Set- Page 17. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S 
 
 VENGEANCE. 
 
 tfjer 
 
 W. C. BENNETT. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 
 
 193, PICCADILLY. 
 1857. 
 
TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 1 DEDICATE THIS VOLUME. 
 
 M 9389 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE 1 
 
 PYGMALION 21 
 
 A CHARACTER. IN Two SCENES 30 
 
 ARIADNE 50 
 
 THE BOAT-RACE 58 
 
 THE SAGA OF THE FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA ... 67 
 
 A NEW GRISELDA 75 
 
 FROM SEA 107 
 
 WISHES Ill 
 
 WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES 113 
 
 COLUMBUS 122 
 
 RESURGET 128 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS 135 
 
 A SAILOR'S SONG . . 141 
 
 A SUMMER INVOCATION 144 
 
 BABY'S SHOES 146 
 
 ELLA'S ROSES 148 
 
 To A MOSS-ROSE IN CHEAPSIDE 149 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT 153 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 SONG 154 
 
 FROM TOWN 156 
 
 MOVE ON 160 
 
 WERE I A KING ! WERE I A KING ! 1G3 
 
 THE DEATH-MARCH OF WELLINGTON 169 
 
 THE KOBIN 172 
 
 THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES 186 
 
 CASSANDRA SPEAKS 195 
 
 UFTON COURT 198 
 
 THE STAR OF THE BALLET 204 
 
 ON A DEAD INFANT 215 
 
 SHE 's DEAD 220 
 
 To BERANGER, ON THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL . . . 222 
 
 To A YOUNG LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE 229 
 
 To W. G. B. 233 
 
POEMS: 
 
 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 QUEEN ELEANOR'S is a deadly hate ; 
 It dogs her foes down keen as fate. 
 
 And woe to those who the dark Queen scorn, 
 Better far had they never been born ! 
 
 Than the Poitevin Queen should have on them frown'd, 
 They'd have better been tracked by a black sleuth- 
 hound. 
 
 Be they ever so high who court her frown, 
 Her Aquitain hate will pull them down. 
 
 Be they ever so fair her love who cross, 
 Let them 'ware of deadly peril and loss. 
 B 
 
2 QUEEN ELEANOR S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Let them praise their name-saints, if, in the strife, 
 Th'ey lose oil else, and \>et 'scape with life. 
 
 Woe and woe to Lord Clifford's daughter ! 
 Eleanor's fiercest hate has sought her. 
 
 Sought her fiercely, and sought her long, 
 
 On the false king's leman to wreak her wrong. 
 
 A wrong not she will tamely endure, 
 That the Clifford's blood alone can cure ; 
 
 For she of Poitou will wreak on her worse 
 Than empty scold and womanish curse. 
 
 And the parching thirst of the South Queen's rage, 
 The bowl or the steel shall alone assuage. 
 
 The draught from the bowl, or the stab from the steel, 
 That her own right hand shall give or shall deal; 
 
QUEEN ELEANORS VENGEANCE. 
 
 The bowl fierce thrust on the trembling hand 
 Of the white fair thing that can hardly stand ; 
 
 The stab that's dealt through the horror flung 
 To her feet, while her curse in its ears is rung ; 
 
 These alone shall assuage her hate; 
 One shall be his Rosamond's fate. 
 
 Well had the King his treasure conceal'd ; 
 
 Long was she sought through wood and through field. 
 
 Long was she sought through road and through way, 
 Ere that she fell the dark Queen's prey. 
 
 For gold what cannot be bought with gold ? 
 To the South Queen's ears the secret's told. 
 
 Death laughs out in her bitter laugh ; 
 Vengeance shall not be glutted but half. 
 
4 QUEEN ELEANOR S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Now to her robe let his minion cling ! 
 Not her's the grasp of the doting King. 
 
 Now let a voice hiss into her ear, 
 
 Not his honied words, but the frenzy of fear ! 
 
 Now let curses stay her breath 
 
 With the anguish of sudden and certain death ! 
 
 Ho ! ho ! then, Woodstock holds the eyes 
 That 'witch a king of his smiles and sighs ! 
 
 A laggard is hate, if flits an hour 
 
 Ere Eleanor seeks the Clifford^ bower; 
 
 For, warring in Aquitain, far away 
 
 Is he to her hate who had barr'd the way. 
 
 And God her soul from His good grace spurn, 
 If the Clifford have life when the King return. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Gold the clue from her guard has charm'd ; 
 Gold has the minion's guard unarm'd. 
 
 O but the dark Queen's face was fix'd 
 
 To the look of hell as the draught she mix'd ! 
 
 And O but hell to her fierce eyes rose, 
 
 As from many a dagger the keenest she chose ! 
 
 Woe, O woe, for the golden-hair'd, 
 For whom her King has so softly cared! 
 
 Woe, O woe, for the blue soft eyes 
 That, woe for them ! won a kingly prize ! 
 
 O woe for the cheek and the lip so red, 
 
 That shall whiten so soon to the hue of the dead ! 
 
 And woe, thriqe woe, for the rounded form 
 That soon not a kiss of its King shall warm ! 
 
And woe, thrice woe, for the rose- sweet breath 
 So soon to be s til I'd for ever by death ! 
 
 The Queen has left her secret room, 
 
 And horses are led out by page and groom ; 
 
 In the saddle, her men-at-arms, fierce and still, 
 Sit ready to do her dark fierce will. 
 
 Woe, O woe, to green Woodstock's rose, 
 
 If grasp'd by such rude wild hands as those ! 
 
 Iron hands, and hearts that, in sooth, 
 As little know as their poignards of ruth; 
 
 Men of Poitou and of Aquitain race, 
 Keen to read their Southern Queen's face ; - 
 
 Men that on Henry's self had trod 
 
 At a flash of her eye or a meaning nod ; 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 7 
 
 Bloodhounds fell, that she holds in the slip, 
 Loosed by her frown or the curl of her lip. 
 
 Eleanor mounts ; and away and away 
 
 They ride through the gloom of the darkening day. 
 
 The day is lost in a gusty night, 
 
 Such tempest as suits her purpose aright. 
 
 And. homestead and village, as by they sweep, 
 Feel a shudder of horror thrill through their sleep. 
 
 Hours have come and hours have gone, 
 But still that terrible hate rides on. 
 
 Hours have come and hours have past, 
 Hush'd Woodstock's streets are reached at last. 
 
 Cool and fresh is the midnight breeze 
 That stirs green Woodstock's sleeping trees. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Yet little the raging Queen recks now, 
 That the misty midnight cools her brow; 
 
 She hears not, she, the town's quick stir, 
 The casements open'd to gaze on her. 
 
 Death her thought is of death alone, 
 Of a white dead face and a last deep groan. 
 
 No not to save broad England's crown, 
 
 Would she miss the joy with which she leaps down. 
 
 Adown she lights ; Lord Christ ! may few 
 
 Of earth feel the hate that thrills her through ! 
 
 O but it gladdens the heart of hell 
 To feel the fire of a rage so fell ! 
 
 It nears to one, and before the hour, 
 The grim Queen 7 s at the Clifford's bower. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR S VENGEANCE. 
 
 O, ere the morning has grown to two, 
 That hand has a fearful deed to do ! 
 
 And, ere the morning has pass'd to three, 
 Those eyes have a ghastly sight to see. 
 
 O fearfulest deed ! and ghastliest sight ! 
 That best had been hidden in dreariest night ! 
 
 The guards the door of the bower undo ; 
 In her hand is the end of the maze's clue ; 
 
 With fast-set teeth and a tiger tread, 
 Swift and softly she tracks the thread. 
 
 A dread flits with her across the grass, 
 And the laurels shiver to feel her pass. 
 
 The heart of the maze her stern feet reach, 
 
 And a low laugh 's laugh'd that is more than speech. 
 
10 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Dim before her rises the tower 
 
 That holds the sweetness of Woodstock's flower. 
 
 Rose, how soon, with a pitiless scorn, 
 
 From its sweet young hold upon life to be torn ! 
 
 Rosamond stirs in her slumber deep ; 
 What is the terror that shakes her sleep ? 
 
 Rosamond starts from her ghastly dreams ; 
 What is the sound that to hear she seems ? 
 
 Is it the dreamt-of terror that's there? 
 Is it a foot on the creaking stair? 
 
 Hark ! she stiffens up white in bed ; 
 Whom will it bring that mounting tread? 
 
 Well may the blood to her cold heart start ! 
 Who is it tears her curtains apart? 
 
QUEEN ELEAtfbR's VENGEANCE. 11 
 
 She tries to shriek, but her tongue is dumb ; 
 Woe ! woe ! the meeting so fear'd has come ! 
 
 " Mercy !" she reads that gaze aright, 
 
 Of the whelpless wolf or the hunger'd kite. 
 
 " Mercy !" Christ! in that fierce, quick breath, 
 Is panted the horror of sure, sharp death ! 
 
 Out she flings her upon the floor, 
 
 As the grim Queen closes the chamber's door. 
 
 Heap'd on the trembling floor she lies, 
 White as the dead 'neath those dreadful eyes. 
 
 Eyes that are fill'd with the fire of hell, 
 
 As shiver and shudder her prey's throes tell. 
 
 As over her prey she stands and looks down, 
 On her who must play with a queen for a crown. 
 
12 QUEEN ELEANOR'? VENGEANCE. 
 
 But the game is play'd, and lost is the stake, 
 And the winner is here the forfeit to take. 
 
 Heaven and hell have heard her vow; 
 Heaven and hell know its fell truth now. 
 
 What ! and is this the head that would rest 
 Its golden curls upon Henry's breast ! 
 
 What ! are these the fingers, slight as a girl's, 
 The fingers that wound them in Henry's curls ! 
 
 What ! these are the white, round arms, that could find 
 No form but a king's round which to wind ! 
 
 A king's ! and darker, and yet more grim, 
 Grows the fell Queen's look as she thinks of him. 
 
 A king's ! and dread are the words that meet 
 The aching ears at her ruthless feet. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE* 13 
 
 Curse and scorn, that they quiver to hear, 
 With a half-dead heart and a sickening fear. 
 
 Curses that blast, and withering scorn ; 
 Jesu ! O had she never been born ! 
 
 Jesu ! O that the earth would break, 
 
 And straight the quick to the dead would take ! 
 
 " Up, foul minion ! your foul joy 's past ; 
 " Hate, and not love, is here at last. 
 
 " What ! you must toy with a crowned king, 
 
 " With the hand that God saw set on this, this ring ! 
 
 " Up ! swore I not that we should meet ? 
 " Up ! ere I tread you beneath my feet. 
 
 u Mercy? No not in life nor death; 
 
 " The air is hell while it holds your breath. 
 
14 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 " Mercy ? Yes for body and soul; 
 
 " Such mercy as lurks in this poignard and bowl. 
 
 " Well did you plot my mercy to earn ! 
 
 " Rise! how, minion, your prayers I spurn ! 
 
 " Thus I laugh at your vain despair; 
 " Rise, ere I tear you up by the hair. 
 
 " Rise, and shudder ! I Eleanor I 
 " Hiss in your ears: Arise, and die !" 
 
 Up she rises, a ghastly sight ; 
 
 O but her lips are cold and white I 
 
 but white is her ghastly cheek ! 
 
 And O but what horror her fix'd eyes speak ! 
 
 Vacant of sense, her glassy stare 
 
 On the cup thrust out, and the keen knife bare. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 15 
 
 Her stare, that seems not to understand 
 
 What glares from each stony out-stretch'd hand ; 
 
 Her stare, that sees all as if it seem'd, 
 As if but a feverish dream it dream'd. 
 
 Yet real is the steel, and real the draught, 
 The steel to be felt, or the death to be quaff 'd. 
 
 Real the ghastly hush that she hears, 
 
 And the ghastly " Choose !" that shrills through her ears. 
 
 Which shall she seize, and which refuse ? 
 For ever she hears that murderous " Choose !" 
 
 " Choose, ere my dagger loose you to tell 
 u The tale of your cursed shame to hell !" 
 
 Not the stab from her hands ! not a touch from them ! 
 Swift her fingers clutch on the gold cup's stem. 
 
16 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 As if life were hateful, at once she drains 
 The draught, till no fearful drop remains. 
 
 As if life were fled from, and death were sweet, 
 She drinks, and lies at the fierce Queen's feet. 
 
 And sharp and shrill is her one wild cry, 
 " O God, but to see my boys ere I die ! 
 
 " Henry !" and with that name her breath 
 Flutters and stills to stirless death. 
 
 The deed is done the deed of hell ; 
 
 What the grim Queen feels, what tongue may tell ! 
 
 As she looks a look at the staring clay, 
 And wordless and frowning turns away. 
 
 Yet again she turns and stoops her down, 
 And darker and feller yet grows her frown. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 17 
 
 A fair long tress her dagger has shorn ; 
 That tress her page to the King has borne. 
 
 " A wifely gift to the Queen's Lord sent." 
 O but the grim King strode his tent ! 
 
 With a wounded lion's growl and glare, 
 
 As he ground his teeth o'er the pale tress there. 
 
 As through his set teeth there raged an oath, 
 And he plighted again to the dead his troth. 
 
 And an oath of vengeance he fiercely swore, 
 To the white cold one he should see no more. 
 
 Well for you is it, darksome Queen, 
 
 The ocean rolls you and your Lord between ! 
 
 Else small his mercy, and short the shrift 
 Of her who her hand 'gainst the Clifford dared lift. 
 
 c 
 
18 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Yet better were that than your fearsome doom, 
 That gives you, Queen, to a living tomb. 
 
 That gives your fierce life, day by day, 
 In a dungeon's darkness to chafe away. 
 
 To chafe and to rage, and to vainly tear 
 
 At the grate that bars you from light and air. 
 
 Your rage or your patience to him the same 
 To whom your token of vengeance came. 
 
 Till your blood grow tame and your fierce heart feel 
 For pardon it well could grovel and kneel. 
 
 For the feel of the breeze and the warm free sun, 
 It could half wish its vengeful deed undone. 
 
QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 19 
 
 In Godstowe nunnery's shadowy gloom, 
 Was " Rosa Mundi" carved on a tomb. 
 
 And the tomb's sides white fair roses crept up, 
 Cunningly twined round a carven cup. 
 
 Prayed for with mass and with holy prayer, 
 Chant and hymn, the Clifford lay there. 
 
 Still and carven in fair white stone, 
 She lay in the quiet choir alone. 
 
 Till Lincoln's bishop, Hugh, pass'd that way, 
 And enter'd the holy choir to pray. 
 
 And seeing that tomb, more fair than all, 
 With its lights of wax and its silken pall, 
 
 And learning there Henry's light love lay, 
 Commanded straight she be borne away. 
 
20 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Holding her pomp the Church's disgrace, 
 Spurning her sin from its resting-place. 
 
 Now Mary Mother more mercy show, 
 Than living, or dead, she knew below ! 
 
 Now God from her soul assoil all sin, 
 And give her at last unto bliss to win ! 
 
 For what better bait can the Devil fling, 
 For a woman's soul, than the love of a King ! 
 
 Heaven rest her soul, and shield us all, 
 And aid us to stand, and not to fall ! 
 
 And Mary Mother give us to rest 
 
 At last in bliss with the Saints so blest ! 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 How the white vision shaped it in my thought, 
 How shall I tell ! how in my nightly dreams 
 I knew its presence, though- 1 saw it not, 
 In solitude in cities 'mid the hush 
 Of forests 'mid the throng and crush of men, 
 With untold longings, thirsting more and more, 
 Yea, hungering for its beauty ! how with time 
 I wrestled for that prize, yet won it not ! 
 How even to agony my soul was wrought, 
 To tears and frenzy, yet I won it not ! 
 I felt its glory flooding through my soul 
 The chaos that should bring this wonder forth 
 I brooded o'er ,how long ! how long in vain, 
 Watching and waiting ere its beauty came ! 
 
22 PYGMALION. 
 
 Faint as a rainbow first it wander'd forth ; 
 
 Misty and vanishing it met my gaze, 
 
 Nor came, nor went, the creature of my will. 
 
 Yet seems it not with gradual growth it grew, 
 
 But in one golden moment leapt to light. 
 
 O thrice-blest hour that bore her ! In a breath 
 
 The veil was rent, and lo ! before my gaze, 
 
 My thought's rapt gaze, that worshipped as it saw, 
 
 She stood; and was it given to me to fix 
 
 Its haunting shape before my actual sense, 
 
 Giving mine eyes its beauty ? Then I took 
 
 Marble, and wrought, and wrought, how long in vain ! 
 
 Leaving the marble, marble, and not life. 
 
 O blessed Gods ! yet knowing not despair ; 
 
 blessed Gods ! still grasping flying hope ; 
 
 And one by one, I wrought her beauties forth, 
 
 Clearing white brow, and breast, and lustrous smile, 
 
 From gross embraces of the entombing stone, 
 
 Till at the last, in still perfection, stood 
 
 The white sweet wonder, silent in the sun ; 
 
PYGMALION. 23 
 
 Silent, and yet how tuneful with sweet speech, 
 
 Utterance divine, that from the listening soul 
 
 Drew echoes, though the dull ear heard it not ! 
 
 And ever, as the summer breeze lays hand 
 
 Upon the harp, and shakes its music forth 
 
 In passionate sobs, and swells, and dying falls, 
 
 So through me did that mystic spirit pass, . 
 
 Till all my being vibrated with love, 
 
 And all my heart's hopes flutter'd round that stone, 
 
 And my days waiTd unto it, white and cold, 
 
 Silent and wordless, for a mortal love, 
 
 Ever, with passionate meanings, for sweet love, 
 
 Till life grew to one thought one throbbing hope, 
 
 And the great Gods heard but this prayer in heaven: 
 
 " O let her live, and my blest knees shall grow 
 
 " Unto your altar-steps in thankfulness ! 
 
 " But let her live, and all my life shall be 
 
 " One sacrifice thick incense steaming up 
 
 " Unto your foqtstools ! not with empty breath, 
 
 " O awful Gods ! ye know, I pour this prayer ; 
 
24 PYGMALION. 
 
 " I cry, even as the blinded cry for light, 
 " Even as wild mothers, in a slaughter'd town, 
 " Shriek o'er their babes for mercy ! Spurn me not, 
 " Dread powers, within whose lips are fearful joys, 
 "Are bliss unutterable despair, and death ! 
 " Ye crown'd eternities, whose will is fate, 
 " Ye, sitting in your high Olympian halls, 
 " Know only bliss for ever not as we, 
 " Shades of an hour, whose days are dark with death, 
 " That perish with the lapse of fleeting years. 
 " What is our life to your eternity ? 
 " What were it, though we sat on golden thrones, 
 " And lived the lives of heaven? a passing dream. 
 " Have mercy, Gods ! I sought not for this life, 
 " This mortal capability of pain; 
 " Ye gave this air-drawn being to my frame, 
 " This hunger of the soul ye gave to me, 
 " Unasking. Gods ! from you, I took this thirst 
 " Of beauty, which, unquenched, what prayers were 
 mine, 
 
PYGMALION. 25 
 
 " But for forgetfulness for peace and rest, 
 
 " Deep ease, sweet rest, within a peaceful urn ! 
 
 " What were it, Gods, though ye should bid her live ! 
 
 " O let her live ! What were it unto you 
 
 " To lift this cup of joy unto my lips, 
 
 " O sweeter draught than ever Hebe bore ! 
 
 " That I might drink and be even as a God, 
 
 " Knowing nor care nor sorrow of the earth, 
 
 u But only bliss bliss for how brief a space, 
 
 " Ere Hades hold me, shade amid pale shades, 
 
 " Yet, spite of Lethe, wailing still for her, 
 
 " Ever for her for her alone for her! 
 
 " Why are ye deaf? my prayer is in your ears, 
 
 " In the still night at rise and set of sun, 
 
 " And through the glaring watches of the day, 
 
 " Crying this cry for ever let her live! 
 
 " Olympian! throne above all thrones of Gods ! 
 
 " Hear me ! for thou hast known this fire of love, 
 
 " This burning passion to be clasp'd of one, 
 
 " Panting to Danae in a rain of gold; 
 
26 PYGMALION. 
 
 " Protean, in Amphitryon's bearded form, 
 
 " Quaffing deep raptures in Alcmena's arms. 
 
 " Did not Eurotas see thee as a swan 
 
 " Burn unto Leda? thou whom Semele 
 
 " Saw a consuming splendour, hear thou hear ! 
 
 " In dear remembrance of those fever'd hours 
 
 " Of supermortal passion, make this shape 
 
 " Perfect with motion and all gifts of sense, 
 
 " Feeling, and thought, that I may know her love ! 
 
 " thou, foam-born ! thou, whom the heavens have 
 
 heard 
 
 " Wailing the lost Adonis ! unto thee 
 " I turn beseeching ! Goddess ! unto thee 
 " This beating fever of the burning blood 
 " Is worship, and pale passion's pains and tears 
 " Thou view'st exultant; therefore, Goddess, hear! 
 " And I will worship thee thee, only thee, 
 " Grasping thy snowy altars evermore. 
 " Lo ! a deep vow I vow thee; hear iny vow! 
 " Give this white silence breathing to my arms, 
 
PYGMALION. 27 
 
 " And ever shall a chorus chant thy praise, 
 
 " With solemn songs, within thy temple's bounds, 
 
 " Heard of the heavens, and earth, and rounding sea ; 
 
 " And, in the sunshine, Aphrodite, here, 
 
 " Shall Cyprus bow before thy robeless self, 
 
 " Perfect in marble, by my chisel wrought, 
 
 " Fair as the blue waves saw thee, from the sea 
 
 " Eising, the glory and desire of earth." 
 
