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 IN CORNWALL 
 
 AND ACROSS THE SEA.
 
 By the Same Author. 
 
 FMTHJOF AND INGEBJORG and other Poems, by an 
 
 Australian Colonist. 
 
 London : C. Kegan Paul & Co. 1882. 
 AUSTRALIAN LYRICS. 
 
 Griffith & Farran, St Paul's Churchyard, E.G. 
 
 George Robertson, Melbourne, Sydney, and Adelaide. 
 
 1883. 
 
 A POETRY OF EXILES. 
 
 Griffith & Farran, St Paul's Churchyard, E.C. 
 
 C. E. Fuller & Co., Sydney. 
 
 1884. 
 
 A SUMMER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Griffith, Farran, Okeden & Welsh, 
 West Corner St Paul's Churchyard, London. 
 
 All these Books may be procured in Atiierica from 
 
 Messrs E. P. BUTTON & CO.. 
 
 31 WEST 23RD STREET, NEW YORK ; 
 
 and in Australia _frotn 
 
 Messrs GEORGE ROBERTSON & CO. (Limited), 
 MELBOURNE, SYDNEY, ADELAIDE, BRISBANE, &AUCKLAND, 
 
 For ilie Opinions of the Press see at the end o/the volume.
 
 IN CORNWALL 
 AND ACROSS THE SEA 
 
 WITH POEMS WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE 
 
 ETC. 
 
 KY 
 
 DOUGLAS B. W. SLADEN 
 
 AN AUSTRALIAN COLONIST 
 
 LATE SCHOLAR OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORD ; B.A. OXFORD ; 
 
 I). A. AND LL.B. MELBOURNE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "FUITHJOF AND INGEBJORG;" " AUSTRALIAN LYRICS;" 
 
 " A POETRY OF EXILES ; " AND 
 
 "a summer CHRISTMAS" 
 
 LONDON 
 GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & W£LSH 
 
 (SUCCESSORS TO NEWBRRY AND HARRIS) 
 
 WEST CORNER ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD 
 E. P. DUTTON & CO., NEW YORK 
 
 1885
 
 The rights of translation and reproduction are reserved.
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 Although, owing to my absence in the Antipodes, 
 " A Poetry of Exiles" and "A Summer Christmas " 
 appeared in England so lately as last July and last 
 October respectively, they were completed not much 
 less than two years ago. This volume collects the 
 fugitive pieces written during the interval. 
 
 The poems entitled " Across the Sea " were 
 written in or of my adopted country — Australia, and 
 my interesting " voyage home,"' as all Australians 
 patriotically call it, by way of the Indian Ocean and 
 the Mediterranean Sea. 
 
 Sonnets 6-19 take the Reader from Ceylon to 
 Plymouth, and were written in sight of the places 
 which they describe. These and the other descriptive 
 sonnets in the volume claim to be photographs 

 
 vi To the Reader. 
 
 rather than artistic pictures — the function of a photo- 
 graph being, I take it, to reproduce 
 
 " Nature's breadth, yet truth of detail." 
 
 My endeavour has been to bring the scenes graphi- 
 cally before the Reader. 
 
 The Poems entitled '' In Cornwall " are the fruit 
 of holidays last autumn spent in that lovely, romantic 
 and unique county. 
 
 The remainder, with few exceptions, were composed 
 while summering near Bideford or wintering at 
 Torquay. Those few were composed in London or at 
 Oxford. 
 
 In the schemes of my " Ballades " I have followed 
 Mr Andrew Lang and Mr Austin Dobson, to whom 
 I desire here to tender my acknowledgments and 
 thanks. 
 
 DOUGLAS BROOKE WHEELTON SLADEN. 
 
 Cherwell Lodge, Oxford. 
 May, 1S85.
 
 TO 
 THE COUNTESS OF PORTSMOUTH, 
 
 IN MEMORY OF PLEASANT HOURS AT EGGESFORD, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS, 
 
 WITH HER PERMISSION, 
 
 AT EGGESFORD, Easter 1885. 
 
 Outside the Hall the Primrose clusters wild, 
 Unhid wild Violets rear their lowly heads — 
 Each wanton hand that plucks and foot that treads 
 
 By the broad shadow of the Hall exiled. 
 
 Outside the Hall the Cottar's wife and child 
 Can sleep as safely in their lowly beds, 
 By the kind Presence, from the Hall which spreads, 
 
 From want and trampling force kept undefiled. 
 
 Inside the Hall the Spirit, which protects, 
 The humble folk and flowers at the gate. 
 
 Pours forth a primrose-violet hue of home, — 
 Mixed bright and modest,— though it ne'er neglects 
 The higher living meet for high estate, 
 The duties which with lofty lineage come.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PART I.— IN CORNWALL. 
 
 I. Alice of the Lea . 
 
 Page 
 3 
 
 2. The Bells of Forrabury 
 
 15 
 
 3. St Ives, Cornwall . 
 
 26 
 
 4. The Mermaid of /^ennor . 
 
 29 
 
 5. The Captive River 
 
 33 
 
 6. Sir Tristram at Tintagel . 
 
 38 
 
 Cornish Sonnets. 
 
 7. Cornwall 
 
 51 
 
 Sonnets of the Cornish Moors. 
 
 8. On the Cornish Moors 
 
 9. Castle Chun . . . . 
 10. Rialobran, the Son of Cunoval 
 
 53 
 55 
 58 
 
 Sonnets of Mounts Bay. 
 
 11. Penzance . 
 
 12. Mounts Bay 
 
 59 
 60
 
 Index. 
 
 n- 
 
 Marazion, September 14, 1884 
 
 . 
 
 Page 
 61 
 
 14. 
 
 St Michael's Mount, September 25, 
 
 1884 
 
 62 
 
 15- 
 
 St Michael's Mount at Sunset 
 
 . 
 
 66 
 
 16. 
 
 St Michael's Mount by Moonlight 
 
 . 
 
 69 
 
 17- 
 
 To a Young Australian Lady 
 
 • 
 
 70 
 
 
 Sonnets of the Land's 
 
 End. 
 
 
 18. 
 
 The Land's End . 
 
 • 
 
 71 
 
 19. 
 
 Sennen .... 
 
 . 
 
 73 
 
 20. 
 
 Vellandreath, Whitesand Bay 
 
 • 
 
 •' 76 
 
 Sonnets of the Lizard. 
 
 21. To the Lizard 
 
 77 
 
 Sonnets of Arturian Cornwall. 
 
 22. Tintagel ...... 80 , 
 
 23. Camelford [" Camelot " and " Slaughter-Bridge "] 84 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems written in Cornwall. 
 
 24. Sir Humphrey Davy's Seat, Gulval Cam 
 
 25. To E. M. S., after a Tour in Cornwall 
 
 26. Marguerites 
 
 27. Behind the Scenes . ' . 
 
 28. The Cistercians 
 
 29. The Harvest 
 
 86 
 
 87 
 88 
 
 91 
 
 94 
 100
 
 Index. 
 
 XI 
 
 30. Sylvia .... 
 
 31. " Corn and Acorn " 
 
 32. The Legend of the Lily and the Rose 
 
 Page 
 102 
 
 103 
 
 106 
 
 PART IL— ACROSS THE SEA. 
 
 I. Melbourne, January 1880. 
 
 [On Board the S.S. 
 
 
 Lusitania.'X . . . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 2. In Memoriam — Sir Charles Sladen, K.C.M.G. . 
 
 114 
 
 3. Adam Gordon's Tomb 
 
 
 116 
 
 4. Melbourne, July 1884 
 
 
 
 118 
 
 5. The South-Sea Voyager 
 
 
 
 119 
 
 6. The Tropics 
 
 
 
 125 
 
 7. Guardafui 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 8, Aden 
 
 
 
 128 
 
 9. At Suez, May 1884 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 10. The Desert 
 
 
 
 130 
 
 II. The Suez Canal . 
 
 
 
 131 
 
 12. Fiancee 
 
 
 
 132 
 
 13. Malta 
 
 
 
 133 
 
 14. Carthage . 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 15. Gibraltar . 
 
 
 
 136 
 
 16. Tarifa 
 
 
 
 137 
 
 17. Trafalgar . 
 
 
 
 138 
 
 18. Upon the S.S. Ballaarat, off Ushant 
 
 139 
 
 19. At Plymouth 
 
 
 
 140
 
 xu 
 
 hidex. 
 
 20. Ichabod .... 
 
 21. Two Years Old To-day 
 
 22. An Old Romance 
 
 23. The Valse 
 
 24. The Gentleman-Drover's Good-bye 
 
 25. The Queen of Hearts 
 
 25. The Sigh of the Shouter . 
 
 26. To G. E. Morrison, Esq. — An Explorer of New 
 
 Guinea 
 
 28. At Windsor, New South Wales, in Winter 
 
 29. Cooper of Tumut. — A Hero 
 
 30. A Ballad of Wattle- Blossom 
 
 31. Light and Shade 
 
 32. Themistocles to the Peace Party at Athens 
 '^'i,. Wordsworth's Two Voices 
 
 34. Poets .... 
 
 35. Three Graces 
 
 36. B.A 
 
 37. The Barbed Arrow 
 
 Page 
 141 
 
 144 
 147 
 149 
 152 
 
 156 
 
 157 
 160 
 
 162 
 
 169 
 
 172 
 
 174 
 175 
 176 
 177 
 178 
 I So 
 
 PART HI.— POEMS WRITTEN IN LONDON. 
 
 1. The Exile's Return .... 
 
 2. The Poet ...... 
 
 3. Mammon and Poesy. — Dedicated to Robert 
 
 Browninsj, D.C.L. . 
 
 1S5 
 
 187 
 
 191
 
 Index. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 PART IV.— WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE, CHIEFLY 
 AT TORQUAY. 
 
 I. A Ballad of Pleasure . . . . 
 
 Page 
 203 
 
 2. A Ballad of Pain . . . . 
 
 205 
 
 3. A Ballad of a Graveyard . . . . 
 
 208 
 
 4. Maidenhood— A Serenade 
 
 211 
 
 5. Under the Mistletoe 
 
 213 
 
 6. King Charlie .... 
 
 216 
 
 7. To a Lady on her Twenty-second Birthday 
 
 220 
 
 8. A Tale of Two Colleges . 
 
 226 
 
 9. Sympathy .... 
 
 228 
 
 10. Seasons ..... 
 
 230 
 
 1 1 . The Two Spirits .... 
 
 232 
 
 12. The Hour of Prayer 
 
 234 
 
 13. A Legend of the Sabbath 
 
 236 
 
 14. The Lost Poem .... 
 
 238 
 
 Patriotic Pokms. 
 
 15. A Letter from Gordon 
 
 16. Praying for Gordon 
 
 17. Gordon is Dead . 
 I S . " Advance Aust ral ia " 
 
 19. Waiting for War 
 
 20. Gordon of Khartoum 
 
 243 
 245 
 
 247 
 250 
 
 254 
 257
 
 XIV 
 
 Index. 
 
 21. To our Children . . . . . 
 
 22. England and Athens . . . . 
 
 23. To England on the verge of War with Russia 
 
 24. Heroum Filii. — Dedicated to the "Scots Greys" 
 
 Page 
 258 
 
 259 
 262 
 263 
 
 Miscellaneous Sonnets. 
 
 
 25. Pericles ..... 
 
 265 
 
 26. Margaret of Scotland 
 
 266 
 
 27. Platonic Love .... 
 
 267 
 
 28. Wife-Love .... 
 
 270 
 
 29. Infancy ..... 
 
 272 
 
 30. On a Dead Infant 
 
 273 
 
 31. "Bob" ..... 
 
 274 
 
 32. Too Late .... 
 
 275 
 
 33. Cathedrals .... 
 
 276 
 
 34. Exeter Cathedral 
 
 279 
 
 35. Cockington Lanes 
 
 280 
 
 36. A Walk in Spring— From Torquay to Marldon . 
 
 281 
 
 37. Devonshire . . . . . 
 
 282 
 
 38. Bowood, near Bideford . . . . 
 
 283 
 
 39. Tor Steps — A British Bridge near Exmoor 
 
 285 
 
 40. Herb-Robert . . . . . 
 
 286 
 
 41. The Beech Tree . . . . , 
 
 287 
 
 42. The Sonnet's Scanty Plot 
 
 288 
 
 43. Oxford the Grand Undoer 
 
 2S9
 
 Index. 
 
 XV 
 
 Addenda. 
 
 44. The Dedication of "A Summer Christmas " 
 
 45. The Starry Sisters 
 
 46. Forster's " Midas " 
 
 47. To Sir Samuel Wilson 
 
 48. To J. Henniker Heaton, Esq. 
 
 49. Primrose Day 
 
 50. War 
 
 
 Page 
 
 I!hristmas " 
 
 295 
 
 
 298 
 
 
 299 
 
 
 300 
 
 
 301 
 
 . • 
 
 302 
 
 
 304
 
 PART I. 
 
 IN CORNWALL. 
 
 4V
 
 ALICE OF THE LEA. 
 
 (Founded upon a Legend Related by the 
 Rev. R. S. Hawker.) 
 
 In the castle of the Grenvilles 
 
 Beside the Cornish sea, 
 There was to be a wassail 
 
 And dance and revelrie, 
 And who should be the fairest 
 
 But Alice of the Lea? 
 
 With eyes as blue as heaven 
 When summer days are bright, 
 
 And like " the summer waters 
 When the sea is soft with light," 
 
 But tresses like the raven. 
 On murk December night.
 
 In Co7'uwall. 
 
 As graceful as the ash-tree 
 Down in her native west, 
 
 As stately as Tintagel, 
 
 With castle-cinctured crest, 
 
 In all the bounds of Cornwall, 
 Of all the maids the best. 
 
 The daring knights of Devon 
 And squires of Cornish strand, 
 
 And lords from o'er the Severn Sea 
 Came courting for her hand. 
 
 But she loved the lordly Grenvilles 
 Alone of all the land. 
 
 And who of all the Grenvilles 
 
 The maiden's heart should move ? 
 
 Sir Bevil, the king's captain. 
 
 Who with the Roundheads strove, 
 
 Who battled like a hero 
 And died as heroes love.
 
 Alice of the Lea. 
 
 But Bevil, the king's captain, 
 He thought not of the maid, 
 
 Who all her tender girlhood 
 And stately beauty laid 
 
 Before him, in rich sacrifice, 
 And little heed he paid. 
 
 In the castle of the Grenvilles 
 Beside the Cornish Sea, 
 
 They gathered for a wassail 
 And dance and revelrie. 
 
 And who should be the fairest 
 But Alice of the Lea ? 
 
 But what availed it Alice 
 
 Though queen of all were she 
 
 If the proud heart of the Grenville 
 Should still unaltered be — 
 
 The peerless Lady Alice 
 Lady Alice of the Lea ?
 
 /;/ Co7'nzuall. 
 
 " O mother and my maidens, 
 My velvet to me bring, 
 
 My gown of the black velvet — 
 Fit fabric for a king ; 
 
 And from my jewel-casket 
 Give out the pixies' ring — 
 
 " The ring won from the pixies 
 By a wise wife of the Lea — 
 
 The mightiest in magic 
 Of all the West-countree ? 
 
 To give the love of her true love 
 Whoever he might be." 
 
 But, because the ring was given 
 Against the pixies' will, 
 
 It never won a lover 
 Without a dower of ill, 
 
 And whenever lady wore it 
 There was thunder in the hill.
 
 Alice of the Lea. 
 
 " O Alice, daughter Alice, 
 Wear not that ring to-night, 
 
 For whoso wears that jewel 
 Defies the pixies' might, 
 
 And to-night the pixies are abroad 
 From dusk to dawn of light. 
 
 " O Alice, daughter Alice, 
 
 I pray thee set it by ; 
 When thou art in thy velvet, 
 
 No queen with thee may vie 
 For stately grace and lovely face 
 
 And glamour of the eye. 
 
 " O Alice, daughter Alice, 
 
 The ladies of the Lea 
 Have jewels of their own enow 
 
 Without the pixies' fee ; 
 I prayed thee then, I pray thee now, 
 
 To let that jewel be.
 
 8 In Cornwall. 
 
 " O Alice, daughter Alice, 
 I would see thee fairly wed, 
 
 And comely children by thee 
 Before that I am dead. 
 
 By thine own royal beauty 
 Not by the pixies sped." 
 
 But the lovely lady Alice, 
 
 The lady of the I.ea, 
 Answered her weeping mother, 
 
 Proudly and scornfully, 
 " I will wear the ring and win his love 
 
 Whatever knight it be." 
 
 Then did she on her velvet 
 
 (Fit fabric for a king). 
 And on her slender finger 
 
 She drew the pixies' ring, 
 And then looked on her beauty 
 
 In the mirror glorying.
 
 Alice of the Lea. 
 
 " O Alice, daughter Alice, 
 There is thunder in the hill, 
 
 And I feel a brooding boding^ 
 In mine inmost soul, of ill ; 
 
 I pray thee, daughter mine, to pray. 
 If wear this ring thou will. 
 
 " And I pray to Him in heaven 
 That thou mayest win the love 
 
 Of him, whose heart thou settest 
 Thy mother's prayers above, 
 
 And pray thou win not harm, like all 
 Who pixies' power would prove." 
 
 She gazed into the mirror 
 
 Upon her loveliness, 
 And on the flashing jewel 
 
 And her rich velvet dress. 
 And felt a glow of conscious pride 
 
 Through her whole being press.
 
 lo In Coiniwall. 
 
 And she gazed into the mirror 
 
 Upon her glorious eyes, 
 And she muttered, " Pray, or pray not, 
 
 Not Sir Bevil can despise 
 The glitter and the glamour 
 
 Which all my lovers prize. 
 
 " I will not pray, my mother, 
 For surely he must yield 
 
 To mine own beauty had I 
 No pixies' ring to wield ; 
 
 Nor care I for the pixies aught, 
 In hall or in the field. 
 
 " I will not pray, my mother ; 
 
 There's little done by pray'r 
 But may be done by woman's face 
 
 Or man's right arm, or care ; 
 The pixies I defy to do 
 
 Whatever they may dare.
 
 Alice of the Lea. 1 1 
 
 Forthwith there shone a glare of light 
 
 Which dazzled all the place, 
 But when the glare had vanished 
 
 None saw the maiden's face, 
 Although they scoured the country side 
 
 For twelve long hours' space, 
 
 And in the Grenvilles' castle 
 
 Beside the Cornish Sea 
 There was a gloom of sorrow, 
 
 For the fairest, where was she. 
 The queen of all who graced each ball, 
 
 The lady of the Lea ? 
 
 But when the news was brought them 
 
 They hasted, one and all, 
 Bedizened in the splendour 
 
 Done on them for the ball. 
 To scour the manor of the Lea 
 
 And search the ancient hall, —
 
 12 In Cornwall. 
 
 The daring knights of Devon 
 And squires of Cornish strand, 
 
 And lords from o'er the Severn Sea 
 Who sought the maiden's hand. 
 
 And Bevil whom the maiden loved 
 Alone of all the land. 
 
 But never spied the maiden 
 Even a moment's space, 
 
 And they sorrowed, some for years. 
 O'er the beauty of her face, 
 
 And Bevil for her evil hap, 
 But no whit for her grace \ 
 
 Though he, alone, of all men 
 The maiden's heart might move, 
 
 But in a score of battles 
 
 Against the Roundheads strove. 
 
 And bore him like a hero, 
 And died as heroes love.
 
 Alice of the Lea. 13 
 
 Only the pixies' jewel 
 
 Beneath the earth was found, 
 Laid lightly near the surface 
 
 Of a mole's new-built mound — 
 The first of all the molehills 
 
 Cast up on Cornish ground. 
 
 And the simple country people 
 
 Said that the little mole, 
 With her fur like rich black velvet 
 
 And her eye with hidden hole. 
 Was the lost and scornful maiden 
 
 Whom the angry pixies stole, 
 
 With fur of rich black velvet, 
 
 Like the robe which she had worn, 
 
 And the eyes she was so proud of 
 That prayer she should scorn, 
 
 As a judgment for vain-glory. 
 Out of their sockets torn.
 
 14 III Coi'iiwall. 
 
 And they say that at the seasons 
 When pixies feast and jest, 
 
 She regains her shape and beauty 
 And is their honoured guest, 
 
 As honest folks have witnessed 
 In the borders of the West. 
 
 
 tr-w 
 
 I
 
 The Bells of Forrabtiry. 1 5 
 
 THF BELLS OF FORRABURY. 
 
 (Founded upon a Legend related by the 
 Rev. R. S. Hawker.) 
 
 The Lord of Bottreaux Castle, 
 Was of all men haughtiest, 
 
 He could not brook the waft of bells 
 Borne on the breeze's breast 
 
 From the church-tower of Tintagel 
 When the wind blew from the west. 
 
 And he charged a famous founder, 
 Who lived in London town, 
 
 To cast a peal of bells to be 
 A glory and renown 
 
 To the tower of Forrabury 
 Upon the windy down.
 
 1 6 In Cornwall. 
 
 The founder in his foundry, 
 Great bells he founded three 
 
 The first was for St Michael named, 
 For merciful is he 
 
 To shipwrecked folk and strangers 
 Upon the land or sea; 
 
 The second was named after 
 
 The sons of Zebedee, 
 Because that they were fishermen 
 
 In far off Galilee ; 
 And the third for Mother Mary 
 
 And the infant at her knee. 
 
 The bells were wrought and graven 
 And carried to be blest, 
 
 With holy water, hand and voice 
 By bishop, choir and priest. 
 
 Then put upon the vessel 
 To bear into the west.
 
 The Bells of Forrahiry. 
 
 The west wind blew them fairly 
 From London to the sea : 
 
 The east wind sped the good ship on 
 Till past the land was she : 
 
 And then the west wind took them 
 And bore them merrily, 
 
 Until they cast their anchor 
 
 Right under Willapark, 
 Not daring, till the tide was in 
 
 And dawn had chased the dark, 
 To thread the tortuous harbour 
 
 With their rich-laden bark. 
 
 The Vespers of Tintagel 
 
 Once more resounded clear ; 
 
 But filled they not the Bottreaux folk 
 With envy now but cheer, 
 
 For the bells had come to Bottreaux 
 
 After so many a year. 
 B
 
 1 8 In Cornwall. 
 
 The Vespers of Tintagel 
 
 Were wafted to the sea ; 
 The Pilot crossed himself and dropped 
 
 Down on his bended knee, 
 And for safe voyage and speedy 
 
 His thanksgiving breathed he. 
 
 " What dost thou, Master Pilot, 
 
 Upon thy bended knee ? 
 What words are those thou mutterest, 
 
 I prythee, tell to me?" 
 " I am praising Mother Mary 
 
 For her mercies on the sea." 
 
 " Fie on thee, Master Pilot, 
 
 Are we not good enow, 
 On summer-seas as soft as these 
 
 To bring to port our bow ? 
 Thy captain and his seamen. 
 
 Not saints, should have thy vow.
 
 The Bells of Forrabury. 1 9 
 
 " Fie on thee, Master Pilot !" 
 
 And a dread oath he swore, 
 That he could save his ship alone 
 
 Though all the winds did roar 
 And all the saints in heaven 
 
 Should keep him from the shore. 
 
 The pilot bowed him meekly 
 And turned to heaven once more, 
 
 That God the captain might forgive 
 For the dread oath he swore, 
 
 And no ill hap might take them 
 Ere they should reach the shore. 
 
 When the red sunset gilded 
 
 The castle of Bottreaux, 
 The sea was like a little lake, 
 
 Where never ripples flow, 
 By wooded banks veiled closely 
 
 From all the winds that blow :
 
 20 In Cornwall. 
 
 When rose the moon, the waters 
 
 Shone like a mirror-glass, 
 Not clear but lined with silver sheen, 
 
 Where all things that may pass 
 Cast shadows on its surface 
 
 Like breath on polished brass. 
 
 The waters lapped as gently 
 
 Upon the headland's crags 
 As a deep sluggish-river tide. 
 
 Wherein the reedy flags 
 Move little, as the watchful pike 
 
 Who in their arbo urs lags, ^v-^^i i ^<»''^^ 
 
 The torch-fire in the cresset 
 Rose straight, a shaft of flame. 
 
 Steady as light of well-trimmed wick 
 When shielded by a frame 
 
 Of graven glass pourtraying r c^JJ. CV^ 
 
 Some deed of ancient fame. \ ^-
 
 The Bells of Forrabury. 2 i 
 
 "Go sleep thee, whining pilot," 
 
 The scornful captain said, 
 " Thou needst no crossings, bended knees 
 
 Or beads to save thy head : 
 Thou art as safe on shipboard 
 
 To-night as in thy bed." 
 
 '' I will not sleep, Sir Captain, 
 
 I will not sleep to-night : 
 We shall be safe by grace of heaven, 
 
 When morning brings the light : 
 Who stays his hand in battle, 
 
 Not often wins the fight." 
 
 But went that scornful captain 
 
 And laid him down to sleep, 
 As careless in his fragile bark 
 
 Upon the vengeful deep. 
 As the lord of Bottreaux Castle 
 
 In his mighty feudal keep.
 
 2 2 In Corjiwall. 
 
 But while the scornful captain 
 And all his seamen slept, 
 
 A great wave, in mid-ocean born, 
 Of storm or earthquake, swept 
 
 And on the fated vessel 
 Like a huge serpent leapt. 
 
 And, fettered with her anchors. 
 
 The gallant little bark 
 Was strangled in the serpent's folds, 
 
 Right under Willapark, 
 In the hour before the morning, 
 
 The hour of all most dark. 
 
 But the prayerful pilot standing 
 At his post upon the deck. 
 
 Was borne in safety to the land 
 Upon the monster's neck. 
 
 While the captain and the seamen 
 Were strangled in the wreck.
 
 The Bells of Forrabiiry. 23 
 
 And rising in the morning, 
 
 The vassals of Bottreaux 
 Looked for the ship which bore their bells, 
 
 But saw a sight of woe, 
 The shipwrecked pilot wailing 
 
 The stout ship whelmed below. 
 
 " Tell us, thou mournful seaman, 
 What mournest thou?" they said, 
 
 " Or hast thou lost thy boat or nets ? 
 Or is some comrade dead ? 
 
 Or tell us art thou shipwrecked 
 And all thy substance sped ? " 
 
 Then spoke the pilot wailing, 
 " Shipwrecked I am," he said, 
 
 " But mourn not only boat or net, 
 Or trusty comrade dead ; 
 
 For the bells of Bottreaux church-tower 
 Swing on the ocean's bed.
 
 24 lit Co7mivall. 
 
 Long centuries are over 
 
 Since the good ship went down, 
 
 With Forrabury's bells on board, 
 In sight of Bottreaux town, 
 
 Yet the "silent tower of Bottreaux " 
 No chime hath ever known. 
 
 But the bells of Forrabury 
 Give forth a muffled knell. 
 
 From their belfry in the sunken ship, 
 The danger to foretell, 
 
 When from the far Atlantic 
 There strides a sudden swell. 
 
 And the fishers of the haven. 
 Though smooth as glass the sea, 
 
 And though the heavens overheard 
 From rack or cloud are free, 
 
 Though breeze enough there is not 
 A signal flag to see,
 
 The Bells of Forrabury. 25 
 
 If they think they hear the knelhng 
 
 Of the Forrabury bells, 
 Say 'tis the scornful captain who 
 
 A coming storm foretells, 
 And he his boat who launches 
 
 Hears his own funeral knells. 
 
 But the bells of high Tintagel 
 
 Still merrily ring on, 
 As, long ere Norman William came, 
 
 They haughtily have done. 
 While the bells of Forrabury 
 
 Were not, have come, have gone. 

 
 26 hi Cormvall. 
 
 ST IVES, CORNWALL. 
 
 The day that I wandered down to St Ives 
 I saw no man with a number of wives, 
 Or cats or anything else of the kind 
 Of which the old legend put me in mind, 
 
 But only the town with its quaint old streets 
 And the quaint old quay with its fisher fleets 
 And sunburnt fishermen watching the tide 
 Or drying their nets on the Island side, 
 
 And fisherwomen hard-worked but gay 
 For fine it was nor the boats away. 
 And sturdy children some swimming about 
 Some bare on the sand when the tide was out.
 
 S^ Ives, 27 
 
 When the tide was out there was gleaming sand 
 Stretching leagues away upon either hand, 
 Dividing the dark blue sea and the shore 
 With its crown of boulder and heathy moor. 
 
 There's little to laugh at about St Ives : 
 Its story's a serious story of lives 
 Nightly in risk on the pitiless sea 
 To earn the fisher's inadequate fee, 
 
 A story of lifeboat, rocket and belt, 
 
 A story of woe not talked of but felt 
 
 When a lugger puts out to sea and goes 
 
 The way which all know of but no one knows. /I'iva j .ic<«-KLJt' 
 
 Good-bye, little town by the Severn sea 
 With your sands and old inns and your busy quay, 
 And your carven church and your antique streets, 
 And your sun-burned heroes of fisher fleets !
 
 28 In Cornwall. 
 
 Good-bye ! when I read the name of St Ives 
 The wives I shall think of are fishermen's wives, 
 Rearing their sons to be heroes at home 
 While the wild wind lashes the western foam 
 
 Round the boats, in which brothers and husbands sail. 
 
 To win their bread from the teeth of the gale, 
 
 Or to carry a chance of life to wrecks 
 
 At the risk of their own stout hearts and necks.
 
 The Mermaid of Zemior — a Ballad. 29 
 
 THE MERMAID OF ZEN NOR— A BALLAD. 
 
 O STRANGERS from Australia, 
 
 And strangers born at home, 
 Who know no more of England 
 
 Than those from o'er the foam, 
 
 There is a church at Zennor, 
 
 By the North Cornish sea, 
 Where our forefathers worshipped 
 
 And worship still may we 
 
 In an old-fashioned building. 
 
 In the old-fashioned style ; 
 The church has still a Saxon floor 
 
 And early-English aisle.
 
 30 In Cornwall. 
 
 The carving of the chancel 
 
 Is plaster-overlaid ; 
 'Twas done two centuries ago 
 
 When sturdy Roundheads prayed. 
 
 But the bench ends carved grotesquely 
 
 Of honest English oak 
 Have all, save two, departed, 
 
 In the common way of folk. 
 
 And these two are Zennor's glory, 
 
 More especially the one 
 With the figure of a mermaid 
 
 Rudely and oldly done. 
 
 Why the figure of a mermaid 
 Should grace a Christian church 
 
 Has defied whole generations 
 Of original research.
 
