look. 
 
 A swarthy lad, who wore a fair 
 Soft shining cap of raven hair 
 In curls above his shapely brow. 
 Made his appearance and his bow ; 
 His eyes were rolling orbs of light, 
 
 His lips lay open as a bell, 
 Exhibiting twin rows of white 
 
 Teeth like the chips of cockleshell, 
 A nose his brow and chin betwixt 
 Was Ham's and Japhet's intermixt ; 
 The features of his face were kind 
 And a true index of his mind ; 
 That mind ojjpress'd with wrong and grief, 
 Such is the stranger's sketch in brief. 
 
 Strange are the ways of God, or fate, 
 Which will you say ? in all but name 
 
 Are not these myths our minds create — ■ 
 Chance, Fate, and Providence, the same ? 
 
 The Great Unknown to Edgar's tent 
 
 Hath led the man the raider sent.
 
 126 
 
 Laden witli falsehood long before, 
 To Ravenliall ; 'twas he that bore 
 Ralph's letter to the virgin bride, 
 And he hath slipped his bonds beside ; 
 Now, from his hps shall Edgar know 
 Whose was the hand that gave the blow. 
 
 What man of all the Southern host 
 
 Armed for oppression rank and rife 
 Is he my hero loveth most, 
 
 And fears to injure in the strife ? 
 Alas ! for Love ; it is the brave 
 Son of his mother in the grave. 
 One moment of a dreadful day 
 Brought Claude and Edgar in the fray 
 Face unto face ; and then they saw 
 In a brief glance with kindred awe 
 Each other's ire ; but love forbade. 
 And turned aside each brother's blade 
 On other foes, too quickly found, 
 Among the madder mass around ; 
 But when the fight was " lost, and won," 
 
 A summer moon in the blue field 
 Of heaven, like a silver shield. 
 
 Above my wounded hero shone. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! for Bertha Brooke, 
 How can my wounded hero look ? 
 He frets within a prison foul,
 
 127 
 
 Where starving braves of death are glad, 
 Because that they are hunger mad ; 
 
 And armed sentries on them scowl : 
 How now can Claude for Edgar care 
 While keepers steal their captive's fare ? 
 
 His brother's doom he does not know 
 Till days are dead ; then to his farm 
 He brings to nurse a bandaged arm, 
 
 Broke by a hostile bullet's blow ; 
 More than his love expects to wm 
 What will he find that home within ? 
 
 Beneath his roof, in mortal guise, 
 The sweetest soul love ever sent, 
 To make the world magnificent, 
 Grasped by the hand of fever lies ; 
 And when the fury shook her frame, 
 He heard his brother Edgar's name. 
 Wild as a troubled sea-bird's screech, 
 Break through the burning gates of speech. 
 And while they watched her bed beside, 
 To see the fever flame subside. 
 The story of her woe severe 
 His gentle Lady told ; and ere 
 One half the tender task was done 
 His brother's foe became his own. 
 And with a sigh, he spake, alas ! 
 That falsehood foul should come to pass.
 
 128 
 
 Vfhj should he now his wrath conceal ? 
 At once for love and beauty's sake, 
 He will the road to Richmond take, 
 
 Nor wait at home his wound to heal ; 
 
 Whei'e Bei'tha sought her love in vain 
 
 Before the time, he will again. 
 
 It is the rival chieftains' plan 
 
 To change their captives, man for man. 
 
 And then ! and then ! the thought was sweet, 
 
 He will his brother's care entreat ; 
 
 If that his chief should grant the boon 
 
 The bride shall see her husband soon. 
 
 Zenobia and his lady fair 
 
 Will for his new-fov;nd sister care 
 
 Till his I'eturn, with Edgar free 
 
 From prison bonds ; but who is she 
 
 That by his lady bends above 
 
 The vix'gin bride with looks of love ? 
 
 Zenobia was in years before 
 
 The slave of Ealph, and something more 
 
 By him, against her mil, she bore 
 
 A son, that broke from slav'ry's thrall 
 
 When he was sent to Ravenhall, 
 
 She for her hate of Ralph was sold 
 
 Unto a better master's gold. 
 
