^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN sypry>.^^i>^y^^y:s^vf7K YSOfSS&aoisemtsisas^jistEit^jFAs&'^j inx^^simsi^^^ LEGENDS AND LYRICS. ^^ LEGENDS AND LYEICS. A BOOK OF VERSES. BY ADELAIDE A^NE PROCTER. WITH AN INTRODUCTIOX BY :iIAELES DICKENS. JWENTY-NIKTH THOUSAND. LONDOX; GEORGE BELL AXD SOXS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1877. CMISWICK press:— C. WHITTINGHAM. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. DEDICATED TO MATILDA M. HAYS. " Our tokens of love are for the most part barbarous. OolJ and lifeless, because they do not represent our life. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Therefore let the farmer give his corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; tlie painter, his picture; and the poet, his poem." — Emerson's Essays. A. A. P. May, 1858, CONTENTS. t^^r^^-HE Anjrel's Story mp Echoes '«/£^ A false Genius !My Picture Judge not Friend Sorrow One by One True Honours A Woman's Question The Three Eulers A Dead Past A Doubting Heart A Student A Knight Errant . Linger, oh, gentle Time Homeward Bound . Life and Death Now Cleansing Fires Page 1 11 12 14 17 18 20 22 34 37 3S 40 42 44 47 48 59 61 63 Vlll Contents. The Voice of the Wind Treasures . . . Shining Stars Waiting The Cradle Song of the Poor Be strong . God's Gifts . A Tomb in Ghent The Angel of Death A Dream The Present Changes Strive, Wait, and Pray A Lament for the Summer The Unknown Grave . Give me thy Heart The Wayside Inn Voices of the Past The Dark Side . A First Sorrow Murmurs Give ... My Journal A Chain The Pilgrims Incompleteness . A Legend of Bregenz . A Farewell Sowing and Reaping . The Storm Words . . . Contents. IX Page A Love Token 155 A Tryst with Death .... . 157 Fidelis ...... 159 A Shadow . ..... 161 The Sailor Boy 162 A Crown of Sorrow .... 181 The Lesson of the "Wt.r 182 The Two Spirits .... 185 A Little Longer 191 Grief 194 The Triumph of Time 199 A Parting . ... 200 The Golden Gate .... 203 Phantoms . . . ' . 205 Thankfulness 207 Home-sickness .... 209 Wishes 211 The Peace of God . 214 Life in Death and Death in Life . 216 Recollections .... 221 Illusion . 224 A Vision 226 Pictures in the Fire . 229 The Settlers .... . 232 Hush! . 235 Hours ..... . 237 The Two Interpreters . . 240 Comfort . . . „ . . 243 Home at last .... . 246 Unexpressed . 248 Because .... . 250 Contents, Rest at Evening A Eetrospect True or False Golden "Words Page 252 254 257 261 *»* Some of the above Pocms have appeared 171 " Hbuseltold Words" and are here republished with corrections AN INTRODUCTION. BY CHARLES DICKEXS. N the spring of the year 1853, I ob- served, as Conductor of the Weekly- Journal Household Words, a short poem among the proffered contributions, very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses perpetually setting through the office of such a Periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its authoress was quite ixnknoAvn to me. She was one Miss Mary Berwick, Avhom I had never heard of; and she was to be addressed by letter- xii Introduction. if addressed at all, at a circulating library in the western district of London. Tlirough this channel, Miss Berwick was informed that her poem was accepted, and was inviied to send another. She complied, and became a regular and frequent contributor. Many letters passed between the Journal and Miss Berwick, but Miss Berwick herself was never seen. How we came gradually to establish, at the office of Household Words, that we knew all about Miss Berwick, I have never discovered. But, we settled somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was governess in a family ; that she went to Italy in that capacity, and returned ; and that she had long been in the same family. We really knew nothing whatever of her, except that she was remarkably business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and reliable : so I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For myself, my mother was not a more Introduction. xiii real personage to me, than Miss Berwick the ofoverness became- This went on until December, 1854, when the Christmas Number, entitled. The Seven Poor Travellers, was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that Number, and remarked, as I laid it on the drawing-room table, that it contained a very pretty poem, written bv a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, in its writer's presence ; that I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss Berwick ; and that the name had been assumed by Barry Cornwall's eldest daughter. Miss Adelaide Axne Procter. The anecdote I have here noted down, besides serving to explain why the parents of the late Miss xiv Introduction. Procter have looked to me for these poor words of remembrance of their lamented child, strikins-lv illustrates the honesty, independence, and quiet dignity, of the lady's character. I had known her when she was very vouno;; I had been honoured with her father's friendship when I was myself a young aspirant ; and she had said at home, " If I send him, in my own name, verses that he does not honestly like, either it will be very painful to iiim to return them, or he will print them for papa's sake, and not for their own. So I have made up my mind to take my chance fairly with the unknown volunteers." Perhaps it requires an Editor's experience of the profoundly unreasonable grounds on which he is often urged to accept unsuitable articles — such as havins: been to school with the writer's husband's brother-in-law, or having lent an alpenstock in Switzerland to the writer's wife's nephew, when Introduction. xv that interesting stransjer had broken his own — fully to appreciate the delicacy and the self-respect of this resolution. Some verses by Miss Procter had been published in the Book of Beauty, ten years before she became Miss Berwick. With the .exception of two poems in the Cornhill Magazine, two in Good Words, and others in a little book called A Chaplet of Verses (issued in 1862 for the benefit of a Night Refuge), her published writings first appeared in Household Words, or All the Year Round. The present Edition contains the whole of her Legends and Lyrics, and originates in the great favour with which they have been received by the public. Miss Procter was born in Bedford-square, Lon- don, on the 30th of October, 182o. Her love of poetry was conspicuous at so early an age, that I have before me a tiny album made of small note svi Introduction. paper, into which her favourite passages were copied for her by her mother's hand before she herself could write. It looks as if she had carried it about, as another little girl might have earned a doll. She soon displayed a remarkable memory, and great quickness of apprehension. When she was quite a young child, she learnt with facility several of the problems of Euclid. As she grew older, she acquired the French, Italian, and German, languages ; became a clever piano-forte player ; and showed a true taste and sentiment in drawing. But, as soon as she had completely vanquished the difficulties of any one branch of study, it was her way to lose interest in it, and pass to another. While her mental resources were being trained, it was not at all suspected in her family that she had any gift of authorship, or any ambition to become a writer. Her father had no idea of her having ever attempted to turn ;> Introduction. xvli rhyme, until her first little poem saw tlie light in print. When she attained to womanhood, she had read an extraordinary number of books, and through- out her life she was always largely adding to the number. In 1853 she went to Turin and its neighbourhood, on a visit to her aunt, a Roman Catholic lady. As Miss Procter had herself professed the Roman Catholic Faith two years before, she entered with the greater ardour on the studv of the Piedmontese dialect, and the observa- tion of the habits and manners of the peasantry. In the former, she soon became a proficient. On the latter head, I extract from her familiar letters written home to England "at the time, two pleasant pieces of description. xviii Introduction. A Betrothal. " We have been to a ball, of which 1 must give you a description. Last Tuesday we had just done dinner at about seven, and stepped out into the balcony to look at the remains of the sunset behind the mountains, when we heard very dis- tinctly a band of music, which rather excited my astonishment, as a solitary organ is the utmost that toils up here. I went out of the room for a few minutes, and, on my returning, Emily said, ' Oh ! That band is playing at the farmer's near here. The daughter is fiancee to-day, and they have a ball.' I said, ' I wish I was going ! ' * Well,' replied she, ' the farmer's wife did call to invite us.' * Then, I shall cer- tainly go,' I exclaimed. I applied to Madame B., who said she would like it very much, and we had better go, children and all. Some of the Introduction. xix servants were already gone. We rushed away to put on some shawls, and put off any shred of black we might have about us (as the people would have been quite annoyed if we had appeared on such an occasion with any black), and we started. When we reached the farmer's, which is a stone's throw above our house, we were received with great enthusiasm j the only drawback being, that no one spoke French, and we did not yet speak Piedmontese. We Mere placed on a bench against the wall, and the people went on dancing. The room was a large whitewashed kitchen (I suppose), with several large pictures in black frames, and very smoky. I distinguished the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, and the others appeared equally lively and appropriate subjects. Whether they were Old Masters or not, and if so, by whom, I could not ascertain. The band were seated opposite us. XX Introduction. Five men, with wind instruments, part of the band of the National Guard, to which the farmer's sons belong. They played really admirably, and T began to be afraid that some idea of our dignity would prevent my getting a partner ; so, by Madame B.'s advice, I went up to the bride, and offered to dance with her. Such a handsome young woman ! Like one of Uwins's pictures. Very dark, with a quantity of black hair, and on an immense scale. The children were already dancing, as well as the maids. After we came to an end of our dance, which was what they call a Polka-Mazourka, I saw the bride trying to screw up the courage of her fiance to ask me to dance, which after a little hesitation he did. And admirably he danced, as indeed they all did — in excellent time, and with a little more spirit than one sees in a ball-room. In fact, they were very like one's ordinary partners, except that they Introduction. xxi wore ear-rings and were in their shirt-sleeves, and truth compels me to state that they decidedly smelt of garlic. Some of them had been smoking, but threw away their cigars when we came in. The only thing that did not look cheerful was, that the room was only lighted by two or three oil-lamps, and that there seemed to be no pre- paration for refreshments. Madame B., seeing this, whispered to her maid, who disengaged her- self from her partner, and ran off to the house ; she and the kitchenmaid presently returning with a large tray covered with all kinds of cakes (of which we are great consumers and always have a jjtock), and a large hamper full of bottles of wine, with coffee and sugar. This seemed all very acceptable. The fiancee was requested to dis- tribute the eatables, and a bucket of water being produced to wash the glasses in, the wine dis- appeared very quickly — as fast as they could open xxii Introduction. the bottles. But, elated I suppose by this, the floor was sprinkled with water, and the musicians played a Monferrino, which is a Piedmontese dance. Madame B. danced with the farmer's son, and Emily with another distinguished member of the company. It was very fatiguing — something like a Scotch reel. My partner was a little man, like Perrot, and very