 So rose my prayer ere- the' cold morning glared 
 
 Athwart the East, and when the last faint flush 
 
 Of latest evening died from off the west, 
 
 In the hot noon and through the hush of night; 
 
 And lo ! I cried not unto deafen'd ears 
 
 Regardless. O my joy, sing forth their praise, 
 
 And let thy thanks go up even as my cry, 
 
 Pulsed from the inmost beatings of the heart ! 
 
 She lived ! she lived ! life above all life 
 
 Heaven-sent! I gazed on life ; along her cheek 
 
 Life flush'd ; life beat within her bosom's swell, 
 
 In quivering eyelid and in softening lip, 
 
28 PYGMALION. 
 
 In rosy limb and every violet vein. 
 Gods ! what a soul dreamed from her dewy eyes ! 
 What life within the tendrils of her hair 
 Awed me with joy with joy, even as I gazed, 
 To stillness but with joy excess of joy ! 
 What could I do but gaze but gaze and gaze, 
 With fearful hope, beholding that fair dream ; 
 Breathing to heaven, if it were but a dream, 
 So might I dream for ever ! but that fear 
 Each moment mingled more its night with light, 
 Hope drawn; joy whisper'd that I lived awake; 
 Awake ! O never slumber had such dream ! 
 The sculptured creature of my hands was gone ; 
 A new Pandora there before me stood. 
 Gods ! what a beauty sat upon her brow ! 
 Not the white glory on great Here's own, 
 Not laughing Hebe's whiter ! O that smile 
 The very smile that burns love into Gods 
 From Aphrodite's face ! glistening smile ! 
 O burst of sunlight on a darken'd world, 
 
PYGMALION. 29 
 
 That smites its sobs to gladness ! lips as red 
 
 As Hyacinthus' blood ! Ye heavens ! her words 
 
 Honey more sweet than ever Hybla hived ; 
 
 You heard the Sirens seize Odysseus' ear 
 
 With Circe's breathings ! Such a rounded arm 
 
 Won Zeus to Maia! tresses nets of gold, 
 
 Fit as lorn Ariadne's streaming hair 
 
 To catch flush'd Dionusus ! One such look 
 
 For one I had laugh'd to outdare Alcides' self, 
 
 And beard swart Hades! Blessed gods! she lived, 
 
 And I had hearing but to drink her words ; 
 
 Mine eyes had vision but to feed on her ; 
 
 Hope memory thought existence from my brain 
 
 She smote the world earth heaven and all but 
 
 her, 
 And joy and grief life death and all but her! 
 
A CHARACTER. 
 
 IN TWO SCENES. 
 
 LINA MERTON A Creole. 
 
 HELEN MERTON Her English Half- Sister. 
 
 SIR VIVIAN MORDAUNT A Poet, engaged to Lina. 
 
 NINETTE Companion to Lina. 
 
 SCENE I. ENGLAND. 
 Night. A Bed- Room. 
 
 LINA and NINETTE. 
 
 LINA. You hear me, Ninette ; not a word of this ! 
 NINETTE. No, Madam. 
 
 LINA. . If they ask you why I left 
 
 So suddenly, and wish'd not one, good-night, 
 Say say say anything : I 'm reading tired 
 
A CHARACTER. 31 
 
 I'd try this dress on I am nervous vexed 
 But not a word of this this foolish fit. 
 
 NINETTE. No, Madam. 
 
 LINA, And, I dare say he'll not ask, 
 
 But tell me if Sir Vivian ask, or not, 
 The reason of my leaving. Mind, I 'm well. 
 Good night. (A pause.) 
 
 Ninette ! yes, put my pearls away 
 Into their case. That's right. (A pause.) 
 
 And, stay! before 
 
 I sleep (1 11 read a little), let me know 
 How long Sir Vivian stays. And 'tis a whim 
 See if he talks much, Ninette ; if he talks 
 To any one for long. 'Tis a mere whim, 
 A foolish fancy; but you'll let me know. 
 He has not gone ? 
 
 NINETTE. No, Madam. 
 
 LiNAc No ? why no ? 
 
 You speak as if he stood here; I have left 
 An hour; what makes him stay ? There's in your eyes 
 
32 A CHARACTER. 
 
 A something that I 'd hear straight out in words. 
 Speak out ! I'd know why you are sure he 's here. 
 
 NINETTE. Madam, I saw him, as you left the room 
 
 LINA. Speak to my sister well ? 
 
 NINETTE. The casement's open; 
 
 A moment since I 'm certain that I caught 
 Their whispers on the terrace. 
 
 LINA. Whispers! fool? 
 
 They talk they talk aloud; why should they whisper? 
 Then it is so ; at last, I am not blind. 
 
 NINETTE. Madam, I only said, I thought 
 
 LINA. Speak out; 
 
 I will know all. 
 
 NINETTE. All ? That is all what 
 
 LINA. All ? 
 
 Well you may go ; good-night ! Put by that book ; 
 I will not read. The night is strangely hot; 
 Throw wide the casement. All ? You do not go ! 
 
 NINETTE. O Madam ! Madam! will you let me speak? 
 
 LINA. None of your pity I've not fallen to that. 
 
A CHARACTER. 33 
 
 Not to have seen it ! Slighted ! spurn'd ! cast off ! 
 
 And she this sister smiling in my face ! 
 
 I know your meaning : well, what would you say ? 
 
 NINETTE. O Madam, have some pity on your sister ! 
 I've known her from a girl, for we were girls 
 Together; and her nature is as kind 
 As 
 
 LINA. Mine is hard. 
 
 NINETTE. Madam, I said not that. 
 
 LINA. You only look'd it. Well ? 
 
 NINETTE. She would not tread 
 
 Upon a 
 
 LINA. Sister ? Ends the sentence so ? 
 Girl, I'm no worm; and let them have a care 
 On what they tread ! The fiery South has fangs 
 I 'm of the South that, trodden on, you die. 
 
 NINETTE. talk not so, my lady ! I have watch 'd, 
 Shuddering to think that it must come to this, 
 This evil love from 1 its first growth. Believe me, 
 Though you may blame, you well may pity her. 
 D 
 
34 A CHARACTER. 
 
 He is a thing of change ; as unstable 
 
 As the shifting wind ; one, weak infirm of will 
 
 Who veers with every fancy. You must know well 
 
 He cannot bind his .purpose down to the act 
 
 His reason urges ; so his love for you, 
 
 Firm for some months, and therefore hot for change, 
 
 The rather that she was your opposite, 
 
 Fluttered to her when she again was nigh, 
 
 Through struggling scruples, that I could but see. 
 
 And she, poor girl ! with tears and self-reproach^ 
 
 Urged on by passion caught by the very looks 
 
 The very utterance that was dear to you 
 
 LINA. Enough of that: you'll spare to speak of me; 
 Speak of this sister, and of her alone. 
 
 NINETTE. She 
 
 LINA. Stay; I'll tell you what this meek one did. 
 All heart all anything that I am not 
 She, that will daintily set free a fly, 
 Balking the hungry spider, spite of God 
 This petter of canaries and of pups 
 
A CHARACTER. 35 
 
 She, knowing this Sir Vivian sworn to me, 
 
 With virtuous reluctance sweetest ruth, 
 
 A thousand things are plain I see them now T=- 
 
 Took pains to snare him ; will she hold him too ? 
 
 And did her best to break her sister's heart ; 
 
 Though perhaps she guessed my heart was not quite stich 
 
 As novels deal with. 
 
 But, too much of this ; 
 The curtain rose so quickly for their play, 
 I've been more wordy much than is my wont. 
 But you've too milky blood too little fire 
 To chat my secrets; you've a wholesome fear, 
 Seeing me more thoroughly for what I am, 
 Than most; though little do I wear a mask, 
 And little do I care how much you've heard. 
 Yet see you talk not; you'd not earn my hate. 
 I've only said what, curse her ! all must see 
 Will see do see* O stone-blind dolt ! ere this, 
 Had I had natural eyes you saw it plain 
 I had when I forget it, bless her, Heaven ! 
 
 
36 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Not set a step look'd in a face not breathed 
 At home out anywhere, but the meanest groom 
 That ever crouched to the dust I trod, my scorn, 
 I'd seen, had met me with his sneering pity, 
 Looking to see me thankful for his alms, 
 His charitable doles of " poor" and " poor," 
 As if I were a beggar at the gate, 
 Whining for scraps ! And I'm to love her still ? 
 
 NINETTE, O Madam ! 
 
 LINA. Off! why should I talk and talk, 
 
 As if I were a school-girl, novel-bit ? 
 Go, now; but as the play will be played out, 
 And all our sex since Eve have been the same, 
 Curious to learn whatever 's from them hid, 
 I 'd know, Ninette, whate'er your sharp eyes see. 
 You think I'll wince to hear of what their love 
 Must grow with sugar'd words, and mingling sighs, 
 And secret meetings secret mark you that ! 
 I scare them, trust me ! always in their thoughts ! 
 But tell me all tones whispers looks and smiles ; 
 
A CHARACTER. 37 
 
 I know her Vivian's well. Fear not for me ! 
 
 The spasm pass'd for good that shook me first ; 
 
 And for the future .you'll but see myself, 
 
 No whimperer, but just one with curious eye 
 
 (Perhaps a bitter one by nature that), 
 
 Who'll see each act through; just Faust's ancient 
 
 friend, 
 
 Much in his spirit eyeing all their plans, 
 To fashion to my taste this' strange surprise 
 They quake to show me. We'll enjoy it, girl, 
 And study gentle spirits' gentle ways 
 (Meek Walton's gentle hooking through his frog 
 As though he loved him); reading for our jest 
 Another leaf from nature's puzzling book ; 
 And marvelling, in their case, what ending time 
 Will give their story tragic-wise, you know, 
 Some plots do end with sorrows and with death, 
 Not closing pleasantly as others do, 
 All tangles straighten'd, and all wrongs forgot, 
 With marriage, comfort, and a world of sweets. 
 
38 A CHARACTER. 
 
 " What will be, will be," so the proverb runs ; 
 Time hides and shows much; Ninette, we shall see. 
 
 NINETTE. I knew I know 't will have an evil end. 
 What good could come of it ? what end but ill ? 
 It must it will 
 
 LINA. Nay, if you prophesy, 
 
 A croaking raven, of revenge 
 
 NINETTE. Kevenge 1 
 
 I never named it. 
 
 LINA. Well, of ill, then ill 
 
 To this sweet pair, their sister must not hear. 
 Not one word more: Ninette, I said, Good-night. 
 
 NINETTE . Madam ! 
 
 LINA. Close the door. \JExit NINETTE. 
 
 O God ! she 's gone, 
 
 And, for to-night, this mad self-mockery ends. 
 I must be calm; I must be calm; there's fire 
 Within my brain, but I must not go mad. 
 What's " mad" ? To act no purpose out a reed, 
 To bend to every gust that passion blows, 
 
A CHARACTER. 39 
 
 And yet not act act all that reason wills ; 
 
 That were a hell to shrink from. Let me think : 
 
 He loves he loves her loves her ! Let me say 
 
 The words again: I speak them, and my ears 
 
 Hear them ; loves her ! they scarce have meaning yet ; 
 
 Loves her, not me; O Vivian, yesterday 
 
 Through flowers and sunshine now one bleak sharp 
 
 turn 
 
 To utter barrenness that cannot end, 
 For ever ever ! that burning tears 
 Would rain this weight of sorrow from my brain, 
 And let me think unfrenzied of this blow ! 
 Weep? weep and groan? I will not shed a tear; 
 Not one not one. May the fierce fire I feel 
 Blast them. O that I were God, to turn 
 Their every day to sorrow ! God, to scorch 
 Their hopes to blackness ! God, to make their love 
 A hatred and a loathing ! Am I mad, 
 To rave and babble ! What are storms of words, 
 Unless, like the red hail that Egypt smote, 
 
40 A CHARACTER. 
 
 They burnt and blister'd ! O sweet sleep 1 sweet sleep ! 
 When shall I know the sleep of yesternight ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Morning. A Library opening on to a Garden. 
 
 LINA alone. 
 
 LINA. O how I thirst and hunger, face to face, 
 To curse them ! not to have seen it ! not to have seen 
 What all were loud of! I to be made the jest 
 Of all in the house, down to the very scullion; 
 The kitchen's merriment a moving joke 
 The jeer of the stables ! would that I could stab him ! 
 And be the rabble's wonder, days and weeks ? 
 The news of papers, and the talk of taps ? 
 Closed with the rope and hangman? Stab her? why, 
 That, if one weighs it, is but poor revenge, 
 Perhaps a loss of that for which one seeks ; 
 No ; be not rash ; yet rein your passion in, 
 
A CHARACTER. 
 
 41 
 
 Though it should choke you, till occasion shriek 
 "Loose it!" then then? Why, here her Vivian 
 
 comes ; 
 I'll scare my Damon. 
 
 [Enter VIVIAN MORDAUNT]. 
 
 What you, Vivian, here ? 
 
 VIVIAN. Why, is it strange to see me ? 
 
 LINA. But so soon ! 
 
 What miracles cannot that boy effect, 
 The pigmy Cupid ! to have made you rise 
 By this ! by nine ! nay, trust your eyes ! an hour 
 A whole full hour before you saw the sun, 
 Unsmitten; then too, sir, your stay was late, 
 Or I'm mistaken, so the marvel 's more ; 
 What brings you ? Why, the bees are hardly out, 
 And larks alone, and labourers yet abroad ; 
 Come, tell me why you 're here? 
 
 VIVIAN. Are you not here? 
 
 LINA, How sweet a compliment! most neatly 
 turned : 
 
42 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Ah ! there you poets distance others so ! 
 
 Still, there 's this trifling drawback from the worth 
 
 Of all your flatteries, you so deal in lies. 
 
 VIVIAN. I lies? Miss Merton? 
 
 LIN A. O, I crave your grace, 
 
 Sir Vivian Mordaunt, Baronet, M.P. 
 (Title for title) if bare words affright, 
 We '11 mask them ; this one shall have dainty trim ; 
 Your nerves being weak, we '11 fit it for your sight, 
 And call it fiction ; that 's poetic phrase ; 
 Now own you 're false. 
 
 VIVIAN. As false as all my tribe. 
 
 LINA. No falser ? Well, you 're of a lying crew ; 
 I 'd best have shunn'd you. 
 
 VIVIAN. [Aside], Does she know the truth? 
 
 Or only banter in her bitter vein? 
 [Aloud]. You 'd best have shunned me? Why, your 
 talk is strange. 
 
 LINA. The world is strange, Sir Vivian. Men are 
 strange. 
 
A CHARACTER. 43 
 
 Life and its ways are stranger than I dream'd. 
 We live to learn strange wisdom. 
 
 VIVIAN. Come you deal 
 
 In riddles ; I 
 
 LINA. Can guess them ? can you ? Do ! 
 
 Do ! Nay, where 's Helen ? Helen shall be here 
 To praise your quickness ; she might guess them, too. 
 Ah, here she comes; she has a pleasant face; 
 I know you love that it should bless your dreams. 
 
 [Enter HELEN] . 
 
 Ah Helen, did you feel your ears afire? 
 I see your cheeks are burning ; Vivian and I 
 Were talking of you. Why, how quick you 're pale, 
 But now a poppy ! I but told you, sister, 
 We talked of you. What could we say but good? 
 I love you don't I? Vivian, do not you? 
 You love my sister? 
 
 VIVIAN. Love? your sister? yes 
 
 LINA. Why there you two stand, tongue-tied red 
 and white, 
 
44 A CHARACTER. 
 
 As if, poor children, you were girl and boy, 
 And feared a scolding. What have you to fear? 
 Come, have you written anything of late? 
 What, poet, not a sonnet, good or bad? 
 Hand me that purple volume from the shelf ! 
 Not Tennyson the next a poet too 
 The gentler Browning ; how I hoard them both ! 
 You Ve read her masterpiece her Geraldine? 
 Her Duchess May? that has the antique ring ; 
 She 's great, because she 's earnest. 
 
 VIVIAN. True her heart 
 
 Throbs through her sentences, and so they live. 
 
 LINA. Ah, here 's a poem that is talked of much ; 
 You know it surely Bertha in the Lane ? 
 What think you of it ? Sure you know it, sister ? 
 The tale 's a wild one ; not a jot from life ; 
 It must be fancied. On her dying bed, 
 The elder of two sisters, as 'twere I, 
 You listening, sobs into the younger's ears 
 The untold sorrow that had made her die, 
 
A CHARACTER. 45 
 
 Heart-broken how, hedge-hidden, in the lane 
 
 That names the tale, her own betroth'd she heard 
 
 Wooing her sister both, so false to her; 
 
 How she had locked this sorrow in her heart 
 
 From all but heaven; and in her tender love 
 
 For this false sister, she had made them one, 
 
 And died to bless them, blessing them, content. 
 
 What think you of the story? Vivian, you ? 
 
 Surely a touching one, with tenderest love, 
 
 And woman's noblest teachings over-brimm'd ; 
 
 One to fill eyes with purifying tears, 
 
 And leave all hearts but better'd ? Come, I 'd hear 
 
 A poet's judgment of a poet's tale ; 
 
 Mind, of the tale the story ; for its form, 
 
 Spare our poor ears a talk of rhymes and rules 
 
 Obey'd or broken. 
 
 VIVIAN. Why, what can I say 
 
 But echo your opinion? who can praise 
 Enough the pen that such a wonder drew 
 Of angel meekness ? Who can 
 
46 A CHARACTER. 
 
 LINA. And you think 
 
 This patient sufferer was no puling fool 
 To take her wrongs so lightly? Do you so? 
 What thinks our Helen? Does she think so too? 
 What not a word? Why, it is but a tale 
 We talk of sister it is but a tale ; 
 There never was a sister was so false. 
 Nor ever yet a man, forsworn, so base 
 As to make a sister turn a sister's days 
 To bitterness. Have you a word for them? 
 
 VIVIAN. O Lina, Lina, 'tis an erring world, 
 A world where all must suffer and forgive 
 Much evil, call it who would win to heaven. 
 And for this story that this poet tells, 
 Might there not, Lina, might there not be said 
 Something a something even for those who 
 
 erred ? 
 
 Say that a man who thinks he truly loves, 
 And in that thought has pledged his faith to one, 
 While yet he can change 
 
A CHARACTER. 47 
 
 LINA. While yet he can change? 
 
 I thought you said his faith was pledged? 
 
 VIVIAN. Yes yes 
 
 But not at the altar. 
 
 LINA. And what matters that? 
 
 The whole earth is truth's altar. Palter not ; 
 There J s not an instant but we front a God, 
 Here - every where. Think you think you that 
 
 heaven, 
 
 Heaven asks of where and when a lie is lied, 
 And holds speech nothing, spoken in the sight of God, 
 And for eternity, false true or false 
 As eternity shall teach each soul to learn ? 
 O palter not; faith plighted 'neath a roof, 
 On some square feet, made holy by a priest, 
 Is not a whit more damning, being broke, 
 Than troth sworn freely elsewhere on God's earth, 
 That God has bless'd and sanctified himself. 
 Go on. 
 
 VIVIAN. I did not say I did not blame 
 
48 A CHARACTER. 
 
 LIN A. Blame ? 
 
 VIVIAN. Ay, condemn 
 
 LINA. Condemn ? 
 
 VIVIAN. What should I say ? 
 
 LINA. Loathe hate curse curse such false- 
 ness foul in him, 
 
 But fouler in the sister, base of heart 
 (Give me that water!) she that did not spurn him 
 At the first breath of his baseness, but could plot, 
 And plot, and plot, against a sister's heart, 
 Stealing the very thing that made life sweet, 
 Without which life were but a thirst for the grave, 
 And days but lived for vengeance. Curse them ! Curse 
 them ! 
 
 HELEN. O Vivian Vivian! 
 
 VIVIAN. Look ! your sister faints ; 
 
 Helen sweet Helen drink, sweet Helen Helen ! 
 Sprinkle her forehead; Lina Lina mercy ! 
 
 LINA. Mercy ? I ? Why it's but a poet's tale 
 Is't not we talked of? You excusing breach 
 
A CHARACTER. 49 
 
 Of oaths, and those who broke them I but speaking 
 
 Even as my nature prompts me ; I 'm not one, 
 
 You know, for boudoir nicety of phrase 
 
 And spoke, in natural words, what such a baseness 
 
 Would move me to riot being perfection quite, 
 
 And weakness, like this wonder in the song, 
 
 But a mere woman flesh, and blood, and fire 
 
 That, stung, will sting, and, trodden on, will turn. 
 
 It moved her strangely though. What could so move 
 
 her? 
 
 Well, here's Ninette, and, as I like not scenes, 
 I'll to the sunshine, and henceforth take care 
 To criticize my favourites, and their songs, 
 Seeing we treat them so as if they were truths, 
 By myself, au revoir! see she's coming to. 
 
50 
 
 AEIADNE. 
 
 
 
 MORN rose on Naxos, golden, dewy morn, 
 Climbing its eastern cliffs with gleaming light, 
 Purpling each inland peak and dusky gorge 
 Of the grey distance, morn, on lowland slopes 
 Of olive-ground, and vines, and yellowing corn, 
 Orchard, and flowery pasture, white with kine, 
 On forest, hill-side cot, and rounding sea, 
 And the still tent of Theseus by the shore. 
 