 The Mermaid of Zennor — a Ballad. 3 1 
 
 But we know no better reason 
 
 Than the Zennor people told, 
 In the days when men believed things, 
 
 In the fairy days of old. 
 
 For the squire's son of Zennor, 
 So the ancient legend said. 
 
 Sang so sweetly that he drew to land 
 A wondering sea-maid, 
 
 Who loved him and allured him 
 Down to her ocean home, 
 
 To go and be a merman 
 Beneath Atlantic foam. 
 
 And they never saw him after 
 And carved the maid in oak 
 
 To show how she was fashioned. 
 Who lured him from his folk.
 
 32 In Coniiuall. 
 
 For of all the men in Cornwall 
 There are none can sing a glee 
 
 Like the singing men of Zennor 
 Beside the Severn sea. 
 
 But the neighbours say the reason 
 Why the maid was carved in oak 
 
 Was because a heathen mermaid 
 Had taught the Zennor folk. 
 
 And the parson said the mermaid 
 Was a figure of the sea, 
 
 Because the first apostles 
 Had fished in Galilee. 
 
 Well — anyhow the mermaid 
 Is carved in heart of oak, 
 
 And Zennor men sing better 
 Than any other folk — 
 
 So Zennor people tell you, 
 In earnest or in joke.
 
 The Captive River. t^^^ 
 
 THE CAPTIVE RIVER. 
 
 AN IDYLL OF THE CORNISH MINES. 
 
 I SPRANG to life upon the heights, 
 
 Which frown on Zennor and the ocean. 
 A fairy, born for daring flights 
 
 From roclc to rock, for wayward motion 
 'Twixt overarching banks of heather 
 
 On the wild moorlands of my birth, 
 A mate for gossamer or feather 
 
 Almost too pure a thing for earth.
 
 34 In Cornwall. 
 
 Impatient of my tardy growth, 
 
 I hastened down toward the valley, 
 Like many, who repent it, loath 
 
 In childhood's fairyland to dally. 
 I grew, with gifts of tribute waters 
 
 By humbler sister fairies brought. 
 Until, of all the mountain's daughters 
 
 The greatest, I the lowlands sought. 
 
 I scorned my soft brown moorland bed, 
 
 I scorned the gleaming floor of gravel, 
 Which stained my feet not, as I sped 
 
 Upon my downward path of travel. 
 I longed to show a crowded city 
 
 My pure, wild beauty, knowing not 
 That hunger's victims cannot pity 
 
 Or praise, but only bruise and blot.
 
 The Captive River. 35 
 
 In quest of praise in peopled lands 
 
 I gained a little mining village, 
 Only, with my free limbs in bands, 
 
 To find myself constrained to pillage 
 The bright ore from the mountain bower 
 
 Where it and I were born, and drive 
 The mighty wheel that yields the power 
 
 Which animates the busy hive. 
 
 Freed from the wheel I hoped in vain 
 
 Once more at my caprice to ramble, 
 To cross the open moors again 
 
 Amid the heather, brake and bramble. 
 In vain, still captive, was I hurried 
 
 'Twixt narrow wooden walls to find, 
 When I emerged befoamed and flurried, 
 
 Only some other wheel to grind.
 
 36 In Cornzvall. 
 
 At last, my captors I escaped, 
 
 Only to find the wished-for city. 
 Through which my passage now I shaped, 
 
 A sight to move my wrath and pity. 
 My banks were void of leaf or flower. 
 
 My path as closely straitened in 
 With vice and want in all their power. 
 
 With views of strife and smoke and sin. 
 
 My only hope was now the sea. 
 
 The pure, untainted, fragrant ocean. 
 Might not to mingle waters be 
 
 A cleansing, health-restoring potion ? 
 Were not the Cornish sands a-sparkle, 
 
 The Cornish seas of that rare hue, 
 Which, as they grow alight or darkle. 
 
 Varies from beryl-green to blue ?
 
 The Captive River. 37 
 
 Alas ! the seas and sands were bright, 
 
 Until the mountain's fairy daughter 
 Defiled their pureness, quenched their light, 
 
 By contact with her sullied water. 
 Stained was I, with my violence, ruddy 
 
 When I the mountain's wealth out-forced ; 
 And now the very seas turned bloody, 
 
 Fouled by my touch, where'er I coursed. 
 
 O welcome, welcome, open sea ! 
 
 O welcome, welcome, stormy ocean ! 
 Though lost in your wide arms I be, 
 
 Lost is my stain in your commotion. 
 My feet upon the moor are spotless, 
 
 But I my guilty head must hide, 
 No matter where, so it be blotless, 
 
 And what I plunge it in be wide.
 
 38 In Coi^nwall. 
 
 SIR TRISTRAM AT TINTAGEL. 
 Written after a Visit to Tintagel in Aug. 1884. 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 Sir Tristram back ? O wherefore art thou here ? 
 The King will slay thee, and an outlawed man 
 Breaking his ten years' parol, as thou dost. 
 The Barons dare not shield thee. 
 
 Tristram. 
 
 But, Queen, 
 The King himself released me, holding me 
 Hard-fastened by the hand. With him I came. 
 
 YsOLDE. 
 
 The King?
 
 Sir TiHstram at Tinfagel. 39 
 
 Tristram. 
 The King, for haled to Arthur's Court, 
 A yielded recreant, by Launcelot 
 And there appeached of treason on a Knight, 
 Sir Bersules, cleaving him unawares, 
 And for no cause but that he would not aid 
 jn compassing my treasonable death, 
 Arthur, as penance, bade him join accord 
 And pass with me to ride into his realm. 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 Sir Tristram, trust him not ! He is my lord, 
 
 God knows to my dishonour and sore pain — 
 
 And well I know that in his shrewd black heart. 
 
 Full of foul treason, hate and subtle guile, 
 
 With thee he never truly will accord. 
 
 He hates thee first for thy well-favouredness, 
 
 Being himself ill-favoured — more than that 
 
 For good which thou hast wrought him, winning him 
 
 His crown of Cornwall and deliverance
 
 40 In Cornwall. 
 
 From tribute to my father, and for praise 
 
 The people give thee, calling thee the grace 
 
 And mirrour of all knighthood in the west, 
 
 Here and in Lyonesse and most of all — 
 
 Ah me that I confess it — for my love 
 
 Which thou hast won from him — nay thou hast held 
 
 From the beginning thine in his despite. 
 
 Oh ! Tristram, he will slay thee, when thy limbs 
 
 Are fast in bands laid treacherously on. 
 
 Or smite thee through the back, or set on thee 
 
 One man unarmed with half a score of Knights. 
 
 Tristram. 
 Fear not, great heart, I fear not ! 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 Tristram, heed ! 
 Behold this rock we stand on how immense, 
 Towering aloft, joined to the Cornish hills 
 With rocky wall so thick that chariots 
 Might pass upon its brow, and yet leave space
 
 Sir Tristram at Tintagel. 41 
 
 For rows of other chariots to stand 
 
 On either side where the two chariots passed. 
 
 See yon black pool beneath us, 'tis not great 
 
 And it is far below, and yet that pool 
 
 Little by little in the course of time 
 
 Our rock will sever (rock) from the friendly shore, 
 
 And maybe afterwards o'erwhelm the rock, 
 
 Or strip it of the fabric fair, which crowns 
 
 Its stately head. — Mayhap, where we two stand, 
 
 In after days, but a low ruinous wall 
 
 Or crumbling bank shall show the royal hill 
 
 From any desert tor upon the moors. 
 
 Mark is the pool tireless and deep and black, 
 
 And far below thee as it lies below. 
 
 Thou art the stately promontory joined 
 
 To the whole land of Cornwall in men's hearts. 
 
 But as beneath this — even now — are caves 
 
 Sapped by the sea, through which on stormy nights 
 
 The breakers with low ominous thunder roar, • 
 
 So there are signs.
 
 42 In Cornwall. 
 
 See Tristram, here is samphire, 
 Which grows not but on sheer sea-beaten diffs. 
 This samphire with its golden flowers and leaves. 
 So gentle to soft touch, but being bruised, 
 So pungent is for thee and Launcelot 
 To wear upon your casques, you two who stand 
 Like island-cliffs for wind and wave to lash. 
 
 Tristram, thou and Launcelot : but nay, 
 
 1 must not talk of Launcelot and thee ; 
 For folk will think of me and Guinevere, 
 Twin Queens disloyal — yet we had our loves 
 Before our Lords. Did I not give my love, 
 Tristram, to thee for ever ? It was lent, 
 But for a while, to Mark at thy behest ; , 
 And being thine, thou mayest call it back | 
 At thy good pleasure. Tristram, mindest thou, 
 
 When we were yet in Ireland and unwed ? 
 
 And how I healed thee of thy grievous hurt ? 
 
 And how I hated Sir Palamides, 
 
 And gave thee the white armour, which thou worest
 
 Sir Tristra7ii at Tintagel. 43 
 
 When thou so greatly overthrewest him — 
 
 White armour from a maid to maiden Knight ? 
 
 Our hearts were white then, white had they been now 
 
 Had we but kept them true unto themselves, — 
 
 Nay ! they are white ; for a great love, once given 
 
 And never faltered from, must needs be white ; 
 
 And we have never faltered in our love, 
 
 Although obedience and circumstance 
 
 Have crossed the hands, which should have only met. 
 
 Oh Tristram, I should bid thee hold thine arm 
 From round my body, and forbear my lips. 
 What would men say who saw the imperious Queen, 
 Ysolde the proud, Ysolde the stern and high, 
 The dark repellant Ysolde, yielding her. 
 To love's caresses like a budding girl 
 Who hath not lost the lesson of the child 
 Though she hath learned the lore of womanhood ? 
 And yet I cannot bid thee. Child I am 
 With thee : for hast thou not the countersign 
 To take thee past each line of my defence
 
 44 1^1- Cornwall. 
 
 Right to the keep ? I have no gate for thee, 
 No watch, no ward. Nay ! Kiss me not again ! 
 Thy kisses are thy Queen's — the fair Ysolde's, 
 The lily-fingered Ysolde's, O my love 
 Why didst thou wed this beautiful Ysolde, 
 This chaste, this sweet unquestioning Ysolde, 
 This noble Ysolde, asking thee for nought 
 But giving thee her all, thy children's mother, 
 Upbraiding not for absence, nor for love 
 Pre-mortgaged to another, and forespent, 
 And me thereby upbraiding ten times more 
 Than if slie heaped ten thousand curses on me ? 
 Thinkest thou if I loved Mark — impossible ! — 
 But if I could, that I would have his love. 
 His time, his thoughts, his presence, everything 
 Wasted upon an old discarded love ? 
 Nay, Tristram, by " discarded " I mean nought. 
 No querulousness ; but, when I think on her, 
 I can but sigh for that which might have been 
 If thou hadst not obeyed thine uncle-king
 
 Sir Tristram at Tiniagel. 45 
 
 So loyally, when he demanded me, 
 
 Nor I fulfilled my word so loyally, 
 
 Which unto thee I sware that I would wed 
 
 Whomso thou wishedst, deeming if not thee 
 
 'Twere somewhat to have wed thy chosen friend. 
 
 Had we not been so childish-loyal then, 
 
 We had been loyaller now. Oh ! 'tis a sin 
 
 To bind oneself to fealty, which leaves 
 
 No choice but wrong or disobedience. 
 
 And as with me so with Queen Guinevere : 
 
 I cannot but compare myself with her, 
 
 A king's wife, as I am, so royally loved 
 
 And honoured and dishonoured by that love. 
 
 Tristram. 
 Nay, Ysolde, I am liker her than thou, 
 For she hath wed the gentlest Knight alive 
 And I the gentlest maid. And Launcelot, 
 He never had a lover but the Queen, 
 Or thou but me. For Mark was not thy love
 
 46 In Cornwall. 
 
 But my behest. I am like Guinevere 
 
 And Launcelot the truest Knight alive, 
 
 Who ever bears his great love for the Queen 
 
 Between him and all maids. — What greater love 
 
 Can any cherish than to stay unwed, 
 
 Because the woman of his love is wed, 
 
 And wait upon the lady of his love. 
 
 By day and night, when be it that he may. 
 
 To do her what true service he may chance ? 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 And thou, O Tristram, what dost thou but this ? 
 
 Tristram. 
 Nay, sweet, I did not so as Launcelot 
 But wedded me. 
 
 YsOLDE. 
 
 O Tristram, blame to me 
 That ever I was wed. Why did not I, 
 Failing thy choice of me to be thy wife.
 
 Sir Tristram at Tintagel. 47 
 
 Go out to be a handmaid to thy wife, 
 
 I the proud Ysolde, I the stern and high 
 
 Whom men, for my unbending spirit dread 
 
 As more than woman, shun as one possessed ? 
 
 Oh 1 how I would that I were with thy wife 
 
 As chamber-woman, menial — what not, — 
 
 To be about thee alway, and to smooth 
 
 Thy life with faithful service vigilant. 
 
 And yet not take thee from her. She hath won 
 
 Upon me with her gentleness so well 
 
 That I could spare her any grace but one — 
 
 Thy presence. Were I by, she might be Queen. 
 
 Oh ! how I hate Tintagel! Its huge cliffs, 
 Black pools and wrathful waves are ominous 
 Of wild, precipitous, storm-beaten lives. 
 The place is fraught with magic and with storm ; 
 Merlin bewitched it — here another Queen 
 Was loved by one — not her own Lord — too well ; 
 And here was found a little naked babe — 
 Her babe say some and some say Gothlois —
 
 48 In Cornivall. 
 
 Which brought by the enchanter and bred up, 
 Hath grown to be the source of many battles, 
 Albeit it grew to be the blameless king. 
 Nor do I think this rock will e'er be blest 
 Or any castle long will stand thereon 
 Though many there be built. 
 
 Tristram. 
 
 Nay, fear not, sweet ! 
 We shall spend many golden days herein, 
 On velvet turf reposing with the breeze 
 Fresh blowing from the west to feed our lungs, 
 With the rich Cornish sun to mellow us, 
 And league-long cliffs to gaze at, and blue seas 
 Surf-crested by the reefs with fringe of foam. 
 And sough or roar of waves to lull our ears. 
 And ferns for me to gather from sea-caves 
 To deck thy glossy hair. The king-seal's fur 
 Shall wrap thy slim form from the winter's blast, 
 For am I not renowned the hunter-knight ?
 
 Sir Tristram at Tintagel. 49 
 
 And I will hear thee harp with that same touch 
 I taught thee when thou satest on my knee, 
 In Ireland as thou healed'st me of my hurt, 
 Rewarding thee with kisses, little one, 
 For thou wast little then in years, though grown 
 Into a budding wealth of womanhood. 
 And we will ride and hawk upon the hills 
 And chase the swift red stag upon the moors 
 And— 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 Nay, my love, but, Mark ! 
 
 Tristram. 
 
 I fear not Mark. 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 Nor I, in field 3 but Mark is treacherous 
 And full of wiles, face-friendly, unrelaxed, 
 Relentless, unforgctting. 
 
 Tristram. 
 
 He hath sworn. 
 D
 
 50 In Cornwall. 
 
 YSOLDE. 
 
 A thousand times, but when kept he an oath 
 Longer than he had need to save his skin 
 From present peril. Mark will not forgive. 
 
 Tristram. 
 But— 
 
 YsOLDE. 
 
 But what ? 
 
 Tristram. 
 But Mark will not forget, 
 And Launcelot hath sworn upon his head 
 To visit treason done in my despite 
 On Mark's own head, though heaven and earth shall 
 fall.
 
 Cornish Sonnets. 51 
 
 CORNISH SONNETS. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 Cornwall, thou rivallest the border-land 
 
 In the romance, which thrills the poet's heart : 
 Indeed a border-land thyself thou art. 
 
 Where British Douglases did stoutly stand 
 
 'Gainst Saxon Percies — wouldest have as grand 
 A roll of ballad-heroes on thy part 
 If only the true tale of what thou wert 
 
 Had not been blurred with Time's obscuring hand 
 In the long centuries, like the granite stone 
 
 On tombs in thine old churchyards. Lyonnesse, 
 Tintagel, maybe Camelot, are thine own : 
 
 And on thine uplands lingered the impress 
 Of pixy, giant, exorcist so long 
 That still they leaven cottage talc and song.
 
 52 In Cornwall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nor hast thou only legend and romance : 
 For does not dusty board, in wayside fane, 
 Oft to the antiquary's search make plain 
 
 How stoutly Cornish halberds did advance 
 
 King Charles's cause ? And where could artist glance 
 On boulders like Treen's Castle-of-the-Dane, 
 Or mightier billows rolling from the main 
 
 Than those which hurl their winter puissance 
 Against Tintagel and the Land's-end cliffs, 
 
 While from the dim recesses of thine heart 
 The stream of wealth has risen, since the skiffs 
 
 Of the Phoenicians took that to the mart 
 Which gave those islands of the northern seas 
 Their ancient name of Cassiterides.
 
 On the Cornish Aloors. 53 
 
 SONNETS ON THE CORNISH MOORS. 
 ON THE CORNISH MOORS. 
 
 He, whom the Muse beguiles, doth seldom note 
 The flight of time or covering of space, 
 But rambles on with absent-minded face, 
 Oft with light tread, though blistered be his foot 
 His body weary and his goal remote ; 
 
 The mind's impatience wearies more than pace ; 
 And he who feeds or lulls his mind, can brace 
 A weary frame to task too heavy put. 
 I had been climbing all a summer day : 
 
 Over rough Cornish moors had been my roam 
 Jaded and footsore was I, far from home, 
 And thrice as far it seemed to lie away, 
 
 When suddenly the Muse spoke, and I sped 
 As lightly home as though enchantment-led.
 
 54 I^ Cornwall. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Cornish moors ! what visions raise they not 
 Of fairies, pixies, giants, knights, and kings ? 
 For here the latest fairies danced their rings 
 
 And pixies lurked in every lonely spot 
 
 To lure the traveller : and giants wrote 
 
 Their history in stones whose vastness sings. 
 As never minstrel might who harped on strings, 
 
 The giants' mighty lives. Here Tristram smote 
 In his first fight, and Arthur in his last 
 
 Beside the slaughterous bridge of Camelford 
 After the power of his knights had passed, 
 
 And here the loyal Cornishmen have poured 
 Times out of mind their blood in any cause 
 Which seemed to simple folk for Nature's laws.
 
 Castle C/mn. 55 
 
 CASTLE CHUN. 
 
 A MIGHTY ring of granite stones, unhewn, 
 Like beaches raised by the Atlantic tide 
 On Cornish coasts, a brambled moat outside, 
 
 And, bounding that, a giant's wall — half strewn, 
 
 Half indestructible — are Castle Chun. 
 Within it is one carpet, fairy-dyed. 
 Of heather-crimson and gorse-gold allied, 
 
 Fern-fringed with green. Late on an afternoon 
 We scaled the castle-hill : the sun had gone, 
 
 But on the ruins of long-vanished pride 
 The haze of the departed godhead shone, 
 
 So lately 'neath horizon did he glide. 
 Was it not meet ? His rays would have revealed 
 The ravages his haze did fondly shield.
 
 56 In Corfiwall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Glorious it were to spend a summer night, — 
 A sweet soft night in June, — within these walls, 
 Listening to distant owl and curlew calls, 
 
 And conjuring up a vision of the fight. 
 
 Which strewed the moor, a cloth-yard arrow's flight, 
 With barrow, cist, and cromlech. What appals 
 The ignorant and timid only thralls 
 
 The lover of the mystic with delight. 
 Giant or fay were no unwelcome guest, 
 
 Or ghost of Norseman, or Round-Table knight 
 Still of the phantom Sangreal in quest. 
 
 If such there came, might not there come a sight 
 Of the huge castle in its ancient pride, — 
 High-walled, deep-moated, and with kings inside ?
 
 Castle Chun. 5 7 
 
 in. 
 
 It weighs but little in the poet's mind 
 
 By whom 'twas reared — the dark Euskarian 
 (Who named us " Britons," our primaeval man,) 
 
 Against the Celt, or by the Celt designed 
 
 To stay the Teuton conqueror and find 
 
 Brief respite from the Viking. If blood ran 
 In great old battles, if for long months' span 
 
 'Twas resolutely held, when hope had pined. 
 And food had wasted, it is haunted ground ; 
 
 Even if a bandit, preying on his kind, 
 In these stupendous stones a fastness found. 
 
 It matters not who stone to stone doth bind. 
 Castles we love as stages where great plays 
 By famous men were acted in old days.
 
 58 In Cornwall. 
 
 RIALOBRAN, THE SON OF CUNOVAL. 
 
 RiALOBRAN, the Son of Cunoval, 
 
 This is inscribed in Latin on a stone, 
 
 Rough hewn and rudely lettered, standing lone 
 Beneath Cam Galva. Was he general 
 Or hero ? Did he valiantly fall 
 
 Fighting the Saxon ? Did wild women moan 
 
 Over a bulwark of the people gone ? 
 Why shared he not the common fate of all, 
 
 Who lived and died and were forgotten here, 
 That his one stone the moors of Penwith hold. 
 
 Gay-gardened at the season of the year 
 
 With bramble-fruit, heath-purple, and gorse-gold, 
 
 And with two castles of his ancient race 
 
 Guarding in ruined pride his burial place.
 
 Pe7tzance. 59 
 
 SO.yMETS OF MOUNTS BA Y. 
 
 PENZANCE. 
 
 Penzance, I gazed upon you many a time 
 Across the bay : now tropically blue, 
 Now white with wrath and threatening to strew 
 Ship and sea-wall in common wreck sublime. 
 I gazed upon you when the morning prime 
 
 Gilt tower and dome, and when the summer threw 
 A veil of mist and splendour over you 
 As seven of the even rang its chime. 
 
 In pensive mood I gazed upon your lights 
 Guiding the pilchard-fisher through the gloom, 
 When I threw up the window of my room 
 For the cool breeze on fine September nights, 
 And hope for many a pleasant ramble still 
 Through your quaint streets or up Lescudjack's 
 hill.
 
 6o 
 
 In Cornwall. 
 
 MOUNT'S BAY. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 6tH, 1 884. 
 
 The storm had passed, the breakers died away, 
 The setting sun, a crown of glory, pressed 
 On ocean's sinking head, while from the west 
 
 A fresh wind blew, no longer fierce but gay. 
 
 One ray illumed St Michael's Mount, one ray 
 The Land's last range, and one the meadowy nest 
 Beneath the leas of Ludgvan, and the rest 
 
 The foaming locks of ocean tossed and grey. 
 I called the legend to my mind, which told 
 
 That round the Mount for miles a forest grew, 
 Where sands have blown, meads bloomed, and 
 waters rolled, 
 For centuries ; and could not deem it true, 
 Had not the workmen, digging in the ground 
 Two fathoms deep, the ancient forest found.
 
 Marazion. 6 1 
 
 MARAZION. 
 
 SEPTEMBER I4TH, 1884. 
 
 The day was warm, as many an Austral day, 
 And all day the September sun had rained 
 On sand and old seawall rough-weather-stained 
 And on the tide-filled waters of the bay 
 So pitilessly that the idler lay 
 
 In each chance shadow, or if he had gained 
 The friendly shelter of a house, remained 
 Until the storm of heat had passed away. 
 
 Yet, ere the sun waned, when the tide ran down 
 And I the causeway to the Mount had crossed 
 In search of cool, the East wind blew so cold 
 That I remembered winter days I'd known 
 
 In New South Wales with scorch at noon but frost 
 At eve, like strong men suddenly grown old.
 
 62 In Cornwall. 
 
 ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 25TH, 1 884. 
 
 St Michael's Mount ! four weeks did I abide 
 Beneath its shadow ; yet I entered not 
 Its castle though I haunted the wild spot 
 
 Moated with ocean every flush of tide. 
 
 Oft was I tempted sore to pass inside ; 
 
 It seemed so heedless, when it was one's lot 
 To be so near, to miss it, and I wot 
 
 That I enjoy the oft-derided pride 
 Of seeing all the wonders of the earth, 
 
 As wonders, though 'twere but a fleeting glance. 
 Yet what was vain inquisitiveness worth 
 
 When put into the scales with the romance, 
 Which I could weave about each ancient wall, 
 While distance held me in enchantment's thrall ?
 
 S^ Michaels Moimt, Sept. i^th. 6^ 
 
 J 
 
 II. 
 
 While I was shielded from the common round 
 And commonplace of modern social life, 
 Piano, Paris-dress and paperknife, 
 
 Afternoon tea and tennis, I was crowned 
 
 An ancient king, could tread enchanted ground 
 With fairy queens, and couch a lance in strife 
 With mailed knights-errant. Might not Tristram's 
 wife — 
 
 Did he not dwell in Lyonnesse's bound ? — 
 Be in yon tower, or else the Cornish Queen 
 
 For whom he died. And if I heard a fount 
 Of music from the church, it must have been 
 
 The Norman Fathers from the elder mount. 
 Was the hall lit ? The valiant cavalier 
 Offered the ruined 'Stuart-Queen high cheer.
 
 64 ' In Cornwall. 
 
 ni. 
 
 With dreams and visions of Arturian knight 
 And monk from Mont St Michel d'Outremer 
 Migrated to the Guarded Mount, the air 
 
 Which floated round the castle rock was bright. 
 
 Once more the Norman scorning terms and flight 
 Opened his resolute veins, and stout De Vere 
 Extorted his free pardon. Then a pair 
 
 Of strangely mated lovers met my sight, 
 
 Scotland's white rose, child of an honoured name, 
 
 And he, who born of Flemish chapman, yet 
 So like to England's royal Edward came 
 That Edward's sister had the will to set 
 The ancient crown of England on his head, 
 And Scotland gave her choicest flower to wed.
 
 S^ Michaers Mount, Sept. 2^th. 65 
 
 IV. 
 
 We know but little of this fair mock-queen 
 Left in the castle, while her mock-king went 
 To lead the angered Cornish into Kent 
 And rouse the riversiders, who had been 
 Foremost, whenever force did intervene 
 
 'Twixt wrong and weakness. When, with marching 
 
 spent, 
 His troops were routed, thou wast ta'en and sent 
 To the crowned King. What was it in thy mien 
 That melted that stern heart ? how didst thou weep 
 And blush thy shame, that he who spared so few 
 Should pardon thee and bid his White Rose keep 
 
 This Scottish Rose beside her ? Thou hast shared 
 The fate of many a flow'r of olden time, 
 Whose tale has passed from history to rhyme.
 
 66 In Cornwall. 
 
 ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT, CORNWALL, 
 AT SUNSET. 
 
 After a burning day, when even came, 
 
 I climbed a cliff which looked across the bay, 
 And glanced to where St Michael's Mountain lay 
 
 Dissevered by a mirrored shaft of flame, — 
 
 As ruddy as a maiden's blush of shame, — 
 And a flood-tide with evening shadows grey 
 From Marazion. There I mused away 
 
 On Tristram's early praise and later blame, 
 And how upon this very rock once stood 
 
 The gleaming castle called through Lyonesse 
 In Tristram's day, " The White Tower in the wood," 
 
 While forest, meadow, towns and palaces 
 Were bowered from here to Scilly's utmost bound, 
 Where long the ocean hath usurped the ground.
 
 S^ MichaeCs Mount at Sunset. 67 
 
 n. 
 
 I gazed upon the castle of to-day, 
 At first behind a halo amber-dyed, 
 ^Vhich half-concealed it and half fairified 
 
 Until no mortal pencil could convey 
 
 The glory of the picture — fit for fay 
 
 Or Knight of old romance. I turned aside, 
 Forgetful that a vision might not bide. 
 
 And, when I looked again, the pageant gay 
 Had vanished and a sorcerer's fastness rose 
 
 Black from the precipice, — no aperture 
 For door or window, — such as Dord shows 
 
 With his grim brush, till the sun grew obscure. 
 And eveiy point of tower and crag did leave 
 In bold relief with the clear light of eve.
 
 68 In Cornwall. 
 
 III. 
 
 The bay around was placid as a lake, 
 
 And locked with land on every side save one ; 
 
 The pilchard boats had, with the setting sun, 
 Launched out their nightly task to undertake ; 
 Some few small feathered songsters were awake. 
 
 Their evensong of thanksgiving scarce done ; 
 
 And to their pastures with their udders run 
 The cows slow way were wending through the brake. 
 
 Bathed in warm sunset, sate we there until 
 The first bleak breeze of even warned us home, 
 
 Fain on the fairy scene to linger still 
 
 But fearful to be caught, while we might roam, 
 
 By the cold outstretched fingers of the night 
 
 Stripping its iris-vesture from the sight.
 
 S^ Michaels Mount by Moonlight. 69 
 
 ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 At Marazion, I remember well 
 
 How that I stood half a September night, 
 To feast my eyes on the enchanted sight 
 Exceeding all the poet's art to tell, 
 St Michael's Mountain with its citadel 
 
 Against the moonlit sky outstanding bright. 
 And long dark headlands stretching left and right 
 Around the placid bay, that rose and fell, 
 With soft melodious, incessant sough, 
 
 And gently heaving far off lights, which marked 
 Fishers. I mused how here the Tyrian 
 Ages ago adventured and embarked 
 Tin from this haven, when the Aryan man 
 
 Had not emerged from Aryan highlands rough.
 
 70 In Cornwall. 
 
 TO A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN LADY. 
 E. M. S. 
 
 Lady, I met thee on the Austral shore, 
 Fresh from the very threshold of the grave, 
 And pale as if thou never wouldest have 
 
 Health's purple hue and springing footstep more. 
 
 A few months passed, and on a ball-room floor 
 Thou glidedst fair and graceful, though too brave. 
 I saw thee then on that side of the wave 
 
 No further. Now upon a Cornish moor 
 
 Thou standest sunburnt, lithe, and strong of limb 
 
 As a young Dian, making the wild heath 
 And fallen cromlechs echo with health's hymn 
 
 Of laughter. Futures who foreshadoweth ? 
 How could I dream four years ago of thee 
 Robust, and on these far off hills with me ?
 
 The Land's End. 7 1 
 
 SONNETS OF THE LAND'S END. 
 
 THE LAND'S END. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Land's End is it ? with calm beryl sea 
 Stretching before me for a score of miles 
 To the low, distant, broken rim of isles ? 
 
 The Land's End pictured in my reverie 
 
 Had been a wall of granite on the lee 
 
 Of waves, that mimicked mountains and defiles. 
 And flung themselves upon the giant piles 
 
 Of bouldcrSj swooping irresistibly, 
 Like eagles driving through a wild swan's back 
 Their greedy talons deep. Was Lyonnesse 
 Submerged beneath this sleeping, gleaming track ? 
 
