Amf^^^ A^s ^=o — i — i u _^^s 3 5 6 i ^ 8 m ^^^ Ffi 4 1 — -t 2 i A ^ 4 - "^^!/^"i.:^^'^''^!^-A": '^-A^'K^': Tj**! ^:\AAfir''''' mmPtm^ 'Am^ m /S^::£::\R:M;'r^.1'':.'^»: l'\-J^':'0{--fS': mmXw'm^mW'. 'co:*^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Wv-^' c_ . ]<^U . -2^ 1^ -^^ Q W^ ffVi '{\M^\ M r- ^ ^ ^ j^i'^' RELIGIO ANIMiE, OTHER POEMS. RELIGIO ANIMtE, AND OTHER POEMS; BY ALFRED B. RICHARDS, Author of "Crcesus, King of Lydia." Drum, edle Seele, entreiss' dich dem Wahn, Und den himmllschen Glauben bewahre ! Was kein Ohr vernahm, was die Augen nicht sahn. Es ist dennoch das Schone, das Wahre ! Es ist nicht draussen, da sucht es der Thor ; Es ist in dir, du bringst es ewig hervor. Schiller. lonion: EDWARD MOXON & CO., DOVER STREET. LONDON : J. SWIFT, REGENT PRESS, 55, KING STREET, W. Contf ntd. PAGE Religio Animje I MiSERRIMA ^5 Helen and Cassandra '9 Shakespeare, 1864 27 His Prayse, 1664 4^ Danae 4- The Last Song of Chenier 5- The Triumph of Thought 54 To Garibaldi on his Visit to England 115 Somebody loves me now .... 117 The Despot's Dream '^3 The Warning • 3^ La Jeune Fille et la Mort 139 The Convict's Escape 15° To the Empress Eugenie 167 The Message of Circassia 171 The Vision of Trafalgar 186 8 VI CONTENTS. PAGE The Death of Wellington 194 Pipeclay and Bunting 203 The Dying Soldier from the Redan 208 The Martial Airs of England 212 An Echo of St. Crispin 214 A Bugle-call to Britain . 218 Our Volunteers 226 The Eternity of Sound ...228 L' Amour qui passe et l'Espoir qui vient 236 Now, Farewell 247 Leonilda 25c Cypress Leaves and Passion Flowers 253 The Sleep of Barbarossa 263 The Sea-King 266 The Fir Tree 274 The Language of the Stars 275 The Fishermaiden 276 The Lonely Tear 277 In a Lily's Chaliced Bell 278 The Thrice-Happy Man 279 The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar 280 To Woman 285 On a late Oc-cur-rence 286 A Slight Parody on the Tempest .288 CONTENTS. Vll PACK Y^ DiTTiE OF " Altoune Toures " 291 From the French 296 A Verse from Horace 297 Catulli Carmen V 299 Epig. Grjjc. Lat. Red 301 L'Envoi 3°4 RELIGIO ANIM^. When Summer days are longest, And Summer nights are sweet, As the shadows of dusk ruins Steal softly to our feet, While the moon shines o'er the forest As she has shone before, Lighting fair forms of lovers, Ten myriad, love ! and more ; When the ghostly air is silent As a Seraph's noiselqss kiss On the wan cheek of the dying, Or nurseling hushed in bliss ; B RELIGIO ANIM^. When the sudden Hghtnings quiver O'er Heaven's grand arched brow, As the smiles of thoughtful beauty O'er thine, dear ! follow now ; — And the golden stars are quiring Their mystic songs on high, Swooning faintly in the dim woof Of the soft and azure sky ; But die not to sad ending, Nor fade in slow decay ; New spheres their sweet notes blending Beyond thought's dreams away : — We seem in unhid fancy Thus to have lived before, Thus to have clasped each other Upon some far off shore ; As if we heard the music Of some remembered chime Peal o'er the vaults of empires Through the long grey aisles of Time As if we glimpsed a picture Of ourselves bright blossom-crowned, RELIGIO ANIM^. Ere the mutterings of the Deluge Stirred the dry leaves on the ground : Thoughts, like that Summer lightning, Dreams, like yon distant plain, That the heavy mist curls over, As war-smoke shrouds the slain, Rise o'er the soul's horizon ; Swiftly they come and flee, White halcyon sails that glimmer Between soft eve and sea. Are then the spirits mortal That dream these distant dreams ? Live we from Life's frail portal But to Death's icy gleams ? Less than these transient shadows Of ruin, rock, or tree ; Brief as swift meteors speeding Their ceaseless embassy ? Less than the lightnings fringing The changeful crest of sea ? Less than the sea whose vastness Mirrors eternity ? B 2 RELIGIO ANIM^. No ! This is my Religion ; I hold it from on high : It falls upon my forehead Like lustre from the sky — This spirit"s mighty yearning — It cannot, love ! be nought ; This rush of tender fancies, This sunshine-burst of thought ; And we shall live hereafter. Ay, love ! for evermore, With the sapphire dome of Heaven Star-clustered for a floor ; In the spirit-world of flowers That never fade or sleep, In the home of happy hours. There ne'er again to weep : Earth's sorrows all forgotten, Dead visions of past night. When blushes Heaven's first soul-bloom In dawn of endless light : I tell thee this, not doubting. But, wrapt in faith divine, Kneel, thrilled with trembling worship. 'Neath Nature's jewelled shrine. RELIGIO ANIM^. These dreams of past existence, They do not, cannot lie ; These murmurs from Time's sea-shells By giant waves cast high ; These mystic, godlike flashes That in our frail frames burn, As flame leaps from the ashes Ere shattered lies the urn ; These thoughts of solemn midnight, This still small voice of peace, Which breathed immortal promise To sage of Rome and Greece ; Unto the hoar Chaldean, Who spelt on star-girt plain. In characters fire-written, That man must live again. Weave, Night ! thy calmest picture ; Moon ! flood yon landscape pale ; Steal lovingly, dusk shadows ! Forth from your ebon gaol. The blood within me tingles ; There sings, without a sound. RELIGIO ANIM^. A psalm of ancient glory, Like music from the ground — Like music from the graves, love ! Of holy buried men ; A soul's cathedral-service Away from mortal ken : I hear their anthems pealing, I see their vestments float ; The cold air feels no burden, The chill wind bears no note : It wakes not priest nor verger, This pageantry of sound. Though nave and transept tremble From pine-like spire to ground ; It wakes not priest nor verger, Though splendours forth out-stream Would pale morn's orient sun-plumes And blind noon's arrowy beam ; It stirs not lay nor churchman. No being of dull mould. Whose purer, nobler essence Hath, with his life, grown old. Hush ! in yon humble dwelling Dreams a poor orphan boy RELIGIO ANIM^. Of smile-clad angels bringing A wondrous Heaven-wrought toy ; An oriel-pierced cathedral Lit with such glorious light, His waste heart shall grow better, And loving from this night : Lo ! whilst upon it gazing With eager tear-fraught eyes, That angel gift grows larger, Till it doth fill the skies ; Like the spell-wove pavilion In the Arabian tale — My little boy, fear nothing, With waxen cheek so pale : — See ! ere thy dream hath ending. The vision sinks in gloom To strains so sweet in dying. Like falling flowers' perfume :— Yea. nothing of it lingers. That fantasy divine ; Nor pillared arch, nor singers. Tapers, nor vestments fine, Xor organ's swelling anthem, Nor window's storied fire. 8 RELIGIO ANIM^. Fade buttress, groin, and carving. Dome, pinnacle, and spire : — My little child ! what see'st thou So far into the room ? Thy mother's smiling Spirit Glides backward to the tomb. World of unbought affections ! Life of abounding love ! Love, that we feel eternal ; Life, spark from Heaven above — Spark in my breast that kindles Such fire, a sea of tears. The embattled hosts of Frenzy, Of follies, doubts, and fears, Quench, nor affright it from me. Nor learning's envious lore, Nor the world's bitterest teaching, Armed from Griefs icy store. Legions of evil Spirits ! Ye cannot still the voice Of one small babe-like Conscience, That bids sweet hopes rejoice — RELIGIO ANIM^. Sweet hopes that are not buried In lives or graves of men ; Sweet hopes that will not perish, But burst to life again. Go ! where the Autumn flowers Fade from the ripening tree ; Kneel ! where the warm Spring preaches His text, Eternity ; Think ! where the ocean ripples In sunlit glory spread Paths for bright angel missions, That come with noiseless tread : Hark ! how the hollow thunder Smites dumb the shuddering bay ; Out leaps the tawny levin, As serpents strike their prey : Till the loud surges answer, Like wolves from out the dark. And foaming, worry ribless The seaman's shattered bark. See ! where the dismal ice-plains Awakening, creep and sigh ; lO RELIGIO ANIM.C The Norse-fires' glittering legions Stream o'er the wint'ry sky. Gleam like steel battle-trophies Round feigned Valhalla's walls, Sink, re-appear and vanish, Till snow's white curtain falls, And flashing coruscations Show tinted isles no more, Far point nor glittering inlet Round Frost's fantastic shore : Mark, in the broad-leaved tropics. Whose yellow moon smites mad. Where dank Mist hag-like beckons, In spectral burnous clad, Mountain to mountain flinging, Like giants in their play. Slant javelin-shafts of sunrise Flame-pennoned with fierce ray, Till the huge teeming forest Burns into gorgeous life, And molten rivers kindle With chaliced treasures rife. How swells their diapason With chord of trembling praise ! RELIGIO ANIMiE. II Its bass deep-caverned thunder, Dread, heaving Earthquake plays : The piping winds its tenor, Lava, its burning song, RoUing with voice terrific Cloud-canopied along ; Hoar Ocean chants his war-runes, When billows charge and die — His rhythm of emerald ripples Breathes to calm's turquoise sky. In Earth's ascending chorus The feeblest being hath place, That tow'rd Heaven's tenderest blessing Turns its small trustful face ; The lowliest flower self-woven In the green valley's hem, The tiniest insect bending More low the flower's frail stem ; The cry of every unseen thing, The prayer of the unknown, Love wafts on wings untiring To Mercy's radiant throne : — 12 RELIGIO ANIM.E. All speak of One far greater, How smaller far art thou, Doubting thy Maker's mandate, Death's shadow on thy brow ! All witness thou wert nothing, Save for thy living soul- Save for thy trust eternal — God's Peace, thine amaranth goal. Come hither, my sweet children ! Some time we three must part, Though linked with living fetters Whose padlock is my heart ; Come hither, my sweet babe-girls ! Gaze softly in mine eyes ; Beams not in your blue vision Some light from far-off skies ? — I could not welcome daybreak, I could not sleep at night. If I thought THIS world ended My tender, true delight ; I dared not watch your gambols, I could not strain you near RELIGIO ANIM^. I3 Unto my heart of heart-throbs As now, for very fear Lest MY days soon be numbered, A grave face pass away, And we for aye be sundered, Mere dead from living clay : Or as ye hide in playing Behind my study door Some night ye should be hidden And laughing come no more. O serpent creed of demons ! To murder Faith and Love, Lighting the sun with hell-flames To scorch men from above ; Deeming this orb of wonder The football of mischance, The spheres' harmonious measure Necessity's mad dance. O breed of human insects ! With suicidal sting. Your wisdom's flickering lamp-light Burns but your own fool's wing. Deny your great Creator ? — 1 4 RELIGIO ANIM^. Ay, in Creation's face, Seeking to run with shadows Your life's brief idiot race ! Think ye so sadly of it, The soul ye fain would doom, Its last gleam is putrescence, The corpse-light of the tomb ? — Learn ! 