 Morn rose on Naxos chill and freshening morn, 
 And scarce the unbreathing air a twitter heard 
 From eave or bough, nor yet a blue smoke rose 
 From glade, or misty vale, or far-off town; 
 One only sign of life, a dusky sail, 
 
ARIADNE. 51 
 
 Stole dark afar across the distant sea, 
 Flying ; all else unmoved in stillness lay 
 Beneath the silence of the brightening heavens, 
 Nor sound was heard to break the slumbrous calm, 
 Save the soft lapse of waves along the strand. 
 
 A white form from the tent, a glance, a cry. 
 
 " Where art thou, Theseus ? Theseus ! Theseus ! 
 
 where ? 
 
 " Why hast thou stolen thus with earliest dawn, 
 " Forth from thy couch forth from these faithless 
 
 arms 
 
 " That even in slumber should have clasp'd thee still ! 
 " Truant! ah me ! and hast thou learnt to fly 
 " So early from thy Ariadne's love ! 
 " Where art thou? Is it well to fright me thus - 
 " To scare me for a moment with the dread 
 " Of one abandoned ! Art thou in the woods 
 n With all that could have told me where thou art ! 
 " Cruel ! and couldst thou not have left me one, 
 
52 ARIADNE. 
 
 " Ere this to'have laugli'd away my idle fears ! 
 
 " He could have told thee all the start the shriek 
 
 " The pallid face with which I found thee gone, 
 
 " And furnish'd laughter for thy glad return; 
 
 " But thus ! to leave me, cruel ! thus, alone ! 
 
 " There is no sound of horns among the hills, 
 
 " No shouts that tell they track or bay the boar. 
 
 " fearful stillness ! O that one would speak ! 
 
 " O would that I were fronting wolf or pard 
 
 " But by thy side this moment ! so strange fear 
 
 * Possesses me, O love ! apart from thee ! 
 
 " The galley ? gone ? Ye Gods ! it is not gone ? 
 
 " Here, by this rock it lay but yesternight ? 
 
 " Gone ? through this track its keel slid down the shore ; 
 
 " And I slept calmly as it cleft the sea ? 
 
 " Gone? gone? where gone? that sail ! 'tis his! 'tis 
 
 his! 
 
 " Return, Theseus ! Theseus ! love ! return ! 
 " Thou wilt return ? thou dost but try my love ? 
 " Thou wilt return to make my foolish fears 
 
ARIADNE. 53 
 
 " Thy jest ? Beturn, and I will laugli with thee ! 
 " Eetiirn! return ! and canst thou hear my shrieks, 
 " Nor heed my cry ! And wouldst thou have me weep ? 
 " Weep ! I that wept, white with wild fear, the 
 
 while 
 
 " Thou slew'st the abhorred monster ! If it be 
 " Thou takest pleasure in these bitter tears, 
 " Come back, and I will weep myself away, 
 " A streaming Niobe, to win thy smiles ! 
 " O stony heart ! why wilt thou wring me thus ? 
 " O heart more cold unto my shrilling cries 
 " Than these wild hills that wail to thee, return ! 
 " Than all these island rocks that shriek, return ! 
 " Come back! Thou seest me rend this blinding hair; 
 " Hast thou not sworn, each tress thou didst so prize, 
 " That sight of home, and thy gray father's face, 
 " Were less' a joy to thee, and lightlier held? 
 " Thy sail ! thy sail ! O do my watery eyes 
 " Take part with thee, so loved ! to crush me down ! 
 " Gone ! gone ! and wilt thou wilt thou not return? 
 
54 ARIADNE. 
 
 " Heartless, unfearing the just Gods, wilt thou, 
 
 " Theseus ! my lord ! my love ! desert me thus !' 
 
 " Thus leave me, stranger in this strange wild land, 
 
 " Friendless, afar from all I left for thee, 
 
 " Crete, my old home, and my ancestral halls, 
 
 " My father's love, and the remember'd haunts 
 
 " Of childhood, all that knew me, all I knew, 
 
 " All all woe ! woe ! that I shall know no more. 
 
 " Why didst thou lure me, craftiest, from my home ? 
 
 " There, if, thy love grown cold, thou thus hadst fled, 
 
 " I had found comfort in fond words and smiles 
 
 " Familiar, and the pity of my kin, 
 
 " Tears wept with mine, tears wept by loving eyes, 
 
 " That had wash'd out thy traces from my heart, 
 
 " Perchance, in years, had given me back to joy. 
 
 " O that thy steps had never trodden Crete ! 
 
 " O that these eyes had never on thee fed ! 
 
 " O that, weak heart ! I ne'er had look'd my love, 
 
 " Or, looking, thou hadst thrust it back with hate ! 
 
 " Did I not save thee ? I ? Was it for this, 
 
ARIADNE. 55 
 
 " Despite Crete's hate despite my father's wrath, 
 
 " Perchance to slay me, that I ventured all 
 
 " For thee for thee forgetting all for thee ! 
 
 " Thou know'st it all; who knows it if not thou, 
 
 " Save the just Gods the Gods who hear my cry, 
 
 " And mutter vengeance o'er thy flying head, 
 
 " Forsworn ! And, lo ! on thy accursed track 
 
 " Rush the dread furies ; lo ! afar I see 
 
 " The hoary ^Egeus, watching for his son, 
 
 " His son that nears him still with hastening oars, 
 
 " Unknown, that nears him but to dash him down, 
 
 " Moaning, to darkness and the dreadful shades, 
 
 "The while thy grief wails after him in vain ; 
 
 " And, lo, again the good Gods glad my sight 
 
 " With vengeance; blood again, thy blood, I see 
 
 " Streaming; who bids Hippolytus depart 
 
 " But thou thou, sword of lustful Phgedra's hate 
 
 " Against tfry boy thy son thy fair-hair'd boy? 
 
 " I see the ivory chariot whirl him on 
 
 " The madden'd horses down the rocky way 
 
56 ARIADNE. 
 
 " Dashing the roaring monster in their path ; 
 
 " And plates and ivory splinters of the car, 
 
 u And blood and limbs, sprung from'thee, crushed and 
 
 torn, 
 
 " Poseidon scatters down the shrieking shores ; 
 " And thou, too late too late, bewail'st, in vain, 
 " Thy blindness and thy hapless darling's fate, 
 " And think'st of me, abandoned, and my woe; 
 " Thou who didst show no pity, to the Gods 
 " Shrieking for pity, that my vengeful cries 
 " Drag thee not down unto the nether gloom, 
 " To endless tortures and undying woe. 
 " Dread Gods ! 1 know these things shall surely be ! 
 " But other, wilder whispers throng my ears, 
 " And in my thought a fountain of sweet hope 
 " Mingles its gladness with my lorn despair. 
 " Lo ! wild flush'd faces reel before mine eyes, 
 " And furious revels, dances, and fierce glee,* 
 " Are round me, tossing arms and leaping forms, 
 " Skin-clad and horny-hoofed, and hands that clash 
 
ARIADNE. 57 
 
 " Shrill cymbals, and the stormy joy of flutes 
 
 " And horns, and blare of trumpets, and all hues 
 
 " Of Iris' watery bow, on bounding nymphs, 
 
 " Vine-crown'd and thyrsus-sceptred, and one form, 
 
 " God of the roaring triumph, on a car 
 
 " Golden and jewel-lustred, carved and bossed, 
 
 " As by Hephsestus, shouting, rolls along, 
 
 " Jocund and panther-drawn, and, through the sun, 
 
 " Down through the glaring splendour, with wild bound, 
 
 " Leaps, as he nears me, and a mighty cup, 
 
 " Dripping with odorous nectar, to my lips 
 
 " Is raised, and mad sweet mirth frenzy divine 
 
 " Is in my veins; hot love burns through mine eyes, 
 
 tl And o'er the roar and rout, I roll along, 
 
 " Throned by the God, and lifted by his love 
 
 " Unto forgetfulness of mortal pains, 
 
 " Up to the prayers, and praise, and awe of earth." 
 
THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 " There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.. 
 
 " I won it, Ned ; and you shall win it too, 
 
 " Or wait a twelvemonth. Books for ever books ! 
 
 " Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes ! 
 
 "I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength 
 
 " To breast the world with, and to cleave your way; 
 
 " No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care, 
 
 " She needing yours. There there I love you, Ned, 
 
 " Both for your own, and for your mother's sake ; 
 
 " So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month, 
 
 " And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh, 
 
 A jolly triumph at his rare conceit, 
 
 He left the subject; and, across the wine, 
 
 We talked, or rather, all the talk was his, 
 
THE BOAT-RACE. 59 
 
 Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, 
 
 Both of his set, and others Clare, the boast 
 
 Of Jesus' ; and young Edmonds, he who fell, 
 
 Cleaving the ranks at Alma; and, to-day, 
 
 There was young Chester might be named with them ; 
 
 " Why, boy, I 'm told his room is lit with cups 
 
 " Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; 
 
 " Small chance for you, boy! " And again his laugh, 
 
 With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall; 
 
 But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth 
 
 Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went, 
 
 But left not. Through the garden porch I turned, 
 
 But, on its sun-neck'd seats, its jessamine shades 
 
 Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths 
 
 Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one 
 
 Sweeter than all its roses, and across 
 
 Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells, 
 
 There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond 
 
 Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her found her there, 
 
 A summer blossom, hat the peering sun 
 
60 THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 Peep'd at through blossoms,- that the summer airs 
 Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold, 
 Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step, 
 Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path 
 I pass'd ; and, ere her eye could cease to count 
 The orchard daisies, in some summer mood 
 Dreaming, (was I her thought !), my murmur 'd 
 
 " Kate," 
 
 Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek, 
 And lit her eyes with starry lights of love 
 That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all, 
 And told her that her father's jovial jest 
 Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears 
 Away, and all her little trembling doubts, 
 Until hope won her heart to happy dreams, 
 And all the future smiled with happy love. 
 Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east, 
 Grleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk, 
 Dr part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words 
 Eemember'd for a lifetime. Home I went, 
 
THE BOAT-RACE. 61 
 
 And in my College rooms what blissful hopes 
 
 Were mine! what thoughts that still'd to happy dreams, 
 
 Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, 
 
 Made my years Eden, and lit up my home, 
 
 (The ivied Rectory my sleep made mine), 
 
 With little faces, and the gleams of curls, 
 
 And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. 
 
 happy night ! O more than happy dreams ! 
 But with the earliest twitter from the eaves, 
 
 1 rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard, 
 As if but boating were the crown of life, 
 Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes, 
 Even my new tragedy upon the stocks, 
 
 I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves, 
 
 And all that makes a wherry sure to win, 
 
 And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had, 
 
 Ere study put my boyhood's feats away, 
 
 And made me book-worm ; all that day, my hand 
 
 Grew more and more familiar with the oar, 
 
 And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach 
 
62 THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight, 
 
 Its by-laid cunning back; so, day by day, 
 
 From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon 
 
 Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns, 
 
 I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars, 
 
 And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come, 
 
 And breathed myself, in sport, one after one, 
 
 Against the men with whom I was to row, 
 
 Until I fear'd but Chester him alone. 
 
 So June stole on to July, sun by sun, 
 
 And the day came ; how well I mind that day, 
 
 Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad 
 
 To dim the golden greenness of the fields, 
 
 And all a happy hush about the earth, 
 
 And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon, 
 
 Save where along the peopled towing-paths, 
 
 Banking the river, swarm'd the city out, 
 
 Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds, 
 
 Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks, 
 
 That flush'd with boats and barges, silken- awn'd, 
 
THE BOAT-RACE. 63 
 
 Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, 
 
 Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh, 
 
 Bright as their champagne. One, among them all, 
 
 My eye saw only ; one, that morning, left, 
 
 With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart, 
 
 And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears ; 
 
 One, that upon my neck had parting hung 
 
 Arms white as daisies on my bosom hid 
 
 A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart, 
 
 Fiird with what fondness ! yearning with what love ! 
 
 O hope, and would the glad day make her mine ! 
 
 O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone ? 
 
 There was a murmur in my heart of " Yes," 
 
 That sung to slumber every wakening fear 
 
 That still would stir and shake me with its dread. 
 
 And now a hush was on the wavering crowd 
 
 That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, 
 
 A grassy mile, to where we were to turn 
 
 A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags. 
 
 And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went, 
 
64 THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 As in a horse-race, all, at first, acrowd; 
 Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off, 
 Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I 
 Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern, 
 The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife 
 Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar, 
 Strain'd to the work before me. Head to head 
 Through the wild cheering river-banks we clove 
 The swarming waters, raining streams of toil; 
 But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength 
 Held on, enduring, mine still waning more, 
 And parting with the victory, inch by inch, 
 Yet straining on, as if I strove with death, 
 Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard, 
 And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick, 
 > And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words : 
 " What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so ? 
 " The cup's not worth the moaning of a man, 
 " No, nor the triumph; tush, boy, I must win." 
 Then from the anguish of my heart, a cry 
 
THE BOAT-RACE. 65 
 
 Burst: " Kate, dearest Kate love we lose !" 
 
 " All ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win," 
 
 He answered; " faith! my boy, I pity you." 
 
 " Oh, if you lose," I answered, " you but lose 
 
 " A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride ; 
 
 " I, losing, lose, what' priceless years of joy ! 
 
 " Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness 
 
 " What years with her that I might call my wife ! 
 
 " Winning, I win her !" O thrice noble heart ! 
 
 I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face ; 
 
 I saw a nobler light light up his eyes; 
 
 I saw the flush of pride die into one 
 
 Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve ; 
 
 No word he spoke ; one only look he threw, 
 
 That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap 
 
 In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name, 
 
 1 was before him, through the tracking eyes 
 
 Of following thousands, heading to the goal, 
 
 The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name 
 
 Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foiTd. at last !" 
 
 
G6 THE BOAT-RACE. 
 
 how I turn'd to him ! with what a heart ! 
 Unheard the shouts unseen the crowding gaze 
 That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand 
 With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told 
 
 1 shamed to hear my name more loud than his, 
 And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife, 
 My own dear wife; and so I won a friend, 
 Chester, more dear than all but only her 
 
 And her's, the small ones of my College dreams. 
 
67 
 
 THE SAGA 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 HEAR the fame of Harald the strife-lover ! 
 Hear the fall of Harald of the fair hair! 
 
 In his hall the son of Sigurd feasted; 
 
 On the benches lay and drank his war-men. 
 
 On the hall-hearth redly blazed the pine logs; 
 Fast the horns went round, with ale white-foaming ; 
 
 Then sang Snorr, the Scald, the rune-compeller, 
 The iierce Norse hearts joying with his sagas. 
 
 
68 THE SAGA OF THE 
 
 Through his chant was heard the clash of war-ships, 
 Clang of shields and helms, and shrieks of slaughter. 
 
 For he told the war-deeds of Hardrada,. 
 Told the deeds of Harald the helm -cleaver. 
 
 " Fiercely forth to ocean sweep his war-ships, 
 
 " Sweep his dragons forth his fierce sea-roamers; 
 
 " Halland sees, aghast, his gleaming war-shields ; 
 '* Valland glares with red fires of his kindling; 
 
 " Well Northumbria knows his axe-men's war-play; 
 " White-lipp'd Mercia shrieks before Sigurdson ; 
 
 " Erin's widows wail his stormful coming ; 
 " Bretland's maids remember well the Viking; 
 
 " Hunger'd are ye, kites, ye yellow-footed ? 
 " Follow far his steeds his ocean-riders! 
 
FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA. 69 
 
 " Norrasund's blue straits his swift keels farrow; 
 
 " Serkland's spoils sink deep his sea-kissed gunwales ; 
 
 " Jorsalaland greets the mailed Norseman; 
 " Loud the Greekland's city greets the Varing; 
 
 " Home return his gilt-beak'd barks, deep-laden, 
 " Laden deep with treasures, battle-gather'd ; 
 
 " Jarl and Bonder hail the King returning, 
 " Joyful throne the sainted Olaf 's brother ; 
 
 " Let the Danes' land well its green coasts buckler, 
 " Shield its shore towns well from Harald's Norsemen! 
 
 " White in ashes lie green Jutland's homesteads; 
 
 " Swend, the Danes' king, shields not smoking Fyen; 
 
 " Hela's ravening' maw so well who gorges, 
 
 " Joys so well the Dread ones the Slain-choosers ? 
 
70 THE SAGA OF THE 
 
 " Grim the gory sword- strife at Nisaa ; 
 
 " Sixty war- ships Swend lost in the sword-game; 
 
 " Why no more flaps death the dread Landeya, 
 " Harald's flag, the dreaded far Land- waster ? 
 
 " Why no more heaps he the feast of ravens, 
 " Sigurdson, the stern the gaunt wolf-gorger ?" 
 
 Then up through the hall, stern strode Earl Tosti; 
 Fierce he strode, the wrathful son of Godwin; 
 
 And he spoke, " O King, the white isle greets you; 
 " Knut's throne longs to hold the son of Sigurd; 
 
 " Curses on the crafty son of Godwin, 
 " He upon the throne of Edward seated! 
 
 " Curses deep oh him, born of my mother! 
 " Who withstood me, Tosti, in my Earl-rights! 
 
FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA. 71 
 
 " Not for long shall he escape my vengeance; 
 " Many they who soon shall cry my war-cry; 
 
 " Burgh, and thorpe, and grange, and tower are ready; 
 " Thane and thrall shall muster to my coming; 
 
 " King, send forth thy message through thy Norsemen! 
 " London soon shall throne thee in its Minster. 
 
 " Grasp the great sway held by Knut the mighty ! 
 " So with his thy glory shall he mated." 
 
 Ceased the Earl, and loud round through the court-men, 
 Hoarsely roll'd approval of his counsel. 
 
 But the King sat silent in his high-seat. 
 
 And on all the Earl spoke much he pondered; 
 
 Then arose the storm of song, fierce- chaunted ; 
 Snorr's the Scald's song, sweeping all hearts war wards ; 
 
72 THE SAGA OF THE 
 
 " Launch the serpents! launch the gold-maned dragons! 
 " Let their long keels cleave again the billows! 
 
 " Let their dark sails hold again the storm- winds! 
 " Let their tall masts creak before the tempests 
 
 " Let the sun glow red upon their shield-rows, 
 
 " On their steel scales rank'd along their bulwarks! 
 
 " Swift, with strong-arm'd stroke, we sweep the ocean; 
 " Swift our long oars smite the foam-maned billows; 
 
 :i Grey rise England's surf-swept cliffs to landwards; 
 " Green her fields, and black her ports rise shore wards ; 
 
 I 
 
 '* Deep our furrows cut the rushy Humber; 
 
 '* Dark our anchors cleave the Ouse's tideway; 
 
 " Why so near to Yule-tide flash the Bael -fires ? 
 1 Fast the beacons flame afar our coming ; 
 
FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA. 73 
 
 " Why do thane and thrall snatch down their war-gear ? 
 " Fast from forest, moor, and dale, they muster; 
 
 " Fast the thickening tide of war rolls onwards; 
 " Fast the war-ranks pour towards the foemen; 
 
 " Well may Jovick's Earls their war-men gather ! 
 " Sore shall wall and tall tower need their bowmen; 
 
 " For he comes whose war-deeds scalds are chanting ! 
 " He, the shield-ring-breaker in the war-fray ; 
 
 " Through the sleet of hissing arrows stalks he; 
 
 " Where the death-sparks leap from helms deep-cloven; 
 
 " War-cries, and the shrill- tongued yells of slaughter 
 " Shriek the conquering war- way of Sigurdson." 
 
 So sang Snorr, the Scald, and, to his singing, 
 Fiercely throbb'd the war-men's hearts around him ; 
 
74 FALL OF HARALD HARDRADA. 
 
 And around the bearded court-men rising, 
 Clash'd their liking of the stormy scald-song. 
 
 Then the rage of battle seized Sigurdson, 
 The Berserker thirsting for the onset; 
 
 And his faith he plighted to Earl Tosti, 
 
 And his word sped forth through shore and upland. 
 
 Fast his host have gather'd; through the tempest, 
 Fast his dragons steers he towards the slaughter. 
 
75 
 
 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 SAY you that there 's no food for poetry 
 
 In all the life around us that our age 
 
 Is too prosaic and mechanical, 
 
 To find a subject for the poet's pen ! 
 
 Tush ! as well might the blind old beggar say, 
 
 Who walks in night through this majestic world, 
 
 That all the wonders that he cannot see 
 
 Have no existence ; trust me, friend, in you, 
 
 Not in the manners spirit of our age, 
 
 Or what else you have named, the reason lies. 
 
 The want is yours ; a Shakespeare yet would find 
 
 In many a drawing-room and busy street, 
 
 Nay, in the squalid alleys of our towns, 
 
 And in our very jails and workhouses, 
 
76 A NEW GBISELDA. 
 
 Full many a pale Ophelia with her doom 
 Struggling in vain, in wordless agony; 
 Ah, if you had a Chaucer's eye to see ! 
 How many a meek Griselda round us bears, 
 With uncomplaining misery of heart, 
 The load her nature was not fashioned for ! 
 Why, if I were a poet, I could tell 
 A tale of every-day unvarnished life, 
 That should upon the common heart of all, 
 Knock and bring tears for answer. In our place, 
 A quiet village in the heart of Kent, 
 There lived two families well known to all, 
 For, through the country, not the oldest man 
 Could tell the time when first to settle there 
 The earliest of the Blakes or Hills had come. 
 There had they, in their two white cottages, 
 Father and son, dwelt on beyond the reach 
 Of even our oldest memories ; the boy 
 Growing into labour as the aged man 
 Grew out of it, and laid him down to rest. 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 77 
 
 A widower long, Nathaniel Blake was now 
 
 Not old, but yet some half score years beyond 
 
 The point where life slopes downwards, at the time 
 
 My tale begins. How plain I see him now 
 
 As if he were before me, tall and stern, 
 
 With a firm step and an unbending gait, 
 
 Though toiling years had touch'd his hair to grey ; 
 
 His eye 'twas like a hawk's, as sharp and' bright, 
 
 An eye that few amongst us cared to meet, 
 
 Even in its friendly greetings, so it seem'd 
 
 To look the man it gazed on, through and through. 
 