 Here was it one alone escaped the stress 
 Of wind and wave, when o'er Sir Tristram's realm 
 The angry ocean rushed to overwhelm ?
 
 72 In Cornwall. 
 
 II. 
 
 But stay ! Where'er an islet rock appears, 
 
 Where the "Armed Knight" stands sentry o'er 
 
 the strait, 
 And fabled " Irish lady " met her fate, 
 Where the " Long Ships " their warning light uprear, 
 And the dark " Brisons " rise, cliff-castled sheer, 
 A prison for a giant, springs a spate 
 Of frosted, seething foam beneath the weight 
 Of every pounding wave. It leaps up clear, 
 (Like a white ostrich feather shot in air, 
 Or like a sunny fountain in the court 
 Of palace old) falls, ripples everywhere 
 
 Hissing, then drains straight back with respite 
 short. 
 Islanding each projecting jag of rock. 
 To break or merge in the next billow's shock.
 
 Sen7ien. 73 
 
 SENNEN-THE VILLAGE UPON THE 
 LAND'S END. 
 
 I, 
 
 Sennen, mere hamlet — with a tiny fane, 
 A tavern and farmhouses, what is here 
 That pilgrims thread in hundreds year by year 
 Through the long village past the Table-maen 
 And roadside-cross ? it is that they would gain 
 The end of England's land, and gaze down sheer 
 From her last cliffs on billows running clear, 
 Without a barrier, from the Spanish Main. 
 Majestic is the sight, which strikes the eye, 
 Whether the sea is calm — of that rare hue 
 Greener than sapi)hire, more than beryl blue. 
 Which gleams in Cornish coves — or threats the sky 
 With waves that o'er the cliff tops leap on high 
 And rend the rocks, and sand with wreckage strew.
 
 74 ^^^ Cornwall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nor is the little cove next Whitesand bay, 
 With shelving slide of granite carried down 
 Below low-water from the Fishers' Town, 
 Without its history. For in his day 
 After the crowning slaughter at Boleit, 
 
 King Athelstan, to wear his English crown 
 E'en to the utmost isles, from hence was blown 
 By cruel east winds to the lands which lay 
 A few leagues off, a bulwark from the west. 
 Here later Stephen landed for a throne, 
 And coming from his Irish wars King John ; 
 And here, in her extremity, sore-pressed. 
 She who, of proudest Scottish birth possessed. 
 Linked the pretender's fortunes to her own.
 
 Senneii. 75 
 
 III. 
 
 White Rose of Scotland, be thy slumber sweet, 
 Who, after thy roi-faineant was ta'en, 
 Taken thyself on Michael's Mount, didst gain 
 The favour of all eyes which thou didst meet, 
 Up to cold Henry on his judgment seat. 
 
 From whom with blushes and thine eyes' soft rain, 
 Thou, sole of all his captives, didst obtain 
 Life-mercy. Was thy girlhood so replete 
 With all which sweetens and illumines life, 
 That thou thy forfeit neck couldst lightly win 
 From these stern men not slow to slay their kin. 
 In the long years of internecine strife 
 That followed on the baring of the knife 
 Which finished the two Roses' council-din.
 
 76 In Cornzuall. 
 
 VELLANDREATH— WHITESAND BAY. 
 
 By Whitesand Bay report beholds at night 
 
 The spirits of the folk who have been drowned 
 In what was ancient Lyonnesse's bound, 
 And fisher-folk still shrink in strange affright 
 From treading on its shores before the light 
 Or after dusk. Why this is haunted ground 
 We know not if 'tis not that here are found, 
 The corpses which have foundered in the bight, 
 After the storm blows over. Once we know 
 The cruel Spaniard beached upon these sands, 
 Ready to lay his torch or violent hands 
 On all he met : but that was long ago. 
 And burn the mill was all that he might do 
 
 Which named the place, but now no longer stands.
 
 To the Lizard. 77 
 
 SONNETS OF THE LIZARD. 
 
 TO THE LIZARD. 
 
 I. 
 
 We drove betimes from Marazion town, 
 
 Skirted Breage church, and, threading Helston 
 streets, 
 
 First sighted, where the tilth the moorland meets. 
 The Cornish heather roving on the down, 
 With full pale bells eyelashed with dainty brown. 
 
 No heather such as this the sportsman greets 
 
 As up and down his moor for grouse he beats 
 In Yorkshire or the Highlands. Cornwall's own 
 
 It will not leave the sanguine serpentine 
 And soil magnesian, but in this far place 
 
 It blossoms and the marble gleams divine. 
 'Tis like a dream some poet's pen might trace 
 
 To have this strange fair stone and flower pressed 
 
 In one wild corner of the scarce-known west.
 
 78 In Cornwall. 
 
 11. 
 
 We lighted down and roamed across the moor, 
 'Twixt stunted plants of heather and sea-pink, 
 Until we found ourselves upon the brink 
 
 Of Kynance — Kynance with its sandy floor 
 
 And *' Cow-rock" like a marble Kohinoor 
 
 Blood -hued, upstanding. When the sea did 
 
 shrink 
 The " Bellows " brayed with every rise and sink 
 
 Of waves that round the island-base did roar, 
 Even in the calm of a still summer day. 
 
 In spacious caverns neath the cliff we walked 
 With shimmering green and white and crimson gay 
 
 For salon fit or banquet-hall, then stalked 
 Along a dizzy path upon the isle, 
 To gaze into the Devil's mouth a while.
 
 To the Lizard. 79 
 
 III. 
 
 We left the isle and clomb the hill once more, 
 Toward the Lizard, to the great twin lights 
 Seen by the mariner on stormy nights 
 
 To warn him of the perils of the shore. 
 
 The " Lions' Den " where when the Lions roar 
 No ship that sails could live, — so fiercely fights 
 The lion breaker, from the rocky heights 
 
 Flung on succeeding lions. Thence we bore 
 To where the terrace looks upon the cove 
 
 Of fishy Cadgwith, picked our dubious way 
 To where we might gaze downward from above 
 
 Into the " Devil's Frying-pan"; and day 
 Being far spent, our way then wended back 
 To Lizard-town to take the homeward track.
 
 In Cornwall. 
 
 SONNETS OF ARTURIAN CORNWALL. 
 TINTAGEL. 
 
 AUGUST 1884. 
 
 TiNTAGEL, huge rock-royal, glad was I 
 
 That only here and there a crumbling wall, 
 Hard to distinguish from the natural, 
 
 Still stood upon thy summit. Worthily 
 
 Could feudal palace-keep scarce occupy 
 
 Such site ; and how would newer buildings pall 
 Where every rood was stamped historical. 
 
 Or fancy-tinged, or steeped in legendry ? 
 Dismantled, one can picture on the isle 
 
 A shadowy Arthur washed up from the bay, 
 And rear upon its front a stately pile 
 
 Of marble as kings reared them in the day, 
 Ere time had taught the Briton to neglect 
 The lesson of the Roman Architect.
 
 TintageL 8 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Arthur and Ysolde, Uther and Ygraine, 
 Tristram and Mark ! — on moon-enchanted nights 
 At murk mid-dark, or when the island's heights 
 
 Peer dimly through a veil of spray and rain 
 
 Driven by the western gales — ye live again. 
 What wilder than this huge rock, ringed with bights 
 Precipice-walled and reefy, for the fights 
 
 Of Uther and the Cornish Duke, both fain 
 For Arthur's mother ? Not in fairy-land 
 
 Have they in summer stillness such a cove 
 With ferny caverns nooked and soft with sand 
 
 To take a stranded babe. And hate and love, — 
 Queen Ysolde's love for Tristram, and Mark's 
 
 hate — 
 Thv smooth brow and dark chasms illustrate.
 
 82 In Cornwall. 
 
 III. 
 
 I saw thee first late on a summer eve, 
 Too dusky to distinguish the low block 
 Of wall fast mingling with the native rock, 
 
 So dusky that I could not well perceive 
 
 The vast ravine the elements did leave. 
 
 When the great drawbridge fell, before the shock 
 Of giant storms or those strong dwarfs who mock 
 
 Adamant — mists which melt and frosts which cleave. 
 Only the mount loomed black against the sky 
 A.nd at my feet slow heavy breakers roared, 
 The while I trampled, musing wistfully. 
 
 The stunted gorse and sea-pinks of the sward 
 Upon the windy height, whereon still stands 
 The church first founded there by Saxon hands.
 
 Tintagel. '^2i 
 
 IV. 
 
 Next morn I clomb the mount to seek the well 
 And all but vanished earthworks. Those were 
 
 there 
 When Uther's savage war-cry rent tlie air ; 
 
 Those and the mount itself alone could tell, 
 
 Had they but tongues, where such a hero fell, 
 And such a gallant i)rince won such a fair, 
 And how Queen Ysolde of the raven hair 
 
 Held the stout knight, Sir Tristram, in her spell. 
 The month was August and the morn was grand 
 
 With all that makes an August morning dear 
 To rain-vexed England ; light the west wind chased 
 
 The ripples on the bay ; the sky was clear, 
 The sun shone bright, the air was warm and dry : 
 And Nature held the keep of days gone by.
 
 84 In Cornwall. 
 
 CAMELFORD— CAMELOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 Not Camelot the towered — the goodly town 
 Upon the shining river, whither passed 
 The Lady of Shalott, when fallen at last 
 
 A victim to her spell, slow-wafted down ! 
 
 Not Camelot the towered, the glittering crown 
 Of all King Arthur's cities ! Yet thou hast 
 Thy legend of the King — how Modred massed 
 
 His traitor legions, where the waters brown 
 
 Run neath the Bridge of Slaughter, how the King, 
 
 With Launcelot dishonoured, Tristram slain 
 And half of his Round-table following 
 
 Dead or apostate — triumphed ; then was ta'en. 
 Stricken to edath, by bold Sir Bedivere 
 To Dozmary and passed upon the mere.
 
 Camelford. 8 5 
 
 CAMELFORD— SLAUGHTER BRIDGE. 
 
 II. 
 
 In the soft prelude of an August night 
 We sallied forth from Camelford in quest 
 Of where his last great battle in the west 
 
 Brought death to Arthur. Grey the gloaming light 
 
 Ere we were in the valley of the fight, 
 
 A spot by Nature framed for fierce contest, 
 With ridge commanding ridge, and crest on crest, 
 
 On either side a little river, bright 
 
 With waving sedge and darting trout. I'he bridge 
 Was wreathed with blackhaired splcenwort and 
 wild flowers. 
 And the rank grass beneath the lowest ridge 
 
 Guarded a stone, in characters not ours, 
 Claimed by the country-folk with wondering eyes 
 To tell that Arthur underneath it lies.
 
 I 
 
 86 In Cornwall. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 WRITTEN IN CORNWALL. 
 
 SIR HUMPHREY DAVY'S SEAT, 
 GULVAL CARN. 
 
 Mousehole, Penzance, St Michael's at my feet, 
 Severed by stretch of hill and rock and sand, 
 But linked together with a gleaming band 
 
 Of glassy waves. This was Sir Humphrey's seat, 
 
 Which in bright youth he sought, for converse sweet, 
 As youthful genius will in every land, 
 With the shy Muse of Poesy, and scanned 
 
 The bay below and moors above replete 
 With Beauty's grace and Freedom's. 
 
 Few had thought, 
 Unless they read the story of his youth, 
 That first his lamp the sage to Fancy brought 
 And Wisdom afterward. But love of truth, 
 Like love of fame, imagination needs 
 To nerve it and inspire it to great deeds.
 
 To E. M. S. after a Tour in Cornwall. Z"] 
 
 TO E. M. S. 
 AFTER A TOUR IN CORNWALL. 
 
 In solitary Zennor have we been, — 
 
 Have trod Chun's mighty castle-heap of stones, 
 And traced the barrows, where they laid men's bones 
 After some old-world battle waged between 
 The natives and invaders — gazed at Treen 
 Rock-ramparted with boulder-bastions, 
 As if a king of giants had lived there once 
 And forced his folk to build — we two have seen 
 The Atlantic charge unbridled on the wall 
 
 Of rock which shields the end of EngHsh land, 
 Have had a calm blue sea on either hand 
 At Galva's Carn, and watched the sunset fall 
 And moonlight play and dawn its glitter fount 
 Over the castle on the Guarded Mount.* 
 
 • St Michael's Mount,
 
 88 In Cornwall. 
 
 MARGUERITES. 
 
 Lady in the Daisy's vesture, 
 
 Dazzling white relieved with gold, 
 
 Free from all affected gesture 
 As the flower, not too bold, 
 
 Though thou fearest nought, thou art 
 
 Truly the flower's counterpart. 
 
 For although in form and features 
 There are few of womankind 
 
 Fair as thou, of all God's creatures 
 Thou art humblest in thy mind ; 
 
 Yet thou fearest not to stand 
 
 By the proudest in the land.
 
 Margtterites, §9 
 
 Just as, though in all creation 
 
 Flower perfecter is not, 
 It is with its simple station. 
 
 In a quiet garden-plot, 
 As content as though it were 
 In a palace sojourner. 
 
 Yet if on a queenly bosom 
 
 In a chaplet it is laid 
 With the rose and lily-blossom. 
 
 Though their worship first be paid, 
 Afterwards it is confessed 
 Lovely, if not loveliest. 
 
 Thou art upright as the flower, 
 
 Art as purely raimented. 
 And thou hast a golden-dower, 
 
 As it has, upon thy head, 
 And, like it, dost dread no stain 
 From the sun or wind or rain.
 
 90 
 
 In Cornwall. 
 
 Farewell Daisies, flower-like maiden, 
 And thou, flower-Marguerite ! 
 
 May you be with dawn-dew laden 
 Through the day to keep you sweet, 
 
 And no dust or heat of noon 
 
 Sully you or make you swoon ! 
 
 P
 
 BeJiind the Scenes. 91 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 Sometimes it is man's privilege 
 
 To have a lovely woman, either sister, 
 
 Or, being wed himself, a friend 
 
 Who seeks his aid and counsel, if he list her, 
 
 And lays her mind before his eye, 
 Confesses herself simple and a mortal, 
 While those who are her worshippers 
 Regard her mouth as a Sybilline portal. 
 
 From which proceeds the voice of fate, 
 And look on her as a remorseless power, 
 That worship by caprice accepts 
 And tramples on her subjects in her liour.
 
 92 In Cornwall. 
 
 While she, poor girl, is half appalled 
 
 By the immense importance thus accruing 
 
 To every little word or act 
 
 She has been saying carelessly or doing. 
 
 Her guide or brother sees it all. 
 
 How that she cannot venture to be simple, 
 
 However she desires to be, 
 
 When destiny is looked for in a dimple, 
 
 Doubt in delays and fate in frowns, 
 
 And love in happy peals of girlish laughter, 
 
 When aught she does or utters bears 
 
 She knows not what significance thereafter. 
 
 He, happy man, behind the scenes, 
 Seeing how hard she strives to do her duty 
 And so to act that what she does 
 May not deceive, must trebly see her beauty.
 
 Behind the Scenes. 93 
 
 He knows, besides her outward charms, 
 That, far from being a remorseless power, 
 She is the fool of fate herself 
 And longing for the coming of the hour 
 
 When love will let her honestly 
 
 Her mind and heart implicitly surrender, 
 
 And let her give full liberty 
 
 To aspirations and emotions tender. 
 
 There is not aught more beautiful 
 
 Than watching a fair maid, who feels that beauty 
 
 Has won her love she would avoid. 
 
 But yet strives tenderly to do her duty.
 
 94 I^^ Co7'nwall. 
 
 THE CISTERCIANS. 
 
 "Behold, bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the 
 
 Lord," 
 Said the hoary-headed prior to the fair-haired chorister, 
 And rose the child's pure treble as his little heart 
 
 out-poured 
 At matins and at even-song his praise in accents clear. 
 
 " Oh, ye that stand by night in the presence of the 
 
 Lord," 
 The hoary-headed prior's hand its task had finished 
 
 now, 
 Was echoed to the chorister become a monk, who 
 
 poured 
 His praise in dulcet tenor as he took the sacred vow.
 
 The Cistercians. 95 
 
 O ye that in his courts do the service of our God, 
 " In the sanctuary lift your hands and bless his holy 
 
 name," 
 Sang the brother night and morning, as his holy path 
 
 he trod, 
 Unceasing in his song of praise, and prior he became. 
 
 Bless ye, and may '* the Lord that the earth and 
 
 heaven made 
 Give you blessing out of Zion," in his accents shrill 
 
 and thin 
 The chorister, long prior now and hoary-headed, said 
 To another sweet boy chorister but lately entered in. 
 
 To the fair Cistercian abbey by the stately river side 
 For many generations had the sweet-voiced boys 
 
 been brought, 
 And first as choristers, then monks, had gently lived 
 
 and died 
 In the perfect peace of God, since then elsewhere 
 
 so vainly sought.
 
 96 In Cornwall. 
 
 Their life was in their abbey locked, the stirring 
 
 world beyond 
 With its passions for fair women and its furious clash 
 
 of steel, 
 With its riot in high places and its curse and blow 
 
 and bond 
 For poor folk trampled down beneath oppression's 
 
 iron heel, 
 
 Was dead to them : 'twas not for hire or fame that all 
 
 day long 
 They wrought and laid the stones so well which made 
 
 their fabric rise 
 So glorious a temple for their morn and even-song, 
 With tower and spire and pinnacle all pointing to 
 
 the skies. 
 
 Their abbeys were not built ; they grew beneath the 
 
 brothers' hand 
 Till stones would bear no further touch they touched 
 
 no other block, 
 Like coral insects slow they worked, and like a coral 
 
 strand 
 Their work was perfect in its parts and solid as the 
 
 rock.
 
 The Cistercians. 97 
 
 Twas not an age of architects who struggled to create 
 But one of building bees who worked harmonious for 
 
 a whole 
 With one idea running through so obvious and great 
 That master's eyes were needed not to guide them to 
 
 their goal. 
 
 The secret of the olden times which made the work 
 
 they wrought 
 Like Nature's master-pieces stand the test of time and 
 
 change, 
 Was that not fame or pay for work but perfect work 
 
 they sought, 
 A.nd knew perfection was a growth and not a product 
 
 strange. — 
 
 Those frescoes with their humanness were Brother 
 
 Clement's life ; 
 John to that missal's glowing page two scores of 
 
 winters gave ; 
 
 That statue had for Brother Paul the graces of a 
 wife \ 
 
 Two centuries of brothers wrought before they roofed 
 the nave. 
 
 G
 
 98 /// Cornwall. 
 
 How shall we rear a work of art in our degenerate 
 
 day, 
 A day when very plants are forced their products to 
 
 forestall, 
 A day when seasonable growth is looked on as delay, 
 When architects scarce care for art and reckon labour 
 
 all. 
 
 Just here and there an artist toils in the old-fashioned 
 
 style, 
 Throwing his life into his task and throwing it in 
 
 vain, 
 Only by merest chance his work will win the public 
 
 smile. 
 And with it may be future fame through little present 
 
 gain. 
 
 'Tis not that in these latter times the sum of art is 
 less; 
 
 We may not have the patient art to build a Gothic 
 fane ; 
 
 But art is growing where was once a howling wilder- 
 ness, 
 
 And even artizans can now its humbler flowers attain.
 
 The Cistercians. 99 
 
 And poets make this overflow of art their joyous text, 
 Although they mourn the mighty men, the simple 
 
 antique folk. 
 Who laid each stone and limned each page, as if 
 
 there were no next, 
 And sowed their acorn quite content that it would be 
 
 an oak.
 
 loo In Cornwall. 
 
 THE HARVEST. 
 
 I. 
 He scattered his seed in due season, 
 
 But cruel the early frost ; 
 The rain and the sun were against him ; 
 
 He dreamed that his crop v/as lost. 
 
 But later it waxed and it whitened, 
 And harvesters gathered it in. 
 
 And some of it went to the windmill, 
 And some of it bode in the bin. 
 
 And, after, they feasted and rested, 
 The goodman along with his men, 
 
 For they knew that their work was over 
 Till ploughing came round again.
 
 The Harvesl. i o i 
 
 II. 
 
 Was his brain-seed scattered in season 
 
 Or early ? He long must doubt, 
 While censure with winter threatened, 
 
 And after-neglect with drought. 
 
 But his brain-crop grew and it ripened, 
 And the reapers, who seek good grain, 
 
 Had gathered the harvest exulting, 
 And then he had sown again. 
 
 For little of feasting and resting 
 Do the sowers of brain-seed know. 
 
 Till ploughing and sowing are over 
 And they go whither all men go. 
 
 And when he is resting for ever 
 
 His friends will they weep or rejoice, 
 
 Beholding the fruits of the sowing 
 But missing the musical voice ?
 
 I02 In Coi^nwall. 
 
 SYLVIA. 
 
 Sylvia are you, gentle Lady ? 
 
 Rightly Sylvia, recalling 
 Sunlight through the foliage shady. 
 
 Cleft by morning breezes, falling. 
 
 Sylvia are you ? Woodland flowers 
 
 Are as delicate as moon-light, 
 With no brightness and no powers 
 
 Like the heather and the noon-light. 
 
 But the noon-light and the heather, 
 Spite of all their strength and splendour,. 
 
 Cannot match, the two together, 
 With the Wind-flow'r's beauty tender.
 
 Corn and Acorn. lo; 
 
 "CORN AND ACORN," 
 
 A PARABLE OF POETRY AND PELF. 
 
 Who soweth wheat, may see it whiten, 
 
 When summer comes again. 
 And his and other homes may brighten 
 
 Thus soon with goodly grain. 
 
 The ear has come, is ground, is finished. 
 
 And he must sow again, 
 And work with labour undiminished 
 
 To show one sack of grain. 
 
 But he who plants an acorn, planteth, 
 
 What he may never see 
 A full-grown oak, but, if God granttth, 
 
 Will one day be a tree
 
 I04 -^^ Cornwall. 
 
 To shade not only those descended 
 From him who sowed the tree, 
 
 But fill with shape and verdure splendid 
 The gaze of all who see. 
 
 What wilt thou ? — sow the grain, which whitens 
 
 In some few months and days. 
 To earn the ready pay which brightens 
 
 Life in so many ways ? 
 
 Or sow the nut, which he who planteth 
 
 May never see an oak, 
 But which will grow, if God so granteth 
 
 A shelter to all folk, 
 
 A gladness to his kin and neighbours, 
 
 A glory to his land. 
 Proof when he long has done his labours 
 
 Of what his head and hand
 
 Corn mid Acorn. 105 
 
 Did for the spot where he was nourished 
 
 Whole centuries before, 
 Though weaker men than he was flourished, 
 
 While they were living, more ? 
 
 What wilt thou? — sow with seed and gather 
 
 The harvest of the day, 
 Or sow with nuts of promise rather 
 
 Which may endure for aye ?
 
 io6 In Coi-nwall. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LILY AND THE 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PARAGRAPH OF THE LATE 
 REV. R. S. HAWKER. 
 
 Do you know the old tradition 
 Which would look on every Rose, 
 
 With its thorny crown as emblem 
 Of the Christ who bore our woes, 
 
 Whatsoever be its colour. 
 Whatsoever shape it grows ? 
 
 And the Lilies of the valley, 
 
 And the Lilies of the lake, 
 And the Lilies of the garden, 
 
 Or whatever form they take, 
 As the emblems of the Mother 
 
 Who bore travail for his sake ?
 
 The Legend of the Lily and the Rose, ro; 
 
 You may talk of Tudor Roses, 
 And of France's Fleur-de-lys, 
 
 Or the Lotus of old Egypt, 
 But these flow'rs will ever be 
 
 Just the types of the sweet Saviour, 
 And his Mother mild to me.
 
 PART II. 
 
 ACROSS THE SEA.
 
 MELBOURNE. January i8So. 
 On the S.S. "Lusitania. " 
 
 I. 
 Past midnight had we watched the southern moon 
 Illumining the long dark points of land 
 Towards us stretched for miles on either hand, 
 And the broad bay still as a salt lagoon 
 On South Australian wilds ; and now too soon 
 The morn had come. Yet I leapt up and scanned 
 With eager eyes the panorama grand, 
 When I was roused, a full eight hours ere noon, 
 By the loud grating of the anchor chain ; 
 
 For Melbourne rose before me, silver-veiled 
 From the dark wood of masts, which fringed the 
 main, 
 The port to which five thousand leagues I'd 
 sailed. 
 And greatest city of the southern sphere. 
 Though she has not yet reached her fiftieth year.
 
 1 1 2 Across the Sea. 
 
 II 
 
 I stood on deck still gazing eagerly, 
 
 Till some one came and pointed out to me 
 The landmarks, pier-lipped Sandridge by the sea, 
 
 The Scots' Church, the Cathedral-towers hard by, 
 
 The great dome looming out against the sky 
 Where the world's exhibition was to be. 
 And the blue hills of Dandenong, so free 
 
 And flowing in the distance. Presently, 
 Ere seven bells had struck, a sailing boat 
 
 Hove alongside and, sitting in the sheets, 
 (Even now a hot wind blew), in thin silk coat 
 
 I spied my host. How happy he who meets 
 His welcome at the threshold. Timely greeting 
 Is the best earnest of a welcome meeting.
 
 Melbourne, J amtary 1880. i r 
 
 J 
 
 HI. 
 
 And my own Father's brother was my host, 
 Though forty years had flitted since he went 
 First forth from his ancestral home in Kent 
 
 To what was then the wild Australian coast. 
 
 And, though his home and kindred he had lost, 
 Not vainly had his exiled years been spent, 
 For in a corner of our Continent 
 
 A nation had been born, and he could boast 
 That none of her distinguished sons had done 
 
 More in the moulding of her destinies 
 Than he, a steadfast man whom everyone 
 Knew and respected — even enemies, — 
 Leader of men in every fierce debate 
 Though only few months leader of the State. 
 
 II
 
 1 1 4 Ac7'oss the Sea. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM.— SIR CHARLES SLADEN, 
 
 K.C.M.G. 
 
 [Born at Ripple Court, Dover, i8i6. Premier of the 
 Colony of Victoria in the Crisis of 1868. Buried 
 IN the Cemetery overlooking the Sea, at Geelong, 
 where he had resided for forty years, 1884.] 
 
 'Tis meet that he who dies away from home 
 
 Should sleep beside the sea which links and parts 
 His grave and ancient churchyards, where the hearts 
 
 Of those, who gave him birth, are laid in tomb. 
 
 'Tis meet, that when a strong man yields to doom 
 His rest should be 'mid those for whom he fought, 
 Amid the monuments of what he wrought, 
 
 And in some place to which all folk may come. 
 And therefore thou wert laid upon the hill 
 O'erlooking the blue stillness of the bay 
 Outside the city, where it was thy will 
 
 In thy long sojourn forty years to stay, 
 Far from the snowy cliffs which saw thy birth 
 On the most famous island of the Earth.
 
 In MemoiHam — Sir Charles Sladen. 1 1 5 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy birth was in the zone of pines, thy death 
 Far from the cherry crofts and fields of corn 
 And hop-clad hillsides 'mid which thou wast born ; 
 
 Far from the Severn stream that wandcreth 
 
 (Past stately hall and bleak Salopian heath, 
 AV'ith here and there a salmon in a pool) 
 Where thou wert bred, at Philip Sidney's school, 
 
 Far from that other stream, that rivalleth 
 The classic Isis in world-wide renown, 
 
 Where thou didst make the study of the law 
 And the bright page of history thine own. 
 
 And from the great metropolis, which saw 
 Thy happy wooing hours and studious days 
 While thou wast conning Justice's dark ways.
 
 J 1 6 Across the Sea. 
 
 GORDON'S TOMB.* 
 
 I MADE a pilgrimage to Gordon's tomb, 
 And found him buried in a graveyard wild, 
 By trivial sights and sounds all undefiled, 
 A sanctuary where field-flow'rs might bloom 
 Unapprehensive of their general doom 
 Of being pulled by every wanton child, 
 Or harrowed out and evermore exiled 
 For a crude, formal garden to make room. 
 A broken column with a laurel wreath 
 
 Marked where he lay; the murmurs of the sea 
 He loved in life forsook him not in death ; 
 
 The locust and the marsh-frog and the bee 
 Mingled their notes in one melodious breath, 
 And near him blossomed a young wattle-tree. 
 
 * Written in the Cemetery at North Brighton, Victoria, over 
 the tomb of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the poet of Victoria, born 
 at Fayal in the Azores, and, like the author, educated Pt 
 Cheltenham College. 
 
 ,
 
 Gordons Tojjzb. 1 1 7 
 
 II. 
 
 I cried out, surely this is as should be, 
 The wild bard 'mid the wild flow'rs slumbering 
 In a lone place, where wild birds go to sing, 
 In earshot of the everlasting sea. 
 Surely he would not sleep so easily 
 
 {U there is after-life and ghosts can wing 
 A flight to where their bones lie mouldering) 
 Had he been hemmed about with ceremony, 
 With monuments of pride and gilt-railed beds 
 Of far-fetched shrubs and plants. Where now 
 he lies 
 The wild flow'rs of the new land rear their 
 heads, 
 And some we used in the old land to prize, 
 The scarlet pimpernel with sleepy lids. 
 And brier with bloom so delicate in dyes.
 
 1 1 8 Across the Sea. 
 
 MELBOURNE. 
 
 JULY 1884. 
 
 Queen city of the South, electric spark 
 
 Illuminating all our Continent, 
 
 Thy motto is of conquest not content. 
 Thy rays are wide-spread through the primal dark 
 Of our mysterious north, thou stamp'st thy mark 
 
 On territories of immense extent, 
 
 And with potentialities up-pent 
 Within them as immense. Hark thou, O hark, 
 
 The fairy bells are ringing to thy night 
 Chimes of a day of wondrous brilliance : 
 
 Begins to dawn thy future broad and bright 
 Over the hills, and that which will enhance 
 
 Thy splendour, now is reddening the sky, 
 
 In token of a rich noon drawing nigh.
 
 The South- Sea Voyager. 119 
 
 THE SOUTH-SEA VOYAGER. 
 
 [Written on the P. and O. Steamer " Ballaarat," out 
 ON THE Southern Ocean between Midnight and 
 Dawn.] 
 
 Under the starry southern sky, 
 
 Over the waters wide we fly, 
 
 The wavelets hiss around otir bow. 
 
 Crested with foam deep-blue below, 
 
 To match the clear night overhead. 
 