'Tis around us written From cradle unto grave, That He who hath created. Hath power and will to save : Without this, Life's chief blessings Were but life's chiefest curse. Life's road, a dusty dead-march Unto a tearless hearse. Dark, silent, music-less, forlorn ; Our end the wild beasts' death, That, worn out, crawl in caverns, To grin forth their fierce breath. Oh ! FOR A SOLEMN WHISPER to thrill through deafest ear a tongue of flame to sunder Man's blindness, like a spear ! -0 M I S E R R I M A ! A BROKEN lute on a darkened floor, A faded token of love long o'er, The sound of a footstep, to a door Which once came often, but comes no more Peace that is buried, Joy that is dead. Friendship forgotten, warm Youth fled ; The rose-leaves blooming yesterday shed, To rot in the rain o'er the dust-heap's bed ; The eve of battle, its sleep at night, Under the chill moon's ghastly light ; The swoop of Doom, like a carrion kite, On shrinking lazar and prince's might ; l6 MISERRIMA. Life's yellow stains on its last torn page, The cynic curse of unhallowed age, Death's staring ribs like an unclean cage For the vulture's scream and hyena's rage ; Hope clad in weepers, with lean Disgust, Pain and Sorrow and withered Lust — This rounds the antics of painted dust. Ere the faint soul slips from her weary trust. All is error — all ends in tears ; We rise in doubts and lie down in fears : Further seems Heaven, as dark Doom nears, And never Truth's dawn in this world appears. There is Good with Evil in mortal leaven ; There is Peace and Joy and Truth in Heaven. Where Hope, though her earthly bonds be riven. Kneels with Love, like children, to be forgiven. MISERRIMA. 17 II. A broken lute on a darkened floor, A faded token of love long" o'er, The sound of a footstep, to a door W^hich once came often, but comes no more : A masterless dog with his dreary whine, A silent inn with a ruined sign, A stranded wreck that on evening fine Bright sunset-glories incarnadine ; A pauper madman decrepit grown. With hair like moss on a frost-rimed stone, Mumbling dim nothings to ghosts alone — His wits, with the swallows' flight, have flown. A passion so lost each forgets the name Of the other who shared in the fleeting shame ; The lie of the Future that brands with blame Him who gave all for a breath of fame ; The dazzling gems on a polished brow ; Where revels their last proud wearer now? Her skull doth the sightless worm endow With keep portcullised, to revel — How ? c l8 MISERRIMA. Tears at a bridal like April showers That quicken decay unto new-born powers ; Bald old wretches false-wreathed with flowers Would powder Time, and would rouge the Hours Men and women, women and men, The same old story over again : Pain and trouble and sorrow — then Litter of bones in Oblivion's den. " Not so !" a whispering Angel saith. " Man's fleeting form is his spirit's wraith : Leave to the world its sin and its scath : Live ye in honour, and die in faith !" ( 19 ) HELEN AND CASSANDRA.* The rush and the roar and the leap and the curl Of flame, like the manes of great lions adrift, With fierce, bristling terror and volle3'ing whirl 'Neath smoke-pall of sable and crimson-dyed rift: A rain of white ashes, like storm-eddied leaves, When the shrill blast of Winter their troop chases round ; A noise, as of Ocean that moaning upheaves When the rafters of Hell split with agony's sound : * This Poem appeared in Once a Week of the 28th April last, to accompany a monthly illustration by F. Sandys. c2 20 HELEN AND CASSANDRA. The loud wrack of temples, tall buildings ablaze. Like the Titans when Zeus smote their brows with his brand ; Swooning pillars, whose statues glow lit with warm rays. Ere they sink, one by one, grasped by Doom's giant hand : The flames sweeping nearer, then howling afar. With their red wolfish tongues close on fast- fleeing Night : When that dread chase is o'er, shall proud Ilium's star No more gild her turrets with joy-beams of light. There are trembling lips paler than white ashen rain. There are teeth set for ever defying stern death : As the brave fall at bay, and the timid in vain Ask the road, known from childhood, with quick sobbing breath : For the sword of the victor is red to the hilt From the warm side that sheathed it a moment before, And the life-stream of golden-haired nursling is spilt, While the thin locks of dotage slow stiffen in gore : HELEN AND CASSANDRA. 21 And the priestess shrieks wildly to earth and to air. As the spoiler's clutch sullies her white vest- ment o'er ; But none pause or follow her notes of despair, And her idol falls, dabbled in blood, on the floor. Mid the throes of the multitude surging around There are Two stand apart, like niched statues of dread ; Between them a mirror lies dashed on the ground. As the flames fringe with glory each small chiselled head : They are beautiful both, but the one as a dream, Or a picture by moonlight, so ruthlessly fair, You would drink from her cup, though you knew that the cream Of a fatal drug mantled in treachery there : Her eyes, myosotis fresh deepened in dews, In a cloud-mist of gold waves her banner of hair: Go pillage Love's rose-beds a rose-bud to choose. Have its heart-folds a blush-tint with hers to compare ? 22 HELEN AND CASSANDRA. But the Other, a Sibyl, stood grandly confest ; In her coiled lips writhes anguish, gloom curtains her brow, As on Death's nuptial-night she had broken her rest, And come forth to fulfil a soul-torturing vow. She has planted her foot on the mirror, and stands To unravel a moment her thoughts' tangled skein ; And the folds of her dress tears with quick trem- bling hands From a pressure which strangles her throat's swelling vein. Hush ! she speaks now contorted with passionate scorn, And wild flies the drift of her billowy hair. As her eyes flash from 'neath it so fiercely forlorn, Like a stricken wild beast's from the dusk of its lair : HELEN AND CASSANDRA. 23 Like a wild beast's, that glare from the shadowy brake, When her track has been stalked and her young have been slain ; She has licked their red wounds, and her thirst ■ may not slake, As she quivering watches in vengeance and pain :-T- " Perjured wanton ! rejoice in the doom thou hast brought To my sire's ancient throne, to this people and land ; 'Tis thy small busy hand ev'ry murder hath wrought, And to each burning roof thou alone wast the the brand. " They said I was mad by the light in mine eyes : Did the arrows of Frenzy strike home to their mark ? There is Wisdom in madness when false Know- ledge lies. And the soul lost to sunshine sees Truth in the dark. 24 HELEN AND CASSANDRA. •• I have known all before — this red vision of flame ; I have heard the hoarse screams that slow curdle in air ; — In the dead of the night 'twas reality came, And but spectres of fancy now gibber and stare. ■• See. the fire cannot scorch me : my brain hath been seared, Since the day when thou cam'st here in perjury's pride. And like tapestry waving around me appeared All the blood-boltered phantoms who hailed thee as bride. '• Thou art fair, so is Summer when Pestilence breathes. And the blue mist of Famine at eve shrouds the plain ; Thou art like to a painting that loveliness wreathes. But behind it leers Death with the worm's icy stain. HELEN AND CASSANDRA. 2^ '• Ay, gnaw well that tress, it hath coiled round the heart Of the brave and the good — it hath strangled the bold; Every hair in thy head hath alive played its part, On each hearth scattered venom, a lithe snake of gold. '•Bite thy lip till it bleeds, 'twill red blossom afresh, But to smile on the victor and greet a new lord ; From the heart-strings of Ilium thou"lt weave a new mesh, And a Greek shield to tire thee its splendour afford. '• Dost thou cower and crouch ? — Nay, thou need'st feel no dread ; Thou shalt live the vile prize of the sword that is first, And thy courtesan smiles trick the pillager's bed— Lo ! a scorpion creeps under its pillow accurst. 26 HELEN AND CASSANDRA. " It were easy to kill 'thee. I'd not have thee die ; They have died v^^ho defended thy falsehood and crime : Thou shalt sell thyself lower till men cease to buy. And thy name rotting blister the annals of Time." Said, nor answered the sullen adult'ress a word, But she prayed that an armed tread might quickly come near ; 'Twas revenge and not shame in that bosom was stirred. And she bitterly smiled — "I at least need not fear." ( 27 ) SHAKESPEARE. 1864. Wit unsurpassed ! Tragedian divine ! Whose leaves renew their freshness with the oak ; One who broad wisdom in least-studied line. With grace most finished, all unconscious spoke — Three hundred years have scarce matured the fame By Milton's glorious sonnet erst foretold; Three hundred years ! Still on we bear thy name. Where'er our race its conquering tide has rolled. What song shall now with classic glory burn, Like His, blind bard of Eden's hapless end? What modern praise may grace thy poet urn, Wept o'er byjonson — him who called thee friend? 28 SHAKESPEARE. Our admiration may not light the top Of steep Parnassus with celestial flame, Nor move the solemn organ's anthemed stop To burst of grandeur fit to sound thy name. As one who would his little all disburse, Proud of the debt, though more than he can pay, So will I here bestow my tribute-verse, Nor from such shrine a giftless votary stay. Give me one thought, dear master ! once thine own, To utter to the world in honouring thee. That on such diet. I. majestic grown, May touch the hem of thy great majesty. Thy world-brain held all Nature. Oft did Art, To gain a lesson from thy thoughts, steal near : In proud Titania's revels taking part. With Ariel flashed around the star-lit sphere. Touch me with Prospers magic wand, I pray. And I will call thee " god " beneath the skies ; Like tuneful Orpheus, airs so dulcet play. Not Pluto's self should ravish my fair prize. SHAKESPEARE. 29 Place me as at some matchless festival. With all thy bright creations grouped around ; There let me wander free among them all, A tranced spectator on enchanted ground. Give me to note that glorious company — As when a child first sees some goodly show, His little breath he fetches pantingly, His little eyes with wonderment o"erflow ; His cheek, like marble from the sculptor's hand. Shows pale with wild emotion's sudden spell : Each step you lead him, lingering he would stand. His eager face turned back in fond farewell: So let me gaze at that unrivalled throng ; See Romeo kneel, hear gay Mercutio jest, Drink» sweetest snatches of immortal song, While passion's heart-sobs heave the thrilling breast — Then would I grasp the hand of nature's heir, Bold Faulconbridge — weep Wolsey's chastening fall- Gaze on remorseful Beaufort's frenzied stare — See fiery Hotspur chafe at danger's call — 30 SHAKESPEARE. Shylock his parchment clutch with meagre claw. Impatient for the forfeit, till advised How, like a fiend invoked, the mocking law Strips him of all so basely, fiercely prized — Malvolio, Shallow, as they spoke and moved To thy first bidding — Syracusa's twins — Inimitable Falstaff unreproved, Whose wit was nimble sword-player to his sins : Nym, Bardolph, Poins, and Pistol would I know, Delicious rogues, not o'er familiar made ; Thee too, triumphant traitor doomed to woe, Thou brawling, sturdy, English ruffian, Cade ! Hear Touchstone, king of clowns, with lordly tone Philosophise, staid wisdom's comic thief; While sombre Jaques makes moralising moan, And adds a tear to every dew-dropt leaf; Then mark the Athenian weaver rant and roar, (His race, yet living, sways its world of fools) Complacent stroke his long-eared visage o'er, While goblin spell through moonlit woodland rules : SHAKESPEARE. 