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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
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 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, <U)hen their strength gives ^wajr, and 
 their arms can ^work no longer.^' There is, unhappily, no reason 
 10 doubt the absolute correctness of the writer's assertion. The 
 passage I have quoted refers to the agricultural labourer. He does 
 become old — you may see him breaking stones fot the Parish, bowed 
 with long toil and furrowed like the fields over which his plough- 
 share has passed. It would be in unison with his life were his last act
 
 go THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 A crookt, bent, thin-haired patriarch of woe, 
 Who ne'er knew comfort, peace will never know, 
 In this world where you call him true and brave — 
 And fit him for the workhouse and the grave ! 
 'Tis to escape your doom, yon aged pair 
 Sell the familiar bed and crazy chair. 
 Then, having paid their last small worldly debt, 
 Wander where Union rules they may forget, 
 
 to dig his own grave. The Manchester operative on the other 
 hand does not become old. A short and brilliant episode of the 
 hospital, or the street, terminates his career. Some trades, such as that 
 of the painter and glazier, naturally and mercifully terminate the 
 "working man's way in the world," before his work is properly ended 
 by a gradual incapability of toil. In London there are many " toilers 
 of the city," who never can by the hardest possible work that 
 nature can stand or sit out, save a penny for old age, should they 
 arrive at its cheerless confines. Among these, I will instance the om- 
 nibus driver, who works fourteen or fifteen hours out of the twenty- 
 four, subject to the most amiable and ingenious restrictions, fines, 
 drawbacks and penalties, to destroy health of body and peace of 
 mind — in addition to all of which, as it were to heap up the agony 
 he is liable to the caprice, extortion, and bitter persecution of our 
 social and domestic sbirri, the Police! What are the fabled 
 tortures of Hades compared with the life of this portion of Her 
 Majesty's subjects? Amongst other inscriptions on these public 
 vehicles might be appropriately painted "Lasciate ogni speranza voi 
 chi montate." Truly England labours more than any nation ever did, 
 to veiy little purpose, and as the " Daily Telegraph " says, " there 
 must be something radically wrong," when her industry, her 
 energy, her toil, her enterprise and her resources only conduct her 
 millions to the workhouse or fit them for an early grave.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 9I 
 
 Through the accustomed meadow, Hngering, pass, 
 Sweet breath of hay and bloom of wind-blown 
 
 grass, 
 Till reached their childhood's joy, the river-side, 
 Strained in last clasp, they totter 'neath the tide — 
 And sleek, smug juries name it " suicide." 
 
 Ah me ! that ever man should blame stern Fate, 
 Inhuman man, whose brows are wreathed with hate : 
 Plague, earthquake, shipwreck — what their mortal 
 
 toll, 
 Compared with victory's boasted battle-roll ? 
 What blight like that of kings? What storm-vext sea 
 Vies with the butchering mob in savage glee ? 
 Fires to the fires of mortal breasts are cold, 
 Nor e'er were Passion's darkest secrets told. 
 Nor ruth, nor favour, angry tempests show. 
 On small and great the rude winds pelting blow : 
 The red bolt blasts the tyrant or the slave. 
 The idiot kerne, the crowned and purpled knave : 
 Rarely have kings thus perished, it is true ; 
 Ask ye the reason ? 'Tis that kings are few : 
 But Nature knows no mandates save her own, 
 And drowns in thunder man's imperious tone.
 
 92 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 The lord of tragic song, Jove's soaring bird 
 
 With a dull tortoise brained — no breeze then stirred, 
 
 To avert the stroke ; Fate placed no conqueror there, 
 
 Nor humble shepherd with a brow as bare : 
 
 A grape-stone choked Anacreon, perhaps the first 
 
 And last to slake for aye such jocund thirst; 
 
 Great Alexander took a chill and died, 
 
 And Fame wept o'er him like a widowed bride : 
 
 By hands that loved him Stonewall Jackson fell — 
 
 Ah ! who the sorrow of that wound might tell ? 
 
 A nation s life ebbed slowly in the dark ; 
 
 Hope closed his eyes, and then herself lay stark; 
 
 The pouring rain upon his leafy bier 
 
 Fell cold— Think ye, that Nature shed a tear ? 
 
 Not, though fair Freedom's standard through the 
 
 world 
 Had with his death-sigh drooped for ever furled ; 
 Not though his fate foretold the sombre doom 
 Of half mankind, with dread prophetic gloom. 
 
 Poised in the hollow of a mighty Hand 
 Enough for Faith and Hope we understand : 
 Evil and good we may avoid, pursue. 
 And loving Truth, to all around be true.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 93 
 
 Did we despair on seeing lives forlorn, 
 God's even justice 'twere to doubt and scorn : — 
 Mourn not too deeply for the woes around, 
 The tears of Sorrow sink not in the ground; 
 Grief's rainbow reaches Heav'n, her faintest sighs 
 Sweet angels singing waft to halcyon skies ; 
 Whilst earthly treasures in Death's dust decay, 
 Poor decorations of a worn-out Pla3^ 
 Fear not the world's injustice, noble Heart I 
 Whose chords are tuned to Pity's gentler part : 
 Weep not thy strength, thy hope and trust away 
 O'er the rough moulding of this transient clay. 
 So small a thing is Life, a little more, 
 Or happier Life, is scarce worth wishing for ; 
 How much less sinning ! — When the poorest dies, 
 His state the wealthiest living state outvies : 
 Envy not him who leads the way of Life, 
 But Death's sure road from mis'ry, and from strife : 
 Why would'st thou Life so pleasant make — to die ? 
 Why arm with barbed pang thy parting sigh ? 
 The loveliest flow'rs thy senses that delight 
 Hide crawling snakes and evil thmgs of night. 
 Disease and terror in their ghastliest shapes — 
 Most dread is Death when courtier airs he apes ;
 
 94 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 Most horrible his end, who buys deceit 
 
 Of all around him drilled to lie and cheat ; 
 
 But cannot bribe the wrinkled clutch of Pain. 
 
 Nor Joy's soft empire purchase o'er again : 
 
 Who thinks too late of Fortunes misused powers. 
 
 And measures Hell by dray of lingering hours : 
 
 A starved Lucullus, racked by slow decay, 
 
 Who cries unto the poor to be as they; 
 
 Who, for the first time, feels for others' woes 
 
 In his own body's agonizing throes; 
 
 Too late for peace, too late to make amends. 
 
 Angels' sweet comfort, and the tears of friends; 
 
 When, arm-in-arm with Court physician. Death 
 
 Notes every pang, and grins o'er each faint breath. 
 
 Gaze calmly at yon workhouse funeral — 
 O'er-shadowed by a dying nation's pall — 
 There, six sham mourners to the dead no kin 
 Follow but stones packed hurriedly within; 
 While surgeons in the useful subject trace 
 Means to protect the richer of his race, 
 And find a brain and heart and entrails there. 
 As if their scalpels scraped Wealth's loftiest heir: 
 While nuptial cortege of the proud sweeps by, 
 And adulation rends with shouts the sky.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT, 95 
 
 Shrink not to scan Injustice, near and far; 
 
 Do not the Sun and Moon, with each bright 
 
 Star, 
 God's Witnesses, Hght all ? — are they not part 
 Of His eternal memory ? — Fool ! Take heart, 
 Nor question life's strange plot of dust and mind," 
 With frenzied doubt and eyes with weeping- 
 blind : 
 Were this the end, what mortal could forgive 
 The dread Creator, who hath bid him — live ? — 
 Then, look around thee undismayed, though all 
 Seem Evil's Triumph, Sorrow's Carnival ; 
 Though heartless pomp and selfish luxury sleep. 
 While hollow eyes around uplifted weep ; 
 Though unconvicted felons thriving throng 
 Dishonoured marts, and riot bold in wrong ; 
 Though to the nation's councils thieves aspire 
 And swaggering boast their patriotic fire, — 
 Such as Iscariot lit with lurid flame 
 On to his secret deed of endless shame; 
 Ere yet Remorse leapt on him from a tomb, 
 Curdling with ghoul-like screech the icy gloom. 
 
 * " In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul." — Rubaiyat.
 
 96 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 The modern Judas ne'er in guilt's black stream 
 Views his own ghastly features flickering gleam : 
 His crimes and conscience fused with sordid pelf 
 Leave him no aim, no good, no thought, save self: 
 Too narrow for repentance, his mean soul 
 Sees but to Mammon's shrine and Plutus' goal : 
 On Sabbath to the Unknown God he prays, 
 In patronage of decency's dull ways, 
 Or seems to pray, but babbles insult vain — 
 As offal dead, his withered heart and brain ; 
 His vital parts have long since callous grown. 
 Into the vale of riches eager thrown, 
 Like carrion flung by merchants of old Inde 
 Adown the mountain's gorge for kites to find, 
 Bestudded with rich gems, which thus up- 
 borne 
 The affrighted birds drop, screaming notes for- 
 lorn ; 
 As round the spoiler's head they circle near, 
 Then wheel afar with new and sudden fear ; 
 Or battling high upon the crimson peak 
 Of dizzy rock with keen blood-dripping peak 
 The ravening victor deals a fatal blow, 
 But yields the prize to greedier man below.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 97 
 
 With its own heart and brain doth modern Greed 
 Obscenest wolves and vultures ceaseless feed : 
 Earth-bound Prometheus parched with yellow thirst. 
 Mean, soul-less, fire-less, God-less and accurst ; 
 Self-tortured Tantalus, before his time ; 
 Ixion prenticed to ignoble crime, 
 Dull Sisyphus, unsentenced, doomed to roll 
 His chosen burden to Wealth's fruitless goal. 
 
 Ah ! why thus triumphs sordid Frenzy here ? 
 Veiled with transparent purple Truth beams near. 
 The winds mysterious whisper in our ears — 
 ■• Listen! ye know not when bright dawn appears. 
 And your dream melts away. Arise ! Look far ! 
 Behold Time's coinage in each golden star, 
 From the wide mint of space. Bethink ye well — 
 These are your treasures." Emerald wavelets tell, 
 That fringing crisp the tide's majestic flow, 
 Their message-murmurs, reaching soft and low 
 Earth's perfumed bosom with a girdling kiss, 
 And perish rippling to repeat the bliss — 
 " Look at the chambers of the sun," they say, 
 " Whose crimson glories flush the dying day; 
 
 H
 
 g8 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 Rich memories there are stored, pure gems of mind. 
 Soul-ingots which their owners still shall find, 
 When we innumerable lip no more 
 Earth's silvery margin, and our race is o"er; 
 When the last Storm hath sunk on Calm's sv/eet 
 
 breast ; 
 When the last Calm hath Darkness' pillow prest; 
 When God's Hand plucks the skies' last evening 
 
 rose, 
 And Night's cloud-curtains shall for ever close. " 
 
 Speaks the loud Thunder, •■ Fools, why grovel here ? 
 Dig ye for gold, when plenteous graves are near ? 
 And must ye, mocking Heaven's artillery, doom 
 Mad armies to a fratricidal tomb ? 
 Is He not jealous of the use of Death, 
 Who in His wisdom gave man's fleeting breath ?'' 
 Then Lightning, through the shut eyes to the brain. 
 Cries " Blind, fond idiots ! grope in thorny pain 
 Down to the realms of dust; yon golden grain, 
 Waiting toil's sickle o'er the fruitful plain. 
 Waves o'er unnumbered millions of your kind. 
 Whom peering sun-beams ne'er again may find :
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 99 
 
 And must you dally with Life's painted toys. 
 Thus bartering with fused dross for empty joys ? 
 Clasp trembling on your knees the hem of 
 
 Fear : 
 Behold I write on gloom — 3'our end is near."' 
 
 Divided by a little realm of sleep, 
 
 An ebon stream that is not broad but deep, 
 
 A Principality of foolish state, 
 
 A sullen stage of Trouble, Grief and Hate, 
 
 Passed are the gates of the eternal land 
 
 Ere Time can lose one noiseless grain of sand. 
 
 I know not if some altogether die 
 
 Whose whole existence seems on earth a lie ; 
 
 Some soul-less beings so depraved and mean, 
 
 One wonders how or why they e'er have been. 
 
 And in what future world they may have place. 
 
 So far beneath probation, pain or grace ; 
 
 Dull hopeless beings, moved like clocks or toys. 
 
 Humanity's residual alloys. 
 
 Corporeal spectra, filling gaps and space. 
 
 The moral Amphisboenae of our race — 
 
 'Tis vain to think! We may not Fancy gift. 
 
 To sound Creation's or Salvation's drift; 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 We may not picture some accurst or blest, 
 Who in this world-masque show like fiends confest ; 
 The murderer, cold seducer, parricide, 
 The vile informer, and the hireling scribe, 
 Who stabs a people's life, a nation's fame, 
 Assassin of each martyr-patriot's name — 
 All, bleeding Honour clings to last on earth, 
 Thus poisoned by a villain's blistering mirth — 
 The common fools who sneer at earnest life ; 
 The hollow statesman versed in wordy strife, 
 Skilled in all arts that usher to the grave 
 The country's rights he still pretends to save : 
 Fashion's smart babblers. Reason's scarecrow tribe. 
 Airers of well-cut clothes, and nought beside ; 
 With all the high-born and the low-born throng, 
 Who wallow in the depths of festering wrong — 
 What change awaits them ? In what spirit-land 
 Can they awakened, chastened, conscious, stand ; 
 If conscious, wherefore ? To what purpose read 
 Backward their dream of petty hate or greed ? 
 He, who the self-stung scorpion would condemn 
 To round of endless fire, may sentence them, 
 In his vain soul, that seeks to filch from God 
 His dread Regalia, Wisdom's tempered rod,
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. lOI 
 
 Forgiveness' crown, with robe from starry loom 
 Of the eternal Justice throned o'er gloom, 
 Whose footstool is man's universe of Hope, 
 Dull Sorrow's limit, Faith's celestial cope. 
 
 Could pain wring out foul Nature's erring part, 
 
 A living ache had softened Nero's heart ; 
 
 If, in new phase of being, monsters learn 
 
 To merit bliss, a rat may Cherub turn ; 
 
 By gradual degrees each crawling thing 
 
 Celestial anthems thus be taught to sing; 
 
 A Polypus to golden harp aspire, 
 
 And white-winged Cobras swell the angelic Quire : 
 
 Thus changing all identity is lost — 
 
 But such transition scarce pays Fancy's cost — 
 
 Such dreams 'twere vain as impious to pursue, 
 
 And Reason mock, with Spleen's fantastic crew. 
 
 Though all below be wrong, above, 'tis right 
 Alone that sways the realms of boundless light ; 
 There ends Injustice, there Oppression dies, 
 And babe-like Joys aye smiling ope their eyes: 
 Grief's curtains closing, ere for ever furled. 
 Veil the lost phantom of a banished world;
 
 I02 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 While Memory on the breast complete of Love 
 Seals her tired eyes to wake like new-born dove : 
 What recks it then of Folly's triumphs here, 
 The mad success to grovelling upstarts dear ? 
 Wealth's selfish glories. Want's embittered pang, 
 The gaoler's warrant, warrior's martial clang ? 
 The butcher's brevet kings delight to give? 
 (Slaves can but die. and monarchs only live ;) 
 The lost or buried work of toil-worn brains ; 
 The thoughts which stolen mock the thinker's pains, 
 While praise the spoiler crowns? the cruel wrong 
 That noblest hearts oft reap from heedless throng? 
 Starvation, misery, all the hideous rack, 
 When life is cheap and Labour's mart is slack? 
 (Hypocrisy's millennium worse than Hell ! 
 Could fiends o'erweighted Toil thus undersell, 
 And cheapening wages steal Want's verjuiced 
 
 pence, 
 With " philanthropic " lie, and smug pretence ?) 
 Though strumous tyrants step to jewelled thrones 
 O'er true heirs' slippery skulls and mouldering 
 
 bones, 
 And pandering "justice " swell oppression's howl, 
 With breath than fetid Court more deathly foul :
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT, ' IO3 
 
 Though Honour bow her victims to their graves, 
 And none save rogues can fight this world of knaves ; * 
 Though Heaven's decrees, with perjured man's, 
 
 seem made 
 To forge new chains for Liberty betrayed ; 
 With Austrian cord though Garibaldi hang, 
 While priests and bandits foam with viscid slang; 
 Though Life, at best, appear unjust, untrue. 
 The vicious circle of a devilish crew ; 
 Society a web, where spiders' claws 
 Always their prey entrap, by mortal laws; 
 Though Wisdom teach endurance, with her tongue 
 Thrust in the cheek, while fools laugh trimly on : 
 Though all Earth shake, one vast dissolving tomb. 
 And Nature sicken at approaching doom — 
 Be thy Faith stronger! — what were Faith untried ? 
 Love without chastening, Hope a prosperous 
 
 bride ? 
 Be thy Love purer for corruption round ; 
 Hope patient kneel, enchained awhile to ground ; 
 Trust to the World's Great Transformation Scene : 
 All, all shall change that here on Earth hath been ; 
 
 * I have seen somewhere a couplet somewhat like this; but I know 
 not if it were ever printed. It may, however, be familiar to the reader.
 
 104 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 And with this glorious trust thy sorrow leaven 
 The grand reversion of the poor in Heaven ! 
 
 God metes Earth's joys to some, to others pain. 
 The sallow scoundrel gifts with yellow gain ; 
 Bids merit starve and homeless children weep, 
 While lulled on rose-leaves guilty miscreants 
 
 sleep : 
 On perished heroes lagging cowards tread, 
 And scathless snatch the glorious meed instead : 
 The poet-artist crowns his work — and dies ; 
 And base transcribers grasp the life-earned prize : 
 Injustice rampant grinds the weak to dust. 
 Till strong hearts sicken with sublime disgust — 
 Shall this dismay the World's redeeming throng, 
 Halt Wisdom's ranks, and silence Freedom's song? 
 If 'twere not thus — if not of bribe bereft, 
 What merit were to struggling Virtue left ? 
 If to be good were to be rich and great, 
 The blackest knave would scarce dissimulate ; 
 If vice were luckless, guilt ne'er gorged with pelf. 
 Each villain would love Virtue for herself; 
 And so deceive his soul, no Angel spear 
 Could move the fiend within him to appear —
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. IO5 
 
 So works the will inscrutable of Heaven, 
 The good seem oft condemned, the bad forgiven ; 
 Success the gold-mark of each treacherous deed; 
 A slandered grave the martyr's noblest meed. 
 
 • Regard the end,' the sage of old replied 
 
 To Lydia's boastful monarch in his pride : 
 
 The end of nations is the doom of men, 
 
 The world's of nations ; — mourn not idly then ! 
 
 But to the good of all mankind subscribe 
 
 The unfettered Thought that knows not fear or 
 
 bribe, 
 As ye would fling into a general store 
 Small priceless heart-coins current evermore. 
 All suffer for the faults of feeble kings ; 
 The whole world's soul one godless tyrant wrings — 
 His wanton power, like some huge pyramid. 
 Doth upward lessen, till by storm-clouds hid ; 
 Beneath its rotting sepulchres confine, 
 Like swathed mummies, Freedom's host divine — 
 But be thy future power like forest tree, 
 Which bounteous spreads its welcome canopy. 
 The mighty banyan, boon of pilgrim crowd, 
 Who with free song its blessings praise aloud ;
 
 Io6 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 Or let it stand four-cornered* to the wind, 
 Like some great Temple dedicate to mind, 
 Acropolis of Thought, wide-built alone 
 By one soul-mason, stone on mystic stone. 
 Onward ! " Forlorn of Genius," and achieve 
 Some blessing to your kind, ere life ye leave ; 
 To the immortal shrine of Justice leads 
 A giant stair: 'tis statued by great deeds 1 
 And he who gains one step in his whole life 
 May proudly quit this scene of glorious strife, 
 Content with the achievement. On. still on ! 
 Others press onward, and, content, are gone. 
 
 Who seeks at once Truth's summit to attain 
 Falls at her pillar's base with effort vain : 
 Each great soul-sculptor born before his day. 
 To strange hands leaves his choicest moulds of clay. 
 Time gives us granite for our monuments ; 
 Death boasts his marble : Life has only tents, 
 "Which the grim captain of each earthly host 
 Strikes, noiseless marching to Night's shadowy 
 coast. 
 
 * TeTpaywvos avtv \l/oyov. APIS.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. IO7 
 
 Who shall excel all others ? Some have died, 
 Leaving their footprints farther from the tide ; 
 A greater surge may some day whirl along 
 And sweep their memory to the nameless throng; 
 But bear thy standard bravely, thou who good 
 Hast for itself alone best understood ; 
 Unlaurelled now, who knows what wreaths of fame 
 Thy spirit's heirs for thee may live to claim. 
 Work humbly at the turning-lathe of change ; 
 Scan not the less Truth's Empyrean range ; 
 And, if thou seem'st to faint and die in vain, 
 Deem thy heart's blood but drops of fertile rain, 
 The very stones hailed on thee by base Scorn 
 Glory's rich cairn o'er death-couch else forlorn. 
 Think, no good deed, however small, is lost ; 
 Each utterance pure, as stamped with Heaven- 
 priced cost, 
 Each truth a trust ; each sympathy a flower, 
 Folding rich seed to bloom some happier hour. 
 Leave thy reward to God, thy faith to men ; 
 Mocked, pitied, stricken, bare thy breast again : — 
 What if thou mark'st no triumphs for thine 
 
 own ? — 
 Earth's grandest missions are achieved alone ;
 
 Io8 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 A desert sun-set gilds the noblest doom, 
 The Dawn of Fame smiles loveliest nursed by Gloom. 
 Pilgrim of Love ! o'er brimmed with gentle ruth, 
 Stern champion sworn upon the Cross of Truth ! 
 Unhonoured if thou fall'st, thy grave may be 
 The rallying point of future victory. 
 
 Soldier ! o'er whom dark clouds flying 
 
 Speed, like routed Tyranny, 
 On yon torn grass bleeding, dying, 
 Crimson couch of Liberty ; 
 
 From thine eyes, young wounded Mars. 
 Flashes light back to the stars 
 Throned upon their golden cars ; 
 
 Light of Victory ! 
 
 Maiden ! whose worn heart is breaking. 
 
 Storm-tost waif of Perjury, 
 Faded Flower ! the Earth forsaking, 
 Soiled with sin and treachery ; 
 
 As thou breath'st forgiveness' prayer, 
 Glimmers on thy cheek so fair 
 Sainted gleam of lilies' rare. 
 
 Smile of Victory !
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. IO9 
 
 Exile ! by a people's blessing 
 
 In thy noble sorrows blest, 
 Sternly with thin hand compressing 
 All their anguish in thy breast ; 
 Thou at Wisdom's opening door, 
 Pondering Heaven's great purpose o'er ; 
 Nearing Truth's eternal shore, 
 
 Thou hast Victory ! 
 
 Captain I whose good ship is sinking 
 
 In the swirl of wintry sea, 
 All hope lost, but only thinking 
 Of the souls that look to thee : 
 
 Seas may sweep the staggering wreck. 
 Parted yawn the splintering deck, 
 Stedfast to calm Duty's beck. 
 
 Thine is Victory ! 
 
 Music of true hearts, whose chords 
 Are of those that Heaven affords, 
 Stray notes from the choir of Love, 
 Trembling near God's throne above.
 
 no THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 When on mortal breasts ye fall 
 Breathing soft your glad recal, 
 All of Earth that lingers there 
 Is divinest sympathy, 
 Joy of joys without compare, 
 Blossom of Eternity ! 
 
 This, the Poet's spirit fires, 
 
 This, sweet Charity inspires. 
 