 And the bright crescent moon hath spread 
 
 A belt of silver from our side 
 
 To where the sky and sea divide.
 
 1 20 Across the Sea. 
 
 Over the spacious southern sea 
 A south-east breeze blows merrily ; 
 It fills the great black sails on high, 
 Standing out gaunt against the sky. 
 It lightly flecks the sea with foam 
 And speeds the good ship to her home, 
 With siren music round her bow 
 To lull to sleep the heads below. 
 
 Long after midnight I arise 
 
 And pace the deck with wondering eyes. 
 
 Revelling in the tropic air 
 
 Though slumber reigns supreme elsewhere, 
 
 Save on the Bridge where, looming black 
 
 Against the clear sky at her back, 
 
 The watch their lonely vigil keep 
 
 That others may in safety sleep ;
 
 The South Sea Voyager. 1 2 1 
 
 And in the throbbing engine room 
 Where ceaseless the huge pistons boom, 
 Driven by steam whose fires are fed 
 By swarthy blacks in Nubia bred ; 
 And forward, where a few Lascars 
 Crouch silently beneath the stars, 
 Waiting on their commander's lip 
 To do the working of the ship. 
 
 And first I raise my eyes on high 
 And gaze toward the southern sky, 
 To trace the starry-cross, then t'ward 
 The Hunter's gleaming belt and sword 
 I looked on in my native north 
 With child-eyes ere I wandered forth, 
 And lastly on the southern moon 
 So bright but doomed to wanins: soon.
 
 1 2 2 Across the Sea. 
 
 The stars, the moon, the clear-dark sky 
 All lift the gazer's thoughts on high ; 
 Surely the planets and the wind 
 Veil some omnipotence behind ; 
 All surely would in chaos end 
 Did not some power their motions bend ; 
 One cannot raise one's eyes at sea 
 And yet ignore the Deity. 
 
 Then I look downward, and the sea 
 Appals with its profundity. 
 One hundred times as deep as are 
 The highest masts on men-of-war. 
 And then its melody and hue — 
 So heavenly sweet so heavenly blue- 
 Its monsters and its marvels fill 
 My being with a mighty thrill.
 
 The South Sea Voyager. 123 
 
 Verily those who live on land 
 See not the wonders of God's hand, 
 But those who go down on the sea 
 In ships — who know the ocean's glee 
 When zephyrs blow, and know its wrath 
 When the South-Westers cross its path 
 And wind and water in their fray 
 Make mighty barks like aspens sway. 
 
 I sought my bunk again and dreamed 
 Of where the orange blossoms gleamed 
 Around my manhood's happy home, 
 Then flew in fancy o'er the foam, 
 To where the lime-trees in the spring 
 My childhood with soft green did ring. 
 Then mingled in confusion fair 
 The quick-set hedge and prickly pear.
 
 1 24 Across the Sea. 
 
 Oh what a medley is my life — 
 With now a mother now a wife 
 For a Madonna — now the foam 
 Now terra firma for my home — 
 Now scorching sun, now cold and rain 
 To guard against — now groves of cane 
 And palm around me waving, now 
 Harebell and berry-laden bough ! 
 
 But life — where'er — has charms for me, 
 Whether on land or on the sea. 
 In town or country, moor or wood. 
 In social throng or solitude, 
 Whether upon an Austral plain 
 Or in old Oxford once again. 
 In native London or Ceylon 
 The same fresh, happy, eager one.
 
 The Tropics. 125 
 
 THE TROPICS. 
 
 Love we the warmth and Hght of tropic lands, 
 
 The strange bright fruit, the feathery fan-spread 
 
 leaves, 
 The glowing mornings and the mellow eves, 
 
 The strange shells scattered on the golden sands, 
 
 The curious handiwork of Eastern hands. 
 
 The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves. 
 The narrow outriggcd native boat which cleaves, 
 
 Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands. 
 I;0ve we the blaze of colour, the rich red 
 
 Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green 
 Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread 
 
 The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene, 
 The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic trees, 
 Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.
 
 126 Across the Sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 Strange is it that imaginative men 
 Should thirst so for the tropics ? Kingsley passed 
 To Western Indies with a glad "at last," 
 
 And seldom poet but has turned his pen 
 
 To paint their glories longingly : thrice fain 
 Was I, from childhood's earliest days, to cast 
 My lot where calm blue tropic waters glassed 
 
 The feathery palm and glossy-leaved plantain. 
 To watch the gay-clad natives with mild eyes 
 Carrj'ing quaint wares or plying some quaint 
 trade, 
 To gaze where domed and gorgeous temples rise, 
 
 And lounge all day in the delicious shade 
 Eating rich tropic fruits, and witnessing 
 Some strangely fair or unfamiliar thing.
 
 Guardafiii, 1 2 7 
 
 GUARD AFUI. 
 Written off Guardafui". 
 
 A WEEK ago, we left the verdant shore 
 Of Asia's pendent jewel, Taprobane, 
 Palm-shaded to the margin of the main 
 
 And with rich fruits and foliage teeming o'er. 
 
 To-day we stand at Afric's Eastern door, 
 Thee, Guardafui, home of the hurricane 
 And heat and mist, whose grim slopes entertain 
 
 No single leaf. Thou seemest evermore 
 Like a huge giant, watching the approach 
 
 To Egypt's treasures, suddenly transformed 
 By Genies, whom thou lettedst not encroach 
 Upon thy trust, into a stone, yet warmed, 
 With faithful rage, whenever ships intrude 
 Upon thy once scarce broken solitude.
 
 128 Across the Sea. 
 
 ADEN. 
 
 Written off Aden. 
 
 Gibraltar of tlie East, dark sentinel, 
 Holding a shield over the waterway 
 That floats ships to the cradle of the day 
 (Which was the cradle of the arts as well) 
 From the red west where shines the magic spell. 
 Which once illumed the workshops of Cathay 
 And India's temples with a magic ray 
 Of skill and science, we can scarce excel 
 
 With all our boasted knowledge, thou art fair, 
 Seen in the distance with thy lofty rock 
 Twisted into grotesque similitude 
 Of mosque and castle in the evening air, 
 
 Though thou art but a parched, pestiferous block 
 Of barren stone, by nature unsubdued.
 
 At Siiez, May 1884. 129 
 
 AT SUEZ. May 1884. 
 Written at Suez. 
 
 Idly the water ripples round the hull 
 
 Of the great ship, detained in quarantine, 
 And yet not wholly wasted will have been 
 
 Our day in Suez Harbour, beautiful, 
 
 Had it no memories time can not annul, 
 The well that Moses found, the very scene 
 Where Israel crossed the water-walled ravine 
 
 Formed by the rolled-back sea, and Pharaoh, full 
 Of foregone victory, perished in the deep. 
 
 So fairly do Arabia's hills and sand 
 Mingle their rose and gold, where pilgrims creep 
 
 From Cairo down to Mecca, on one hand, 
 And on the other Egypt's in their hue 
 Are dyed so gloriously dark and blue.
 
 130 Across ike Sea. 
 
 THE DESERT. 
 Written on the Suez Canal. 
 
 Scorched rocks and sand stretching for leagues away, 
 A few dwarf heaths, scant-leaved and choked with 
 
 dust, 
 Such was the land when Moses led his host 
 
 In flight from Egypt, such is it to-day ; 
 
 Although at noon may oft be seen a bay, 
 
 Tree- fringed, which leads the traveller to trust 
 That he has reached the palm-begirt sea-coast, 
 
 And that his parched and weary limbs shall play — 
 When a few hours, a few more miles are o'er — 
 
 In the clear waters mirrored silver-fair. 
 Only to find an ever-stretching shore. 
 
 Ever-receding sea. The mirage there, 
 Is it not type of many a glittering hope 
 That turned to rock and sand when we came up ?
 
 The Canal. i ; i 
 
 o 
 
 THE CANAL. 
 
 (suez to port said.) 
 Written on the Suez Canal. 
 
 We sailed along the narrow waterway 
 
 Which links the dawn-tinged east and busy west,- 
 
 A puny streak of water at its best, 
 E'en if it had not run through banks of cla}'. 
 Yet hke the seal of genius it lay 
 
 Upon the desert visil^ly impressed, 
 
 E'en did not mighty steamers without rest 
 Press on, where all was land the other day, 
 
 Like barges towing on an English river ; 
 And when night overtook us on the lake 
 
 Before Ismailia, we had not ever 
 
 Viewed sunset fairer, so each crimson flake 
 
 Was mirrored on the water, and the eve 
 
 Round the strange town such radiance did weave.
 
 132 Across the Sea. 
 
 FIANCEE. 
 Written on the Mediterranean. 
 
 Only a farce on shipboard it was true, 
 And yet your genius is not oft excelled 
 E'en by the Muse's daughters who have held 
 
 The stage in thrill, and so your beauty grew 
 
 Upon your audience, that they loved you too. 
 Sweet were you, when you scornfully rebelled 
 Against your * Uncle's Will,' when you repelled 
 
 Your forced fianc^ — doubly sweet when you 
 Confessed your passion. Soon the time must come 
 
 For you to play the same part once again 
 In life, to let dark eyes and wistful roam 
 Over a manly face, held close, to rain 
 Kisses like dew, to lay both tiny hands 
 In a strong grasp and go where Love commands.
 
 Malta. 133 
 
 MALTA. 
 
 Written off Malta. 
 I. 
 
 Bluff island of so many memories 
 
 Since the Apostle, shipwrecked on thy shore 
 Gave thy rude folk a name for evermore 
 
 For kindness, and grew godlike in their eyes 
 
 By shaking off the snake, which did arise 
 Out of the fire. I pictured o'er and o'er 
 The ecstasy, with which I should explore 
 
 Thy knightly church, where the crusader lies, . 
 The halls where the grandmaster of St John 
 Ruled like a prince, the walls of la Valette 
 (The jest and troi)hy of Na])oleon) 
 
 And mighty bastions the English set 
 Upon thy rocky brows — to see the work 
 And waste of French and English, Knight and 
 Turk.
 
 1 34 Across the Sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 These and much more I thirsted to have seen, 
 And rose at earliest daybreak, full of hope, 
 Only to see the yellow flag run up 
 
 In token that we were in quarantine. 
 
 We caught some straitened glimpses of the scene 
 Even from the ship's deck, with its narrow scope 
 Narrowed yet more by deck-house, screen and rope. 
 
 We even rowed (to say that we had been 
 On Malta) to the Lazaretto. So 
 
 'Tis oft in life — some castle in the air, 
 Some city of the fancy, which did glow 
 
 Through our existence, gloriously fair, 
 Is shut off by some tyrannous command 
 Forbidding us to foot the firomised land.
 
 Carthage. i35 
 
 CARTHAGE. 
 
 Written Abreast of Carthage. 
 
 At sunset we left Malta. Ere noon fell 
 We passed Cape Bon, a lofty-crested cape 
 Blue in the morn but indistinct in shape 
 Scarce known itself, but who hath not heard tell 
 Of Carthage ? what high heart but loves it well ? 
 And Carthage lay behind the water-scape, 
 Carthage still eloquent of Dido's rape, 
 Hannibal's vow and Hanno's citadel. 
 
 My heart was stirred to think that where we sailed, 
 
 Punic and Roman triremes oft had clashed, 
 Until the youngest Scipio prevailed, 
 
 And on one evil day to ruin crashed 
 The glorious fabric reared by Tyrian hands 
 With sea-borne spoil from all discovered lands.
 
 1 36 Across the Sea. 
 
 GIBRALTAR. 
 
 Written off Gibraltar. 
 
 I ROSE at dawn and rising from the main 
 Beheld the three peaks of the famous rock 
 Which once withstood four years the surge and shock 
 
 By sea and land of banded France and Spain. 
 
 Grim were the heights from which the red hot rain 
 Fell on the ships, igniting where it struck, 
 And grim tlie mighty cannon trained to block 
 
 The entrance to the straits. I looked again 
 And saw the keep a thousand years ago 
 Built by the Moor, with honourable scars 
 Inflicted on it in long Spanish wars 
 With Englishman and Arab. A proud glow 
 Thrilled me, beholding where my countrymen 
 So mightily endured, and not in vain.
 
 Tar if a. 1 3 7 
 
 TARIFA. 
 
 Written off Tarifa. 
 
 Two bells had struck when we Tarifa passed, 
 Tarifa eloquent with memories 
 Of Arab knights, and with its fortresses 
 
 Drenched with staunch English blood and now at 
 last 
 
 On the Atlantic were we, heading fast 
 
 For England. Favourable was the breeze 
 And blue the skies and mirrored blue the seas 
 
 And a spring sun a glittering halo cast 
 Over the battered walls and ruined keep 
 And quaint old Moorish houses, once the scene 
 
 Of high Moresco pomp and chivalry. 
 But widowed now and slumbering by the deep 
 Beneath the sun of Africa serene, 
 
 Unwakened save when the great ships forge by.
 
 138 Across the Sea. 
 
 TRAFALGAR. 
 Written on Trafalgar Bay. 
 
 Cape Trafalgar ! O Bay of Trafalgar, 
 
 What Englishman can look unmoved on thee 
 While being borne on shipboard o'er the sea, 
 
 Where that October morn was seen afar, 
 
 Issuing in all the pride of naval war, 
 The banded might of France and Spain to be 
 Shattered in Nelson's crowning victory 
 
 Ere darkness fell. O Cape and Bay ye are 
 Not grand or lovely, but ye illustrate 
 
 A truth as old as time, that humble things 
 Can be ennobled by endeavours great 
 Into a majesty unmatched by Kings. 
 Such is the halo heroism throws 
 Round every barren point on which it glows.
 
 upon the S.S. Ballaarat. 139 
 
 UPON THE S.S. " BALLAARAT." * 
 
 OFF USHANT. 
 
 Dedicated to the Hon. J. B. Watt of Sydney. 
 
 O STATELY ship fast speeding to thy port, 
 
 Our home, for six bright weeks of sunny weather, 
 We have had many pleasant hours together 
 
 Since we embarked — voyagers of either sort, 
 
 Old Colonists returning to the land 
 
 They left long since to win an independence. 
 And young folks, born Australians, in attendance 
 
 Longing to see their Fathers' native strand. 
 
 We shall not leave our ship without a sigh, 
 
 In which were born so many loves, hopes, fears, 
 And friendships sure to last for many years. 
 
 Or the blithe officers, who brought us by 
 Australia, Asia, Africa, to rest 
 Safe in our dear old island of the west. 
 
 * A P. and O. Steamer.
 
 1 40 Across the Sea. 
 
 AT PLYMOUTH. 
 
 At midnight we made out the Eddystone : 
 An hour ere dawn, majestical and slow, 
 We passed the iron fort, which daunts the foe 
 From Plymouth Sound, and dropped our anchor 
 
 down. 
 At sunrise we took tender for Drake's town, 
 And walked at early morn upon the Hoe, 
 Where Drake his bowls would finish ere he'd go 
 To rock right to its base the Spaniard's throne 
 
 And smite his ships. We walked and looked once 
 more 
 Upon the long black ship which o'er the 
 waves 
 Of Indian and Atlantic oceans bore 
 
 Us safely home to look upon the graves 
 And mansions of our fathers, and to greet 
 Friends whom for years it was not ours to meet.
 
 Ichabod. 141 
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 For forty years had aged Eli sate 
 
 Judging the tribes of Israel in the gate, 
 
 When God foretold to Samuel the doom 
 
 On Eli and his race about to come. 
 
 Early and late the man of God had prayed 
 
 And every precept of his Lord obeyed, 
 
 Except to lead his children in the path 
 
 By which they might escape their Maker's wrath : 
 
 And now the measure of his pilgrimage 
 
 Drew well nigh to an hundred years of age. 
 
 The aged mm heard from the young child's lips 
 
 The doom which should his father's house eclipse, 
 
 And, as the quick tears of his woe outpoured. 
 
 He bowed his head and cried, "It is the Lord, 
 
 " Let him do whatso scemcth to him good, 
 
 And let His will by me be understood. 
 
 His be the will, mine the submissive mood."
 
 ) 
 
 142 Across the Sea. 
 
 To Shiloh on the even of the fight, 
 Whereon the Philistines did Israel smite, 
 With his clothes rent and earth upon his head, 
 There came a man of Benjamin, who said, 
 " Israel before the Philistines hath fled ; 
 Hophni and Phinehas thy sons are dead ; 
 The Ark of God is taken." With bowed head 
 The old man heard that both his sons were dead, 
 His people by the heathen undertrod ; 
 But when 'twas told him of the Ark of God, 
 Stricken with grief, he fell from where he sate. 
 And brake his neck beside the judgment gate.
 
 Ichabod. 143 
 
 Meanwhile the wife of Phinehas his son 
 Was great with child, her waiting wellnigh clone, 
 And when she learned that Israel had fled 
 And that her Lord and her Lord's sire were dead, 
 And of the taking of the Ark of God, 
 She bowed and travailed, murmuring, "Ichabod, 
 The glory hath forsaken Israel, 
 The Ark of God is taken, and they fell," 
 And when the womenfolk who looked thereon 
 Said, " Fear not thou, for thou hast borne a son 
 In place of sire and husband who are dead," 
 She answered not nor heeded what they said, 
 But named the child her mournful ' Ichabod,' 
 Because the heathen had the Ark of God.
 
 144 Across the Sea. 
 
 TWO YEARS OLD TO-DAY. 
 
 [Written upon the Second Birthday of the Author's 
 Son at Struan, Toorak, Victoria, Nov. 25TH, 
 1883.] 
 
 Two years old to-day ! 
 
 And the sun ripples over the meadow 
 
 Rich with the breath of growing hay, 
 
 And there is not a sign of a shadow 
 
 On either flower-spangled scene 
 
 On the field with its azure germanders 
 
 And long grass stalks between, 
 
 Or the golden-haired infant who wanders, 
 
 Prattling his wonder merrily 
 
 Under the blue Australian sky.
 
 Two Years Old To-day. 145 
 
 Two years old to-day ! 
 
 What of him in the march of the hours, 
 
 When twenty springtides trip away, 
 
 And the grass has been mown and the flowers 
 
 Faint with the early summer's heat, 
 
 And the banks upon which they were blowing 
 
 Are dust with trampling feet ? 
 
 Golden-hair will have done with his sowing 
 
 And bare his sickle now to reap, — 
 
 God grant he may not have to weep. 
 
 Two years old to-day ! 
 
 What of him in the march of the years, 
 
 When forty summers flow away, 
 
 And his mates have some reaped in their tears, 
 
 And some will have to reap no more, 
 
 And he owns to the scorch of the summers, 
 
 And has unbarred his door 
 
 To the little fair-headed new-comers, 
 
 And had himself to find the flowers 
 
 To brighten them in childish hours ? 
 
 K
 
 146 Aci'oss the Sea. 
 
 Two years old to-day ! 
 
 What of him in his autumn and even, 
 
 When sixty years have slipped away, 
 
 And the shadows draw over his heaven. 
 
 And he looks back across his life. 
 
 Saying, " This day was good, and that glory 
 
 Was worth those years of strife. 
 
 And my name shall be written in story, 
 
 And as the founder of my race 
 
 My children's children I shall grace?" 
 
 Two years old to day! 
 
 What of him at the fall of the night. 
 
 When eighty years have ebbed away. 
 
 And the golden hairs melted to white 
 
 Upon his last begotten son, 
 
 And his children of their lives are saying. 
 
 The done and the undone. 
 
 Since their golden-haired infancy's maying 
 
 Down in the flower-spangled glade. 
 
 Ere it was mown or in tlie shade ?
 
 An Old Romance. 147 
 
 AN OLD ROMANCE. 
 
 A BAR of an old-fashioned waltz, 
 A glance at a faded dress, 
 
 What is it that wakes in my heart 
 These echoes of tenderness ? 
 
 When that was the waltz of the hour, 
 That dress in its pride and glow 
 
 Of shimmering azure and pearl, 
 A seven of summers ago, 
 
 Sweet eyes used to gaze in my eyes, 
 Light fingers would clasp my own, 
 
 And a soft voice fell on my ears 
 In a tremulous undertone.
 
 148 Across tJie Sea. 
 
 The face and the fingers I touch, 
 The voice in its music is here, 
 
 But Romance is a delicate moth 
 That lives — just the sweet of a year.
 
 The Valse. 149 
 
 THE VALSE. 
 
 He asks her a question ; she answers yes, 
 With every grace in her graciousness, 
 And rises to yield him her slender form 
 Sweetly submissive and chastely warm, 
 Smiles as she rises and lifts soft eyes. 
 Gladdening when he would have her to rise, 
 Takes his hand firmly and leans on him, 
 Letting the rest of the room grow dim.
 
 150 Across the Sea. 
 
 He only has asked for her hand to valse ; 
 Her seeming submission and warmth is false ; 
 Once after a valse, as she sat and fanned 
 The flush from her fairness, he asked her hand ; 
 She rose with a motion of tender grace, 
 Yet did she not look him as now in the face, 
 But, drooping her lashes, besought him to go 
 Graciously — gracious even in no. 
 
 Her fingers in his have a touch of fire 
 To kindle the glow of the old desire ; 
 The waist in his arm so submissive and slim 
 Awakes an electrical thrill in him ; 
 He cannot encounter the tender eyes 
 Without piecing the broken reveries. 
 Or list to her voice in an undertone 
 Without dreaming of her as his yielded own.
 
 The Valse. 151 
 
 Remembers she yet, when she yields to him, 
 So trustfully, fingers and body slim ? 
 And does she remember, when, free from all wiles, 
 She offers him one of her own frank smiles? 
 Or feel, when she ushers her kind replies 
 With a pleading glance from her soft dark eyes. 
 How she kindles the flame of the sacrifice 
 Which is laid on her altar at such a price ? 
 
 Fair maid, he would dance his whole life through, 
 Had he such a partner for life as you ! 
 Fond man, she would dance not with you again. 
 Did she know that it brought back the old sweet 
 
 pain. 
 Yet cherish your secret and you may hold 
 Her waist in your arm, as you held it of old, 
 Press her hand, whisper — the vision is false. 
 It is not your love she accepts, but the valse.
 
 152 Across the Sea. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-DROVER'S GOOD-BYE. 
 
 Good bye, Old Chum ! 
 We have, oft and on, been a lot together, 
 Under scorching sun, and in stormy weather ; 
 Even in the blaze we would often revel, 
 In the stormy days we defied the devil, 
 Took what might come. 
 
 II. 
 
 Good-bye a while ! 
 
 When we two once more shall be found together 
 
 Goodness knows. We are birds of one wild feather, 
 
 Here to-day and off once again to-morrow, 
 
 With just time to laugh or, instead of sorrow, 
 
 Grimly to smile.
 
 The Gentleman- Drovers Good-bye. 153 
 
 III. 
 
 Until we meet, 
 
 Put on face as good for whatever weather, 
 
 As you know you would were we two together : 
 
 Don't believe I said single word against you : 
 
 Don't believe I did what may have incensed you : 
 
 Friend-trust is sweet. 
 
 Good-bye once more ! 
 
 Friends like we two are soon must drift together 
 
 In the world somewhere, come what may in weather, 
 
 If we only make both our minds up to it, 
 
 You your oath may take we shall somehow do it, 
 
 No long time o'er.
 
 154 Ac7'oss the Sea. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 
 
 She was the Queen of Hearts : there were some few 
 
 with beauties rarer : 
 This one had hair more golden-tinged ; that one had 
 
 bhier eyes ; 
 This was to the unheeding gaze unquestionably 
 
 fairer ; 
 That was more graceful, as she moved, or wittier in 
 
 replies. 
 
 But she was beautiful enough to dazzle in a measure, 
 With clear eyes blue enough to haunt a lover with 
 
 their hue, 
 With grace sufficient not to jar upon one's sense of 
 
 pleasure, 
 As she moved to you and light arch wit which on 
 
 the hearer grew.
 
 The Queen of Hearts. 155 
 
 Her crown was gentleness : her grace was graciousness 
 unfailing, 
 
 Soft smile or glance for everyone in all her court of 
 friends, 
 
 Her majesty a loftiness through her whole life pre- 
 vailing, 
 
 Which could not for a moment stoop to meaner 
 thoughts or ends.
 
 156 Across the Sea. 
 
 THE SIGH OF THE SHOUTER. 
 
 Give me the wealth I have squandered in " shouting,'' 
 Scattered in sixpences, paid by the pound, 
 
 Ladled out glibly — no grudging or doubting, 
 Never a thought of the use to be found ? 
 
 Where are the hours that I wasted so gaily, 
 Drinking and laughing in front of the bar — 
 
 Hours that I spent in mere indolence daily 
 Heedless of how it my future might mar ? 
 
 Gone, as the sun of the summer has vanished \ 
 
 Woe with the winter is hurrying in, 
 Woe for the waste that can never be banished, 
 
 Gone is the glitter, but stayeth the sin.
 
 To G. E. Morrison, hsq. 157 
 
 TO G. E. MORRISON, Esq., 
 
 AN EXPLORER OF NEW GUINEA. 
 
 [A College Friend of the Author's at the 
 Melbourne University.] 
 
 When first I read romances as a boy, 
 In playtime often used I to devour 
 Stories of savage warfare by the hour, 
 
 And wild adventures filled my soul with joy. 
 
 As I grew older they began to cloy, 
 
 Because I came to feel the sceptic's power, 
 And look on talcs of scalp and arrow-sliower 
 
 As scarce less shadowy than the tale oi Troy. 
 But, when to Austral shores I winged my flight, 
 Once more I stood upon enchanted ground, 
 Adventure in its heyday still I found, 
 One term at college missed a friend from sight. 
 And heard that he his life had wellnigh lost, 
 Exploring on the wild New Guinea coast.
 
 158 Across the Sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 You should not be a disappointed man 
 Although you did not light upon success : 
 You had not failed, had you adventured less : 
 
 Wiser — as well as nobler — is the plan 
 
 To greatly dare, albeit you may scan 
 Too high a goal, than yield in idleness 
 To drudge on in the calling you profess, 
 
 Doing what men of smaller compass can 
 
 Better maybe than you. The while you deem 
 That you were born to do His higher work, 
 And to do petty labour were to shirk 
 The task allotted to you in His scheme. 
 For he who hath five talents doeth ill 
 If he doth what one talent could fulfil.
 
 To G. E. Morrison, Esq. 159 
 
 III 
 
 We do not say thai he has wholly failed, 
 
 Who much has dared though little has he wrought, 
 If, odds against, he gallantly has fought, 
 
 And over adverse circumstance prevailed. 
 
 For veterans 'twere something to have sailed 
 Into a savage land so thickly fraught 
 With pest and peril, as the shore you sought 
 
 And penetrated, (until spear-impaled 
 
 By lurking foemen), w'hen you scarce could call 
 Yourself of man's estate. More stir and strife 
 Have you imported into your brief life 
 Of two and twenty summers than liefall 
 Most people in a life-time. So much won 
 Advance upon the bright path you've begun.
 
 i6o Across the Sea, 
 
 AT WINDSOR, NEW SOUTH WALES, 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 There's a reek from the stalks of the Indian corn, 
 
 As they stand in their blazing sheaves. 
 There's a freshening breeze from the uplands borne, 
 
 And a rustle of pelting leaves, 
 Which will bound in a moment across the lea. 
 
 Like the flattest of pebbles thrown 
 For a duck and a drake on the summer sea 
 
 By the children at Brighthelmstone. 
 
 Were it not for the smoke from the stalks of corn 
 
 And the scent from the orange trees, 
 And the White-Gums, whose sober-hued tresses scorn 
 
 The chill and the toss of the breeze ; 
 Were it not for the Wattle with golden plume, 
 
 And the She- oak with })laintive moan, 
 I could fancy that I was beside the tomb 
 
 Of my mother at Brighthelmstone.
 
 At Windsor, New South Wales. i6i 
 
 Yes ! the trees, which are shedding, are English 
 trees, 
 
 But they grow not in English land, 
 And the wind has the breath of an English breeze, 
 
 But it tastes not of Sussex sand, 
 And the heavens in winter had ne'er the hue, 
 
 And a sun such as this ne'er shone, 
 And the scent on the orange bloom never blew 
 
 In the gardens at Brighthelmstone. 
 
 It is, merry the glow of an Austral morn 
 
 And the sun of its winter sky ; 
 And the green of the burgeoning Indian corn 
 
 Is a glory on earth to eye ; 
 But as oft as I wander and weave my song 
 
 On the balmiest day, alone, 
 For a moment I wish that I roamed along 
 
 On the beaches of Brighthelmstone.
 
 1 62 Across the Sea. 
 
 COOPER OF TUMUT, 
 
 A HERO. 
 
 [A True Story of the Australian Bush.] 
 
 A HERO as gallant as he of Khartoum, 
 Though one met his rescue and one met his doom, 
 Was Cooper of Tumut, a six-year-old child, 
 Left lonely on guard in a New South Wales wild. 
 
 The township of Tumut stands sweet on the river, 
 In the serest of summers an oasis ever ; 
 But our poor little hero lived deep in the hush 
 Surrounding the settler far back in the bush. 
 
 A little one ailing and tossing in bed — 
 Its father was working far off for its bread : 
 Its mother was nursing a babe at her breast, 
 With five little children to rob her of rest :
 
 Cooper of TnniuL 1 6 
 
 J 
 
 Her husband was working far off for their bread, 
 The little one ailing and tossing in bed : 
 With the babe at her breast and her six-year-old child, 
 In search of assistance, she plunged in the wild. 
 
 The track through the forest from clearing to clearing. 
 If trampled not often is aye disappearing ; 
 The gum-branches falling, the heaths that upspring, 
 So wanton is nature — a veil on it fling. 
 
 At eve in Australia the darkness is swift, 
 The shadows o'erwhelm like the snow in a drift, 
 And ere she had come to her neighbour's, the night 
 Had brought her to bay in the midst of her flight. 
 
 The night it was stormy ; the thunder-cloud showered 
 Its tears on the three, as for shelter they cowered 
 In a hole by the root of the tree that was nighest, 
 Defying the lightning which shivered the highest.
 
 1 64 Across the Sea. 
 
 A day and a night with no morsel of food — 
 No breast for the babe — she must feed it with blood — 
 Her own, or the child's, or, the faithful to death — 
 The dog's, who would loather lose master than breath. 
 
 The dog must be slaughtered : he flies not away. 
 But welcomes the hand that is stretched out to slay : 
 This truest of Christians endures to the end 
 With the love that would lay down its life for a friend. 
 