 When half the beauty of her frame 
 
 Was wrecked to lust that knew no shame,
 
 129 
 
 Aud still she wove the grace and mien 
 That should adorn proud Ethop's queen ; 
 But in her eyes bright passion shone 
 Because her thoughts were of her son : 
 Ah ! when will time that vengeance give 
 For which she seems alone to live ? 
 
 The day is past, the hour is late, 
 
 Through Claude the planter's mansion gate 
 
 That unto them is open wide, 
 
 A band of armed horsemen ride. 
 
 To them his absence shall not be 
 
 A bar to hospitality ; 
 
 For she that in his absence rules 
 
 Is one of nature's rarest jewels ; 
 
 A woman true, as minted gold. 
 
 She will her lord's good name uphold ; 
 
 Whether the war be wrong or right 
 
 'Tis with the South her kinsmen fight, 
 
 But there is one among the traio 
 
 That will not mount his steed again. 
 
 The feast is spread, the lamps are lit. 
 The guests around the table sit ; 
 And laden with the wine that cheers 
 Zenobia in their 'midst appears. 
 Why does she in her duty start 
 
 As if an arrow from the bow 
 Of Death was planted in her heart ? 
 
 Perchance the raider Ealph may know ;
 
 130 
 
 For when his eyes and hers were paired 
 Two evil spirits sat and stared 
 TJi)on each other ; and the glance 
 Of hatred from her countenance, 
 Flashed as a flame of hell upon 
 The sensual sire of her lost son. 
 It was a look that seemed to blast 
 His lusty soul, that shrank aghast ; 
 Despite the answering look he gave 
 To her, no more his splendid slave. 
 
 It is a glorious night ; the moon, 
 Out of the jewelled heaven, pours 
 A flood of glory through the doors 
 
 That open from the fair saloon 
 To the verandah ; there the beams 
 Of laughing light, in radiant streams, 
 Rain, as a shower of silver sj^ears, 
 On a gay group of banqueteers. 
 But who is he that deeply drinks 
 Until the goddess Reason sinks 
 Drowned in the cup 
 He lifteth up, 
 And his wild tongue begins to wag 
 
 Of battle, thunder, trumpets, guns, 
 And Glory, that infamous hag. 
 
 The bride of Havock, Wisdom shuns? 
 Ah who is he whose bluster grew 
 Till his affronted friends Avithdrew
 
 131 
 
 Soul-sickened with his language foul ? 
 'Tis Ralph, the champion of the howl. 
 There let him hask in Cyntha's fire 
 He wiU not rise at their desire ; 
 For when expressed 'twas he that said 
 I am not of the night afraid ; 
 Ralph does not trust to God his life ; 
 This trusty dagger in the strife 
 Shall be my friend if friend I need, 
 And I am ready for the deed : 
 What wonder then if in disgust 
 They leave the boaster to his trust ? 
 
 Bring me the hfe-blood of the vine, 
 And let me fill my veins with wine, 
 He cries, and lo ! at his commands 
 Zenobia in his presence stands. 
 Not with that look she wore when first 
 She came with cheer to quench their thirst : 
 Her voice is tender-toned and sad, 
 Because her thoughts are of the lad, 
 And if her words confess her hate, 
 How can she hope to learn his fate — 
 That hate which in her bosom gnaws, 
 Lies hidden as a tiger's claws 
 Are, till the furry-footed beast 
 Tears with delight its bloody feast. 
 
 * * * *
 
 132 
 
 The lights that o'er the banquet shone 
 Within their crystal shrines expire ; 
 
 The guests are from the table gone, 
 It is the Wizard Sleep's desire. 
 
 And quietly, with a snow-white face, 
 Beautiful Bertha on her bed 
 
 Lies fever left in Sleej)'s embrace, 
 The image of an angel dead. 
 
 To tend her wants her sister kind 
 Hovers the prostrate form above ; 
 
 Long hath she left her guest behind 
 To do the gentle deeds of love. 
 
 'Tis well for them they do not know 
 Poor Bertha's foe is of the band ; 
 
 'Tis better for the knave below 
 That noble Claude is not at hand. 
 
 Too well hath proud Zenobia hid 
 All knowledge of his presence foul ; 
 
 She stands before him at the bid 
 Of love that thrills her hapless soul. 
 