proud of his dancing. He cut in the air and twisted about, until I was out of breath, though my attempts to imitate him were feeble in the extreme. At last, after seven or eight dances, I was obliged to sit down. We stayed till nine, and I was so dead beat with the heat that I could hardly crawl about the house, and in an agony with the cramp, it is so long since I have danced." Introduction. xxiii A Marriage. " The weddino; of the farmer's dauo;hter has taken place. We had hoped it would have been in the little chapel of our house, but it seems some special permission "was necessary, and they applied for it too late. Thev all said, ' This is the Con- stitution. There would have been no difficulty before ! ' the lower classes making the poor Constitution the scape-goat for everything they don't like. So as it was impossible for us to climb up to the church where the wedding was to be, we contented ourselves with seeing the procession pass. It was not a veiy large one, for, it requiring some activity to go up, all the old people remained at home. It is not the etiquette for the bride's mother to go, and no unmarried woman can go to a wedding — I suppose for fear of its making her discontented with her own xxiv Introduction. position. The procession stopped at our door, for the bride to receive our congratulations. She was dressed in a shot silk, with a yellow handker- chief, and rows of a large gold chain. In the afternoon they sent to request us to go there. On our arrival we found thenf dancing out of doors, and a most melancholy affair it was. All the bride's sisters were not to be recognized, they had cried so. The mother sat in the house, and could not appear. And the bride was sobbing so, she could hardly stand ! The most melancholy spec- tacle of all to my mind, was, that the bridegroom was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather affronted at all the distress. We danced a Monferrino ; I with the bridegroom; and the bride crying the whole time. The company did their utmost to enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, and at last they began a series of yells, which re- minded me of a set of savages. But even this Introduction. xxv delicate method of consolation failed, and the wishing good-bye began. It was altogether so melancholy an affair that Madame B. dropped a few tears, and I was very near it, particularly when the poor mother came out to see the last of her daughter, who was finally dragged off between her brother and uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. As she lives quite near, makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children, it really was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of distress. Albert was so dis- comfited by it, that he forgot to kiss the bride as he had intended to do, and therefore went to call upon her yesterday, and found her very smiling in her new house, and supplied the omission. The cook came home from the wedding, declaring she was cured of any wish to marry — but I would not recommend any man to act upon that threat and make her an offer. In a couple of days we xxvi Introduction. had some rolls of the bride's first baking, which they call Madonna's. The musicians, it seems, were in the same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all fell down in the mud. My wrath against the bridegroom is somewhat calmed by finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get tipsy at his wedding." Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who should suppose from their tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly hum- orous, and had a great delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of drollery. She was per- fectly unconstrained and unaffected : as modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous Introduction. xxvii •with their pecuniary results. She was a friend who inspired the strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature. No claim can be set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the conventional poetical qualities. She never by any means held the opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings ; she never suspected the existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind against her; she never recognized in her best friends, her worst enemies ; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and unappreciated ; she would far rather have died without seeing a line of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered about her, here, as "the Poet," or " the Poetess." With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way to the close of xxvlli Introduction. this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as the close came upon her, so must it come nere. Always impelled by an intense conviction that her life must not be dreamed away, and that her indulgence in her favourite pursuits must be balanced by action in the real world around her, she "was indefatigable in her endeavours to do some good. Naturally enthusiastic, and conscien- tiously impressed with a deep sense of her Christian duty to her neighbour, she devoted herself to a variety of benevolent objects. Now, it was the visitation of the sick, that had possession of her ; now, it was the sheltering of the houseless ; now, it was the elementary teaching of the densely ignorant ; now, it was the raising up of those who had wandered and got trodden under foot ; now, it was the wider employment of her own sex in the general business of life ; now, Introduction. xxix it was all these things at once. Perfectly un- selfish, swift to sympathize and eager to relieve, she wrought at such designs with a flushed earnestness that disregarded season, weather, time of day or night, food, rest. Under such a hurry of the spirits, and such incessant occupation, the strongest constitution will commonly go down. Hers, neither of the strongest nor the weakest, yielded to the burden, and began to sink. To have saved her life, then, by taking action on the warning that shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice, would have been impossible, without changing her nature. As long as the power of moving about in the old way was left to her, she must exercise it, or be killed by the restraint. And so the time came when she could move about no longer, and took to her bed. All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet XXX Introduction. patience of her natural disposition purified by tlie resignation of her soul, she lay upon her bed tlirough the whole round of changes of the seasons. She lay upon her bed through fifteen months. In all that time, her old cheerfulness never quitted her. In all that time, not an impatient or a querulous minute can be re- membered. At lenfrth, at midnight on the second of February, 1864, she turned down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up. The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was on the stroke of one : " Do you think I am dying, mamma?" " I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear." " Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift me up ! " Introduction. xxsi Her sister entering as they raised her, she said : "It has come at last!" And with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and departed. Well had she written : Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, Eeady to kiss away thy struggHng breath. Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes ? Oh what were life, if life were aU ? Thine eyes Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee. THE ANGEL'S STORY. HROUGH the blue and frosty heavens, Christnaas stars were shining brig:ht ; GUstening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light ; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night. While, from every tower and steeple. Pealing bells were sounding clear, (Never with such tones of gladness, Save when Christmas time is near,) Many a one tliat night was merry Who had toiled through all the year. TJte Angel's Story. That night saw old wrongs forgiven, Friends, long parted, reconciled ; Voices all unused to laughter, Mournful eyes that rarely smiled. Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, From their anxious thoughts beguiled. Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall ; Joy and plenty in the cottage. Peace and feasting in the hall ; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all ! Yet one house was dim and darkene J : Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair. Even stilled the voice of mournmff — For a child lay dying there. Silken curtains fell around him. Velvet carpets hushed the tread, TheAngeVs Story. Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed ; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread. The skill of all that mighty City To save one little life was vain ; One Uttle thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken ; Nay, his very mother's pain. And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again. So she knelt there still beside him, She alone with strength to smile, Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmui'ing tender song and story Weary houi's to beguile. Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes The AngeVs Story. Fixed on some mysterious vision, With a startled sweet surprise. For a ladiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed ; White his raiment, from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, AnA a starlike light was shining In a Glory roimd his head. While, with tender love, the angel. Leaning o'er the little nest. In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest. So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings ; and, through the air. Bore the child, and while he held him To his heart with loving care, Plnced a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there. I The AngeVs Story. While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast. Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest : " Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain, Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain ; Love, on earth so feebly striving. Lives divine in Heaven again i <' Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street. Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet. " All the striving anxious forethought That should only come with age, 6 The Angcts Story. Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon Hfe's sternest pao-e . Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage. " All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped ; On his hands so small and trembling Leaning his poor aching head, Or, through dark and painful hours, Xying sleepless on his bed. ** Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away ; And of rosy, happy children. Laughing merrily at play. Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May. " Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street. And the sultry air of Summer (That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling In the crowded allev's heat. The Angel's Story. " One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl, Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall ; Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all. '* There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide ; There were sparkling fountains glancing. Flowers, Avhich in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside. " He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and Avistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place ; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace. " You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair ; 8 The AngeVs Story. And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendour spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there. " When your sei"vants, tired of seeinc; Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged Orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted, Bitter tears began to flow. " But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him * Farewell ! ' ** Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard. In l!ie poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stn-red ; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the lovinu word. Tlie AngeVs Story. '• So he crept to his poor garret; ' Poor no more, but rich and bright, l^r the holy di-eams of childliood — Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light— I'loated round the Orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night. •* Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay ; I3id he dream that none spake harshly- All were strangely kind that day ? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away. " And he smiled, though they were fading ; One by one their leaves were shed ; ' Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead. " Know, dear little one ! our Father Will no gentle deed disdain ; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again, 9 10 The AngeVs Story. While the angel hearts that beat tliere Still all tender thoughts retain." So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burthen leant ; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent. To the blooming roses by him. Wondering what that mystery meant. Thus the radiant angel answered, And -with tender meaning smiled : " Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you — I was once that little child ! " * In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare. Decked, as soon as Spring awakened. With her buds and blossoms fair — And a humble grave beside it — No one knew who rested there. ECHOES. TILL the angel stars are shining? Still the rippling waters flow, But the angel-voice is silent That I heard so long ago. Hark ! the echoes murmur low, Long ago ! Still the wood is dim and lonely, Still the plashing fountains play, But the past and all its beauty. Whither has it fled away ? Hark ! the mournful echoes say, Fled away ! Still the bird of night complaineth, (Now, indeed, her song is pain,) Visions of my happy hours, Do I call and call in vain ? Hark ! the echoes cry again. All in vain ! 12 Echoes. Cease, oh echoes, mournful echoes ! Once I loved vour voices well ; Now my heart is sick and weary — Days of old, a long farewell ! Hark ! the echoes sad and dreary Cry farewell, farewell ! A FALSE GENIUS. SEE a Spirit by thy side, Purple- winged and eagle-eyed, Looking like a Heavenly guide. Though he seem so bright and fair, Ere thou trust his proffered care. Pause a little, and beware ! If he bid thee dwell apart. Tending some ideal smart In a sick and coward heart ; A liaise Genius. 13 In self-worship wrapped alone, Dreaming thy poor gi-iefs are grown More than other men have known ; Dwelling in some cloudy sphere, Though God's work is waiting here, And God deigneth to be near ; If his torch's crimson glare Show thee evil everywhere, Tainting all the wholesome air ; While with strange distorted choice. Still disdaining to rejoice. Thou ivilt hear a wailing voice ; If a simple, humble heart, Seem to thee a meaner part, Than thy noblest aim and art ; If he bid thee bow, before Crowned Mind and nothing more, The great idol men adore ; 14 A False Genius. And with starry veil enfold Sin, the trailing serpent old, Till his scales shine out like gold ; Though his words seem true and wise, Soul, I say to thee — Arise, He is a Demon in disguise ! MY PICTURE. TAND this way — more near the win- dow — By my desk — you see the light Falling on my picture better — Thus I see it while I write ! Who the head may be I know not, But it has a student air ; With a look half sad, half stately, Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair. My Picture, 15 Little care I who the painter, How obscure a name he bore ; Nor, when some have named Velasquez, Did I value it the more. As it is, I would not give it For the rarest piece of art ; It has dwelt with me, and listened To the secrets of my heart. Many a time, when to my garret, Weary, I returned at night. It has seemed to look a welcome That has made my poor room bright. Many a time, when ill and sleepless, I have watched the quivering gleam Of my lamp upon that picture, Till it faded in my dream. When dark days have come, and friendship Worthless seemed, and life in vain, That bright friendly smile has sent me Boldly to my task again. 1 6 My Picture. Sometimes Avhen hard need has pressed mo To bow down where I despise, I liave read stern words of counsel In those sad reproacliful eyes. Nothing that my brain imagined, Or my weary hand has wrought, But it watched the dim Idea Spring forth into armed Thougiii. It has smiled on my successes, Raised me when my hopes were luw, And by turns has looked upon me With all the loving eyes I know. Do you wonder that my picture Has become so like a friend ? — 1 1 has seen my life's beginnings, It shall stay and cheer the end ! i JUDGE NOT. UDGE not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see ; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God's pure light may only be A scar, brought from some well-won field, Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. The look, the air, that frets thy sight, May be a token, that below The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe. Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, And cast thee shuddering on thv face ! The fall thou darest to despi May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand ; c 18 Judge not. Or, trusting less to earthly things, Mav henceforth learn to iise his wings. And judge none lost; but wait, and see. With hopeful pity, not disdain ; Tlie depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days ! FRIEND SORROW. O not cheat thy Heart and tell her, " Grief will pass away, Hope for fairer times in future, And forget to-day." — Tell her, if you will, that sorrow Need not come in vain ; Tell her that the lesson taught her Far outweighs the pain. Frie7id Sorrow. 19 Cheat her not with the old comfort, " Soon she will forget" — Bitter truth, alas — but matter Rather for regret ; Bid her not " Seek other pleasures, Turn to other things : " — Rather nurse her caged sorrow 'Till the captive sings. Rather bid her go forth bravely, And the stranger greet ; Not as foe, with spear and buckler, But as dear friends meet ; Bid her with a strong clasp hold he). By her dusky Avings — Listening for the murmured blessing Son'ow always brinjrs. 20 ONE BY ONE. NE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall ; Some are coming, some are going ^ Do not strive to gi-asp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee. Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) Jovs are sent thee here below : Take them readily when given. Ready too to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band ; One will fade as others greet thee ; Shadows passing through the land. One by one. 21 Do not look at life's long sorrow ; See how small each moment's pain ; God will help tliee for to-morrow, So each day begin again. Every hoiir that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear ; Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care. Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond ; Nor, the daily toil forgetting. Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching Heaven ; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. 99 I TRUE HONOURS. S my darling tired already, Tired of her day of play ? Draw your little stool beside me, Smooth this tangled hair away. Can she put the logs together, Till they make a cheerful blaze ? Shall her blind old Uncle tell her Something of his j'outhful days ? Hark ! The wind among the cedars Waves their white arms to and fro ; T remember how I watched them Sixty Christmas Days ajro : Then I dreamt a glorious vision Of great deeds to crown each year — Sixty Christmas Days have found me Useless, helpless, blind — and here I True Honours. 23 Yes, I feel my darling stealing Warm soft fingers into mine — Shall I tell her what I fancied In that strange old dream of mine ? T was kneeling by the window, Reading how a noble band. With the red cross on their breast-plates, Went to gain the Holy Land. While with eager eyes of wonder Over the dark page I bent, Slowly twilight shadows gathered Till the letters came and went ; Slowly, till the night was round me ; Then my heart beat loud and fast, For I felt before I saw it That a spirit near me passed. Then I raised my eyes, and shining Where the moon's first ray was bright, Stood a winged Angel-warrior Clothed and panoplied in light : So, with Heaven's love upon him, Stern in calm and resolute will, 24 True Honours. Looked St. Michael — does the picture Hang in the old cloister still ? Threefold were the dreams of honour That absorbed my heart and brain ; Threefold crowns the Angel promised, Each one to be bought by pain : While he spoke, a threefold blessing Fell upon my soul like rain. Helper of the poor and suffering j Victor in a glorious strife; Singer of a noble poem : Such the honours of my life. Ah, that dream ! Long years that gave me Joy and grief as real things Never touched the tender memory Sweet and solemn that it brings— Never quite effaced the feeling Of those white and shadowing wings. Do tliose blue eyes open wider ? Does my faith too foolish seem ? Yes, my darling, years have taught me It was nothing but a dream. True Honours. 25 Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge Of a fearful trial rose, Rose to crush my heart, and sternly Bade my young ambition close. More and more my eyes were clouded, Till at last God's glorious light Passed away from me for ever, And I lived and live in night. Dear, I will not dim your pleasure, Christmas should be only gay — I n my night the stars have risen. And I wait the dawn of day. Spite of all I could be happy ; For my brothers' tender care In their boyish pastimes ever Made me take, or feel a share. Phihp, even then so thoughtful, Max so noble, brave and tali, And your father, little Godfrey, The most loving of them all. Philip reasoned down my sorrow, Max would laugh my gloom away, 26 True Honuurs, Godfrey's little arms put round me, Helped me through my dreariest day ; While the promise of my Angel, Like a star, now bright, now pale, Hung in blackest night above me, And I felt it could not fail. Years passed on, my brothere left me, Each went out to take his share In the struggle of life ; my portion Was a humble one — to bear. Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander Through the woods and fields alone. Every cottage in the village Had a corner called my own. Old and vounff, all brou'jcht their trouble?. Great or small, for me to hear ; I have often blessed my sorrow That drew others' grief so near. Ah, the people needed helping — Needed love^ — (for Love and Heaven Are the only gifts not bartered. They alone are freely given") — True Honours. And I gave it. Philip's bounty, (We were orphans, dear,) made toil Prosper, and want never fastened On the tenants of the soil. Philip's name (Oh, how I gloried, He so young, to see it rise !) Soon si'ew noted among; statesmen As a patriot true and wise. And his people all felt honoured To be ruled bv such a name ; T was proud too that they loved me ; Through their pride in him it came. He had gained what I had longed for, I meanwhile grew glad and gay, 'Mid his people, to be serving Him and them, in some poor way. How his noble earnest speeches. With untiring fervour came ; Helper of the poor axd sufferixg ; Truly he deserved the name ! Had my Angel's promise failed mc ? Had that word of hope grown (iiin .' 