 Oh ! many the morn that the children would rush 
 With the dog as sole escort to roam in the bush : 
 He'd bark for sheer gladness as outward they trooi)ed, 
 And brought up the rearguard as homeward they 
 drooped, 
 
 With his tongue hanging roguishly out of his mouth, 
 Perhaps in dog-laughter, perhaps for the drouth. 
 With a dignified march that declared without doubt 
 That he'd frisked off the spirits with which he'd set 
 out.
 
 Cooper of Tuniut. 165 
 
 He feared not to battle the deadly black snake, 
 That the little one wished in his fingers to take, 
 (When out in the forest with "Laddie" alone) 
 As it flashed in its sleep on a sunny flat stone. 
 
 What wanted the dingo found dead at the door, 
 With Laddie beside him half dead in his gore, 
 Which Father and Mother away for the night 
 Had found when they came to their children at light ? 
 
 The friend of the children, the guard of the house. 
 Whom kindness could conquer, no teasing could 
 
 rouse, 
 Must end up his life of devotion with death : — 
 If his blood might give baby an hour more of breath. 
 
 He died as he often had perilled to die, 
 
 For their lives that he loved— aiilJ reproach in his 
 
 eye, 
 That the hand which now wielded the gum-log that 
 
 slew 
 Should be that he had licked with attachment so true.
 
 1 66 Across the Sea. 
 
 The babe could not live upon loyal-heart's blood, 
 As it lived on the milk it was used to for food, 
 The slaughter availed not : the baby still died, 
 And the mother toiled on with the child at her side. 
 
 Three days and three nights and the baby was dead. 
 She bore her dead babe and her little one led, 
 And, fed with the flesh of the friend that had gone, 
 The little one still struggled manfully on. 
 
 Four days ! And the noontide glared down from the 
 
 sky, 
 The merciless sun of Australia was high : 
 The stout little spirit could struggle no more. 
 And downward he sank on the forest's rough floor. 
 
 But stronger than Hagar the mother, who left 
 Boy and babe by the water still full in a cleft 
 From the rain of the thunder, till aid she had found 
 For the child on its bed and the child on the ground.
 
 Cooper of Tumiit. 167 
 
 T\YO days more she wandered, unsheltered, unfed 
 Ere she came to the Chinese who gave her his bread, 
 And ran for a digger, miles further away, 
 To help him to succour the child left astray. 
 
 They hasted, but camped on the mountains that 
 
 night. 
 For long ere they neared him they lost the day's light, 
 And when they did reach him, this six-year-old child 
 Had been three days alone without food in the wild. 
 
 Three days all alone without food in the wild. 
 This stout little hero, this six-year-old child, 
 In peril of serpents, in peril of dogs, 
 No roof and no pillow but sky and dead logs. 
 
 O singers of battles, no hero sing ye, 
 Who'd the soul of the Spartan more truly than he ; 
 This six-year-old child in Australia's bush 
 Would put half the soldiers of story to blush.
 
 i68 Across the Sea. 
 
 For there was the little one after his fast 
 Of a week in the bush, when no morsel had passed 
 His lips, save the dog's flesh before he was left 
 By his mother afaint near the pool in the cleft. 
 
 For there was the little one lying — ah no, 
 
 But sitting up, spite of his want and his woe, 
 
 By the little dead baby with vigilant eyes 
 
 To guard the poor body from hawks and the flies. 
 
 A hero as gallant as he of Khartoum, 
 Though one met his rescue and one met his doom, 
 Was Cooper of Tumut, this six-year-old child 
 Who stood as a sentry three days in the wild. 
 
 Envoy, 
 He eat and was rescued : mayhap in the years 
 He will live and will die in the simplest of spheres, 
 This child who has shewn in six years from his 
 
 birth 
 A valour unpassed in the annals of Earth.
 
 A Ballad of Wattle- Blossom. 169 
 
 A BALLAD OF 
 
 WATTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 [The National Flower of Australia.] 
 
 When winter is over and summer not come, 
 
 When the North wind forgetteth to freeze or to sear, 
 When the tempests, which shout in September, are 
 dumb, 
 Nor the drouth, which we dread in December, is 
 
 here ; 
 When the children are out in the prime of the 
 year 
 To gather a glory of tint and perfume, 
 
 Though the Waratah, Rose, and Epacris are dear, 
 Yet it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloouL
 
 170 Across the Sea. 
 
 When summer in splendour and swelter hath come, 
 
 And the creeks are all dry and the grass is all 
 sere ; 
 When the picknickers roam in the forest for gum, 
 
 Which wells from the Wattle in carbuncles clear ; 
 
 If little they gather when no one is near, 
 The sunny young girl, whose shy glances illume, 
 
 And her sunburnt and stalwart and staunch cavalier. 
 Yet it's hey for the Wattle though gone has its bloom. 
 
 ^^'hen the shy-glancing maiden has wandered from 
 
 home 
 
 To the land, where her forefathers hunted the deer, 
 
 Where the sky without cloud and the sea without 
 
 foam 
 
 Are a sight for the Gods, and Decembers are 
 
 drear ; 
 When she sighs for the sunburnt young squatter not 
 
 here. 
 And picks from his letter, just brought to her 
 
 room, 
 The blossom he plucked in the prime of the 
 
 year. 
 Then it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its bloom.
 
 A Ballad of Wattle- Blossom. 1 7 1 
 
 Envoy. 
 
 When children are out m the prime of the year 
 To gather a glory of tint and perfume — 
 
 When shy-glancing maiden meets staunch cavalier, 
 Then it's hey for the Wattle with gold for its 
 bloom.
 
 172 Across ^/le Sea. 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 [Written at Old Government House, Parramatta, 
 New South Wales.] 
 
 Beneath an Austral winter sun, 
 
 A worn man and a little child 
 Roam in a garden, overrun 
 
 With creepers and with beds gone wild ; 
 The one with sallow sunken cheek 
 
 And doubled back and wasted hands 
 And hollow voice and motions weak 
 
 Telling of years in tropic lands, 
 The other revelling in wealth 
 Of careless joy and glowing health.
 
 Light and Shade. 17, 
 
 They both are idle : one doth pause 
 
 Since now his day for work is done, 
 The Httle laughing child because 
 
 His day for work hath not begun : 
 They play together — the worn man 
 
 Finding the infant's tricks and talk 
 Able to exorcise and ban 
 
 The doubts that dog his daily walk, 
 The wondering infant glad to find 
 One so unoccupied and kind. 
 
 The worn man sought the gentle clime 
 
 Of this delightful, genial land, 
 Feeling that else in no long time 
 
 He would be gathered to God's hand. 
 The little sunny child was born 
 
 In this same sunny continent. 
 As full of morning as this morn, 
 
 In which the warmth and cool arc blent 
 In that proportion just, which gives 
 Health and delight to all that lives.
 
 1 74 Across the Sea. 
 
 THEMISTOCLES 
 
 TO THE PEACE PARTY AT ATHENS, 
 BEFORE SALAMIS. 
 
 Sirs, you've lived somewhat longer than we have, 
 And are so much the nearer to the grave. 
 And, if you can win these few years of peace, 
 Think that your pilgrimage on earth may cease 
 In your old selfish indolence and ease 
 Beside your vines and olives and fig trees. 
 But we are young and are not fain to live 
 Upon such welcome, as the Hellenes give 
 To those, who have no portion or estate, 
 But within strangers' walls do congregate.
 
 WordswortJi s " Two Voices.''' 175 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S "TWO VOICES." 
 [Written at Waverley, Geelong, Victoria.] 
 
 " Two voices are there : one is of the sea 
 One of the mountains : " so the Poet sung, 
 Who lived the hills of Cumberland among, 
 
 And gave their names, O Liberty, to thee, 
 
 But they have a significance for me 
 
 Sweeter than liberty, less steeped in wrong, — 
 Home — for I too in days when I was young, 
 
 Lived on those Cumbrian hills. 
 
 And, though there be 
 Five thousand leagues of sea between us set. 
 
 Oft as the peaks of distant hills I've scanned, 
 I've dreamed of Easdale's mountain-coronet, 
 And when upon the ocean's brink I stand, 
 I sec in it a chain of blue and foam. 
 To link me, long drawn out, with my old home.
 
 I 76 Across the Sea. 
 
 POETS. 
 [Dedicated to George P. E. Scott, Esq.] 
 
 He is a poet, who lays stone to stone. 
 
 As well as he who builds the lofty rhyme : 
 We have stone poems dating from the prime 
 
 Of Athens, and three thousand years have flown 
 
 Without the ivy of oblivion 
 
 Loosing one fragment from the pile sublime 
 Reared on Troy's ashes in the elder time 
 
 By the blind islander. The Parthenon 
 And Iliad are ideas alike in kind 
 
 But told in divers forms. It matters nought 
 What the material moulded to the mind, 
 
 If the result matches the artist's thought. 
 One builds a stately pleasure-house in rhyme, 
 And one a poem writes in stone and lime.
 
 Thi^ee Graces. 177 
 
 THREE GRACES. 
 
 [C , I , AND E .] 
 
 One hath sun-brown, one gold, one auburn hair ; 
 Each hath blue eyes, and each the damask cheek 
 Of pink and white, the profile of the Greek, 
 
 The graceful form, the foot that treadeth air. 
 
 The worship of the beautiful and rare. 
 Swift intellect, simplicity antique. 
 Courage against the strong, and for the weak 
 
 Soft pity : each is feat and frank and fair. 
 
 One hath the spell of music in her fingers, 
 And one the art of Raphael, the third 
 
 That witchery of voice which oft-times lingers 
 In memory years after it is heard ; 
 
 And all — to a fair edifice fair dome — 
 
 Are useful, homely women in their home. 
 
 M
 
 I 78 Ac7'oss the Sea. 
 
 B. A. 
 
 Free, 
 
 To go for a scud on the sunny sea ! 
 
 The study at morning and midnight done, 
 
 The scribbled old books on the sofa thrown, 
 
 The ink-pot left open to choke with dust. 
 
 With an old J nib in it stiff with rust, 
 
 And a red and blue pencil, in need of cutting. 
 
 Sticking out of a drawer too full for shutting. 
 
 Done ! 
 
 And now I am free for a bask in the sun. 
 
 Or reading a legend of ancient birth 
 
 Of men, who have long since mingled with earth 
 
 On the shores of the Mediterranean, 
 
 Or to watch how Irene toys with her fan 
 
 To eke out a story, as old as Adam, 
 
 When Monsieur Moustache is with beautiful madam.
 
 B. A. 
 
 179 
 
 All! 
 
 Are you sure that my " scout " will not give me a call, 
 To be up with the lark and retrieve the work 
 That overnight pleasure had made me shirk ? 
 May I chat over lunch and have out my sleep, 
 Without having one eye on the clock to keep ? 
 May I once again act as if I was human, 
 And venture to look on the charms of woman ? 
 
 Yes! 
 
 That vision has passed in its hideousness : 
 Henceforth, without favour or fear, I can 
 Look the world in the face, and stand up a man 
 For no tyranny crushes the heart and soul 
 With its cruel exactions of time and toll. 
 Like that which determines so much our station 
 In life — our arch-bogy — examination.
 
 1 80 Across the Sea. 
 
 THE BARBED ARROW. 
 
 They tell me he is light of love, 
 
 And cares for no one well, 
 That wont his fancy is to rove 
 
 Like fawns upon the fell, 
 I know not this, I know not aught 
 
 Save that we are apart, 
 And oh ! I would that I had caught 
 
 The key-note of his heart. 
 
 'Tis not that we have plighted troth ; 
 
 We never spoke of love, 
 But just the glad converse of youth 
 
 With laughter interwove. 
 'Twas thus, they say, he used to talk 
 
 With many another maid, 
 Amid the glory of a walk 
 
 By morning in the glade.
 
 The Barbed A rrow. 1 8 1 
 
 Alas it is not morning now, 
 
 And he is not with me ; 
 And yet I am his own I vow 
 
 Whose ver own he be ; 
 If he has loved so many well, 
 
 Loved by so many been, 
 Does it not prove him loveable 
 
 Although it prove my teen ? 
 
 O voice of youth and mirth come back, 
 
 And wear his own dear form, 
 To haunt the old familiar track, 
 
 Witli friendship's rays once warm. 
 Though other maids were there before 
 
 And others on me press, 
 O suffer me to make one more 
 
 And spare me one caress !
 
 PART III. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON.
 
 THE EXILE'S RETURN. 
 
 Once more he stood in the home of his childhood ; 
 
 Once more he walked 'mid the chestnuts and limes ; 
 The trees were as green in the glory of springtide ; 
 
 The house was the same, yet 'twas not like old 
 times; 
 
 For he was but a guest where he had been a son, 
 
 And the home of his childhood for ever had gone. 
 
 His parents were there, and more tender than ever ; 
 But the brotliers and sisters, with whom he had 
 played, 
 Had been fledged and had taken their mates and had 
 flitted, 
 And the one who behind in the nest had still stayed 
 Was the child of his parents' old age, just the one 
 Who had not with him from his childhood upgrown.
 
 i86 Poems written in London. 
 
 And he learned the sad truth that when once the 
 fledged nesthng 
 Has forsaken its place in the nest, it grows cold, 
 
 Though the parents be warm, and however he presses 
 It never will have the same glow as of old. 
 And the bird who has once made a nest of his own 
 Can never go back to the nest he has known. 
 
 O nestling forsake not the nest of your parents ! 
 
 O nestling be slow to be fledged and to fly ! 
 'Tis so easy for brothers and sisters to scatter, 
 For parents and children to sever their tie ; 
 ft . And the nestful, once broken, can never be one 
 
 ^VM^ ^j^ Jn the way which it was ere the breaking was done. 
 
 The limes, while they live, will be green in the spring- 
 tide ; 
 The chestnuts will blossom in April and May ; 
 But children, who once leave their homes, will return 
 not. 
 Or, if they return, it will not be to play 
 And to nestle together ; it is not their own, 
 But the home of their parents when once they have 
 flown.
 
 The Poet. 187 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The Poet, writing, feels nor heat nor cold 
 
 Nor thirst nor hunger as he doth unfold, 
 
 While his rich mind is open, from its hoard 
 
 The gorgeous pageantry, with which jt^s stored. 
 
 Winter or summer outside matters not ; 
 
 'Mid winter snows he can enjoy a hot 
 
 And peerless day in palm groves of Ceylon, 
 
 And, 'mid the scorching desert, can dwell on 
 
 The breezy Kentish Cliffs, where he was born, 
 
 In all the glory of an April morn. V:'UL ( -^ * 
 
 And, though not rich enough to keep a wife, 
 
 Omnipresent in day-dreams of his life 
 
 He can have some pure image heavenly bright, 
 
 Some woman, of a dazzling grace and light 
 
 Denied to kings, almost as much imbued 
 
 With life as if she were real flesh and blood. 
 
 ^Vvw^W K^ ^'
 
 1 88 Poems written in London. 
 
 He wants no worldly store of costly things, 
 For he can have for the imaginings, 
 In turn, the fancifulness of Japan, 
 The glow of Ind, old art Italian 
 Or English luxury. His home can be 
 By some wild fiord of the northern sea, 
 Or in the peerless lands neath southern skies 
 Peopled by EngHsh blood and enterprise. 
 His house can be some ancient Gothic keep 
 Or wide verandahed bungalow, where sleep 
 Reigns through the fiery middle of the day. 
 Alone, his converse can be grave or gay ; 
 And he is in best company alone. 
 With none to interru2l^hemagic_tone 
 Belledjrom within, a kind of mystic chime 
 Rung by the fancy to the ear of time. 
 Give him enough to clothe himself and feed 
 Without his care, and he is rich indeed. 
 Able to revel when they both so choose, 
 In undisturbed communion with his Muse.
 
 The Poet. 189 
 
 Dependence is his foul fiend, and restraint, 
 
 To have to hsten to one drear complaint. 
 
 To finish long and uncongenial tasks, 
 
 To leave his Muse, when some small tyrant asks. 
 
 Freedom is aye the burden of his song, 
 
 For he is left one of the common throng 
 
 If from constraint and care he is not free 
 
 To give himself up to his phantasy. 
 
 But it is hard for woman, who is real. 
 To wed one ever wooing the ideal. 
 To have the few brief minutes when, tired out. 
 He cannot follow the will-o'-the-wisp about, 
 To have him in his uncongenial moods. 
 When he is unfit for his solitudes, 
 To live on crumbs of comfort, which may fall 
 From the rich table, where he feasts witli all 
 The grand guests of his fancy — go through life 
 More as his children's mother than his wife. 
 
 For if a woman is a poet's ideal 
 His Muse is ever worsted by the real,
 
 190 Poems written in London. 
 
 And all the poetry, which would have gone 
 
 Into his written poems, is lavished on 
 
 His poem-life, known only to himself 
 
 And his soul's Queen j and when laid on the shelf 
 
 After his passionate life-time, lost for aye. 
 
 Unless some friend who knew him in his day. 
 
 Falls back on that life-poem for the plot 
 
 Of a romance, writing what he wrote not 
 
 But lived. We cannot in this world have both 
 
 To indulge in the bright intercourse of youth 
 
 And also haunt the shady cloisters where 
 
 There lurks an inspiration in the air. 
 
 The Muse's husband cannot have a wife, 
 
 Like other men, the essence of his life. 
 
 OJU^ th\nAJ*XjZ aJm^LL.
 
 Mammon and Poesy. 1 9 1 
 
 "MAMMON AND POESY;" or, 
 "The Poet's Choice." 
 
 [Dedicated to Robert Browning, Esq., D.C.L.] 
 
 " The elder Mr Browning had but two children — 
 the poet, and a daughter, who still keeps house for 
 her brother. When the son had arrived at that age, 
 at which the bias or opportunity of parents usually 
 dictates a profession to a youth, Mr Browning asked 
 his son what he intended to be. It was known to 
 the latter that his sister was provided for, and that 
 there would always be enough to keep him also, and 
 he had the singular courage to decline to be rich. 
 He appealed to his Father whether it would not be 
 better for him to see life in its best sense and culti- 
 vate the powers of his mind, than to shackle himself 
 in the very outset of his career by a laborious training 
 foreign to that aim. The wisdom or unwisdom of 
 such a step is proved by the measure of its success. 
 In the case of Mr Browning the determination has 
 never been regretted, and so great was the confidence
 
 192 Poems written in London. 
 
 of the Father in the genius of the son, that the former 
 at once acquiesced in the proposal." — Fro7n " The 
 Century Magazine,'' Dec. 1881. 
 
 Wealth came to him with outstretched hand, 
 And said, " Young dreamer come with me 
 
 And have the fatness of the land 
 
 And costliest gifts from o'er the sea." 
 
 He took him to the mountain-top 
 
 Of Mammon, shewed him all the Earth, 
 
 The good things for which all men hope, 
 Which the world holds of highest worth, 
 
 And said, " Bow down and worship me. 
 And all thou seest shall be thine : 
 
 The glories of the land and sea 
 And fulness of the Earth are mine. 
 
 " But know I am a jealous God, 
 
 And he, who worships me, must tread 
 All day in crowded alleys trod 
 
 By hard coarse men — must leave his bed
 
 Mammon and Poesy. 
 
 " Early and seek his pleasure late, 
 An altar of his desk must make 
 And missal of his ledger, wait 
 Until his sacrifice I take. 
 
 Then he can trample on the hves 
 
 And souls of those who cross his path, 
 
 Can choose himself a wife of wives. 
 Can make lands tremble at his wrath. 
 
 " Can eat and drink whate'er is best 
 
 In either sphere, can clothe his limbs 
 With whatsoe'er is costliest, 
 Live in a palace, list to hymns 
 
 " Extolling every little crumb 
 
 From his rich table let to fall — 
 
 Until his day of death may come, 
 
 A kind of monarch over all." 
 N
 
 194 Poems written iti London. 
 
 He finished but, the while he spoke 
 In tempting accents to the youth, 
 
 Over the distant hills there broke — 
 Over the distant hills of truth — 
 
 A gleam of sunshine glowing on 
 A far-oif vision. She was fair 
 
 The maid on whom the sunshaft shone 
 And with a crown of glittering hair, 
 
 Which changed in colour, as the sight 
 Qf him who saw was toned to view, 
 
 Now golden-bright, now dusk as night, 
 Now dull and now of sunny hue. 
 
 But there was this about the maid 
 That he, who at her beauty's shrine 
 
 Had worship once or homage paid, 
 Could ne'er his fealty resign,
 
 Mammon and Poesy. 195 
 
 But through howe'er a chequered life, 
 Come good, come ill, in wealth or want. 
 
 Though great in state, though with a wife 
 Fair as a queen, must ever haunt 
 
 Her altar with a sacrifice 
 Of longing, whether of regret 
 
 Or hope, and with some quaint device. 
 Such as the old Knight-lovers set 
 
 Upon their casques when they essayed 
 
 Their prowess 'neath their lady's eyes- 
 Even in the distance was this maid 
 Wondrously fair to his surmise. 
 
 She drew no nearer than to speak 
 In tones just loud enough to hear, 
 
 And yet 'twas not in accents weak 
 But rather in a whisper clear,
 
 196 Poems written in Lo7idon. 
 
 And thus she spake, " Come thou with me, 
 I have no Kingdom on the Earth, 
 
 And yet is not by land and sea 
 What men esteem of equal worth 
 
 " As my true speech, which many hear 
 / But cannot write it down, and he 
 
 Who writes it is proclaimed a seer. 
 The one man of his century. 
 
 " I have no kingdom : thou may'st roam 
 Through all the oases of the world. 
 From where the millions make their home 
 To where no flag was e'er unfurled, 
 
 " From cosy cot by love illumed 
 
 In some \\t\\ city's panting heart, 
 To old-world palaces exhumed 
 From neath Vesuvius' lava swart, 
 
 1
 
 Manmton and Poesy. 1 9 7 
 
 " Now over an Australian plain 
 
 Of peaceful victories with sheep, 
 Now countries glorious with stain 
 Of battle and with shattered keep, 
 
 " And whether 'mid the pines thou sweepest 
 Of the free, valiant North, or 'mid 
 The glowing luscious East thou sleepest 
 Until the day in dusk is hid, 
 
 " And whether in a Lady's bower. 
 Or waging warfare thou shalt be, 
 Whate'er the place, whate'er the hour, 
 Come good, come ill, on land or sea. 
 
 " The restless spark within thy torch 
 Shall die not, howso low it gleams ; 
 Thou wilt not need a temple porch 
 To worship me as it beseems.
 
 1 98 Poems written in London. 
 
 •* Once more, if thou my words canst hear, 
 And write down truly what thou hearest, 
 Folks will bow down to thee as seer, 
 Of all men to the gods the nearest. 
 
 " I cannot give thee life or wealth, 
 
 Or rest, the crowning gift of Earth, 
 But if Heaven gives thee life and health, 
 And thou art seer,— there's nought of worth 
 
 " But men will haste to offer thee 
 As singer and interpreter 
 Of the lost voices, which there be 
 Lurking within the earth and air." 
 
 The youth paused not, — though Mammon gave 
 His gifts for certain undelayed, — 
 
 For a few years to be a slave. 
 Then lord of all that he surveyed.
 
 Mavmion and Poesy. 199 
 
 Though Mammon took him by the hand, 
 
 And Poesy stood on the height, 
 And promised nought but only planned 
 
 His guerdon if he heard aright, — 
 
 But took the torch which she did proffer, 
 
 Content upon her altar stairs 
 One more bright, blasted life to offer. 
 
 If Heaven heeded not his prayers 
 
 That he might be elect to write 
 In language Avhoso ran could read 
 
 Voices from old towns borne at night 
 And on still mornings from the mead, 
 
 Voices of Nature, Poesy, 
 
 Or inspiration — what you will — 
 
 Heard when afar from human eye, 
 
 Heard best when human sounds are still.
 
 200 Poems widtteji m London. 
 
 And Heaven listened : now he stands 
 A singer and acknowledged seer 
 
 Loved in all English-speaking lands, 
 In his own walk without a peer.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 P O E M S 
 WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE 
 
 CHIEFLY AT TORQUAY.
 
 A BALLAD OF PLEASURE. 
 
 "We workers, who toil in the grimy town, 
 
 Have heard of the drones who will spend the day 
 In galloping over the breezy down, 
 
 Or saiHng about on the bright blue bay, 
 
 Or striving the strenuous hours away 
 In matches at cricket and games at fives, 
 
 Or hunting or shooting or all in play, 
 
 \Vhile we are in slavery all our lives. 
 
 We workers, who toil in the grimy town. 
 
 Have heard of the drones who will spend the day 
 
 In changes and changes of suit and gown. 
 And vying each other in vain display, 
 And lounging and lunching and idle sciy, — 
 
 Old bachelors wooing to wild young wives. 
 Young bachelors losing their lands at play — 
 
 While we are in slavery all our lives.
 
 204 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 We workers, who toil in the grimy town, 
 
 Have heard of the drones who will spend the day 
 
 In dreaming away by the waters brown 
 When summer is singing his roundelay, 
 And over the fire, when in widow-grey 
 
 The winter once more from the north arrives. 
 Just prating of Letters and Art in play. 
 
 While we are in slavery all our lives. 
 
 P^NVOY. 
 
 We wonder what profit is theirs and say, 
 
 " These indolent drones with their wastefufwives, 
 
 They shall not endure in their endless play. 
 While we are in slavery all our lives."
 
 A Ballad of Pain. 205 
 
 A BALLAD OF PAIN. 
 
 The " Ballad of Pleasure" was finished at i a.m. on 
 i'eb. 1st 18s5 : at 9 a.m. " bob " was found dead 
 IN HIS Cradle. 
 
 My heart was overfull with joy, 
 
 As late I sat one winternight, 
 Exulting that my two-months' boy 
 
 Should now receive the chrystom rite ; 
 
 But, when the morrow morn was light, 
 My heart was overfull with pain. 
 
 For there I found him stiff and white, 
 The babe who never moved again.
 
 2o6 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 My heart was overfull with joy, 
 
 As late I sat one winternight, 
 Exulting o'er a two-days' toy, 
 
 A ballad ready now to write ; 
 But, ere the sun had climbed his height, 
 
 My song was in another strain, 
 For there I found him stiff and white, 
 
 The babe who never moved again. 
 
 My heart was overfull with joy, 
 
 As late I sat one winternight, 
 Two hours of gold without alloy 
 
 To pass with maidens boon and bright ; 
 
 At morn I saw another sight 
 Than maidens fair and maidens fain. 
 
 For there I found him stiff and white. 
 The babe who never moved again.
 
 A Ballad of Pa in . 207 
 
 Envoy. 
 Many a sight of joy and light 
 May I forget, but not the pain 
 With which I found him stiff and white, 
 The babe who never moved again.
 
 2o8 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 A BALLAD OF A GRAVEYARD. 
 
 [To William Nimmo, Esq., a College-Friend 
 OF THE Author.] 
 
 The Graveyard looks on Mary's Church ; 
 
 And Mary's Church looks on the sea ; 
 And there I found with loving search, 
 
 Not far off from a cypress-tree, 
 
 A bed for his mortality, 
 Within the echo of the main, 
 
 Our gleaming link that is to be, 
 When we are overseas again.
 
 A Ballad of a Graveyard. 209 
 
 The Graveyard looks on Mary's Church ; 
 
 And Mary's Church looks on the sea ; 
 The rain the chapel panes did smirch 
 
 While I knelt down in agony, — 
 
 I, and one college friend with me, 
 Oft mate in pleasure, now in pain, 
 
 And comrade oft, I trust, to be 
 When we are overseas again. 
 
 The Graveyard looks on Mary's Church ; 
 
 And Mary's Church looks on the sea ; 
 And there we sowed 'mid pine and birch 
 
 A seed of immortality. 
 
 And I, where'er on earth I be, 
 Shall never hear the sounding main 
 
 Without this solemn memory, 
 When we arc overseas again.
 
 2 1 o Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 Envoy. 
 
 We sowed his small mortality 
 
 To sight the church which sights the main, 
 Our link with him that is to be 
 
 When we are overseas again.
 
 Maidenhood — A Serenade. 2 1 1 
 
 MAIDENHOOD— A SERENADE. 
 
 My Lady she loves me, she loves to be near, 
 She tells me — and oft — that my friendship is dear ; 
 But, if I dare whisper one hint of my love, 
 Turns cold as the Lady of Even above. 
 
 Her heart is as warm as the Lord of the Day, 
 Her sunshine is clouded when I am away, 
 And yet if I venture that question to ask 
 Which, granted, allows her for ever to bask. 
 
 She flics to the shadow, which bashfulness throws 
 To check the sun's fei-vour from forcing the rose ; 
 And days of coy wooing but slowly recall 
 The sunshine of friendship when shadows befall.
 
 212 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 Were women as sunny, in wooing as we, 
 The shadows which chequer our courtship would flee ; 
 Were men but as mooncold in wooing, their lives 
 Would seldom be lit with the sunshine of wives. 
 
 She loves me, my lady : — she stays in the sun, 
 Though doubting, for aid, to the shadows to run ; 
 The rosebud is blushing to ope to the heat. 
 And the scent, as she bursts into blossom, is sweet. 
 
 My lady, she loves me, and whispers it oft, 
 Not timid and cold now but timid and soft ; 
 Both morning and even her sun she'd have light, 
 Like the sun of the north upon midsummer night.
 
 Under the Mistletoe, 2 1 3 
 
 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 Why did he kiss her not ? because he loved her ; 
 Because an angry word, a struggle vain, 
 Might breed a coldness which should long remain : 
 
 The^^blushing maid but strove, as it behoved her. 
 
 Would it have pleased him, had she yielded lightl)' 
 To every lip, which sought her check to taste, 
 Under the mistletoe by frolic placed 
 
 Over the door, while laughter echoed brightly ? 
 
 Why no ! she had his worship : it would waken 
 
 A rude surprise to see his Artemis, 
 From the high-places where he shrined her, taken, 
 
 As if she were no coyer than Cypris, 
 And the pure dew from off her sweet mouth shaken, 
 
 The virgin dew, by mirth and mischief's kiss.
 
 2 1 4 Poems written m Devonshire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Why did she let him not ? because she loved him,. 
 Because if he, why not some others too, 
 Because she'd have him think her chaste and true : 
 
 Why did he try ? because it so behoved him. 
 
 For had he not long worship to her offered, 
 Smiled with her smiles, grieved with her griefs,"and 
 
 talked 
 Sweet music of the heart, as oft they walked, 
 
 And love in every speech but tongue-speech proffered? 
 
 Would she have let him with none by to see her ? 
 