 It is her darling son she seeks. 
 She does not know of his escape ; 
 
 It is a mother's love that speaks 
 Unto the brute in human shai^e.
 
 loo 
 
 In language meek the proud quadroon 
 Her question garbs ; " All !" he replies, 
 
 ** If from my lips I grant the boon, 
 I ask a joy from thine likewise." 
 
 The meaning of his words she caught, 
 And this befitting answer gave ; 
 
 " Once all my love was thine for naught, 
 For I to thee was more than slave. 
 
 What boon from me dost thou desire ? 
 
 Hast thou not robbed my hfe of joy ? 
 How dare thy lips to mine aspire ? 
 
 In mercy tell me of my boy. 
 
 Can I forget that night of old 
 
 When from his arms about me bound 
 
 You tore me for my price in gold ? 
 
 Or lick the hand that gave the wound ? 
 
 It was my blood, my bones, my flesh. 
 And I was thine while thou hast need ; 
 
 Thy answer tears the wound afresh : 
 I hate thee for the damned deed." 
 
 The demon Lust his eyes within. 
 Sat staring on her beauty, till 
 
 He caught her hands, his aim to win. 
 And spake these words to gain his will :
 
 134 
 
 " Come, pretty devil, let me lie 
 My head on thy soft lap a spell ; 
 
 Thou shalt from me with kisses buy 
 The tidings it is mine to sell." 
 
 She tore her body from his grasp, 
 She could not bide the demon's stare, 
 
 She left her raiment in his clasp. 
 She fled before him as a hare. 
 
 Her hut was by the garden bound, 
 Her flight was down the garden path, 
 
 He runs behind her as a hound 
 
 Runs for its prey with savage wrath. 
 
 Haste ! haste ! Zenobia ; haste ahead. 
 His hand a gleaming blade contains, 
 
 And thou hast more than death to dread 
 If all the race the villain srains. 
 
 &•- 
 
 Aside to where a well mouth gapes 
 She tui-ns her troubled life to save, 
 
 O'erleaps the danger and escapes ; 
 He follows, falls, and finds a grave. 
 
 It was a well before these hours 
 
 From whence the household never drank. 
 And only for the garden flowers 
 
 Its flood was lifted to the bank.
 
 135 
 
 His comrades in the dusky hours 
 Of morn arose with wonder smote, 
 
 The well-mouth with its lip of flowers 
 Betrayed no sign of him they sought. 
 
 In vain they call, in vain they look, 
 
 From Claude the dead no answer came, 
 
 A soldier wrote upon a book. 
 In the deserter's list his name. 
 
 The secret of that fearful night 
 
 It was Zenobia's choice to hide. 
 And on her life it lay a blight. 
 
 As if her tongue by Fear was tied. 
 
 Whence came that dagger in his breast ? 
 
 He fell upon it in his fall. 
 His was the clutch that held it best. 
 
 And drave it through his bosom wall. 
 
 A flock of dreams to Bertha's couch 
 Came the next morn on spirit wings, 
 
 Fair Fancy with her magic touch 
 Awoke the maid's imaginings, 
 
 And to her in the arms of sleep 
 
 They brought bright chains of pearls that are 
 Made of the tears pure virgins weep. 
 
 When those they love go forth to war.
 
 136 
 
 They hung the chains her neck around, 
 They sang, " Fair lady, weep no more, 
 
 All these were by the angels found 
 Aside the holy temple door." 
 
 And when the shining chains were hung 
 About the maid, they smote the chords 
 
 Of tinkling lutes, and softly sung 
 The tender tones of parting words. 
 
 The angel Hope in Bertha's heart 
 Lay listening to their roundelay, 
 
 The watchers saw her pink lips part. 
 And lo ! a smile came out to play. 
 
 About her cheeks so white and wan. 
 As winter snow lies on the moor, 
 
 A pretty smile of rapture ran 
 
 From the pearl-pillared palace door. 
 
 The bridegroom, by his brother led. 
 Came his dear lady love to see, 
 
 And then the happy vision fled 
 Into a sweet reality. 
 
 So gentle love made haste to raise 
 The fire of life on Bertha's frame; 
 
 Her eyes were kindled by its blaze, 
 
 And through her cheeks the roses came.
 
 137 
 
 Spring Joys. 
 