28 True Honours. Why, my Philip had fulfilled it, And I loved it best in him ! Max meanwhile — ah, you, my darling, Can his loving words recall — 'Mid the bravest and the noblest. Braver, nobler, than them all. How I loved him ! how my heart thrilled When his sword clanked by his side, When I touched his gold embroidery, Almost saw him in his pride ! So we parted ; he all eager To uphold the name he bore, Leavins: in mv charge — he loved me — Some one whom he loved still more ; I must tend this gentle flower, I must speak to her of him, For he feared — Love still is fearful — That his memor\' might grow dim. [ must guard her from all sorrow, I must play a brother's part. Shield all grief and trial from her, Tf it need be, with my heart. True Honours. 29 Years passed, and his name gi'ew famous ; We "were proud, both she and I ; And we lived upon his letters, While the slow days fleeted by. Then at last — you know the story, How a fearful rumour spread, Till all hope had slowly faded, And we heard that he was dead. Dead ! Oh, those were bitter hours ; Yet within my soul there dwelt A warning, and while others mourned hini, Something like a hope I felt. His was no weak life as mine was, But a life, so full and strong — No, I could not think he perished Nameless, 'mid a conquered throng. How she drooped ! Years passed ; no tidings Came, and yet that little flame Of strange hope within my spirit Still burnt on, and lived the same. Ah ! my child, our hearts will fail us, When to us they strongest seem 30 True Honours. I can look back on those houi"S As a fearful, evil dream. She had long despaired ; what A-Nonder That her heart had turned to mine ? Earthly loves are deep and tender, Not eternal and divine ! Can I say how briglit a future Rose before my soul that day ? Oh, so strange, so sweet, so tender — And I had to turn away. Hard and terrible the struffale, For the pain not mine alone ; I called back my Brother's spirit, And I bade him claim his own. Told her — now I dared to do it — That I felt the day would rise When he would return to gladden Mv weak heart and her brifjht eves. And I pleaded — pleaded sternly — In his name, and for his sake : Now, I can speak calmly of it. Then, T thought my heart would break. I True Honours. 3 1 Soon — ah, Love had not deceived rae, (Love's true instincts never err,) Wounded, weak, escaped from prison. He returned to me ; to her. I could thank God that bright morning, When I felt my Brother's gaze. That my heart was true and loyal. As in our old boyish days. Bought by wounds and deeds of daring, Honours he had brought away ; Glory crowned his name — my Brother's ; Mine too ! — we were one that da3% Since the crown on him had fallen, " Victor in a noble strife," I could Hve and die contented With my poor ignoble life. Well, my darling, almost weary Of my story ? Wait awhile ; For the rest is only joyful ; I can tell it with a smile. One bright promise still was left me, Wound so close about my soul, 32 True Honours. That, as one by one had failed rae, This dream now absorbed the whole. " Singer of a noble Poem," — Ah, my darling, few and rare Burn the glorious names of Poets, Like stars in the purple air. That too, and I glory in it. That great gift my Godfrey won ; I have my dear share of honour. Gained by that beloved one. One day shall my darling read it ; Now she cannot understand All the noble thoughts, that lighten Through the genius of the land. I am proud to be his brother, Proud to think that hope was true ; Thouo-h I longed and strove so vainly DO . What I failed in, he could do.. I was long before I knew it. Longer ere I felt it so ; Then I strung my rhymes together Only for the poor and low. True Honours. 33 And, it pleases me to know it, (For I love them well indeed,) They care for my humble verses, Fitted for their humble need. And, it cheers my heart to hear it, Where the far-off settlers roam, My poor words are sung and cherished, Just because they speak of Home, And the little children sing them, (That, I think, has pleased me best,) Often, too, the dying love them. For they tell of Heaven and rest. So my last vain dream has faded ; (Such as I to think of fame !) Yet I will not say it failed me. For it crowned my Godfrey's name. No ; my Angel did not cheat me. For my long life has been blest ; He did give me Love and Sorrow, He will bring me Light and Rest. 'o '"^ ■" o D 34 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. EFORE I trust my Fate to thee, Or place ray hand in thine, Before I let thy Future give Colour and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to- night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the Past, That holds thy spirit yet ? Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee ? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, A Woman's Question. 35 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost. I Look deeper still. If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul. That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole ; Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil ? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still ? Speak now — lest at some future day my whole hfe wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange ? — It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my heart against thy own. 36 A Womari's Question. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake. Not thou — had been to blame ? Some soothe their conscience tlius : but thou, wilt sui'ely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, Tlie Avords would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse. So, comfort thee, my Fate — Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, 1 would risk it all ! I 37 THE THREE RULERS. SAW a Ruler take his stand And trample on a mighty land ; The People crouched before his beck, His iron heel was on tlieir neck, His name shone bright through blood and pain, His sword flashed back their praise again. I saw another Ruler nse — His words were noble, good, and wise ; With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds and thoughts of men : Some scoffed, some praised — while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word. Another Ruler then I saw — Love and sweet Pity were his law : 38 The Three Rulers. The greatest and the least had part (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart — The People, in a mighty band, Rose up, and drove him from the land ! A DEAD PAST. PARE her at least: look, vou have taken from me The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan ; The Future too, with all her glorious promise ; But do not leave me utterly alone. Spare me the Past — for, see, she cannot harm you, She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud ; All, all my own ! and, trust me, I will hide her Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud. I folded her soft hf/nds upon her bosom. And strewed my flowers upon her — they still hve — A Dead Past. 39 Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eyelids, And think of all the joy she used to give. Cruel indeed it were to take her from me ; She sleeps, she will not wake — no fear — again : And so I laid her, such a gentle burthen. Quietly on my heart to still its pain. I do not think that any smiling Present, Any vague Future, spite of all her charms, Could ever rival her. You know you laid her, Long years ago, then living, in my arms. Leave her at least — while my tears fall upon her, I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore ; As dear as ever to me — nay, it may be, ^ Even dearer still — since T have nothing more. 40 A DOUBTING HEART. HERE are the swallows fled ? Frozen and dead, Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. Oh doubting heart ! Far over purple seas, They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze, To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die ? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. Oh doubting heart ! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow, While winter winds shall blow. To breathe and smile upon you soon again. A Doubting Heart. 41 The sun has hid its rays These many days ; Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? Oh doubting heart ! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky, That soon (for spring is nigh) Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of despair Oh doubting heart ! Thv skv is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air. 7 42 A STUDENT. VER an ancient scroll I bent, Steeping my soul in wise content, Nor paused a moment, saye to chicle A loTv voice whispering at my side. T Avove beneath the stars' pale shine A dream, half human, half divine ; And shook off (not to break tlie charm) A little hand laid on my arm. I read ; until my heart would glow With the great deeds of long ago ; Nor heard, while with those mighty dead, Pass to and fro a falterincj tread. On the old theme I pondered long — The struggle between right and wrong ; I A Student. 43 I could not check such visions high, To soothe a little quivering sigh. I tried to solve the problem — Life ; Dreaming of that mysterious strife, How could I leave such reasonings wise, To answer two blue pleading eyes ? I strove how best to give, and when, My blood to save my fellow-men — How could I turn aside, to look At snowdrops laid u})on my book ? Now Time has fled — the world is strange, Sometliing there is of pain and change ; My books lie closed upon the shelf; I miss the old heart in myself. I miss the sunbeams in my room — It was not always wrapped in gloom : I miss my dreams — they fade so fast, Or flit into some trivial past. 44 A Student. The great stream of the world goes by None care, or heed, or question, why I, the lone student, cannot raise My voice or hand as in old days. No echo seems to wake again My heart to anything but pain. Save when a dream of twilight brino-s The fluttering of an angel's wings ! A KNIGHT ERRANT. HOUGH he lived and died among: us. Yet his name may be enrolled With the knights whose deeds of daring Ancient chronicles have told. Still a stripling, he encountered Poverty, and struggled long, Gathering force from every effort. Till he knew his arm was strong. A Knicjht Errant. 45 Then his heart and life he offered To his radiant mistress — Truth ; Never thought, or dream, or faltering, Marred the promise of his youth. So he rode forth to defend her, And her peerless worth proclaim ; Challenging each recreant doubter Who aspersed her spotless name. First upon his path stood Ignorance, Hideous in his brutal might ; Hard the blows and long the battle Ere the monster took to flight. Then, with light and fearless spirit, Prejudice he dared to brave; Hunting back tlie lying craven To her black sulphureous cave. Followed by his servile minions. Custom, the old Giant, rose ; Yet he, too, at last was conquered By the good Knight's weighty blows. 46 A Knight Errant. Then he turned, and, flushed with victory, Struck upon the brazen shield Of the world's great king, Opinion, And defied him to the field. Once again he rose a conqueror. And, though wounded in the fight, With a dying smile of triumph Saw that Truth had gained her right. On his failing ear re-echoino- Came the shouting round her tlirone ; Little cared he that no futui-e With her name would link his own. Spent with many a hard-fought battle, Slowly ebbed his life away. And the crowd that flocked to greet her Trampled on him where he lay. Gathering all his strength, he saw her Crowned and reigning in her pride : Looked his last upon her beauty. Raised his eyes to God, and died. 47 LINGER, OH, GENTLE TIME. ^INGER, oh, gentle Time, Linger, oh, radiant grace of bright To- day ! Let not the hours' chime Call thee away. But linger near me still with fond delay. Lin=lrange secrets to his innocent soul. A Tomb in Ghent. S5 Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire Of all the kneeling throng, and piercing higher Than aught but love and prayer can reach, until Only the silence seemed to listen still ; Or gathering like a sea still more and more, Break in melodious waves at heaven's door. And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain, Upon the pleading longing hearts again. Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow. That crept along the marble floor below. Passing, as life does, with the passing hours, Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers, Now on the brazen letters of a tomb, Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom, And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint, The kneeling: fiijure of some marble saint : Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare, That told of patient toil, and reverent care ; Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears. And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow In summer, where the silver rivei"s flow ; And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glare 86 A Tomb in Ghent. In impotent wrath on all the beauty there : Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time. And deeper silence, darker shadows flowed On all around, only the windows glowed With blazoned glory, hke the shields of light Archangels bear, who, armed with love and might, Watch upon heaven's battlements at night. Then all was shade ; the silver lamps that gleamed, Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemed Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine. Or trembling stars before each separate shrine. Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there, And come out, blinded by the noisy glare That burst upon him from the busy square. The church was thus his home for rest or play } And as he came and went again each day. The pictured faces that he knew so well. Seemed to smile on liim welcome and farewell. But holier, and dearer far than all. One sacred spot his own he loved to call ; Save at mid-day, half-hidden by the gloom ; The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb : A Tomh in Ghent. 87 For there she stands ; her folded hands are pressed Together, and laid softly on her breast, As if she waited but a Avord to rise From the dull earth, and pass to the blue skies ; Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath. As listening; for the ano-el voice of death. None know how many years have seen her so. Or what the name of her who sleeps below. And here the child would come, and strive to trace, Through the dim twilight, the pure gentle face He loved so well, and here he oft would bring Some violet blossom of the early spring; And climbing softly by the fretted stand. Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand ; Or, whispering a soft loving message sweet. Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet. So, when the organ's pealing music rang. He thought amid the gloom the Maiden sang ; With reverent simple faith by her he knelt, And fancied what she thought, and what she felt '' Glory to God," re-echoed from her voice, And then his little spirit would rejoice ; Or when the Requiem sobbed upon the air, His baby tears dropped with her mournful prayer. 88 A Tomb in Ghent. So years lied on, while childish fancies past. The childish love and simple faith could last. The artist-soul awoke in him, the flame Of genius, like the light of Heaven, came Upon his brain, and (as it will, if true) It touched his heart and lit his spirit, too. His father saw, and with a proud content Let him forsake the toil where he had si)ent His youth's first years, and on one happy day Of pride, before the old man passed away, He stood with quivering lips, and the big tears Upon his cheek, and heard the dream of years Living and speaking to his very heart — The low hushed murmur at the wondrous art Of him, who with vounff tremblinfj finijers made The great church-organ answer as he played ; And, as the uncertain sound grew full and strong, Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along, And thrill with master-power the breathless throng. The old man died, and years passed on, and still The vouni; musician bent his heart and will To his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grown More dear to him, and even more his own ; A Tomb in Ghent. &^ A.nd as he left it every niglit he prayed A moment by the archway in the shade, Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom Where the White Maiden watched upon her tomb. His hopes of travel and a Avorld-wide fame, Cold Time had sobered, and his fragile frame ; Content at last only in dreams to roam. Away from the tranquillity of home ; Content that the poor dwellers by his side Saw in him but the gentle friend and guide, The patient counsellor in the poor strife And petty details of their common life, Who comforted where woe and orrief mi2:ht fall. Nor slighted any pain or want as small, But whose great heart took in and felt for all. o Still he jjrew famous — manv came to be His pupils in the art of harmony. One day a voice floated so pure and free Above his music, that he turned to see What angel sang, and saw before his eyes, WTiat made his heart leap with a strange surprise, His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild, As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled ; 90 A Tomb in Ghent. Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart, And music overflowing from her heart. But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betrayed No marble statue, but a living maid ; Perplexed and startled at his wondering look. Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook ; The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare, Fluttered and died upon the trembling air. Days passed ; each morning saw the maiden stand, Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand, Eager to study, never weary, while Repaid by the approving word or smile Of her kind master ; days and months fled on ; One day the pupil from the choir was gone ; Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more. Within the poor musician's humble door; And to repay, with gentle happy art. The debt so many owed his generous heart. And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt That a great gift of God within him dwelt ; One who could listen, who could understand, Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand, V^'hile with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew A Tomb in Ghent. 91 How the melodious winged hours flew ; Who loved his art as none had loved before, Yet prized the noble tender spirit more. While the great organ brought from far and near Lovers of harmony to praise and hear, Unmarked by aught save what filled every day, Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away : And now by the low archway in the shade Beside her mother knelt a httle maid, Who, through the great cathedral learned to roam. Climb to the choir, and bring her father home ; And stand, demure and solemn by his side, Patient till the last echo softly died ; Then place her little hand in his, and go Down the dark winding stair to where below The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom Waiting and praying by the Maiden's Tomb. So their life went, until, one winter's day, Father and child came there alone to pray — The mother, gentle soul, had fled away ! Their life was altered now, and yet the cliild Forgot her passionate grief in time, and smiled, Half wondering why, when spring's fresh breezes came. 92 A Tumb in Client. To see her father was no uiore the same. Half quessing at the shadow of liis pain, And then contented if he smiled again, A sad cold smile, that passed in tears away, As re-assured she ran once more to play. And now each year that added grace to grace, Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl's face, Brought a strange light in the musician's eyes. As if he saw some starry hope arise, Breaking uj)on the midnight of sad skies. It might be so : more feeble year by year, The wanderer to his resting-place drew near. One da)' the Gloria he could play no more, Echoed its gi*and rejoicing as of yore ; His hands were clasped, his weary head was laid, Upon the tomb Avhere the White INIaiden prayed : Where the child's love fii'St dawned, his soul first spoke. The old man's heart there throbbed its last and broke. The ffrave cathedral that had nursed his vouth, Had hel])ed his dreaming, and had taught him truth, Had seen his boyish gi-ief and baby tears, And watched the sorrows and the joys of years. A Tomb in Ghent. 93 Had lit his fame and hope with sacred i*a}'s. And consecrated sad and happy days — Had blessed his happiness, and soothed his pain, Now took her faithful servant home again. He rests in peace : some travellers mention yet An or";anist whose name thev all foro-et. He has a holier and a nobler fame By poor men's hearths, who love and bless the name Of a kind friend ; and in low tones to-day, Speak tenderly of him who passed away. Too poor to help the daughter of their friend, They grieved to see the little pittance end ; To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart, To bear the lonely orphan's struggling part ; They gi-ieved to see her go at last alone To English kinsmen she had never known : And here she came ; the foreign girl soon foimd Welcome, and love, and plenty all around. And here she pays it back with earnest will, By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill ; Deep in her heart she holds her father's name, And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame ; And while she works with thrifty Belgian care, y4 A Tomb in Ghent. Past dreams of childhood float upon the air ; Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn, That echoed through the old cathedral dim. When as a little child each day she went To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent. THE ANGEL OF DEATH. HY shouklst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath. Ready witli gentle hand to close thine eyes ? How many a tranquil soul has passed away. Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim. To the eternal splendour of the day ; And many a troubled heart still calls for him. Spirits too tender for the battle here Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms ; The Angel of Death. 95 A.nd children, shuddering at a world so drear, Have smiUng passed away into his arms. He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain, Lav his cold hand upon thy aching heart : Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain. And bid the shadow of earth's grief depart. He will give back what neither time, nor mifd, And a shadow upon its brow; 102 Strive, Wait, and Pray. Yet far through the misty future. With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Is winffinor her silent flight. Pray ; though the gift you ask for May never comfort your fears. May never repay your pleading, Yet pray, and with hopeful tears ; An answer, not that you long for, But diviner, Avill come one day ; Y^our eyes are too dim to see it. Yet strive, and wait, and pray. I « 103 A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER. ^OAN, oh ye Autumn Winds ! Summer has fled, The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die ; The Lily's gracious head All low must lie, Because the gentle Summer now is dead. Grieve, oh ye Autumn Winds ! Summer lies low ; The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, For she that loved her so, Alas, is dead ! And one by one her loving children go. Wail, oh ye Autumn Winds ! She lives no more. The gentle Summer, with her balmy breath. lO-l A Lament for the Summer. Still sweeter than before When nearer death, And brighter every day the smile she wore ! Mourn, mourn, oh Autumn Winds, Lament and mourn ; How many half-blown buds must close and ilie ; Hopes with the Summer born All faded lie. And leave us desolate and Earth forlorn ! I THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. O name to bid us know Who rests below. No word of death or birth, Only the grass's wave, Over a mound of earth. Over a nameless gi'ave. Did this poor wandering heart In pain depart ? The Vnhioicn Grave. 105 Longing, but all too late, For the calm home again, Where patient watchers wait, And still will wait in vain. Did mom-ners come in scorn, And thus forlorn. Leave him, with grief and shame. To silence and decay. And hide the tarnished name Of the unconscious clay ? It may be from his side His loved ones died. And last of some bright band, (Together noAv once more,) He sought his home, the land Where they had gone before. No matter — limes have made As cool a shade. And lingering breezes jtass As tenderly and slow. As if beneath the grass A monarch slept below. 