 This, Love's myrtle crown hangs high 
 
 In the roseate-azure sky ; 
 
 He, who stoops to lowliest need 
 
 First shall snatch that heavenly meed ; 
 
 He, who with the gentlest strain 
 
 Soothes the tortured nerves of pain ; 
 
 He, whose sympathy divine 
 
 Melts Despair with utterance fine ; 
 
 Minstrel at the Court of Grief, 
 
 Bard of Suffering's meek-eyed throng. 
 
 Prophet whom no Earth-born leaf 
 
 Guerdons for his sacred song; 
 
 Though unheard, unknown he die, 
 
 Though his soul distracted bleed,
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. Ill 
 
 In the lone dark, inwardly ; 
 Though his earnest song be shed 
 In the dust and mire of tears, 
 And his saddened strains fall dead 
 On deafened human ears, 
 Seraph harps shall sound on high, 
 With immortal harmony, 
 His welcome through the Spheres. 
 
 Ay, but one whisper of his name. 
 
 Thrilled through the white-robed host above. 
 
 May well surpass Earth's proudest fame, 
 
 By measure of eternal love. 
 
 Hearken to their glad acclaim ! 
 
 Look, as the summer lightnings gleam, 
 
 Filling the violet dome of silent Eve 
 
 Full of swift rapture, so the countless eyes 
 
 Of myriad angels with soft greeting beam, 
 
 And bid that tender spirit no more grieve. 
 
 And hail him, wakening from Life's fevered 
 
 dream. 
 The Laureate of the skies !
 
 112 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 Deem not therefore Fancy vain, 
 Knowledge but intenser pain : 
 Poet ! take thee heart of grace, 
 Though the last in life's dull race, 
 Thou may'st leave behind, in trust, 
 Magic to enshrine thy dust, 
 Spell to work and charm to save. 
 Germ to spread forth from thy grave 
 Tree of good whose living shoots 
 From Death's mould bear Glory's fruits ; 
 Thoughts to touch an erring heart ; 
 Words that may soft rest impart 
 To a faint and struggling soul ; 
 Calm to Passion's billowy roll ; 
 Heart-strings to the hard and cold, 
 Guiding to sweet Pity's fold ; 
 Soul-bonds to the rich and strong 
 Strengthening Right and lessening Wrong : 
 Whispers of a loftier aim ; 
 Breathings of a nobler fame. 
 Than the world's accursed gain, 
 Than a conqueror's laurelled stain. 
 Though pale crowds of bondsmen own 
 Him their unloved lord alone,
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. II3 
 
 Though by nations chartered, crowned, 
 And statued on triumphant ground. 
 Though false art and flattery's wile 
 Mock his heart, his brain beguile. 
 What is he but mightier Cain ? — 
 As the rain-drops make the rain, 
 So many murders make the war 
 That gilds the victor's crim.soned car, 
 Who cannot boast Defence his plea. 
 Or thine, soul-hallowing Liberty ! 
 
 Thought ! untrammelled and divine. 
 
 Let me kneel then at thy shrine ! 
 
 No guerdon do I ask save this. 
 
 To sing at will thy rounded bliss; 
 
 Sailing in rapt tranquillity 
 
 Upon Calm's glassy, waveless sea ; 
 
 In depth below, in sky above. 
 
 To trace the frescoed forms of Love, 
 
 Of Charity, and Joy that knows 
 
 No halcyon rest where Passion blows 
 
 And as I glide entranced along 
 
 To scatter leaves of earnest song.
 
 114 ■^""E TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT. 
 
 And watch them in Life's lessening track, 
 
 With gentle trust turned fondly back, 
 
 That I too in my passing day 
 
 May leave behind me some true lay, 
 
 Some snatch of melody to last — 
 
 My lot, O Thought ! with Thee I'll cast, 
 
 And yield the prosperous gifts of Fame 
 
 To hungrier need and lowlier aim.
 
 ( 115 ) 
 
 TO GARIBALDI. 
 
 ON HIS VISIT TO ENGLAND.* 
 
 Man of the lion heart and kingly mien, 
 
 As thine own compass true, when seas were dark 
 
 With peril, — as thy sword, whose every spark 
 
 Struck in the forge of battle hath become 
 
 A star emblazoned in the azure dome 
 
 Of Freedom ; — like some statel}'^ ship serene 
 
 Steadfast, uprising to the storm-waves' shock. 
 
 Wast thou, when gloom o'ercast e'en noble hearts: 
 
 * These lines, written on the occasion of Garibaldi's visit to 
 England, ^vere neither printed, nor presented to the hero, whom the 
 author, with ample opportunities of introduction, forbore to intrude 
 upon either with sympathy or sonnet, considering the immense 
 infliction, both aristocratic and plebeian, that a wounded and 
 suffering visitor w^as forced to endure. Evei"y well-wisher, how- 
 ever, of Garibaldi or the cause which he represents, which is that, not 
 only of Italy but humanity at large, must have rejoiced at vvitness- 
 ing the magnificent ovation which welcomed him to the home and 
 heart of England. 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 TO GARIBALDI. 
 
 Great Cincinnatus of a barren rock, 
 
 Richer than all the treasures of our marts ; 
 
 Thou simple workman of heroic deeds, 
 
 When throned assassins trembling told their 
 
 beads : 
 Whate'er thy sad wounds may they healed be, 
 Touching" the soil whose touch makes all men 
 
 free I
 
 ( 117 ) 
 
 SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW. 
 
 I HAD locks like the raven, and friends by the 
 
 score, 
 And good things to give them in plentiful store ; 
 I fancied such friendship would last evermore ; 
 But my friends they have vanished, my thin locks 
 
 are hoar ; 
 
 And " nobody loves me now !" 
 
 They spouted my poems, and borrowed my " tin," 
 When my teeth were all sound, and my waist was 
 
 more thin : 
 Oh ! the follies of boyhood seem now like a sin ; 
 The evening grows weary ere joys may begin : 
 
 And " nobody loves me now 1 "'
 
 IlS SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW, 
 
 My friends lamed my horses, but soon sold me 
 
 new, 
 And I now think sometimes, that they oft sold me 
 
 too ; 
 But youth is so trusting, and time quickly flew. 
 And with it that jovial rollicking crew; 
 
 And " nobody loves me now!" 
 
 How they cheered me and toasted me, in my own 
 
 wine. 
 When I sang my one song about " Herz ist am 
 
 Rhein," 
 And they called me a "jolly good fellow," a 
 
 sign. 
 That the cooking was good, and the vintage divine ; 
 
 But " nobody loves me now ! " 
 
 Then they swore, if in Parliament, how I must 
 
 shine — 
 You'd have thought they'd return me for somewhere 
 
 —"am Rhein;" 
 And they did return often themselves there to dine : 
 E'en when I went yachting, their vessel was mine ; 
 
 But " nobody loves me now ! "
 
 SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW. IIQ 
 
 Could they leave me ? Ah, no ! In my absence 
 
 they'd pine ; 
 For they loved all I had — such devotion was 
 
 fine: 
 But a cruise in my boat now they'd warmly resign, 
 Since she's anchored in Lethe, that underground 
 
 Tyne ; 
 
 And " nobody loves me now ! " 
 
 Then they found me — such spirits so nobly com- 
 bine — 
 
 A pedigree long as my grandam's clothes" line. 
 
 And my tailor to pay they did mostly inclme 
 
 "With their bills at long date, which they got me 
 to sign ; 
 
 But " nobody loves me now ! " 
 
 A " mere matter of form," as I found to my cost, 
 When a judge sat in chambers as chilling as frost, 
 And remarked how a tradesman his money had 
 
 lost 
 Through the friends of my soul, who to Boulogne 
 
 had crossed ; 
 
 But " nobody loves me now ! "
 
 120 SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW. 
 
 Of course I was loved, as the rich and the young 
 Always are — Did I sigh ? Hem ! 'Twas only a 
 
 stitch ! 
 But a wealthy old scarecrow with soul black as 
 
 pitch 
 Stole my "heart's fondest treasure" — Nay, never 
 
 ask which ; 
 
 Since " nobody loves me now ! " 
 
 And somehow, since then, they have all fled away; 
 There was one couldn't help it, long since laid in 
 
 clay. 
 Whom I treated least kindly. Ah me ! Well-a-day ! 
 If one's life came again — then one wouldn't be gay ; 
 
 For " nobody loves me now !'" 
 
 ' Strange,' my friends of both sexes should leave 
 
 me, ' though true ;' 
 For I wanted them much more as poorer I grew : 
 And I thought first 'twas my fault, not theirs — 
 
 Shouldn't you ? 
 Since I've earned by own living, I've earned mj' 
 
 friends too; 
 
 Though " nobody loves me now !"
 
 SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW. 121 
 
 But a little child slips her soft hand into mine, 
 Like laburnum in sun-gleams her bright tresses 
 
 shine, 
 And she says " Dear Papa, pray don't worry and 
 
 pine ; 
 For / love you — Oh ! better than sweet cowslip 
 
 wine I" 
 
 And " somebody loves me now !" 
 
 I play with her oft, and my chilled heart grows 
 
 young ; 
 As I hang on the lisp of her small prattling tongue ; 
 Other pleasures were fleeting and now and then 
 
 wrong, 
 But blest be for ever my child's artless song ; 
 
 And " somebody loves me now." 
 
 Sober age hath its pleasures, as well as wild 
 
 youth ; 
 Alere Wealth may buy " friends," but it cannot 
 
 buy Truth ;
 
 122 SOMEBODY LOVES ME NOW. 
 
 Though I better like gold in my purse, than a tooth, 
 I've a silver crown coming, I'd not change, in 
 
 sooth, 
 
 For the curls upon boyhood's smooth brow ! 
 
 And this for the sake of the dear imps I choose. 
 Who clambering teaze me and tread on my shoes ; 
 Though I sometimes may sulk in a fit of the 
 
 ' blues ' 
 Were I asked to be young — Faith ! I'd gaily 
 
 refuse ; 
 
 Since " somebody loves me now !"
 
 ( 123 ) 
 
 THE DESPOT'S DREAM 
 
 If I were king of the broadest land 
 
 Beneath the wide vault of Heaven, 
 And into the grasp of my Royal hand 
 
 The treasures of earth were given, 
 I would build me a Palace both wide and fair, 
 
 With soldiers to guard each gate, 
 And leave to my ministers thought and care. 
 
 Whilst I revelled in gorgeous state ; 
 I would steep all my senses in song and in wine, 
 
 In the colours of Inde would dress, 
 And Beauty should twine me a wreath divine 
 
 Of the lotus, forgetfulness. 
 Still from pawing steed or triumphal car 
 
 My hosts I would m'arshal often :
 
 124 THE despot's DREAM. 
 
 For aye to the pomp of death-dealing war 
 A king's cold eye doth soften. 
 
 If I were lord o'er a grand domain 
 
 I would build me a bonny bower, 
 In a wilderness ravished from flocks and grain 
 
 By the fiat of kingly power ; 
 I would banish o'er Ocean each starving clan, 
 
 My forests for sport to clear ; 
 And the squalid peasant should dread my ban, 
 
 For the sake of the sleek brown deer. 
 I'd have judges and bishops in plenty, I trow, 
 
 A Coroner and Police ; 
 But the Poor-house might Freedom herself endow, 
 
 And charter her own caprice : 
 Why should the famished assail my ear, 
 
 When my laws should keep down their wail ? 
 A stately castle for regal cheer, 
 
 And for rebel distress a gaol ! 
 
 If I were king of the fairest land, 
 
 From my presence should scared Want fly, 
 
 And, straining from lash and the hangman's brand, 
 In the corners of Darkness die —
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. I25 
 
 Should I be the key-'' to each beggarly scrip, 
 
 And a wall to each hovel's decay ? 
 From the skull of a nation I'd rather sip 
 
 Such weakness in wine away ! 
 
 From my lordliest palace I'd sometimes look, 
 
 And see with a haughty smile, 
 How my crawling subjects their misery brook ; 
 
 Mere writhings of insects vile : 
 For even a king must amusement lack, 
 
 And hunger anon for change, 
 When the sated muscles of pomp grow slack. 
 
 And from pleasure wild fancies range. 
 
 ^; :)< :K ■-!= ^ 
 
 I thought I had ruled o'er the mightiest land 
 
 Thus in pride-pomp for many a day. 
 When I sickened so foully, the dastardly band 
 
 Of my Courtiers all slunk away ; 
 And I wrestled with anguish, the first time, alone : 
 
 Keeping time to the measured tramp 
 Of the Sentinel outside, with answering groan, 
 
 In the glare of the blown street-lamp : 
 
 * See the " Sea-King," from the Swedish of Geyer, in this 
 volumt-.
 
 126 THE despot's DREAM. 
 
 For the tapers tall they had all gone out 
 In stench and in guttering flare, 
 
 When tiptoe the last of the flatterer's rout 
 Fled the leprosy gnawing me there. 
 
 ^ ^' ^ 57: :ic 
 
 Did I dream of the agony screaming near. 
 
 All night by my guarded gate, 
 Of Shapes of Horror and curdling Fear 
 
 And gibbering Forms of Hate ? 
 Of a tattered urchin with infant small,* 
 
 Though he staggered beneath its weight, 
 Who knelt in the rain by my Palace wall, 
 
 As in mockery of my state ? 
 
 * It may be thought singular that I should describe a boy-nurse 
 with a squalid babe. But a touching appearance of hopeless 
 miseiy lately presented itself to me in St. James's Park, as I was 
 passing through it one afternoon. A little boy of about six or seven 
 years of age, but not taller than an ordinary child of four, was 
 seated on a bench, nursing an infant apparently some three months 
 old. They were evidently in the last stage of destitution. Still 
 die child, with hunger, cold and crouching misery in his aspect, 
 with his thin little limbs scarcely hidden by his mud-coloured rags, . 
 was doing his det'oir by the baby, to the utmost of his power, 
 giving it all the warmth he could impart, and striving to put it to 
 sleep wth such a lullaby as his cracked utterance could afford. 
 And die baby, what was it like? I fear that no busy, pretty
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. 12; 
 
 Of haggard women who strove in vain 
 
 With the myrmidons of my power, 
 To suckle their children, with eyes of pain, 
 As dishevelled they crouch and cower ? 
 
 feminine interest in babydom concerned itself about that little waif 
 of desolation. It might have been the unhealthy offspring of a 
 pair of decayed Chimpanzees or Bosjesmen. No, for then it could 
 not be so hopeless and helpless, unless they had come across civiliza- 
 tion, andsufl^ered by the contact. Nature is far more catholic in 
 her mercies than art. That baby was born for extinction of the 
 painfuUest kind. It came into the world, to die out of it, through 
 neglect, want of food and clothing. Poor shrunken atomy — the 
 sooner all was over the better! But the elder child, who had 
 himself managed somehow to beg, crawl, wriggle and shiver through 
 babyhood into childhood, was striving to protract its existence, 
 as doubtless he would have done, had they both been lashed together 
 on a spar at sea, or left on a desolate island, or lost in an Australian 
 forest. And were not those two lost on an ocean more wild and 
 merciless than the wintry sea ? Were they not cast upon a shore 
 as bleak as Patagonia could furnish ? Could the pathless wilds of 
 the primeval forest be more full of gloom and woe to them than 
 was that trim and flowering Park ? An ocean of humanity 
 roared around. Men and women passed them by. Other children 
 shrunk from them. Strains of martial music mocked them as 
 cruelly as the raging winds, as they sat there on sufferance, with 
 the cane of the awful park-keeper ever threatening to strike and 
 drive them into the clutch of the policeman outside with his 
 
 terrible " Move on ! Come, tramp, you little vagabonds, or 
 
 I'll lock yer up!" This is not an exaggeration; but it is a fact. 
 The mention of it may be considered mawkish sentiment, or not, 
 as the reader pleases. The circumstance is all right, or it is
 
 128 THE despot's DREAM. 
 
 Of curse and prayer, and the frenzied yell 
 
 " Ah ! Leave me alone to die — " 
 Of the brutal threat of the freezing cell ; 
 
 A struggle and shrill faint cry ? 
 
 Did I dream that Fever and Famine walked 
 Arm-in-arm through my festive halls ; 
 
 And of charnel guests, who through closed doors 
 stalked, 
 Or glided through tapestried walls ? 
 
 all wrong, in its occurrence. Malthus may be a wise philosopher; 
 Baby-towers an excellent Institution. {Vide Wingrove Cooke's 
 lucubrations thereon in his letters from China to the Times.) But 
 these small existences not only belong, while they do exist, to the 
 great human family of mankind ; but appertain to this proud and 
 prosperous community. Had the Queen of England looked out of 
 her window she might have seen these little beings; she may see 
 scores like unto them any day and any hour from the balcony of 
 Buckingham Palace. Heaven forefend that I should accuse the 
 Lady Sovereign of these realms of indifference to her people's 
 sufferings, much less of being their cause in the remotest degree. 
 Far be it from my design to write as if Majesty were, or ought to 
 be, the responsible matron of the universal British workhouse. 
 But surely those who manage public affairs are severally and 
 collectively responsible for some criminal mismanagement or other, 
 which makes England the industrious poor man's Hell, and which 
 so uses the unprecedented resources and unexampled toil of the
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. I2g 
 
 Snake-spotted with Typhus, with Cholera blue, 
 
 Sore-festered, in patches and rags, 
 Whose bones in their clothes beat a horrid 
 tattoo, 
 
 Like dried sticks rattled in bags ? 
 Babes, shrunk like apes in a surgical show ; 
 
 Mothers, drink-bloated, or drowned, 
 Where the life-lapping waters of suicide flow 
 
 Through their arches with chill, meaning 
 sound ? 
 With gashes unsightly, came all who had fought 
 
 For the lust of my wanton pride. 
 Till my soul reeked red with a crimson thought 
 
 Of the shambles' ensanguined tide. 
 
 With fevered body and mind on fire, 
 
 I tossed on my purple bed ; 
 Like a doomed wretch flung on the corded pyre. 
 
 Ere the flames hiss over his head : 
 
 nation, that the poor are daily becoming poorer and more numerous, 
 while public and private bankruptcy threaten and appal the rich, 
 and there is none, not even the wealthiest, but must say, " Let 
 me be never so prudent and cunning, it may be my turn next !" 
 
 K
 
 I^O THE DESPOT S DREAM. 
 
 All the tyrant deeds of my frenzied life 
 Rushed tumultuous through my brain, 
 
 Like red-eyed bisons in terror and strife 
 Stampedoed o'er burning plain. 
 
 There came a Procession, that slowly wound, 
 
 In skeleton wild array, 
 And carried me, choked in a deathly swound, 
 
 To the door of an Abbey grey : 
 With a crown of flame eating into my brain, 
 
 Like the tortures of screeching hell, 
 Was I slowly borne by that grisly train, 
 
 To the clang of a passing-bell : 
 And a dead-march echo from hollow tombs. 
 
 As of doubly muffled drums, 
 Sobbed like Night afar through the dark pine- 
 glooms. 
 
 When Winter in ice-mail comes. 
 They lowered me deep in a loathsome pit. 
 
 Mid a litter of regal bones ; 
 While the shadows of Glory bat-like flit 
 
 O'er the monumental stones ; 
 And I thought that my "virtues'" were shouted 
 aloud
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. I3I 
 
 By the Herald, Irony, 
 Garter-king-at-arms to the fleshless crowd, 
 
 Who roared back in frantic glee : 
 When a Voice came crying — " One righteouti 
 • tear, 
 
 If it fall ere the Midnight chimes, 
 Shall rescue him still, though the Fiends yell 
 near 
 
 For a Soul robed in Royal crimes." 
 Then the Polypi arms of terrific Doom 
 
 Darkly waved through the spectral air, 
 Like storm-swayed branches that shadowy loom,. 
 
 By the mountain gust stript bare^ 
 
 How my still heart prayed that one pitying drop 
 
 Might fall in that arid grave ; 
 But O ! the dread laughter that would not stop, 
 
 And never a tear to save ! 
 One tear ! 'Tis to ransom a monarch'^s head : 
 
 Peace and Love are not bought for gold ; 
 Not one scalding drop o'er a pauper shed, 
 
 For the price of an Empire sold. 
 Can the greatest purchase, who now lies least 
 
 In the sight of God's angels, bearing 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE DESPOT S DREAM. 
 
 The poor who, rejected from Life's rich feast, 
 
 Heaven's amaranth wreaths are wearing — 
 Not one useless tear for her idiot boy, 
 
 That his mother forlorn is weeping. 
 As she sees, for the first time, her wayward Joy 
 
 In the likeness of reason sleeping — 
 And knows all is o'er, — may for me be shed ; 
 
 Though a monarch's doom is knolling : 
 Grief's cisterns are dry, sweet Pity is fled — 
 
 Crack thy sides, bell, falsely tolling ! 
 What glitters so brightly there down through the 
 gloom ? 
 
 I am saved ! No ! Merciful Heaven ! 
 'Tis a flatterer's ring, he has thrown in the 
 tomb, 
 
 And not e'en for me 'tis given : 
 But to show my successor how deeply his 
 heart 
 
 By a Royal decease is shaken. 
 With a tribute of paste doth he gracefully part. 
 
 And his false farewell has taken. 
 In that terrible night-mare, I knew all that 
 passed ; 
 
 I could hear the dread Service above.
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. 
 
 13: 
 
 And the chorus of Demons that howled in the 
 blast, 
 And drowned every soft word of love. 
 Seemed each moment an age ! Not one sorrowing 
 tear, 
 From the vast throng around — None ! none ! 
 I in vain sought to scream, as my hair thrilled with 
 fear, 
 " One dew-drop of mercy — one ! one ! " 
 Not a tear ! not a tear ! Lo the fell archer, 
 Time, 
 Points his dart to the figure of Doom — 
 Unredeemed every crime — Hark ! the first midnight 
 chime — 
 All the dry bones leap, stirred in the tomb ! 
 " Dust to dust," I heard spoken; then rattling it 
 fell 
 On the plate where my epitaph lied — 
 From that trance I sprang up, but awhile could not 
 tell. 
 If as king I had lived, or had died ; — 
 For awhile every beat of my torture-wrung heart 
 Shook the couch, where thus dreaming I'd 
 lain ;
 
 134 THE DESPOT S DREAM, 
 
 And the Spectres still mocked me, as loth to 
 depart 
 
 From that death-woven vision of pain. 
 But not to be king o'er the fairest domain, 
 
 Sole despot of blooming Pleasure, 
 And not to be chief over city and plain, 
 
 And lord of earth's brightest treasure. 
 Should the dream be real, I dreamt that night ; 
 
 And the truth of my life be spoken, 
 That I loveless ruled, in my selfish might, 
 
 O'er sad hearts by misery broken. 
 But oh ! for one year of a tyrant's reign, 
 
 To banish foul Tyranny ever; 
 To plant sweet Joys in the furrows of Pain, 
 
 And the bonds of the hopeless sever; 
 To feed the hungry, to clothe the bare ; 
 
 And to render back to Heaven, 
 Thrice blest with the blossom of tender care, 
 
 The trust that to me was given. 
 
 And oh ! may the Prince of this mighty land. 
 
 With passionate heart and strong, 
 By the weak and weary and helpless stand. 
 
 And smite down each hollow wrong :
 
 THE DESPOT S DREAM. 1 35 
 
 May he learn how the poor live and die 'neath his 
 sway ; 
 
 And knowing, in pride, roll back 
 The deep tide of shame sweeping o'er us to- 
 day, 
 
 With blood-foam and skeleton track ! 
 That when honoured Age unto gentlest Death 
 
 His cherished life shall render, 
 Fame may sound his name, with her proudest 
 breath, 
 
 " Humanity's Defender." 
 What monarch a title like this hath borne, 
 
 " Lord of the poor man's blessing ? " 
 Tell me a nobler, by king e'er worn, 
 
 Grey Herald ! fair truth confessing — 
 'Tis grander, O Poet ! 'Tis wiser, O Sage ! 
 