 K 
 
 GAIN we have the spring days ; 
 Glad poets sing lays ; 
 Over earth the white clouds sail sunimerward along. 
 Again the winter snows leave ; 
 Lovingly the boughs weave 
 Bowers for the birds that sing the leaves among. 
 
 Cheerily the blue bells 
 
 Ring where the dew dwells ; 
 Merrily the bees come, blithe banqueters ; 
 
 Honey they may drink till 
 
 Daisy folds her pink frill, 
 And at heaven's eastern gate the angel Eve appears. 
 
 Hark ! while the lark sings 
 
 Swift on his dark wings, 
 O'er the laughing brook's face swarthy swallows 
 shoot. 
 
 Hush ! for the dove seems 
 
 Telling us love dreams ; 
 Violets are smiling at the forest monarch's foot. 
 
 The squirrel, in its glee, crops 
 
 Food on the tree tops ; 
 Beetles flash the blades amid, butterflies above 
 
 Caress that pretty slim rose. 
 
 The moon-yellow primrose ! 
 Because they love its beauty, and their duty is to love.
 
 138 
 
 Sweet Philomel will sing soon 
 Songs to the spring moon ; 
 With her lamp the fireworm will catch the hedge 
 aglow : 
 
 She will light the fleet hare 
 To sup on dewy sweet fare ; 
 And May will hang her white robe on the hawthorn 
 bough. 
 
 Who will then my queen be, 
 
 Crowned 'neath the green tree, 
 Bessie bright or Eveline, of sweet seventeen ? 
 
 Joy to my true love. 
 
 Life, hope, and new love ; 
 Better than my old love I have never seen. 
 
 I fade, and she fades, 
 
 E'en as a tree fades 
 When the dead leaves drop and wet winds sigh. 
 
 I know, and she knows, 
 
 Sure as the tree grows. 
 We shall have a life spring in the by-and-by. 
 
 O! blessed are the spring days, 
 
 When poets sing lays ; 
 Beautiful the world grows, the fields are angel-trod : 
 
 My soul with music gifted, 
 
 Breathes as a blossom lifted 
 Up from its mouldy chamber, by the awful hand of 
 God.
 
 139 
 
 To Cupid. 
 
 A BEIDAl COMPLIMENT. 
 
 WHAT hast tliou been doing, Cupid, 
 Since that fatal day of yore, 
 When I fell like some quadruped 
 By thine arrow smitten stupid, 
 And fair Fanny called me stupid 
 By the shining Eiver Tor ? 
 
 I have been a restless rover, 
 All the rolling round world over. 
 I have been among the people 
 
 Of all kingdoms, old and young ; 
 I have danced in every steeple. 
 
 Where a bridal bell was swung. 
 I have shot from beauty's windows, 
 
 Eussians, Prussians, Swedes, and Fins, 
 Spanish Dons, and tawny Hindoos, 
 
 Romans, Greeks, and Mandarins. 
 In the shrines of elegances, 
 
 And the damned dens of dearth, 
 I have shot my mystic lances, 
 
 I shall conquer all the earth : 
 But the chief of all my battles 
 
 And the best I ever won. 
 Was to lay my silken shackles 
 
 On the Bard of Devon's Son.
 
 140 
 
 Happy Bob. 
 
 A ROBIN, on a leafless tree, 
 The tryant winter scorning, 
 Stood singing bold and merrily 
 
 One dark November morning ; 
 Cold, keen, and rude, loud, fierce, and chill, 
 
 The wintry winds were blowing. 
 But sweet from happy Bob, and still, 
 This stream of song came flowing. 
 By heaven's grace 
 My fate I face, 
 And sing to sweeten sorrow, 
 
 Though winds may blow 
 My shroud of snow 
 Out of the cloud to-morrow. 
 
 My soul within my breast was stirred 
 
 To hear the pretty j^reacher ; 
 And gratefully I own that bird 
 
 Became my spirit teacher. 
 And thus I said, till death I meet 
 
 I ever shall remember, 
 My Eobin and that carol sweet 
 
 He sang in dark November. 
 For I may face 
 By heaven's grace,
 
 141 
 
 The cloud of grief I sob in ; 
 And not be less, 
 When troubles press, 
 
 Than my heroic Eobin. 
 
 m<^- 
 
 The Meeting of the Emperors. 
 