 Twas said by those who knew him in his youth 
 
 That none then show'd an eye or laugh'd a laugh 
 
 More brimming over with a light heart's mirth 
 
 Than he; his tongue dropp'd jokes and moving jests 
 
 On all he met with ; so he moved, a sun, 
 
 To all our neighbourhood; with him gladness came, 
 
 And often quoted sayings harmless mirth, 
 
 A very wealth of laughs remain'd behind. 
 
 These were his boyish days; but manhood came, 
 
78 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 And with it, all the usual cares of life, 
 
 And many most men know not ; he was tried, 
 
 They say, most sorely ; surety for a friend, 
 
 His trusting kindliness could not refuse, 
 
 He lost the little wealth his father left, 
 
 And sank at once, almost to beggary; 
 
 He struggled hard with fortune, though his life 
 
 At times was harder than he well could bear ; 
 
 Through want of needful comforts, want of friends, 
 
 Of even bread itself, he struggled on. 
 
 The first pale streak of daylight call'd him out 
 
 To labour, and night found him still at work. 
 
 He struggled manfully, and, well, at length 
 
 He fought his way right up with his own arm 
 
 To needful comfort, if not competence ; 
 
 But, in this sore-fought fight with fate, he lost 
 
 All the light-hearted buoyancy of youth, 
 
 Its laughs and playful mockeries ; in their stead, 
 
 Men saw a settled calm, that, if not stern, 
 
 Was cold and distant far from his old mirth. 
 
A NEW GKISELDA. 79 
 
 His words were few, and as we could but know, 
 Even in his very kindliest moments, cold, 
 Though it was said his heart beat warm beneath. 
 This was his common temper ; but when roused, 
 'Twas shown how much the world had sour'd its tone ; 
 His language then was harsh to one and all, 
 Even to those who knew he loved them most. 
 He brook'd not opposition; argument 
 Would lash him into fury that would threat 
 To root the best affections from his heart 
 And fling them by, the victims of his will. 
 One only child, a daughter, bless'd his home. 
 Now, at the time I speak of, she had grown 
 Into fair womanhood, but neither plain 
 Nor very lovely could she well be call'd, 
 But rather she was neither in extreme, 
 Excepting when she smiled, and then but few 
 Could say that Mary was not sweeter far, 
 And better worthy note and praise than some 
 Who took the eye more when her smile was gone; 
 
80 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 'Twas a sweet smile so full of human love, 
 
 Of gentle tenderness and kindly heart, 
 
 Of meek and self-denying charity ; 
 
 It doubly bless'd her giving to the poor 
 
 When weigh'd against the stooping-down disdain 
 
 That fell with larger doles from other hands ; 
 
 She won on all that knew her, so that none, 
 
 I'm bold to say, amongst us, harbour'd one 
 
 Ungentle thought towards sweet Mary Blake. 
 
 The very outcasts of the village, those 
 
 Who lived the butts of every other's scorn, 
 
 Receiving gentle services from her, 
 
 Still felt they were not sever'd from their kind, 
 
 And, feeling it, grew worthier ; so they sought, 
 
 As pleasures to be prized, to do her will, 
 
 And run her little errands through the place ; 
 
 The very chickens of our village green 
 
 Flock'd round her footsteps for her gracious gifts, 
 
 And cats would try to nestle in her lap, 
 
 And bleating lambs thrust noses in her hand, 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 81 
 
 To find the bread they seldom sought in vain. 
 
 You knew her window that the jessamine 
 
 And honeysuckle hung with draperies rare, 
 
 By the brown sparrows on the garden trees, 
 
 That hopp'd and twitter'd, perk'd their knowing heads, 
 
 Or sharpen'd, on the bark, their tiny bills, 
 
 In waiting for her morning shower of crumbs, 
 
 That never was forgotten; the mazed bee 
 
 That beat its wings against the sunny glass, 
 
 And humm'd its longing to be out again, 
 
 Her hand threw up the window for, and sent 
 
 Through bed and border, noisy in her praise. 
 
 IVe seen her, twenty times, set free the fly 
 
 From the fine meshes of the spider's web, 
 
 And do a thousand acts as full of love, 
 
 Towards the dumb brute-creatures in her way. 
 
 So she was loved by everything that lived; 
 
 And, loved by strangers, I need hardly say, 
 
 That she was dear' as sunshine, in her home ; 
 
 And, as she grew, grew tenfold in the love 
 
 G 
 
82 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Of her stern father, and became his pride. 
 
 When but a child, her prattling tongue had been 
 
 The only thing that brought his own old laugh 
 
 Back on the coldness of her father's face ; 
 
 And, when she grew a girl, there hardly seem'd 
 
 A thing that gave him such true, real delight, 
 
 As anything he did that pleasured her ; 
 
 For her the thrift that all his long, hard strife 
 
 With poverty had used him to, and made 
 
 A natural habit of his life, until . 
 
 Those knowing not the virtues whence it sprung, 
 
 CalFd Blake hard names, close-handed, and so forth ; 
 
 His thrift, I say, with her became a thing 
 
 Forgotten, or, if thought of, beaten down 
 
 By the still growing love he bore his child. 
 
 So lived she, loving and beloved by all ; 
 
 And, as years came and went, the prattling child 
 
 Grew up into the girl: the laughing girl 
 
 Became the calmer woman. Now, perchance, 
 
 You ask if such a heart, so form'd for love, 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 83 
 
 Still treasur'd all its wealth of heart for home? 
 
 If her unsumm'd affection were confined 
 
 To acts of sisterly regard for all ? 
 
 Found she no one among our village youths 
 
 To harbour some yet deeper feeling for? 
 
 I answer, Yes; and so, I could be sworn, 
 
 Young Edward Hill could then have answer'd too ; 
 
 For playmates in their childhood they had been, 
 
 Twin hunters of the hiding violet, 
 
 Trippers together through the April lanes, 
 
 To find the treasures of their earliest May. 
 
 They, in the summers of their childish days, 
 
 Would roam the bright, green meadows, hand in hand, 
 
 And bring a very wealth of king- cups home, 
 
 Of silver daisies and pale primroses ; 
 
 There might you see them many a summer's day, 
 
 Their sunny curls half-buried in the grass, 
 
 With mighty heaps of field-flowers by their side, 
 
 Sorting from all, the ones they loved the best, 
 
 And tossing with a pretty, sweet disdain, 
 
84 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 The lowliest of their gather'd hoards away; 
 IVe watch'd them often, and a sweeter sight 
 I dare believe the summer never saw. 
 At shearing-time, together still you found 
 The tiny playmates, running in and out 
 Among the thick-fleeced, shaggy, bleating sheep, 
 And hiding from each other, oftener found 
 By their own laughter, not to be kept down, 
 Than anything besides ; still were they seen 
 At hay- time, side by side, in the heap'd fields, 
 Rolling among the new-mown swathes of grass, 
 And happy to their very hearts' content; 
 And, when the last cart came in triumph home, 
 Piled up to heaven with all its golden sheaves, 
 Leaving but stubble for the seas of grain 
 That dimpled in the dances of the wind, 
 In the full corn-field at our harvest-home, 
 'Twas Mary Blake and little Edward Hill 
 That rode together on old Dobbin too, 
 Straddling with little outstretched naked legs, 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 85 
 
 Not easily across his broad old back, 
 
 And laughing through the sunshine, not all blind, 
 
 If I mistake not, to the many words 
 
 Of admiration round them. 
 
 So they grew, 
 
 And long the changing pleasures, hopes, and fears, 
 The changing years brought with them, found the two 
 Sharing alike their laughter and their tears, 
 True honest partners in the game of life, 
 The gains and losses of their ripening hearts, 
 Dividing ; long the passage of each day, 
 Changing so many, wrought no change in them. 
 As the child loved, the boisterous boy loved on; 
 The youth, the boy's affection treasured up, 
 With ah 1 the usury by the heart laid by 
 To swell its sum with every season's growth. 
 Ah, well I mind the scene when then a dance 
 Together call'd our village neighbours round, 
 To laugh away a frosty winter's night, 
 And kill its quiet with their boisterous mirth. 
 
86 A NEW GRISELDA, 
 
 How noisy then were all ! how to its height, 
 Enjoyment leapt, till all was merriment, 
 And ceaseless motion, and unmeasured talk ! 
 How the cold hearts of aged folks beat fast 
 In the tumultuous laughter of the hour, 
 And young again, and thoughtless of their years, 
 Half thrust them off their soft old quiet seats, 
 To join the happy dance they idly watch'd 
 From the red blaze of the huge piled-up fire, 
 Whose crackling logs out-roar'd the very wind 
 Without, and drown'd its voices in their own ! 
 In such a scene, when every heart was glad, 
 And sadness, finding theirs no place for it, 
 Went moaning off to wait for fitter time, 
 You 'd little need, if Mary Blake were there, 
 To run your eye along the lusty line 
 Of our young bachelors, a tiptoe all, 
 Waiting their turn to whirl their partners off, 
 To tell if Edward Hill were there or no, 
 For, in her absence, in her vacant gaze, 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 87 
 
 That, though it looVd on all the scene around, 
 
 Seem'd not to see it, straying somewhere else ; 
 
 In the neglect her partner's questions met, 
 
 That steep'd in rustic flattery to the full, 
 
 Yet for a moment, honied as they were, 
 
 Drew not a word of notice, till at last 
 
 Their recollection woke upon her mind, 
 
 And brought some sudden answer, short reply, 
 
 Some single word, a hurried " Yes," or tl No," 
 
 Which said, the blush that just had stain'd her cheek 
 
 With sweet confession of her short neglect, 
 
 Died off again and left her as before, 
 
 In all these things, to those who chose to mark 
 
 Their presence, lay the words, " He is not here," 
 
 And round for Edward you might look in vain. 
 
 But O how different was the look she wore 
 
 When he was present ! Lip and eye and cheek 
 
 And the full rush of her young glad heart's mirth 
 
 Let loose to pour its treasures on the sight, 
 
 And dance and wanton in the eye of night, 
 
88 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Why all and each a hundred answers gave 
 To tell to every one that he was there ; 
 There, there, her partner, facing in the dance, 
 An Easter sun among the lesser lights 
 That, sparkle as they might to others 7 eyes, 
 By him, were dim and lustreless to her. 
 These were their childish days, but little change 
 Their youth found in them, save that, it may be, 
 Edward found pleasure in far more pursuits 
 That were not shared by her than when a boy. 
 His dog a gun a horse a hundred things 
 Had power to draw him from her gentle side, 
 And to divide his thoughts and hopes with her; 
 Hence did it happen that whole days would come 
 And go, without his entering once their door, 
 While Mary moved like sunlight, sadden'd through 
 The weeping clouds of April, through the house, 
 With looks that spoke his absence, which her talk 
 Dwelt not upon, though now and then a word 
 Would drop by chance, or, it may be, a sigh 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 89 
 
 Would tell too well the current of her thoughts, 
 And how her heart was brooding over him ; 
 But then he came ; the April clouds were gone 
 With all their twilight showers that seem'd to serve, 
 Now they were gone, to render but more bright 
 The bursting splendour of the cloudless day, 
 In the deep joy of sunshine, flooding all, 
 Till very sadness brighten'd in its touch 
 And sparkled into gladness in the light. 
 
 There are some natures in this world of ours 
 That walk the earth with spirits wing'd for heaven, 
 So meek, so wholly strange to selfish thoughts, 
 That injuries in them wake no sense of wrong. 
 You might as soon to fierceness stir the lamb, 
 Or from the soak'd fleece strike the granite's fire, 
 As draw a spark from gentleness like theirs ; 
 Heap on them ills on ills so numberless 
 That patience hardly could the load endure, 
 And, like the o'erladen camel, they shall sink 
 
90 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 But never murmur. Gentle souls like these 
 
 Do move among us, and of such was she. 
 
 Hence she of Edward's absence took no note 
 
 As of a thing to marvel at or blame ; 
 
 One meek strong love her being so possess'd, 
 
 Such sense absorbing of her low desert, 
 
 That she had bought him smiles with weary tears, 
 
 With heaviest sobs had told her days away, 
 
 To lighten his, nor dream'd he owed one thought, 
 
 One poor, short, passing memory to her ; 
 
 His love she never took as gift for gift, 
 
 Affection for affection, thought for thought, 
 
 But as man takes the charities of heaven, 
 
 As bounteous blessings, rain'd without a claim 
 
 On our unworthiness, and fitly own'd 
 
 With praise and lowliness and humble joy. 
 
 Not so her father. Mary long had grown 
 
 A want so needful to his widow'd home 
 
 That, stinted of her presence, his old years 
 
 Had been as peaches hidden from the sun, 
 
A NEW GEISELDA. 91 
 
 Mark'd, not for mellow ripeness, but decay. 
 No thought had he, long after years had borne 
 Her childhood from her, of a coming time 
 When his old ears for her accustom'd foot 
 Should listen vainly, and his aged eyes 
 No more would lose their dimness following her. 
 And, when at last time show'd the truth it hid, 
 The bitterness of his old life came back, 
 Hardening yet more his nature, hard before. 
 Strange it had been if Edward, Weakening thus 
 To winter, the mild autumn of his days, 
 Had found that favour in the father's sight 
 That met him in the daughter's ; natural 'twas 
 The want of him should, in the old man's eyes, 
 Be dearer than the presence; so you'd guess, 
 And so, at last, we plainly saw it was ; 
 Yet all of this was felt far more than said, 
 For, though his tongue familiar was with words 
 Harder and harsher than the thoughts they spoke ; 
 And, though his speech could little brook a curb 
 
92 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 On the straight utterance that its purpose told, 
 
 Yet for the doting love he bore his child, 
 
 And, if I err not, it may be, perchance, 
 
 From something of old fondness for the boy, 
 
 Blake ever stay'd the quick, harsh words, that rose 
 
 At Edward's coming, and had, utter'd, bid 
 
 The youth to never cross his threshold more. 
 
 And so the change towards him show'd itself 
 
 In alter'd tones, and want of the old smile, 
 
 And hearty joke, and greeting when they met, 
 
 More than in open speech ; and still the house 
 
 That had, through happy years, been to the boy 
 
 Another home, to him remain'd the same 
 
 In all but in its alter'd owner's looks 
 
 And lack of cordial welcome, when he came ; 
 
 And so it had remain'd, but for an act, 
 
 The very turning-point of this sad tale, 
 
 That brought a crisis in poor Mary's fate, 
 
 And gave the old man's smother'd passion vent. 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 93 
 
 Now cursed be the tyrant laws that set 
 
 The worth of game above the good of men, 
 
 That for the matter of a wild bird, crowd 
 
 Our loathsome prisons with the pride and youth 
 
 Of all our villages, and turn to shame, 
 
 To vagrancy, and crime, lives that had else 
 
 Borne to their country fruit of worthy deeds, 
 
 Of honest industry and useful toil ; 
 
 Bootless it were to try to prove to such 
 
 That God's wild creatures, fresh from out his hands, 
 
 Are but for luxuries for the favour'd few, 
 
 And never meant to be a joy to all; 
 
 The man that from a plain and open theft 
 
 Would start in horror, ay, would turn to starve, 
 
 Will see, in this, no act of shame or wrong, 
 
 While even the daring that the crime demands 
 
 Adds a wild pleasure to the poacher's life. 
 
 Around our village lay wide-spread preserves, 
 
 Own'd by the reverend guider of our souls, 
 
 And by our squire, both dealers out of law, 
 
94 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Both deeply sworn to put all poachers down ; 
 
 Adjudging their own wrongs, their vengeance wrung 
 
 Its sternest reading from the vengeful law ; 
 
 And many a felon at the gallows' foot 
 
 Could trace up his career of crime to them, 
 
 An honest labourer, ere their sentence thrust 
 
 Him nameless out to herd with desperate crime. 
 
 Now Edward poach'd, as all his fellows did, 
 
 And, bold and daring, laugh'd to scorn all fear, 
 
 Till, mark'd and watch'd, on one September night, 
 
 The keepers came upon him ; overpower'd, 
 
 He fronted justice, a convicted man. 
 
 What boots it to repeat a common tale, 
 
 How, fair in fame, before the jail be trod, 
 
 He blasted left it, poor in honest hopes, 
 
 And rich in promise of despair and crime ! 
 
 Ah! I remember, as 'twere yesterday, 
 
 That bright September morning when I calTd 
 
 At neighbour Blake's, and learn'd the bitter truth 
 
 From weeping Mary, while, through sobs that burst, 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 95 
 
 Convulsions of her being, rose, in words 
 As broken as the heart that utter'd them, 
 Her father's stern command that never more 
 Should Edward's name be spoken in their home; 
 That never more, if she held dear his love, 
 Should word of Edward Hill be heard by her. 
 Well might her tears be rain'd like wintry hail, 
 Her sobs come thick and fast as Autumn's own! 
 Often, thank God! the madnesses of wrath 
 The kindly sense of memory will not hear, 
 And time forgets them ; but who knew him best 
 Knew well, let who would carve resolves in air, 
 Her father's sunk in marble, hard as life, 
 By time less worn than deepen'd; therefore, well 
 Did Mary see how misery bade her weigh 
 Loss against loss, and treasured love with love, 
 A father's blessing with a husband's faith, 
 Each won with agony of such a want 
 As beggar'd all to come of perfect joy, 
 And dimm'd the future's dearest smiles with tears. 
 
96 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 There stood she; and, through blinding mists of grief, 
 
 Saw life depart from father, comfort, home, 
 
 All early fondnesses and old respects, 
 
 Or, through all after-being, take its way 
 
 Afar from hope, youth's fondest dreams and love ; 
 
 O dull in heart is he who, ask'd her choice, 
 
 Ponder'd to tell ; need have I to repeat 
 
 How love, in its great passion, trod o'er fear, 
 
 And prostrate joy and duty to its end? 
 
 The feeblest, in its mighty strength, are strong, 
 
 And fears are reckless in its hardihood. 
 
 So she quail'd not to look with steady eye 
 
 On partnership in shame, and blackeu'd name, 
 
 In chance of penury, and dread of want, 
 
 And misery, scorn'd of pity and relief; 
 
 Beyond them look'd her eye, to where love stood, 
 
 And all between was as she saw it not. 
 
 She left her home ; she left her father's sight, 
 
 Dogg'd with his curse, to share a felon's fate; 
 
 For joy and sorrow, she became a wife; 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 97 
 
 And time stole on, until their names became 
 
 But as the remnants of a half-told tale, 
 
 That rose with pity and conjecture sad, 
 
 When the eye fell upon her father, now 
 
 A childless, broken, solitary man, 
 
 More worn with stern and tearless strife with grief, 
 
 And silent agony of heart, than years ; 
 
 Never her name was known to pass his lips, 
 
 But all who look'd upon him, saw his love, 
 
 Laughing to scorn his will, dared hoard it still ; 
 
 Long afterwards it was, before we knew 
 
 How, spite of all, his stern old purpose held; 
 
 Little we guess'd that his firm heart had brook'd 
 
 To hear his dear, dear girl his darling child 
 
 His Mary beg, in bitterest want, of him, 
 
 Closing all ear of pity to her prayer ; 
 
 Yes, she had written written in despair 
 
 In want of bread had written. First, it seem'd, 
 
 Turning their steps towards London, Edward hoped, 
 
 Flying the knowledge of his guilt, to gain 
 
98 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Honest employ, that so long diligence 
 
 And upright years again might make his name 
 
 A thing to utter with no sound of shame ; 
 
 Of yet calm days hope babbled ; but, alas ! 
 
 Hope is no constant prophet of the truth ; 
 
 Who once has breathed of prison air, henceforth 
 
 Loathed of his fellows, walks a tainted man ; 
 
 To him all paths of good are ever closed, 
 
 All ways to crime unbarr'd and open wide. 
 
 Dogg'd with a felon's name, he sought for work, 
 
 And sought it vainly; month on month went by, 
 
 Lowering their slender stock of means and hope ; 
 
 Till front to front with utter want they stood; 
 
 Then Mary wrote ; she told of faults atoned 
 
 In hunger, disappointment and despair, 
 
 A future fear ; a present misery ; 
 
 Came there no answer ? Yes; " Come back," it said, 
 
 " Leave you your husband, daughter, and return ! 
 
 " My home is yours, but it is none for him, 
 
 " And all shall be forgotten; else henceforth 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 99 
 
 " Know not your father, girl !" tears drown'd the note, 
 
 And nevermore from her the old man heard ; 
 
 But let me hasten; for a time again 
 
 All trace of them we lost, save that there came, 
 
 I know not how, a rumour to our ears, 
 
 That Edward, urged of want, to evil ways 
 
 Had turn'd, a drunkard and a ruin'd man, 
 
 Familiar with all modes of crime and sin ; 
 
 And often, round our evening cottage fire, 
 
 Our thoughts would be of Mary, and our talk 
 
 Shape darkest fancies of her state of life, 
 
 Her sufferings and her sorrows ; well we knew, 
 
 Bred in the strictness of a pious youth, 
 
 Much had she changed, if guilt and vice to her 
 
 Had grown familiar, and conjecture closed, 
 
 Almost with hope's half prayer, that, ere this, 
 
 Within the quiet of the grave she lay, 
 
 Where grief is not and weariness hath rest ; 
 
 Alas I alas ! how otherwise it was ! 
 