 Is it not better, Heaven ! 
 Than the demon's pride, and the tiger's rage, 
 
 That the conqueror's dark soul leaven ?
 
 ( 136 ) 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 There looms a dread Phantom, that threatens us 
 near ; 
 
 It strides fast in shadowy stealth ; 
 A dark Time of Trial, a red Day of Fear: 
 
 A grim Hour of reckoning with Wealth. 
 
 Not by Sophistry's knowledge, but Wisdom of Love, 
 Might that Phantom in cloud pass away : 
 
 May there break on their councils some light from 
 above, 
 Whose eloquence garlands decay ! 
 
 Deeply skilled in lie-symbols, to ruin that lead, 
 Is the speech of that vain selfish crew; 
 
 While the torn veins of Industry hopelessly bleed, 
 For the lust and the gain of the few.
 
 THE WARNING. 137 
 
 At all earnestness scoffing, their word-torrents 
 flow : 
 
 'Tis their triumph, their boast to deceive : 
 Can we trust to the rule of the talkers below, 
 
 •Who in God's rule have ceased to believe ? — 
 
 No ! The worm turns at last, and the wild beast 
 grows bold, 
 
 Whom lean Famine calls from its lair ; 
 And the hearts of a people long sullenly cold 
 
 Flash to vengeance, torch-lit by Despair. 
 
 Ere that worm grow a serpent, and coil round the 
 rout 
 
 Of the selfish, the proud and the gay; 
 Ere the wolf and gaunt lion from prison break out. 
 
 And the ribbed hounds of Want track their prey; 
 
 Ere a whirlwind of Wrath circle red o'er the land, 
 And the fountains of horror be broken, 
 
 May the heart-blooms of Love be fresh-wreathed 
 with soft hand, 
 Of a new dawn of Charity token !
 
 138 THE WARNING, 
 
 For the curse is within, which now threatens the 
 fate 
 
 Of the isle nursed in Liberty's morning : 
 Tis the canker of selfishness blighting the State, 
 
 The sad plaint of misery scorning.
 
 (139 ) 
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT.* 
 
 La Jcnnc Fillc. Fantume ! que fahhorre, 
 Tu )iic poiirsitis toujonrs — 
 
 Mourir situt ! Encore quelques jours ! 
 Encore quelques jours ! 
 La Mort. Donne ta main, ne tremble pas, 
 Ma main est cclle d'une amie : 
 Til vas dormir entre mes bras 
 D'un sommeil plus doiix que la vie. 
 
 In a low and squalid room 
 Darkening in the twilight gloom, 
 With one broken lattice small 
 Peering through the sullied wall ; 
 Near which tall and spectral trees 
 Shiver in the chill night breeze — 
 
 * This is one of the author's earliest productions. It is founded 
 on the French words above, which are set to a well-known melody 
 of Schubert.
 
 140 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 
 
 Such as, by some mansion lone, 
 
 Linked with Murder's tale have grown- 
 
 Sleeps a young girl wearily ; 
 
 O'er her wan face flit strange fears, 
 
 The ashen trace of tears 
 
 Defiles her hollow cheek : 
 
 '^n discvrdered dream 
 
 Her light tresses stream 
 
 All about her pillow ; 
 
 Not in fairy freak, 
 
 But like the heavy willow 
 
 O'er a pool of woe : 
 
 Sad it is to see 
 
 Her neck's sharp tracery 
 
 Shadowed deeply so 
 
 By the dim light in the room, 
 
 Like her dying into gloom. 
 
 Suddenly the moon stole there. 
 Threading fast her shadowy hair 
 Into silver brightness rare, 
 Mist-like floating with soft grace 
 Round her wan and pearly face ; 
 And I saw a bright red streak 
 On her eyelids, on her cheek ;
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. I4I 
 
 But her lips were pale and lurid, 
 As a Lily from the earth 
 Sprung in slow and sunless birth; 
 All in dark, cold shadows buried : — 
 
 Then I knew the poor girl's doom, 
 Fading early to the tomb. 
 
 Whilst I watched her troubled dreaming. 
 
 The cold moon-beams o'er her streaming; 
 
 As, in some old Cathedral pile, 
 
 The tinted light through oriel window dies 
 
 On pale recumbent effigies, 
 
 Or an ocean pebble dries 
 
 In the sun, all colour flies; 
 
 And her cheek so white is gleaming, 
 
 So wan, so hueless, for awhile. 
 
 You might fancy she would rise 
 
 At once ; and from that room 
 
 Unto the Churchyard pass, 
 
 Poor, pale Ghost, mid the grass 
 
 Of the graves, to glide about ; 
 
 As if searching for a tomb — 
 
 In and out, in and out, 
 
 Flashing slender through the gloom. ^^
 
 142 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 
 
 I thought she did wake up ! 
 
 And her blue eyes' wandering light 
 
 Grew quite grey and mad with fright : 
 
 What is it can thus appal ? 
 
 There is no shadow on the wall — 
 
 Lo ! a Shape stands near her; 
 
 Not with ministering cup, 
 
 Not with words to cheer her; 
 
 But a Thing of Horror, 
 
 As 'twere waiting for her ; 
 
 Saying " I am Death ! 
 
 Give me then thy breath " — 
 
 Rattle ! Rattle ! " To these arms, 
 
 Mortal, yield thy faded charms ! " 
 
 " Life ! oh, Life ! ", she cried, 
 
 " I will not be Death's bride : 
 
 I have a lover new 
 
 Of earth comes me to woo ! " 
 
 Then the flutter of her heart 
 
 Hurries into beating ; 
 
 With a dull and muffled sound — 
 
 Each stroke a hunted creature's bound 
 
 And her quivering lips apart 
 
 Into sculptured anguish start :
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. I43 
 
 In the pale moon's chilling beam 
 
 You might have seen her bosom striving, 
 
 Like your own, in fearful dream, 
 
 Or a snow-wreath tossing, driving ; 
 
 And her breath so fleeting 
 
 Might be heard, in choking sob and cry— 
 
 " I am so young to die. 
 
 Too young to die ! " 
 
 Then the Figure did deride her, 
 And his lasting grin grew wider ; 
 A tremor o'er the bones did pass, 
 Heard, like serpents in parched grass : 
 Or as shuddering ice-plains creep. 
 When the dim seas break their sleep. 
 
 As a mighty giant bell. 
 Raging in its deafened cell. 
 Tolling quick with iron knell 
 For a Plague-infected city, 
 Smote the voice upon her ear. 
 Hollow, hollow and so clear — 
 Angels ! aid her, for sweet Pity ! 
 There is no one near !
 
 144 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 
 
 Still more nigh, still more nigh ! 
 
 With no one near to call, 
 
 And further fades the wall, 
 
 And more dull seemeth all 
 
 To her staring eye ; 
 
 Save the spectral trees so tall 
 
 That heavily wave by, 
 
 Like hearse-plumes on a pall. 
 
 " What hast Thou to fear in Me ? 
 Speak, what charms hath Life for thee ? 
 Is thy living life and breath 
 Not more frightful still than Death ? — 
 And the spectre of thy youth 
 Ghastlier far than me in truth ? — 
 Is the dark street's wintry doom 
 Not more chilling than the tomb ? 
 Do not all mankind deceive thee ? — 
 Still betraying, none believe thee — , 
 Canst thou number father, mother, 
 Faithful friend, or sister, brother ? — 
 Hast thou friend like me on earth ? " 
 Fast and furious grew his mirth, 
 And the Monster's ribs 'gan rattle 
 Sharp and cold like steel in battle,
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 1 45 
 
 Whilst his blotted deep eye-caves 
 
 Closed like trapdoors, or men's graves, 
 
 Who die all suddenly 
 
 Of murders done by night — 
 
 Then opened horribly 
 
 In the strange and wicked light — 
 
 Moon ! why shinest thou so bright ? 
 
 Hear the poor girl speak again ! 
 Each word tears her side in pain. 
 
 " Let me, let me only live ! 
 
 Still to me the sky is blue, 
 
 And these sweet flowers, oh ! they give 
 
 E'en for me their incense true — " 
 
 As she spake, the sigh of Death, 
 
 Shrank the flowers, her last fond care. 
 
 As they felt his blistering breath 
 
 Curdle in the ghastly air — 
 
 " Oh ! the fields they are so bright ! 
 
 There was something whispered soon, 
 
 I might v/ander in the light 
 
 Of the sun through fields at noon ; 
 
 Then my thoughts to God I'd give — 
 
 Let me, let me only live !"
 
 146 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 
 
 Suddenly, Death grew less stern, 
 All his bones to thin air turn, 
 Till the shape that did appal 
 Seemed but shadows on the wall 
 Of a naked poplar there 
 Twirling in the gusty air. 
 
 Then, methought, a strain did fill 
 
 Soft as flutes the chamber still ; 
 
 'Twas like memory of sound 
 
 To fond souls that love ; 
 
 It rose from out the ground, 
 
 From beneath, above — 
 
 Until that lone lost creature felt 
 
 The icy horror round her melt ; 
 
 Soon fled all her ghastly fears, 
 
 And her dim eyes filled with tears, 
 
 Like forget-me-nots in rain 
 
 Deepening into blue again ; 
 
 And she knew how sweet it was to die. 
 
 To leave this world of pain. 
 
 Of shame and earthly stain, 
 
 And she cried, "Death! wherefore dost thou fly ? 
 
 I am not young to die. 
 
 Oh, let me die !"
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. 147 
 
 Soon a Form stood near 
 
 Not of woe or fear ; 
 
 But of semblance bright 
 
 Waving in the moon's sweet, silvery hght, 
 
 And its face looked like her brother, 
 
 Youthful sister, father, mother, 
 
 Him she loved, ere Sin had known to breathe 
 
 On her sweet girlhood's bloom, 
 
 Or shed one rose-leaf from her early wreath 
 
 Of innocence, upon the tomb. 
 
 Then flushes that wan, dying face 
 
 A smile of such enchanting grace, 
 
 As when the beating heart is blest 
 
 With praise from lips we love the best ; 
 
 Like the Spirit's grow her eyes, 
 
 As the life within her dies — 
 
 Like a halo streams her hair, 
 
 As she breathes a thrilling prayer — 
 
 "O God ! God! forgive; 
 
 I would not, would not live !" 
 
 *****
 
 148 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT, 
 
 Gone is the burning spot 
 
 On her pale cheek that fed, 
 
 Her eyes' wild light beams not, 
 
 Her broken voice is dead — 
 
 The night wears slow, with sighings low, 
 
 Strange shadows come and fly. 
 
 As in the breeze the spectral trees 
 
 Uncertain tremble nigh ; 
 
 To her feet soon stole 
 
 The silvery bowl 
 
 Of the moon that kissed before 
 
 Her amber hair 
 
 So brightly there — 
 
 But she will stir no more ! 
 
 Hush ! I hear the Aspen leaves, 
 
 Or the Sprite that in them grieves. 
 
 Whisper in the shadowy air, 
 
 " Death is come and gone 1" 
 
 Hush ! I am alone 
 
 In that sick room's poverty — 
 
 Farewell ! sister fair, 
 
 Thy faint life hath flown, 
 
 And how sweetly, tranquilly— 
 
 Wonder ye who dare !
 
 LA JEUNE FILLE ET LA MORT. I49 
 
 'Twas her heart betrayed her, 
 
 Her sad life hath paid her 
 
 Foul impurities ; 
 
 Hot and bitter tears, 
 
 Cold and ghastly fears, 
 
 Ere, alone, she dies ! 
 
 Heaven will never judge her 
 
 As her fellow-sinners here below, 
 
 Though they wrought her woe ; 
 
 Seraphs will not grudge her 
 
 Room 'mid serried rank and shining row. 
 
 Thither she will go ! 
 
 To a bright glad sphere 
 
 Far above in the blue spangled sky. 
 
 Angels singing waft her soul on high — 
 
 Proud ones do ye hear ? —
 
 ( 150 ) 
 
 THE CONVICT'S ESCAPE. 
 
 [The following ballad is founded on a story, which appeared some 
 years since in the public journals.] 
 
 *' 'TwAS a convict, wan and weary, 
 By his fears like gendarmes pressed, 
 
 In a latchless cottage peering, 
 
 Thus its inmates poor addressed : — 
 
 " From the prison of the city, 
 
 Yonder city of Toulouse, 
 But three hours since fled I swiftly. 
 
 Leaving fate my road to choose. 
 
 " In striped dress and shackles heavy 
 Worked I with the negro's toil ; 
 
 Once I stabbed a proud oppressor, 
 Lord of many a league of soil.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. 
 
 •' He had wronged my only sister, 
 And the evening that she died, 
 
 When by accident I met him, 
 Called me peasant — said I lied ! 
 
 " I was poor and he was mighty — 
 For a moment changed our fate, 
 
 In the dust he lay before me, 
 
 Wreathed my lip with scorn and hate : 
 
 *' I was poor and he was mighty, 
 Soon they rushed unto his aid ; 
 
 Kind hearts pitied the betrayer, 
 Cold alms buried the betrayed. 
 
 " I to prison quick was hurried. 
 Met the Court's indignant gaze ; 
 
 And, though young, was sternly sentenced 
 Thus to pass my frenzied days ; 
 
 " With huge shackles heavy clanking. 
 Toiling, unredeemed by Time, 
 
 Gasping midst a crowd of wretches 
 Wearing human masks of crime. 
 
 ^51
 
 152 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. 
 
 " I was twenty, now am thirty. 
 Since this death in Hfe began ; 
 
 Yet I marked not, save by seasons. 
 How the dull grey moments ran. 
 
 " Since that time perchance in battle 
 Children guiltier far than I 
 
 France hath lost : ah ! why in glory 
 Did not France free me to die ? 
 
 " For the bullet strikes the peasant 
 And the noble with like blow — 
 
 Elevates the humble peasant, 
 Lays the haughty noble low. 
 
 ■ " Six months back I dreamt I hurried 
 From the city's opening gate : 
 Breathed the free air of the country, 
 Danced and sang with joy elate — 
 
 " To my sister's cottage wandered, 
 Saw the vine hang round her door, 
 
 Saw the trees before the auberge — 
 All vv'as as it was before.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. 153 
 
 " From the door she leant — the evening 
 Sunbeams kissed her auburn hair; 
 
 She was singing an old ballad 
 Of gay knight and maiden fair ; 
 
 " And I thought that Henri, Bertrand, 
 
 Comrades of my earlier hours, 
 Brought her laughing, talking, smiling, 
 
 Garlands of white perfumed flowers, 
 
 " Such as when a child I gathered 
 
 In the chateau's brambled moat, 
 Ere upon my young life's pages 
 
 Care one crooked letter wrote — 
 
 " 'Twas a dream ; but from that moment 
 
 Fiery thoughts of freedom burned 
 In my breast : my sister beckoned 
 
 Wheresoe'er I sighing turned. 
 
 " With a file, right through my shackles, 
 
 Night by night I worked amain ; 
 If I tired, sat Freedom near me, 
 
 ' Work,' she cried, ' Til cure thy pain !'
 
 154 THE convict's escape. 
 
 " How I sped, no matter — see me 
 Here with wounded hands and sore ; 
 
 Give me bread and give me shelter, 
 Until night my flight be o'er." 
 
 As he spoke, there came no answer 
 From the group within those walls : 
 
 But a sob of murmured pity 
 On his quickened hearing falls. 
 
 Still no word said " Enter, worn one, 
 Take thy humble seat and meal " — 
 
 It was strange since poor ones ever 
 For each other's sufferings feel ; 
 
 And I'd rather 'mid the lowest 
 
 Beg small alms from door to door, 
 
 Than where courtly grandeur pious 
 Sweeps with Sabbath train the floor. 
 
 " Friends," the convict's deep voice faltered, 
 
 " Ye have pity — ye are kind ; 
 Dark your chamber is, yet warmer, 
 
 Than outside the biting wind.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. I55 
 
 " Give me token I may enter, 
 
 Speak one word of greeting fair; 
 Move ye not ? Speak, aged father, 
 
 Spell-bound in that old arm-chair." 
 
 Hoarse and sad and deep the answer — 
 " Enter 'neath this bare-walled shed ; 
 
 Food we've none, and soon will shelter 
 Be denied my sick girl's head. 
 
 " Far my son for glory fighting 
 
 Dies perchance as thou hast spoke; 
 
 He a wife and three young children 
 Left with us two aged folk. 
 
 " Enter, thou art welcome, tired one. 
 
 Till to-morrow's cruel dawn : 
 Bread we've none, alas ! to give thee; 
 
 Not one rag to sell or pawn." 
 
 Then two little starving children 
 
 Hurried to their grandsire's side. 
 Not from fear — they were too hungry, 
 
 But the stranger upward eyed.
 
 15^ THE convict's ESCAPE. 
 
 " Grand'ther," whispered one, " do you think he 
 Brings us food?" " Hush, child, be still ! • 
 
 Sir, our landlord on these children 
 Sternly wreaks a cruel will. 
 
 " I am old and useless, ready 
 
 Forth to wander o'er the plain, 
 With my wife, yon aged woman, 
 
 We have lived through many a pain. 
 
 " But my daughter lies there helpless. 
 
 And these tender babes forlorn :" 
 Large tears silently down trickled 
 
 O'er his wrinkled features worn. 
 
 Noiselessly the convict entered, 
 
 Sat down — watched the skies for rain ; 
 
 While the aged grandsire sighing 
 Rocked each hungry child again. 
 
 Rose the convict — to the thicket 
 
 Seeking fuel forth he went. 
 Then came back and in the door-way 
 
 Gazed awhile and idly leant.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. I57 
 
 Asked he of the cruel landlord — 
 
 Each child's age, their father's name — 
 
 Then within he heaped the faggots, 
 With his breath he fanned the flame. 
 
 " Tell me how much is it," spoke he, 
 " That you owe in all ? You say 
 
 If 'tis paid not ere the sunset, 
 He will drive you forth to day." 
 
 " Forty francs we owe him " — " Surely 
 Though he be both rich and stern, 
 
 If you take your children with you. 
 To soft pity he will turn." 
 
 " If we pay not. ere the sunset, 
 Harsh-voiced bailiffs, at the dawn 
 
 Of to-morrow's day, will drive us 
 Far hence, houseless and forlorn. 
 
 *' See you there my daughter lying 
 Thin and fever-dried ? — she went 
 
 JLast night half a league to ask him, 
 By her children's sad eyes sent.
 
 It8 the convict's escape. 
 
 '3 
 
 " But the lawyer spurned her sinking 
 On his step, with oath and curse, 
 
 And he smote her on the shoulder, 
 Though she bore yon child at nurse."' 
 
 Then the convict muttered fiercely — 
 Flashed his eyes as when he hurled 
 
 To the ground that haughty noble, 
 And his pale lip grimly curled : 
 
 One step forward, backward, made he — 
 'Twas a man that forward strode, 
 
 But an angel that turned backward — 
 Seemed he lightened of his load: 
 
 Bright his smile — a tear-drop quivering, 
 Dimmed no longer by despair^ 
 
 Stole from 'neath his eye-lash lowered 
 On that mute group lingering there : 
 
 All the rust which chains had gathered 
 Ten long years within his breast, 
 
 By that tear was washed for ever, 
 And his soul was wrapped in rest.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. 159 
 
 Then unto those simple people 
 
 Spake he thus with accent clear — 
 
 '• I am due to laws offended, 
 I have no right to be here. 
 
 " On my head a price proclaimed is, 
 
 He may fifty francs receive, 
 Who shall take me to the city ; 
 
 Haste, nor longer idly grieve. 
 
 " Take your prisoner, he is willing ; 
 
 See, these children may not wait — 
 Come, be quick, no crime I counsel. 
 
 But a service to the state. 
 
 " Forty francs your landlord covets, 
 
 Fifty thus I gladly give — 
 All I ask is Heaven's sweet mercy, 
 
 That your little ones may live. 
 
 Long the old man gazed upon him, 
 
 In a corner sobbing fell ; 
 But the choking words he uttered 
 
 None might hear and none can tell.
 
 l6o THE convict's ESCAPE. 
 
 " May destruction sooner gather 
 
 Round all here," at length he cried ! 
 '* Father ! " shrieked the fevered woman, 
 " See, my youngest one hath died." 
 
 " Grand'ther," said the eldest sharply, 
 
 " Give my little brother bread ; 
 Francois sleeps, I cannot wake him, 
 
 Here, with mother in the bed." 
 
 " Grand'ther," whispering breathed the second, 
 Favourite with the soft blue eyes — 
 
 " Francois, will he more be hungry? 
 God feeds Francois in the skies." 
 
 Spake the aged woman nothing. 
 But she bowed toward the ground. 
 
 And it seemed that thence there upward 
 Came a low and breathed sound. 
 
 " Come then!" — " Never ! I, a soldier, 
 
 Thus a comrade to betray : 
 I have stood beside the Emperor 
 
 After many a hard fought day.
 
 THE CONVICT S ESCAPE. l6l 
 
 " Go hence, seek a better shelter 
 Than this house of tears and death : 
 
 Take a blessing with thee, comrade, 
 Wafted by an old man's breath.'" 
 
 " Listen," said the convict coldly, 
 
 " Like a hunted wolf I roam : 
 Straight hence will I seek my prison, 
 
 As 'twere childhood's dearest home. 
 
 " I of libert}' am sickened ! 
 
 Better wear the convict's dress — 
 Better labour in a prison — 
 
 Than be free in this distress. 
 
 " If thou wilt not take this ransom. 
 
 Swear I, by Christ's holy name, 
 I will seek another captor, 
 
 And this money he shall claim. 
 
 '• Hark, I hear the gendarmes trampling, 
 
 They will seek me far and wide ; ■ 
 I am weary. Lo ! I have hot 
 
 Strength to flee, nor soul to hide. 
 
 M
 
 l62 THE convict's ESCAPE. 
 
 " Heaven hath sent me here to aid you 
 Dreamt I in my youth, or read, 
 
 How a raven, sent by Heaven, 
 One whom man deserted fed." 
 
 Spake the aged woman rising, — 
 " Take, my son, this proffered aid : 
 
 He hath sinned and God is willing — 
 Let God's v/isdom be obeyed." 
 
 Then a rope the convict deftly 
 
 Out from 'neath his garment tore, 
 
 Round his waist he drew it tightly — 
 Stood erect upon the floor — 
 
 Kissed the dead child and the living, 
 Placed the rope with pious care 
 
 In the old man's trembling clutches, 
 Drew him forth with cheerful air. 
 
 Captive gently drew the captor — 
 Often held the old man back : 
 
 Not once did that weary convict 
 Pause upon his onward track.
 
 THE convict's ESCAPE. 163 
 
 Right unto the city came they, 
 
 Without challenge, to the gate — 
 " Captain of the Guard, a prisoner 
 
 Here I render to the state." 
 
 To the fortress' stern Commander 
 Came they with that armed guard : 
 
 " Colonel, here I bring a prisoner, 
 After struggling long and hard ! " 
 
 Then the fifty francs they give him — 
 
 " Old man, tell me, hast thou served ? " — 
 
 " Ask these scars upon my bosom 
 If at Lodi's bridge I swerved ? " 
 
 " Thou art old, and grey, and weakly. 
 
 And the prisoner fierce and strong " — 
 '• 'Twas the spirit of a soldier 
 
 Nerved my arm to vanquish wrong." 
 