 W 
 
 "HEN shall we 
 Who are three 
 Of the mighty great and vain, 
 Link our gory hands again ? 
 Much our meeting is a wonder 
 To the friends of peace that ponder. 
 Lest that we of battle fonder, 
 Should their dearest hopes disdain. 
 
 Soon enough the world shall know 
 What we speak in whispers low. 
 As the words of thieves that creep 
 Eound their victims while they sleep. 
 
 When the chains we forge shall be 
 Fastened on humanity ; 
 When the Russian's feet are placed 
 On the Ottoman disgraced ;
 
 U2 
 
 When that Prussian Eagles glance 
 Death to war-exhausted France ; 
 When that Poland's hopes expire 
 In the house of Hapsburg's fire, 
 And the plans we meet to plot 
 Are all stamped with steel and shot, 
 
 Then shall we 
 
 Misrhtv three 
 Meet again, or shall we not? 
 
 \tJhere is Heaven ? 
 
 TELL me prophet, priest, or king. 
 Tell me seers or sages, 
 Where is Heaven? that I may sing, 
 
 To the lives of ages ; 
 Picture poems of that home 
 
 Where true pleasures centre. 
 And that realm beyond the tomb 
 Death can never enter. 
 
 Let us learn to think of this 
 
 Ere we carp or cavil. 
 There is one sure path to bliss 
 
 That we all may travel ;
 
 143 
 
 To the soul that truly strives, 
 Ways and means are ample ; 
 
 Those that beautify their lives 
 Set the best example. 
 
 Sure I am, if self were less 
 
 In our mortal leaven. 
 This fair world the few possess 
 
 Might be made hke heaven ; 
 Sure am I if love was bound 
 
 In each soul's endeavour, 
 Heaven sought might here be found, 
 
 Beautiful for ever. 
 
 ^eary of Life. 
 
 WEARY of life ? Do you know what you are ? 
 Is it little or nothing to stand 
 Alive on the crest of this beautiful star ? 
 Would you fling a bright jewel out of hand, 
 To please a mad whim. 
 That maketh it dim. 
 Are you what you might be in the land ? 
 
 Weary of life ? Is it nothing to ride 
 Through splendour-full regions of space,
 
 144: 
 
 Witli planets that swim iu the cerulean tide, 
 And God taking care of our race ? 
 
 For nothing at all, 
 
 Ere you hide in a pall — 
 Have you done what you might if you tried r 
 
 Weary of life ? Is thy mission fulfilled, 
 
 Hast thou finished thy share of its toil ? 
 Shall thy epitaph be : " Here a craven lies killed? " 
 Would you creep to a cave in the soil, 
 And hide as a worm, 
 From a pass- away storm ? 
 Is there naught to he won from the moil ? 
 
 Weary of life ? Do you know you can find 
 
 Sweet pleasure in fighting the foe ? 
 The angels are watching, and He is all kind 
 That gave thee Love's labour to do. 
 For life then to arms, 
 For the battle hath charms. 
 And thy soul shall ascend over woe. 

 
 145 
 
 My Garden. 
 
 I HAVE witliiu this world of ours 
 A little garden filled with flowers, 
 Which are not as the flowers that die 
 When autumn clouds invade the sky. 
 To mine, hecause they wear a charm, 
 The winter winds shall bring no harm ; 
 They shall not with the spring- gems fade, 
 Nor perish in the summer flame. 
 In heat or cold, in light or shade. 
 My garden strange is still the same ; 
 For all the flowers within it found 
 Were born to bloom the whole year round. 
 
 Pair is my garden to behold. 
 
 With borders trimmed, and portals neat, 
 Whereon the name is writ in gold ; 
 
 And all the flowers within are sweet — 
 So sweet to me because I know 
 It was my love that bade them blow ; 
 And some of them came out with pain 
 
 So often in the midnight hours, 
 That my warm tears did sadly rain 
 
 Upon them ; but the sweetest flowers 
 Of all that I have raised for love 
 Are those that I have wept above. 
 
 If in the night alone you sit, 
 
 Looking the tender leaves among,
 
 146 
 
 There you may see my fancies flit, 
 And you may hear that mystic song 
 
 I heard the passion spirits sing 
 
 When that my flowers were opening ; 
 
 And if thy thoughts to their embrace 
 Thou dost consign, then shalt thou say. 
 