 O Power Supreme ! thy ways are hard to man, 
 
100 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 And faith alone has strength to read them right, 
 Good out of suffering brought from evil, good. 
 Business to London call'd me, when, it chanced, 
 Running my eye across the morning's Times, 
 What should it light on but poor Mary's name, 
 Prologue to such a bitter tale of wrong 
 As memory yet companions with quick tears. 
 It seems that Edward, bitter with despair, 
 Turn'd on the cold hard world that on him trod, 
 And headlong threw him down the depths of crime, 
 Till he had fathom'd, ere yet well a man, 
 The last abysses of all guilt and sin ; 
 Herding with vilest lives and shameless ill, 
 His being shaped itself on all around, 
 Till he, in will and inward impulse, moved, 
 A thing his sinless soul had shudder'd from ; 
 Oaths, desperate as his days, were words with him, 
 And, hour on hour, the hellish fire of drink 
 Raged in his brain and burnt along his blood, 
 Fled of remorse, of meekness and of good, 
 
A NEW GRISSLD^ . 103 
 
 Till love, their fellow, desolate and lone, 
 
 Last lingerer, with slow steps and turn'd eyes, pass'd, 
 
 Leaving to savage thoughts and brutal deeds, 
 
 The unholy life that it no longer stirred 
 
 To acts and words that had some touch of heaven. 
 
 And Mary, how bore she the spites of fate ? 
 
 Lower'd she to his level, day by day, 
 
 Soiling the spotless whiteness of her soul, 
 
 Dragg'd down by love's own strength from purity; 
 
 Or kept she still her sinlessness of youth, 
 
 Girt in from ill with childhood's Sabbath ways, 
 
 Its infant piety and holy prayers ? 
 
 The closing horror of her hapless fate 
 
 No utterance gave distinctly, yet led on 
 
 The following thought, by glimpse and broken hint, 
 
 To all but surety that her latter life 
 
 Held swerveless on its early blameless way, 
 
 Till murder with strange horror strode her path, 
 
 And, even for her pureness, smote her down ; 
 
 'Twas known the law's grasp, closing upon him, 
 
102 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Had never laid its wrathful hand on her, 
 
 And, in the night of blood to which I tend, 
 
 The dwellers in the house, before her shriek, 
 
 Caught threats and curses and disjointed words, 
 
 As of one urging to some deed of sin, 
 
 Another vainly, while prayers, pray'd in vain 
 
 By Mary, gave refusal to his will ; 
 
 Then came fierce bursts of wrath, and then a shriek, 
 
 And heavy feet that fled along the stairs ; 
 
 And, as they rush'd towards the sight of death, 
 
 A parting glance of him proclaim'd them his ; 
 
 Upon the bare room's bloody floor she lay, 
 
 A sight that to the flying murderer's eyes 
 
 Should have been madness ; he had struck her down, 
 
 And they who found her in her senseless form, 
 
 Saw little life ; even while I shuddering read, 
 
 Within a hospital, she dying lay, 
 
 Within a prison, he. No time I lost, 
 
 Urged by strong interest in her hapless fate ; 
 
 In haste I went, and, as a well-known friend,. 
 
A NEW GRISELDA. 103 
 
 Urged my request to see her. I had come 
 
 Most opportunely, for, the by-gone night, 
 
 After a weary strife of sense with death, 
 
 Life for a moment won ; that morning, Sir, 
 
 I found was order'd for the solemn act 
 
 Of her accusal of her murderer, 
 
 For, though life with a fitful brightness shone, 
 
 It was a farewell flicker ere it sank, 
 
 We saw ; O Sir, O Sir, it was a thing 
 
 To flood the eyes with sorrow for a life, 
 
 To stand, as I did, by her dying bed, 
 
 Looking upon the wreck that lay below. 
 
 Poor thing ! poor thing ! through what a thorny track 
 
 Of agony and sickness of the heart 
 
 Must she have wander'd, ere she sank to this ; 
 
 So changed from her old times of joy and smiles, 
 
 That memory hardly on her face could find' 
 
 One feature of its knowing ; worn and thin, 
 
 With an unnatural lustre of the eyes, 
 
 Through which, with ghostly fire, the parting soul 
 
104 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 Peer'd through its mortal dwelling on the world, 
 
 She lay, with pinch'd sharp features, whiter than 
 
 The ghastly bandages around them bound, 
 
 And lips that, moving, utter'd not a sound, 
 
 As though the spirit communed with itself; 
 
 Her eyes met mine, and once, the old sweet smile 
 
 A moment trembled on her hollow cheek, 
 
 And a weak shadow of her happy self 
 
 Stole back a fleeting moment and was gone ; 
 
 She named my name, and would have spoken ; alas ! 
 
 A coming tread had fix'd her eager eye 
 
 And struck all else into one utter blank, 
 
 In which the world, all circumstance and time, 
 
 Were blotted out and nothing: o'er her face 
 
 The ghastly memory of that fearful night 
 
 Shudder'd, and in her sight her murderer stood. 
 
 No, not the Edward of her girlish love, 
 
 No, not the husband of her woman's faith, 
 
 He stood before her, one whose sullen front 
 
 Was reckless sin ; half master of its dread, 
 
A NEW GR1SELDA. 105 
 
 To hers his fearful eye stole struggling up, 
 
 But, daring not the accusal of her look, 
 
 Fell from the depth of love within her gaze, 
 
 That love that trembled through her faltering words, 
 
 " Edward, my Edward I accuse you ? I ? 
 
 " O gentlemen, he could not 'twas not he 
 
 " A dream a shuddering dream it 's all forgot; 
 
 " husband, kiss me kiss me once again, 
 
 " Your own fond wife and Edward, when I 'm gone, 
 
 " Husband my husband, think of me but as 
 
 " That Mary, she that smiled your heart away 
 
 " In the old years that loved you to the last, 
 
 " O Edward, Edward, how, no words can say." 
 
 Upon her pillow back she sank, her eyes 
 Shut in exhaustion ; but about her lips 
 Wander'd the blessedness of such a smile 
 As gladden' d with its joy the songs of heaven, 
 A smile that told of injuries forgiven, 
 And all of earth but peace and love forgot ; 
 
106 A NEW GRISELDA. 
 
 A moment more, that glory on her lips, 
 Without a sound, she pass'd to find that rest 
 The weary find within the quiet grave. 
 
 Now there 's a tale that by our Mitford told, 
 
 Our Wordsworth, or in the haunting music sung 
 
 Of him who wrote of Dora, should have power 
 
 And reign eternal o'er the hearts of men, 
 
 Wedded unto the sweetest tears of time. 
 
 Go, study them, and see how life is life, 
 
 Despite of clothings, customs, forms and creeds, 
 
 To eyes that see, as theirs, our nature bare; 
 
 Trust me, the heart still throbs and breaks the same, 
 
 Laughs with the laugh and lives the very life 
 
 Of all the ages ; go go study them ! 
 
FROM SEA. 
 
 O IT was not for my mother, 
 
 Though dear she is to me, 
 Though old she is, and poor she is, 
 
 That I sail'd the stormy sea ! 
 But it was for my true love, 
 
 That dearer is to me, 
 Than father and than mother both, 
 
 Twas for her I sail'd the sea. 
 
 The wind blows fair and freshly, 
 Eight fresh for Harwich bay, 
 
 For the cottage on its sandy cliff, 
 That I think of night and day ; 
 
108 FROM SEA. 
 
 That I think of, and I dream of, 
 And have dreamt of night and day, 
 
 In* calm and storm, and south the line, 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 
 Now, watch, look out to leeward ! 
 
 The land must sure be near. 
 There looms the cape through the morning mist, 
 
 That I Ve long'd to see appear ; 
 To see it rising from the waves, 
 
 For it shields the quiet bay, 
 Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands 
 
 That I Ve pray'd for far away. 
 
 Now, men, the sails be furling ! 
 
 Now let the anchor go ! 
 At our brown ship's side, let our best boat ride, 
 
 And the oars be shipp'd below ; 
 
FROM SEA. 109 
 
 And while the rope you 're casting off, 
 Take in my chest and me ; 
 
 Now farewell, blustering captain, 
 And farewell, roaring sea ! 
 
 Now pull pull with a will, boys, 
 
 And beach right high the boat ; 
 For dear, dear is the land to me 
 
 That have toss'd so long afloat; 
 And dear, dear is the girl to me, 
 
 With each breath, loved more and more, 
 Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes, 
 
 To see us pull ashore. 
 
 She shades her eyes a moment, 
 O that the beach were near ! 
 
 Does she see my torn hat waving ? 
 Does she catch my cry from here ? 
 
110 FROM SEA. 
 
 Yes ; down the cliff she 's %ing ; 
 
 Pull pull, my men, for life, 
 That I may kiss again my girl, 
 
 My bonny, bonny wife. 
 
Ill 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 ON Bramshill's terrace walks Lady Clare; 
 
 O were I the purple peacock there 
 
 That 's petted and smoothed by her hand so fair ! 
 
 Lady Clare strolls through BramshilFs grounds ! 
 O were I one of those white greyhounds 
 That, patted by her, break off in bounds ! 
 
 O happy falcon ! O might I stand 
 Hooded and jess'd on Lady Clare's hand, 
 To stoop at the heron at her command ! 
 
 In Bramshill's chamber a cage is hung; 
 
 O that to its gilded perch I clung, 
 
 To be coax'd by her as I scream'd and swung ! 
 
112 WISHES. 
 
 were I the silver cross, so blest ! 
 In Bramshill's chapel devoutly press'd, 
 By Lady Clare, to her heaving breast ! 
 
 By Bramshill's carven confessional chair 
 Kneels Lady Clare, her heart to bare; 
 O were I the grey monk listening there ! 
 
 But ah ! that I were the locket of pearl 
 
 In her bosom hid ; or, more blest, the curl 
 
 It treasures ! prized love-gage of the Earl ! 
 
 Ride on, O Earl, by her palfrey's side ! 
 O that I by Lady Clare might ride ! 
 That she were to be, O Earl, my bride ! 
 
WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 
 
 GAUNT and grim was the hungry crowd 
 
 From whose heart this chant rose wild and loud. 
 
 Yes, men of trade, we have our rights, 
 
 We drudges, we the poor; 
 The right to serve, the right to want, 
 
 To work, and to endure; 
 The fireless grate the freezing bed 
 
 The racking aches that seize 
 The bones and sinews of the poor, 
 
 Ay, we Ve our right to these. 
 
 Rights ? brutish lives of untaught vice, 
 Minds stunted, health unstrung, 
 
 The sallow cheek, the shrivell'd form, 
 Thoughts that were never young ; 
 I 
 
114 WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STKIKES. 
 
 The squalid court, the garret bare, 
 
 The hunger, never sure 
 The coming day shall bring its bread, 
 
 Such rights have we the poor. 
 
 Fools ! fools ! to doubt your laws of wealth, 
 
 To hold THAT truth 's untrue 
 That hands us over, old and young, 
 
 Slaves, men of gold, to you ! 
 Slaves ? slaves ? I lie ; to such as we, 
 
 The slave's work, true, you give, 
 But, need us not, and you deny 
 
 The right of slaves, to live. 
 
 Your Unions ? and had I forgot 
 Your Christian love sublime, 
 
 That doles a diet out to want 
 
 'Twould blush to thrust on crime ? 
 
WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 115 
 
 Said I, we workers have no rights ? 
 
 Forgot I that we 're born 
 To all your guardians' kindly cares, 
 
 Your workhouse meals, and scorn ? 
 
 Work ? work or none, your horse, your hound, 
 
 You care for, as of worth ; 
 Men are the only things of life 
 
 You starve from off the earth; 
 What matter ! have your wise not found, 
 
 This world, God only made, 
 To grope for wealth its only want, 
 
 Prosperity to trade ? 
 
 Your laws ? what are your laws to us ? 
 
 WE have not wealth or birth ; 
 Dear justice game laws ignorance want - 
 
 These preach to us their worth ; 
 
116 WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 
 
 Your army where no poor men rise, 
 Your rich men's ruling ay, 
 
 We know it by the tax on tax 
 Our poverty must pay. 
 
 Ay, doubtless, we but burden earth ! 
 
 For what do such as I, 
 But all your luxuries all your wants, 
 
 And wildest whims, supply ? 
 What gain you from our pauper days, 
 
 But all you ever need ? 
 All, from the weak and ragged lives 
 
 Whose wants you never heed. 
 
 What ? labour's free ? leave things alone 
 'Tis best? and say you so ? 
 
 Alas, this freedom so you vaunt, 
 What 'tis too well we know ; 
 
WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 117 
 
 We glut your markets ; bid us hire 
 
 On which life scarce can live, 
 Our birthright, want, compels us down 
 
 To drudge for what you give. 
 
 Machinery - blessing that shall be, 
 
 It shall not have our curse, 
 Though now it heap but wealth on few 
 
 And make our doom but worse ; 
 Hope sees a day when, from its good, 
 
 Its present ills shall fall 
 When, strong to free the strength of man, 
 
 Twill bless and comfort all. 
 
 Men, shall we bless your social state 
 That shame but to us metes, 
 
 That gives our infants to your jails 
 Our daughters to your streets ? 
 
118 WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 
 
 Your hulks we have; where are your schools ? 
 
 Hear you not wisdom preach, 
 They sow the whirlwind, who prefer 
 
 To smite instead of teach ? 
 
 No all man's wants I fail to find 
 
 In this your one word wealth; 
 Wealth, pampering few, gives it to all, 
 
 Mind comfort leisure health ? 
 The social state that gives not these, 
 
 As self-condemn'd, I hold ; 
 The common rights of men, with me, 
 
 Outbalance all your gold. 
 
 Front me not with your priestly cant ; 
 
 God gives enough for all ; 
 Who say, he wills that one should want, 
 
 Them, foul blasphemers, call. 
 
WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 119 
 
 'Twere well your comforts and our needs 
 
 To rivet with His nod, 
 But think not, we, our man-made ills, 
 
 Will father upon God. 
 
 Why poverty must always be, 
 
 You rich may plainly see, 
 But, trust me, that the matter, Sirs, 
 
 Is not so plain to me ; 
 Change lots; try want; one little week 
 
 Such reasons new shall show 
 That, ere 'tis gone, I've trust, your faith 
 
 Shall strange conversion know. 
 
 God ! we can dream of a time 
 When want shall cease from earth, 
 When, Heaven's good gifts enjoyed by all, 
 Not one shall curse his birth; 
 
120 WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 
 
 It comes it comes; despite your scoffs, 
 The black East hath its gleam ; 
 
 The future shows God's love no lie, 
 His justice not a dream. 
 
 Utopian? nay, spare not your jeers; 
 
 We hold them at their worth ; 
 Wild dreams? dreams, wild as ours, ere this, 
 
 Have walked, as facts, the earth ; 
 How was the holy wisdom mocked 
 
 Our reverence bows before, 
 The wild dreams, dream'd by love long since 
 
 On Galilee's blest shore ! 
 
 Lo, knowledge breedeth discontent 
 And strong resolve for right ; 
 
 Justice is throned for rule, the hour 
 The millions know their might; 
 
WHAT THEY SAID AT THE STRIKES. 121 
 
 Sublime it comes the reign of love 
 
 The longing of all eyes ; 
 It nears the future of our dreams, 
 
 An earth for ill too wise. 
 
COLUMBUS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE NEW-WORLD-SEEKERS OF TO-DAY. 
 
 O MONARCHS, yes, beyond the sea, 
 My sight the far new world descries ; 
 
 Let us be gone ! " O come to me, 
 
 " Come and be blest 1 " the new world cries ; 
 
 monarchs, there, for you is peace, 
 Release from hate, and care, and fear; 
 
 (3 sovereigns, let your doubtings cease ! 
 Let us begone, O kings, from here ! 
 
 1 am not mad ; no, monarchs, no ; 
 On! to the glad new world well go. 
 
COLUMBUS. 123 
 
 Heed not your tinsell'd courtiers' sneers, 
 The doubts by priest and noble said ! 
 
 I know they name me but with jeers; 
 I pass, they laugh and touch the head ; 
 
 What though each lord with courtly air 
 Would bid you hold me as a fool, 
 
 hear me ! peace shall glad you there ; 
 O'er happy realms you there shall rule ; 
 
 1 am not mad; no, courtiers, no; 
 On ! to the glad new world we'll go. 
 
 Yes ; let us go ! upon the strand, 
 
 Eigg'd for the voyage, each galliot lies ; 
 Soon shall we launch them from the land ; 
 
 Ah, whence are those imploring cries ! 
 " O go not go not heed not him! 
 
 " Seek not to cross the endless main ! 
 " Dupes of a brainless madman's whim, 
 
 " Your homes you ne'er shall see again." 
 We are not mad ; no, people, no ; 
 On ! to the glad new world we'll go. 
 
1 24 COLUMBUS. 
 
 Yet still upon the affrighted air, 
 
 Come shrill- voiced prayer and frantic cry, 
 And still they shriek, " O sons, beware ! 
 
 " O husbands, stay ! you go to die;" 
 Around us, cling young child and wife, 
 
 And hardly will be torn away ; 
 Their cry, " dear to us as life, 
 
 " Stay, father dear ! O husband, stay !" 
 We will not stay ; no, dear ones, no; 
 On ! to the fair new world we'll go. 
 
 Hurrah ! the old world fades behind ; 
 
 Upon our voyage we speed at last ; 
 Be calm, O sea ! blow fair, wind ! 
 
 Ah, friends, what means yon floating mast ! 
 Does it not tell some fearful tale 
 
 Of dangers that our course await, 
 Of some, before us doom'd to fail, 
 
 Despair and wreck and death their fate ! 
 And shall this stay us, brothers ? No ; 
 On ! to the glad new world we'll go. 
 
COLUMBUS. 125 
 
 Out in mid-ocean far we sail ; 
 
 Fair blows the breeze ; the air is balm ; 
 Ah, treacherous winds, how soon you fail ! 
 
 Alas, what means this endless calm ! 
 Beneath the stirless heaven we lie, 
 
 And o'er us creeps a nameless fear; 
 What, are we doom'd, becalm' d, to die, 
 
 Fixed on the airless ocean here ? 
 O, faint of heart, no brothers, no; 
 On ! to the glad new world we'll go. 
 
 Ah, wildly now the tempests wake; 
 
 Fierce blow the winds ; the billows rise ; 
 Foaming, the mad seas on us break ; 
 
 O Lord ! in mercy hear our cries ; 
 O thou great God, that bid'st the waves 
 
 Be still, release our hearts from fear ! 
 are we doom'd to find our graves 
 
 Far in the raging ocean here ! 
 Let waves roll high ; let wild winds blow ; 
 On ! to the fair new world we'll go. 
 
126 COLUMBUS. 
 
 But no ; raise to Grod the psalm ! 
 
 Praise him with prayer and solemn song ! 
 Look ! look ! before us, dim and calm, 
 
 The looked-for land for which we long ; 
 On ! on ! with all the speed you may ! 
 
 Quick, on your barks, fresh canvass crowd ! 
 Ah, shore and headland fade away ; 
 
 Alas ! alas ! they were but cloud ! 
 Yet, what though cheated with a show 
 On ! to the fair new world we'll go. 
 
 O still have hope ! murmur not ! 
 
 think not of your homeward track ! 
 Cease your fierce chidings ! brothers, what, 
 
 You will not turn all hopeless back ! 
 No ; to the winds all doublings fling ! 
 
 Green land- weeds, see ! surround each bark ; 
 Hark ! those are orchard birds that sing ; 
 
 See ! there a light gleams through the dark ; 
 Ho ! watch at prow and mast-head ! ho ! 
 Fast, to the fair new world we go. 
 
COLUMBUS. 127 
 
 God's people through the desert pass'd ; 
 
 But to the promised land they came ; 
 We sail through dangers ; but at last, 
 
 We too, O friends, shall do the same ; 
 And, O what glory ours shall be 
 
 When there our peaceful sails are furl'd, 
 And men the perfect bliss shall see 
 
 Of this, our new discovered world ! 
 On ! morning shall the fair land show ; 
 On ! to the new world gladly go. 
 
RESURGET. 
 
 THE FAITH OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 SWATHED, and bound, and tomb'd she lies, 
 Yet again our dead shall rise. 
 
 Lo ! the kings of earth have slain 
 Her who over all shall reign. 
 
 Here, in night and utter gloom, 
 Watch we, weeping by her tomb. 
 
 God, our God, who all hath known, 
 From her grave shall roll the stone. 
 
 God, who knoweth all our woe, 
 In His time, shall mercy show. 
 
RESURGET. 129 
 
 What though she be laid in earth ! 
 She shall know another birth. 
 
 Nor shall earth or hell have power 
 'Gainst her, in her coming hour. 
 
 Her they slew, who never dies ; 
 Shout ! our dead again shall rise. 
 
 Lo ! arm'd men beside her stay, 
 Lest our dead be borne away. 
 
 Lest, a horror to their eyes, 
 She, our sheeted dead, shall rise. 
 
 Lo ! their watch in vain is set ; 
 Who her coming forth shall let ! 
 
 Not like 'to a thief shall she 
 Come ; proud shall her coming be. 
 K 
 
130 RESURGET. 
 
 Like unto a mighty king, 
 Like an arm'd one conquering. 
 