 " Here is gold, thou brave old soldier. 
 
 Tell the story of thy need ; 
 I for thee will ask a pension, 
 
 'Tis well earned by such a deed." 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE convict's ESCAPE. 
 
 •• I must hasten to m}' children. 
 
 They are starving — without bread I " — 
 •• Stay with us, thou veteran soldier, 
 
 I will send and see them fed. 
 
 " To the guard-room take your comrade. 
 Old he is but true and brave ; — 
 
 Convict, in one hour, thy prison 
 Must be changed into a grave. 
 
 "■ Thou the penalty well knewest, 
 One hour take then to prepare — 
 
 One hour hence a file of soldiers 
 'Neath the tower's western stair !" 
 
 In the doorway stood the old man, 
 Cowering, anxious to depart; 
 
 Seemed it as the cruel bullets 
 Of the soldiers reached his heart. 
 
 Back he staggered to the centre. 
 
 '• Let me die," he wildly raved ; — 
 But the convict frowned in anger, 
 
 As one reckless to be saved.
 
 THE convict's ESCAPE. 165 
 
 Then the old man poured forth quickly 
 All the truth, with anguish wrung ; 
 
 " Take, oh take, your blood-stained money !""— 
 
 Round his prisoner's neck he clung. 
 
 Hoarsely coughed the stern Commander. 
 
 And the wind blew in his eyes ; 
 Then with fierceness quite tremendous 
 
 Sought he pity to disguise. 
 
 " Guard, remove your prisoner I Old man, 
 Grieves me thou hast meanly lied — 
 
 Give the prisoner food and respite," 
 Spake he to the guard aside. 
 
 In six days there came from Paris 
 
 For the convict pardon free ; 
 And the stern Commander gave him 
 
 Land and Life and Liberty ! 
 
 Often do that aged couple 
 
 Tell the story o'er and o'er 
 To a sunburnt soldier sitting 
 
 By yon humble cottage door.
 
 i66 THE convict's escape. 
 
 " Thus he did, yes, thus my prisoner 
 Did my trembHng footsteps guide ;"" — 
 
 " 'Twas the day," low spake the mother, 
 " Our sweet little Francois died." 
 
 Often comes in pride the convict, 
 Noble pride, in truth, has he ; 
 
 Merely to escape from prison 
 Makes no human being free. 
 
 "Tis the thought, the soul, the conscience ! 
 
 Trust me, there are often found 
 Slaves in mind, among the proudest. 
 
 Worse than galley-slaves around. 
 
 Soon he finds a home still dearer 
 Than the one in youth he lost ; 
 
 Oft shines manhood firmer, brighter, 
 For a spring by storm-clouds crossed. 
 
 In a vine-clad cottage clamber 
 
 Bright-haired children on his knees — 
 
 This, the convict's simple story — 
 Gentle ladies, may it please !
 
 ( i67 ) 
 
 TO THE EIVIPRESS EUGENIE. 
 
 ON HEARING OF HER VISITS TO THE SICK AND DYING IN 
 THE CHOLERA-HOSPITALS OF FRANCE.* 
 
 Were not mine English homage sworn in truth, 
 
 My duteous fealty here owned and given, 
 They should be thine, Lady of gentle ruth, 
 
 Daughter of France and Heaven ! 
 
 * I have been advised not to publish this poem by a friend who 
 states as his reason, that the Empress is extremely ultramontane in 
 her religious views, and exercises a strong influence on behalf of the 
 Church of Rome, ^s my verses are secular, the objection had 
 little weight with me. Were the Imperial Samaritan a Buddhist 
 or Southcotian, it would make no difference in my estimation of her 
 charitable deeds. Such deeds are catholic in the widest, purest and 
 noblest sense, and as such I love and reverence them, with whatever 
 religious belief they may be united. There are acts, as there are 
 persons, belonging not to any creed or country, but to humanity at 
 large. They may, it is true, adorn a Religion and embellish a 
 nation's fame ; and fortunate indeed is the Religion that can boast 
 such votaries, and the nation who can call such bright examples of 
 charity and devotion, her own.
 
 l68 TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIE. 
 
 Thy tender courage and thy pity bold 
 
 Have made thee Empress o'er all hearts of men ; 
 Ne'er lived Republican with heart so cold 
 
 Could wish thee harm again. 
 
 Had France a Brutus, thou would'st needs disarm 
 His sternest purpose ; thy pure fame is shield 
 
 Unto thy lord, more potent against harm 
 Than martial hosts a-field. 
 
 Dowered with mercy, Love's immortal wealth, 
 Shrined in thine own fair beauty. Angel wings 
 
 Winnow the sick room, where thy light step health, 
 Joy, and sweet comfort brings. 
 
 I sometimes think a choir angelic sings 
 And ever circles round a spotless heart — 
 
 May one small hand the fabled touch of kings. 
 In truth and deed, impart ! — 
 
 Devotion's mistress, Charity's fair Queen, 
 Risking the pearl of Empire, thy dear life ; 
 
 Quitting thy festive Court and jewelled sheen 
 For Court with perils rife —
 
 TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIE. l5g 
 
 Death's Court in blackest horror, chill dismay — 
 Scene that the stoutest warrior's spirit quails, 
 
 Where Folly blenches, Fashion steals away, 
 Nor Flatter}' avails. 
 
 sainted lesson in the sympathy 
 
 That the world lacks so much — beyond compare 
 Dauntless as it is grand ! O Charity, 
 Crowned with Faith's lilies rare ! 
 
 1 am no worshipper of kings. I never thought 
 To dedicate a line to monarch's praise : 
 
 Fair Empress, at thy feet a soul unbought 
 Kneeling this soul-wreath lays ! 
 
 Thou an example unto all hast given, 
 
 With thine Imperial mood of touching grace ; 
 
 Fain would I draw Love's blushing tints from 
 Heaven, 
 To picture thy sweet face. 
 
 Beaming with hope upon the weary bed 
 
 Of anguish, as thou breath'st restoring breath 
 
 In the pinched nostrils of some half-raised head. 
 And smil'st a truce with Death.
 
 170 TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIE. 
 
 Let Waste's and Foll3'"s daughters, Fashion's crew, 
 Who watch thy hghtest fantasy of dress, 
 
 Who did thy tresses' tiring, e'en their hue, 
 All eagerly impress. 
 
 Go copy thee still more, and learn to wear 
 Such rich heart-novelties in purer breast, 
 
 A pattern of soul-loveliness so rare, 
 By God and angels blest.
 
 ( lyi ) 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA.- 
 
 The night had flung her mantle 
 
 O'er Elbrous'f Spirit crest, 
 When thus a white-haired chieftain 
 
 His henchman stirred from rest — ■ 
 
 * I publish these lines more on account of a curious sequence 
 which followed them, than as a work of art and poetical pretension. 
 They were written and first published in April, 1857. Since then a 
 real " message " has been born to England by two Circassian chiefs 
 under circumstances strikingly similar to those which T have 
 pictured. Towards the close of the Circassian struggle for ex- 
 istence and independence, two Circassian Envoys did come over to 
 this country, in the romantic hope of laying their grievances before 
 the Queen of England, and of obtaining moral if not material aid. 
 They were treated by the Government with contempt. I met on 
 two or three painful but interesting occasions these brave and 
 devoted mountaineers. The last time I saw them, they exJiibited- — 
 especially the elder and principal envoy — the most dejected ap- 
 pearance. One of our party of English sympathisers demanded the 
 reason of this deep abstraction and sorrow, The answer was inter- 
 preted as follows : — " The Chief thanks you from his heart ; but 
 he feels that the object of his long journey is fniitless. He cannot 
 
 + " Elbrous, the highest mountain peak in Circassia, variously 
 estimated at 16,330 feet in altitude. The Kasbek, 14,400, comes 
 next. The Circassians also call Elbrous, Dahin-Padischah, King of 
 the Spirits.
 
 172 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " Go, mount, my faithful Dchemet, 
 
 Ere dawn, my fleetest steed. 
 And tell the friends of Freedom 
 
 How Tcherkess bosoms bleed : 
 
 therefore now rest until the moment of his departure. He would 
 fain return to die with arms in his hand. His country cannot 
 spare a single man. His home at this moment may be in flames, 
 and his family in the clutch of the ruthless destroyer. His heart is far 
 distant, and he cannot respond to your kindness. He begs you to 
 excuse his apparent discourtesy." I have the portraits of these 
 two noble-looking w^arriors before me at this moment. They 
 returned, and their bones are now probably bleaching in some 
 mountain gorge or fastness. They found the rulers of England 
 utterly deaf to their cry. In 1857, I should mention, that an 
 address from Sefer Pasha, Prince of Circassia, was sent to the 
 British Nation, but elicited no response, save from a few individuals. 
 It fell dead, so far as the nation and the Government of England 
 were concerned. Amongst those who did answer it were Viscount 
 Raynham, M.P., now Marquis of Townshend, Samuel Morley, 
 Esq., Mr. Weir, the late respected and able editor of the Daily 
 Nenvj, Messrs. Birkbeck, G. Leverson, Effingham Wilson and 
 Edmund Beales, F. Lawrence, J. Arrowsmith, J. Mackintosh, &c., 
 together with the late T. S. Duncombe, M.P., James Wylde, M.P., 
 and W. Scholefield, M.P. I had the honour at that time to be 
 Hon. Sec. to the Provisional Committee " on behalf of Circassian 
 Independence." I need not say how barren and fruidess were our 
 efforts. These efforts were based, not upon sentiment alone, but on 
 interest, not upon abstract right, but on a treaty to which the British 
 Crown was a party — I mean the treaty of Paris after the war with 
 Russia. By the observance of that treaty, Circassia might have been 
 saved, and Russian progress in Asia been arrested. But Lord Palmer- 
 ston's government, in obedience to instructions from St. Petersburg, as
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. I73 
 
 '' How Freedom sinks unaided. 
 
 Her last sigh breathed to God, 
 Her form defiled and trampled 
 
 Upon the mountain sod : 
 
 it did not pretend to conceal, permitted the deliberate, cruel and fata 
 violation of the specific stipulation of the Treaty signed by England 
 France and Russia. 
 
 I am not aware that there exists any similar instance of con- 
 nivance in the violation of a solemn Treaty to her own loss and 
 injur)', in the histor)' of this, or any nation. We have now to reap 
 the consequences in India. To England it was of vital importance 
 to keep open the Eastern Ports of the Black Sea. By the Treaty 
 of Paris, Russian aggression and predominance in the Black Sea were 
 entirely provided against. But not only was Russia suffered to send 
 armed expeditions to destroy the growing commerce of the Eastern 
 ports, and massacre and annihilate the Abasian tribes bordering on 
 tlie Black Sea coast — burning, uprooting, pillaging, and destroying 
 man, woman and child; but this Black Sea, interdicted to the flag of 
 war of all nations by a solemn Treaty in the face of Europe, was in- 
 terdicted to English commerce by Lords Palmerston and Clarendon, 
 until the bloody purposes of Russia were accomplished. Pending the 
 inhuman piracies of Russia committed on the Black Sea coast. I wrote 
 to Lord Clarendon, at the earnest request of the heroic General Tiirr, 
 asking if a British merchantman could trade there in safety. His lord- 
 ship applied, as he said, to St. Petersburg, and then wrote to me to say 
 that a British merchantman had better not venture to trade on the East 
 Coast of the Black Sea. The correspondence was published in the 
 " Daily Ne'ws,'" and other journals of that date. The Circassians, in 
 effect, asked for no assistance. They only entreated that England 
 would cany out her own Treaty with Russia, and keep open the com- 
 mercial ports, by means of which tliey coiild alone exist and struggle. 
 It is not my intention to write a political treatise here. But the subiect
 
 174 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " Tell them to quickly muster 
 With sword and lance and gun, 
 
 Ere yet the Cossack triumph, 
 His work of death be done. 
 
 of the poet and politician are in this case so far interwoven and allied, 
 that I feel these words of explanation to be due and necessary. It 
 rested with England as a matter of humanity and right, as of policy 
 and self-interest, to speak one word which would have saved Cir- 
 cassia, and she did not. She was deaf and blind, and, like the 
 Pharisee and Levite, passed by on the other side. Rivers of blood 
 and mountains of treasure cannot now undo the results of that 
 supreme indifference to, or complacent connivance in the destruction 
 of a gallant people. The mountain barrier to Russian invasion is 
 swept away. Already she has passed it, and is treading on the 
 skirts of Anglo-Indian rule. England permitted the utmost horrors 
 of barbarian cruelty and bloodshed to take place to her own dis- 
 honour and her own loss, and Retribution advances with giant strides. 
 One more word. It has been falsely and basely repi'tsented that 
 the Circassians stood aloof during our struggle in the Crimea. 
 This is one of those shallow devices with which ignorance is so 
 easily deluded by unscrupulous assertion. The Circassians^ during 
 the war between Russia and the allies, took possession of the forts 
 on the East coast of the Black Sea. They then sought for the 
 guarantee of their future independence, as the condition of their 
 throwing themselves as one man into the fight, ^^ithout that 
 guarantee, the act of coming down from their fastnesses in an or- 
 ganised body must have been instantly fatal, so soon as that 
 treacherous war was ended. Their propositions were treated by 
 the French and English Commissioners with neglect and insult. 
 In another quartv'r there was similar shuffling and uncertainty- 
 ending with the '-surrender" of Kars. Our Crimean commanders 
 treated a gallant and heroic people as if they had been Thugs and
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. I75 
 
 " Speed over glen and mountain, 
 Speed through the dust and mud ; 
 
 For fast as strides thy courser 
 My people's hearts rain blood : 
 
 " Thou know'st how through dark winter 
 
 Swells Terek's* angry roar, 
 Thou hear'st wan Caspia breaking 
 
 Upon yon sullen shore ; 
 
 bandits, whilst at the same time they contemptuously declined the 
 adhesion to England of the whole Polish force in the Russian a'-my 
 in the Crimea. The people of England may hereafter be reminded 
 that Poles fought against them in the late war with Russia ; but 
 let them also be reminded that Lord Raglan replied to a deputation 
 from 12,000 Polish soldiers asking to be honourably received and 
 not treated as deserters if they came over en masse, that he thought 
 they had better stay where they were. During the long struggle 
 which ensued, these men washed out that haughty and insulting 
 answer in the blood of England's best. 
 
 Let me refer for the history of the subsequent action of a more 
 important and practical Circassian Committee, of which Mr. E. Beales 
 was chairman, to "The Circassian War," &c., published by Hard- 
 wicke, Piccadilly. I refer also for a record sufficient to open the 
 eyes of all to the terrible significance of the whole mystery, to 
 " Circassia,' by S. E. Rolland, Esq., (Hardwicke) ; "The Expe- 
 dition of the Chesapeake;" "Correspondence" 1863, printed by 
 Government, and lastly "The Secret of Russia in the Caspian and 
 Euxine," published at 4, East Temple Chambers, Fleet Street. 
 
 * "Terek," a rapid river which rises in the Kasbek and runs 
 into the Caspian.
 
 176 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " But louder, harsher, wilder, 
 The shouts that track our lair ; 
 
 While lights the groaning mountains 
 The blazing saklis'* glare. 
 
 " The bright moon gleaming o'er us 
 Now sinks beneath a cloud, 
 
 Like to a warrior's breastplate 
 Enveloped in his shroud ; 
 
 " 'Tis thus my best and bravest 
 Fade, one by one, from sight ; 
 
 Not like the moon returning — 
 She gilds their graves with light. 
 
 " I saw a mother weeping 
 Seven sons at close of day, 
 
 Who shone in youthful beauty 
 Beneath morn's early ray. 
 
 " Our children grow too slowly 
 For boyish deeds in truth. 
 
 Our boys are slain too early 
 
 Who snatch the arms of vouth : 
 
 * " Saklis," the Circassian houses.
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. I7 
 
 " The aged ones are scanty, 
 
 Who bear a charmed life ; 
 Like me, through fifty seasons, 
 
 The reaper hoar of strife. 
 
 " Shall this our land mourn ever 
 
 Her youth and manhood slain. 
 To glut with their torn bodies 
 
 Foul conquest's lust of gain ? 
 
 " It cannot be ! From childhood, 
 
 I know yon western star 
 Glitters o'er noble races 
 
 Of free men, born afar : 
 
 " They see not our misfortunes, 
 
 They hear not of our wrong. 
 Or they had sent their thousands 
 
 To swell our battle-song. 
 
 " I tell thee such injustice 
 
 Lives not ! It cannot be, 
 That freemen thus are hunted, 
 
 While stand aloof the free : 
 
 N
 
 178 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " Ride, then, my faithful Dchemet, 
 
 For living and for dead ; 
 And bear this for a token, 
 
 An arrow's* blood-stained head : 
 
 " A sign unto the nations, 
 
 For succour sent with speed. 
 The Tcherkess scorned to summon, 
 
 Before his dearest need. 
 
 "• Quick, mount, and tell the nations 
 
 Whose lot on earth is blest, 
 Our scanty tribes outnumbered 
 
 In vain have fought their best."' 
 
 " I will mount quick, my chieftain, 
 
 And ride unto the sea. 
 Perchance to greet some captain 
 
 Thy messenger to be : 
 
 * " An arrow's blood-stained head." It need hardly be remarked, 
 that, although rifles and guns were in general use among the Cir- 
 cassians when this was written, yet that bows and arrows were still 
 the arms of a portion of some of the remoter and poorer tribes. The 
 Circassian envoys who came over long after this was written, had 
 with them a remarkable bow, which few Englishmen, I should 
 think, could bend.
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. I79 
 
 " But three years since, I met one, 
 
 He sailed from England's shore, 
 Ere fell the mighty" fortress 
 
 'Neath cannon's ceaseless roar. 
 
 " Thou know'st how on our country 
 
 Gleamed Hope's delusive smile ; 
 She shrieking fled the compact 
 
 Of traitors' guilty wile. 
 
 " We may not read the meaning 
 
 Of war in gory mask ; 
 The left hand which undoeth 
 
 The right hand's glorious task : 
 
 " Of blood poured out like water 
 
 To conquer but to yield ; 
 The heaps of cherished treasure 
 
 That sowed each vain-fought field : 
 
 " 'Twas peace, in triumph's dawning — • 
 
 'Twas war, I know not why — 
 The cringing, lying courtier 
 
 May better tell than I. 
 
 * Sebastopol. 
 
 N 2
 
 l8o THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " I told you of a captain — 
 
 My chieftain, hear me speak — 
 
 A cunning dark-smiled trader; 
 They said his tribe was Greek : 
 
 " He spake to me of England, 
 The clime we deem so blest ; 
 
 He called her canting braggart, 
 Her vaunted sway, a jest : 
 
 " He mocked her love of freedom, 
 Her care for aught save self; 
 
 He dubbed her people tricksters. 
 The crawling slaves of pelf: 
 
 " He called their island glory 
 
 A pedlar's heritage, 
 Fast merging into story, 
 
 The boast of drivelling age :" 
 
 The chieftain's brow grew angry. 
 Then deepened into thought — 
 
 ♦' Thy Greek lied, foolish Dchemet, 
 By malice idly taught :
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. i8l 
 
 " Yet Still I have heard rumours 
 
 That bear him strangely out — 
 Nay, what were they at Alma, 
 
 And Inkermann's fierce rout ? 
 
 " Think of that deed of glory, 
 Whose mention stops the breath, 
 
 When the doomed horsemen spurred down 
 Death's avenue to Death ! — " 
 
 " What did that red-hot tourney 
 
 For Freedom, master mine ? 
 What reck you of a handful 
 
 Whose deeds of valour shine ? 
 
 " The English count by millions, 
 Their power is strong and great ; 
 
 Proud England's band of heroes 
 Are minions of her state. 
 
 " The masses of her people 
 
 Ne'er drew a Warrior's blade ; 
 The red gold is their idol, 
 
 Their faith, their god, is trade !
 
 t82 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " The Frank hath bent a halter 
 
 With coil as of an asp 
 Round his own neck — there strains it 
 
 A sallow tyrant's grasp. 
 
 " The Englishman dull ponders 
 
 Upon the next day's sale, 
 While his best rights are bartered 
 
 Like suits of rusty mail : 
 
 " I tell thee, free men perish 
 
 For hunger in his streets, 
 Whose argosies deep-laden 
 
 Outvie the world's great fleets : 
 
 " He feels not for his starved ones 
 
 That stagger to and fro. 
 And will he aid the stranger ? 
 
 By Heaven's great justice, No ! 
 
 " What would you from such nations ? 
 
 They trifle with our woes. 
 And mock, with scenic wonders. 
 
 Our country's pictured throes.
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 183 
 
 " But Stay, I will not dwell on 
 
 The stories wafted near ; 
 Vile truth or wretched slander — 
 
 The proof, the test is here. 
 
 " One word had saved our country — 
 
 Bright Hope our mission sped ; 
 Ere fell the grim Sebastopol, 
 
 That one word — was it said ? 
 
 " Cold, subtle was the answer — 
 
 That we might peril all, 
 And give our needless aid, perchance 
 
 Unsuccoured then to fall : 
 
 " To day alone we battle, 
 
 Alone 'gainst Freedom's foe ; — 
 "Twas thus we sternly faced him 
 
 Full fifty years ago : 
 
 *' Since yon oak grew a sapling, 
 
 Yon eagle left the nest. 
 No friend our cause hath aided, 
 
 No aid our standard blest."
 
 184 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 
 
 " Ride not to-night, my Dchemet," 
 The chieftain slowly said, 
 
 " Our country may not spare thee 
 On idle mission sped : 
 
 " Circassia counts her right-arms 
 E'en with the miser's care, 
 
 As merchants count their pieces, 
 Where priceless hearts are rare : 
 
 " Mount not to night, my Dchemet ;— 
 To-morrow's sun may beam 
 
 On thin ranks closmg sadly, 
 With falchion's scanty gleam : 
 
 " But this I tell thee, Dchemet, 
 
 I envy not their lot, 
 Who in the mart and workshop 
 
 Our sufferings have forgot : 
 
 " Lo ! on their house-tops Vengeance 
 Sits, brooding with closed wings ; 
 
 Stern Retribution o'er them 
 Her deepening shadow flings :
 
 THE MESSAGE OF CIRCASSIA. 185 
 
 " By yon bright star above us, 
 
 I tell thee that our doom 
 Will shroud their sombre evening 
 
 In purple clouds of gloom ! 
 
 " Stay here, my faithful Dchemet ; — 
 
 I would not change our graves 
 For thrones of selfish tyrants, 
 
 Or sfilded homes of slaves." 
 
 t>'
 
 ( i86 ) 
 
 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR 
 
 Methought I slept where Nelson fell, 
 
 And from the moonlit wave 
 There rose, evoked by some strange spell, 
 
 The Spirits of the brave — 
 
 The Spirits of the brave who died 
 
 Without a funeral rite. 
 For England's honour and her pride, 
 
 Came gliding o'er my sight. 
 
 Each ghost in mourning was arrayed, 
 
 A sable winding sheet : 
 Their solemn voices did upbraid, 
 
 As each rose to his feet : 
 
 Each from the depths of ocean clear : 
 
 It was a thrilling sight — 
 Dull sounds of grief poured on my ear 
 
 And shrieks of sad affright.
 
 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 187 
 
 And every face was struck with fear 
 
 That, dying, was so bold, 
 That smiled upon its watery bier 
 
 And kissed the waters cold. 
 