 This garden is a haunted place. 
 Fear not, but let thy fancies play 
 
 With mine, good friend ; small is thy need, 
 
 My garden is the book you read. 
 
 -<^Bme<'=- 
 
 The Dying Hangman. 
 
 Low on his bed, but not to rest, 
 In fight with death he lay ; 
 Of all mankind the most unblest 
 That ever strove to pray 
 To God, or fate. 
 At Mercy's gate — 
 It was his judgment day. 
 
 What shaj^es are these that haunt his room 
 
 To fill his soul with dread ? 
 They are a spectre band for whom 
 Judge Conscience sent ahead, 
 And conjured back 
 To plague and rack 
 Him on his dying bed.
 
 147 
 
 Their throats are bound with strangling bands, 
 
 With bursting eyes they stare ; 
 He knows their blood is on his hands, 
 With which he beats the air 
 In a mad strife 
 For further life — 
 It is his curse to bear. 
 
 With ghastly grins his bed about 
 
 They crowd in savage glee ; 
 They cry unto his soul, Come out, 
 And thou our king shalt be ; 
 It was for gold 
 Your soul was sold — 
 You murder for your fee. 
 
 Mother to Baby. 
 
 WHENCE comest thou ? 
 With this bright brow. 
 Shading blue beady eyes, beaming with love. 
 Gift of Grod's sending me. 
 Loan of His lending me, 
 Joy of my cottage, my dear baby dove. 
 
 Sad is my thought. 
 More than it ought. 
 As to my bosom I press thee with fear : 
 Wilt thou grow beautiful.
 
 148 
 
 Gentle and dutiful, 
 Up through the years of thy girlhood, my dear r 
 
 What will this fair 
 
 Soft little pair 
 Of pretty white hands have to do for their bread. 
 
 When I am void of breath, 
 
 Down in the house of death : 
 Who will be kind to them when I am dead ? 
 
 Who will these feet 
 
 Hasten to meet 
 If in thy bosom love kindles her fire ? 
 
 Will thy soul purity 
 
 Grace thy maturity ? 
 Unto what sphere will thy spirit aspire ? 
 
 Why stayest thou, 
 
 Innocent now, 
 Here to be tempted and tainted with sin ; 
 
 Kiss me and roam away 
 
 To thy high home away. 
 Pilgrim, begone, ere thy sorrows begin. 
 
 Nay, my love, nay ; 
 
 God let thee stay ; 
 Darkness would follow the loss of thy smile ; 
 
 Light with thy loving eyes 
 
 This wreck of Paradise ; 
 Win thine own heaven and bless me the while.
 
 149 
 
 The Red May. 
 
 When that the lanes grow shady, 
 
 When that the wuids "blow sweet, 
 And violets bloom for my lady, 
 
 Up at the wood-king's feet. 
 Come to the land where the dead lay, 
 
 Drowned in the autumn strife, 
 When the powers of death made headway 
 
 Over the flowers of life ; 
 There while the fresh spring roses 
 
 Break into bloom, you may see, 
 And stand like the prophet Moses, 
 
 In front of a burning tree. 
 
 Out on the land where the dead lay, 
 
 Buried in grime and mire, 
 A spirit of life to the red May, 
 
 Came with a torch of fire. 
 First with a pink pale wan light, 
 
 Then with a flush of flame. 
 As blood through the cheek of a man-mite 
 
 Burns, so the spring fire came. 
 And if to the feast of roses. 
 
 You come with the bronzy bee. 
 You may stand like the prophet Moses, 
 
 In front of a burning tree. 
 
 Over the land where the dead lay. 
 Up through its roots in the sod,
 
 150 
 
 Sped, on the boughs of the red May, 
 
 Flame from the torch of God ! 
 And when the sun fire dwindled 
 
 Down in the urn of days, 
 By the lamp of faith fresh kindled, 
 
 I stood with a thought that says, 
 " When spring birds sing to the roses, 
 
 And blue-bells ring for the bee, 
 You may stand like the prophet Moses, 
 
 In front of a burning tree." 
 