3 I Discrowned Lear bare still his hollow side, With trembling hand to show each serpent- bite : Fierce Richard foam — young Harry clasp his bride, In dinted steel, like Mars, serenely dight — Macbeth aghast before the withered hags. Who lure his soldier manhood to its doom ; They mingle with the mist their mist-like rags — Deep sinks the blasted heath in purpling gloom : Unravelled that dark future meets my ken — Blood, and Remorse that burns her lingering prey, The moving forest marched athwart the glen. The doubt-racked tyrant raging turned at bay — There leaps the lion Moor upon the snake, Crawling lago, with his venomed hiss — Kill him, or thy now loosening clutch shall take Life, thou would'st die to call back with a kiss ! 32 SHAKESPEARE. With gaze averted, circling to the bed, Tender assassin, heart-steeled murderer 1 He dares not look, ere that dear hreath is fled. Lest he should see no crime-stain — only her ! Last, mournful, melancholy Hamlet stands, Weak indecision's slave and master-type, Upbraiding with sharp thoughts his laggard hands, In action green, in counsel over-ripe : Speak to me of thyself, unhappy Dane, Reeling beneath the grasp of awful Fate ! Must we still curious probe thy tortured brain. And label reason with a book-worm's date ? Sad prince, caught thus by the ensanguined wheel Of huge Necessity, all hope denied, Keen vivisection's pangs thy senses feel — The grave thine altar, self-slain love thy bride : It recks not what the great Magician meant Who gave thee being — What means each man's life? Our actions, oft by chance and folly bent. With contradictions strange as thine are rife. SHAKESPEARE. 33 Wave still thy wand ! Enchanter, deign to smile ! Till passion's sea, subsiding, halcyon grow ; Then waft me to Miranda's charm-fraught isle, Through storm-clouds fired by sunset's opal glow: Next show me Juliet as she seemed to thee — Dusk Cleopatra, pearl of orient land — Lithe, simple Perdita in rustic glee — Fair Portia's brow, and sweet Anne Page's hand : Let me behold frail Cressid's scarlet lip Turn from her Greek with wanton feigned surprise; What time the moonbeams Ilium's watch-towers tip, And swift Scamander drowns Achilles' sighs : 'to' Give me to mark the wife of Cawdor's Thane Whet the steel dagger on her stony breast. Flash her fierce orbs in pride of conquered pain, Then piteous stare in eyes of murdered rest : Chaste Desdemona, folded in the sheet, That like a snow-wreath stifled love's last sigh- Hermione's warm statue — Helen's feat To win her worthless lord to honesty : D 34 SHAKESPEARE. Dear injured Imogen, and Rosalind, Through greenwood tripping, maiden pure and wife, Let me accost, and inspiration iind To people Ardennes' wilds with courtly life. Weep for Ophelia, cold as rain-beat stone. With purple eye-lids in death's shadow set ; Like Sorrow's effigy by wind o'erthrown, On bruised snow-drop and pale violet, As to thy vision framed, by Avon's stream, With tremulous lilies paved and star-y-wrought. Whose sedges tall, like listening traitors, seem To whisper tales by fleet wind-couriers brought : Then Fancy wooed thy soul devoid of cares, Anddrewtheesmilingthrough herrealms of light : While pretty wild-flowers, folding their small wares. Sank on the ebon breast of perfumed Night; When the hushed village slept behind the trees, Yon church's sylvan sentinel and guard ; When every sound had died by slow degrees, Save the fierce blood-hound's bay in distant yard — SHAKESPEARE. 35 What gleam from stained window glory-lit, On chancel-floor all rainbow-hued appears ? There to and fro in silent awe shall flit The loving pilgrims of a thousand years : Ay, to that narrow monumental stone. Shall flocking crowds in every age repair ; And gazing, read with reverential tone The sacred words that guard those ashes there. Where boundless forests whisper " Liberty" -i= With all their million musicked tongues afar, While blue lakes mirror to the sapphire sky The bannered orb of each fair western star — * I have been told that this couplet is a plagiarism from Long- fellow's " The forests with their myriad tongues Shouted of liberty ;" but as I know that it is not, I have not altered the passage. In 1845 I printed my play of "Cromwell," in which the following lines occurred speaking of America — • " Where boundless forests whisper ' Liberty ' With all their million-musicked leaves, and blue lakes Murmur it," &c. I never saw Longfellow's " Slave's Dream " till more than twelve years afterwards, and I doubt whether it was publislied, at least in this country, when I wrote " Cromwell. " D 2 36 SHAKESPEARE. Where mighty rivers, lighting as they roll, With flash of whirling foam, the storm-clouds o"er, Shout " Freedom," back to passion's untamed soul, And, answering, mock wild faction's ceaseless roar — Thence flock the children of a kindred race To pay their homage to his glorious shrine ; The rude Australian bows with new-born grace, And kneeling Teutons bless his gifts divine. Albeit the Gaul in different mood and tongue Worship the Muse, he brings true homage there The warm Italian trills his native song, But weds sweet Avon to each love-lorn air. Round Elsinore roams ever a fair prince. The poet's soul-gift to that kindred land ; How sweetly paid the debt, some few moons since,* With loveliest snow-drop from the sea-kings' strand. * This was written but a few months after the marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales. SHAKESPEARE. 37 Thus far, to simple reed snatched from the brink Of Shakespeare's birth-stream, I all feebly sang ; And paused awhile, in saddened mood, to think How small a voice such lofty praises rang — When sudden of a Being was I 'ware, Whose eyes, like blue forget-me-nots in rain. Deepening, o'erwaved by mist of shadowy hair, Beamed with the tender grace of angel pain : A veiled fire shone beneath those dreamy eyes, Like diamonds dropped by starlight in a well ; His cheeks such softest hues of pink surprise, The blush hedge-rose discovered best may tell — His tresses light with varying radiance flow. From Phoebus' gold to Dian"s silvery sheen ; Thus have I known a darling infant's show By doting mother's hand uplifted seen : So exquisitely sweet, yet wild, his look. Unutterably sad, yet soft, his tone : Ere long, methought, his speech flowed like a brook In music rippling o'er a moss-clad stone : 38 SHAKESPEARE. '■ I am the Genius of unuttered song ! I dwell 'mid island blossoms far away ; Or nursed in foam-kist sea-shells all day long. Tune my soft murmurs to the rock-beat spray : ■■ And since my votaries in life's battle fell, By mortal fame and praises all unblest, I deck their unknown graves with asphodel And teach small quires of birds to warble rest : •' I mourned unseen, when hands of coarsest clay Closed the distracted orbs of Chatterton, And marked the last faint red autumnal ray On the pale brow of Keats that lingering shone : '• And ever nameless poets do I aid For Song's dear sake, and bid them struggle on, Bringing them stray flowers scattered in the shade, The wild neglected growth of Helicon : •• And chiefly love I stern and thoughtful men, Unsilenced by the scorn of cold disdain ; Who from the wounded eagle pluck their pen, Or, swan-like, turn to melody their pain. SHAKESPEARE. 39 •' Fear not thy turf-built altar still to raise ! The starlit shepherd in his lonely fold To bright Orion pipes his simple praise, Though far above him, girt with flaming gold : " Then unreproved play on. So vast the theme, So varied was his song, whom thou dost sing. That from each soul, some new and separate beam. To gild his memory, Love shall deathless bring. " O dust ! more precious than a line of kings. Or all the victors grisly Time can show ; O Shade ! excelling substance of all things 0"er which men boast their empire here below." At speech like this mine eye-lids drooped with awe, In dream of such dominion vast o'erwrought : Which, when unclosed, no longer there I saw The parting guest whom followed all my thought : Till, like some former life's unburied strain. Came o'er me rare conceits in antique mould. Sparkling as long-lost jewels from the main To wood-nymph's feet by amorous Neptune rolled : 40 SHAKESPEARE. I may not call them back again to me, Nor summon all at want's imperious beck ; But oft, from rich storm-foundered argosy , Small floating waifs announce the mighty wreck; So I, lone wanderer by the sea-girt shore Of Fancy, saw my visions pass away ; But still some trifling relic seemed to store — Ah me ! its brightest hues forgot to stay ; Lost, as from ocean pebbles in the sun Their colour, or wan cheek of maiden fair. When, like sweet trellised vine, by Death undone, The night-breeze ravels her long auburn hair : Yet, though this effort be but little worth The bold emprise my soul pursues to-day, He must not fear a venturous flight from earth. Who from such glory would reflect a ray. Thus, then, methought in solemn cadence spoke Some wastrel echo of forgotten song, Ere yet to common cares I grieving woke. And faded Fancy trooped with darkling throng. ( 41 ) HIS PRAYSE.— 16 64 Fayre Wisdome's Bridegvoome, married to her yong, That dry'd the hike, wherewith he wrote, with sand Shedde from the houre-glasse of admiring Time. His birth alone had stamp'd the nation great Where he was mirturd ; for indeed he was Humanitie's bright essence. None e'er liv'd Compeere to him, or will ; for he made all His owne, that is. Eche moneth he lay within His mother s wombe, a severall Muse did beare Her sweetest companie : thus was he fram'd To such nice sympathyes ; and on the dale He first did stretche his dimpling finger tow'rd Earth's waving fiow'res, Apollo left his throne To visit him and kisse his smiling brow In seale of promise. That y ere laiirells bloom' d Before their time in this our Britain's isle. ( 42 ) D A N A E. * Bright golden-tressed and ivory-shouldered girl. Shut from the frown of an avenging Fate, Thou misered treasure, fair and glossy pearl, Guarded in brazen tower with clanging gate ! I see thee bend thy lithe and supple form, I see thee gaze aloft with swimming eyes, Like Heaven's deep sapphire, ere a coming storm, Rain-gemmed and dewed with sudden sweet surprise : * Though the main features in the story of Danae are so familiar to every one, it may not be amiss to mention that she was imprisoned in the brazen tower by her father Acrisius, King of Argos, owing to the oracle having foretold that he would be slain by a grandson. In spite of the further precaution of shutting Danae and her child in a chest and throwing them into the sea, the prediction of the oracle was fulfilled by Perseus showing the Gorgon's head to his grand- father Acrisius, which turned him into stone. DANAE. 