 Woe, then, woe, in that her day, 
 Unto those that bar her way ! 
 
 Woe, and utter woe to those, 
 From of old, her vengeful foes ! 
 
 Shout ! the Lord hath heard our cries ; 
 Shout ! the blessed one shall rise. 
 
 Woe to them her words condemn ! 
 Let the mountains cover them ! 
 
 Lo ! the hills her shout shall hear, 
 And shall dread ; the earth shall fear. 
 
 Who her steps in wrath shall meet, 
 She shall tread beneath her feet. 
 
RESURGET. 131 
 
 Let the accuser fearful be; 
 Let the evil witness flee. 
 
 Lo ! the judge shall hide his face, 
 Trembling, in the judgment-place. 
 
 Shout ! a fear to all men's eyes, 
 Shout ! the avenging one shall rise. 
 
 Lo ! the earth shall own her, Lord, 
 Strong to lift and to reward. 
 
 Earth shall tremble in her sight, 
 Swift to judge and strong to smite. 
 
 Ye who trust in sword and spear, 
 Fear her! let the mighty fear ! 
 
 Fear her, all ye high and strong, 
 Ye who 'gainst the poor work wrong. 
 
132 RESURGET. 
 
 Dread, ye crown'd ones, dread her sight, 
 Ye who for us work'd not right. 
 
 Nought shall, 'gainst her, stand of all, 
 Shield, or tower, or armed wall. 
 
 Ye who live not for the light, 
 Tremble ! waning is the night. 
 
 Ye whose works are evil, fear ! 
 Lo ! the day is drawing near. 
 
 We who by her watch and pray, 
 Lo ! for us there shall be day. 
 
 Glory unto God, and praise ! 
 
 He their doom, from her shall raise. 
 
 Lo ! His coming shall be swift; 
 He their curse, shall from her lift. 
 
RESURGET. 138 
 
 She shall speak, that now is dumb, 
 And the dead one forth shall come. 
 
 There shall be a shining light; 
 She shall stand in all men's sight. 
 
 Lo ! the grave-cloths, fold on fold, 
 From her limbs shall be unroll'd. 
 
 She shall wake and walk, who slept; 
 She shall comfort us who wept. 
 
 She shall banish all our fears ; 
 She shall dry our bitter tears. 
 
 Who her cup of grief would quaff, 
 Shall arise, and feast and laugh. 
 
 With our hymns the day shall ring ; 
 Lo ! our crown'd one forth we bring. 
 
134 RESURGET. 
 
 Sing ye, West, and East, and North ! 
 
 Sing, thou South ! your queen conies forth. 
 
 Bring ye myrrh and spices sweet, 
 Precious oils to bathe her feet. 
 
 Shout ye ! from her darksome prison, 
 Lo ! the buried one hath risen. 
 
 Praise ye God, for this her birth, 
 This great joy unto the earth ! 
 
 Praise Him, all ye nations ! ye 
 Who her coming long'd to see ! 
 
 Praise Him, all ye peoples ! raise 
 Hymns and songs to sound His praise ! 
 
 Shout ye ! from her darksome prison, 
 Our triumphant one hath risen ! 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 
 
 HEAR what Apollo sang, and what, rough Pan, 
 
 To Midas, listening, dull-eyed, judging each, 
 
 Beneath the coolness of a stirless pine, 
 
 What time the noon its heaviest shadows threw 
 
 Down Ida's slopes, and, save each voice and pipe, 
 
 Alternate, not a sound the valley heard, 
 
 Save only where one hot cicada sung. 
 
 First sang Apollo, shaking lightly back 
 
 From the high whiteness of his swelling brows, 
 
 The golden glory of his clustering curls, 
 
 " Hearken, O Midas ! not to thee I sing 
 
 " As to one fetter'd by thy golden gift 
 
 " Unto the low delights and hopes of earth ; 
 
 " But as to one, earth-born, yet above men 
 
136 THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 
 
 " Favoured one, lifted by the Gods, a God, 
 
 " Dealing the good or ill thou will'st to man. 
 
 " What are the pleasures and delights of sense 
 
 " That I should sing them unto such as thou ! 
 
 " Not with such, grovelling, will I soil my song, 
 
 " Brutish or flesh-defiled; O Midas, hear 
 
 " Thoughts that a God should hear a God should speak. 
 
 " Evil and good, what are they unto thee ! 
 
 " Not sounds that falsely image to thy soul 
 
 " The thoughts and things they show to sights impure ; 
 
 " Their evil not thy evil, nor their good 
 
 " Thy good shall be. Not sloth, not restful hours, 
 
 " Thy gold shall grasp, rejoicing! unused life, 
 
 " If that thy sumless treasures to thee gave, 
 
 " Better wert thou the neediest of thy slaves, 
 
 " That fate, with bitter goad of all men's wills, 
 
 " Scourges to labour, so, from out thy toil, 
 
 " Should help and some poor good for man be wrung ; 
 
 " Oh, heed not thou the false and luring voice 
 
 " That whispers of the poor delights of ease, 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 137 
 
 ci Of slumbrous nights, and dull unfruitful days, 
 
 " These thou shalt loathe, enjoy'd, enjoy'd and past, 
 
 " Leaving no after-life of glorious thoughts 
 
 " Of labours garner'd the full harvest won. 
 
 " Lo, gold is power, or power for good or ill, 
 
 " And oft, o'er weigh ted with the lustrous load, 
 
 " Have high resolves, white- wing'd, full-plumed for 
 
 heaven, 
 
 " Waver'd aloft, o'erburden'd, but to faU, 
 " To nutter in the miry ways of life. 
 " Spurn thou its rule. Eule thou its strength. Thy slave, 
 " So shall it minister to loftiest ends, 
 " And lift thee, mortal, to that higher life 
 " Of nobler toils and struggles for thy kind 
 " Than others compass, such as strain'd the strength 
 " Of Herakles, ere yet he rose, a God, 
 u O'er labours vanquish'd, toiling up to heaven." 
 Ceased the full song, yet still the sultry noon 
 Listen'd, even as when Philomel hath ceased 
 Beneath the moon, the rapt night hearkens on, 
 
138 THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 
 
 Ravening for more of her melodious swells 
 
 And gushings of rich sweetness. Then two sounds 
 
 Throbb'd through the silence ; one, the deep-drawn 
 
 breath 
 
 Of Pan, recovering from the God's strong sway, 
 And one, far deeper, by dull Midas drawn, 
 Roused by the stillness from his sultry doze. 
 Twitching a hairy ear a mocking laugh 
 Round his brute mouth and wrinkling all his cheeks, 
 Lover of cream, the goatherds' God began: 
 " Earth-born, O Midas, live alone for earth, 
 " Nor miss its pleasures for an untried heaven. 
 " Sweet are the plenteous gifts earth has for thee, 
 " And dear the joys that every season brings, 
 " The young spring's brightness the hot summer's 
 
 shade 
 
 " The autumn's harvests, fruits, and vintage mirth, 
 " And winter's ruddy gatherings round the hearth, 
 " While the loud tempest, howling, beats without. 
 " Ease is thine own ; thine, gold; why should'st thou toil ? 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 139 
 
 " Swift comes the day, when to the dreadful shades 
 
 " Thy steps descend; live ! yet thou livest; live ! 
 
 " Live ! wise are they that wring from out their days 
 
 " The wine of joy the nectar of delight. 
 
 " Crown thee with roses, Aphrodite's flower, 
 
 " The violet and the jasmine, newly blown ! 
 
 " Wreathe thee with arms more white than Ida's snows, 
 
 u But, 0, more warm than these deep valleys' noons, 
 
 " With wild hot throbs through every violet vein 
 
 " Pulsing delight. Sun thee 'neath azure eyes, 
 
 " Dewy with passion, languid with sweet love, 
 
 " Brighter than frostiest stars, lit with desire. 
 
 " What joy more sweet than, from the fiery glare 
 
 " Shadow'd, beneath the cool of forest boughs, 
 
 " Or in some ivied cavern's mouth to lie, 
 
 " With honied whispers murmuring in thine ears 
 
 " And burning kisses evermore rain'd down 
 
 " On half-oped eyes and brow and lip and cheek 
 
 " Mouth sealed to mouth, the rich breath breathing in, 
 
 " In golden dreams forgetting all but joy ! 
 
140 THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS. 
 
 " Wreathe me with sun-bathed droopings of the vine! 
 
 " Bind me, O Dionusus, in thy chains ! 
 
 " Thy slave I would be ever, be thy slave; 
 
 " Brim me this beechen bowl with wild delight ! 
 
 " Wine give me wine fierce wine, the drink of gods ! 
 
 " Drink, mortal ! draughts, more sweet than Hebe bears, 
 
 " Earth, in these violet clusters, stores for thee, 
 
 " Nor dearer sound has, than the gurgling now 
 
 " Of the bright gladness, from the wine-bag's mouth 
 
 " Leaping; drink laugh and love ! lo, these are life ! " 
 
 Then Midas, brute-like, gave the prize to Pan, 
 
 And, in the moment that he stretch'd it forth, 
 
 A golden pipe, chased by the lame God's hand, 
 
 On his dolt's head he felt the dull ears rise, 
 
 And in the stream, he saw himself, an ass. 
 
A SAILOR'S SONG. 
 
 " WOULD you be a sailor's wile ? 
 
 '* Beware ! 
 " Would you share a sailor's life ? 
 
 " Take care ! 
 
 " For, oli ! a sailor's life must be 
 " Spent away on the far, far sea, 
 " And little of him his wife may see 
 
 " Not she." 
 Yet still she cried, " Whate'er betide, 
 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be; 
 
 " For the winds with health his brown cheeks fill, 
 " And the sea's fresh life is in him still, 
 " Not the land's weak heart: say what you will, 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be." 
 
142 A SAILOR'S SONG. 
 
 " Would you be a sailor's wife ? 
 
 " Beware ! 
 " Would you share a sailor's life ? 
 
 " Take care I 
 
 " To the savage sea he is wedded groom, 
 u And grief shall your weary life consume, 
 " And widow'd nights and days your doom 
 
 " Must be ! " 
 Yet still she cried, " Whate'er betide, 
 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be ; 
 " If weeping partings we must know, 
 " He'll come again though he must go, 
 " And, oh ! to think he'll come back ! oh ! 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be." 
 
 " Would you be a sailor's wife ? 
 
 " Beware ! 
 " Would you share a sailor's life ? 
 
 " Take care ! 
 
A SAILOR'S SONG. 143 
 
 " O, worse than absence, there may be 
 
 " A grave for him in the far wild sea, 
 
 " His young babe's face he may never see, 
 
 " Nor thee ! " 
 Yet still she sigh'd, " Whate'er betide, 
 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be ; 
 " For whether the land or deck be trod, 
 " All lie at last beneath wave or sod, 
 " And all are in the hand of God ; 
 
 " A sailor's wife I'll be." 
 
A SUMMER INVOCATION. 
 
 O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, 
 Let not the silver lily pine, 
 
 The drooping lily pine in vain 
 To feel that dewy touch of thine ; 
 
 To drink thy freshness once again, 
 
 O gentle, gentle, summer rain. 
 
 In heat, the landscape quivering lies ; 
 
 The cattle pant beneath the tree; 
 Through parching air and purple skies, 
 
 The earth looks up in vain for thee: 
 For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, 
 O gentle, gentle, summer rain. 
 
A SUMMER INVOCATION. 145 
 
 Come thou and brim the meadow streams, 
 And soften all the hills with mist ; 
 
 O falling dew, from burning dreams, 
 By thee, shall herb and flower be kiss'd: 
 
 And earth shall bless thee yet again, 
 
 O gentle, gentle, summer rain. 
 
BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 O THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! 
 
 Those shoes that no little feet use ! 
 O the price were high 
 That, those shoes, would buy, 
 
 Those little blue unused shoes ! 
 
 For they hold the small shape of feet 
 That no more their mother's eyes meet, 
 
 That, by God's good will, 
 
 Years since grew still, 
 And ceased from their totter so sweet ! 
 
 And 0, since that baby slept, 
 So hush'd ! how the mother has kept, 
 With a tearful pleasure, 
 That little dear treasure, 
 And, o'er them, thought and wept ! 
 
BABY'S SHOES. 147 
 
 For they mind her for evermore 
 Of a patter along the floor, 
 
 And blue eyes she sees 
 
 Look up from her knees, 
 With the look that in life they wore. 
 
 As they lie before her there, 
 There babbles from chair to chair, 
 
 A little sweet face 
 
 That's a gleam in the place, 
 With its little gold curls of hair. 
 
 Then wonder not that her heart 
 From all else would rather part 
 
 Than those tiny blue shoes 
 
 That no little feet use, 
 And whose sight makes such fond tears start. 
 
ELLA'S KOSES. 
 
 VENUS, unto thee, the rose, 
 Summer's darling, told her woes, 
 Told how she, the queen of flowers. 
 Loved of all the lingering hours, 
 Glory of the radiant day, 
 Only came, to pass away, 
 Beauty of celestial birth, 
 Fading with the things of earth, 
 Meanest things of mortal breath, 
 Poorest things, but worthy death ; 
 Then, foam-brow'd, thy laughing look, 
 For a moment, joy forsook, 
 For a moment, till thy thought 
 Gave the boon thy favourite sought, 
 All thy darling dared to seek, 
 Changeless life in Ella's cheek. 
 
TO A MOSS-EOSE IN CHEAPSIDE. 
 
 WHAT you you flush our City air, 
 
 You, summer's boast and pride, 
 You, born to show all things most fair 
 
 Less fair by your sweet side ! 
 What with our fev'rish thirst for gold 
 
 Have you, sweet thing, to do ! 
 Where all things else are bought and sold. 
 
 Rose, will they barter you ! 
 
 Why not! O welcome, welcomed, come, 
 
 Of hidden nature speak, 
 Of whom all else is here so dumb, 
 
 Our thought of her grows weak ; 
 
150 TO A MOSS-ROSE IN CHEAPSIDE. 
 
 Show us, with more than this poor life 
 Of streets, we have to do ! 
 
 Adieu to all the City's strife ! 
 I'm far, sweet rose, with you. 
 
 What pleasant thoughts you bring to-day ; 
 
 What leafy country hours, 
 Haunts where the long day dies away 
 
 From grass-plots heap'd with flowers ! 
 With fountain'd lawns, my eyes you bless; 
 
 Green walks I loiter through ; 
 In peace and garden quietness, 
 
 I dwell, sweet rose, with you. 
 
 Ah, now a cottage front you bring, 
 A porch cool shadows fill, 
 
 Up which sweet honeysuckles cling, 
 And wander at their will; 
 
TO A MOSS-ROSE IN CHEAPSIDE. 151 
 
 The vine is green, and you I see 
 
 The casements peeping through, 
 The glowing summer noon for me 
 
 Is flushed, sweet rose, with you. 
 
 O quiet thoughts, stay with me ! Stay, 
 
 You leafy summer hours ! 
 Ah me ! but life must deal to-day 
 
 With other things than flowers ! 
 Come, City fears ! come, work and care ! 
 
 Adieu, sweet dreams, adieu ! 
 Of thoughts, full poor must be the share 
 
 I give, sweet rose, to you. 
 
 O drooping bud ! O weary change, 
 This grey and stony street 
 
 For all, that to our eyes is strange, 
 All yours were wont to meet ! 
 
152 TO A MOSS-ROSE IN CHEAPSIDE. 
 
 Yet I too, nature's child, I pine 
 Her far-off face to view; 
 
 As weary are these thoughts of mine 
 As those that wither you ! 
 
ON A PORTEAIT. 
 
 WERE the mighty Merlin's wand 
 Waved within my wizard hand, 
 And, in its great power, I said, 
 " Face as fair as e'er hath been, 
 " Sweetest eyes that earth hath seen, 
 " Soft with life, or calmly dead, 
 
 "Appear!" 
 
 Methinks, across the magic glass, 
 The while I gazed with wondering fear, 
 This pictured form would, queen-like, pass, 
 And voices from the charmed air, 
 Charmed tongues mine ears would hear, 
 Whispering, " Mortal, ask'st thou where 
 " All of fairness is, most fair ? 
 
 " 'Tis here ! " 
 
SONG. 
 
 I SAID, " O Art, unto my eyes, 
 
 " Her matchless charms for ever give ! 
 " In that sweet life that never dies, 
 
 " For ever let her beauty live ! " 
 And Art his eager pencil plied 
 
 To paint her charms, all charms above; 
 But soon, " In vain I strive," he cried, 
 
 " O who can paint her who, but Love ? ' 
 
 I turn'd to Fancy; " To my sight," 
 I murmur'd, " from the glowing air, 
 
 " O let her gaze my soul delight, 
 " As if she lived before me there ! " 
 
SONG. 155 
 
 At Fancy's call her image came ; 
 
 O not her charms, all charms above ! 
 Poor Fancy's cry was but the same ; 
 
 " who can paint her who, but Love ? " 
 
 Then mighty Love, with laughing joy, 
 
 The pencil seized with wild delight, 
 And, ere I well could mark the boy, 
 
 She laugh'd in life before my sight ; 
 O who, like him, such brows could draw, 
 
 Such dark sweet eyes, all eyes above ? 
 Like him, could paint the charms I saw ? 
 
 O who can paint her who, but Love?" 
 
FEOM TOWN. 
 
 AWAY, my thoughts, away ! 
 
 We '11 from the town to-day ; 
 Yes, we the quiet hours will know, 
 That tranquil nature can bestow, 
 Where green hills rise, and rivers flow, 
 
 And landscapes stretch away 
 To circling skies that, all below, 
 
 Round in with airy grey. 
 
 Away, my thoughts, away ! 
 
 We '11 from the town to-day. 
 
FROM TOWN. 157 
 
 O joy, to be away 
 
 From the hot town to-day ! 
 To feel the grass beneath my feet, 
 To feel the skies my blest eyes meet, 
 Lord ! but it makes my heart to beat 
 
 To feel how far away 
 Are care and toil the loud full street, 
 
 And the dim City day ! 
 
 O joy ! to be away 
 
 From the hot town to-day ! 
 
 joy ! I'm far away 
 From the dull town to-day ! 
 
 Now, stretch'd at length, I thoughtless rest, 
 My careless head thrown back, and press'd 
 Upon that pillow it loves best, 
 
 The green sweet meadow grass ; 
 While, with the sultry quiet bless'd, 
 
 1 watch the slow clouds pass. 
 O joy ! I'm far away 
 From the dull town to-day ! 
 
158 FROM TOWN. 
 
 bliss ! I'm far away 
 From London's roar to-day ! 
 Beneath the worn, wild cliffs, I please 
 My eyes with sight of mighty seas 
 Swept shore wards by the whistling breeze, 
 
 And feel the salt sea spray 
 Dash'd on my face, and breathe in ease, 
 While the gusts 'gainst me play. 
 O bliss ! I'm far away 
 From London's roar to-day ! 
 
 O bliss ! I'm far away 
 From the vext town to-day ! 
 Now, on some mighty mountain's side, 
 I see the mists of morning slide 
 From the wide landscape, still more wide 
 
 Stretching, each step I go, 
 Far lakes, and vales, and seas, descried, 
 In sunshine bathed below. 
 O bliss ! I'm far away 
 From the vext town to-day. 
 
FROM TOWN. 159 
 
 O bliss ! I'm far away 
 
 From toil and care to-day ! 
 Now, on some grassy meadow- stream, 
 I watch the play of shade and gleam, 
 And see the placid angler dream 
 
 The quiet hours away, 
 While all things men most strive for, seem 
 
 Not worth a thought to-day. 
 
 So bear me far away, 
 
 Blest fancy, many a day ! 
 
MOVE ON! 
 
 MY taste, good Sirs, no loiterers please; 
 When such the public watchman sees, 
 Suspicious, straight his words are these, 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 The social safety, well he knows, 
 Is apt to suffer most from those 
 Whose loiterings their designs disclose: 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 Look, then, on all with honest fear, 
 Our age's words who will not hear, 
 Though still its cry rings loud and clear, 
 
 Move on ! 
 
MOVE ON. 161 
 
 Ho ! priests, who think you Churchmen still 
 Need only weekly pulpits fill, 
 Nor care a whit for social ill, 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 You who, for justice, give us law, 
 And clench a wrong with learned saw, 
 Of clamouring right, in reverent awe, 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 You statesmen ! be it understood, 
 You rule but for the people's good, 
 You who would loiter if you could, 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 Ah ! you who kill or cure us, learn 
 There may be something to discern 
 In newest truths that most you spurn ; 
 
 Move on ! 
 
162 MOVE ON. 
 
 You who your souls to trade have sold, 
 Who only breathe to grasp and hold, 
 Has life no better worth than gold ? 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 You slaves of forms and schools of art, 
 Clasp naked nature to the heart, 
 Till from the embrace, fresh beauty start; 
 
 Move on ! 
 
 What, poet, is the past to you ? 
 
 There stands existence ; look it through ; 
 
 Give words to what men feel and do : 
 
 Move on ! 
 
WERE I A KING ! WEEE I A KING ! 
 MY UTOPIA. 
 