 Methought I saw the Commodore, 
 
 The Captain, and the ' Mid,' 
 The negro and the boatswain hoar — 
 
 All whom the sea hath hid — 
 
 All them whose bones have suffered change 
 
 In ocean's oozy bed, 
 Where travel slimy creatures strange 
 
 With scales and crested head ; 
 
 Great eels, with saucer eyes, that peep 
 
 Through drowned ports in play, 
 And strong-shelled things that sideways creep, 
 
 Like lawyers on their prey ; 
 
 Where blackened skulls, 'mid treasure lost. 
 
 Grow sea-weed green for hair, 
 By tumbling billows sometimes tost, 
 
 With glistening pebbles fair,
 
 l88 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 
 
 And star-fish, on the rough sea strand, 
 
 A thousand miles away ; 
 Such skull the fisher takes in hand, 
 
 " God help thee ! " he doth say — 
 
 " Perchance thy brain o'er many a sea 
 Hath ached with thoughts of home. 
 
 And myriad thoughts in search of thee 
 Havg crossed the salt sea foam." 
 
 I thought, then, indistinct and vast 
 
 Great vessels 'gan to loom, 
 Dark hull and shroud, yard-arm and mast 
 
 Grew round me in the gloom : 
 
 And then a voice was heard to call, 
 " Is England's might no more ? " — 
 
 I heard its ringing echoes fall 
 Around on caverned shore. 
 
 " Is England's might no more ? '' it said, 
 " And was our death in vain ? 
 
 And is the daring spirit fled 
 That braved the stormy main ?
 
 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 189 
 
 '' And did our blood all idly stream, 
 
 That tinged the dark sea-wave, 
 As when the parting sunbeams gleam 
 
 On some lone grassy grave ? 
 
 " And fell our Nelson then in death. 
 
 To earn a useless name ? 
 Shall cowards blast with cruel breath 
 
 Our hero's glorious fame ? 
 
 " We gaze on a dismantled shore, 
 Where strange ships come unbailed ; 
 
 The same loud surges angry roar 
 But Britain's might hath vailed : 
 
 '&' 
 
 " The seaman, once our country's boast. 
 Dismissed, neglected, spurned. 
 
 Hath sailed for ever from our coast, 
 And foreign wages earned : 
 
 '&' 
 
 " We see the Frenchman boldly ride 
 Where once we spread dismay ; 
 
 For Britain's glory, like a tide. 
 In shame hath ebbed away :
 
 igO THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 
 
 " The songs that used to soothe our rest, 
 
 Where we are coldly laid, 
 Would seem like some sad empty jest, 
 
 Since England is betrayed : 
 
 " The mermaid sang them round our graves 
 
 In azure depth below. 
 Beneath the cool pellucid waves 
 
 Where coral treasures grow : 
 
 " Those stirring songs of by-gone years, - 
 
 We may not hear them more ; 
 For England, trembling in her fears, 
 
 Hath stilled her lion-roar : 
 
 " No more ' Britannia rules the waves,' 
 
 Stripped by her own behest ; 
 Awake, ah ! be not willing slaves. 
 
 Arm yet each manly breast : 
 
 " No fight disastrous hath been fought. 
 
 No conqueror trod her deck ; 
 Her flag not struck, the deed not wrought — 
 
 Her soul the only wreck :
 
 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. igi 
 
 '• Curst be the sentimental fool 
 
 Who preaches disarray, 
 And thrice more curst the hireling tool 
 
 Who scribbles to betray ! 
 
 " And curst be he whose aid is slack 
 
 To gird our native land, 
 To hurl defiance doubly back 
 
 On the invading band. 
 
 •' Go, shake your rulers up from sleep ! 
 
 The day approaches fast ; 
 We heard the Spirits of the deep 
 
 Speak hoarsely through the blast ; 
 
 " ' The fate of England still, they cried, 
 
 ' Is in her children's power ; 
 She still may flourish. Freedom's bride, 
 
 Or fall in one sad hour : 
 
 " ' It is her own to do or die, 
 
 To perish or be great ; 
 The shot is cast, the day is nigh, 
 
 Prepare ye, ere too late ! '
 
 192 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 
 
 " By Albion's coast in evening skies 
 
 We saw the fight rehearsed, 
 We gazed aloft with upturned eyes 
 
 On watery fleets reversed : 
 
 " We heard the thunders fast and loud, 
 
 We saw the foe advance ; 
 We might not pierce that sulphurous cloud. 
 
 Though with a spirit-glance. 
 
 " None, none could tell, save One alone, 
 
 The issue of the fight; 
 The flag which last proud held its own, 
 
 Was snatched by coming Night : 
 
 " But this we know, soon comes the fray 
 
 Ye may not shun — Prepare ! " 
 Then died the warning voice away 
 
 Athwart the sullen air. 
 
 And soon I heard a moaning sound, 
 
 As if through cordage strayed, 
 Or when the wind sweeps o'er the ground. 
 
 Where hollow guns are laid —
 
 THE VISION OF TRAFALGAR. 1 93 
 
 All in the rank long grass that grows 
 
 By some dismantled fort, 
 Where rusty cannon shot in rows 
 
 Are piled for children's sport — 
 
 Unto their briny chambers fast 
 
 Down sank the spectres grim : 
 Old Ocean whitened 'neath the blast 
 
 Of Morning chill and dim. 
 
 't> 
 
 November. 1850, 
 
 o
 
 ( 194 ) 
 
 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 (From the British Army Despatch, 
 September 24, 1852 J 
 
 I. 
 
 Toll for the great departed ; 
 
 And let each passing-bell 
 From abbey and cathedral 
 
 Ring out its deep-toned knell. 
 
 From village-spire and hamlet- 
 Let all bear solemn part ; 
 
 The aged oak is withered 
 
 Which grew from every heart. 
 
 Set is the sun of glory 
 That on a hero shone, 
 
 To rise but in remembrance — 
 Our Wellington is gone !
 
 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. I95 
 
 Like some tall ship at twilight 
 Seen through a summer day. 
 
 Softly, as evening shadows. 
 His presence pass'd away. 
 
 Let England's meteor banners 
 
 In heavy folds float low 
 For him who never vailed them 
 
 Before her mightiest foe. 
 
 A people's prayers are wafting 
 
 On high the spirit fled ; 
 A nation's sighs are stirring 
 
 The plumes around his bed. 
 
 Let Britain's tearful Genius 
 
 Gaze on his face once more, 
 Her sable garments sweeping 
 
 The consecrated floor. 
 
 In the green leaf of honour 
 
 His old age sank to rest ; 
 
 Fresh as yon crown of laurel 
 
 That lies upon his breast ; 
 
 o 2
 
 igS THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 As when new-wreathed by Fortune 
 It decked his brow in youth, 
 
 Stamped with the noble bearing 
 Of valour, wisdom, truth. 
 
 There is a cloud o'er Britain, 
 A shade athwart the land ; 
 
 Like marble figures mourning 
 The saddened Hours stand. 
 
 Our spell of peace is broken, 
 Our guardian angel fled ; 
 
 Dimmed is the Past's remembrance. 
 Since Wellington is dead. 
 
 'tj' 
 
 Weep not for him, but England. 
 
 Toll for her loss alone : 
 Death is the latest triumph 
 
 Our Wellington hath Iftiown. 
 
 II- 
 
 Sleeps he ? And will he waken 
 To combat once again ? 
 
 As when he slumbered calmly 
 On India's tented plain —
 
 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 197 
 
 To rise up like a bridegroom 
 And snatch a deathless name, 
 
 The chosen heir of victory, 
 The certain child of fame ? 
 
 Sleeps he by duty cradled, 
 
 To start to life at morn. 
 Like some proud god of battle 
 
 To gorgeous triumph borne ? 
 
 No ! he will never waken 
 
 To drum or trumpet's sound ; 
 
 No more at clash of cymbal 
 His lion heart will bound. 
 
 But when the loud Archangel 
 
 Shall pour his fearful blast. 
 Girt by the world's great army, 
 
 He shall arise at last : 
 
 Not as the first and foremost 
 
 In perished glory's van ; 
 The grave still claims the hero, 
 
 God summons forth the man.
 
 igS THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 Mourn, mourn with weeping England, 
 There Hes her chosen son ; 
 
 His full orbed day is ended, 
 His race of duty run. 
 
 Closed are his sunken eyelids, 
 Ne'er, ne'er to open more ; 
 
 Vainly a thousand cannon 
 Might round him angry roar. 
 
 A million armed foemen 
 
 Might trample o'er his grave. 
 
 But not wake Britain's champion 
 To conquer and to save. 
 
 His eagle glance is blinded. 
 His fiery pulse hath stopped; 
 
 The cherished gem of England 
 Hath from its setting dropped : 
 
 Our hero lies unburied — 
 
 The pomps of grief are slow ; 
 
 Or doth a lingering nation 
 Pause fondly in her woe ?
 
 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 199 
 
 Tread proudly ye who enter 
 
 His coffined state to view; 
 The countersign is "Victory !" 
 
 The password " Waterloo !" 
 
 in. 
 Toll for the great departed ! 
 
 Though Britain in her need 
 May find full many a hero 
 
 To conquer, or to bleed ; 
 
 She may not find another 
 
 To match his wondrous fame, 
 
 Who spoiled a page of history 
 To deck a single name. 
 
 But let her not too fondly 
 
 Hang o'er that honoured tomb, 
 
 Lest Fate her ancient glory 
 
 Deep shroud with envious gloom ; 
 
 Lest, mantled in tradition, 
 
 Her proud Fame seek a grave 
 
 With him who fought so grandly 
 That living Fame to save.
 
 200 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 Robed with a nation's sorrow, 
 He gently sank to rest ; 
 
 Would that some mighty warning 
 Had wrung his patriot breast ! 
 
 Had raised him from his pillow 
 To whisper with short breath. 
 
 And snatch with stern emotion 
 A prophecy from Death. 
 
 Toll for the spirit parted — 
 Enough doth England owe 
 
 To him whose star of honour 
 Hath set in peace below. 
 
 Old men shall haste* to follow, 
 • And children bom this year 
 Shall boast their cradles sheltered 
 Beneath his warrior bier. 
 
 * It was singular how, in accordance with this idea, several 
 of Wellington's contemporaries followed him almost immediately 
 to the grave. With regard to the next line, who has not heard a 
 mother say of her child, "He or she was born the very year that 
 the great Duke ,of Wellington died ? '"'
 
 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 20I 
 
 Whatever be the sequel 
 
 Of Britain's shadowed doom, 
 Her Wellington rests calmly 
 
 In honour's sacred tomb. 
 
 His Glory's rich escutcheon 
 
 Hath lost no grain of gold ; 
 Before his aged body 
 
 Returns to dust and mould. 
 
 Perchance some bright-helmed Seraph 
 
 His prayer to Heaven bore, 
 Ere England meet disaster, 
 
 That he might be no more. 
 
 Yet, were we armed and ready, 
 
 I would not care for one 
 To see the challenge given, 
 
 The "Tragedy"* begun. 
 
 Then, in each future war-cry. 
 Our hero's name should ring; 
 
 Then, to his tomb should England 
 Fresh wreaths triumphant bring. 
 
 * An allusion to the concluding paragraph of the celebrated Letter 
 to Sir John Burgoyne, written in 1847.
 
 202 THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 Then, seen mid clouds of battle, 
 His bright form should career. 
 
 Like Rome's twin guardian Spirits, 
 The sign of victory near. 
 
 Toll for the great departed ; 
 
 Speak out above the knell, 
 Whate'er his country's future, 
 
 He did his duty well !
 
 ( 203 ) 
 
 PIPECLAY AND BUNTING. 
 
 The thunder round Sebastopol 
 
 At eve had ceased to roar, 
 And died away the drum's last roll 
 
 In echoes heard no more ; 
 The flickering watch-fires faintly gleamed, 
 
 And sadly each pale star 
 Looked on the tents where thousands dreamed 
 
 Of wife and children far — 
 When thus Tim Pipeclay hailed aloud 
 
 Bill Bunting, that brave tar. 
 
 " The crocus and the snowdrop too 
 Bloom o'er our comrades' graves, 
 
 The corn-flower bright, with hyacinth blue, 
 Its mocking banner waves ;
 
 204 PIPECLAY AND BUNTING. 
 
 But Still the heart of each man left 
 
 Stern fate and danger braves ; 
 Must Britain of all sense bereft 
 
 Her champions treat like slaves ?" 
 Quoth Bill, " I wonders how them nobs 
 
 Dare write sich precious shaves."* 
 
 " Ay, bo ! some stick upon the Staff 
 
 The credit mainly grabs ; 
 The very mounseers grin and laugh, 
 
 We're bilked by sich mean swabs ; . 
 Your old land-admiral's monkey's hat 
 
 Has better chance nor we. 
 Were it but cocked and feathered, that 
 
 Is sartain as the sea — " 
 " And yet," cried Tim, "without us, where 
 
 Would these proud humbugs be ?" 
 
 " The Frenchman in his knapsack bears 
 
 The baton of a chief; 
 But you or me the bullet spares, 
 
 To beg for scant relief; 
 
 * A " shave," meaning a false report, is, I believe, an expression 
 which liad its origin in the British camp in tlie Crimea.
 
 PIPECLAY AND BUNTING. 205 
 
 To Starve, or in old age to drag 
 Life's burden o'er the ground 
 From street to street in tattered rag 
 
 With bitterness profound " — 
 
 ." It is a blazing sin," roared Bill, 
 
 And turned his quid around. 
 
 ** Them purser's clerks had best look out 
 
 In Downing Street what rules ; 
 Mayhap too long by lord and lout 
 
 Have Britons been made fools : 
 I knowed an old girl on the ' Hard,'* 
 
 Poll Simpson was her name, 
 May I by Rooshan Fins be tarred, 
 
 But some out here she'd shame — 
 Whate'er these lubbers does or not, 
 
 They never gets no blame. 
 
 " Bill," said the stalwart grenadier, 
 " You know how we have fought ; 
 
 They gild the blunder of a Peer 
 To servile silence bought ; 
 
 * A well-known locality where women and sailors congregate.
 
 2o6 PIPECLAY AND BUNTING. 
 
 The paltry gift which rare rewards 
 
 A soldier's glorious deed 
 Is such as charity affords 
 
 A pauper in his need — 
 'Tis thus old England wounds the breasts 
 
 That for her honour bleed. 
 
 " A common medal, common made, 
 
 Perchance, lest common souls 
 Should be by nobler thoughts betrayed, 
 
 Official coldness doles ; 
 No ' general order ' fires the blood 
 
 Of heroes humbly born ; 
 Our half-crown badge is dragged through mud, 
 
 Ere 'tis by veterans worn ; 
 The common soldier who survives 
 
 Finds still his ' hope forlorn.'" 
 
 " I'm blest, cried Bill, if thus it works. 
 
 If we won't stop the ' mill ; ' 
 We're sarved out worse nor them poor Turks 
 
 Which all the world treats ill "—
 
 PIPECLAY AND BUNTING. 207 
 
 Just then the red Artillery 
 
 Flashed forth round Aktiar's Dome — 
 " This here rooteen," said Bill, " d'ye see ? 
 
 Is worse nor shot nor bomb : 
 But we must take Sebastopol, 
 
 Spite of them sneaks at home." 
 
 They did— Tim fell a Briton true 
 
 Within the great Redan ; 
 His wife can't get his pay long due — 
 
 Bill lives a crippled man ; 
 But four field-marshals England hath, 
 
 By adding fogeys three, 
 And Simpson is a Knight of Bath, 
 
 (Mahommed's it should be) 
 And all goes on the selfsame path — 
 
 Some day the end will see.
 
 ( 208 ) 
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER FROM THE 
 REDAN.* 
 
 I AM dying — time is flying — ' 
 
 Ere these pale lips cease to move, 
 Take this warning to my country, 
 
 With my heart's last pulse of love ; 
 Take this warning to my country, 
 As 'twere spoken from above. 
 
 I am sinking — oh, what thinking 
 Lights my ebbing soul with flame ! 
 
 Tell this story to old England, 
 
 How though few, we decked her name : 
 
 To dear England bear the tidings 
 Of our leaders' senile shame. 
 
 * Written on the occasion of the abortive attack on the Redan, 
 when a handful of recruits just landed was told off for the storming 
 party. Far be it from me to reproach, or sneer at these brave 
 veterans of the English army, to whom commands were given. 
 The fault lay not in them, but the system, which sent Generals, whose 
 laurels had been long won and worn, to the Crimea, when Chelten- 
 ham would have been so much more suitable a destination for them.
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 209 
 
 Life is fading— Death is shading 
 
 With dusk form my sorrowing breast ; 
 
 Speak the truth to a brave nation, 
 To her people leave the rest : 
 
 Tell them how we were devoted, 
 Death to me will then be blest. 
 
 Few in number, round they slumber, 
 Each one in his bloody grave ; 
 
 Speak how each man did his duty. 
 Hopeless each his life to save, 
 
 Still more hopeless that in triumph 
 Britain's flag should o'er him wave. 
 
 Old age nodding, tottering, plodding, 
 Arm in arm with slow Routine, 
 
 Last night signed our sure death-warrant 
 As we knew, so it hath been — 
 
 Nay, at least, let one in dying, 
 
 Speak the truth to England's Queen ! 
 
 By the streaming redly gleaming 
 Of the camp-fires' martial glare.
 
 2IO THE DYING SOLDIER 
 
 Stern and angry looked our faces 
 
 Told off with that feeble care 
 For a second doom of folly — 
 
 Britain ! of the third beware ! 
 
 Though these perished, life they cherished- 
 
 Dear is honour to the brave ; 
 Yet 'tis frenzy more than valour 
 
 Thus to fill a needless grave — 
 Ye who prize our ancient glory, 
 
 Speak out words of sense to save. 
 
 Tell each prater, merit-hater, 
 
 Fool, or traitor to his land. 
 That the time may not be distant 
 
 Britons may refuse to stand. 
 Or advance to sure destruction 
 
 By a dotard's fond command. 
 
 Age hath graces, but its place is 
 Not where daring foremost leads ; 
 
 Or at Councils feebly dozing — 
 
 'Tis through this our countr}' bleeds. 
 
 Can age scale the mountain summits 
 Stair-cased by heroic deeds ?
 
 FROM THE REDAN. 211 
 
 Oh,' what madness mixed with sadness ! 
 
 Risk not thus each willing band — 
 E'en now scanty are our numbers : 
 
 Soon alone may England stand : 
 Give the baton of our country 
 
 To some younger, firmer hand. 
 
 I am dying — time is flying. 
 
 Scarcely can I see around, 
 Where my comrades wan and ghastly 
 
 Heap the stained and broken ground ■. 
 Take my last words to old England — 
 
 Shall their truth too late be found ? 
 
 2 P
 
 ( 212 ) 
 
 THE MARTIAL AIRS OF ENGLAND.* 
 
 The martial airs of England 
 
 Encircle still the earth, 
 And roll back to their cradle 
 
 Around a planet's girth : 
 Her morning drum-beat follows 
 
 The sun in his career, 
 Keeps pace with all the hours — 
 
 Shall then her children fear ? 
 
 No ! by the swords of Crecy, 
 
 Each cloth-yard shaft which flew, 
 
 Our weapons may be altered, 
 Our hearts are still as true ; 
 
 * The first stanza is a paraphrase of a celebrated passage in one 
 of the speeches of the great Daniel Webster, a patriotic statesman, 
 who in his country's new-born pride could yet remember and 
 lionour the ancestral source of that country's greatness. The lines 
 were written in 1851, and afterwards published in 1852 in the 
 "British Army Despatch,'^ and were copied, as also "A Bugle-call " 
 which follows a page or two further, very extensively at the time 
 lioth in British and colonial newspapers.
 
 THE MARTIAL AIRS OF ENGLAND. 213 
 
 Thus, spite of canting traitor, 
 
 Shall Britain's flag unfurled 
 Bid once more, if 'tis needed, 
 
 Defiance to the world !
 
 ( 214 ) 
 
 AN ECHO OF ST. CRISPIN* 
 
 What ! Teach this Hon who was wont to roar, 
 To whine for mild forbearance of his foes, 
 And beg tame repetition of the jest. 
 Whereby his limbs are tied, his teeth are drawn, 
 His strong frame palsied, till, like Pity's dog, 
 He licks the world's wide trencher? — 
 
 O ye gods ! 
 Shall the base rule of greed and avarice 
 Lord it o'er town and workshop, till Disease 
 Foul, spotted, hollow-eyed, short-breathed, begot 
 
 * This imitation of a great master, at once humble and daring in 
 its conception and execution, was written so far back as the year 
 1851. A portion of it published somewhat later — in fact quoted 
 in a prose work by the author in 1854 — so far deceived a hasty and 
 not very discerning reader, that he stated very seriously he had 
 read through the play of Henry V.; but could not find it there!
 
 AN ECHO OF ST. CRISPIN. 215 
 
 Of hunger on the sleepless hag of Toil, 
 In stench of wrong and crime of over-hours, 
 Wither our manhood ? — Must our spirit die, 
 And labour sink upon the darnelled plain ? 
 Let all those yeomen stout, who in her wars 
 Showed England's breeding to our baffled foes, 
 Drink sullen hemlock ere that day arrive — 
 I would not wish for eyes to look on it ! 
 O ! it doth make me sick to see and hear 
 A sallow smiling knave with sickly mien 
 Spout forth the venom of his treacherous soul ; 
 Speak England's enemies fair, and wish them well, 
 Whose fathers fled from ours on Crispin's day. 
 When Harry was our King. Alas ! to think 
 What cunning rogues are these, who constant rant, 
 And fill their greedy pouch, and rant, yet fill 
 Their pouch, and prate of dull economy; 
 Yet fill themselves, the lean kine of the land. 
 Peace, education, self and industry, 
 The mill, the workhouse, great loaf, paltry wage — 
 Such is the wheel which oily cant sends round. 
 Ye Gods ! I cannot tell how such a race 
 Was spawned in England ! came they like the 
 rat ?—
 
 2l6 AN ECHO OF ST. CRISPIN. 
 
 No ! for the rat hath courage — these have none : — 
 Or did some flight of demons chased from hell, 
 For dastard crimes before e'en there unknown, 
 Leap half our mothers in the sun's eclipse, 
 And so beget this tame and impious race, 
 Whose sodden blood hath lost all generous heat. 
 Who have no thought except to grind the slaves. 
 To whom the negroes' toil were Paradise ? — 
 By Heaven, I say, that wretches like to these 
 Should hang in Mammon's court-yard nailed like 
 
 kites, 
 Roped with vile spume and tettered with decay, 
 For a world's warning. Out upon them ! Out ! 
 Who'd yield our colonies, that noble earth 
 Riched with the blood of our great ancestors ; 
 And, for nice profit, on a venture large. 
 Mow the lean grass of Labour's Golgotha ; 
 Forge chains of hate with lying pledge of peace ; 
 Bid in their shadows green our tall ships rot 
 Which were our pride ; our soldiers all forget 
 The fife and mettle of the warlike drum ; 
 Strip blest Religion of her holy name. 
 To plant crab-knowledge amid graves instead — 
 Not so, my friends, we yet have tongues to speak.
 
 AN ECHO OF ST. CRISPIN. 217 
 
 And brains to work for England's safe renown — 
 Ay. and if need be, hands, and limbs to march 
 In phalanx bold to battle for dear Fame, 
 Plucked from the mire, where Mammon, hideous 
 
 God, 
 With brazen feet doth tread her. Then unite, 
 Good honest friends, and be your rallying shout 
 "God for our Queen! for England! and Saint 
 
 George ! "
 
 ( 2l8 ) 
 
 A BUGLE-CALL TO J3RITAIN. 
 
 By all the gods of England 
 
 'Neath the almighty God, 
 The spirits of our fathers, 
 
 Their bones beneath the sod, 
 By patriot saints who watch us 
 
 From summer clouds above. 
 Arm ye who love your country, 
 
 If ye be worthy love ! 
 