43 The tendrils of thy tangled tresses curl All lovingly adrift from thy small head ; Ah ! through that little head in busy whirl, What quick thoughts flash and thence as swift are sped 1 Love hovers near unseen, and with his song Wakes the fresh virgin chords of thy young heart. Like a bird singing 'mid the neighbouring throng Of woodland warblers his untutored part; And as thou listenest to his passionate plaint, A strange sweet shudder straightens every limb, Thy pale lips quiver, senses reel and faint, Thine upturned orbs with sudden mists grow dim. Such words I late half-uttered, as I stood Near a tall easel musing all alone, Where many a classic head and flower's rich bud 'Neath the rare limner's hand had life-like grown : * * These verses were suggested by an exquisite painting, not yet, I believe, finished, the work of Frederic Sandys, the Albert Durer of his day. Mine is not the only poetical tribute that the genius of the artist has elicited by tliis beautiful conception, a poem having been also written on the same subject by a gentleman with whom I have the pleasure to be acquainted, and which probably will have appeared in the pages of a well-known periodical ere these lines are printed. 44 DANAE. There, wrought on canvass exquisitely fair, Expectant Danae breathed a deep long sigh, As if celestial whispers through the air Thrilled in her soul, she knew not how or why : As though in soft voluptuous languor stirred Her listening limbs to music, like the first Awakening of a Pythoness, when heard Strange screams afar in dim prophetic burst : Or like a Siren borne on ocean swell. Heaving to her own cadence low and wild, Whose colour blooms with flush of crimson shell, Or morn's first kiss on cheek of slumbering child. O tender undulation of sweet form, Touching with subtle spell the raptured sight ! potent art ! to take the soul by storm, And gently lull it lapped in soft delight. With glittering stars the purple coverlet Of her sweet bed, like Heaven, is broidered o'er, Where his celestial pomps might Jove forget, Nor rend the hurtling clouds with thunderous roar. DANAE. 45 Like sun-lit ripples on a summer sea, Streams from Love's golden mint her fretted hair, And in soft riot tumbles gorgeously, A molten flood adown a marble stair: Her small hands moulded sweetest tunes to play On hearts for instruments — each rounded arm. Passion-strained back — each breast a twin-born May, That bears a twin pink bud's Love-folded charm : Her full throat, like a swan's, in dying, bent With his last music-throb, than ivory On Ethiop whiter — teeth all dew-besprent, Pearls twixt red rival lips halved equally : Warm scarlet flowers those lips, to tempt the God Of Day, and witch the sullen King of Night ; Pluto had given his sleep-compelling rod To press them long, Apollo half his light, As through the casement of the lofty room Slant beams of glory fall from noon's bright car; Full in their rays she stands with roseate bloom, A Painter's dream of an enamoured star. 46 DANAE. Methought, as in that warm and lustrous flood. Like a young Venus at the ivory gate Of Pleasure, thus she glowing, passionate, stood. And sighing, breathed soft challenges to Fate, AcRisius shivered far off in the gloom Of shadowy horror — as when mortal tread Unknown hath passed o'er the predestined tomb. Where spectral hands our wormy couch have spread. O crafty monarch ! impotent thy power To build out Doom and fence thy life around ; What sceptre may arrest the impending hour ? With iron spikes, Death's skull, ere thine was crowned : And when with brazen beak the bird of prey Shall circle o'er thee, vainly shalt thou stoop Thy head beneath thy mantle — nor delay One moment his swift pinions' whirring swoop. Death's hollow mandate victors must obey Who have slain thousands: at the appointed time. A mightier victor strips their pallid clay, While shriek around the ghosts of useless crime. DANAE. 47 Pale King of Argos, Fate thy doom decrees : Not all the towers of brass, that Earth could hold On her wide bosom, though more thick than trees. They pierced Heaven's vault, can thy sad doom enfold, Thy doom of stony terror ! See the glare Of the dread Gorgon curdles the dull stream Which creeps in thy shrunk veins. With icy stare, The face nowhaunts thee, e'en in mid-day dream — Away ! Those pictured lips begin to move ; Beautiful lips to slay the young and bold With scarlet cruel bow of scornful love, Not kill one tottering feeble grand-sire old ! •' Dear Nurse !" they utter, " Nurse ! I prithee tell The wonders of the bright gay world outside These hated walls. I love to hear so well Of those who for love's sake have lived and died : " And must I loveless die, who would not live Unloved ? Dear Nurse ! ah, tell me what is this Sweet malady of sighs ? these thoughts that give Such rapturous anguish, bosom-torturing bliss ? 48 DANAE. " Are there not beings in this glorious world Whom seeing I should worship ? Yes, 'tis true, For thou hast told me of tall warriors, curled And slender youths with eyes of heavenly blue. " Last night I gazed into the burnished steel That mirrors but myself, until I cried, Chiding the senseless thing that cannot feel And dashed it down these shivered gems beside. " Thou tell'st me I am young, and thou art old : Am I not old to be imprisoned here ? Wast thou not free when young, that now art cold. Nor leap'st like me at thought of footstep near ? " Thou told'st me, stripping late the lentils' pod, As I sat by thee, of such creatures fair That move in sunlight. Let me see a God ! And o'er his feet I'll shower my perfumed hair ; " Or as those paler tints of golden sky Yon clouds of deeper gold emboss, his hair Mingled with mine shall float, a canopy To hide us laughing from thy dismal stare. DAXAE. 49 •• Nay, be not cross ; — I have no mate save thee That am so gay of heart and yet so sad ; Do not reproach to-day my giriish glee ; Thou shouldst to see me smile be sometimes glad. •• Beshrew thee. Nurse ! I would a God were near To free me from this prison. Look ! I pray That I were stretched upon Death's fragrant bier Rather than thus live dying day by day " — She spoke. Loud thunders from the clear blue sky Made the tower tremble, "till its brazen gates Clashed on their hinges ; but the maiden's eye Quailed not ; while laughed afar the approving- Fates. A sudden rush of sound ! A yellow shower Opaque that downward rattling leaped and rolled, And carpeted with coin the virgin's bower, And heaped her purple couch with glittering gold ! Whereon a mighty Image might be seen Bright-stamped, till rose a beauteous Presence there In flashing garb of damasked orange sheen — The shining pieces melted into air. E 50 DANAE. And the God stood confest ; but she now dumb Yielded her to his strength, and twilight fell Sudden upon them both by sleep o'ercome — Love with closed wings stood outside sentinel. All nature loving trembles, the green leaves And flowers whispering kiss, each vagrant breeze Sighs gently in accord, old Ocean weaves His nuptial hymn with words like wind in trees : Warm Night resounds with gurgling melody Of fluttering birds that seek their mates in dreams, And summer lightning's pulses throb on high. Like swift emotions soul-revealing gleams : New blossoms set in fruit, coy buds unfold Their perfumed depths unto the wooing air, The pale Moon blushes into deepest gold. And the awakening primrose copies her: While the skies watch that silent brazen tower. Where Jove had entered free of bolt or bar. By quaint device which bade, despite his power. Wink doubly every frolic light-souled star. DANAE. 51 And furnished a strange fable unto men — The brazen gates just now with clangour seem To vibrate through me. Yes 'tis there again ! The studio's folding doors — I did but dream ! Waking, I think how many in their breast Have locked some Danae with triple gate, Whom gold hath reached, and with her stole their rest, For ever, leaving them mere masks of fate, In the world's busy throng. O cursed dross ! For which fools barter manhood, Life's perfume. And unbought essence — joyless thence to toss On the lone billows of eternal gloom. ( 52 ) THE LAST SONG OF CHENIER.* The last warm sun-beam, Zephyr's lingering sigh Flush with soft bloom the dying summer day : So "neath the scaffold thrills my latest lay : Perchance it soon will be my turn to die — Perchance, before one circling hour shall tread Its watchful path with foot's sonorous sound. And plant on yon bright disk enamelled The sixtieth step of its appointed round. These eyelids shall for ever close beneath Death's finger. E"en this verse I now begin. I ne"er may finish. ne"er may perfect wreathe ; But, as I write, these shuddering walls within. Girt by vile soldiers, messenger of doom, The black recruiter of the world of Shades May syllable, through winding vaults of gloom. My name — * * * * * * * * * These lines were written by the gifted Andre Chenier a few minutes before his execution by the guillotine during the Reign of Terror, on the 7th Thermidor, 1784. I have endeavoured to trans- late them with literal exactness, and have printed the French, that the critic may more easily decide as to my success. ( 53 ) LE DERNIER CHANSON DE CHENIER. " Coiiune iin dernier rayon, comme un dernier Zephire Anime la fin d'nn heaii joiir, Au pied de Vechafaud f essay e encore ma lyre : Peut-etre est-ce bientot mon tour ; Peut-etre avant que Vheure en cercle promenee. Ait pose sur F email brillant, Dans Ics soixante pas oii sa route est hornee Son pied sonore et vigilant, Le sommeil du tombenu pressera ma paiipiere I Avant que de ses deiix moities, Ce vers que je commence ait atteint la derniere, Peut-etre en ces niurs affray es, Le messager de mort, noir recrtiteur des ombres, Escorte d'infdines soldats, Remplira de mon nom ccs longs corridors sombres/' ***** ( 54 ) THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Spirit of mine appointed task! stand forth. And let me read thy features — I would know The secret of thy fate. A little while. And this worn frame which I now call mine own, My visible self, shall perish and return Into the changeful elements, my name Rernembered be, or not, as Time shall show — How long, how little, be it ill or well. Thee, Spirit ! I create, to answer me — Wilt thou be aught or nothing ? Die, or live ? — There is a time when mind is dual, when the soul Questions the soul's soul of itself, then flash Immortal glimpses of prophetic Thought Into the brain, as lightnings flood a cell, Whose tomb-like walls incarcerate the dead, The living-dead, forgotten of the sun, THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 55 With fevered memories and blind regrets Thirsting for day, — thus pant for endless night Sad hearts outside, aweary of the day, Of earth and strife and liberty to mourn : Brief and intense these gleams of light vouchsafed ; As when the icy regions of the North Are with Auroral coruscations oft Made splendid, and the child-like Innuit,"'' Whose tears fall frozen in a gentler sleet To the white carpet of eternal snow, Beholds the portals of his spirit-land. His promised home, afar wide-open flung In the deep violet of the glittering dome Silent o'er-arching cape and inlet round. With jewelled sheen and coloured shafts of fire Magnificent — he dreams of endless light, And lasting warmth, perchance more wise than the}- Whose petty knowledge would prescribe the road Beyond the stars to realms of sacred bliss, And levy toll upon that upward path. Where they may never travel. Lo ! 