 WERE I a king were I a king, 
 
 How royally my crown I'd wear ! 
 The jewell'd sceptre in my hand, 
 
 For more than empty rule, I'd bear ; 
 From -those who rail and jest at thrones, 
 
 Far other speech, methinks, I'd bring ; 
 My power I'd have by all beloved, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 No Chancellor within my realm 
 
 Should rule a court, my people's curse ; 
 
 No law should make, with vile delays, 
 My justice, than injustice, worse; 
 
164 WERE i A KING! WERE i A KING ! 
 
 To right all wrongs, my judge should sit, 
 Not, from the wrong'd, their all to wring ; 
 
 Ho ! leeches of the law, you'd starve, 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 My courtiers ? nobles such as mine, 
 
 When when by such have Courts been trod? 
 Not noble by their fathers' names, 
 
 But holding all their rank from God ; 
 Mill, Carlyle, Dickens, Herschel, Lough, 
 
 Such, round my throne, should greatness bring; 
 To Tennyson, should Earls give place, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 Ho ! statesmen you to whom I give 
 The evils of my realm to cure, 
 
 Just laws, I'd say, and righteous make, 
 Alike for all for rich for poor ; 
 
WERE I A KING ! WERE I A KING ! 165 
 
 To squalid hearths to hungry homes, 
 Look that your rule some comfort bring; 
 
 Food, leisure, health, I'd have for all, 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 Not over all that ignorance breeds, 
 
 Brute vice rank evil, would I rule ; 
 No street of all my crowded towns, 
 
 No village, but should boast its school; 
 To loathe the wrong to love the right, 
 
 My teaching, soon, should all men bring, 
 Nor jail nor gallows shock the sight, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 You, Cambridge Oxford, would I say, 
 Not for a class's good, you stand ; 
 
 Your ancient founders wiU'd your halls 
 To hold the neediest of the land ; 
 
166 WERE I A KING ! WERE I A KING ! 
 
 Away with thought of sect and rank ; 
 
 Your doors to genius open fling ; 
 Give welcome unto all I'd say, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 Loved of the lowly and the poor, 
 
 My church's reverend priests should live, 
 To unjust power to titled vice, 
 
 Not shrinking stern reproof to give ; 
 Isaiahs of to-day, their cry 
 
 Should, strong to smite all evil, ring ; 
 Pauls, they should serve in truth their God, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 Go forth, my people, would I say ; 
 
 Off with you off you swarming bees; 
 From this o'ercrowded hive, go bear 
 
 Your English strength beyond the seas : 
 
WERE I A KING ! WERE I A KING ! 167 
 
 The will to work you have; away 
 
 To where your work shall comfort bring; 
 
 Go greater Englands found, I'd say, 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 What parks Fd for my people plant ! 
 
 What gardens for their walks should bloom ! 
 My palaces I'd welcome, sirs, 
 
 Mechanics' feet to every room ; 
 With holidays my realm should shout; 
 
 Enjoyment free to all I'd fling; 
 My pictures should make poor men glad, 
 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
 You smile; yet some perchance may take 
 For truths, what you but fancies call ; 
 
 There needs the will, we have the power 
 To give some gladness unto all; 
 
108 WERE I A KING ! WERE I A KING ! 
 
 Ah, he might throne him in our hearts, 
 Who'd strive to do what I but sing, 
 
 What I so feel Fd long to do, 
 Were I a king were I a king. 
 
THE DEATH-MAKCH OF WELLINGTON, 
 
 " WHOM bear you thus with heavy tread, 
 
 " With arms reversed, and brows deprest?" 
 " Comrade, we bear the mighty dead 
 
 " In glory to his place of rest. 
 " A nation throngs the city's ways, 
 
 " In grief for him whose race is run ; 
 " On, in dark state, beneath their gaze, 
 
 " Comrade, we bear great Wellington." 
 March slowly march hark ! in the hush, I hear 
 Assay e's hurrah, and Badajos' cheer. 
 
170 THE DEATH-MARCH OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 Yes o'er him let the trumpet wail, 
 
 And round him roll your muffled drums ; 
 In this last hour, who now shall fail 
 
 In open grief for him who comes ? 
 Its solemn swell the Dead March pour, 
 
 In grief for him whose deeds are done; 
 Grief, let the mighty cannon roar, 
 
 As on we bear great Wellington. 
 March silent march hark ! in the hush, I hear 
 Vittoria's shout, and Salamanca's cheer. 
 
 On bear him on to where they sleep, 
 
 Our greatest, whom we name with pride; 
 Lay him by Moore, in slumber deep; 
 
 Lay him by Abercrombie's side. 
 Nay place him by the only one 
 
 Who fixed, with him, red victory's smile ! 
 Room for the dead, by him who won 
 
 For us Trafalgar and the Nile ! 
 On bear him on hark ! in the hush, I hear 
 Toulouse's charge and St. Sebastian's cheer. 
 
THE DEATH-MARCH OF WELLINGTON. 171 
 
 Throw wide the doors ; dust unto dust ; 
 
 O'er him the yawning marble close ; 
 Give him to death with trembling trust, 
 
 Calm in his last stern cold repose. 
 In reverent silence, in the gloom 
 
 Brooding beneath the mighty dome, 
 Conqueror, to share the conquer'd's doom, 
 
 Leave him to fame in his last home. 
 March comrades, march hark ! in the hush, I hear 
 Quatre Bras' hurrah, and Waterloo's fierce cheer. 
 
THE ROBIN, 
 
 A TALE OF EMIGRATION. 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 MY thoughts are like our April, 
 
 Now sunshine, and now tears, 
 As I think I leave for ever 
 
 This pleasant home of years ; 
 But, cheer you, sweetest wife, 
 
 Ay, be of blithesome cheer ; 
 As happy days we'll spend afar 
 
 As ever we knew here. 
 
 They say the land we're going to 
 Yields corn that turns to gold ; 
 
 None need, they say, to labour there 
 Till years behold them old 
 
THE ROBIN. 173 
 
 Till leisure's self is pluck'd 
 All blasted with the blight 
 
 That 's eat away its very heart, 
 Its power to yield delight. 
 
 Come, dry your eyes ; your garden, wife, 
 
 For that, nay, never grieve ; 
 There kingly flowers shall bloom for you, 
 
 Shall shame the ones you leave ; 
 Who'll think of the wan daisy 
 
 Who'll the primrose pale recall, 
 In the presence there of regal flowers 
 
 That bow in wonder all ? 
 
 There the waratah holds its state 
 Deep in the forest's shades, 
 
 And with the glory of its pride 
 Lights up the lonely glades ; 
 
174 THE ROBIN. 
 
 The indigo there droops 
 Its crimson from the trees, 
 
 And there the cactus 7 queenly charms 
 Lure back the passing breeze. 
 
 Weep not, no more our woodlands 
 
 And our hedge-row elms to see ; 
 Forget them ; our adopted land 
 
 Has many a statelier tree; 
 The palm-like zamia there 
 
 Endiadems its cone 
 With bending leaves, whose mateless grace 
 
 Our willow's self would own. 
 
 There the dark gum-tree's polished leaves 
 Fling back to heaven the sun ; 
 
 There, Titan pines upscale the sky, 
 Uptower'd to here by none ; 
 
THE ROBIN. 175 
 
 The orange garlands there 
 
 Its form with odorous snow, 
 And round the grass -tree's banded trunk, 
 
 Its sweeping tresses flow. 
 
 Ay, blithely sing my prison'd thrush, 
 
 Full soon shall you be free, 
 For the bell-bird's note outsweetens yours 
 
 Beyond the swelling sea; 
 And, scarlet-vested almsman, 
 
 Your latest dole I cast; 
 For, robin, on your English face, 
 
 I look, perchance, my last. 
 
 Yet, scarlet one, so long I've loved 
 Your painted form to know, 
 
 There's a dainty gift at parting 
 Ay, more than crumbs I throw ; 
 
176 THE ROBIN. 
 
 For a pleasant daylight dream 
 
 Have you ever been to me, 
 And my thanks and love I fling you 
 
 Ere I pass the rolling sea. 
 
 AUSTRALIA. 
 
 Oh, parch'd parch'd are the long grey plains 
 
 That stretch from round us here ; 
 In vain the sound of coming rains 
 
 The dry air pines to hear; 
 Along the river's bed 
 
 The earth is crack'd and dry, 
 Save where, in hot green pools, 
 
 The fishes, gasping, die. 
 
 No rain no rain still hot white dust 
 In blinding clouds sweeps by, 
 
 And still the hot wind burns along 
 Beneath the scorching sky. 
 
THE ROBIN. 177 
 
 Alas, where, fresh and green, 
 Arose our young year's wheat, 
 
 But fields of wither'd stalks 
 Stand, blackening in the heat. 
 
 Our garden flowers our English flowers - 
 
 So tended, that the thought 
 Of happy hours afar we spent 
 
 Might often back be brought 
 The daisy 'twas my pride 
 
 To water day by day 
 The primrose all have died, 
 
 Or wither fast away. 
 
 Oh, for green England's gurgling brooks! 
 
 The herdsman has to tell 
 That far away the cows he drove 
 
 To try the chalk-pit well ; 
 
 N 
 
178 THE ROBIN. 
 
 Their latest hope was there, 
 
 But they found it parch'd and dry, 
 
 With its hot depths glaring blinding white 
 Against the burning sky. 
 
 No sound that tells of freshness 
 
 Of coming rain alone 
 The rattle of the fiery dust, 
 
 Against the casement, blown, 
 The dingo's howl for water 
 
 Our parch'd cows moaning there, 
 And the locust's wither'd song, that seems 
 
 To sear the very air. 
 
 Oh, weary, weary was the day 
 That happiness we sold, 
 
 And the pleasant light of England, 
 For the hopes of sudden gold 
 
THE ROBIN. 179 
 
 And weary is the weary thought, 
 
 That never, but in dreams, 
 We shall tread again her meadow-paths 
 
 Or wander by her streams ! 
 
 Oh, for the fresh, cool airs 
 
 That, round the temples, blow, 
 Of those, through England's orchards, 
 
 Through England's woods, that go ! 
 Oh, would I were again 
 
 Where never more I'll be, 
 In the land I've left for ever 
 
 In my home beyond the sea ! 
 
 AUSTRALIA. 
 
 The robin lighted on the tree, 
 
 And merrily he sang, 
 Till, with his cheerful minstrelsy, 
 
 The lonely clearing rang ; 
 
180 THE ROBIN. 
 
 The song came clear and shrill 
 Through the open window near, 
 
 And hush'd grew all and still 
 That strange sweet voice to hear. 
 
 Upon his broad and horny hand 
 
 The settler leans his brow, 
 And, far from his adopted land, 
 
 His thoughts are wandering now ; 
 With finger raised fixed eye 
 
 Lips parted for a word, 
 The wife sits listening by 
 
 What sings it of, sweet bird ? 
 
 Oh, dwellers in the southern sea, 
 'Twas thus the red- breast sung, 
 
 Full well are known the cots to me, 
 Green England's lanes among; 
 
THE ROBIN. 181 
 
 The homesteads, well I know, 
 
 Whose blue smoke's curling still 
 From all her thymy downs and vales, 
 
 From ev'ry grassy hill. 
 
 Oh, pleasant is the green, green Spring, 
 
 They heard the redbreast sing, 
 In England's woods and verdant lanes 
 
 How pleasant is the Spring ! 
 How, through the soft warm sunshine 
 
 Of April's golden hours, 
 Laugh up to heaven her villages, 
 
 Ingarlanded with flowers ! 
 
 There, noisy of its happiness, 
 The brook is bubbling by, 
 
 And there, in pastures green and deep, 
 The happy cattle lie ; 
 
382 THE ROBIN, 
 
 The daisy lights the meadow 
 The speedwell stars the lane, 
 
 And the glory of the golden furze 
 Burns on her heaths again. 
 
 Oh, for the pleasant primrose banks 
 
 That bask beneath her skies ! 
 Oh, for the thousand silver streams 
 
 Her summer never dries ! 
 Oh, but for one sweet hour, 
 
 In happiness to roam 
 Among your farms and villages, 
 
 My own green island home ! 
 
 No withering winds beneath her skies 
 Her fields fair hopes destroy, 
 
 For, gentle as the airs of May, 
 Her breezes bring but joy; 
 
THE ROBIN. 183 
 
 The wealth her Spring has told 
 
 His treasuries shall win, 
 By Autumn's banded sickles 
 
 With songs is garner'd in. 
 
 Then, dwellers in the southern sea, 
 
 Away before the wind, 
 And bless the swelling sails that leave 
 
 This streamless land behind ; 
 Again, again, seek happiness, 
 
 No more from it to roam, 
 And bless the redbreast's simple song 
 
 That taught the worth of home. 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh, Mary, there's the robin; 
 
 Quick throw the window up, 
 For, while I have a meal to share, 
 
 With me he 's free to sup ; 
 
1S4 THE ROBIN. 
 
 There there let daintiest crumbs 
 In part your guerdon be, 
 
 For the song that lured us back again 
 Across the surging sea. 
 
 Oh, fair is nature everywhere, 
 
 In heaven on land and sea ; 
 But loveliest in my own green land 
 
 Is nature still to me. 
 And still dear shall be the song, 
 
 Still the singer shall be dear 
 That taught me that the constant home 
 
 Of happiness was here. 
 
 Oh, England England, land of lands, 
 Thank heaven ! I Ve wisdom earned 
 
 Through sorrow and heartsickness, well, 
 Thy worth, green land, I Ve learn'd; 
 
THE ROBIN. 
 
 Now blessings track the song that taught 
 
 The girdling billows foam, 
 Around no land that mates with thee, 
 
 My own green island home. 
 
 185 
 
THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 SHE sits in the eastern turret 
 Of that castle rugged and grey, 
 
 And ever her watch is eastward kept, 
 Till the long day dies away. 
 
 Till, behind her, dies the sunset, 
 And darkness the far view fills, 
 
 That she looks across, from its English walls 
 To its circling English hills. 
 
 Yet they rise unseen before her, 
 Those hills of her own green Kent, 
 
 For ever a far-off landscape, here 
 Is with her, since first he went; 
 
THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 187 
 
 Since, the cross on his knightly shoulder, 
 
 And his vassals array'd O woe ! 
 Lost and, how long ! to be lost to her, 
 
 Years since, she saw him go. 
 
 And ever the eastmost turret 
 
 She climbs to, to look in vain 
 To the turn in the road that must show him first, 
 
 When he comes, if he comes again. 
 
 And there, from that eastward turret, 
 
 Her looks will roam and roam 
 Down the one grey road, from the broidery raised 
 
 That is work'd to greet him home. 
 
 Her maids may whisper and chatter, 
 
 But, jest and laugh as they may, 
 She tries in vain to heed their mirth, 
 
 All lost to what they say. 
 
188 THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 But most she loves to clamber 
 Up up the steep winding stair, 
 
 To that grey still chamber, when no one, 
 No voice, and no laugh are there. 
 
 Then then, in that grey still turret, 
 What sounds in her hush'd ears, ring ! 
 
 What scenes of sorrow, and ever one form, 
 To her eyes, her heart's fears bring ! 
 
 Look ! now, to her inward vision, 
 
 A cloudless sky is given, 
 A glaring earth, that fiercely glows 
 
 To the glow of a glaring heaven. 
 
 Blind to all outward seeing, 
 
 In thought, she only sees 
 The stirless shade of the desert palms 
 
 That know not of air or breeze. 
 
THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 1H9 
 
 And the stretch of the blinding desert 
 
 Glares redly across her sight, 
 Still sands that know no motion, 
 
 Bathed in eternal light. 
 
 Then forms are seen, and horsemen 
 
 Upon the* hot wastes rise, 
 The ranks of the worn Crusaders, 
 
 They flicker before her eyes. 
 
 " Water ! O Jesu ! water ! 
 
 " One drop ! " she hears that yell, 
 As if 'twere Dives, shrieking up 
 
 To Lazarus, out from hell. 
 
 And one gaunt shape she watches, 
 
 Wordless, amid the din, 
 That onward toils through the molten sands, 
 
 To the mocking spring to win. 
 
190 THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 On the hot sand, who lies dying, 
 
 Too weak to scare away 
 The vulture from his charger's eyes, 
 
 He soon the foul bird's prey ? 
 
 Or, fetlock-deep, their chargers 
 
 Are toiling and toiling sore, 
 While ever some sink 'neath the weary load 
 
 They never shall bear more. 
 
 A moment the silence rings with shouts, 
 
 And the Arabs' yell she hears; 
 The Christians' shrieks, and the Paynims' cries, 
 
 And the splinter and crash of spears. 
 
 Again, and the swarthy Moslem 
 
 Are gone, and the host toil by; 
 God ! have they left him there alone, 
 
 Wounded unshrived to die ? 
 
THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 191 
 
 O that her love could bear her, 
 
 As swift as her wild fear flies, 
 To pillow on hers his dying head, 
 
 And to bless his dying eyes ! 
 
 But sometimes the eastmost turret 
 
 Gives her brain as weary dreams 
 Of cities and kiosk'd gardens, 
 
 And fountains and golden streams : 
 
 For, ever those gardens tending, 
 
 A Christian slave is there, 
 That the bitter scoff of the Paynim hounds 
 
 Must, smitten and shackled, bear; 
 
 Till the knightly heart is broken, 
 
 And the haughty eye grows dim, 
 And the stately form is bow'd and bent, 
 
 Till the meanest can scoff at him. 
 
192 THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 Or, hark ! his haughty spirit, 
 Unbroken, Mahound has curst, 
 
 And spat at the dogs who know not Christ, 
 And hath dared them to their worst. 
 
 And, crouch'd in that ghastly dungeon, 
 
 Where newt and adder crawl, 
 She sees him, tortured, and crush'd, and worn 
 
 By misery worse than all. 
 
 O terrors ! in shapes, how ghastly, 
 You scare and affray her eyes ! 
 
 And hope, no fairer visions, 
 No sweeter dreams, supplies ? 
 
 Yes; ever the first in glory, 
 
 In danger, saved through all, 
 Joy shows him, Christ's dear soldier, 
 
 Not doom'd to sink or fall. 
 
THE WATCH OF THE CEUSADES. 
 
 And ever the deadly melee, 
 And burning wastes are trod, 
 
 Secure, by him she loveth, 
 Her warrior, loved of God. 
 
 And ever, as on he battles 
 
 To where Christ's triumphs were, 
 
 His thoughts, she knows, are of his Lord, 
 His Lord alone, and her. 
 
 Then sometimes, calmly sinking 
 In such sweet dreams, to rest, 
 
 With a yet yet dearer vision 
 Her happier eyes are blest. 
 
 O joy of joys ecstatic ! 
 
 A glad cry strikes her dumb 
 With gladness, calling to her, 
 
 " Come down ! our lord has come ! " 
 o 
 
194 THE WATCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 Then then, the glorious angels 
 That guard her, smile and know, 
 
 Heaven's blessedness at times is shown 
 To mortals, yet below. 
 
CASSANDRA SPEAKS! 
 
 WITH finger raised, with starting eye, 
 With streaming hair, who wanders by ? 
 With ashen lips, who shuddering shrieks ? 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 " Woe ! roaring flames and gleaming arms ! 
 " Woe ! rushing feet and wail'd alarms ! " 
 Still still of woe, but woe, she shrieks ; 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 " Nods not your Ilion to its fall ? 
 " Nod not high tower and God-built wall ?" 
 Of wreck, but wreck, that wild voice shrieks ; 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
196 CASSANDRA SPEAKS. 
 
 " Up ! in your streets are hid the foe ! 
 
 " Up ! ere they smite and spare not ! Woe ! " 
 
 That cry its frenzied warning shrieks; 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 " Blood steaming blood, on hearth and floor ! 
 " Blood where your knees the Gods adore ! " 
 Of death that cry for ever shrieks ; 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 " Woe ! woe ! ye pamper' d and ye high ! 
 " In vain ye wake ye strive ye fly ! " 
 For your deaf ears that warning shrieks ; 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 " Years did the Gods to ye ordain, 
 " That ye should purge ye pure from stain ! 
 " Gone ! gone ! the hour with vengeance reeks ! " 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
CASSANDRA SPEAKS. 197 
 
 " Woe ! gleaming arms in every street ! 
 " Woe ! vengeful arms, these wild eyes, meet ! 
 u Hot blood your blood, upon them reeks ! " 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 doom'd ! and do ye only flock 
 About her steps, to scoff and mock ? 
 To hear but dreams in all she shrieks ? 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
 O awful Gods ! ye close their ears ! 
 
 O wrathful Gods ! they know not fears ! 
 
 To deafen'd ears in vain she shrieks ! 
 
 Cassandra speaks ! Cassandra speaks ! 
 
UFTON COURT. 
 
 DIVE, dive, swallow, dart and dive ! 
 
 Your joy is changeless, but ours, how short ! 
 So whispers this long-lost home to me, 
 
 My boyhood's dwelling of Ufton Court. 
 
 weedy terrace O silent walks 
 O echoing porch O waters green 
 For forty years where the palm-tree waves, 
 Not such have my dreams of Ufton been ! 
 
 Not so I saw you in that old time, 
 
 When love, it struggled, but pride, it won, 
 
 When, choked with passion, I left you last, 
 For the march and camp 'neath an Indian sun. 
 
UFTON COURT. 199 
 
 Not so I saw you, when on our line 
 The Pindarees' wild horse came down ; 
 
 Not so 'mid the yell of the roaring breach, 
 
 When we storm'd red Bhurtpore's cloven town. 
 
 No all unchanged, in those eastern dreams, 
 
 Your fountain leap'd, and your broad elms swung, 
 
 And with one soft laugh that ever I heard 
 With gladness and music your chambers rung. 
 
 The oak is green, and the linnet sings 
 
 As sweet a song as ever it sung ; 
 But where is the voice that warbled here 
 
 A sweeter music, when I was young ? 
 