 Out on the land where the dead lay, 
 
 Kept by the care divine, 
 A bird in the heart of the red May, 
 
 Sang to a spirit in mine, 
 Sonffs of a wonder olden, 
 
 o 
 
 Seen by the eyes of youth, 
 In a nook of the volume golden. 
 
 And a shrine of holy truth. 
 Thus when the fresh spring roses 
 
 Break from their winter urns, 
 I stand like the prophet Moses, 
 
 In front of a bush that burns. 
 
 Going to Bed. 
 
 NOW is it time for rest ; 'tis the desire 
 Of Sleep, our gentle comforter, and I 
 Have seen another pilgrim day expire ; 
 I wonder when 'twill be my turn to die,
 
 151 
 
 And which of all the pilgrim days ahead 
 Will leave me dead. 
 
 It is a thought which chants me f un'ral airs, 
 While from my fading fire I turn away ; 
 
 I hear it as I climb my chamber stairs, 
 Saying stern words about a coming day. 
 
 That will to G-od go down in its death bed, 
 Leaving me dead. 
 
 Then stranger forms will climb this path to take 
 The measure of my corpse, a ghastly thing ; 
 
 And when they lift me vip I shall not wake 
 
 Out of my sleep profound, nor when they bring 
 
 A coffin to my room I shall not dread, 
 In sleep so dead. 
 
 Have I not trusted the G-reat God of life 
 
 Ten thousand nights and more ? Has he not sent 
 
 Sleep to refresh me from my daily strife, 
 
 And morn to wake me when the night was spent ; 
 
 Cannot I trust Him when by sickness led 
 To my death bed ? 
 
 Dead! what is death ? All things are prone to change 
 
 That are or will be ; the great blazing sun. 
 This green-robed world, and these grand orbs that 
 range 
 The wilderness of space, all these shall ran 
 Into the arms of death, nay, change instead 
 Of being dead.
 
 Cro-wn 8vo., Price 3s. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT IN DERBYSHIRE, 
 
 A Book of Gossip About Passages and People 
 IN THE Novels of George Eliot, 
 
 ZBIT a-TJ"Y" :R0S3LY3^. 
 
 With an Introduction by George Barnett Smith. 
 
 "Gtjt Roslyn has a fertile and elegant pen. As a specimen of 
 accui-ate criticism we can strongly commend the present work to all 
 iovers of George Eliot, who will find in its pages many passages 
 illustrating scenes and incidents in their favourite's brilliant novels."— 
 Public Opinion. 
 
 "Remarkably good. From the practised pen of Guy Rosltn."— 
 'Evening Standard. 
 
 " The reverence for talent, which is unmistakable in every line from 
 Mr. Rosltn's versatile pen-is always a jileasant feature, and we note H 
 with much satisfaction. So earnest and sincere an admirer as Mr. 
 RosLTN undoubtedly is, is fast becoming a rara avis. We are all 
 oTOwing too clever to admire, too indifferent and blase to be enthusi- 
 astic. The little volume of Georae Eliot gossip will assuredly find many 
 readers to whom it will be most welcome."— Zioyi/'» Hiewg. 
 
 "Very curious and interesting." — Judy. 
 
 "Kotwithstanding the gentle disclaimer by ^Irs. Lewes (Geoege 
 Eliot), we think that Mr. Roslyn has convincingly demonstrated the 
 truth of the theorv, that the novelist did find her heroine in Elizabbih 
 Evans. Altogether the book is a curions tracing of the footprints of 
 the noted novelist in Derbyshire, and will be eagerly read by Derby- 
 shire people."— Deci^ Mercury. 
 
 " Most interesting, especially the account of the originals of ' Seth 
 and Dinah Bede.' " — Figaro. 
 
 " The book is written in that pleasant style between gossip and essay, 
 which the idle man docs not reject as heavy, n, r the studious man as 
 frivolous." — Victoria Magazine. 
 
 " There are certainly coincidences." — The World. 
 
 " The narrative is fall of curious interest for Methodists all the world 
 over." — Northampton Mercury. 
 
 " The evidences are certainly minute, strong, and numerous, so that 
 few can help concluding that the identity is satisfactorily made out, the 
 ))rotestation of Geobgb Ehoi to the contrary notwithstanding."- 
 Sheffield Independent, 
 
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