'tis gone. And Darkness shivers down upon her bed : * Innuit — the name which the Eskimaux give themselves. 56 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. The silent play is o'er, the lights put out. The sullen savage creeps into his den. Thus brief, thus brilliant, thus unsought and strange The revelations of fantastic Thought, That dawn upon our vigils, at the best ; E'en when the soul o'er-tops her mortal throne, Grasping at Knowledge to fall back on Pain, Aghast and blinded. 'Who shall seek to read Life's volume by a meteor's passing gleam ? Yet there are moments when the spirit streams From out its fleshly tenement, and stands Apparelled in light and speaks entranced, To the mysterious yearnings of the heart, Half-uttered meanings far beyond the scope Of trim philosophy, or school-men's lore : Then radiant harmony in music dawns, And o'er the clouded senses flings her spell ; Like a clear beacon on the trackless waste Of midnight Ocean in the starless gloom : As if the spirit, borne on ebon wings. Through darkness hushed by Death's cold whispered sigh. Swiftly along, were caught in some slant ray THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 57 Shining from Heaven"s bright Angel vestibule In glory far away : — at such a time, The body sleeps suspended from decay, And all is music, life and light and joy, A splendour borrowed from eternity. A little while, these weary bones shall change, Resolved to Earth's prolific uses, dust And water, clay — the myriad waving grass Shall bear a part, the clouds that shadow it Their portion. From the corners of the Earth The wind oft lulling toil in lowly hut. Or with fierce gust unroofing palaces, Spreads the thin dust of empires in the air; Seas lap, clouds drink, fire burns, earth swallows it; And thus all once that was is now aught else, And all that is shall be transformed again By subtlest Alchymy, in varied moulds, To changes so remote they distance Time." * I have been struck, since writing the greater portion of this poem, with the similarity of idea, as to the transmutation of matter, exhibited in the exquisite verses of the Persian poet, Omar Khayyam of Naishapur, who wrote in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and whose Rubaiyat I have read during the pre- paration of this volume with feelings of mingled admiration and delight. The 58 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. O Rose ! who on the soft cheek of my love Blushest at thine own being, is't a thought The diction, the musical cadence, and finished softness and elegance of the Poet-astronomer are such as I may not attempt to rival. The ideas common to both have probably occurred to thousands. " Look to tlie Rose that blows about us — ' Lo, Laughing ' she says ' unto the world I blow : At once the silken tassel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the garden throw. I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Czsar bled ; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head. And this delightful Herb whose tender green Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean — Ah ! lean upon it lightly ! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen ! " Again, — " Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn. And Lip to Lip it murmured — ' While you live Drink ; for once dead you never shall return.' I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answered, once did live. And merry-make ; and the cold Lip I kiss'd. How many kisses might it take — and give ! For in the Market-place one Dusk of Day, I watched the Potter thumping his wet Clay ; And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmured — ' Gently, Brother, gently, pray ! ' "' must quote no more, or else withhold my own ! -• THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 59 Too fanciful to picture thee, once more, Holding thy Court mid vermeil sweet parterre Of flowers, their Empress gemmed with diamonds, Which, from the curtains of his Orient throne Saluting thy fair state, the golden sun, Like an enamoured monarch, hangs on thee ? O Lily ! trembling in the lap of Night, Who with faint sigh charm'st stillness' listening ear, Thou nun-like Lily ! bent to sullying earth With saddest weeping of the vesper dew, Fadest thou so soon ? tis but to re-appear Warm, velvet Beauty's pale enameller, Shrined in her fragrant bosom. Thus, methinks ! •' White lily neck ! dear hand as lily fair ! " The lover of a thousand years from hence Shall all unconscious say, and speak but truth Embalming thus the name of that which is A transmutation fraught with sympathies, As wondrous as the World. Alas ! tis scarce Within e'en Fancy's limits thus to think, Nor be reproved. O small sea-shell ear! O coral lips ! O violet eyes ! O lids Of wild-rose satin softly casing gems 6o THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Unpriced of richest merchant, or of Kings ! O breasts of Cleopatra ! dusky globes Of perfumed ravishment, with folded buds, The sweetest Love from Paphos ever bore ; Which, through a purple Summer noon's delight, While lingering Nilus slowly glimmered near. The boy-god on the neck of Egypt's Queen, (Whose matchless rich perfection furnished well The dainty lists for that entrancing play), Did with each other wantonly compare ; Till with such amorous toying tired Love slept, And waking, left his twin sweet rose-buds there — O tresses, tangled like torn passion-flowers, With cruel fingers gleaming through convulsed, Of Sappho, mid salt sea-drift soon to toss, And welter to the breakers' heedless roar I O face of Helen exquisitely fair ! Whose bosom o'er a city's smouldering tomb Like snow lay coldly drifted — ^Joy of youth ! The darling of the grey-beard warriors all ; Whom Hector could not chide, but turned away ; While grieving Priam smoothed thy golden hair — Chartered adult'ress ! cherished perjurer ! With moist and scarlet mouth arched like Love's bow THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 6 1 To shoot forth treacherous kisses, sugared Death : Vampire destroyer! Helen,* name of woe ! Whom for thy beauty the whole world forgives, Whom unborn crowds shall wed with new desire, Thousands who never saw thee wish to see, And with their eyes drink in the welcome pang — - Where are ye now? The mute dust answers Where ? O Spartan right-arm at Thermopylae ! That tow"rd Heaven's dome held high the last red brand, As the sun sank below the ensanguined gorge. Like an attesting witness cloud-enrobed : Ere funeral Night with cresset lamps kept watch O'er that heaped death-couch with the deathless name — O hyacinthine, purple, clustering locks Of Alcibiades, impassioned, young. Whose bright life seemed a copy set by Time Apart for ever ! silver-sandalled feet i\(vas, i\avSpoi, eAeTrroAis. AI2. AfAM- 02 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. That loitered in the groves of Academe ! Just Aristides" even, bribeless palm ! grey o'erhanging brow of Brutus ! blanched. When Evening shadows fell upon his home, Darker for that stern doom he had pronounced. With voice deep-echoing from the granite breast. Where his heart lay in ashes — Mutius" hand, Which mocked the tyrant ! — Scipio's marble front ! Cato's torn body ! Eagle profile seen A moment by his awe-struck countrymen Of Curtius, ere he leapt into the gulf! O limbs heroic, glorious features, linked With the world's chosen, dearest memories ! brain of sage and poet ! Patriot tongue Of orator, and lion heart of Fame ! Forms of the grand and beautiful, by lips Of lyrists sung, and lips which sangthem ! — Where ? Where are ye ? And thou, darkest blot. Stain most accurst on the all-changing frame Of nature now ! What wast thou ? P'rhaps a name 1 might accord thee in some page of Time; — But who shall play the Alchymist so vast, As with his drugs the world precipitate, THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 63 Find out the secret of Life's hidden germ, Trace Ca;sar"s dust to Caesar back again," And with Hke art frame CiEsar from the dust Of ages ere his time ? — The mind recoils : Conjecture wildered staggers at the door Of starless, void, blind, blank obscurity ! A little while, my mortal stream shall flow In other veins from Nature's crucibles, Veins of an antique rock, or azure threads Marbling a peasants bosom, or a Queen's: What recks it ? — A rude syllable half-traced Upon a time-worn grave-stone, or a name Misread by stranger lips, if haply thus A fragment of my memory survive — Like the disjointed letters on a plank From some black hull long lost in wintry seas — Shall outweigh all my visible heritage On this broad planet rolling round an orb Still vaster, that in turn revolves around Some mightier sphere— worlds ever circling worlds- Till the brain bears to think of it no more, And Fancy topples headlong from her car, * " Imperious Csesar dead and turned to clay," &c. — Shakespeare. 64 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Like the flushed Bacchanal, whom Phaethon Clasped for Morn's roseate goddess. Come back. Thought ! Enthrone sweet Fancy on her seat again. And be thou centre to the Universe ! God gave thee to me, Thought! immense, sublime : Tell me once more, and yet again, O Thought ! I cannot perish, cannot be destroyed ; Though Time dissolve and scatter me in dust. And brother insects brush me, with their wings Of newer, brighter pattern, unto Death. Oblivion, nothingness, from Thee I hold. Under the mighty Giver of all life, A life eternal and distinct from all, And Thou wilt call my soul to be again. Yet ere my transient part is played out here. And the grave yawns impatient, or the sea Shrouds me in sheeted foam, with mist-like arms By glistening sea-weed braceleted. stretched forth From moaning surges — or whate'er my end, By sickness, sword, or flame — I fain would leave. Mortal in my affections still, some trace. Some trifling record of my thinking self. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 65 Some small remembered gift of mind, some sign, Some token of a brother unto men. Nor fade unnoted from this leaf of Time : Nay, I would be the Prince of memories, With all that I am worth endow the world, As a great merchant gifts a hospital — Ah, me ! The wish is boundless, as the power Is nought. 