106 The Unknown Grave. No grief, though loud and deep, Could stir that sleep ; And earth and heaven tell Of rest that shall not cease, Where the cold world's farewell Fades into endless peace. GITE ME THY HEART. ITH echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one ; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done ; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air. One lamp alone with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there ! In the dark church she knelt alone ; Her tears were falling fast ; Give me thy Heart. 107 " Help, Lord," she cried, " the shades of death Upon my soul are cast ! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chosen the better part ? " What voice came through the sacred air ? — " 3Iy child, give me thy Heart /" *' Have I not laid before Thy shrine My wealth, oh Lord ? " she cried ; " Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride ? Have I not bade youth's joys retire. And vain delights depart ? " — But sad and tender was the voice — " 3Iy child, give me thy Heart ! " " Have I not. Lord, gone day by day Where Thy poor children dwell ; And carried help, and gold, and food ? Oh Lord, Thou knowest it well ! From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart :" — More sad, more tender, was the voice — " 3ry child, give me thy Heart!" 108 Give me thy Heart. " Have I not worn my strength away With fast and penance sore ? Have I not watched and wept ? " she cried •, " Did Thy dear Saints do more ? Have I not gained Thy grace, oh Lord, And won in Heaven my part?" — It echoed louder in her soul — '' My child, fjice me thy Heart ! " For I have loved thee with a love No mortal heart can show ; A love so deep, my Saints in heaven Its depths can never know : When pierced and woimded on the Cross, Man's sin and doom were mine, I loved thee with undying love. Immortal and divine ! " I loved thee ere the skies were spread ; My soul bears all thy pains ; To gain thy love my sacred Heart In earthly shrines remains : Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, Without one gift divine, Give me thy Heart. 109 Give it, my child, thy Heart to me, And it shall rest in mine ! " In awe she listened, and the shade Passed from her soul away ; In low and trembling voice she cried — " Lord, help me to obey ! Break Thou the chains of earth, oh Lord, That bind and hold my heart ; Let it be Thine, and Thine alone, Let none with Thee have part. " Send down, oh Lo|:d, Thy sacred fire ! Consume and cleanse the sin That lingers still within its depths : Let heavenly love begin. That sacred flame Thy Saints have known, Kindle, oh Lord, in me, Thou above all the rest for ever, And all the rest in Thee." The blessing fell upon her soul ; Her angel bv her side 110 Give me thy Heart. Knew that the hour of peace was come ; Her soul was purified : The shadows fell from roof and arcli, Dim was the incensed air — But Peace went with her as she left The sacred Presence there ! THE WAYSIDE INN, fl LITTLE past the village The Inn stood, low and white Green shady trees behind it, And an orchard on the riglit ; Where over the green paling The red-cheeked apples hung, As if to watch how wearily The sijrn-board creaked and swung. The heavy-laden branches. Over the road hung low. The Wayside Inn. Ill Reflected fru:+ or blossom From the wayside well below ; Where children, drawing water, Looked up and paused to see. Amid the apple-branches, A purple Judas Tree. The road stretched winding onward For many a weary mile — So dusty foot-sore wanderers Would pause and rest awhile ; And panting horses halted, And travellers loved to tell The quiet of the wayside inn. The orchard, and the well. Here Maurice dwelt ; and often The sunburnt boy would stand Gazing upon the distance. And shading with his hand His eyes, while watching vainly For travellers, who might need His aid to loose the bridle, And tend the weary steed. 1 1 2 The IFayside Inn. And once (the boy remembered That morning, many a day — The dew lay on the ha-vvthorn, The bird sang on the spray) A train of horsemen, nobler Than he had seen before, Up from the distance gallopped, . And halted at the door. Upon a milk-white pony, Fit for a faery queen, Was the loveliest little damsel His eyes had ever seen : A serving-man was holding The leading rein, to guide The pony and its mistress, Who cantered by his side. Her sunny ringlets round her A golden cloud had made, While her large hat was keeping Her calm blue eves in shade : One hand held fast the silken reins To keep her steed in check, The Wayside Inn. 113 The other pulled his tangled mane, Or stroked his glossy neck. And as the bov brought water, And loosed the rein, he heard The sweetest voice that thanked him In one low gentle word ; She turned her blue eves from him. Looked up, and smiled to see The hanging purple blossoms Upon the Judas Tree ; And showed it with a gesture, Half pleading, half command, Till he broke the fairest blossom, And laid it in her hand ; And she tied it to her saddle With a ribbon from her hair, While her happy laugh rang gaily. Like silver on the air. But the champing steeds were rested - The horsemen now spurred on, L14 The Wayside Inn. And down the dusty highway They vanished and were gone. Years passed, and many a traveller Paused at the old inn-door, But the little milk-white pony And the child returned no more. Years passed, the apple-branches A deeper shadow shed ; And many a time the Judas Tree, Blossom and leaf, lay dead ; When on tlie loitering western breeze Came the bells' merry sound, And flowery arches rose, and flags And banners waved around. Maurice stood there expectant : The bridal train would stay Some moments at the inn-door, The eager watchers say ; They come — the cloud of dust draws near- 'Mid all the state and pride, He only sees the golden hair And blue eyes of the bride. The Wayside Inn. 115 Tlie same, yet, ah, still fairer ; He knew the face once more That bent above the pony's neck Years past at that inn-door : Her shy and smiling eyes looked round, Unconscious of the place. Unconscious of the eager gaze He fixed upon her face. He plucked a blossom from the tree — The Judas Tree — and cast Its purple fragrance towards the Bride, A message from the Past. The signal came, the horses plunged — Once more she smiled around : The purple blossom in the dust Lay trampled on the gi-ound. Again the slow years fleeted, Their passage only known By the height the Passion-flower Around the porch had grown ; And many a passing traveller Paused at the old inn-door. 116 The Wayside Inn. But the bride, so fair and blooming, The bride returned no more. One winter morning, Maurice, Watching the branches bare, Rustling and waving dimly In the grey and misty air. Saw blazoned on a carriage Once more the well-known shield, The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Upon a silver field. He looked — was that pale woman, So grave, so worn, so sad. The child, once young and smiling, The bride, once fair and glad ? What grief had dimmed that glory, And brought that dark eclipse Upon her blue eyes' radiance. And paled those trembling lips ? What memory of past sorrow, What stab of present pain. The Wayside Inn. 117 Brought that deep look of anguish, That watched the dismal rain, That watclied (with the absent spirit That looks, yet does not see) The dead and leafless branches Upon the Judas Tree. The slow dark months crept onward Upon their icy way, 'Till April broke in showers, And Spring smiled forth in May ; Upon the apple-blossoms The sun shone bright again. When slowly up the highway Came a long funeral train. The bells tolled slowly, sadly, For a noble spirit fled ; Slowly, in pomp and honour, They bore the quiet dead. Upon a black-plumed charger One rode, who held a shield. Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Shone on a silver field. / 118 The Wayside Inn. 'Mid all that homage given To a fluttering heart at rest, Perhaps an honest son'ow Dwelt only in one breast. One by the inn-door standing Watched with fast-dropping tears The long procession passing, And thought of bygone yeai-s. The boyish, silent homage To child and bride unknown. The pitj'ing tender sorrow Kept in his heart alone. Now laid upon the coffin With a purple flower, might be Told to the cold dead sleeper ; — The rest could only see A fragrant purple blossom, Plucked from a Judas Tree. I 119 VOICES OF THE PAST. OU -wonder that my tears should flow In listening to that simple strain ; That those unskilful sounds should fill My soul with joy and pain — How can you tell what thoughts it stirs Within my heart again ? You wonder why that common phrase, So all unmeaning to your ear, Should stay me in my merriest mood. And thrill my soul to hear — How can you tell what ancient charm Has made me hold it dear ? You marvel that I turn away From all those flowers so fair and bright, 1 20 Voices of the Past And gaze at this poor herb, till tears Arise and dim mv sight — You cannot tell how every leaf Breathes of a past delight. You smile to see me turn and speak With one whose converse you despise ; You do not see the dreams of old That with his voice arise — How can you tell what links have made Him sacred in my eyes ? Oh, these are Voices of the Past, Links of a broken chain, Wings that can bear me back to Times Which cannot come again — Yet God forbid that I should lose The echoes that remain ! 121 THE DARK SIDE. HOU hast done well, perhaps, To lift the bright disguise, And lay the bitter truth Before oui* shrinking eyes ; When evil crawls below What seems so pure and fair, Thine eyes are keen and true To find the serpent there : And yet — I turn away ; Thy task is not divine — The evil angels look On earth with eves like thine. Thou hast done well, perhaps, To show how closely wound Dark threads of sin and self With our best deeds are found. 122 The Dark Side. How great and noble hearts, Striving for lofty aims, Have still some earthly cord A meaner spirit claims ; And yet — although thy task Is well and fairly done, Methinks for such as thou There is a holier one. Shadows there are, who dwell Among us, yet apart. Deaf to the claim of God, Or kindly human heart ; Voices of earth and heaveij Call, but they turn away, And Love, through such black night, Can see no hope of day ; And yet — our eyes are dim, And thine are keener far — Then gaze till thou canst see The o;limmer of some star. O' The black stream flows along Whose waters we despise — The Dark Side. Show us reflected there Some fragment of the skies ; 'Neath tangled thorns and briars, (The task is fit for thee,) Seek for the hidden flowers, We are too blind to see ; Then will I thy great gift A crown and blessing call ; Angels look thus on men. And God sees good in all ! 123 A FIRST SORROW. RISE ! this day shall shine. For evermore, ^ To thee a star divine, On Time's dark shore. Till now thy soul has been All glad and gay : Bid it awake, and look At grief to-day ! 124 A First Sorrow. No shade has come between Thee and the sun ; Like some long childish dream Thy life has run : But now the stream has reached A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned, Is waiting thee. Each of God's soldiers bears A sword divine : Stretch out thv trembling hands To-day for thine ! To each anointed Priest God's summons came : Oh, Soul, he speaks to-day And calls thy name. Then, with slow reverent step, And beating heart. From out thy joyous days, Thou must depart. A First Sorrow. And, leaving all behind, Come forth, alone, To join the chosen band Around the throne. Raise up thine eyes — be strong, Nor cast away The crown, that God has given Thy soul to-day ! 