 For your liberties are threatened 
 
 Through means of that long peace 
 Which dimmed old Rome's great glory 
 
 And palsied ancient Greece : 
 The sword, in scabbard rusted, 
 
 Will fail 3'our untaught hands ; 
 The foe ye might have laughed at 
 
 Drive back your scattered bands.
 
 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 219 
 
 I do not think so basely 
 
 Of Britain in her need. 
 To deem among her milHons 
 
 No wilhng breasts would bleed 
 For the honour of her women, 
 
 The splendour of her name, 
 To save an hour's disgrace — to guard 
 
 A thousand years of fame. 
 
 Our men are staunch and gallant 
 
 Whom discipline hath formed, 
 As when Wolfe fell triumphant, 
 
 Or Badajos was stormed ; 
 Yet battle makes the soldier. 
 
 Occasion fires the soul — 
 Untrained the noblest racer 
 
 May last reach honour's goal. 
 
 If but our ancient spirit 
 
 Were roused throughout the land, 
 How soon re-taught were England 
 
 To conquer and command :
 
 220 A ^UGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN, 
 
 The mettle still is present, 
 But slender the array, 
 
 As when outspoke King Harry 
 On Crispin's famous day. 
 
 Lo ! there, as if embarking 
 
 On some trim polished deck,* 
 Five hundred men stand calmly 
 
 Upon a parting wreck ; 
 Yet the fierce waves may only 
 
 Bid senseless timbers quake — 
 Yon living hearts of oak not all 
 
 Their bubbling terrors shake : 
 
 '& 
 
 No voice was heard complaining, 
 
 No shriek rose on the air ; 
 Though God, the sky, the shipwreck, 
 
 And sea — alone were there : 
 No succour meets their glances ; 
 
 While firmly they obey 
 Their officers' stern voices 
 
 Heard through the blinding spray. 
 
 * An allusion to the loss of the " Birkenhead."
 
 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 221 
 
 She breaks like some sea-vision, 
 
 While mast and funnel sweep 
 Rank after rank, unbroken, 
 
 To perish in the deep : 
 But saved were child and woman 
 
 Within the fragile boat 
 No soldier's grasp would peril 
 
 To keep himself afloat : 
 
 Is there a Roman story 
 
 Which tells of nobler deed ? 
 'Twas not in strife, when passion 
 
 Spurs on the crested steed — 
 When, 'mid conflicting feelings, 
 
 Hope fires each manly breast 
 To be the heir of glory. 
 
 Or seek a hero's rest. 
 
 There still is hope for England 
 When deed like this is found : 
 
 There's glory in Old England 
 When hearts like these abound ;
 
 222 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 
 
 Rome hath her pillared ruins, 
 Thermopylae her stone — 
 
 Of this (the only boon I crave) 
 Let brave men speak alone. 
 
 Let not their names who perished 
 
 Be mouthed with canting whine 
 By slaves who would disarm us, 
 
 Dull bastards of decline ; 
 Whose trading souls sell honour 
 
 E'en at the lowest cost — 
 Would tenfold such had perished 
 
 For these whom we have lost ! 
 
 'Twere better for the nation ; 
 
 Lest, lulled on danger's brink, 
 Her mighty frame should sever, 
 
 Her flag of glory sink : 
 I often ask why any 
 
 Should thus degenerate be — 
 Still chafes around our island 
 
 The same loud stormv sea.
 
 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 223 
 
 It is an hour of peril, 
 
 A season of decay ; 
 Abroad the despot mocks us, 
 
 Dark priests at home betray : 
 While hireling scribes are busy 
 
 To sell opinion high, 
 Our folly unawakened 
 
 Approves each sordid lie. 
 
 Awake ! and arm your thousands- 
 Arouse ye from your sleep ! 
 
 From tombs of buried empires 
 A voice breathes o'er the deep : 
 
 It needs no fiery squadrons 
 To battle in the sky. 
 
 To tell that mighty England's test — 
 Her hour of proof — is nigh. 
 
 Trafalgar's winds are wailing 
 Round many a seaman's grave 
 
 O'er Waterloo's dim landscape 
 Thick-flocking Shadows rave :
 
 224 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 
 
 They mourn o'er unarmed England, 
 And curse the dastard's name 
 
 Whose birth not death Britannia 
 Weeps o'er in silent shame. 
 
 Arm ye, who love your country ! 
 
 It is not yet too late ; 
 On with your gallant harness, 
 
 Then fling your glove to Fate : 
 I care not for a million. 
 
 Were Britain but prepared, 
 Her sickly traitors banished, 
 
 Her dangers better shared. 
 
 Ours is a glorious birthright — 
 
 Our children guard it well, 
 Where o'er the western billow 
 
 Sweet Freedom's martyrs fell ; 
 That cruel strife forgiven, 
 
 We'll battle side by side. 
 To teach dark Rome forbearance 
 
 And curb the despot's pride :
 
 A BUGLE-CALL TO BRITAIN. 225 
 
 Our armies on their banners 
 
 Shall, with their deeds of fame, 
 Inscribe that mighty watchword. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon name : 
 Our proud fleets linked together, 
 
 In union firm and true, 
 With their twin flags of triumph 
 
 Shall sweep the waters blue. 
 
 April, 1852.
 
 ( 226 ) 
 
 OUR VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 We are not armed to carry war 
 
 To near or distant land, 
 To steep the smiling glebe with gore 
 
 Or prowl with hostile band, 
 But we are trained, with trust above. 
 
 To guard our native coast, 
 Our Queen, our fame, the home we love, 
 
 And those we love the most. 
 
 For this the noble and the brave 
 
 Of gentle birth and name, 
 Ay, and the manhood nature gave. 
 
 Stand proudly armed the same ; 
 The Courtier, with the peasant blunt, 
 
 Who shrinks not 'neath his stare. 
 But looks as boldly to the front, 
 
 And working-men are there.
 
 OUR VOLUNTEERS. 227 
 
 It is a glorious, gallant band, 
 
 A phalanx grand and rare, 
 That heart-linked thus doth firmly stand, 
 
 Let meet it they who dare ; • 
 The chivalry of labour hand- 
 
 In-hand with knightly crew — 
 What living belt boasts other land 
 
 As potent, and as true ? 
 
 Easter Monday, 1862. 
 
 Q 2
 
 ( 228 ) 
 
 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 
 
 Nothing altogether dieth, 
 
 Though its shape may change on earth, 
 From the cloud that shadowy flieth 
 
 To the insect's fluttering birth ; 
 Still 'tis matter ever breeding 
 
 Some fresh form at Nature's will, 
 And the human tide receding 
 
 Beats upon a new shore still. 
 
 Nought from space can ever perish, 
 
 Though the brightest things decay, 
 And the hearts we most do cherish 
 
 Change the soonest into clay : 
 Life and Death are ever playing, 
 
 Linked in union strange and wild ; 
 Death, the skeleton, goes Maying — 
 
 To a grave steals Life, the child.
 
 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 229 
 
 'Mid dread thoughts that silent quiver 
 
 Falling on my soul by night, 
 Like the snow on some broad river 
 
 Dim-lit by its own pale light, 
 Seaward flowing to the ocean 
 
 Whose wan waves its limit bound, 
 O'er my spirit's sad emotion 
 
 Came a wondrous dream of sound. 
 
 Canst thou bind the evening glory 
 
 Of the sky with golden gleams, 
 Build bright story over story 
 
 Knit with sunset's parting beams ? 
 Canst thou count the drops in fountains, 
 
 Ripples of the moon-lit sea, 
 Leaves of forests, crags of mountains. 
 
 Heaven's stray stars ? — then follow me ! 
 
 No more round the sun revolving, 
 But in frenzy spun and torn, 
 
 'Mid the wreck of worlds dissolving, 
 Seemed the spectral pale Earth borne ;
 
 230 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 
 
 Whilst I thought all creatures waited 
 For the speech of One above ; 
 
 Each soul trembling, hoping — fated 
 For a ''fe of wrath or love. 
 
 Flew I o'er their sickening faces 
 
 Upturned to those portals bright ; 
 Countless seed of myriad races 
 
 Gazing blindly in the light ; 
 As I passed, a Voice cried near me 
 
 That my soul's foundations stirred- 
 " Gather, Angels good, who fear Me 
 
 Every erring human word." 
 
 Through the earth's brief ages buried, 
 
 Backward streamed each breathed sound. 
 To the verge of chaos hurried 
 
 From its black abyss profound ; 
 Then, upon the timeless morrow 
 
 Of a fiery eve of doom. 
 Each world-spoken vv'ord of sorrow. 
 
 Murmuring, broke its icy tomb.
 
 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 23 1 
 
 Carrie the whisper and the slander, 
 
 Came the lover's plighted vow, 
 Treacherous wile and seeming candour 
 
 Uttered with fair, faithless brow ; 
 Came the oath, retraction, folly, 
 
 Light, forgotten as the breeze 
 That with dying melancholy 
 
 Swung life's cradle 'mid the trees. 
 
 Came each lie that quivered trembling 
 
 On the cracked and perjured lip, 
 Or remorseless sat dissembling 
 
 Wasp-like Beauty's dews to sip ; 
 Each warm troth by red mouth plighted, 
 
 Each reply that love undid, 
 Each cold word which some heart blighted, 
 
 Or the soul's emotion hid. 
 
 Come the " patriot's " mock oration, 
 Oaths of perjured tyrants faint, 
 
 Dastard, vile equivocation, 
 Shuffle of pretended saint;
 
 232 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 
 
 Came the words of priests beguiling, 
 God's false messengers on earth, 
 
 Worse than blasphemy reviling, 
 Worse than unbeliever's mirth. 
 
 Like the World's leaves autumn-buried. 
 
 Age on age from perished trees, 
 Onward, onward, swept they hurried. 
 
 Urged on by no living breeze ; 
 Crowding, trooping, flocking, shivering, 
 
 Phantoms of each grain that ran 
 Through Time's Hour-glass shaken, quivering ; 
 
 Since in sin the Earth began — 
 
 Time's frail glass, whose dust is measured 
 
 From Eternity's vast shore ; 
 Every life's small birthright treasured, , 
 
 Till its faint sands run no more ; 
 Till Death's hand each heap doth level, 
 
 And its trace is swept away, 
 As when Sprites fantastic revel 
 
 Far o'er desert plains away ;
 
 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 233 
 
 And the mirage sadly ceases, 
 
 Ere the burning sun goes down ; 
 Air-built towers fall in pieces, 
 
 Column, temple, grove and town ; 
 Waterfalls' light misty graces 
 
 Smoke-like wreathed o'er forests green — 
 All dissolve and leave no traces ; 
 
 No more of the traveller seen. 
 
 As those voices, long forgotten. 
 
 Passed me in that strange review, 
 Each sad soul in sin begotten 
 
 Its own frenzied utterance knew : 
 Each a burning accusation 
 
 Felt in every spoken sound, 
 As 'twere some dark blood-libation 
 
 Rising upward from the ground. 
 
 Like grim Shades, with pointed finger 
 Rising awful from the earth, 
 
 Some awhile did seem to linger. 
 Some to vanish in their birth ;
 
 234 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 
 
 Words of fiery haste and anger 
 Fled ere scarcely they were heard J 
 
 Died away in sullen languor 
 Sounds by idle folly stirred. 
 
 While Remembrance stood by sadly, 
 
 Waving with her mystic wand, 
 Each pale shivering soul had gladly 
 
 Sealed with Doom a lasting bond, 
 To escape that bitter anguish, 
 
 Vain remorse and fierce regret ; 
 Better this than endless languish — 
 
 Could, oh, could they but forget ! 
 
 Not one blasphemy e'er uttered 
 
 But comes winged with terror back ; 
 
 Not one base wish darkly muttered 
 Finds not to some heart its track ; 
 
 Oh, 'tis strange to mark how altered 
 Is Earth's vain opinion there — 
 
 In the world Truth oftenest faltered ; 
 
 Now Hypocrisy stands bare. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 * * * * i!
 
 THE ETERNITY OF SOUND. 235 
 
 In no written page recorded 
 
 All in human life e'er said, 
 False or cruel, base or sordid, 
 
 Thus accusing meets the Dead ; 
 Each word witness, each a token 
 
 Called forth by that Power Divine— 
 'Mid oath, vow, and promise broken, 
 
 False one ! then, then think of thine !
 
 ( 236 ) 
 
 L'AMOUR OUI PASSE ET L'ESPOIR 
 QUI VIENT. 
 
 I LOVED her, I wooed her, I won her at last, 
 
 And each soft spell of fondness around me she 
 
 cast. 
 As together we stood 'neath the stars, and she 
 
 swore 
 That like us none had lived in the wide world 
 
 before ; 
 Whilst I drank her wild whispers deep down in my 
 
 soul, 
 With their music the flashing waves sparkle and 
 
 roll ; 
 And she bids me look fartow'rdsthe bright sapphire 
 
 West 
 For a home in some star where our hearts might 
 
 find rest ;
 
 L AMOUR QUI PASSE ET L ESPOIR QUI VIENT. 237 
 
 For she said she might lose me in this world of 
 
 pain, 
 And her breath came in sobs, as she questioned 
 
 again — 
 If my heart were as true as her heart that was 
 
 mine'^ 
 Might the golden chords snap that our bosoms 
 
 entwine ? — 
 Would I ever be colder- -another love weave ? — 
 And forgetting my vows bid her soul fainting 
 
 grieve ? — 
 And she swore that she lived in my smile, look or 
 
 nod, 
 And with blasphemy called me her " Angel " and 
 
 " god :" 
 How little I thought that soft blasphemy flew, 
 Winged with falsehood on high, through the skies' 
 
 deepening blue. 
 
 II. 
 
 And she lay in my arms, then a dark whisper 
 
 stole. 
 Like the hiss of a snake, o'er my shuddering 
 
 soul ;
 
 23^ l'amour qui passe 
 
 And it said first in dreams, then in waking — 
 
 "Arise ! 
 She is heartless and loves thee not, look in her 
 
 eyes ! " 
 And I looked in her eyes, and I felt of a truth 
 That an old age had crept o'er our love in its 
 
 youth ; 
 And her step grew more haught, and her eye shone 
 
 more cold, 
 And she pledged not my soul with her glance as of 
 
 old: 
 But when others came round her and praised her 
 
 she wore 
 A proud look I ne'er saw her armed with before : 
 Whilst I watched her in silence my heart I could 
 
 hear. 
 As it throbbed in my breast, when her step came 
 
 not near — 
 When her step came not near me, as seated aloof 
 I sat down robed in grief 'neath the dusk of my 
 
 roof; 
 And she sang not for me, whilst each melody 
 
 seemed 
 A mere echo of joy I had once fondly dreamed :
 
 ET l'ESPOIR qui VIENT. 239 
 
 And her light step that tripped like a fawn in my 
 
 hall 
 Grew heavy and bounded no more to my call. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then J sudden gave birth to a sharp piercing cry 
 And I thought, if another she loved, I would die; 
 Could I hope for oblivion, see not her bliss, 
 Nor my spirit be torn by the sound of a kiss ; 
 But a chill from the threshold of Death met my 
 
 heart. 
 And the midnight beyond made my soul backward 
 
 start ; 
 Then I fancied my punishment might be to cling 
 To the world I abhorred like an air-prisoned 
 
 thing; 
 As the vSpectre of Crime hovers still near the spot 
 Where the dull clay that held it doth fester and 
 
 rot ; 
 In the shadows that seem round yon Yew-tree 
 
 alive, 
 Where the dwarf blistered hemlock refuses to 
 
 thrive ;
 
 240 i-'amour qui passe 
 
 In the moonlight that quickens o'er vault and green 
 
 mound, 
 When a bat's flight awakens the ghost of dead 
 
 sound ; 
 And the white tombs dance gleaming around, as 
 
 the snow 
 From the pale phantom iceberg slips noiseless 
 
 below, 
 When the thawing seas tinkle and lazily creep. 
 And the pale soul of Death seems to stir from its 
 
 sleep — 
 Thus I thought that my spirit by passion betrayed 
 Like a miser's might haunt where my treasure was 
 
 laid ; 
 When the tresses of Twilight should mix with her 
 
 hair, 
 If a lover knelt to her that I might be there ; 
 With the chill Morn unfasten the windows of 
 
 Gloom, 
 And on sunbeams transfixed be alive in her room — 
 So I turned on my Griefs, as a lion at bay 
 Rends the wolves that would make him when 
 
 wounded their prey.
 
 ET L ESPOIR QUI VIENT. 24I 
 
 IV. . 
 
 It is Night. O'er my dwelling there shines down 
 
 a star, 
 Like a ray on a tomb from a bright lamp afar : 
 'Tis the same which impearled once her tears 'neath 
 
 yon sky, 
 As she whispered her faint soul deserted would die. 
 It is o'er ! She is gone with a treacherous wile, 
 And the false world comes round her to proffer its 
 
 smile : 
 There's the rapture of praise from a base lying 
 
 tongue, 
 As the smooth-souled dissembler hangs rapt o'er her 
 
 song; 
 'Twas the breath of my soul, now 'tis shed all 
 
 around, 
 As the ape tears and scatters a rose on the ground : 
 And Society's hag, with her smile o'er a sneer, 
 Like the paint on a Death's-head, trips jauntily 
 
 near ; 
 And the fool and the tempter, with stale selfish 
 
 lies. 
 Draw the circle around her where Innocence dies : 
 
 R
 
 242 l'amour qui passe 
 
 Tis the charmed ring of Fashion, whose demon is 
 
 Pride ; 
 And the leering Sin steps forth, and claims her as 
 
 bride : 
 As she pledges her soul. Lo ! one sorrowful face 
 'Mid the throng briefly seen in her heart leaves no 
 
 trace. 
 
 V. 
 
 Round my cottage I wander ere day hath begun, 
 Till its casements, like blind eyes, look blank in the 
 
 sun ; 
 Like a stranger at evening I come to my gate, 
 And at home sit down hopelessly staring at 
 
 fate : 
 All the chattels are round me she glided among, 
 And the sad hours are told by the same warning 
 
 tongue, 
 That my ears met before from the time-piece of 
 
 gold. 
 When in bliss flew the days past, and months fleetly 
 
 rolled :
 
 ET L ESPOIR QUI VIENT. 243 
 
 It was here that I brought her. My heart then I set, 
 
 To beat time with her own, as our warm bosoms 
 met ; 
 
 For a hfe, for an age, which should ghde softly by 
 
 Like a river of joy 'neath a calm Summer sky : 
 
 In her eyes I sought deeply full oft to unweave 
 
 All the bright mystic depths where thoughts sparkle 
 
 or grieve ; 
 From a neighbouring home the same music is 
 
 heard, 
 And my soul to fresh anguish has wantonly 
 
 stirred : 
 O'er yon mirror her beauty hath flashed o'er and 
 
 o'er, 
 Like that mirror my dim eyes are gladdened no 
 
 more : 
 Would her image as lightly could flee from my 
 
 soul 1 
 Would the stream of Time ne'er might again back- 
 ward roll. 
 To the sad voice of Memory stretched on its 
 
 brink 
 
 Crowned with pale willow-leaves that the cold 
 
 waters drink ! 
 
 R 2
 
 244 L AMOUR QUI PASSE 
 
 Would her vine-trellised hair had ne'er perfumed 
 
 my face ! 
 Would this breast had not misered each soft cruel 
 
 grace ! 
 Would I ne'er had awakened to bliss that is dead ! 
 Would the moments had ne'er come,, whose white 
 
 wings are fled ! 
 It is Evening and Autumn. The winds whistle 
 
 round, 
 And the pale ghosts of Summer flit fast to the 
 
 ground ; 
 Down the pathway they rustle, then volleying fall 
 On the dark window, shaken from Night's dripping 
 
 pall. 
 Like a robber I steal to the side of my bed, 
 To steal peace from repose ; but find Sleep lying 
 
 dead ; 
 And lie down by the Sleep that is murdered, in 
 
 vain 
 To compose in its semblance my brow knit with 
 
 pain : 
 See, the billows of passion tumultuous roll 
 And in scorn lift and dash down the wreck of my 
 
 soul.
 
 ET L ESPOIR QUI VIENT. 245 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is past, like a dream that may ne'er come 
 
 again; 
 I have wept for my folly, and smiled back on 
 
 pain : 
 Grief hath since followed Grief, Sorrow kibed 
 
 Sorrow's heel. 
 Till the seared heart exhausted refuses to feel : 
 But from Joy laid in dust springs the thirst for a 
 
 name, 
 And the coffin of Love is the cradle of Fame. 
 For the boy-love must die on the altar of Man, 
 Ere our thoughts may in freedom the universe 
 
 span : 
 Ere the stately ship hold on her course 'neath the 
 
 sun. 
 Ere the strong bow is bent, and the swift race is 
 
 run : — 
 Tear Love's soft silken curtain away from the soul, 
 That would wrestle with Evil or reach Wisdom's 
 
 goal, 
 But let it in rent of the storm-cloud appear. 
 And with sorrow be tempered its bright angel 
 
 spear ;
 
 246 l'amour qui passe et l'espoir qui vient. 
 
 For the World hath no pleasure not wedded to 
 
 Death, 
 And our warmest hopes pass like a frail summer 
 
 breath. 
 'Tis the struggle which makes us. The Hope that 
 
 is dead 
 Leaves the ash whence a Phoenix may burst forth 
 
 instead. 
 O'er a tomb on this Earth must Ambition recline, 
 Ere it glance back to Heaven with glories divine, 
 As a white marble effigy shines through the Night 
 When the stars kiss its forehead with pale beams of 
 
 light. 
 'Tis the ship-wrecked Soul winneth the Isle of 
 
 Content, 
 Where it drifts on the lone spar by Misery lent ; 
 And the Spirit that suffers most anguish in youth 
 Hath but plucked a few thorns from the pathway 
 
 of Truth.
 
 ( 247 ) 
 
 NOW, FAREWELL. 
 
 In the hour when Pleasure round thee 
 
 Gaily flits with circling cup, 
 Ere the ghost of Sin hath found thee 
 
 And thy soul hath wakened up ; 
 While the flatterer still approaches 
 
 Crawling o'er thy beauty's fame, 
 Hear, oh ! hear not my reproaches, 
 
 Hide, oh ! hide thy lingering shame : 
 
 Now, Farewell. 
 
 When joy lights the flashing glances 
 
 Shot from 'neath thy brow of pride, 
 And thy dark eye revels, dances, 
 
 To the whisper at thy side — 
 Lean back ; let thy jewelled finger 
 
 Point in scorn to this wronged heart, 
 While thy days of beauty linger 
 
 Ere youth, health, and peace depart : 
 
 Now, Farewell
 
 248 NOW, FAREWELL. 
 
 Soon will cold deserted anguish 
 
 Fling its shade across thy brow, 
 And the proud thoughts fade and languish 
 
 'Neath thy swelling bosom now ; 
 See, the dove no more returneth, 
 
 But the raven haunts thy breast, 
 And thy soul within thee burneth ; 
 
 Vain, oh ! vain thy prayer for rest : 
 
 Noio, Farewell. 
 
 When life's false illusions fly thee, 
 
 And thy cradle meets thy grave, 
 At that hour I will be nigh thee. 
 
 In one curse around thee rave ; 
 See thy bleeding bosom riven. 
 
 Ask if God's great lightnings live — 
 No ! I'd stoop down, e'en from Heaven, 
 
 Then, to raise thee and forgive : 
 
 Now, Farewell. 
 