 Soft falls the sunlight as then it fell, 
 
 On gable, and casement, and garden wall ; 
 
 But where is she, to my boyish heart 
 That made the gladness of Ufton Hall ? 
 
200 UFTON COURT. 
 
 " Or you or I should go," they said, 
 " Or you be homeless, or I depart." 
 
 Strange lands they thrust between our love, 
 But never they thrust us heart from heart ! 
 
 A differing faith our fathers held ; 
 
 A differing faith we from them drew; 
 My curse be on the ancient jars 
 
 That help'd to part me, love, from you. 
 
 My curse be on the bigot hate 
 
 That bann'd thy rites, O ancient Hall ; 
 
 And hunted forth thy outlaw'd priests 
 From passaged roof and hollo w'd wall. 
 
 u A boyish passion, a girlish love 
 " Let other faces our fancies fill." 
 
 Little they thought would my hair be white, 
 And her smile in my heart be lonely still. 
 
UFTON COURT. 201 
 
 For forty springs have your thorn-trees bloom'd, 
 For forty autumns your oaks been gold ; 
 
 Yet the sight of your rising chimneys shook 
 My blood, as it thrill'd its throbs of old. 
 
 Yet ah ! how little, as children here, 
 
 When these same garden- walks we paced, 
 
 We thought that the love we then scarce knew, 
 They fain would have from our hearts effaced. 
 
 Effaced ! Our names on the beech then cut, 
 The beech with years may at last resign: 
 
 But never a change my love could know, 
 And never a change could come to thine. 
 
 Ah, well I mind me of that sweet hour, 
 
 When conscious love to your eyes first came; 
 
 No, never I knew their depths to leave, 
 Or shown or hidden till death the same. 
 
202 UFTON COURT. 
 
 O hazel eyes, 'mid your soft brown curls ! 
 
 Fain, fain had hidden them, land and sea; 
 But ever they lived before my thought, 
 
 And ever they look'd their love to me. 
 
 For ever they gazed with that parting look 
 That sware a love that must endure ; 
 
 The love of the heiress of Ufton Court 
 For me, her cousin, scorn'd and poor. ' 
 
 Yet never a breath of that sweet love 
 Or word or letter to me might bear ; 
 
 Too keen was that mother's cold, proud watch - 
 But, utter'd or not, that love was there. 
 
 Ay, long they pray'd her to wed the Earl, 
 And long they scoff'd at her idle gloom; 
 
 But changeless stole she away from youth, 
 Stole she unto her early tomb. 
 
UFTON COURT. 203 
 
 And therefore, well, to my aged thoughts, 
 It seems that, heirless, to stranger hands, 
 
 From those who withered our joy to grief, 
 Should pass, old Court, thy hall and lands. 
 
 And now, at length, that I look once more, 
 Old home, on thee decay thy fate 
 
 On thee, I say, let the curse work on, 
 Of the hearts thy pride made desolate. 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM THE SOUTH. 
 
 FOR hours, what crowds have throng'd its doors ! 
 
 From pit to gallery, what a sight ! 
 St. Carlo holds its hundreds more 
 
 Than e'er it held before to-night; 
 From Scotland is she ? Well, the South 
 
 At length is by the North outdone ! 
 Her name 'S alone in every mouth ; 
 
 They 're here to see but one but one 
 But one but one. 
 
 They say all London 's at her feet ; 
 
 Gay Paris worships only her ; 
 Her steps' wild charm to fever heat 
 
 Even Moscow's sluggish soul could stir; 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 205 
 
 From West to East, all Europe through, 
 
 One round of triumph has she run ; 
 Now here we crown this wonder too, 
 
 And Naples flocks to see but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 Alike from palace, quay, and street, 
 
 Her worshippers to-night are brought, 
 As if this dancer's glancing feet 
 
 Were sunny Naples' only thought; 
 Who is not burning to adore ? 
 
 Unseen, her triumph 's yet begun; 
 She comes ; her fame has flown before, 
 
 And all are here to see but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 Look round before the curtain 's raised ; 
 
 How well that beauty acts it there, 
 In front, to have her white arm praised, 
 
 And flash the diamonds in her hair ! 
 
206 THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 
 
 But that one face, what does it here ? 
 
 Its sternness, well, each eye may shun ! 
 Her countryman ? Ah, then 'tis clear, 
 
 He too is here to see but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 Our Norma 's good ; yet much I fear 
 
 To-night no thunders wait for her ; 
 And scarce, I think, were Grisi here, 
 
 Or Lind herself, a hand would stir; 
 Their favourite air 'tis all in vain ; 
 
 They would the ballet were begun ; 
 Of her alone a sight they 'd gain ; 
 
 To-night they Ve only eyes for one, 
 For one for one. 
 
 She comes ! she comes ! that wreath of girls, 
 How fair they float adown the stage ! 
 
 Now, swift the rosy circle whirls ; 
 Now, breaks, one form to disengage ; 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 207 
 
 'Tis she whom all are hush'd to see; 
 
 What thunders, still and still begun, 
 But hush'd to burst, proclaim, 'tis she ! 
 
 A thousand eyes are strain'd on one, 
 On one but one. 
 
 How wondrous fair ! and yet, how cold 
 
 The perfect oval of her face, 
 Where all of beauty we behold, 
 
 And yet of triumph, scarce a trace ! 
 She bends ; now, all unmoved, she stands, 
 
 As if her right she only won, 
 Her due, the rapture from our hands 
 
 That, well she knows, would greet but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 Away away her quivering feet 
 The raptured eye can scarcely trace, 
 
 Where all the forms of beauty meet, 
 And every motion 's rarest grace ; 
 
208 THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 
 
 She bounds ; she whirls ; with floating arms, 
 She poises ; each by each outdone ; 
 
 Now proudly pants in all her charms 
 Amid the plaudits hail'd on one, 
 On one but one. 
 
 Rain down your wreaths your rarest flowers ! 
 
 Heap'd to her feet, let blossoms fall ! 
 Her queenly gaze is raised to ours ; 
 
 Her lighted eyes are thanking all ; 
 What brought that flush to breast and brow, 
 
 That flush that ne'er the dance had done ? 
 That start ? She saw each face but now ; 
 
 Now, now, she sees she sees but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 What does he here ? why has he sped 
 O'er sea o'er Alps, to front the gaze 
 
 Of her, to him but as the dead, 
 So loved so lost in early days ? 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 201) 
 
 Can she, this bared thing of the stage, 
 From God and her youth's worship won, 
 
 This wept- for sin can she engage 
 
 One thought of his one thought, but one, 
 Even one but one ? 
 
 Are her old father's thoughts less stern ? 
 
 Perchance his aged eyes grow dim 
 In watch for her ; his heart may yearn 
 
 At last for her who yearns for him ; 
 O baseless hope ! he has not sent ; 
 
 His daughter ? Daughter he has none ; 
 He knows not her, from God who went ; 
 
 He has no child no child not one, 
 Not one not one. 
 
 His home's old Bible holds her name, 
 Yet, nightly, when 'tis open'd there, 
 
 For her who brought his grey hairs shame, 
 For her, so loved ! he has no prayer ; 
 p 
 
210 THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 
 
 Prop of his age ! how could she turn 
 
 From God, the world's vain ways to run ! 
 
 O bait of hell ! its fame to earn 
 
 With his old curse, but heap'd on one, 
 On one but one ! 
 
 His curse ! his curse ! O would his heart 
 
 Could feel, what unto Heaven is known, 
 No touch of vice need spot the art 
 
 His stern faith holds as sin alone ! 
 Ah, could he know, who brought that start, 
 
 What paths of peril she has run, 
 Unstain'd in thought in act in heart, 
 
 Would still his sternness spurn the one, 
 The loved the one? 
 
 'Tis he, her lover of the days 
 
 Ere yet she scorn'd her girlish home, 
 
 Ere yet she nursed a thought of praise, 
 Ere yet she knew a wish to roam; 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 211 
 
 And here, enchantress of the hour, 
 
 Her memory's thought has backward run 
 
 To the clear burn the thorn in flower, 
 The gloaming meetings, shared with one, 
 With one but one. 
 
 Fame whisper'd, and she weakly thought 
 
 She well could thrust her pride above 
 Her stifled heart, nor e'er be taught, 
 
 No pride, for long, can conquer love ; 
 Through joy through triumph, soon that heart 
 
 Its deeper tones would ever run, 
 Till from all other love she 'd start, 
 
 Through all her temptings, true to one, 
 To one but one. 
 
 O doubt it not ! there have been hours 
 
 When raptures pall'd, and praise was pain ; 
 
 When, crown'd with pleasure's rosiest flowers, 
 She yearn'd for that still vale again; 
 
212 THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 
 
 Half loathed the city's feverish life, 
 
 Half wish'd the hopes of years undone, 
 
 To flee the fame the thirst the strife, 
 For some poor home, with him, the one, 
 The loved the one. 
 
 Ah ! still that home she yet may win, 
 
 Woo win it through the world's applause; 
 To-night, will he not drink it in, 
 
 And, ere he dare to spurn her, pause ? 
 She starts ; away in air she springs, 
 
 Her every former grace outdone, 
 Till, round one storm of plaudits rings, 
 
 She heeds it not; she heeds but one, 
 But one but one. 
 
 He rose ; he's gone ; even while, with him, 
 To leave that life of life she yearn'd ; 
 
 He only saw, before him, swim 
 
 A scorn, his latest hope that spurn'd, 
 
THE STAR OF THE BALLET. 213 
 
 A fallen shape, that, in his sight, 
 
 Dared vaunt the heights its shame had won ; 
 Of whom, to win to God and light, 
 
 Remain'd no hope no hope not one, 
 Not one not one. 
 
 He 's gone ; all vainly may she look, 
 
 Through years, shall look for him in vain, 
 Whose love, she once, for fame forsook, 
 
 And now, would give that fame to gain ; 
 That fame, that scarce a pulse can stir, 
 
 To gaze on her, though thousands run, 
 Those gazing thousands what to her 
 
 Are they ! still still she looks for one, 
 For one but one. 
 
 He 's gone ; amid her native hills 
 
 He dwells, no more to name her name, 
 
 A thought of whom, with sternness fills 
 His heart, grown bitter with her shame; 
 
214 THE STAB OF THE BALLET. 
 
 He little thinks, that worshipp'd star, 
 While crowds around her chariot run, 
 
 In thought, how oft ! is wandering far 
 To that loved home to him the one, 
 The loved the one. 
 
ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 DEAD ! Dead ! what peace abides within the word- 
 
 For thee, O little one, what bliss of rest ! 
 
 By her who bore thee, with what anguish heard, 
 
 God knows ! God knoweth best ; 
 God willeth best ; yet, while the words we say, 
 We know thy grief, wild mother, must have way. 
 
 O never shall those tiny fingers press 
 
 Her cheek? oh, never to the full breasts steal, 
 
 That yearn their tender touch, that so would bless ! 
 
 Their blessed touch to feel ! 
 O never shall those closed lids, opening, rise 
 To look delight into her hungering eyes ! 
 
216 ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 Yearned for how yearned for wast thou, little one ! 
 Each month more dear that seem'd to bring thee near, 
 Alas ! that seem'd, but seem'd ; God's will be done ! 
 
 We may not know thee here ; 
 We may not know thee, but as, babe, thou art, 
 Cold, even to thy mother's quivering heart. 
 
 Not know thee! mother, with thy sorrow wild, 
 How is that still face stamp'd within thy heart! 
 That face, so look'd on ! when " Give me my child ! " 
 
 Thou cried'st, nor dared we part 
 In that first moment, from thy arms' embrace 
 The cold white stillness of that blind, fix'd face. 
 
 God comfort her ! all human words are vain 
 To bid her shun to die or care to live ; 
 Who shall bid peace to be for her again ? 
 
 Who, save God, comfort give ? 
 Who fill the empty heart that finds a void 
 In all it fear'd, or hoped for, or enjoy 'd ? 
 
ON A DEAD INFANT. 217 
 
 God comfort her! who else? not even he 
 Who for thee, sweet one, bore a father's love; 
 Who, with what pride and joy! she look'd to see 
 
 Bend this new life above, 
 And show her in his eyes the unshadow'd bliss 
 That look'd from hers ; alas ! now changed to this ! 
 
 Leave her to God, and to the tender years 
 
 That soften misery into gentle grief, 
 
 Grief, that may almost find at last from tears, 
 
 Sad tears, may find relief; 
 Grief, that from time may gather perfect trust 
 In all heaven wills, and own even this is just. 
 
 For thee, dead snowdrop, all our tears are dried ; 
 We know thee evermore as to us given 
 Within our hearts for ever to abide, 
 
 Type of all meet for heaven ; 
 Type of all purity of which we guess, 
 That heaven shall make more pure, and earth not less. 
 
218 ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 Wake not ! the cruel, tender hand of death, 
 Death, with a tenderness for earth too deep, 
 Ere thou hadst drawn one mortal troubled breath, 
 
 Hush'd thee to quiet sleep; 
 Still'd, ere it woke, the anguish of thy cries, 
 Nor gave the tears of earth to dim thine eyes. 
 
 Why would we wake thee ? Joy and grief, we know, 
 Walk hand in hand along earth's crowded ways ; 
 Who 'scape the thorns that in our paths below 
 
 For aU life thickly lays ? 
 Why should we wish thee on a weary way, 
 Where thou might'st long for night while yet 'twas day ? 
 
 For we, most blest, even when to heaven we turn 
 Eyes bright with thanks for all that makes life dear, 
 Even then our trembling hearts have not to learn 
 
 Of sorrows that are here 
 
 Of griefs that dimm'd our dearest hours with tears 
 Of bitter memories that seem shadowing fears. 
 
ON A DEAD INFANT. 219 
 
 Hope has no part in thee, in surety lost, 
 
 Sweet bud of being, but to bloom above ; 
 
 Nor may our thoughts of thee with fear be cross'd, 
 
 Thou homed in God's dear love, 
 Borne by thy heavenly Father's hand from all 
 That makes the purest stoop, the strongest fall. 
 
 Lily, thou shalt not know the soiling gust 
 Of earthly passion bow thee to its will ; 
 Temptation and all ill are from thee thrust, 
 
 Nor tears thine eyes shall fill ; 
 Eemorse and penitence thou shalt not need, 
 From sin's pollution and earth's errors freed. 
 
 O bless'd, to 'scape the mystery of life, 
 Its wavering walk 'twixt holiness and sin ! 
 Allow'd, without earth's struggles our weak strife, 
 
 Heaven's palms to win, 
 
 Through the bright portals, thou at once hast prest, 
 To endless blessedness and lasting rest. 
 
SHE'S DEAD. 
 
 THE Sycamore shall hear its bees again 
 
 The willow droop its green adown the sun ; 
 But thou, O heart, shalt yearn for Spring in vain 
 Thy Mays are done ! 
 
 Even from the graveyard elms, the rook shall caw 
 Of love ; of love, the dove shall make its moan ; 
 New Springs shall see the bliss my glad Springs saw - 
 I, grief alone. 
 
 O heart ! to whose sweet pulses danced the year, 
 The dirge above thy gladness hath been sung ; 
 The faded hours, upon thy youth's sad bier, 
 Have grave-flowers flung ! 
 
SHE'S DEAD. 221 
 
 She died and with her died, O life, for thee, 
 
 The flush of love, and all hope's cloudless dreams ! 
 Sunless of mirth, henceforth, thou, heart, must see 
 But moonlight gleams. 
 
 shrouded sweetness ! Lo ! those lips are white ; 
 
 The roses of the year no more are red ! 
 What is the silver lily to our sight ? 
 Thou thou art fled ! 
 
 O life ! O sadness ! thou the deepening gloom 
 
 Of dying Autumn for thy skies would'st crave 
 Would'st see all beauty, withering to the tomb, 
 Fade o'er her grave ! 
 
TO BERANGER. 
 ON THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. 
 
 SING, Beranger ! another song ! 
 
 And for awhile forget 
 The memories of thy joyous youth , 
 
 And even thy Lisette; 
 Again the conquering tricolor 
 
 To Europe's winds is flung; 
 Again Marengo's eagles soar, 
 
 And need their fierce flight sung. 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
TO BERANGER. 223 
 
 Hark ! Paris hears the selfsame shout 
 
 So oft she heard of old ; 
 Hark ! victory tells again the tale 
 
 So oft by thee she told, 
 The tale that tells how triumph still 
 
 On France's eagles sits, 
 And mates Sebastopol's dread fame 
 
 With that of Austerlitz. 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
 Too long the northern despot's heel 
 
 Has trampled Europe down; 
 Too long has freedom, trembling, seem'd 
 
 To quail before his frown; 
 At last the West dares use its strength ; 
 
 At last its hosts go forth ; 
 Let Europe's despots hear how well 
 
 We smote their vaunted North. 
 
224 TO BERANGER. 
 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
 For forty years has Europe slept 
 
 A base inglorious sleep ; 
 And, if for Poland's fate she wept, 
 
 She only dared to weep. 
 If Hungary fell, we did but moan 
 
 But hope for both remains ; 
 We hunt the Tartar back ; at last 
 
 We help to loose their chains. 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
 The Austrian fawns upon the Czar; 
 
 Ask if an Ulm he needs ; 
 Tell Prussia's dotard, his false faith 
 
 Another Jena breeds ; 
 
TO BERANGER. 225 
 
 Bid all the hundred pigmy things 
 
 That wear a German crown, 
 Beware at once, or, with the Czar, 
 
 Their tiny thrones go down. 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
 Twice did the barbarous Cossacks' steeds 
 
 Bathe in the trampled Seine ; 
 Leagued Europe help'd them on the way, 
 
 They'll never come again. 
 Those days are past; with Europe leagued, 
 
 Napoleon's eagles wave: 
 The Europe that of old they tore, 
 
 To-day they fly to save. 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
 
226 TO BKRANGEll. 
 
 Sing ! Eylau's strife and Wagram's fame 
 
 You gave to every tongue ; 
 Let newer glories, great as theirs, 
 
 To-day by you be sung ; 
 Let Inkermann's and Alma's deeds 
 
 In songs immortal live ! 
 And dread Sebastopol's fierce fame 
 
 To deathless glory give ! 
 Then, Beranger, another song; 
 
 For who can sing so well 
 The mighty deeds that glory needs 
 
 Thy matchless songs to tell ? 
 
TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 
 
 O SUNNY curls ! O eyes of blue ! 
 
 The hardest natures known, 
 Baby, would softly speak to you 
 
 With strangely tender tone; 
 What marvel, Mary, if from such 
 
 Your sweetness, love, would call ? 
 We love you, baby, O how much, 
 
 Most dear of all things small ! 
 
 Unborn, how, more than all on earth, 
 
 Your mother yearn'd to meet 
 Your dream'd-of face ; you, from your birth, 
 
 Most sweet of all things sweet ! 
 
228 TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 
 
 Even now for your small hands' first press 
 
 Of her full happy breast, 
 How oft does she God's goodness bless, 
 
 And feel her heart too blest ! 
 
 You came, a wonder to her eyes, 
 
 That doated on each grace, 
 Each charm that still with new surprise 
 
 She show'd us in your face: 
 Small beauties ? ah, to her not small, 
 
 How plain to her blest mind ! 
 Though, baby dear, I doubt if all, 
 
 All that she found, could find. 
 
 A year has gone, and, mother, say, 
 Through all that year's blest round, 
 
 In her, has one sweet week or day 
 Not some new beauty found ? 
 
TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 229 
 
 What moment has not fancied one, 
 
 Since first your eyes she met ? 
 And, wife, I know you have not done 
 
 With finding fresh ones yet. 
 
 Nor I; for, baby, some new charm 
 
 Each coming hour supplies, 
 So sweet, we think change can but harm 
 
 Your sweetness in our eyes, 
 Till comes a newer, and we know, 
 
 As that fresh charm we see, 
 In you, sweet nature wills to show 
 
 How fair a babe can be. 
 
 Kind God, that gave this precious gift, 
 
 More clung to every day, 
 To Thee our eyes we trembling lift, 
 
 Take not Thy gift away ! 
 
230 TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 
 
 Looking on her, we start in dread ; 
 
 We stay our shuddering breath, 
 And shrink to feel the terror said 
 
 In that one dark word death. 
 
 O tender eyes ! beauty strange ! 
 
 When childhood shall depart, 
 O that thou, babe, through every change, 
 
 May'st keep that infant heart ! 
 O gracious God ! O this make sure, 
 
 That, of no grace beguiled, 
 The woman be in soul as pure 
 
 As now she is a child ! 
 
TO W. G. B. 
 
 SOUL, not yet from heaven beguiled, 
 Soul, not yet by earth defiled, 
 Dwelling in this little child, 
 Be, O to him be 
 All we would have thee ! 
 
 Through this life of joy and care, 
 If that grief must be his share, 
 Make, O make him strong to bear 
 All God willeth, all 
 That to him must fall ! 
 
232 TO W. G. B. 
 
 O when passions stir his heart, 
 Tempting him from good to part, 
 Make him from the evil start, 
 
 That he walk aright, 
 
 Soil-less in God's sight! 
 
 Taint him not with mortal sin, 
 
 That heaven's palms his hands may win, 
 
 That heaven's gate he enter in ; 
 
 Of God's favour sure, 
 
 Pure as he is pure ! 
 
 If he wander from the right, 
 O through error's darksome night, 
 On to heaven's eternal light, 
 Guide, O guide his way, 
 To heaven's perfect day ! 
 
YB 13691 
 
 M 9389 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
Hb