'Tis like a drowning miser's bribe ; Munificent as poor men's charities. Who know what "tis to want, and thus, in thought, Measure their bounties by their own wide need. Yet, oh ! thou noble passion of the mind, God-like emotion, lu.xury of will ! That fill'st me with the craving of the seas. To drown the treasures of the firmament, And hoard the stars in their unfathomed depth — Be not all vain ambition, faded leaves Of blown Hope scattered in Life's turbid stream — Let me not wholly perish ! Crown my wish With but thy poorest garland ! Let me leave Soul-legacies to all whom I might love. If living now. We hate not the unborn. Our passions and affections sleep with us, 66 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. When Morning comes unseen, and knocks are dumb Upon our chamber-door, where Death has struck. And children beat their Httle hands in vain. Humanity itself lies dead with man : The world and all within it dies with each ; The parting Angel bears away no pang — Only Love lingers but to garland those, Whose living hearts have sometime welcomed him; And, ere he wings his flight, oft breathes a smile O'er the wan face in Death most sorrowful — The shadow of Eternal joy to come ! Yet. who shall tell Ambition it is false. And every fondest mortal wish destroy? — We cannot leave our bodies, or their tombs, Our thrones, or palaces, in trust to Time ; 'Tis to endow the hungry seas with food. Or monster more insatiate than flame : How soon the sepulchre outlives its guest. And dear occasion's gilded pageantry ; Like to a cankerous husk, that hoards alone Within its hollow sphere a little dust, And oft-times nothing. Laws most wisely framed Forget their framers. Battle-grounds are mute, THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 67 Or yon huge mound that hints at butchery, Long since grown barren, would affright the sheep, Wide-scattered picking out the herbage lean, With groans loud-syllabling the butcher's name. Is all then vain as fleeting? That which lasts Longest and best is thought distilled in words. The poet's dream, the mind's reality ; Imagination's dowered wealth of pearls, Scented with mystic fragrance, music-fraught ; Gifts of the poorest and the powerless In the base sordid reverence of the world ; But rich in widest sympathies, heart-gems. Bright coinage of the brain, unmisered hoards Flung freely on the careless winds to all. Imagination ! hateful, cherished curse. Frenzy of noble minds, that ever mourn'st The desolation of thy broken dreams ; Making men's lives their living monument, O'er which the cypress stoops with weight of snow. Thou with loud burst of music, sendest forth Thy hero unto battle, soon he falls ; For thou didst whisper ' Armour shames the bravt : A broidered scarf befits their tunic best,' F 2 68 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. And every bolt and arrow bites his breast : Where then thy Moorish symphonies, thy flutes. And soft recorders ? Trumpets' glorious clang ? Thy banners clasping light ? — Fled into gloom : Bleeding thy victim lies. Thou dost but play The dead-march of his soul. The sun-fringed clouds, O'er whose bright thrones his spirit sat entranced,. As in the East a conqueror diademed, Black and opaque hem in his freezing sight, ; While the pale glimpses of distracted thought Fitful reveal the heaped and spectral plain. Where dusk Oblivion, girt by awful Shapes. Like mortal plunderer strips the dead around. Hope shuddering flies, and Love no more is found. And if it be so. well ! what matter then ? Some buried stragglers from the march of men. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 69 Some' pioneers, unnamed by mortal praise, Who cut life's thorns, whilst others reap the bays ; Some victim-martyrs splendidly forlorn, Who toil through Night, but never reach the Morn : The frying columns, van of Faith's array. Truth's single spies who, dying, mark the way — There must be, have been, will be, to the end. Till conquering angels human follies mend. What master-soul shall own to courage less Than cheers the helpless orphan's lone distress ? What gifted spirit would succumb to throes Less bitter than each outcast's common woes ? — Yon shivering creature with the clay-cold feet Who bears her ill-paid work through wintry street ; The heirs of abject toil, who never know One happy moment, one bright cheerful glow: — These cry aloud, •• Complain not ; for thy state, '■ Compared with ours, is joyous, hopeful, great : " We toil like beasts, oft cared for less than they ; '• Grim, ravening hunger marks us for his prey, •' He chills our blood v/ith never ceasing roar, •• And e'en when seen not howls without the door : " You have entrancing thoughts, ennobling aims ; '•■ A pauper's grave rounds off our earthly claims : ■JO THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. '• We have no dreams, save those of abject care, '■ Of petty sorrow and of black despair ; '• We Hve not for mankind ; we know no thrill •• Of grand emotion softening present ill : •■ You surely would not match your griefs with those, '■ Which yon shut workhouse gates each night dis- close, " Or the heaped breathing Golgotha within, •• The reeking holocaust of filth and sin, ■• Doomed by the leprous hearts of bloated wealth '• To gasp unpitied, and to rot by stealth : •• As if the aim were to encourage Death, '■ And fan the monster's ghastly, ulcerous breath. '• Look where they lie, whose crime is lack of gold, •'• Child-age and child, hoar youth and tramper old, '• Whom cynic 'order' and corrupting 'law' ■• Mix — foulest refuse with life's broken straw; •• The leering ruffian with the innocent boy, '• The ruined tradesman stricken past employ, " The wastrel scholar and consumptive mime, •' And stunted Cretin bred in pilfering crime. '• The poor wretch seeking" honest shelter there •• Hears words, with soul aghast and bristling hair, THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT, 7 1 '■ Would deepest crimson to his cheek impart, ■■ If life's thin current dared forsake his heart; •' The starving parent hugs his faint ones near, " And howling miscreants taunt his pious fear: •• With jest obscene and curdling oaths and blows, ■• The black Gehenna of their thoughts disclose : •■ Not brutal drovers, thus, their cattle keep, •• Nor pen, thus reckless, sound with tainted sheep : •■ For human paupers is reserved a curse '• The soul revolts to hint in trembling verse. " Mark, how cough's dismal gamut rends the gloom, •• Like noise of wolves that scent an open tomb ; •• Effects of last week's snow or blistering frost, " Which bounteous lessen poor-rates' odious cost; '• Dire gaps that tyranny and greed soon fill, •■ With cruel care to consummate the ill : •• See there, the fetid bath, the freezing shed, •• The scanty dole of coarse and bitter bread. ■• The livid limbs that stiffened point on high, •• As the last trump had pealed from opening" sky ; •■ Till ghastlier seems the living pauper's sleep. " Than crimson battle's slain and festering heap ! 72 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. " Would you poetic griefs with these compare, " Or sickly Fancy's fond and cherished care ? — •' Your idle sorrows, with the fearful wrong, " The poor and weak endure from rich and strong ?- '• Your truest suffering is to mourn our fate ; '• Your noblest efforts to improve our state — '• For others be the poet's tuneful plaint, " Unselfish as the prayers of dying Saint." ■"■'' Where cultured man transcends in cruel rage The brutes he libels with his pictured page : * These lines are faintly and imperfectly paraphrased from the description given by the author of "a Night in the Workhouse" of the horrors of a London casual ward. W^ith the heroic act, and terrific revelation of that gentleman, the Public are sufficiently acquainted. When I contrast the deed of Mr. Greenwood and its bearings and results with the triumphs of a " Lord of War " anil his Ministers and Generals, I know to whom I would assign the laurel wreath of fame and the honours which a grateful country can accord. Mr. Greenwood encamped with the army of Miserjf, and shared for a time, to the great peril of his life, and of his health, both physical and mental, in the horrors which enveloped the ghastly crew of casual pauperism. How few men could or would have done it ! Many, actuated by one motive or another, might have endured a similar ordeal ; liut how few could have endured, and made use of it, as he did ! Let me now mention two gentlemen, whose friendship I am proud to claim. Air. Ernest Hart and THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 73 The snake, hyena, vulture, all in one, Ere yet a lawyer's trade is well begun ; Mr. Wakley of the " Lancet." All honour to the perseverance, the knowledge, the calm endurance, the devotion, and unflinching pur- pose of the former — possessing as he does one of those gentle and even retiring natures, which come out so strongly and boldly, when feeling is enlisted and the heart is touched, and the resolution set upon a great and good deed. All honour to Mr. Wakley and his coadjutors for the assistance they have rendered and the powerful aid of their valuable professional journal ! Against such champions whalt chance have Beadledom and hard Ignorance and Prejudice to maintain their accursed sway .•' — All honour to the two gentlemen. Dr. Anstie and Dr. Carr, who were associated in the great task. They had an awful task before them, in the investigation of the foulest terrors of the metropolis — stench, fever, disease in all its worst shapes, sights to unneiTe the strongest and the bravest men — more appalling than the battle-field of Sadowa the day after the sanguinary tide of living defenders had been rolled back. They had to encounter monsters in their path, in the shapes of Routine, and Ignorance, Prejudice and insolent Refutation of the truth. They have fought and conquered, and to them will be owed a debt of gratitude from hosts of miserable creatures now and hereafter. Nay, the nation at large and Humanity will owe it to them also ; since the system which they have attacked and the shortcomings which they have exposed are alike a disgrace to Great Britain, and a reproach to the whole human race. I have seen a little of the sufferings of the great pauper family of England. I have seen the casual poor who have not been admitted into the workhouse on a winter night. I have visited a pauper sick-ward — one by the way of the best managed in London ; but how far behind the requirements of such an Institution ! I trust now that the Press will universally take up the cause of the " Lanctt" and its commissioners, and that not only the condition of the Sick Poor in our workhouses will be 74 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. A courtier ape, a rat's instinctive mind To leave the falling house, the prosperous find ameliorated, but also that of all the Poor in this country, by proper classification, fitting and useful labour arrangements, and sanitar}' and dietaiy reforms. There is a question which the rich and prosperous, the higher and the middle classes, will do well to ask — Who are the Pauper sick and aged ? — They are not invariably persons who are bred up to privation, the natural