 Yes ! had he dared defy her first fierce speech, 
 Pinion her struggles, flat-refuse to free her, 
 
 Kiss off her shame and anger, then beseech 
 Her love in spoken words, he might decree her 
 
 Submissive lips and hands to him to reach.
 
 Under the Mistletoe. 2 1 5 
 
 III. 
 
 Under the mistletoe, who holds her hands now 
 Out-stretched submissively, and yields her lips, 
 Without demur, to love's repeated sips, 
 
 Delighting in her newly-fitted bands now ? 
 
 Is this the girl-Lucretia, who repelled him. 
 
 With crimson-mantling cheek and shrinking form, 
 And with reproach half-pleading and half-warm, 
 
 So that half-fear, half-penitence withheld him ? 
 
 If she had suffered him in jest, she could not 
 Have yielded him so full a gift in fee ; 
 
 If he had plundered her in jest, he would not 
 Have found his feast so rich when he was free. 
 
 And though his will in wnrath she had withstood not, 
 Without the grace of self restrained would be.
 
 2 1 6 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 KING CHARLIE. 
 
 [Written upon the Third Birthday of the Author's 
 
 Son.] 
 
 Charles the Bold and Charles the Bad, 
 
 Charles the Great and the Victorious, 
 Set beside this little lad. 
 
 Where are now your triumphs glorious- 
 If the living dog is held 
 
 Better than the slaughtered Lion, 
 As the prophet wrote of eld ? 
 
 Ye are shadows like Ixion.
 
 King Charlie. 217 
 
 Charles the Martyr, Charles the Mad, 
 
 Charles the Swede and Charles the Hammer, 
 Ye, for all the pow'r ye had 
 
 Not one syllable can stammer. 
 Yonder boy, in slumber calm 
 
 Dreaming of some fairy story. 
 Has more strength in his right arm 
 
 Than have ye for all your glory. 
 
 With the fair white robes of youth, 
 
 Childhood's golden crown upon him, 
 Only the blight side of truth 
 
 Told him yet, do wc enthrone him. 
 Use thy power well, small king ! 
 
 Thou hast all the world before thee : 
 If thou lose it dallying, 
 
 We can never quite restore thee.
 
 2 1 8 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 Are their nam.es remembered still, 
 
 Having gone not as their cares have ? 
 Yes, for few do deeds that will 
 
 Stand the test of time as theirs have. 
 Yet these Charleses, in their day. 
 
 Though the world could scarce contain them, 
 Now that they have passed away. 
 
 Little board-school boys arraign them. 
 
 Child King Charhe, anxious eyes 
 
 On thy future are directed : 
 Is the monarch we so prize 
 
 Worthily a king elected ? 
 Who shall tell us, — if there be 
 
 No such thing as after-life time, 
 If no resting-place have we 
 
 After labour-time and strife-time ?
 
 King Charlie. 2 1 9 
 
 Charles the Swede and Charles Martel, 
 
 Charles the Great and the Victorious, 
 History hath loved you well ; 
 
 May this small king be as glorious ! 
 May your good alone proceed, 
 
 And this child illuminate, 
 Charles Martel and Charles the Swede, 
 
 The Victorious and the Great !
 
 2 20 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 TO A LADY ON HER TWENTY-SECOND 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 E. M. N. 
 
 I KNEW you when, scarce more than child, 
 
 You had but now left school, 
 A little shy, a little wild, 
 
 A madcap of misrule. 
 
 I treasure yet the greeting smile, 
 
 The dainty change of hue. 
 That fluttered through your cheeks awhile 
 
 At our first interview. 
 
 Welcome and graciousness were writ 
 
 As now upon your face. 
 Although you had not all your wit 
 
 Or all your present grace.
 
 To a Lady on her Birthday. 2 2 1 
 
 By you I lived two golden years 
 
 Beneath a cloudless sky, 
 Without a thought of wrath or tears, 
 
 In closest sympathy. 
 
 I watched the growth of that sweet flower 
 
 We call your womanhood. 
 Saw it develop hour by hour. 
 
 Each leaf and blossom good. 
 
 Daily the blossoms sweeter grew. 
 More shapely in their growth, 
 
 While kept the leaves the tender hue 
 And softness of their youth. 
 
 You were like sister, in a land 
 
 Where sisters I had none, 
 To whom I told whate'er I planned. 
 
 And shewed whate'er I'd done.
 
 2 2 2 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 While neighbours never spoke we word 
 
 We fain had spoken not, 
 And nought between us e'er occurred 
 
 Which we should wish forgot. 
 
 And then we left the dear old place, 
 
 I in fresh lands to roam, 
 And you with travel to efface 
 
 The loss of your old home. 
 
 Once more a few brief weeks we spent 
 
 In the familiar town, 
 But not in the old way which lent 
 
 To every hour its crown. 
 
 For cares we could not obviate 
 
 Kept us too far apart, 
 Although they varied not the state 
 
 Of friendly heart to heart.
 
 To a Lady on her Birthday. 
 
 ^Ve parted once again to roam, 
 Whither we scarce had planned, 
 
 Until we found — myself at home, 
 You in my native land. 
 
 We met, not as we parted last, 
 But as we first had met. 
 
 As if two absent years had passed 
 Just for us to forget. 
 
 We met with no distracting care 
 To pilfer precious hours, 
 
 And reinstalled the friendship rare 
 Which in old days was ours. 
 
 And then I saw the stately growth 
 Of your full womanhood, 
 
 Still with the tenderness of youth, 
 As with spring leaves, endued.
 
 2 24 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 And with rich blossoms of the mind, 
 
 And blossoms of the soul, 
 In hue and scent and shape refined. 
 
 Harmonious with the whole. 
 
 Ungracious words you never spoke, 
 Or did once graceless act, 
 
 Nor pet illusion ever broke 
 For want of woman's tact. 
 
 Fair women were my idols e'er; 
 
 Sweet maids have I known well, 
 But never one, where soul more fair, 
 
 In fairer shape did dwell. 
 
 White soul the Roman bard would call 
 
 The spirit in your breast. 
 And this expression — all in all 
 
 Portrays its pureness best.
 
 To a Lady on her Birthday. 225 
 
 As years roll on, we two shall roam 
 
 O'er many a sea and land, 
 But I shall always feel it home 
 
 Where I can hold your hand.
 
 2 26 Poems ivritten in Devonshire. 
 
 A TALE OF TWO COLLEGES. 
 
 [An Echo from Cheltenham.] 
 
 She'd big, brave eyes of tender blue, 
 The maiden at " The Ladies' College," 
 
 And wavy hair of some soft hue, 
 
 The maiden at " The Ladies' College," 
 
 A mouth for love and laughter meet, 
 
 A voice for song and soothing sweet, 
 
 Her very trip was exquisite, 
 
 The maiden at " The Ladies' College." 
 
 This maiden oft I chanced to see. 
 
 In days when I was at " The College," 
 
 And yet I swear was nought to me. 
 In days when I was at "The College." 
 
 Eyes were but eyes, however blue. 
 
 Hair simple hair, whate'er the hue, 
 
 If she were fair I hardly knew 
 
 In days when I was at "The College."
 
 A Tale of Tivo Colleges. 227 
 
 I wooed a coy "Eleven Cap,"* 
 
 In days when I was at " The College," 
 "Won my " twin C's " t mid hack and rap, 
 In days when I was at " The College." 
 I dreamed of class-room victories, 
 Of " coming through the scrimmages," 
 Of " driving fours " and " cutting threes," 
 In days when I was at " The College." 
 
 Nous avons chang^. , . years ago — 
 It may be ten — I left " The College," 
 
 And other dreams more brightly glow 
 
 Than boy-dreams, born when at "The College."' 
 
 I care as much for " cutting threes," 
 
 I like to look at " scrimmages," 
 
 Put I would give the world to please 
 That maiden at " The Ladies' College." 
 
 * The badge of the Cheltenham College Cricket Eleven, 
 t The badge of the Cheltenham College Football Fifteen.
 
 2 28 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Deny you that your body ails ? 
 Oh then it is your mind that pales : 
 If Sickness darkens not your eye, 
 Her foster-sister, Grief, is by. 
 
 A gentle woman not a weak, 
 No trifle blenches your brave cheek ; 
 A Spartan of the Christian strain, 
 Despise you only your own pain. 
 
 I cannot share your pain or woe, 
 Until its source you'd have me know ; 
 Nor may I, what I feel, express 
 Till lips as well as looks confess.
 
 Sympathy. 229 
 
 But you have read my sympathies 
 In the mute message of my eyes, 
 Although you knew not that your pains 
 Awoke in me the kindred strains.
 
 230 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 SEASONS. 
 
 His Spring ! The hedge, which ran beside 
 His father's cottage-door, was gay — 
 
 He was a village boy, bright-eyed — 
 With snowy blossoms of the May. 
 
 His Summer ! Round his bungalow 
 The plantain with the palm would vie — 
 
 He was a famous soldier now — 
 In tropic grace and greenery. 
 
 His Autumn ! Was it not their Spring ? 
 
 The Wattle's golden wealth of bloom — 
 The strong man now was mellowing — 
 
 Was brought by children to his room.
 
 Seasons. 2 3 1 
 
 His Winter ! The old hero stood 
 
 Once more beside the boughs of May : 
 
 And snow there was upon the wood, 
 But then the blossoms were away.
 
 232 Poems written in Devojishire. 
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 [Or, Optimist and Pessimist.] 
 
 Two spirits, one of Hope and one of Care, 
 
 Flew 'neath the self-same roof; 
 One's garment was of black and chill night air, 
 
 The other's of sun-woof 
 
 One brought the warmth and light into the room 
 
 Upon the bleakest days ; 
 The other threw a shade of chill and gloom 
 
 Athwart the sun's own rays. 
 
 The spirits, she of Care and he of Hope, 
 
 Loved one another well, 
 Although no reader of the horoscope 
 
 Dared such a love foretell.
 
 The Two Spirits. 233 
 
 They clung but did not blend : the robe of dun 
 
 Upon the back of Care 
 Could not be patch-worked with the woven sun, 
 
 Which he of Hope must wear. 
 
 Now it was night ; and then the star of pain 
 
 The joyous sun outshone : 
 Now it was day ; and in the light again 
 
 The evil star had gone. 
 
 In some soft twilight in the latter days 
 
 May this strange pair be dight, 
 Without the dazzle of the sun-robe's rays, 
 
 Nor yet as dark as night.
 
 2 34 Poems written in Devo7isJiire. 
 
 THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 
 
 Whenever the Poet heard the hour 
 Chimed from the neighbouring belfry tower, 
 
 He bowed his head to pray. 
 Held he that some mysterious power 
 
 In words then uttered they ? 
 
 Or was it this that the striking chime 
 Reminded him of the flight of time, 
 
 And life that ebbed away, 
 Or church bells ringing at matin-prime. 
 
 And noon and close of day ? 
 
 He did remember some legend old, 
 In which were mystical virtues told 
 
 Of pray'r at chime of hour, 
 And thought how swiftly life's current rolled, 
 
 When spoke each antique tower.
 
 The Hour of Prayer. 235 
 
 And hearing hours from the belfry chime 
 Reminded him of the olden time, 
 
 When pious mass was sung 
 And bell for pray'r at each day's prime 
 
 And noon and close was rung. 
 
 Not often the Poet knelt to pray 
 In churches during the Sabbath day, 
 
 But while he heard the chime 
 Peal from the belfry, he turned alway 
 
 And gave to God the time. 
 
 Whether it was that the striking chime 
 Reminded him of the flight of time, 
 
 And life that ebbed away, 
 Or church bells ringing at matin-prime, 
 
 And noon and close of day.
 
 236 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE SABBATH. 
 
 There is a legend old, which says 
 That God comes down on Sabbath days 
 
 A little nearer earth. 
 And posts His angels in the ways 
 
 To gather deeds of worth. 
 
 It did mayhap originate 
 
 In some old preacher's pious pate, 
 
 His people to induce 
 One day a week to consecrate 
 
 Unto religious use. 
 
 For, thinking God was nearer earth 
 And angels' questing deeds of worth, 
 
 They sanctified this day 
 Alike from labour and from mirth 
 
 To do good deeds and pray.
 
 A Legend of the Sabbath. 237 
 
 The legend may be true or no ; 
 Good men believed it long ago, 
 
 And profited thereby, 
 If once a week they acted so 
 
 As if their God was nigh. 
 
 We live in an enlightened age 
 And war on superstition wage. 
 
 And yet no better do 
 Than those who hearing this adage 
 
 Believed it to be true.
 
 2 ■^S Poems written in DcvonsJmx. 
 
 THE LOST POEM. 
 December 31st, 1884. 
 
 It was the death-night of the year ; 
 
 The night was frost-begemmed and clear ; 
 
 The Poet in his study sate, 
 And cried, " Upon this magic night 
 A ghttering poem will I write 
 
 To make my name for ever great.'' 
 
 The Poet in his study sate 
 Prepared to woo his Genius late 
 
 And watch the crowding thoughts appear, 
 While, echoing through the frosty air, 
 In clear voice should the chimes declare 
 
 The dying moments of the year.
 
 The Lost Poem. 239 
 
 He watched the crowding thoughts appear, 
 And looked forth on the dying year, 
 
 And saw the moon illume the trees ; 
 The stars were vigilant on high, 
 A low wind from the sea did sigh. 
 
 And bells were borne upon the breeze. 
 
 He saw the moon illume the trees, 
 And heard the murmur of the seas ; 
 
 Already seemed his Genius by ; 
 The nearer silence, distant bells. 
 Clear frost and starry sentinels 
 
 All waked the soul of Poesy. 
 
 Already seemed his Genius by, 
 When Beauty with her pleading eye 
 
 Soft-stealing to the Poet's side, 
 Sat on a footstool at his feet. 
 As richly, confidently sweet 
 
 As though she were his wedded bride.
 
 240 Poems written in DevoitsJiire. 
 
 Soft-stealing to the Poet's side, 
 She wistfully his glances eyed, 
 
 Her face transfigured by the fire, 
 Her clear cheek spirit-touched, her hair 
 Shot-sungold in its flickering glare, 
 
 Her mien instinct with sweet desire. 
 
 Her face, transfigured by the fire. 
 Was raised to deprecate his ire ; 
 
 Her hands upon his knee she clasped, 
 And looked at him as if to say, 
 " Be gracious to me if you may. 
 
 Love's fetters on these hands are hasped." 
 
 Her hands upon his knee she clasped, 
 And in her thrall his soul she grasped ; 
 
 A moment was there struggle keen, 
 Between the shapes that crowded round, 
 Waiting with language to be crowned, 
 
 And her — the crowned by Beauty queen.
 
 The Lost Poem. 241 
 
 A moment was there struggle keen, 
 Then the shapes vanished, for his queen 
 
 Opened her Hps — 'twas but to kiss — 
 The ring upon her fair hand set. 
 As love-knot, keep-sake, amulet 
 
 When she had promised to be his. 
 
 Opened her Hps— 'twas but to kiss — 
 When, taking both her hands in his, 
 
 He rose beside her, with his eyes 
 Deep-fathoming the liquid blue. 
 To sound the sweet soul whence he drew 
 
 Love in mute eloquent replies. 
 
 He rose beside her, with his eyes 
 
 Afire with love and sweet surprise, 
 
 But with the hauntive look, which told 
 
 The seer of shapes beyond the ken 
 
 Of unitiated men. 
 
 Already from his visage rolled, 
 Q
 
 242 Pos77is written in Devonshire. 
 
 But with the hauntive look, which told 
 That he could mysteries unfold, 
 
 Replaced by that ecstatic gaze, 
 Which says that fear nor fire nor death 
 Will move him, while he draws his breath, 
 
 From the rapt worship, which he pays.
 
 A Letter from Gordon. 243 
 
 PATRIOTIC POEMS. 
 
 A LETTER FROM GORDON. 
 
 [Dated Sept. 9th 1884— quoted im the Despatch from 
 Lord Wolseley to Sir E. Baring, dated Nov. 29TH 
 1884.] 
 
 Dated the ninth of September — Khartoum — 
 A letter from Gordon — what had he to say ? 
 
 It reads Hke a presage of comnig doom, 
 
 " While you are all feasting and sleeping away, 
 
 With us it is nothing but watch and fight, 
 
 Both soldiers and servants, by day and night." 
 
 " Yes ! we can hold out four months — and then ? 
 
 ' Why our hearts are weary with this delay : ' 
 How many times have we written for men ? 
 
 How many times have ye — not said nay, 
 But thought not of answer to those who fight 
 For Egypt — aye England — by day and night.
 
 244 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 *■ A handful of English, — and war will cease, 
 
 The Arab return to his tents again, 
 And the fellah from here to the sea have peace ; 
 
 If you send them not now, you must send them 
 then : 
 A handful of English — without delay — 
 O ye who are feasting and sleeping all day." 
 
 Verse 2, line 2, is a literal translation from Gordon's letter. 
 (ijiL -^-M L<^^JLi^ — d ^'/ r^y^C'^' 
 
 Cfc. J^^ cry ^■.-^— P^^ -^ ^^^
 
 P raying for Gordon. 245 
 
 PRAYING FOR GORDON. 
 
 [In the Churches of England, Sunday Feb. 8th, 1885.] 
 
 Praying for Gordon — if in Khartoum, 
 Waiting, we know, in his vaHant way 
 
 At an instant's notice to meet his doom, 
 A man who has walked with his God ahvay. 
 With God for his country, who stood at bay 
 Forsaken in Africa far away. 
 
 Surely God would not forsake his own. 
 Even though praying there had been none ; 
 But He has promised when two or three 
 x\re gathered together, with them to be : 
 
 And our prayers are rising to heaven, we hope. 
 But our thoughts are straying across the sea 
 
 To the handful of English sent out to cope 
 With a barbarous foe in a far off land, 
 Wearied with marching on burning sand, 
 And weak with the wounded of Abou Klea, 
 But strong in the spirit which aye has brought, 
 On many a doubtful and desperate day. 
 The "thin red line," when it stood at bay. 
 To hold the " positions," for which it fought.
 
 246 Poems written in Devonshire 
 
 But hear us, Father, while we pray 
 For those in peril on the land, 
 As thou of late heardst those who be 
 On land, when we were on the sea,* 
 Voyaging past the Red Sea coast. 
 Abreast of the beleaguered host, 
 Hear us and stretch a shielding hand 
 Over thy servant— if in Khartoum, 
 
 Waiting, we know, in his valiant way 
 At an instant's notice to meet his doom, 
 As ready to face his God a^ the fray. 
 
 Written a few months after the Author's return from 
 Australia by the Red Sea route. 
 
 I A >_, , (a/M- 
 
 oL<y^ 
 
 a^~
 
 Gordon is Dead. 247 
 
 GORDON IS DEAD. 
 
 Gordon is dead in Khartoum, 
 Dead ere deliverance came, 
 
 Ready we know for his doom, 
 Yet the disgrace is the same ; 
 
 Those, who his mission decreed, 
 
 Failed him in hour of his need. 
 
 Who is to blame for his death ? 
 
 He whose hand opened the gate? 
 He whose ball robbed him of breath ? 
 
 No ! those w^ho left him to fate ; 
 Until the voice of the land 
 Thundered too loud to withstand.
 
 248 Poeins zvritten in Devonshire. 
 
 Toss in your timorous sleep, 
 Ye, who had left him to die. 
 
 Ye and the women may weep, 
 England awaits your reply. 
 
 " Where is your brother," cries she. 
 
 Answer as Cain did, will ye ? 
 
 Had we no soldiers to send ? 
 
 Had we no ships on the sea ? 
 Had we not wealth without end ? 
 
 Did ye not know what would be ? 
 One thing we had not to spare, 
 Gordons, like this one, to dare. 
 
 Now we have no one to save, 
 But we must fight for prestige: 
 
 Gordon, the bravest of brave. 
 
 Could have been saved from his siege. 
 
 With but a tithe of the men, 
 
 Had they been sent to him then.
 
 Gordon is Dead. 249 
 
 Yes ! we must fight till we win, 
 
 Lest the old pride of our name, 
 Carried from Spain to Pekin, 
 
 Lose the fresh gloss of its fame : 
 And the dark infidel boast, 
 That he has conquered our host. 
 
 " England expects " . . and our men 
 
 All do their duty we know, 
 Heedless of " where " and of " when " — 
 
 Once let them march on the foe ; 
 " England expects others too, 
 States?nen their duty to do." 
 
 I a.<_<_^i^ A «- 1 (k^^ (A(M/
 
 250 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 "ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA!" 
 
 [To THE UNFEDERATED COLONIES OF AUSTRALIA WHO ARE 
 
 SENDING Troops to the Soudan.] 
 
 A SOUND from the shimmering towns 
 
 On AustraHa's strand ; 
 A sound from the sheep-studded downs 
 
 In the heart of the land ; 
 'Tis a sound they have heard not before, 
 'Tis the voice of the Spirit of War. 
 
 To hardship and peril inured 
 
 Is the bush-pioneer. 
 Who thirst at its worst hath endured, 
 
 And who dreads not the spear 
 Of the native who lurks in the pass. 
 Or the fang of the snake in the grass.
 
 ' ' Advance A ustralia. " 2 5 1 
 
 Enamoured of pleasure and ease, 
 
 Is the dweller in town, 
 Of sports in the sun and the breeze, 
 
 Till the darkness comes down. 
 Of dances and dreamy delight 
 In the balmier air of the night. 
 
 But no bushman will stay with his sheep 
 
 On the far away downs, 
 And his pleasure no lounger shall keep 
 
 In the shimmering towns 
 Whom Australia has summoned to go 
 To the war on her Motherland's foe. 
 
 O land of the vine-hidden hill 
 
 And the wide-growing wheat, 
 Where only Peace lingereth still 
 
 In the track of our feet, 
 We rejoice that the Spirit of Pride 
 In caresses of Peace hath not died.
 
 252 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 O land of the gold garnished reef 
 And the sheep-studded plain, 
 
 7'hou dost not forget us in grief 
 Or forsake us in pain : 
 
 O land of the wool and the wine, 
 
 And the corn and the gold, we are thine. 
 
 II. 
 
 An evil more deadly than war 
 
 For the free to deplore, 
 Is loss of the spirit which fills 
 
 Wild morasses and hills 
 With that feeling of home, that made bold 
 The Scot and the Switzer of old. 
 
 The mother of nations is she 
 
 And the friend of the free ; 
 Till free men have fought for one cause, 
 
 Not a legion of laws 
 Can an Athens or England create 
 Though its rulers declare it a state.
 
 Advance Australia^ 253 
 
 III 
 Go forth, O, our children, and prove 
 
 That the peace of the skies 
 Which shine on the land that you love 
 
 Hath not weakened your eyes 
 For the glare of the lightning which plays 
 Where the soldier must gather his bays. 
 
 Go forth from your east and your west, 
 From your north and your south, 
 
 Be the best in the battle your best, 
 Share each peril and drouth 
 
 That when back in Australia again. 
 
 You the comrades of camp may remain. 
 
 Is envy to silence her voice. 
 
 And your empire to come ? 
 It will be when the rivals rejoice 
 
 Over honour brought home, 
 And lament over comrades in doom 
 Who may fall in the breach at Khartoum.
 
 2 54 Poems written in Devojislm-e. 
 
 WAITING FOR WAR. 
 
 APRIL 1885. 
 
 Yes, we are waiting for war, 
 
 Not in old England alone 
 Svvelleth the ominous roar, 
 
 Oft in the centuries known, 
 But from our sons overseas 
 Echoes are borne on the breeze. — - (^i c/^aA-C 
 
 Thought ye the blood of the North 
 
 Beat in our pulses no more. 
 The storm-loving blood which sent forth 
 
 Rollo and William of yore. 
 The blood of the race who were gods, 
 In scorn of what men reckon odds ? 
 
 I
 
 Waiting for War. 255 
 
 II. 
 
 We slept till the Muscovite deemed 
 That the Berserking spirit had died, 
 
 But while we were sleeping we dreamed 
 Of our deeds in the days of our pride, 
 
 And now with a wrench for the rust 
 
 Our sword from its scabbard is thrust. 
 
 We've wealth for the sinews of war, 
 We've hunger that heroes creates, 
 
 We've waited till Patience no more 
 Could palter with foes at the gates. 
 
 And now we are ready to fight, 
 
 With hearts that clear conscience makes light.
 
 256 Poojis IV r it ten in Devonshire. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yes, we are longing to fight. '^^^^ ^^ ij>^ / 
 
 Peace, with her tortuous ways, 
 Robs the upright of his right, 
 
 Lost in diplomacy's maze 
 Much have we been, but we know 
 How to hit out at a foe. 
 
 Soldier and stayer-at-home. 
 Sailor and settler-abroad, 
 
 Yearn on that pathway to roam. 
 Oft by our ancestors trod. 
 
 Which through the battle-field leads 
 
 Either to death or great deeds. 
 
 ^ -f/v^/.c>?:, -^ — -^ U c^
 
 Gordon of Khartoum. 257 
 
 GORDON OF KHARTOUM. 
 
 A HERO he, born out of his due time 
 
 In this peace-grubbing, trade and taxes age, 
 A man more fit to dignify the page 
 Of Sophocles or glitter in the rhyme 
 Of him who drew Horatius — too sublime 
 
 For Birmingham_and Chelsea— fit to wage ^{'^-"-^^ '■ ^'^'- 
 A war to save a people's heritage, '^' ^^^'"-^ / A . f/ *^ 
 
 To lead the Scots and Switzers in their prime 
 Against the great-limbed conqueror of Wales 
 Or Burgundy's Bold Duke. 
 
 To Italy, 
 Where pride not yet nor patriotism fails, 
 
 Thy Mother should have borne thee to outvie 
 The men who built the nation, which we see, 
 Which has been Rome and Rome again may be. 
 
 R
 
 258 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 TO OUR CHILDREN. 
 
 " Advance Australia ! " Canada advance 
 To stand beside you mother 'mid the roar 
 Of battle in the desert. Only war 
 Can forge a nation : Germany and France 
 Had to engage with all their puissance 
 Ere Germany was unified once more ; 
 The conquest of Granada came before' 
 Spain's splendour : but for Salamis perchance 
 Athens had borne no story and no song : 
 Great singers of great actions are the fruit, 
 As witness Chaucer after Poictiers, 
 And Shakspere the Armada : now, ere long, 
 A nation in Australia shall root, 
 
 An Austral ^schylus attune his lay.
 
 Eiig land a nd A I hens. 259 
 
 ENGLAND AND ATHENS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Khartoum has gone : Kassala too must go 
 
 To show the world that England, if not yet 
 
 By statute a republic, can forget 
 Her allies as republics long ago. 
 Veered by each puff of party that might blow. 
 
 Above, below, within, without, — have set 
 
 An infamous example. Great the debt 
 Not for her writers only, that we owe. 
 
 To Athens. She has taught us that a state 
 
 Of warlike men whose greatness sprung from war, 
 
 In commerce and free institutions great. 
 May, by an /Kschincs beguiled, deplore 
 
 Freedom and empire lost alike while he 
 
 Rises upon the ruin of the free. 
 
 ., ^..■^^^ ^A^'h-^^ — ^^^
 
 26o Poems wriite7i in Devonshire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Athens, an old-world queen of liberty 
 
 Enslaved in name of Freedom ! Is not she, 
 A voice from Fate to England : on the sea 
 
 Her navies swept imperial : she could vie 
 
 With the world's fleets united ; could defy 
 The menace of the nations : she was free 
 But lost her freedom when she came to be 
 
 Pitted against a despot-enemy 
 Who met the feeble, vacillating sword 
 
 Of men who fought for self and party first 
 And commonweal and country afterward, 
 
 With his unwavering phalanxes, that burst 
 Upon the long-effete Hellenic world 
 Like thunderbolts from Mount Olympus hurled.
 
 Engla7id and A thcns. 2 6 1 
 
 III, 
 
 Athens and Carthage ! What high-hearted boy, 
 Who reads of antique Greece and Italy 
 On history's page, but breathes a generous sigh, 
 
 When Rome and Sparta triumph, thrills with joy 
 
 When Hector does a doughty deed for Troy, 
 And Hannibal and Conon light the sky, 
 Darkling to night, with fires of victory. 
 
 While Fate their homes advances to destroy ? 
 Athens and Troy and Carthage ! We love all 
 
 For their brief empire-splendour. But we can 
 Scarce find a sigh for Athens' second fall 
 
 Before the youthful Macedonian 
 In ardour fresh his mission to fulfil, 
 While she was impotent for good or ill.
 
 262 Poems wiHtten in DevoiisJiire. 
 
 TO ENGLAND, 
 
 ON THE VERGE OF WAR WITH RUSSIA. 
 
 Imperial England, have thou no alarms ! 
 Not if all Europe look on thee askance, 
 If war be hurled by Russia, hate by France, 
 
 When, at thy first reveillee, spring to arms 
 
 Thy children unseduced by safety's charms 
 In far-off isles, and those who wielded lance 
 Against thee erst, unsummoned, now advance 
 
 To fight beneath thy flag in dusky swarms. 
 Old Europe grimly smiles to see each whelp, 
 From the bright South to frozen Labrador, 
 Couching to leap across the sea to help 
 
 The Lion, when he rolls his battle-roar, 
 And hails the art of Hannibal, in those 
 Who fill their armies from old Indian foes.
 
 Heroitm Filii. 26.3 
 
 o 
 
 HEROUM FILII. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE "SCOTS GREYS." 
 I. 
 
 O LET me tread in these degenerate days 
 
 The battle-fields where our forefathers hewed 
 The fashion of our greatness, — oft imbued 
 With torrents of red blood, I know, their bays, 
 With shrieks of anguish often blent their praise. 
 With tax and tallage, every year renewed, 
 The land too often groaning in the feud 
 Of feudal lords or kings' succession-frays. 
 
 Give us the want, the bloodshed and the tears 
 If we may have the glory ! Poictiers 
 Recalls to me its triumi)h not its cost, 
 And Balaclava not the anxious fears 
 Of child and wife and mother far away, 
 
 But the grey chargers ploughing through a host.
 
 264 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Degenerate days of statesmen not of men ! 
 From Burnabys and Beresfords to clowns 
 Fresh from the plough and gamins from great towns, 
 In heat and peril, weariness and pain, 
 They prove them English of the ancient strain 
 Who on the fields of Picardy won crowns, 
 And smote the Russian on Crimean Downs, 
 And rode with Nelson monarchs on the main. 
 O happy brother-Teutons, you who have 
 The man, the giant of the iron will 
 
 To guard the greatness of your Fatherland, 
 Unmoved by hate of Gaul or wile of Sclav, 
 And with his thunder Party's voice to still 
 When it is raised against the patriot's hand.
 