 Thou more vows hast idly broken 
 
 Than the soul of Sappho sung ; 
 All that lovers e'er have spoken 
 
 Fell in passion from thy tongue :
 
 NOW, FAREWELL. 249 
 
 'Twas thy wild caresses won me 
 
 Captive to thy froward will, 
 And those eyes that coldly shun me 
 
 Drank in mine of love their fill : 
 
 Now, Farewell. 
 
 With thy love-encircling tresses — 
 
 Eyes that once played Cressid's part — 
 Didst thou, who alone had'st access, 
 
 Bid the traitor reach my heart ; 
 To my couch and chamber guiding 
 
 All the fell assassin band — 
 " Here he sleeps, here, all confiding — 
 
 Strike ! where points my ruthless hand." 
 
 Now, Fareiuell. 
 
 God is just, and Time quick passes, 
 
 E'en now whilst I faintly sing. 
 In the Future's magic glasses 
 
 Shapes of Night their shadows fling : 
 Sternly Retribution hurries 
 
 Veiled in gloom the fateful day ; 
 Vainly crime Repentance buries — 
 
 I, for thee, will kneel and pray — 
 
 Now, Farewell.
 
 ( 250 ) 
 
 LEONI LD A 
 
 More earthly than the earth she is. 
 
 And yet so passing fair ; 
 Around her head of classic grace 
 
 Dark streams her billowy hair : 
 
 Her eyes flash Sibyl's fire — her hand 
 Is jewelled with less flame : 
 
 Her nostril wide dilates — 'tis as 
 A steed's ye may not tame : 
 
 And oftentimes there dwells the soul 
 Of pensive Memory there, 
 
 Within those eyes of thrilling light, 
 Beneath yon cloud of hair. 
 
 So calm she looks and noble, as 
 
 A statue in a stream 
 Reflected by the cold Moon's light 
 
 Might softly chastened seem —
 
 LEONILDA. 251 
 
 The Moon, who to mock Angel turns 
 
 Th' enamelled harlot vile ; 
 Who mellows with seraphic hue 
 
 The poisoner's livid smile — 
 
 The Moon, that loves to kiss Decay 
 
 So tenderly to sleep ; 
 Thus lamp-light tricks hot youth, whom Morn 
 
 Teaches in shame to weep — 
 
 For 'neath the glories of that brow 
 
 A world of meanness lies, 
 And 'neath that bosom's drapery 
 
 A shrivelled heart there plies ; 
 
 And in those orbs a glitter lurks 
 
 Of Satan's guile and pride ; 
 Snakes, in her queen-like coronal 
 
 Of Stephanotis, hide. 
 
 She sings ! — her voice delicious woe 
 
 Doth breathe around the heart ; 
 Mine eyes with tender love grow dim — 
 
 Ah me ! I wake and start ;
 
 252 LEONILDA. 
 
 I think of dreadful tales of old, 
 
 Of Circe and the Ring, 
 On which the statue's finger closed, 
 
 Whereof old ballads sing ; 
 
 The loathely ladye who by side 
 
 Of bridegroom lay all night, 
 Until the air doth choke me and 
 
 I fling myself upright ; 
 
 And stretch mine arms and breathe, as if 
 
 I would existence try ; 
 Asking — " Is life a hideous dream, 
 
 And all around a lie ? " —
 
 ( 253 ) 
 
 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 L 
 
 " Ah ! Leave me not." 
 
 I CANNOT, may not, love but Thee, 
 Then smile on this sad heart : 
 Say not those piercing words to me 
 " We must for ever part ! " 
 Fling back thy veil of shadowy hair ; 
 Give me a look to stay despair 1 
 
 By all that thrills my memory 
 
 In dreaming o'er the past, 
 
 Each passion-flower of ecstasy 
 
 That shed its leaves so fast, 
 
 By wan Hope's last bright, hectic spot, 
 
 Each wild embrace — ah ! leave me not !
 
 254 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Love died within my stricken Soul." 
 
 Love died within my stricken soul — 
 An old man led me from the tomb ; 
 Then pointing to the stars which roll 
 Eternal, glittering through the gloom, 
 He ranged their mystic Alphabet 
 To bid my earth-fed soul forget, 
 And told me that the end was there 
 Of Pain and Sorrow, Joy and Fear. 
 
 His name was Wisdom ! — as I caught 
 The honeyed accents of his tongue, 
 How nobly was the lesson taught, 
 My heart already seemed less wrung — 
 A fleeting Memory came by 
 Tossing her thin hands with faint cry — 
 The blinding tears rushed o'er my sight — 
 He fled — I wept, alone, in night.
 
 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 255 
 III. 
 
 Methought in Slumber. 
 
 Methought in slumber thou didst o'er me stoop, 
 With eyes hke twin soft stars of hquid light, 
 
 Till on my forehead fell from pearly loop 
 
 Thy tresses perfumed as the Eastern Night : 
 
 Thy lips to mine like humid rose-leaves clung, 
 But, all too soon, stole back their fluttering kiss. 
 
 Awhile, in turn, I raptured o'er thee hung, 
 Then sank down swooning in the lap of bliss. 
 
 IV. 
 The Lips which spake. 
 
 The lips which spake those silvery sounds 
 
 I ne'er again may see ; 
 But oft like dreams of childish love 
 
 They'll haunt my memory : 
 Looks too there were as one had strayed 
 
 Bright crystal gates within, 
 Where Spirits dwell, and met their eyes 
 
 Without reproof or sin.
 
 256 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 
 
 And she I loved was mid them all 
 
 But comes in light no more ; 
 Save when I dream by Time's dark stream 
 
 Her white robe skirts the shore : 
 I wake, and fling my aching arms 
 
 In sudden grief on high ; 
 To me, O World ! thou might'st have been 
 
 A Heaven beneath the sky. 
 
 V. 
 Bleed in the Dark. 
 
 Bleed in the dark, my Soul, nor let 
 
 The world deride thy woes ; 
 If thou canst not thyself forget, 
 
 Let gloom around thee close ; 
 Nor yield the sacred wounds of Grief 
 To careless doubt, or cold belief. 
 
 Mournful the fate of him, whom song 
 
 May cheer, alas ! no more, 
 Though swan-like he but sail along 
 
 To dark Oblivion's shore — 
 Sound then, my harp ! the Indian Brave 
 Chants, tortured, Death's triumphant stave.
 
 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 257 
 
 VI . 
 
 Ah ! Little dreamt I on the Day. 
 Ah ! little dreamt I on the day 
 
 I drew thee to soft Paphian bowers, 
 How soon Time's stream would bear away 
 
 Love's scattered torch and withered flowers ; 
 And leave me, ere my locks grew white, 
 To weep for Morn, yet sigh for Night. 
 
 There is a scar beneath my hair ; 
 
 There is a sorrow at my heart : 
 The one in old age I shall bear ; 
 
 The other may not from me part — 
 But I, in pride, will clasp my fate. 
 Meet scorn with scorn, and hate with hate. 
 
 VI L 
 There is unuttered Poetry in Life. 
 There is unuttered Poetrj' in life, 
 
 And quiet griefs to faintest music set ; 
 Deep sighs unheard amid the din of strife, 
 
 And lowly cheeks with lonely weeping wet : 
 E'en the loud wretch who plays the worldliest part 
 Oft still the whispers of a suffering heart 
 
 s
 
 258 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 
 
 Full oft Love lingers round his shattered throne ; — 
 Thus the poor bird whose nest is stolen away, 
 
 With wings aweary, songless and alone, 
 Mourns the last sun-beam of departed day. 
 
 Till throb at length, 'mid thorns and gloom, to rest 
 
 The small numb sorrows of its ruffled breast. 
 
 The arrow strikes the eagle in mid air. 
 
 The fisher's barb in deep sea finds its prey — 
 
 What art of man shall plumb another's care, - 
 Or pierce a soul with shafts of garish day ? 
 
 Something lies hidden still — a finer woe, 
 
 An inner anguish, lurk unseen below. 
 
 VIII. 
 Would I might fall asleep. 
 
 Would I might fall asleep again, and dream ! 
 
 For Joy to me hath been so brief a thing ; 
 To index Sorrow it doth only seem, 
 
 Or give advancing Time a fleeter wing — 
 Would I might fall asleep again, and dream ! 
 
 * The idea of this verse is borrowed from a Chinese illustration.
 
 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 259 
 
 Touch-Stone of Grief, the measure frail of Woe ; 
 
 Its birth and funeral on the self-same day ; 
 A child that may to manhood never grow ; 
 
 A false gem stolen from a god of clay — 
 Joy blesses none with pure and lasting ray ; 
 
 Except in dreams ; and I would dream again, 
 Then Hope perchance might wake me up from 
 sleep ; 
 
 Though Hope be false I care not;— Truth is pain — 
 She only bids us Falsehood know, and weep 
 
 Our little brackish flood of human rain. 
 
 Alas ! that it is so. Alas ! that dreams, 
 Sans motive, end, beginning, truthfulness, 
 
 Should so exceed in ecstasy the gleams 
 We have of midday gladness, that 'tis less 
 
 To be the lord of life, than slave of dreams. 
 
 IX. 
 Pale Memory is Mine. 
 
 Pale Memory is mine — I wedded her, 
 When Hope lay weltering like a drowned child, 
 
 Whom the rude surges reach to lift and stir, 
 Cradled in sea-weed, to the storm-dirge wild : 
 
 s 2
 
 26o CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 
 
 Into each other's eyes we constant look, 
 And whisper smiHng, of the world around 
 
 Unconscious. Like a deep and willowy brook, 
 Time rushes past, and lulls us with soft sound. 
 
 I love wan Memory — She is my choice : 
 
 Fortune hath nought to leave her, but she 
 brings 
 A dower of fairest pearls, and gentle voice 
 
 Whose music sweet enchantment round me 
 flings. 
 
 She is my sad Ophelia ; and doth glide 
 
 Away from me full oft upon Time's stream, 
 
 Against the current of his magic tide, 
 
 Singing faint snatches of an orphan dream ; 
 
 But aye returns with treasures in her lap, 
 A tress of hair, a scented glove, or leaf; 
 
 And lays her cheek to mine — This is our hap, 
 We have two quiet children, Joy and Grief.
 
 CYPRESS LEAVES AND PASSION FLOWERS. 261 
 
 X. 
 
 For evermore. 
 
 I DREAMT I by a river stood 
 
 And saw an Angel pure and good, 
 
 And would have dwelt for evermore 
 
 In the sweet magic of her eyes ; 
 But oh, as on that treacherous shore, 
 
 I sought to clasp her for my prize, 
 The broad and rapid current bore 
 Her far away, for evermore, 
 
 To bloom of happier skies. 
 
 Still that bright Form seems ever near; 
 Though nought is left save memory dear 
 Of her who should for evermore 
 
 Have lulled my aching soul to rest ; 
 Whose living portrait I ne'er wore 
 
 Inshrined in rapture on my breast, 
 Lord of her liquid eyes' deep store — 
 But only dream of evermore. 
 
 My grieving Fancy's guest.
 
 262 cypress leaves and passion flowers. 
 
 Fight on, Brave Heart. 
 Fight onwards to the breach, brave heart ! 
 
 Where victory o'er Life is won ; 
 To mourn is but the coward's part ; 
 
 Thou hast the warrior's now begun — 
 Pour out thy last, best, ruddiest drop, 
 But, till thy wild pulsation stop, 
 
 Fight on ! brave heart, fight on ! 
 
 The knight of old sought Christ's dear grave, 
 When joy from earthly home had gone ; 
 
 For this, he dared the wintry wave, 
 
 For this, roamed burning waste alone — 
 
 Make thou a wiser pilgrimage — 
 
 To thine own grave, in youth or age, 
 Fight on, brave heart, fight on!
 
 ( 263 ) 
 
 THE SLEEP OF BARBAROSSA. 
 
 (From the German of Ruckert.) 
 
 King Frederick Barbarossa ! 
 
 That Kaiser old and grim, 
 Deep in the vaulted castle 
 
 Enchantment holdeth him. 
 
 He died not as men perish, 
 A wizard life doth keep ; 
 
 There, hidden in the castle, 
 He sits enrobed in sleep. 
 
 He has down with him taken 
 The splendour of his sway. 
 
 Some time he will return with it 
 On the appointed day.
 
 264 THE SLEEP OF BARBAROSSA. 
 
 The stool whereon he sitteth 
 
 In ivory shines fair ; 
 Of marble is the table 
 
 O'er which he bendeth there. 
 
 His beard it is not flaxen, 
 But flame in spiral glow; 
 
 It pierces through the table, 
 O'er which his head bends low. 
 
 In dreaming nods he often, 
 Half opes his dim closed eye ; 
 
 Awhile waits, and then beckons 
 A page that standeth by. 
 
 " Thou dwarf, rise up," he speaketh, 
 
 " Before the castle go ; 
 There look if the black ravens* 
 
 Still flutter to and fro ; 
 
 * It is to be presumed that he means the priesthood.
 
 THE SLEEP OF BARBAROSSA. 265 
 
 ■" And if those ebon ravens 
 
 Still flutter as of eld, 
 I must yet by enchantment 
 
 A hundred years be held."
 
 ( 266 ) 
 
 THE SEA-KING. 
 
 (From the Swedish of E. jf. Geyer.j 
 
 I WAS fifteen years old, when my heart beat too 
 strong, 
 In thy hut, gentle mother, to dwell ; 
 To feed goats seemed weary — the days were so 
 long; 
 O'er my spirit strange shadows there fell — 
 How I dreamt 1 how I thought ! but my thoughts 
 
 were not glad, 
 As of yore ; for my bosom grew heavy and sad, 
 
 In the Forest ! 
 
 I bounded in frenzy the hill-top to gain, 
 Far to gaze on the fierce rolling tide, 
 
 Whose surges sang sweeter than ever the rain 
 Rippled trickling through pine-forest wide;
 
 THE SEA-KING. 267 
 
 Ah ! they come, ah ! they come, from the far 
 
 shore, each wave 
 
 Unfettered and free — how they leap, how they 
 
 rave, 
 
 On the Ocean ! 
 
 One morning a bark from the shore I espied, 
 
 Like a dart she sped into the bay ; 
 Then swelled high my bosom, it knew then the 
 bride 
 Long panted for day after day ; 
 I rushed from my goats, and from thee, mother 
 
 mild, 
 And the Corsair he took me to live on the wild 
 
 Bounding Ocean ! 
 
 And into the sails rushed the Wind with his 
 might ; 
 We flew o'er the billows' ridged fleece : 
 The sun-dazzled surge rose — then fell in deep 
 night ; 
 In my bosom alone there was peace : 
 My sire's rusty sword quivered tight in my hand 
 And o'er it I swore I would win fame and land — 
 
 On the Ocean !
 
 268 THE SEA-KING, 
 
 Sixteen summers were mine, when the Corsair I 
 slew ; 
 He had scoffed at the down on my cheek: 
 A Sea-King I trod on the waves' boundless 
 blue — 
 In the death-game none now found me 
 weak ! 
 Then I took forts and castles on shore with my 
 
 band, 
 And with the brave fellows drew lots for the 
 land — 
 
 Upon Ocean ! 
 
 From deep horns the strong mead we merrily 
 quaffed, 
 Calm in might, as our storm-couch was laid ; 
 We could swoop, as we pleased, from the waves 
 where we laughed — 
 In Walland I took me a maid ; 
 Her eyes wept three days, on the fourth filled with 
 
 light, 
 And thus fell our nuptials with sportive delight. 
 
 On the Ocean !
 
 THE SEA-KING. 269 
 
 And once I was lord both of castles and land, 
 
 And under a roof drank as deep ; 
 For my people and kingdom I took thought and 
 planned, 
 
 While walls, locks and bolts held my sleep ; 
 For the space of a winter which ne'er seemed to end. 
 Though king there, yet earth it was narrow and 
 
 penned 
 
 To the Ocean ! 
 
 Nought did I, save to my proud soul give offence, 
 
 Each helpless wretch aiding to crawl ; 
 To each wallet a lock, to each hovel a fence — 
 
 So stooped I to succour them all : 
 What with fines, oaths and robbery, each paltry 
 
 care ; 
 I listened to loathing — ah, would I were there. 
 
 On the Ocean ! 
 
 Such my prayer, till that winter rolled heavily past ; 
 
 Wild anemones waved on the shore, 
 Sweet daughters of Spring, and the minstrel waves 
 fast 
 
 Poured their song — "Hither! bide thou nomore!"
 
 270 THE SEA-KING. 
 
 The breezes o'er valley and hill fluttered light, 
 And the freed brooks exulting rushed dancing so 
 bright 
 
 Unto Ocean ! 
 
 Then seized me the former invisible tie, 
 
 As the rude waves my name raging sound ; 
 O'er the land and its cities my broad pieces fly, 
 
 Crown and sceptre I dashed to the ground ; 
 And, poor as of yore, with a ship and my sword, 
 I looked fate in the eyes for the Sea-King's re- 
 ward, 
 
 On the Ocean ! 
 
 Free, free as the wind then our joyous course ran 
 
 O'er the distant waves' billowy green. 
 And we marked, on the coast of the stranger, how 
 man 
 Was the same wretched animal seen ; 
 Care ever sat by him an unbidden guest. 
 But the Sea-King"s proud step spurns her far 
 from his rest 
 
 On the Ocean !
 
 THE SEA-KING. 
 
 271 
 
 And again stood I watching, my heroes among, 
 
 For a sail in the far distant blue ; 
 If a rival bark came, then our war-cry loud 
 
 rung 
 
 The trader we scorned to pursue ; 
 For the brave man by chance of the red fray doth 
 
 stand, 
 Whilst his friendship is knit by the lance and 
 the brand, 
 
 On the Ocean ! 
 
 Firm stood I, by day, near the wind-shaken 
 shroud ; 
 No shade the bright future o'ercast : 
 Like a swan 'mid the waving sedge stately and 
 proud. 
 Was I borne on the rushing wave past ; 
 Each prey was mine own that my pathway then 
 
 crost, 
 And my hopes were as free as the wild surges 
 tost, 
 
 There, on Ocean !
 
 272 THE SEA-KING. 
 
 Firm stood I, by night, near the dusk reehng 
 shroud, 
 While the hoarse billows angrily roar. 
 And I heard how the Fates' awful loom hurtled 
 loud 
 In the storm shooting fearfully o'er : 
 As the ship rose and heeled, I felt — Such is man's 
 
 doom, 
 Now uplifted on high, now deep sunk in the 
 gloom. 
 
 As on Ocean ! 
 
 But misfortunes swift flock — I have filled years 
 a score ; 
 The loud surges howl for my blood ; 
 And they know it right well, for they drank it 
 before. 
 Where'er the hot strife thickest stood — 
 Soon this wild burning heart that so long hath 
 
 leapt bold, 
 In the deep icy caverns beneath shall grow 
 cold, 
 
 Down in Ocean !
 
 THE SEA-KING. 273 
 
 Yet I mourn not that brief is the sum of my days ; 
 Swift, yet good, must their course be confest ; 
 
 To THE HALLS OF THE GODS THERE ASCEND MANY 
 WAYS, 
 
 And the shortest that leads there is best : 
 Let the waves chanting low now my requiem sing; 
 I have lived on the waves — there, my death - 
 
 couch I'll fling 
 
 On the Ocean ! 
 
 On a rocks lonely slab thus the shipwrecked Sea- 
 
 King 
 O'er the moan of the breakers in triumph doth 
 
 sing- 
 
 In its depth the sea whirls him along : 
 Still the billows wail on with monotonous sound, 
 And the light breezes shifting veer playfully round — 
 
 But the brave man lives ever in song !
 
 ( 274 ) 
 
 THE FIR TREE. 
 
 (From the German of H. Heine. ^ 
 
 Drowsily on barren height, 
 
 In the far-off Arctic zone, 
 Through the dim and frozen night 
 
 Sleeps a Fir-tree all alone ; 
 Round him wrapt there glitters bright 
 His snow-coverlet of white. 
 
 Dreams he of a distant Palm : 
 That in Morning's orient land 
 
 'Neath the sky's eternal calm, 
 Like a thing forlorn doth stand ; 
 
 On his burning wall of stone. 
 
 Grieving silent and alone.
 
 ( 275 ) 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF THE STARS. 
 
 (From Heine.) 
 
 For thousand thousand years on high, 
 The changeless stars above 
 
 Stand gazing, and each other eye 
 With saddened looks of love. 
 
 The language that they speak is rare. 
 
 Rich-blazoned and soul-lit ; 
 Yet no philologists declare 
 
 They can decipher it : 
 
 But I have learned this language true, 
 
 Nor shall forget its trace ; 
 My grammar, love, thine eyes of blue. 
 
 And thy sweet wondering face. 
 
 T 2
 
 ( 276 ) 
 
 THE FISHERMAIDEN. 
 
 (From Heine. ) 
 
 Thou beautiful bright fishermaiden ! 
 
 Come, steer me thy skiff to the land, 
 And sit by me, thine eyes newly laden 
 
 With love, fondly linked hand-in-hand : 
 
 On this heart lay thy little head gaily. 
 Nor fear me too much — the wild sea 
 
 Bears thee carelessly floating far daily 
 
 From the warm earth thou lovest, and me : 
 
 Sweet ! my heart to thy sea doth resemble ; 
 
 On its surface, tide, flood, storms, there be ; 
 But in its depths sparkle and tremble 
 
 Many gems, many pearls fair to see.
 
 ( 277 ) 
 
 THE LONELY TEAR. 
 
 (From Heine.) 
 
 What will this lonely tear 
 
 That clouds my aching sight ? 
 
 Alas ! it doth remain with me 
 From times long fled in night. 
 
 Its many shining sisters 
 
 Have flowed away in gloom 
 
 Of wind and tempest raving 
 
 Round Joy's and Sorrow's tomb. 
 
 My Sorrows and my Joys ! Like mists, 
 
 Those little stars of blue, 
 That in this heart have smiled them 
 
 So deeply, have fled too.
 
 278 THE LONELY TEAR. 
 
 Ah me ! My love itself 
 
 Hath vanished like mere breath- 
 Thou old and lonely tear 
 
 Flow forth now in thy death. 
 
 IN A LILY'S CHALICED BELL. 
 
 (From Heine.) 
 
 In a lily's chaliced bell 
 
 Soft I breathed my fluttering soul, 
 Till my love's name from its cell 
 
 Back in perfumed music stole : 
 
 Sung- thus by the flower trembling, 
 Long it quivered on my lip ; 
 
 That sweet kiss of hers resembling 
 In a dream I once did sip.
 
 ( 279 ) 
 
 THE THRICE-HAPPY MAN. 
 [From Heine. — A Paraphrase). 
 
 Rich rubies are thy lips of love ! 
 
 Twin sapphires thy sweet eyes, 
 With light from crystal gates above, 
 
 That do unbar the skies ; 
 And O, thy heart ! a diamond pure, 
 
 Unpriced, uncut, unsold, 
 Whose bright affection shall endure 
 
 When flawed hearts sparkle cold : 
 O happy he ! on whom shall beam 
 
 Those rub}' lips with love, 
 Twice blest, on whom those sapphires gleam 
 
 With light from Heaven above ; 
 And thrice, thrice happy who shall wear 
 
 That diamond on his breast, 
 God's talisman enshrined there 
 
 To lap his soul in rest — 
 O could I that blest mortal meet 
 
 In some green wood by night, 
 His luck such welcome warm should greet — 
 
 I'd finish his delight 1
 
 ( 28o ) 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR.* 
 
 (From Heine.) 
 
 I. 
 
 At window stands the mother. 
 In bed there lay the son — 
 
 " Will you not rise, my Wilhelm, 
 Ere yet the show be done ?" 
 