helots of toil, according to " Society's " views. They include a vast number of those who from one cause or another have fallen out of the rank.s of prosperity and been trodden down to the lowest and most forlorn condition. Not only are persons of high birth and family exposed to this — they who cannot work and are ashamed to beg — but men who have held their heads high in the commercial world. I heard lately of a Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress, whose coat of arms adorns the Guildhall, reduced to actual want — possibly by no fault of their own. Imagine the civic entertainer of Kings in a Casual Ward ! I do not say that the case referred to had arrived at that point, but certainly the state of things mentioned to me did not leave it an improbable chance. Since the famous raid of Mr. Greenwood upon the ghastly do- mains of Misery, Neglect, and Vice, the dread terror of his narrative has been trumped by a revelation, if possible, of a still more foully inhuman phase of wretchedness. I allude to the Pauper Nurse, who blistered a dying man's back with a mustard poultice, in order to have an excuse for turning him over and stealing his gin. Yet I do not think the wickedness of that old hag equal to that of an ordinary workhouse guardian and defender of the system. Human nature, in mere self-presen'ation, in its degraded condition of chronic wretched- ness, will naturally do terrible things. To a workhouse crone gin is Elysium ; for it is intoxication, forgetfulness, delirium without remorse. The act must be measured by the temptation of the THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 75 Worse than the goat who wears no double face ; The slandered ass in all — save patient grace ; craving need. Men and women are hardened on the battle-field of life and in the campaign of constant misery to a degree none can know who has not experienced the dehumanising influences of chronic want. In a workhouse infirmary why should a nurse not become a monster of selfishness ? She sees around her always the forms and faces of Disease and Death in the persons of those whom the world has abandoned, and of whose zero of sustenance, at a cost which respectability grudges, a "Board" without heart or bowels is the arbiter and judge. She lives in stench and litter of disease. She is familiar with the vivisection of surgery, the rattle of Death is the toy of her old age, filth and foulness are her constant masters — she cannot get the better of them if she would. Lastly comes the unmourned Funeral and the Pauper shell. She is herself a pauper and awaits her turn. What can you expect of her — what can she expect .? Gin ! If she can snatch it from the swallow of pro- nounced Dsath, must she not snatch it .' It is not her fault— it is the crime of the system, ye " mtrry maids of England," who turn pale at the harrowing recital of her sin. In the face of all this, I dssert that the poor are kindest to the poor but one degree lower tnan themselves. Nay, I will quote myself, since it is in my own book of Poems : — " Oh ! the poor Are the poor's almoners, else would die crowds. That none know how they live, how life in them Still feebly lurks from morn to ghastly eve — From eve to haggard morn." And again in the " Convict's Escape," which will be found in this volume, I have expressed the same sentiment And even in the sick-ward of a workhouse I have seen the utmost kindness exercised by one pauper, an attendant, towards another. They had been in 76 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. A fox enriched by such vile art and trick His foul success would nobler beast turn sick; A tiger, ere the conqueror's red career O'er bones of thousands rolls to triumph near;- Where pity in the living crowd is dead, And tears o'er fiction's tales alone are shed; Where sweeps by coldly on the other side Dull Fashion's throng in Pharisaic pride. the same line of business formerly. Both had been respectable tradesmen of rather a superior class. Even among the most dissolute of the casuals In the Night Refuge which Mr. Greenwood visited, like an angel, " unawares," human emotion was not dead, Mark the story of the youth who gave his buttons — all he had — to a little girl. It reminded me of the tale of the knightly lover in Boccaccio, who served up his falcon for his mistress her repast. "A touch of nature makes the whole world kin." I hope it will not turn out to be "a little more than kin and less than kind," since the Pioneers of Science and Charity, of Knowledge and Tenderness, have so nobly combined in the persons of those, who have attempted the great task of Workhouse Refor- mation in this 19th centur}', to the bettering of English honour and credit, and in the service of Heaven. May my verses on this subject soon cease to have a meaning or a sting, and may I live to see my prediction falsified, in reference to the evils accruing from the extremes of Wealth and Want in this great country, that "Ruin can alone bring Health !'' Jtily loth, 1866. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 77 With roar more heedless than the winter sea To the wreck'd fisher's yearning agony, Whose half-clothed children peer through blinding rain, As thousands in our streets beseech — in vain. (Life's shattered bark adrift no salvage knows; Men's hearts are rocks, and all its fellows foes — ) Take thou this comfort who dost feeling mourn The outcast's piteous pangs and doom forlorn ; Thou who beholding weep'st the unjust woes That their sad features all around disclose ; Take this great solace to thine aching heart, Life's curtain drops to blot out every part. The monarch quits his crown at Death's grim gate, And with this world of shadows leaves his state ; What slave that vain prerogative would share In the vast crowd whose throbbing hearts are bare? The meanest wretch who falls, but one short hour, Before a tyrant hurled from life and power, Shall, ere the mightier wretch who bade him die, Put on the garb of immortality — That garb so woven of Truth's purest rays, It hides no wish, and every thought displays ; 78 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Lit with the flame of conscience all alike Read their own doom, whose knell doth inward strike ; The greatest now the smallest then shall be ; Earth's chiefest pomps a faded mockery : Precedence, state and privilege unknown. Virtue, sweet Usher, smiling greets her own. And guides their footsteps to the throne above, Where Heavenly mercy pleads for earthly love : If twin appellants claimed at once her care, Want's victims doomed on earth to black despair, The poorer, meaner, humbler of the twain Foremost should bear the jewelled cross of pain : Some unregarded lazar, swept like dust P'rom marbled doorstep of the worldly just. Should lead the van of Griefs accusing host — In rear of all lurks Caesar's lagging ghost — Popes, Emperors, nobles, creep in servile track. And ghastliest fears the bold usurper rack : The richest then would beg the poorest gift The strongest crawl in search of feeblest shift : F'ortune's high-priests, the maddened herd who rage In the blind riot of a godless age. Fain would their Idol, bloat Success, deny, THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 79 But fades from trembling lip the voiceless lie ; Mute and appalled they stand, to Fear a prey, Who living mocked all earnest faith away. Wealth, title, worldly honour, where are they ? — Lost in the grave with festering, foul decay — The vessel founders ! Ere he gasping dies, ■' My treasures for a plank !" the merchant cries ; The forger, as the doomed ship settles fast. Yells the sum stolen mid the howling blast ; As if 'twere his to give and man's to take, And storms would die for his felonious sake That buffet Virtue — See, the honest gale Smites the blanched sinner with its staggering flail, And his words choke him, ere the bubbling surge Of some green billow knells his mortal dirge — - No I he alone is saved, and vv'ith dim sense Of some strange mercy calls it ' Providence :' — Who shall deny it ? say it is not so ; Or what it is ? The wisest nothing know : The ways of Heaven are only seen by man In chequered glimpses of the eternal plan ; The grandest human intellect hath scope But to the soul's horizon flushed with Hope, 8o THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Or dark with stormy terror. Faith's pure star To some shines ever radiant, though afar ; To others, hke revolving beacon gleams Through midnight tempest with uncertain beams. When thou hast climbed the loftiest mountain's height, Where the snows blush with Morning's orient light — Such height, beneath, loud avalanches glide In spectral silence from the glacier's side — Thou may'st discern some little kingdom more. And dazzled range another province o'er ; But who shall map Heaven's limits, or design The infinite ? give space a boundary line ? And the whole circle of existence fold One moment in the clutch of human hold? No ! all man owns is but a trembling dot- Hearsed in its cradle ; as it is, 'tis not : * This and the succeeding sixteen lines are a paraphrase of an Italian epigram which I once met with, but of whose author's name I am ignorant. I subjoin a free translation of these verses, which com- mence, " II passato non e." The Past is not, by Memory traced alone. The Future is not, by Hope graced alone ; The Present only is ; a trembling dot. Hearsed in its cradle, as it is, 'tis not — Thus Memory frail, and Hope with fancies rife. Are, with a trembling dot, the sum of Life. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 8 1 Frail centre of the universe, which Thought Grasps but to yield, and loses as 'tis caught : Our Past is but a Tapestry which waves, A little way, "mid emblems snatched from graves, Adown the twilight corrido; of Time ; Its legends echoes of a minstrel's rhyme, A scribbler's fancy, or a Poet's dream ; And lit but rarely by Truth's stedfast beam : Our Future is still less — a Hope or Fear Of something never come, though ever near : For as each moment gleams, it dies in night. As passing smiles the cheek of Beaut}^ light, Or liker tears, in drifting sleet that fall. Shook o'er Oblivion's sea from Sorrow's pall. And, as they reach their ever-deepening tomb, Melt in the bosom of eternal gloom. Shoot forth thy Thought unto the nearest star. That glimmers o'er thee, — choose the one most far- It matters not ; thy wingless Thought lies dead, Stript at thy feet, ere well it leaves thy head ; So finite feeble, and so boundless great, This godlike, mortal, heavenly, human state ; G 82 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Heir unto all, and yet of nought possest, Hope's ceaseless Claimant, Misery's fleeting Guest, Life's shadowy Substance, Death's substantial Shade ; KnoUed in the cradle where to sleep 'tis laid ; From silent bier with joyous birth-peal roused, Ere the dead clay with living worm is housed. We drift in coffins on a shoreless sea ;'■-' Sooner or later all engulphed must be; Laden, or light, some more than others frail, Each cable parts, and shivers every sail ; But, as they sink, our treasure or our care. Our sorrow, joy. the insatiate billows share : The Monarch's argos}'. the Pauper's shell, The self-same tale of drowned oblivion tell : * " Serius, ocyus, Sors exitura," &c. — Hor. The author is aware of the many passages he might quote from the Odes of the Roman Bard suggestive of several of his lines. There is perhaps " nothing new under the sun," save the inexhaustible combination, by which new effects are produced. Possibly, the oldest poets known to this age were accused in their own day of plagiarism. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 83 Who would not all his cherished burden give Another voyage brief to float and live ? — The lord of new-built palaces in vain Asks a fresh Lease, an added Term — of pain ; Blind, deaf, or crippled, still he clings to earth, A grey, old, baubled jeste: sans the mirth ; Death grasps him with the same grim uncon- cern, As if a drunken hodman met his turn : Exchange their cradles, and the princely line May gain some strength and with new merit shine : Exchange their coffins, and the ducal bones The pauper dead-house unembellished owns ; Unless a rotten tooth were clamped with gold. The Parish loses by the high-born mould : 'Twould puzzle anthropologists to trace Ancestral traits in that unpadded face ; Not all the courtier-sycophants of man Could Canute build from charnel vaults by plan. All prized on earth, beyond the grave, how vain ! Though hatchments lie to living fools again ; G 2 84 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. And still again the chartered knave of chance Makes earth a hell, without one upward glance ; 'Twould seem "mid human woes his fiendish joy Bloomed but by contrast, riched with want's alloy ; To others preaching with insensate leer, ■■ Yours be the distant gain and mine the near!" As if some sudden Doom with vengeful stroke Might not the glories of his state revoke ; As if the Furies gibbered not unseen 'Mid all his festive pomp and jewelled sheen. And the grave yawned not hungering at his feet, And God sat slumbering on His judgment seat. Are lich men s lav/s devised the poor tn feed ? Thev seek bui safet}' for their selfish greed : Their very waste* would starving hosts provide. And leave full rations for their dogs beside ; * I have been for a long time convinced that the mere waste of food in this country would feed our staiving legions, and that the surplus would fill many baskets ! In this waste I include the wicked and ignorant expenditure of cooks and other servants, and the cruel and inhuman destruction of food by salesmen, in order to keep up prices. For instance, whatever the supply of fish on our coasts, far and near, it has veiy little, if any influence on the London retail market, with the exception of the cheaper kinds of THE TRUTMPH OF THOUGHT. 85 While they are racking Legislation's powers To sap discreetly Labour's waning hours. fish sold by the Police-harried costermong"ers of the poorer localities. The bloated tradesman prefers destroying his surplus, either to selling^ it cheaply, or giving it away. In some cases excellent and nutritious food is flung into receptacles for pig-wash by large purveyors, as, they say, " on principle," in order that their doors may not be surrounded by the starving poor, or their servants furnished witli an excuse for peculation. Even in the kitchens of the middle class the luaste, both before and after the preparation of food, is enormous, because universal. How few think of liaving one or two poor pensioners to call for broken victuals ! Even the charitably dis- posed and well-meani'ig say " We have so little, it is not worth while;" and thus bread and food, which would support hundreds of starving human beings in comparative luxury, is flung into dust- heaps and othei^wise got rid of, even in small establis-hments. A man who lives on pine-apples and ortolans does no harm by his self-indulgence — on the contrary, he stimulates trade. But wl en a little soup is made for an ordinary liver from much good meat, and all that, which the French eat as bouilli, is thrown away ; while perhaps within a hundred yards of his kitchen some worn out creature too proud to go into the workhouse, or a squad of unhappy children, is dying literally of starvation ; it becomes a question of a sin which the Recording Angel will write down. The bill of a great nobleman, some time deceased, for "best legs of mutton " for his greyhounds, averaged, as I was once credibly in- formed by a person who lived with him, upwards of ^17 per week ! Probably the dogs were a little cheated both by butcher and steward. Dante could have figured an appropriate punishment for that noblerr.an in his " inferno :" he would probably have been coursed and devoured by spectral hounds, like the cruel ladye-love of Guido Cavalcanti, or Actseon's Shade. 86 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. And careful aid disease, by making Death A boon to those to whom they measure breath ; With " Sainted '"* method, and Parochial art, And rules that sear the bram and wring the heart * I use the term " Sainted " only because of its frequent prefix to the titles of the various dreadful institutions known by the name of Workhouses, as for instance " St. Leonard's, Shoreditch " and " St. CJeorge the Martyr." If any disinterested person wishes to be acquainted with that which was, at least till lately and is in great measure still, the internal economy of these places, let him lay down the fiction of Victor Hugo, whose idea of " Les Miserables " is after all but sketchy and faint, and take to the study of " The Lancet Sanitary Commission on the Workhouse Infirmaries of London." If this "Lancet" do not prick the inflated bubble of his belief that England is a happy and well-administered country, a message from Hell would fail to convince his " practical " mind ! I have spoken of "aiding" Disease and Death. Fancy giving the "aged and infirm" suet pudding and pea-soup to digest! There are other matters which I do not care at least in this volume to touch. They are too technically filthy and revolting. Improper and insufficient diet wantonly administered under medical (.?) supervision is a mild and pleasing form of Paupericide compared with some others. But, O, the children born into this world of sin, shame and sorrow in a Workhouse ! I saw lately a curious old picture of the " Murder of the Innocents," belonging to the celebrated Painter, Gabriel Dante Rossetti. It is altogether unlike the great figure paintings of Caravaggio and others of his school. It has a quaint, petty, sort of Workhouse and Infirmary detail of child-murder about it. It affected me much more than the swarthy and brawny ruffian and interceding mother style of picture, where the said ruffian holds a model studio baby upside down by THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 87 Less merciful than savages who kill Goaded by common need the aged and ill. one leg, and you fancy that animation will be suspended ere the fatal stroke can descend. But what was Herod's cruelty, even in sanguinary detail, compared with the paternal care ot the State exercised towards little children, tender sucklings, in the " officina malorum " of a modern English Workhouse Infirmary ? Mild and humanitarian, I say. "Born" — I must use the word — born, then, on a flock mattress, the description of which necessitates not an ounce, but a hundred-weight at least, of civet to sweeten the imagination — alas ! it is no imagination here — the neonatus, or little suffering arrival, amid " sights and sounds unholy," into a sainted ward of poor-house guardianship, if not speedily withered at a dried up fount, or choked by the pap-spoon of a hag of seventy-four, who has not one human emotion, save lust of gin, which is abnormal, left in her wrinkled hide, becomes a child entitled to a dinner of bread, four ounces, and three quarters of a pint of "milk." It is then subject to tubbing in a general bath, and to scrubbing by a universal sheet, reeking with virulent infection of the foulest description, including the diseases of adult crime. Shall I write a nursery rhyme for St. Anywhere ? "Rub a dub dub, Thirty-six in a tub " Scream the bells of St. Pancras ; " Seventeen, much more clean." Answers stark Bethnal Green ; " My dead-house and cell,' Cries famed Clerkenwell : "I've both gangrene and itch,"' Says St. Leonard's, Shoreditch : " My treatment is grand," Says the Strand, says the Strand ; 88 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Curst be your Laws that Nature's Laws uproot. Fiends economic ! with your Dead-sea fruit ; Harder than stones that pave the abyss of fire Your shard-walled breasts, girt too with treacherous wire : At your foul deeds would blush with redder flame The poet's Hell, and demons glow with shame : Hatred abhors you ! Pity turns to Rage : At your approach the vulture beats her cage ; The hyena sickens : for his ravening need Makes but the necessary' victims bleed ; The crawling serpent quits his prey awhile, Chilled by the shadow of a thing so vile. " If it were not for fever Marasmus, and phthisis My behaviour so nice is," — It one could but believe her. That t)'phoid old Strand. It would be ill-jesting, were I to jest in realit)', on such a ghastly topic. But my nursery rhymes are not written in jest. The thought of the children makes my heart bleed. I own that adult misery does not affect me half so deeply. I do not love men and women as I do children, who possess alike the first claim on the hearts of individuals, and the protection of the State. I have no ]>ride in being an Englishman, when 1 think of the vast number of children to whom Death is the first great boon of Life. It is sad to come to the conclusion that " Trismus neonatorum " in our Workhouses is often the child's truest giaardian and friend. THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT, 89 O deaf philosophers — to others' pains ! Whose green blood curdles in your icy veins ! O bloated wretches ! with thick blubber cased To woes impervious — miscreants double-faced ! Cold callous Discipline's curst slimy throng, The canting priests of hypocritic wrong — Behold your work ! See, there, the faithful wife Torn from her mate in twilight drear of life. Babes from their mothers, children from their sire, Whose tears turn dust of soil to furrowed mire, Adown his cheeks, from worn eyes glazed in murk; When strength gives way and arms no longer work ;* * -'The Daily Telegraph"' says:— "There must be something radically wrong when a hard-working honest labourer, a " superior man'in his class," cannot get more than enough to keep body and soul together after a quarter of a century of toil. In the agricultural counties of ' Happy England " there are, we fear, thousands and tens of thousands of men whose whole lives are spent in one ceaseless round of dreai-y labour; who never know what a good meal is from year's end to year's end ; whose sole prospect of change is a sojourn in the Parish Union,