 Pericles. 265 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PERICLES. 
 
 He gave its title to the golden prime 
 Of Athens, called the Age of Pericles ; 
 He left a name for arts of war and peace 
 Scarce-rivalled in two thousand years of time ; 
 But not for this doth he illumine rhyme 
 Above all heroes of historic Greece ; 
 But that when power might pall or cares might 
 cease, 
 He lived in love as sunny as his clime. 
 Surely he was of all men happiest. 
 
 The greatest of his country and his ago, 
 And privileged to pillow on the breast 
 Of that most famous of Eve's family. 
 Whose name is writ upon Romance's page, 
 Aspasia of ambrosial memory.
 
 2 66 Poems luritten m Devonshire. 
 
 MARGARET OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 There's magic in the name of Margaret, 
 
 The sweetest sound in Scotland, though the two 
 Best-worshipped Margarets she ever knew 
 Were English : one is saint of Scotland yet. 
 The other we pourtray with lashes wet 
 For him her countrymen at Flodden slew, 
 And found, his mail arust with autumn dew, 
 'Mid bishop, earl, and doughty banneret 
 Upon the morrow-morning. Yet for me 
 
 The name wakes not the Scots' kings' English 
 queens 
 Widowed by English arrows, but the glee, 
 
 Blue eyes, and glittering hair and proud sweet 
 miens 
 Of two of Scotland's daughters — born afar 
 From Tweed or Aln — 'neath the southern star.
 
 Platonic Love. 267 
 
 PLATONIC LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 I HAVE not read what Plato writ of love, 
 But love Platonic is it not like this, 
 To feel thyself with all enough of bliss 
 
 If thou canst with the one companion rove, 
 
 No matter where — alone in cool alcove 
 Or in a crowded room — to choose to miss 
 A warm caress from beauty, a rich kiss 
 
 From passion's daughter rather than remove 
 From this one's side, to have no care but hers, 
 
 No joy complete till she has shared it too, 
 To be the fondest of her worshippers. 
 
 But never think or speak of love or do 
 Other than brother fond of brother might, 
 Whom tastes as well as kindred veins unite ?
 
 268 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have a friend — of love we never speak, — 
 Love in the human meaning of the word, — 
 Not that our pulses are not gaily stirred 
 
 Whene'er we meet, not that we do not seek 
 
 Our company from end to end of week, 
 
 And when we part feel like the Eastern bird, 
 Of which old ornithologists averred 
 
 That when its mate was lost it turned its beak 
 Into its breast. Presence is paradise. 
 
 And absence exile — light-of-hearts like we 
 Know not a hell. A pearl beyond a price 
 
 Is it for us to roam beside the sea, 
 Or on the free moors all a summer day. 
 With care and every human face away.
 
 Platonic Love. 269 
 
 III. 
 
 And now, sweet friend ! thou wilt be here again, 
 There never was a maiden whom I loved. 
 Whose coming back to me so strangely moved 
 
 My being as thou movest it. We twain 
 
 Are matched so deftly in our mind's domain : 
 In all the divers places, where we roved, 
 The same sights caught our fancy, and we proved 
 
 Our perfect sympathy, when we were fain 
 Night after night within one room to sit. 
 
 As busily we worked, though scarce we spoke 
 Or raised an eye, but at our note-books writ. 
 Till "Twelve" with its "to-bed" the stillness 
 broke. 
 When two in silence can together spend 
 Delicious evenings, each has won a friend.
 
 270 P 06771$ written in Devonshire. 
 
 WIFE-LOVE. 
 
 I, 
 
 That woman should endure the pain of pains 
 For any man, should spend the weary weeks 
 Weighed down, half crippled, lie with hollowed 
 cheeks, 
 
 And wounded long days more, ere she attains 
 
 The power for most ordinary strains 
 
 Of household life, — that she is willing speaks 
 For her devotion, more than he, who seeks 
 
 In annals of a hundred heroines, gains. 
 
 That one in all the pride and health of youth 
 
 Should court a bed of sickness, chance of death, 
 And weeks of pain, declares the noble truth 
 
 Of woman's love and courage, as the breath 
 Of all the bards who ever sang her praise 
 Could not, declaiming till the end of days.
 
 Wife- Love. 271 
 
 II. 
 
 Consider her returned to health once more, 
 The bright, defiant hoyden of old times, 
 Who would not list to love — no not in rhymes — 
 
 And trampled victims cruelly, who wore 
 
 Her beauty as a burden, since it bore 
 
 Its train of courtship:). See how love sublimes, 
 And suffering softens ! How each comer climbs 
 
 Straight to her heart, with no more cunning lore 
 Than kissing baby cheeks, or calling smiles 
 To baby lips, or dwelling on the growth 
 And promise of the loveliness which wiles 
 
 All eyes towards its mother. Wise in troth 
 Was old Anacreon, when as babe he drew 
 The Love-God who his shelterer overthrew.
 
 272 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 When we recall the myriad accidents 
 
 Which babe-life threaten, marvel is it great 
 That they have ever come to man's estate, 
 Who won great wars or carved out continents ! 
 Napoleon, for all his regiments, 
 Was once a little helpless child, whose fate 
 Lay balanced in his nurse's love and hate : 
 A chill at Cromwell's birth had changed events. 
 As Rupert could not, and his cavaliers, 
 In half-a-dozen battles. When we think 
 How surfeit or starvation, heat or cold. 
 Neglect, unwary diet — not for years 
 
 But hours — will sweep the infant o'er the brink, 
 The marvel is that any man grows old. 
 
 Kfti( 
 
 
 te|. , ^in/^ i/j — >vi.^— i-t^-^/'M^
 
 On a Dead Infant. 2 7 
 
 on 1 
 
 ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 Dead that two brothers should not disagree ! 
 Poor babe ! Thy brief experience of earth 
 Knew little of its beauty and its worth, 
 
 But yet thou didst fulfil a destiny, 
 
 In that thou wouldst not come 'twixt him and me. 
 Ten weeks of wintry weather from thy birth. 
 And then thou soaredst where there is no dearth 
 
 Of sun and southern air and sympathy. 
 
 O may no cloud, though smaller than a hand, 
 
 Arise again between us, lest once more 
 God should from us some sacrifice demand 
 
 Like this, which thus untimely we deplore. 
 We are amenable to Providence 
 Although we understand not in what sense.
 
 2 74 Poems ivritten in DevonsJiire. 
 
 BOB. 
 
 [Written on an Infant's Grave in the Torquay 
 Cemetery.] 
 
 This was the child of hope: about his birtli 
 Fair portents shone, recorded that they might, 
 When he had won his name, be brought to light, 
 
 And men might read the promise of his worth 
 
 In all that heralded his dawn on Earth, 
 And from his cradle fame begin to write. 
 But after a brief sojourn took he flight 
 
 Before he knew so much as grief or mirth. 
 High hopes are buried underneath this stone. 
 
 Where lies a child begotten overseas. 
 Who never breathed in that serener zone 
 
 Where, even in the winter, cooling breeze 
 Is welcome to the joyous folk who fare 
 Free and contented in the sunny air.
 
 Too Late. 275 
 
 TOO LATE, 
 
 Whom has it not befallen at a ball 
 
 That some shy maid, he did not note till late 
 And briefly danced with, should by some ill fate 
 Be she who most attracted him of all : 
 And so in friendships will it oft befall : 
 
 Some one for weeks has been your constant mate, 
 In day-walks and night-talks inseparate, 
 In all you minded, sympathetical, 
 And yet the closing link of sympathy 
 
 To make the two ends of your bond to meet 
 Your vigilance has cheated, till well nigh 
 Your intercourse's season has passed by ; 
 And then you see how passingly more sweet 
 This intercourse had been, if thus complete. 
 
 V-C c(,^ >i^« .' ^ 
 
 c1 -f U^/\.^Ji
 
 276 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 CATHEDRALS. 
 
 I. 
 
 You, our Cathedral who would view aright, 
 Think not you saw it in the hurried look, 
 Which, waiting for a train, perchance you took. 
 Or in one day devoted to the sight. 
 There is a something of the infinite 
 
 In Gothic minsters caught, which will not brook 
 A dilettanti visit ; every nook 
 Is rich with some religion recondite ; 
 
 Pillar and groin and corbel and keystone 
 Are eloquent. The architect may be, 
 Testing each course and column one by one, 
 
 Some glimmer of the mystery may see. 
 Or the grey dean, whose life for many a year 
 As chanter, curate, canon, hath been here.
 
 Cathedrals, 277 
 
 II, 
 
 Choose you to know our minster as they do ? 
 
 Go dwell beneath the shadow of its walls, 
 
 Seek it at matins, and when even falls. 
 And, while the flood of music thrills it through 
 From porch to lady-chapel, fondly view 
 
 The old-world carving on the canons' stalls, 
 
 Where favoured thou mayst sit, or finials 
 Upon some baron's tomb, and note the hue 
 
 Which glass took in the third King Henry's reign, 
 The delicacy of the tracery 
 
 Which held it in the windows, and rich stain 
 And symbolism spent in days gone by 
 
 Upon the rood-screen, and then, wondering, 
 glance, 
 
 Over the nave's vast pillars and expanse '
 
 2/8 Poems written in DevonsJiire. 
 
 III. 
 
 So mayst thou learn, when many a chaunted psahn 
 Hath risen from thy lips, and many a time 
 Knee hast thou bowed beneath the roof sublime, 
 
 To know the stones not only, but the calm 
 
 And mystic atmosphere which yields the charm 
 In places, where pray'r hath not ceased to climb 
 Up heaven's altar-steps, and bells to chime 
 
 Summons of joy or worship or alarm 
 For twenty generations. Only those 
 
 Who spend their lifetime on it know a thing : 
 Who lives outside at best can say he knows 
 
 " Of it " not " it," for all his studying : 
 But "knowing of" not " knowledge" must suffice 
 For men in daily labour's iron vice. 
 
 I
 
 Exeter CathedraL 279 
 
 EXETER CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Not greatest of our minsters is the fane 
 Of Exeter, but dear it is to me 
 As the first fresh one, which I chanced to see 
 (Though I had been to Westminster again 
 
 And huge St Paul's) since 1 recrossed the mam. 
 From the New England in the Southern Sea, 
 Where ancient minsters are not. Royally 
 It rises up, with tracery, rich pane 
 
 And sculptured niches glorious its west, 
 And Norman towers its centre, and its east 
 Inside with antique tomb of knight and priest, 
 Rood-screen and bishop's throne. And by me 
 stands 
 She whom I think of many maids the best, 
 A pilgrim, like myself, from Austral lands.
 
 2 So Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 COCKINGTON LANES, 
 
 NEAR TORQUAY. 
 
 Rare afternoon in an October rare ! 
 
 We passed red cliffs environing blue seas, 
 
 Red lanes with green banks bounded and elm -trees ; 
 The sky was clouded lightly ; soft the air 
 And fresh and soft the breezes ; the rich glare 
 
 Of red and green was almost Cinghalese, 
 
 Recalling for the traveller reveries 
 Of red-tiled roofs and palm-tree groves, so fair 
 
 To unaccustomed eyes ; but soon the green 
 Of elms with linden-yellow, hawthorn-red, 
 
 And marvellous horse-chestnut-orange sheen 
 Was tempered, and once more 'twas mine to tread 
 
 The merry, crackling leaves — a sound scarce known 
 
 In ever-green Australia's milder zone.
 
 A Walk in Sprmg. 281 
 
 A WALK IN SPRING. 
 [From Torquay to Marldon.] 
 
 Spring's many voices — cawing of the rooks, 
 Bleating of lambs, the blackbird's clucking note. 
 
 The echo from the teamster's sturdy throat, 
 The babble of the rain-replenished brooks. 
 
 Spring's cheerful sights — the flowers in their nooks 
 In wood and bank, the fields in their new coat 
 Of fresh-ploughed red, the squirrel perched remote, 
 
 The student lured by sunshine from his books. 
 
 Such hear I, such I see the day I go 
 
 Across the hills to Marldon, snowdrops here 
 
 To light the eye, and on each fresh-ploughed row 
 A parliament of rooks to greet the ear. 
 
 Until the turning road before me flings. 
 
 The grey old Church gay in five hundred springs.
 
 282 Poems written m Devonshire. 
 
 DEVONSHIRE. 
 
 Broad county of deep hedge-rows and blown trees, 
 With wild deer ranging on thine eastern heights, 
 And salmon in thy spates, and rich in bights 
 
 And wooded estuaries and pebbled quays. 
 
 Elbowed against the western storms and seas ! 
 Great mother of Elizabethan Knights, 
 Who fought in frozen seas and famous fights, 
 
 And bearing in thy quaint-named villages 
 The impress of the Norman, as thou bearest 
 The emblem of the Briton on thy moors ! 
 Nor is this all thou boastest but the fairest 
 
 Of mead and orchard, yielding oft-sung stores 
 Of cream and cider — for thy wealth with fame 
 As great as for wild beauty and high name.
 
 Bowood. 283 
 
 BOWOOD. 
 
 [Near "Bideford in Devon."] 
 
 A WHITE farm-house on Daddon hill's bluff crest, 
 In true Devonian-wise environed round 
 With deep-sunk lanes all honey-suckle-crowned, 
 
 Walled in securely from the blusterous west, 
 
 Whose wrath the trees, blown arbour-shape, confessed. 
 Thou, with some ever-echoing homely sound 
 Of cattle byre or barnyard, horse or hound, 
 
 My soothing refuge wer't for thought or rest 
 
 One cloudless August through. At sunset's hour 
 
 A furlong from thy gateway, I could hear 
 The wild wood-pigeon coo, and see the tower 
 Of Abbotsham between the elm-tops peer, 
 And, if the even were not overcast, 
 Rough Lundy scarred with western wave and blast.
 
 284 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oft have I paused a moment at thy gate 
 To watch the sun its seething scarlet steep 
 In sea, and myriad rooks fly home to sleep, 
 
 As I returned from pilgrimages late. 
 
 From where King Hubba met with his red fate 
 By men of Devon, or some ruined keep 
 On Cornish headland threatening the deep. 
 
 Or little haven, now of low estate. 
 
 But whence, in days of great Elizabeth, 
 
 The Grenvilles, Drakes and Raleighs issued forth 
 In the swift gnats of ships, which stung to death 
 
 The Spanish monsters, when they came in wrath 
 To scourge with stake and sword the little realm 
 That dared to doubt their power to overwhelm.
 
 Tor Steps. 285 
 
 TOR STEPS— A BRITISH BRIDGE NEAR 
 EXMOOR. 
 
 Tor Steps, — a relic of the ancient race 
 
 Who ruled the land, a causeway of vast stones 
 Built in the days of men with giants' bones 
 And heroes' might, — thou standest in thy place 
 After Time's storms have conquered to efface 
 
 The Celt's and Saxon's, Dane's and Norman's 
 
 thrones. 
 Who knows if thou hast heard not ringing tones 
 From Arthur, glowing with an Exmoor chace, 
 Or rooting out some robber-prince, who made 
 His fastness in the savage moorland combes, 
 Or maybe with a gentle cavalcade 
 
 Of ladies in rich silks from ancient looms ? 
 The bridge stands : the brown river ripples on : 
 But errant-knight and tourney-queen have gone.
 
 2 86 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 THE HERB-ROBERT. 
 [Written Close to Ilsham Farm, Torquay, in Winter.] 
 
 Herb-Robert, wherefore Robin of the flowers ? 
 Because thou art their Red-breast, red in leaves 
 And blossoms, when the latest of the sheaves 
 Have long been garnered and ere April showers 
 Have tilled the womb of May and she embowers 
 All Nature. Not the glow on summer eves, 
 Just ere the sea the setting sun receives, 
 Can shame the crimson, which in autumn hours 
 Flows through thy fronds, and thy wee pink-tinged 
 bloom, 
 Amid the darkness of November days, 
 Serves with its small light to dispel the gloom — 
 
 Its small light hardly noticed mid the blaze 
 Of huge bright summer-blossoms — as sick room 
 Is cheered by humble folk with kindly ways.
 
 The Beech Tree. 287 
 
 THE BEECH TREE. 
 
 [Written after a drive from Berry Pomeroy 
 TO Torquay, in Autumn.] 
 
 Give me of all our English trees the beeches, 
 
 Upright, smooth stemmed, and shapely in their 
 
 spread 
 Of leafy boughs, in summer rairaented 
 
 In glossy green and, when November preaches 
 
 His warning to the failing year in speeches 
 Of gust and frost, so gloriously red 
 That all the hollows where the leaves lie dead. 
 
 Rival the glow of crimson on tlie peaches 
 
 In hothouse reared. Not for fair stem and leaves 
 We praise thee only ! have we not, when boys, 
 Declared thy nuts superior to the joys 
 Of walnuts fenced securely ? Have not eves 
 Of chilly Christmases mid London fogs 
 Been transformated by thy blazing logs ?
 
 2 88 Poems zuriiten in Devonshire. 
 
 THE SONNET'S SCANTY PLOT. 
 
 Y 
 
 What are t he sonnet's province ? Not conceits 
 On trivial themes from classic fable brought, 
 And tricked in phrases studiously sought 
 
 From Spenser and, his brother bee-hive, Keats, 
 
 But portraits of the spectacle which meets 
 The poet's eye, when such a fight is fought 
 Or such a glimpse of such a glory caught 
 
 Or when some tale of fire his fury heats. 
 
 Sonnets should seize the floating thought or sight 
 
 And fix it like the graphic plate which takes 
 The impress of the image in the light 
 
 And, with long pains developed after, makes 
 The features or the landscape, which it scanned 
 In Nature's breadth, yet truth of detail, stand. 
 
 1_ 
 
 ^^ diy^ ^ ^Mr^y^i^i/? 'Vy^i'Ml ^^^i^ 
 
 ^'P^^o^ 
 
 / 
 
 (?Wu fiiAJU '^^h-i^
 
 The Somiet's Scanty Plot. 289 
 
 II. 
 
 And therefore Wordsworth's sonnets do we love, 
 
 Wholesome and hearty, simple and direct ; 
 
 He strove not after mystical effect, 
 Nor divers hues in patchwork interwove, 
 Which rival not the plumage of the dove. 
 
 So perfect in its prism, but the specked 
 
 And garish clothes which savages select 
 When the trade-schooner runs into a cove 
 
 Of coral isles. He tells us what he felt — / JiSiM-- '^■' 
 A simple man with open sympathy — \ L0. (fX^-^ 
 
 Seeing the morning haze from London melt, 
 Or gating on the glorious tracery 
 
 Of " King's," or sitting by his cottage fire, ^ 
 
 A king himself for satisfied desire. 
 
 4,^
 
 290 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 OXFORD, THE GRAND UNDOER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oxford, the Grand Undoer, thou dost cost 
 
 More than thou yieldest those who tread thy stones, 
 Not unforgetful of the men, whose bones 
 Have lain long ages in their bodies' dust 
 But who were once the glory and the trust 
 Of college, then of country — more than once 
 Of country first, — if then, as at the nonce. 
 The man, who academic honours lost, 
 Was laying the foundations of a name 
 
 More lasting than a roll of scholarships, 
 A fellowship, and medals — or the fame. 
 
 Which halos a great teacher of the hour, 
 To undergo perpetual eclipse 
 
 Upon the rise of some new teaching power.
 
 Oxford, the Grand Undoer. 291 
 
 II. 
 
 Oxford, the Grand Undoer, thou undoest 
 The men, who in their ordinary sphere 
 Might have made many a hundred pounds a year 
 As merchants, lawyers, doctors, whom thou wooest 
 To this of true aesthetic Hves the truest— 
 The quest of knowledge free from any care 
 If golden fruit or not this knowledge bear — 
 These, when to true disciples thou suhduest, 
 Thou takest from their own broad, beaten path 
 
 To wander in the pleasaunces, where they 
 Cull neither first-fruits nor the after-math. 
 
 But only wander with an aimless pleasure, 
 Losing at every hour and turn their way, 
 
 And finding nought of the too-scanty treasure.
 
 292 Poems written in Devo7tskire. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Oxford, the Grand Undoer ! he, on whom 
 Thou layest the enchantment of thy rule, 
 Can never settle to an office-stool 
 But with the feeling of a living tomb, 
 Or give his thoughts and industry in gloom 
 Of London courts to ledger work, or school 
 His mind, attuned to antique cloisters cool 
 In Oxford, to a hot and whirring room, 
 With vast machines and hands-in-hundreds filled. 
 
 He has lived the life of Oxford and can ne'er 
 The fairy castles in his brain unbuild ; 
 
 And, though 'mid looms and ledgers he may sit, 
 His heart and fancy never will be there 
 But to the country of his castles flit.
 
 Oxfo7'd, the Gi'and Unaoer. 293 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oxford, the Grand Undoer — whom indeed 
 Undost thou not? The giants of their kind, 
 The men who have such mastery of mind 
 That the world stops to Hsten or to read 
 Their pregnant words, of pregnant work the seed. 
 In ordinary callings of mankind 
 Such men would waste their powers, would not find 
 The where-withal of food their minds to feed. 
 These Oxford calls from following their sheep 
 To intellectual thrones. By her not found 
 Their mighty intellects would eat, drink, sleep, 
 
 And die within their sheep-folds, and the world 
 Would know not of the royal heads uncrowned 
 The oriflamraes of genius unfurled.
 
 294 Poems written in Devonshire. 
 
 Oxford is not a school for little men, 
 
 But training ground, where men of giant mould / 
 
 May the full powers of their frames unfold, 
 At best a lottery where few may gain 
 Aught but the paltriest prizes, or attain 
 
 To heights where they may strike a bee-line bold 
 Unto the goal, which in their minds they hold. 
 The rest must linger in the thick-scrubbed plain 
 Where, if they leave the common beaten track, 
 They lose themselves — too lucky if they can 
 Win by supremest efforts their way back. 
 
 Oxford is but a school for drudge and king. 
 For him no king, and yet no common man. 
 She hath but little in her hand to bring.
 
 Dedication of '' A SiLinmer Christmas!' 295 
 
 ADDENDA. 
 
 THE DEDICATION OF "A SUMMER 
 CHRISTMAS." 
 
 [To Mrs George Cawston.] 
 
 To You, with whom I wandered oft, 
 
 Ere overseas swift ship I took, 
 Where Ingleborough looms aloft 
 
 Or in a Surrey orchard-nook, 
 
 To You I dedicate this book. 
 For Wattle, though I sang not Oak, 
 
 And Austral creek not English brook, 
 Yet English hearts love English folk.
 
 296 Addenda, 
 
 To You beneath whose roof so oft, 
 
 Ere overseas swift ship I took, 
 Upon the ball-room skirmish soft 
 
 'Twixt brave and fair 'twas mine to look, 
 
 To You I dedicate this book. 
 Though later southern beauty woke 
 
 Chords which my deepest heartstrings shook, 
 Yet English hearts love English folk. 
 
 To You the friend to whom so oft, 
 Ere overseas swift ship I took, 
 
 Heroes I sang on hills aloft 
 
 And wooers in a woodland nook. 
 To You I dedicate this book. 
 
 Though myths of stranger lands I spoke 
 And for strange lands my own forsook. 
 
 Yet English hearts love English folk.
 
 Dedication of '' A Simimer ChiHstinas!'' 297 
 
 Envoy. 
 To You I dedicate this book, 
 
 And Wattle though I sang not Oak 
 And Austral creek not EngHsh brook, 
 
 Yet English hearts love English folk.
 
 298 Addenda. 
 
 THE STARRY SISTERS. 
 
 Glorious is that which dazzles from afar, 
 And mystery enthralls. Astronomy, 
 Can she with her poetic sister vie, 
 Who read by patient watching of a star 
 Not size and distance only but the war 
 Of fortunes good and evil ? Do we buy, 
 With knowledge which will brook no augury, 
 A recompense for thirst men had of yore 
 In drinking from their futures ? Jupiter 
 
 Retains his borrowed brightness, Mars his hue 
 Of soldier-red, but vanished from our view 
 The Horoscope and grey astrologer. 
 
 Though from the discrowned science great men 
 drew 
 High inspiration in the days that were.
 
 Forsters " JMidas!' 299 
 
 FORSTER'S " MIDAS." 
 
 Finished, in the rough only, on the day that the 
 Author the Hon. Wm. Forster, sometime Premier 
 OF New South Wales, died. 
 
 Finished the task, but then the writer's term 
 Was finished with it. Feebly had his hand 
 Writ the last words when to the shadowy land 
 He passed across, not with old age infirm 
 But having long within him borne the germ 
 Of sudden death. For else he would have 
 
 scanned 
 Each line and word most critically, banned 
 Each loose idea, awkward phrase, ill form. 
 But, Reader, hold it sacred what he writ. 
 
 For hardly dry the writing when he died, 
 And therefore not he only uttered it 
 
 But death within him. Words thus sanctified 
 'Twere sacrilege to alter or omit ; 
 
 As death hath ordered, so it should al)ide.
 
 300 Addenda. 
 
 TO SIR SAMUEL WILSON, 
 
 OF HUGHENDEN MANOR, BUCKS, AND ERCILDOUNE, 
 AUSTRALIA. 
 
 Often by hostile critics carped at erst 
 
 You have lived down their censure. Now you stand 
 Known through the length and breadth of this 
 great land 
 
 As one who toils for England's greatness first 
 
 Nor place and profit afterward, who durst, 
 
 When patriot hopes were low and hearts were fanned 
 By slander's breath to fury, join the band, 
 
 Of constant men that braved the wild outburst 
 Of wrath and hate by fickle millions hurled. 
 
 Yours is the steady purpose which has won 
 History's giants their glory in the world : 
 
 You proved its fibre 'neath a fiercer sun, 
 Where Melbourne's hall * attests how well your will 
 Tamed Austral wilds with wealth your hands to fill. 
 
 * The Wilson Hall in the Melbourne University, the gift of 
 Sir Samuel, is the finest building in Melbourne.
 
 To y . Henniker Heato7i. 301 
 
 TO J. HENNIKER HEATON, Esq. 
 
 An enterprising and successful colonist of New South 
 Wales, and a munificent contributor to the 
 Patriotic Fund, with which she is supporting her 
 contingent to the seat of war. 
 
 SiMiLiNG, stout England sees her sons go forth 
 To seek their fortunes o'er the southern main : 
 It proves them worthy of the ancient strain 
 
 Which salhed out to conquer from the North. 
 
 And loves she, when they've well displayed their worth, 
 To hold them to her bosom once again, 
 Where, if their hearts beat high, they would remain 
 
 Rather than in the softest air of earth. 
 
 And Kent is proud of him who hewed his way 
 
 In the new land so swiftly, who doth yet, 
 Though his heart bids him in the old land stay, 
 
 The home of his adoption not forget. 
 But strains his purse to make her burden light 
 While she sends sons in England's ranks to fight.
 
 302 Addenda. 
 
 PRIMROSE DAY. 
 
 'TwAS only the pale little Primrose, 
 The pride of a glade in the wood ; 
 
 Men gathered the blossom in April 
 In the sweet of its primrosehood ; 
 
 'Twas pale and its fragrance was faint, 
 
 But 'twas free as the snowfall from taint. 
 
 'Twas only the pale little Primrose, 
 
 Not the pride of the hothouse, they chose. 
 
 When under the blossoms of April 
 The patriot passed to repose ; 
 
 'Twas humble, but all loved it well. 
 
 And took it their feelings to tell.
 
 Primrose Day. 303 
 
 And England no\7 treasures the Primrose, 
 As she treasures not even her Rose ; 
 
 'Tis the emblem of National Honour, 
 Of Peace, without cringing to foes ; 
 
 Thus even the wild flowers of sprim 
 
 Their praise to the patriot bring. 
 
 ig 
 
 
 / ' 1 ••
 
 304 Addenda. 
 
 WAR. 
 
 What meaneth the hum of the dockyards, the knightly 
 
 old music of steel ? 
 What meaneth the hum of the city, the tramp of the 
 
 well-timed heel? 
 What meaneth the banner of England from the stern 
 
 of the mail-ship swung ? 
 What meaneth the note of defiance with the voice of 
 
 a people flung ? 
 
 War. 
 
 We hide not the sorrows of warfare, the widow, the 
 
 want, and the woe ; 
 We hide not the perils of warfare, the might of a 
 
 resolute foe ; 
 But our eyes are beginning to glitter as our fathers' 
 
 flashed ages ago, 
 When our Edwards went forth to their battles with 
 
 the men of the bill and the bow.
 
 ©ptiiions of tbe press 
 
 OF A SUMMER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 The British Quarterly Review, January isi, 18S5, said:— 
 Mr Sladen tells his storj' in a vigorous Hudibrastic verse, and he relieves 
 It by stories from the lips of his friend. He does not claim that the work is a 
 poem, but only a novel in verse : but certainly such pieces as " Odysseus in 
 .^cheria, ban Sebastian," which is dramatic in the most exacting sense 
 ol the word-and "Sappho," which is truly lyrical, may lay claim to 
 being poems in themselves, and, as interludes, may lay claim to communi- 
 cate something of poetic character and charm to the whole. For ourselves, 
 we have read the latter piece with real enjoyment and appreciation of the 
 music and delicate fancy which mark it. Many other portions of the 
 volume might well claim more exhaustive notice, such as we cannot now 
 give it. IJut we commend the volume to all who care for Chaucer-like 
 presentment of character and situation, for humour and sly satire, for 
 imagination and real power of portraiture." 
 
 And the Morning Post, December -22)td, 18S4. 
 _ Mr Sladen has written a great deal of verse, but his " Summer Christmas" 
 IS by far the best thing he has done yet. The scene is laid at a sheep 
 station in Australia, and the background is sketched in with much truth and 
 vigour, the small animals and birds being introduced with the loving 
 fidelity of a Prae-Raphaelite 
 
 AH the characters are well drawn and distinct, from John Cobham the 
 Man of Kent, down to Lachlan Smith; and the heroine Lil is a charming 
 type of the Australian girl 
 
 The shorter poems are far above the average, and the Homeric tales 
 especially are full of interest. There are few faulty rhymes, and most of 
 the verse is very sweet, particularly in "Sappho." 
 