 •' I am so weary, mother ; 
 
 I cannot hear or see, 
 I think of my lost Gretchen, 
 
 My heart aches wearily. 
 
 * Perhaps no poem of Heine has been more frequently translated 
 than this. I cannot say that I have seen, in my judgment, a 
 satisfactoiy translation. 1 have endeavoured to render its quaint 
 simplicity faithfully into English. A more polished composition 
 would fail to do this.
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 281 
 
 " Rise up : we'll go to Kevlaar, 
 
 With rosary and book ; 
 God's Mother, dear, shall cure thee : 
 
 On thy sick heart she'll look." 
 
 The holy standards flutter, 
 
 The holy tunes they sing ; 
 To Cologne on the River 
 
 The sacred march they bring : 
 
 The mother follows closely, 
 
 His faltering step doth aid ; 
 They both sing in the chorus — 
 
 " Praise Marie 1 Spotless maid !" 
 
 II. 
 
 God's Mother bright at Kevlaar, 
 
 Her Sunday dress doth wear ; 
 To-day she is so busy — 
 
 So many sick come there. 
 
 The sick people are bringing, 
 
 As sacred offerings meet. 
 Limbs moulded out of wax ; there are 
 
 Both waxen hands and feet :
 
 282 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 A hand of wax who bringeth her 
 His crippled hand grows whole ; 
 
 And he, who gives a waxen foot, 
 Straight stands on a sound sole : 
 
 Nay, those who had sore fingers 
 
 On fiddles all now play ; 
 On tight-ropes dance the crutch-borne 
 
 Who Kevlaar saw that day. 
 
 The mother took a wax-light, 
 And formed from it a heart — 
 
 " God's Mother, this accepting, 
 Shall cure thy sorrow's smart." 
 
 The son the heart took sighing, 
 And sighing did beseech ; 
 
 From his sad eyes the tear-drops, 
 From his sad heart the speech. 
 
 " Thou Maiden pure of Heaven ! 
 
 Thou highly praised, adored; — 
 To thee, thou Queen of Glory ! 
 
 My sufferings be deplored.
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 283 
 
 " I lived there, with my mother, 
 
 At Cologne in the town 
 Which hath so many churches 
 
 And chapels, up and down : 
 
 " And next to us lived Gretchen ; 
 
 But she is now no more — 
 This waxen heart receiving 
 
 Cure Thou my heart so sore : — 
 
 " Cure Thou my sick heart's sorrow — 
 
 So fervently I'll pray, 
 Both night and morning early, 
 
 Marie ! Be praised alway !" 
 
 III. 
 The sick son and the mother 
 
 In a small room they slept ; — 
 There came God's Mother gently. 
 
 'Mid moonbeams pale she stept : 
 
 And o'er the sick man bending, 
 
 Her hand she softly laid. 
 Quite softly, on his bosom ; 
 
 Then smiled, nor longer stayed.
 
 284 THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. 
 
 In dreams the mother saw it — 
 Nay more, in slumber bowed ; 
 
 Then woke she from her vision — 
 Why bark the dogs so loud ? 
 
 There lay, outstretched close to her, 
 Her son — and he was dead ; — 
 
 O'er his wan cheek is streaming 
 Bright Morning warm and red. 
 
 The mother her hands folded : 
 She knew not what she felt ; 
 
 But. with low accents pious. 
 In praise to Marie knelt !
 
 ( 285 ) 
 
 TO WOMAN. 
 
 fin the Style of a past Age.) 
 
 O WOMAN, variable creature ! 
 
 Thou art an Angel but in name ; 
 Though Heaven beam from every feature — 
 
 Where — where thy wings to fly from shame ? 
 
 While treacherous man doth still pursue thee 
 With earthly soul-corroding flame, 
 
 He calls thee *• Angel," to undo thee ; 
 And then thou losest e'en the name. 
 
 Yet. mirrored from Creation's tyrants, 
 
 The worst our dictates but obey ; 
 The good, to Angel rank aspirants, 
 
 At least to Heav'n point out the way.
 
 ( 286 ) 
 
 ON A LATE OC-CUR-RENCE. 
 
 Cur me querelis exanimas tuis ?— 
 
 'Tis pleasant when a big dog from a small 
 one, 
 With generous motive, turns him round and 
 flies ; 
 "Tis sweet to see a short man brave a tall 
 one. 
 And hear an unexpected " D n your eyes ! "' 
 
 But if with yells the air must still be filling 
 
 The small dog, and the short man pants to 
 fight, 
 When neither big dog nor tall man is willing. 
 Should dwarf and cur be thrashed, it serves them 
 right.
 
 ON A LATE OC-CUR-RENCE. 287 
 
 The timid oft on sufferance are daring, 
 
 But, when the bold are roused, then off they 
 run, 
 And tell their friends, with eyes from fright still 
 staring, 
 Of fancied laurels which they might have won.
 
 ( 288 ) 
 
 A SLIGHT PARODY ON THE " TEMPEST."* 
 
 [Enter certain Paupers wretchedly habited ; they 
 join with nymphs of the Pave in a slow and 
 dismal measure ; towards the end whereof 
 SiBTHORPO starts suddenly and speaks ; after 
 which to a strange, hollow and confused noise, 
 they heavily vanish. 
 
 Sib. [Aside.) I did forget that foul conspiracy 
 Of Cobden and his dull confederate 
 
 * One of the eccentricities which distinguished the late worthy 
 member for Lincoln, the well-known Colonel Sibthorpe, and to 
 which indeed he was mainly indebted for his notoriety — viz., his 
 ample beard, merely proved him to be a little in advance of his age. 
 His antipathy towards the modern Manchester school of politics 
 made him the subject of much good-humoured raillery both in and 
 out of the House of Commons ; but nothing drew upon him so 
 much comic animadversion as the intense hatred which he evinced 
 towards the great Exhibition of 1851. He thought it would teach
 
 A SLIGHT PARODY ON " THE TEMPEST." 289 
 
 'Gainst England's life ; the minute of their plot 
 Is almost come — 
 
 [aloud to the Paupers.) 
 
 Hence! Emigrate, poor souls; 
 Ye are not needed more. Belt half the 
 
 earth! 
 Quick, cease to be, or find th' antipodes. 
 Young England. This is most strange. What 
 
 means our bearded friend ? 
 Miss Free-trade. Ne'er, 'till this day, I've seen 
 
 him shaken thus. 
 Sib. Our Exhibition's o'er! These gent-like 
 spirits. 
 As I foretold you, were all humbugs, and 
 But for their pockets had the slightest care ; 
 And like the tear-drenched fabrics of this glass- 
 house, 
 The crystal fountains, gorgeous furniture, 
 
 tlie foreigner how '• to steal the means whereby we live," as well as 
 inoculate us with the worst of Continental manners. As I have 
 made this free use of the gallant Colonel's name, let me pay a 
 small tribute of respect to his memory. He was earnest and 
 sincere, patriotic and truthful, and a well-informed agreeable com- 
 panion in private life. 
 
 U
 
 ago A SLIGHT PARODY ON " THE TEMPEST." 
 
 The glorious statues, Wylde's great Globe 
 
 itself. 
 Yea, all which do it visit, shall be sold. 
 And like this unsubstantial pageant vanished, 
 Leave not a rent behind.
 
 ( 2gi ) 
 
 YE DITTIE OF "ALTOUNE TOURES."* 
 
 O PLEASAUNT is ye moneth of Maie, 
 
 And swete are vernall shoures, 
 Whanne sothe they bydde mee forthe to staie, 
 
 And dyne attfe " Altoune Toures." 
 
 * This " dittie " was collated in April, 1851, fiom two manu- 
 scripts in the Lincoln's Inn Library. It is surprising that they 
 escaped Dr. Percy. We have preferred throughout the earlier of 
 these MSS. ; but have amended an obscure line or two fromthe 
 later one. A learned friend supposes the Lord Chancellere to have 
 been the famous William of Wykeham. For this, we must confess, 
 we can see no reason. It is true that he held both lay and clerical 
 appointments ; but he seems to have been a man not likely to have 
 been guilty of that which Punch would style " snobbism." In the 
 first manuscript is a black letter commentary stating that a young 
 lady of great fortune and comeliness fell into the hands of the monks, 
 who were desirous of sequestrating her property to their own uses, 
 and nearly succeeded in the attempt. She, however, appealed to 
 " Yi^ kynge," who directed the Lord Chancellere to hear and decide 
 the matter. It seems that tliis high functionary was much influenced 
 by the courtesies and hospitality of a distant aristocratic kinsman of 
 
 U 2
 
 2g2 YE DITTIE OF " ALTOUNE TOURES." 
 
 Myne herte ! Thys is a gamesome worlde, 
 
 Ye erth hath purfiled floures ; 
 Lord Chancellere hys wigg hath curled : 
 
 Hee slepes atte " Altoune Toures." 
 
 Come hyther, come hyther, mie fayre yonge 
 warde ! 
 Busk ye in bonny bowres ? — 
 
 the young lady, himself a Roman Catholic. The latter invited the 
 I/3rd Chancellere to "Altoune Toures," and there succeeded in 
 influencing him to regard with favour the motives and conduct of 
 the " monkish povvres." Our fair Protestant readers will be glad 
 to learn that, as we gather from the second manuscript, the young 
 lady was rescued from the cloister, and married a young nobleman, 
 who fell in love with her, and had means or influence to baffle the 
 monks. The ballad-writer evidently contemplated a different con- 
 clusion. We discover from a contemporaneous black-letter treatise, 
 of which only a fragment remains in the Bodleian Library, that the 
 Chancellere dwelt much on the hospitality he had received at 
 " Altoune Toures." We learn also from this writer, that although 
 the judges of his day did not receive material bribes, they were much 
 influenced by aristocratical and other considerations, and that if a 
 poor man came into Court to prefera claim against the Crown,or even 
 against a nobleman or wealthy Jew, he was lucky if he escaped 
 the bitter invective and persecution of the Bench, ever too ready to 
 denounce him and his counsel and attorney, often unjustly im- 
 pounding his papers, and otherwise putting him to confusion, and 
 exposing him to expense and ruin. This Poem is, however, only 
 interesting now from its antiquity, and as a specimen of old 
 English.
 
 YE DITTIE OF " ALTOUNE TOURES." 293 
 
 Soe sadde, shee sayde, wilt staie,* mie Lorde, 
 Ane weeke atte " Altoune Toures ?" — 
 
 ' Come hyther, come hyther, mie Ladye Abbess, 
 Saie why thy pale fronte loures ? ' — 
 
 ' Now, by ye roode a boone ! He bless 
 Thys moneth atte " Altoune Toures."' 
 
 Ye proud Erl twies hys win hee spylt, 
 
 ' Syr Chancellere, 'tis ours 
 To bydde your presence, an Crist wyl't 
 
 Ane yere atte " Altoune Toures."' 
 
 O. " Altoune Toures " are fayre to see, 
 And blacke are monkish powres ; 
 
 Ye fayre yonge mayde to ye nonnerie 
 And ye Peere to Altoune Toures. 
 
 * It would seem frora this, that the young lady was under a 
 terrifying influence, or did she wish to make a friend of the 
 " Chancellere ? "
 
 294 YE DITTIE OF " ALTOUNE TOURES." 
 
 Merily doe y^ smale* foules synge 
 
 Whanne milke it sonest soures ; 
 Alle in a darke veil forthe they biy^nge, 
 
 Swete Maief of " Altoune Toures." 
 
 And down hir chekis dyd yronne 3'^ bryne, 
 
 Hir sadd forme quails and cowres ; 
 Lord Chancellere hee sypped hys win 
 
 Blvthlie atte " Altoune Toures,'' 
 
 'Mid lothlie nonnes hir lyfe is passed 
 
 Wepynge ye waefulle houres ; 
 For weedes of blacke ye gynghame's t cast 
 
 She wore atte '' Altoune Toures." 
 
 * "Smale foules" — In the second manuscript we find "lytel 
 birdes," evidently the work of a more modern hand. Throughout 
 there is a great admixture of spelling, which is chiefly owing to the 
 collation of two manuscripts written at different periods. 
 
 + " Swete Maie." — May was probably not the actual name of 
 the young lady, it frequently occurs in old writers as a pretty 
 appellation for female youth. 
 
 + "Gynghame." — The reading in the first manuscript is 
 "wardrope/" which is probably right. The word "gj-nghame" 
 does not occur in any writer of either period. Indeed, it is diffi- 
 cult to ascertain its precise meaning, unless it be the modem 
 gingham, which would be as great an anachronism as merino. 
 Perhaps the learned Editor of "Notes and Queries" could throw- 
 some light on the subject.
 
 YE DITTIE OF "ALTOUNE TOURES." 295 
 
 Ryghte to hir dethe ye maden vveped ; 
 
 Fayre girles with meikle dowres, 
 God send ye a Chancellere hath not sleped 
 
 Or dyned atte " Altoune Toures."
 
 ( 296 ) 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH.* 
 
 Qiiand vos yeiix en naissant s'ouvraient a la lumiere, 
 Chaciin vous soiiriait, monfils, et votes pleuriez : 
 
 Vivez si bien qiinn jour a votre demure heure 
 Chacun verse des larmes et qiCon vous voit sour ire. 
 
 Thine eyes with early tears were wet, my child, 
 As at thy birth all gazed on thee and smiled ; 
 So live, that at Life's close thou may'st be found 
 Saintly to smile on those who weep around. 
 
 * I quote the French from memory, and possibly incorrectly.
 
 ( 297 ) 
 
 A VERSE FROM HORACE.^ 
 
 ODE III. BOOK III. 
 
 The Just Man firm in purpose right, 
 Not frenzied mob commanding wrong, 
 
 Not tyrant's lowering brow doth fright, 
 Nor shake his soul serenely strong: 
 
 * I cannot refrain from subjoining the Latin, however familiar : 
 because I think that — whatever the merit or demerit of this transla- 
 tion otherwise — it is as literal as verse can possibly admit. I have 
 n>ade two lines out of " Nee fulminantis magna Jovis manus,'" it is 
 true : but in so doing only amplified the figure. 
 
 Justum et tenacem propositi virum 
 
 Non civium ardor prava jubentium, 
 
 Non vultus instantis tyranni 
 
 Mente quatit solida, neque Auster 
 
 Dux inquiets turbidus Adri^ ; 
 
 Nee fulminantis magna Jovis manus ; 
 
 Si fractus iUabatur orbis 
 
 Impavidum ferient ruinse.
 
 298 A VERSE FROM HORACE. 
 
 Not Auster raging in his might, 
 
 Of the vext Adriatic lord ; 
 Nor Jove's right-hand with Hghtning brand, 
 
 And threatening thunder o'er him roared — 
 Were the rent world in ruins laid, 
 
 'Twould crash around him undismayed !
 
 ( 299 ) 
 
 CATULLI CARMEN V. 
 
 Ad Lesbiam. 
 
 We'll love, my Lesbia ! while we live, 
 And laugh at those of sterner mould ; 
 A farthing is the price I'd give 
 For all by aged babblers told ; 
 The sun at eve may dim his light 
 And morn his splendour still shall view 
 But when is lost in gloom of Night 
 Our lamp, 'tis never lit anew — 
 Give me a thousand kisses then — 
 Quick, add a hundred to the store, 
 Another thousand and again 
 A hundred and a thousand more — 
 And yet a hundred ! and since thus 
 So many we've together tied, 
 I prithee let's the sum confuse, 
 And try e'en from ourselves to hide ;
 
 300 CATULLI CARMEN. 
 
 So may no wretch the power possess 
 To look with envy on our heaven, 
 As needs he must, who could but guess 
 The number of such kisses given.
 
 ( 301 ) 
 
 EPIG. GR^C. LAT. RED. 
 
 r^EiAT. 16.) 
 
 "I^aXo<; euTTMyoyv aiyo^ (/c.tA.). 
 
 Prosiliens caprae sponsus vineta pererrans 
 Barbiger, uvarum brachia lenta vorat, 
 
 Quum vox exoritur terris — " Nunc, improbe, 
 mande, 
 Dentibus uviferum, munera nostra, genus — 
 
 Radices valid^ suavi mox nectare fervent 
 Quod tibi votivo sparget, amice, caput." 
 
 'H KoXov at Sd(f)vai. 
 PuLCHRUM equidem ! laurus pulchrum ! secretaque 
 lympha 
 Frondosae noctis dat simulacra sinu. 
 Repens sub fibris, late dum silva virescit, 
 
 Quam subeunt Zephyri frigora verna vagi ; 
 Hie sitis atque vite productas et sideris oestus 
 Dulce viatori, dulce levamen adest.
 
 302 EPIG. GRiEC. LAT. RED. 
 
 " n iroKi, irrj aeo Kelva. 
 
 Urbs, ubi cernemus tua moenia, fana beata 
 
 Ilia et coesorum cornua multa bourn ? 
 Matris ubi Paphi^e coelata alabastra peplumque 
 
 Aureum et indigence Palladis effigiem ? — 
 HaiC Mars atque vices £evi cceci et grave fatum 
 
 Abstulit, illaqueans omnia sorte nova. 
 Fatum sceptra tenax super haec quatit — Esto ; sed 
 alti 
 
 Nominis imperium non abolere potest. 
 
 '^/c/ittio? poOiT] vrjt 8p6fio<i. 
 Jam solvenda rati salienti vincla ! nee undse 
 
 Purpurea; motu stagna tremente tument, 
 Jamque rotunda struit Progne sub culmine tecta, 
 
 Et folia arrident dasdala, ruris honos : 
 Quare agite, O nautse ! madidos laxate rudentes : 
 
 Exsiliat portus anchora tecta sinu : 
 Lintea, Thyrsigero genitus, bene nexa, Priapus, 
 
 Tendere, vos hortor, quos loca tuta tenent. 
 
 ^Hu KaOaprj. 
 PuRUS eram — purum nomen mihi ssepe liquores, 
 Naiadum ante omnes, coerula turba dabat,
 
 EPIG. GR^C. LAT. RED. 
 
 303 
 
 Margine cum quosdam recubantes praedo necavit, 
 Atque cruenta sacris brachia mersit aquis ; 
 
 Do lympham retro pia munera nulla ministrans ; 
 Heu ! nunc me Purum nemo vocare potest. 
 
 Avyd^o) Tov d(}>VKTOv. 
 Intueor sculptum signo insuperabile Numen ; 
 
 Refraenans manibus colla leonis agit, 
 Lora regit lasva, quassat dextraque per armos 
 
 Flagra, triplex circum gratia rubra volat. 
 Inspirat subitos ridens homicida tremores: 
 
 Haud domitis parcit, qui domat ipse feras.
 
 ( 304 ) 
 
 L'EN VOL 
 
 Go forth ! ye bright blossoms of boyhood. 
 Soul-coronal, fragrant though sere. 
 
 Frayed leaflets of manhood and joyhood. 
 To a heart still unwithered more dear. 
 
 More beloved, than when Life was a vision 
 The Enchantress Hope blushing unveiled, 
 
 Like a glimpse of some dream-land Elysian, 
 Ere the World's rosy promise had paled — 
 
 Go forth ! There are hearts that still waken 
 To the tones of a faint earnest song, 
 
 To the voice of a Spirit unshaken 
 
 From its faith by the World's cruel wrong.
 
 L ENVOI. 305 
 
 Go forth ! thou frail tribute thought-wreathed— 
 Should I bless you not parting, who blest 
 
 Me,- so oft, with thy murmurs low-breathed, 
 Sweet Nepenthe of labour and rest ? 
 
 For thy toil cooled my brow, like the Morning. 
 
 When a thund'rous oppression hath fled, 
 And in music and fragrance is dawning 
 
 Earth's rapture o'er tyranny dead. 
 
 Thou hast been to me Day-time in Night-time, 
 Thou hast purpled Life's goblet with wine, 
 
 Queen Poesy ! Goddess of bright-time, 
 
 Crowned with gleanings from harvest divine : 
 
 Bosomed deep with the infinite longing. 
 Sweeter gift than all gifts of this world ; 
 
 With the passion sublime, that, none wronging, 
 Smiles through tear-drops by Fancy impearled. 
 
 O Sorrow, more treasured than gladness. 
 
 When thou flow'st from the founts of bright 
 Song; 
 
 O Music, whose soul-cherished Sadness 
 
 Ripples, bowered 'neath thorn-blooms along- 
 
 X
 
 3o6 l'envoi. 
 
 I have loved thee with love, if 'tis wild love, 
 In the priest of the senses' dark creed; 
 
 As a father embraces his child-love, 
 
 I will clasp thee, nor envy their greed, — 
 
 I will clasp thee, nor envy their blisses. 
 Who are slaves to the empire of gold ; 
 
 Mine, the bloom of true love and pure kisses, 
 Theirs, the blister of joys that are sold. 
 
 Let them laugh at my Wisdom, or Folly, 
 I can bear the dull scorn I despise, 
 
 Though I clothe me in soul-melancholy. 
 Though I clasp Grief alone for my prize, 
 
 I would change not a leaf of her Cypress 
 For the blisses and bounties of Wrong, 
 
 Nor let one evil mockery's lie press 
 
 With its hot hand the white brow of Song ; 
 
 I would yield not her freedom heroic. 
 
 Though my soul bleed unseen in the night. 
 
 Not a pang of the bare-footed Stoic 
 For the sandals of jewelled Delight.
 
 L ENVOI. 
 
 30/ 
 
 Ye know not, O souls cold and sterile ! 
 
 The star-paven Temple of Thought, 
 Its pillars of ruby and beryl 
 
 With lotus and lily o'er- wrought; 
 
 Its architrave, sculptured by Angels, 
 
 Not with deeds of false triumph, world-love. 
 
 But the sacrifice taught by evangels, 
 And breathed on by Mercy above; 
 
 Its Daedalium of beautiful Flowers, 
 Sweetest darlings of music and light. 
 
 Where the crimson-clad, white-winged Hours 
 Lead the Dawn, like a bridegroom, to Night. 
 
 Ye see not Thought's lightning Pavilion 
 On the arch of the Tempest reared high. 
 
 Streamed with amber, and speared with vermilion. 
 Through the rent of the wind-cloven sky ; 
 
 Azure mists into violet changing, 
 
 Purple banks piled on blackness beyond, 
 
 Silver gleams through cloud-fastnesses ranging, 
 As if Titans their storm-mantles donn'd :
 
 3o8 l'envoi. 
 
 When the billows sound drearily moaning 
 Their Promethean lament to Earth's caves, 
 
 And the deep sough of Nature sobs groaning 
 Her story of infinite graves. 
 
 Ye are blind to the soul-dazzling wonder 
 Of the sea and the sky and the ground ; 
 
 Ye are deaf to the Psalm of the Thunder, 
 
 Though ye crouch 'neath the fear of its sound. 
 
 Ye know not the poet's emotion, 
 His glory, his triumph, his might; 
 
 They are sealed like the marvels of Ocean, 
 They are quivered like sun-shafts of Light. 
 
 In the golden clouds hanging in splendour 
 Round the cradle of Day as he wakes 
 
 To a touch more impassioned and tender, 
 
 When the Night's shadowed minstrelsy breaks. 
 
 O Nature ! thou measureless giver 
 Of blessings crime-tortured to wrong, 
 
 If I've rambled with Thee by Life's river 
 And snatched but wild blossoms of Song,
 
 L ENVOI. 309 
 
 They are nearer to Him Who created, 
 They are dearer to me who adore — 
 
 Go forth ! ye frail blossoms, though fated. 
 Ye belong to my soul, evermore.
 
 LONDON : 
 J. SWIFT, REGENT PRESS, 55, KING STREET, W.
 
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