 From the Graphic, February zist, 1885. 
 We have derived so much pleasure from " A Summer Christmas " by 
 Douglas 15. W. Sladen (GrifTith, Farran & Co.), that it seems almost 
 ungracious to take any exception, and indeed there is little calling for other 
 than praise. Tl.e idea is a good one : a party of friends and relations 
 assembled to keep Christmas at the Antipodes, determine to emulate the 
 heroes and heroines of the "Decameron," but the scheme resolves itself 
 into one of their number, the Professor, being appointed story-teller in 
 ordinary, whilst the others choose his subjects. In this manner are intro- 
 duced a series of romantic poems in various measures, though the heroic 
 preponderates, all of them good, and some rising to a high order of merit 
 Mr Sladen seems to be in his element in dealing with classical subjects— we 
 like " Helen of Sparta" and "Odysseus" best of anything in the book- 
 but at the same time he can do good work in other directions, as witness 
 the story of Saida and the legend of Dunmail's Raise. In the setting of the 
 poems the love episode of Lil and the Professor is graceful and sympathetic 
 though their courtship was something of the shortest. Altogether the 
 volume IS a very pleasant one. 
 
 U
 
 Society, November i2>ui, 1884, says : — 
 
 As the rhyme is above the average, and the story interesting, per se the 
 final result is most pleasing. The scene is laid in Australia, and the 
 descriptive writing is in manj: cases excellent; indeed the author is very 
 modest in dubbing his work simply rhyme ; in many cases it rises to the 
 height of true Poetry, and some of the stories, interspersed after the manner 
 of "The Tales of the Wayside," are extremely graceful. 
 
 The Dundee Advertiser, December iitk, 1884. 
 
 The work is pleasantly written, and here and there we come upon some 
 rather deft touches of character-painting. In the narrative itself all is 
 pleasant, sincere, and natural, and therefore enjoyable ;_ while the poetic 
 stories introduced after the manner of Boccaccio are pleasing. 
 
 And the Edinburgh Courant, December \^th, 18S4. 
 Mr Sladen's Australian Lyrics made him sure of a friendly hearing for 
 any new work he might offer, and his " Summer Christmas," which also 
 deals with Australian life, is worthy of the same hand. The story he tells 
 required very little rhyme to set it off. 
 
 And the Oxford University Herald, Januarj/ ^ist, 1885. 
 
 The Homeric Episodes, of which there are three, especially please us : 
 they are full of the very spirit of the Greek Poet, and of what MrLang, 
 in one of his Sonnets, calls the " Surge and thunder of the Odyssey." 
 
 All ungracious fault finding aside, we rise from our perusal of " A Summer 
 Christmas" with feelings of the sincerest pleasure, and with a hearty wish 
 to see some more of Mr Sladen's work in the same almost unworked and 
 most interesting field. 
 
 And the Daily Free Press, March i^th, 1885. 
 The book is certainly one of high promise. Young Australia may well 
 be proud of her rising bard, and Old England will welcome heartily the 
 work of her wandering son. 
 
 St Stephen's Review, January stsi, 1885 says: — 
 His great merit is that he has a story to tell and knows how to tell it. 
 
 And the Vigaro, April iZth, 1885. 
 We can unhesitatingly thank him for his " novel in rhyme." 
 
 And the Academy, March 21st, 1885. 
 The pictures they afford of life on an Australian sheep-run are fresh and 
 wholesome. The Author has some acute perception of character. Mr 
 Sladen is, as we say, a fecund writer : but while he can give us fresh pictures 
 of unfamiliar life, we shall not tire of his many books. 
 
 And the Glasgow Herald. 
 As a story, " A Summer Christmas " is interesting and enjoyable. 
 
 And the Queen, February nth, 1885. 
 Will be found entertaining. 
 
 ^l«(///ie Anglo-New-Zealander, /a««<ir>' 16th, 1883. 
 The book well pays perusal, and will no doubt be eagerly received, not 
 only by Australians.
 
 OF A POETRY OF EXILES. 
 
 The European Mail, February ■z'/tk, 1885, says: — 
 
 The address to Australia is a really fine poem, and in many of the pieces 
 which fill the volume are to be found force and pathos, music and thought, 
 form and colour, to a degree that certainly elevates Mr Sladen infinitely 
 above the giddy heads of those "minor minstrels," whom harsh and 
 unfeeling critics like to damn effectually with the extinguishing irony of 
 very " faint praise." Far otherwise is it, however, with Mr Sladen, whose 
 present volume is thickly strewn with poetic beauties 
 
 Mr Sladen has already won well-meritei fame with his "Australian Lyrics," 
 and this very timely volume will undoubtedly add to his reputation. 
 
 And the Westminster Review, October 1884. 
 
 He has an eye for the picturesque, and reproduces the local colouring 
 with some skill and success. His tone is manly and sensible, but his 
 subjects are too numerous and varied, and many of them do not lend them- 
 selves to poetic treatment at all. The descriptive sonnets give a vivid picture 
 of Australian scenery. 
 
 The Academy, of October zith, 1884. 
 
 Recent I'erse. 
 
 The poems in this little volume are distinctly ahead of anything that 
 the author has hitherto published. With as much freshness of subject and 
 as much ardour of feeling as characterised previous productions, they have 
 more variety of theme, and more of the kind of descriptive writing which 
 we want. What Mr Sladen, as an Australian colonist, can do better than 
 another is to give to Enslishmen at home the impressions of an Englishman 
 abroad, concerning a new country and strange habits of life. This can 
 hardly be done through the medium of Norwegian legends or by trans- 
 lations from Virgil. When the tailor poet in Kingsley's well-known story 
 begins to exercise his gift of poetry, a practical-minded friend tells him that, 
 if he must write, he will be wise to write about something that he knows. 
 Some of our young poets would be seriously hampered by such advice, and 
 totally silenced by such a necessity as it implies; but ^Ir Sladen has the 
 advantage of knowing something. His descriptions of Australian scenery 
 are often vivid, and we trust they are no less faithful than pictorial. 
 
 The TEDiiRAL Ai;.stralian, May ^xst, 1884, satii: — 
 
 Many of the short pieces are very complete, and indicate what Mr 
 Sladen is capable of achieving. We are greatly pleased with such little 
 poems as " The Plaint of the Prodigal Son," " Winter," and " The Poet's 
 Message." 
 
 And The South Australian Chronicle. 
 
 It is thoroughly racy of the soil, and evidences that Mr Sladen has not 
 lived amid the manif ild beauties of this new land of ours without deriving 
 novel inspirations which lift above the level of the mere imitator. His 
 poetry does not smell of the lamp ; it is fresh, bright and spontaneous, 
 qualities that display the poet's actual communings with nature in her 
 various moods, and his deep insight into her inner meaning.
 
 4 
 
 OF AUSTRALIAN LYRICS. 
 
 The Leader, March sth, 1883, said:— 
 A charming simplicity both of expression and of idea, is their prominent 
 characteristic, as might be expected of one who can say of Longfellow— 
 
 " Was not his simple song 
 Our sample of all song?" 
 
 The themes to which he most frequently recurs are those which enable him 
 to sing of home and family affections, of fair women and love's young 
 dream, and to indulge in regrets for having left Old England even for ' the 
 blue of Austral skies." , ,• ,jv j 1. 
 
 The divided feeling with which Mr Sladen regards his old home and the 
 new is fairly exhibued in "The Squire's Brother," the longest m the col- 
 lection, and, in our opinion, the best of the lot. In the first part the Squire s 
 Brother, who is a younger son, and who has been sent out to Queensland to 
 push his fortune as a squatter, soliloquises as he sits on a three-rail fence— 
 
 " Nell wouldn't know me, I suppose, were she to see me now 
 Thus lolling in a linen blouse and bearded to the brow ; 
 1 didn't wear a flannel shirt when 1 was courting her. 
 Or buck-skin pants engrained with dirt and shiny as a spur. 
 
 So here I am — a pioneer, working with my own hands 
 Harder than any labourer upon my brother's lands. 
 Far from the haunts of gentlemen in this outlandish place ; 
 I wonder if I e'er again shall see a woman's face. 
 
 I couldn't stand it, but for this, that when I first came out, 
 I used to see the carriages in which men drove about, 
 Who tended sheep themselves of old "neath Caledonia's rocks. 
 And now were lords of wealth untold, and half a hundred flocks. 
 
 I laid this unction to my heart, that, if a Scottish hind 
 
 Could play so manfully his part, I should not be behind; 
 
 And so I slave and stay and save, and squander nought but youth ; 
 
 Nell sometimes writes and calls me brave, and knows but half the truth." 
 
 Part second takes us to the old hall, where we see the returned squatter 
 gazing at the family portraits on the walls — 
 
 " The Photo in the frame is Nell— why I gave Dick that frame. 
 And doesn't the old pet look well ! I swear she's just the same 
 As when I left her years ago to cross the Southern foam, _ 
 I wonder if they've let her know that I'm expected home." 
 
 Part third introduces us to Nellie herself, standing "before a faded carte," 
 and thus soliloquising in her turn after having seen her old lover— 
 
 " But Charlie's very different, he's seen the real world, 
 And where no white man ever went his lonely flag unfurled ; 
 He went to slave and stay and save and squander nothing but youth. 
 And when I said that he was brave I knew but half the truth.
 
 For there in intermittent strife, with hostile natives waged 
 He spent the best years of his life in humdrum toil engaged, 
 Or galloping the live long day under a Queensland sun 
 After some bullocks gone astray or stolen off the run. 
 
 He's handsomer, I think, to-day, although he is so brown, 
 And though his hair is tinged with grey and thin upon the crown. 
 Than in the days when he was known at "White's " as Cupid Forte, 
 And in good looks could hold his own with any man at court, 
 
 Well, he has come and asked again that which he came to ask 
 The night before he crossed the main upon his uphill task. 
 I answer"d as I answer'd then but with a lighter heart. 
 Who knew if we should meet again the day we had to part ! " 
 
 . _ And then in the fourth and concluding part we have one of those dainty 
 pictures which Mr Sladen paints so deftly with a fev/ touches of his pen — a 
 picture of Charlie and Nellie in the first flush of married life — 
 
 " 'Neath a verandah in Toorak I sit this summer morn. 
 
 While from the garden at the back, upon the breezes borne, 
 There floats a subtle, faint perfume of oleander bow'rs 
 And broad magnolias in bloom, and opening orange flow'rs, 
 
 A lady 'mid the flowers I see, moving with footsteps light, 
 .\nd when she stoops she shows to me a slipper slim and bright. 
 An ankle stocking'd in bhick silk and rounded as a palm. 
 Her dress is of the hue of milk and making of madame. 
 
 I wonder is that garden hat intended to conceal, 
 All but that heavy auburn plait, or merely to reveal 
 Enough to make one long to catch a glimpse of what is there 
 To see if eye and feature match the glory of the hair. 
 
 From the Federal Australian, March i<)th, 1885. 
 
 He has it in him to become an Australian Longfellow ; but in order to 
 attain this pilch of eminence, he must become as painstaking and artistic a 
 worker as was the author of the " Voices of the Night. " 
 
 From the Mklbourne Review, Afril 1883. 
 
 However in spite of the many, the very many blemishes, which mar the 
 book, there is here and there something to praise. The ode to Queen 
 Victoria is distin'-tly good, and pleases the student of Horace by an agree- 
 able echo of that wonderful master. 
 
 From the Graphic, July aoth, 18S3. 
 
 .'^Irue note of song is sounded from the Antipodes in " Australian Lyrics." 
 The pieces have all, it seems, appeared in the columns of the Colonial press, 
 and we can only say that any editor was lucky who could secure such a 
 contributor of verse. The best thing in the volume is undoubtedly "The 
 Squire's Brother," a talc of true love told in ringing measure, but there is 
 much more that will delight the lover of genuine poetry. " Mrs Watson " 
 is an excellent tribute to the memory of a brave, good woman, and 
 " Solomon's Prayer " is terse and effective. Altogether Mr SInden's muse 
 is one worthy of being cultivated.
 
 OF "FRITHJOF AND INGEBJORG, AND 
 OTHER POEMS." 
 
 The Argus, luritingin the fall of \Z%i, says: — 
 
 A further in=;talment of Mr Sladen's metrical version of a saga of 
 " Frithjof and Ingebjorg" confirms the favourable opinion we expressed of 
 the first part. It is so good both in form and substance as to justify the 
 expectation that the writer will hereafter make his mark in the poetical 
 literature of Australia. 
 
 Afiil the Age and Leader, October 1882. 
 
 The legend (" Frithjof and Ingebjorg") is treated with artistic feeling, and 
 the verse flows smoothly and sweetly throughout. One might even say 
 that it proves its author to be a worthy scholar of the master who gave us 
 the "Tales of a Wayside Inn," and express a hope that he may never fall 
 below this achievement in future. 
 
 And the Federal Australian, October i^ih, 1882. 
 
 We have read the volume with pleasure, and gladly bring it under the 
 notice of our readers, not only because it is the work of a colonist, but also 
 because it contains much that is really good, and holds out the promise of 
 some better work in the future. In his " epilogue " the author writes thus 
 modestly : — 
 
 " Australia sends this book of song 
 
 To England, not so much in hope 
 That it will take its place among 
 
 The brotherhood of wider scope, 
 But rather that it will be read 
 
 By those who take this volume up 
 Remembering where it was bred. 
 
 We cannot, in our youth, compare 
 With the full-grown and perfected 
 
 Poesy reared in English air." 
 
 And then, further on : — 
 
 " Where this small sheaf of rhyme did grow, 
 We have not yet lived fifty years ; 
 But as the swift hours onward flow, 
 
 We too shall breed poetic peers 
 For Arnold and for Tennyson. " 
 
 Such are Mr Sladen's high hopes, and we doubt not their realization in 
 
 the not far distant future. 
 
 And the S. A. Register, a«rf Adelaide Observer, October 1882. 
 
 Of these, " Frithjof and Ingebjorg," a Norwegian legend, written in an 
 attempt at the old rugged style of the saga, is perhaps the best. It is too 
 long to quote, but not too lengthy to read. There are some original ideas 
 in if, and the language in which it is clothed is ijoetical. The " Squire's 
 Brother" is also a piece in which the author has shown originality of 
 thought, as well as skill in working out.
 
 Fj-oin the yuEENSLANDER, December i-^rd, 1882. 
 
 The title of Mr Douglas B. W. Sladen's book is, to our Southern ears, the 
 least musical portion of it ; but before the poem " Frithjof and Ingebjorg " 
 has been fully perused, the reader will probably have forgotten the title and 
 become absorbed in the romantic story cleverly woven into verse. 
 
 In " Waterloo" there is a facility of rhythm which we miss in almost 
 every other poem. It is written in a fine inspiriting strain, which so lifts the 
 reader up, until, to use Shelley's words — 
 
 "The dead air seems alive 
 With the clash of clanging wheels. 
 And the tramp of horses' heels." 
 
 The lines are pretty well known to those who take an interest in the new 
 literature of the colonies, and have passed from journal to journal in our 
 small literary world with almost the same universal publication as did 
 '' Hands all Round," but with far better appreciation. There is a joyous 
 rin^ in the lines — 
 
 " On, on, 
 
 Life Guard and Dragoon, 
 An English charge and a red right hand 
 Will bring fair years to your fair old land : 
 With riven corslet and shivered lance 
 Is reft and shivered the pride of France."' 
 
 And, again, there is a charming expression in the concluding verse — 
 
 '"Ah! me. 
 Life is sad,' said she, 
 ' When the sun and sheen of it are gone,' 
 And ' One loving heart is very lone ; ' 
 And ' Oh ! if I might lie by you 
 In your soldier grave at Waterloo." 
 
 The Scotsman {Edinburgh), November jpth, 1882, saiJ: — 
 
 Mr Sladen announces himself on his title-page as "an Australian colo- 
 nist," and many of his poems are on themes connected with his voluntary 
 exile, its pleasures and its penalties, loving recollections of the old countrj*, 
 hope and pride in the new one. Then he has pleasant lyrics and ballads, 
 songs of the affections, and fragments on subjects borrowed from classic 
 story. All alike are characterised by a satisfying mastery of form and 
 metre, a clearness and directness of style in wholesome contrast to the 
 morbid mysticism which pervades so much the poetry of the day, breadth 
 and elevation of thought, and a genuine appreciation of the true and the 
 beautiful. There is nothing in the volume that the reader could readily 
 spare; there is much that will be read again and again with hearty enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 And the Graphic, November 1882. 
 
 There is some good verse in " Frithjof and Ingebjorg, and other Poems," 
 The author, now resident in Australia, has something of the true poetic 
 feeling ; it seems a pity that he has not more fully developed the vein of 
 innate humour manifested in "My Aunt." "The Squire's Brother" i.s 
 good, with a natural pathos; " The last of the Britons " also has merit.
 
 8 
 
 Ami the Glasgow Hekalv, /Jece/uOe/- 2iid, 1882. 
 
 In the epilogue to this little collection of poems the author pleads thus 
 or a kindly hearing : — 
 
 " You must not judge this book of rhyme 
 
 By standard of the full-grown muse 
 Of our good Queen Victoria's time, 
 
 But first in dusty tomes peruse 
 The rude verse of King Edward's reign, 
 
 When English first came into use." 
 
 The pleading is so graceful that we are glad Mr Sladen has added it ; but 
 there is so much beauty both of thought and language inhis poems that 
 they require no advocacy. The chief poem, which gives its name to the 
 collection, is founded upon an old Norse Saga, some passages of which have 
 been translated by Longfellow. But Mr Sladen is no translator. He has 
 taken the story, and, putting it into flowing and musical verse, has shown 
 us lovely pictures of crag and forest, blossom and bush. These are so 
 closely entwined, one with the other, that it is not possible to separate them 
 for quotation. Still less can we pick out any of those passages which tell in 
 a very noble way of the struggles of the two lovers against almost over- 
 whelming temptation ; or of the unselfish love of the aged king 
 for his fair young bride. Even in the rough hexameters of the American 
 poet the story is full of pathos and dignity: but when wedded to Mr 
 Sladen's tender and musical words, it must charm all who read it. Besides 
 " Frithjof," there are several other long poems, which contain many 
 beautiful passages, and there are a number of shorter pieces. Of these, 
 "Waterloo" and "Wiltshire" are pathetic and suggestive, but they are 
 too long for quotation. We prefer to give a few verses of " The Squire's 
 Brother." The elder brother is " squire," the younger goes to Australia, 
 where he works 
 
 " Harder than any labourer upon my brother's lands," 
 
 and wonders that "Nell" would think of him, did she see him, once the 
 " Cupid " forte of " White's," 
 
 " Lolling in a linen blouse, and bearded to the brow." 
 
 He then goes on— 
 " Do you suppose that old Sir Hugh, who won your lands in mail. 
 Showed half the valour that I do in sitting on this rail? 
 He tilted in his lordly way, and stoutly, I confess. 
 But I stand sentry all the day against the wilderness. 
 There isn't much poetical about an old tweed suit. 
 And nothing chivalrous at all about a cowhide boot : 
 Yet oft beneath a bushman's breast there lurks a knightly soul, 
 And bushmen's feet have often pressed towai'ds a gallant goal. 
 And so I slave and stay and save, and squander nought but youth ; 
 And if Nell said that I was brave, she only told the truth." 
 
 From the Westminster Review, January 1883. 
 
 We read with pleasure the tale of " Frithjof and Ingebjorg," and can 
 recommend it to our readers. A good tale well told justifies publication.
 
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 American Sermons and Theological Books. 19 
 
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 THEOLOGICAL BOOKS. 
 
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 Sermons upon the Ministry, Worship, and Doctrine 
 
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 Handbook of Church Terms. 
 
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 Festivals and Fasts, a Companion for the Festivals and 
 
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 20 American Sermons and Theological Books. 
 
 American Sermons and Theological Books — continued. 
 
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 Ecclesiastical Dictionary, containing Definitions of 
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 Manual Commentary on the General Canon Law 
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 Neio Educational Books. 
 
 21 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WORKS, 
 
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 Advantages of the Syste.m. 
 
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 IE 
 
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 It gradually advances from the Simple Stroke to a superior 
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 guarantee merit. Compiledby Wilhei.min'A Rooi'ER. Cloth 
 boards, price gd.
 
 Miscellaneous Books. 27" 
 
 ARITHMETIC, ALGEBRA, & GEOMETRY. 
 
 Darnell, G. Arithmetic made Intelligible tO' 
 
 Children. Being a Series of Gradually Advancing Exer- 
 cises, intended to employ the Reason rather than the Memory 
 of the Pupil ; with ample Explanations of every Difficulty, irv 
 Language adapted to the comprehension of very young Students. 
 Cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 *,* This work maybe had in Three Parts:— Part I., price 6J. 
 Part II., price gd. Part III., price 6c/. 
 
 A KEY to Parts II. & III., price js. (Part I. does not require a 
 Key.) 
 
 Cayzer, T. S. One Thousand Arithmetical 
 
 Tests, or the Examiner's Assistant. Specially adapted, 
 by a novel arrangement of the subject, for Examination 
 Purposes, but also suited for general use in Schools. With a 
 complete set of Examples and Models of Work. Cloth, is. 6d. 
 All the operations of Arithmetic are presented under Forty Heads, 
 
 and on opening at any one of the Examination Papers, a complete 
 
 set of examples appears, carefully graduated. 
 
 Key with Solutions of all the Examples in 
 
 the One Thousand Arithmetical Tests. Price 4J-. Gd. cloth. 
 The Answers only, price is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 One Thousand Algebraical Tests ; on the same 
 
 plan. 8vo. Cloth 2.c 6d. 
 Answers to the Algekraical Tests, 2s. Cd. cloth. 
 
 An Aid to Arithmetic. ByE. Diver, M.D. Fcap. 
 
 8vo., cloth, price 6d. 
 
 The Essentials of Geometry, Plane and Solid, 
 
 as taught in Germany and France. For Students preparing for 
 Examination, Cadets in Naval and Military Schools, Techiiical 
 Classes, &c. By J. R. IMorell, formerly one of Her Majesty's 
 Inspectors of Schools. With numerous Diagrams. Cloth, 2s. 
 
 Test Exercises in Arithmetic and in Mental 
 
 Arithmetic. A Series of Seven Packets of Duplex Cards for 
 the Seven Standards, founded on the lalesi requirements of 
 the .AIiiiKlella Code, and in accordance with the revised in- 
 •structions issued to H.M. Inspectors of Schools. Price One 
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 28 French and German Works. 
 
 FRENCH & GERMAN WORKS. 
 
 New Method of French Conversation. 
 
 By Professor C. M. Marchanix A simple, clear, and most 
 rapid system of acquiring the language in two months, by 
 sentences printed as they are spoken, and explained by remarks 
 and rules. Fourth edition, crown 8vo., cloth elegant, price 3^. 6a'. 
 
 L'Abecedaire of French Pronunciation, a 
 
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 Paris), Professor of Languages. Crown Svo. Cloth, 2s. 
 
 Le Babillard : an Amusing Introduction to the 
 French Language. By a French Lady. Ninth Edition. i6 
 Plates. Cloth, zs. 
 
 Les Jeunes Narrateurs, ou Petits Contes 
 
 Moraux. With a Key to the Difficult Words and Phrases. 
 Third Edition. iSmo. Cloth, 2s. 
 
 The Pictorial French Grammar. For the Use 
 
 of Children. Forming a most pleasant and easy introduction 
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 Bellenger's French Word and Phrase Book ; 
 
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 Der Schwatzer ; or, The Prattler. An Amusing 
 Introduction to the German Language. Sixteen Illustrations. 
 Cloth, 2J. 
 
 NEW BOOK ON SCIENCE TEACHING. 
 
 Adopted by the London School Board. 
 
 Preparation for Science Teaching : a Manual of 
 
 Suggestions to Teachers. By John Spanton, Translator of 
 Chevreul's Book on " Colour," <S:c. Small crown 8vo., price 
 \s. 6d.
 
 N'eedlework Manuals. 29 
 
 NEEDLEWORK MANUALS AND APPLIANCES. 
 
 RECOMMENDED BY THE EDUCATION DEPARTMENT. 
 
 A Hand-book for Needlework Prize Associa- 
 tions. Issued under the direct authority of the London Institute 
 for the Advancement of Wain Needlework. Price is. 
 
 Needlework Demonstration Sheets (19 in 
 
 number). Exhibiting by Diagrams and Descriptions the 
 formation of the Stitches in Elementary Needlework. By Mrs. 
 A. Flover. 30 by 22 inches, price gJ. each ; or, mounted on 
 rollers and varnished, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Plain Needlework, arranged in Si.x Standards, with 
 Hints for the Management of Class and Appendix on Simul- 
 taneous Teaching. l]y Mrs. A. Floyer, Sewed, 6d. 
 
 Plain Knitting- and Mending, arranged in Si.x 
 
 Standards, with Diagrams. By the same Author. Sewed, 6d. 
 
 Plain Cutting out for Standards IV,, V., and 
 
 VI., as now required ])y the Government Educational Depart- 
 ment. Adapted to the Principles of Elementary Geometry. 
 By the same Author. Sewed, is. 
 
 A Set of Diagrams referred to in the Book may be 
 had separately, printed on stout paper and enclosed in an 
 envelope. Price is. 
 
 Sectional Paper, for tise with the above, gd. per quire. 
 Lined Paper, for "E.xtensions." 36in. by 46in. 
 
 Price is. yi. per dozen sheets. 
 
 Threaders. 5d. perioo; postage 3d. extra.
 
 30 Needleivork Appliances, 
 
 Needlework, &c. — [continued). 
 
 Plain Hints for those who have to Examine 
 
 Needlework, whether for Government Grants, Prize Associations, 
 or local Managers ; to which is added Skeleton Demonstration 
 Lessons to be used with the Demonstration Frames, and a 
 Glossary of Terms used in the Needlework required from the 
 Scholars in Public Elementary Schools. By Mrs. A. Floyer, 
 Author of " Plain Needlework." Price 2s. 
 
 The Demonstration Frame, for Class Teaching, 
 
 on which the formation of almost any Stitch may be exhibited, 
 is used in the best German Schools. It may be had complete 
 with Special Needle and Cord. Price 5^. 6d. 
 
 A Stand for the above may also be had, price "Js. 6d. 
 
 Needlework, Schedule III., exemplified and 
 
 Illustrated. By Mrs. E. A. Curtis. Cloth limp, with 30 
 illustrations, is. 
 
 •'Needle Drill," "Position Drill," " Pia 
 Drill," " Thimble Drill." Price 3d. 
 
 Drawing Book, Needlework Schedule III. 
 
 Price yi. 
 
 Directions for Knitting Jerseys and Vests, 
 
 with scale for various sizes. By M. C. G. Especially suitable 
 for elderly Ladies or Invalids. Dedicated by kind permission' 
 to Iler Grace the Duchess of Marlborough. Sewed, (>d. 
 
 Crewel Work. Fifteen Designs in Bold and Con- 
 ventional character, capable of being quickly and easily worked. 
 With complete instnictions. By Zeta, Author of "Ladies' 
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 panes, Bed Hangings, Curtains, Furniture Covers, Chimney- 
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 Designs for Church Embroidery and Crewel 
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 In a handsome cloth case, $s. 
 
 I
 
 Miscellaneous Books. 31 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS BOOKS. 
 
 The New Law of Bankruptcy. Containing 
 
 the Bankruptcy Act, 1883, with Introduction, Tables, Notes, 
 and an Index ; to which is added a Supplement, containing 
 the Orders, Forms, Fees, and List of Official Receivers. By 
 Archibald Bence Jones, M. A., Barrister-at-Law. New 
 Edition enlarged. Crown Svo., cloth lioards, price 5^-. 
 
 Poker : How to Play it. A Sketch of the Great 
 American Game, with its Laws and Rules. By one of its 
 Victims. Revised Edition. Cloth limp. Price One Shilling. 
 
 *' Great Paul," from its Casting to its Dedication. 
 By S. J. M.A.CKIE, CE. With a Preface on Bells, by Ur. 
 John Stainer, M.A., Organist of St. Paul's. Illustrated. 
 Price One Shilling. 
 
 Bicycles and Tricycles, Past and Present, A com- 
 plete History of the Machines from their infancy to the present 
 time, with Hints on How to Buy and How to Ride a Bicycle 
 or a Tricycle, descriptions of the great Feats and Great INIcets, 
 &c., &c. By Chaki.es Stencer. Illustrated. 160 pp. 
 Fcap. Svo, price One Shilling, or cloth, \s. 6J. 
 
 The Cyclist's Road Book : compiled for the Use 
 
 of Bicyclists and Pedestrians, being a Complete Guide to the 
 Roads and Cross Roads of England, Scotland, and Wales, 
 with a list of the best Hotels and notable places, &c., with 
 map. By Charles Spencer. Paper, is.; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 The Confessions of a Medium. Crown 8vo., 
 
 illustrated, price 2s. 
 
 Everyday Life in our Public Schools. 
 Sketched by Head Scholars. Edited by 
 
 Charles Eyre Pascoe. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 
 8vo., cloth, new and cheaper edition, price 2,^.6d.
 
 IVorJcs for Distrilnition. 
 
 Miscellaneous Books — {continued). 
 On Foot in France ; being a series of Papers 
 
 contributed to the Standard, by FRANK Ives Scudamore, 
 Esq., C.B. Post 8vo., cloth, zs. 
 
 A Complete Guide to the Game of Chess, 
 
 from the alphabet to the solution and construction of Problems. 
 Containing also some Historical Notes. By H. F. L. Meyer, 
 Chess Contributor to " The Boy's Own Paper," formerly Chess 
 Editor of " Hannoversche Anzeigen," "The Gentleman's 
 Journal," and " Eco Americano." Cloth, price Js. 6d. 
 
 WORKS FOR DISTRIBUTION. 
 
 A Woman's Secret ; or, How to make Home 
 
 Happy. Thirty-third Thousand. iSmo., sewed, 6d. 
 By the same Author, uniform in size and price. 
 
 Woman's Work ; or, How she can Help the Sick. 
 
 Nineteenth Thousand. 
 
 A Chapter of Accidents ; or, the Mother's Assistant 
 
 in Cases of Burns, Scalds, Cuts, &c. Tenth Thousand. 
 
 Pay to-day, Trust to-morrow ; illustrating the 
 
 Evils of the Tally System. Seventh Thousand. 
 
 Nursery Work ; or, Hannah Baker's First Place- 
 Fifth Thousand. 
 
 The Cook and the Doctor ; Cheap Recipes and 
 
 Useful Remedies. Sewed, 2d. 
 
 Home Difficukies. A Few Words on the Servant 
 Question. Sewed, ^d. ^ 
 
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