125 MURMURS. HY wilt thou make bright music Give forth a sound of pain ? Why wilt thou weave fair flowers Into a wearv chain? Why turn each cool grey shadow Into a world of fears ? Why say the winds are wailing ? Why call the dewdrops tears ' 126 Murviurs. The voices of happy nature, And the Heaven's sunny gleam, Reprove thy sick heart's fancies, Upbraid thy foolish dream. Listen, and I will tell thee The song Creation sings, From the humming of bees in the heather. To the flutter of angels' wings. An echo rings for ever, The sound can never cease ; It speaks to God of glory. It speaks to Earth of peace. Not alone did angels sing it To the poor shepherds' ear ; But the sphered Heavens chant it. While listening ages hear. Above thy peevish wailing Rises that holy song ; Above Earth's foolish clamour. Above the voice of wrong. Murmurs. No creature of God's too lowly To murmur peace and praise : When the starry nights grow silent, Then speak the sunny days. So leave thy sick heart's fancies, And lend thy little voice To the silver song of glorv That bids the world rejoice. 127 GIVE. EE the rivers flowing Downwards to the sea, Pourinff all their treasures Bountiful and free — Yet to help their gi\"ing Hidden springs arise ; Or, if need be, showers Feed them from the skies ! 128 Give. Watch the princely flowers Their rich fragrance spread, Load the air with perfumes, From their beauty shed — Yet their lavish spending Leaves them not in dearth, With fresh life replenished By their mother earth ! Give thy heart's best treasures- From fair Nature learn ; Give thy love — and ask not, Wait not a return ! And the more thou spendest From thy little store. With a double bounty, God will give thee more. 12!) MY JOURNAL. T is a clrearv evening]: : The shadows rise and fall : II With strano;e and jjhostlv clian^es, They flicker on the wall. Make the charred logs burn brighter : I will S'how you, by their blaze, The half-forgotten record Of bvfjone thinjjs and days. Bring here the ancient yolume ; The clasp is old and worn, The gold is dim and tarnished, And the faded leaves are torn. The dust has gathered on it — There are so few who care To read what Time has written Of joy and sorrow there. 130 My Journal, Look at tlie first fair pages ; Yes — I remember all : The joys now seem so trivial, The griefs so poor and small. Let lis read the dreams of glory- That childish fancy made ; Turn to the next few pages, And see how soon they fade. Here, where still waiting, dreaming, For some ideal Life, The young heart all unconscious Had entered on the strife. See how tliis page is blotted : What — could those tears be mine ? Plow coolly I can read you. Each blurred and trembling line. Xow I can reason calmly, And, looking back again. Can see divinest meaning Tlireading each separate pain. My Journal. 131 Here strong resolve — how broken ; Rash hope, and foolish fear, And prayers, which God in pity Refused to grant or hear. Nay — I will turn the pages To where the tale is told Of how a dawn diviner Flushed the dark clouds with gold. ^And see, that light has gilded The story — nor shall set ; And, though in mist and shadow You know I see it yet. Here — well, it does not matter, I promised to read all ; I know not why I falter, Or why my tears should fall You see each grief is noted ; Y'et it was better so — I can rejoice to-day — the pain Was over, long; ag^o. ' DO 132 My Journal. I read — my voice is failing, But you can understand How the heart beat that guided This weak and trembling hand. Pass over that long struggle, Read where the comfort came, Where the first time is written Within the book your name. Ajrain it comes, and oftener, Linked, as it now must be, With all the joy or sorrow That Life mav brins; to me. So all the rest — you know it : Now shut the clasp again, And put aside the record Of bygone hours of pain. The dust shall gather on it, I will not read it more : Give me your hand — what was it We were talking of before ? JSlij JoiirnaL [ know not why — but tell me Of something gay and bright. It is strange — my heart is heavy, And my eyes are dim to-night. 133 A CHAIN. HE bond tliat links our souls together; Will it last through stormy weatlier ? Will it moulder and decay As the long hours pass away ? Will it stretch if Fate divide us, When dark and weary hours have ti'ied us ? Oh, if it look too poor and slight Let us break the links to-night ! It was not forged by mortal hands. Or clasped with golden bars and bands ; Save thine and mine, no other eyes The slender link can recognise : 134 A Chain. In the bright light it seems to fiade — And it is hidden in the shade; While Heaven nor Earth have never heard. Or solemn vow, or plighted word. Yet what no mortal hand could make,- No mortal power can ever break ; What words or vows could never do, No words or vows can make untrue ; And if to other hearts unknown The dearer and the more our own, Because too sacred and divine For other eves, save thine and mine. And see, though slender, it is made Of Love and Trust, and can they fade ? While, if too slight it seem, to bear The breathings of the summer air. We know that it could bear the weight Of a most heavy heart of late, And as each day and hour flew The stronger for its burthen grew. A Chain. 135 And, too, we know and feel again It has been sanctified by pain, For what God deigns to try with sorroAv He means not to decay to-moiTOW ; But through that fiery trial last "When earthly ties and bonds are past ; What slighter things dare not endure Will make our Love more safe and pure. Love^hall be purified by Pain, And Pain be soothed by Love again : So let us now take heart and go Cheerfully on, through joy and woe ; No change the summer sun can bring, Or the inconstant skies of spring. Or the bleak winter's stormy weather, For we shall meet them, Love, together ! 136 THE PILGRIMS. HE way is long and dreary, The path is bleak and bare ; Our feet are worn and weary, But we will not despair. More heavy was Thy burthen, More desolate Thy way ; — Oh Lamb of God who takest The sin of the world away, Hare mercy on us. The snows lie thick around us In the dark and gloorpy night ; And the tempest wails above ii;!, And the stars have hid their light ; But blacker was the darkness Round Calvary's Cross that day ;— Oil Lamb of God who takest The sin of the world away, ITnre mcrq/ on us. The Pilgrims. 137 Our hearts are faint with sorrow, Heavy and hard to bear ; For we dread the bitter morrow, But we will not despair : Thou knowest all our anguish, And Thou wilt bid it cease, — Oh Lamb of God who takest The sin of the world away, Give us, Tinj Peace I INCOMPLETENESS. OTHING resting in its own completeness Can have worth or beauty : but alono Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness. Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning. Gracious though it be, of her blue hours j But is hidden in her tender leaning To the Summer's richer wealth of flowei-s. 138 Incompleteness. Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly Into Day, whicli floods the world with light ; Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy Just because it ends in starry Night. Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow From Strife, that in a far-off future lies ; A.nd angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. Life is only bright when it proceedeth Towards a truer, deeper Life above ; Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth To a more divine and perfect Love. Learn the mystery of Progression duly : Do not call each glorious change. Decay ; But know we only hold our treasures truly, When it seems as if they passed away. Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness ; In that want their beauty lies : they roll Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 139 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. IRT round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance hes ; In her bhie heart reflected Shine back the starry skies ; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there : and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town : For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, A thousand years and more. 140 A Legend of Bregenz. Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep : Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know. Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had fled. To serve in the Swiss valleys. And toil for daily bread ; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast. Seemed to bear farther from hei- The memoiy of the Past. She served kind, gentle masters, Nor asked for rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle To pasture eveiy day. I A Legend of Bregenz, 141 She ceased to look and wonder On which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, With longing and with tears : Her Tyrol home seemed faded In^ deep mist of years ; She heeded not the rumours Of Austrian war and strife ; Each day she rose contented, To the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children Would clustering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land ; And when at morn and evening She knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to he-r lips alone. And so she dwelt : the valley More peaceful year by year ; 142 A Legend of Bregenz. When suddenly strange portents, Of some great deed seemed near. The ffolden corn was bendinoj Upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, Paced up and down in talk. The men seemed stern and altered, With looks cast on the ground ; With anxious faces, one by one, Tlie women gathered round ; All talk of flax, or spinning, Or work, was put away ; The very children seemed afraid To go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow W^ith strangers from the town. Some secret plan discussing. The men walked up and down. Yet, now and then seemed watching, A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees, That stood below the stream A Legend of Bregem, 143 At eve they all assembled, Then care and doubt were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted ; The board was nobly spread. The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand. And cried, " We drink the downfall " Of an accursed land ! " The night is groAving darker, " Ere one more day is flown, " Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, " Bregenz shall be our own !" The women shrank in terror, (Yet Pride, too, had her part,) But one poor Tyrol maiden Felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz ; Once more her towers arose : What were the friends beside her ? Only her country's foes ! The faces of her kinsfolk, The days of childhood flown, 144 A Legend of Bregenz. Tlie echoes of her mountains, Reclaimed her as their own ! Nothing she heard around her, (Though shouts rang forth again,) Gone -were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture, and the plain ; Before her eyes one vision. And in her heart one cry, That said, '* Go forth, save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die ! ' With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step she sped ; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed ; She loosed the strong white charger, That fed fi-om out her hand, She mounted, and she turned his head Towards her native land. Out — out into the darkness — ' Faster, and still more fast ; A Legend of Bregenz. 145 The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past ; She looks up ; clouds are heavy : Why is her steed so slow ? — Scarcely the wind beside them, Can pass them as they go. " Faster!" she cries, " Oh faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime : " Oh God," she cries, " help Bregenz, And bring me there in time ! " But louder than bells' rinfjinsr. Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnicrht The rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters Their headlong gallop check ? The steed draws back in terror, She leans upon his neck To watch the flowing darkness ; The bank is high and steep ; One pause — he staggers forward, And plunges in the deep. 146 A Legend of Bre^enz. She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein j Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance, Shine out the lights of home ! Up the steep banks he bears her, And now, they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, That tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, Just as the midnight rings. And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned ; Defiance greets the ai-my That marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic Should endless fame be paid. A Legend of Bregenz. 147 Bregenz does well to honour The noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, To do her honour still. And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid. And when, to guard old Bregenz, By gateway, street, and tower. The warder paces aU night long, And calls each passing hour ; " Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud. And then (Oh crown of Fame !) When midnight pauses in the skies, He calls the maiden's name ! 148 A FAREWELL. A RE WELL, oh dream of mine ! I dare not stay j The hour is come, and time Will not delay : Pleasant and dear to me Wilt thou remain ; No futm-e hour Brings thee again. Slie stands, the Future dim, And draws me on, And shows me dearer joys — But thou art gone ! Treasures and Hopes more fair, Bears she for me, And yet I linger, Oh dream, with tliee! A Farewell. 149 Other and brighter days, Perhaps she brings ; Deeper and liolier songs, Perchance she sings 5 But thou and I, fair time, We too must sever — Oh di'eam of mine, Farewell for ever ! SOWING AND REAPING. OW with a generous hand ; Pause not for toil or pain ; Weary not through the heat of summer, Weary not through the cold spring rain ; But wait till the autumn comes For the sheaves of golden grain. Scatter tlie seed, and fear not, A table will be spread ; 150 ISowing and Reaping, What matter if you are too weary To eat your hard-earned bread : Sow, while the earth is broken, For the hungry must be fed. Sow ; — while the seeds are lying In the warm earth's bosom deep, And your warm tears fall upon it — They will stir in their quiet sleep ; And the green blades rise the quicker, Perchance, for the tears you weep. Then sow ; — for the hours are fleeting, And the seed must fall to-day ; And care not what hands shall reap it. Or if you shall have passed away Before the waving corn-fields Shall gladden the sunny day. Sow ; and look onward, upward, Where the starry light appears — Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, Or your own heart's trembling fears, You shall reap in joy the harvest You have sown to-day in tears. 151 THE STORM. HE tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky, — Miserere Domine. Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain To live upon the stormy main ; — Miserere Domine. The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare ; A cry goes up of gi-eat despair, — 3Iiserere Domine. The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind, and pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane : — Miserere Domine. 152 The Storm, Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head ; " The storm will wake the child," they said !•— Miserere D amine. Cowering among his pillows while He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, " Father, save those at sea to-night ! " — 3Ii^erere Domine. Tlie morning shone all clear and g-av. On a ship at anchor in the bay. And on a little child at play, — Gloria tihi Domine ! WORDS. ORDS are lighter than the cloud-foam Of the restless ocean spray ; Vainer than the trembling shadow That the next hour steals away. By the fall of summer raindrojos Is the air as deeply stirred ; And the rose-leaf that we tread on Will outlive a word. Yet, on the dull silence breaking With a lightning flash, a Word, Bearino; endless desolation On its blighting wings, I heard : Earth can forge no keener weapon, Dealing surer death and pain, And the cruel echo answered Through long years again. 154 Words. I have known one word hang starlike O'er a dreary waste of years, And it only shone the brighter Looked at through a mist of tears ; While a weary wanderer gathered Hope and heart on Life's dark way, By its faithful promise, shining Clearer day by day. 1 have known a spirit, calmer Than the calmest lake, and clear As the heavens that gazed upon it, With no wave of hope or fear ; But a storm had swept across it, And its deepest depths were stirred, (Never, never more to slumber,) Onlv by a word. I have known a word more gentle Than the breath of summer air ; In a listening heart it nestled, And it lived for ever there. Not the beating of its prison Stirred it ever, night or day ; Words. 155 Only with the heart's last throbbing Could it fade away. Words are mighty, words are living : Serpents with their venomous stings, Or bright angels, crowding round us, With heaven's light upon their wings : Every word has its own spirit, True or false, that never dies ; Every word man's lips have uttered Echoes in God's skies. A LOVE TOKEN. O you grieve no costly offering To the Lady you can make ? il One there is, and gifts less worthy Queens have stooped to take. Take a Heart of virgin silver, Fashion it with heavy blows, 156 A Love Token, Cast it into Love's hot furnace WTien it fiercest glows. With Pain's sharpest point transfix it, And then carve in letters fair, Tender dreams and quaint devices, Fancies sweet and rare. Set within it Hope's blue sapphire, Many-changing opal fears. Blood-red ruby-stones of daring, Mixed with pearly teal's. And when you have wrought and laboured Till the gift is all complete, You may humbly lay your offering At the Lady's feet. Should her mood perchance be gi-acious — With disdainful smiling pride, She will place it with the trinkets Glittering at her side. 157 A TRYST WITH DEATH. AjVI footsore and very weary, But I travel to meet a Friend : The way is long and dreary, But I know that it soon must end. He is travelling fast like the whirlwind. And though I creep slowly on. We are drawing nearer, nearer. And the journey is almost done. Through the heat of many summers, Through many a springtime rain. Through long autumns and weary wintei-s, I have hoped to meet him, in vain. I know that he will not fail me. So I count every hour chime, 158 A Tryst with Death. Every throb of my own heart's beating, That tells of the flight of Time. On the day of my birth he plighted His kingly word to me : — I have seen him in dreams so often, That I know what his smile must be. I have toiled through the sunny woodland, Through fields that basked in the light ; And through the lone paths in the forest I crept in the dead of night. I will not fear at his coming, Although I must meet him alone ; He wiU look in my eyes so gently,. And take mv hand in his own. Like a dream all my toil will vanish, When I lay my head on his breast — But the journey is very weary, And he only can give me rest ! FIDELIS. U have taken back the promise That you spoke so long ago ; Taken back the heart you gave me — I must even let it so. Where Love once has breathed, Pride dietli : So I struggled, but in vain, First to keep the links together, Then to piece the broken chain. But it might not be — so freely All your friendship I restore, And the heart that I had taken As my own for evermore. No shade of reproach shall touch you, Dread no more a claim from me — But I will not have you fancy That I count myself as free. I am bound by the old promise ; What can break that golden chain ? 160 Fidelis, Not even the words that you have spoken, Or the sharpness of my pain : Do you think, because you fail me And draw back your hand to-day, That from out the heart I gave you My strong love can fade away ? It will live. No eyes may see it ; In my soul it will lie deep, Hidden from all; but I shall feel it Often stirring in its sleep. So remember, that the friendship Which you now think poor and vain, Will endure in hope and patience, Till you ask for it again. Perhaps in some long twilight hour. Like those we have kno.wn of old. When past shadows gather round you. And y»ur present friends gi'ow cold. You may stretch your hands out towards me,- Ah ! you will — I know not when — I shall nurse my love and keep it Faithfully, for you, till then. A SHADOW. HAT lack the valleys and mountains That once were green and gay ? 1 What lack the babbling fountains ? Their voice is sad to-dav. Only the sound of a voice, Tender and sweet and Ioav, That made the earth rejoice, A year ago ! What lack the tender flowers ? A shadow is on the sun : What lack the merry hours, That I long that they were done ? Only two smiling eyes, That told of joy and mirth ; They are shining in the skies, I mourn on eartli ! M 162 A Shadow. What lacks my heart, that makes it So weary and full of pain. That trembling Hope forsakes it, Never to come again ? Only another heart, Tender and all mine own, In the still grave it lies ; I weep alone ! THE SAILOR BOY. Y Life you ask of? why, you know Full soon my little Life is told ; It has had no great joy or woe. For I am only twelve years old. Ere long I hope I shall have been On my first voyage, and wonders seen. Some princess I may help to free From pirates, on a far-off sea ; Or, on some desert isle be left, Of friends and shipmates all bereft. The Sailor Boy. 163 For the first time I venture forth, From our blue mountains of the north. My kinsman kept the lodge that stood Guarding the entrance near the wood, By the stone gateway grey and old, With quaint devices carved aboiit, And broken shields ; while dragons bold Glared on the common world without ; And the long trembling ivy spray Half hid the centuries' decay. In solitude and silence grand The castle towered above the land : The castle of the Earl, whose name (Wrapped in old bloody legends) came Down through the times when Truth and Right Bent down to armed Pride and Might, He owned the country far and near ; And, for some weeks in every year, (When the brown leaves were falling fast And the long, lingering autumn ^^assed,) He would come down to hunt the deer. With hound and horse in splendid pride. The story lasts the live-long year, The peasant's winter evening fills, lf)4 The Sailor Boy. When he is gone and they abide In the lone quiet of their hills. I longed, too, for the happy night, When, all with torches flaring bright, The crowding villagers would stand, A patient, eager, waiting band, Until the signal ran like flame — " They come ! " and, slackening speed, they came. Outriders first, in pomp and state, Pranced on their horses through the gate ; Then the four steeds as black as night. All decked with trappings blue and white. Drew through the crowd that opened wide, The Earl and Countess side by side. The stern ffrave Earl, with formal smile And glistening eyes and stately pride, Could ne'er my childish gaze beguile From the fair presence by his side. The lady's soft sad glance, her eyes, (Like stars that shone in summer skies,) Her pure wliite face so calmly bent, With ffentle irreetinc's round her sent Her look, that always seemed to gaze The Sailor Boy. 165 Where the blue past had closed again Over some happy shipwrecked days, With all their freight of love and pain : She did not even seem to see The little lord upon her knee. And yet he was like angel fair, With rosy cheeks and golden hair, That fell on shoulders Avhite as snow : But the blue eyes that shone below His clustering rings of auburn curls, Were not his motlier's, but the Earl's. I feared the Earl, so cold and grim, I never dared be seen by him. When through our gate he used to ride, My kinsman Walter bade me hide ; He said he was so stern. So, when the hunt came past our way, I always hastened to obey. Until I heard the bugles play The notes of their return. But she — my very heart-strings stir Whene'er I speak or think of her — The whole wide world could never see 166 The Sailor Boy. A noble lady such as she, So full of angel charity. Strange things of lier our neighbours toM In the long winter evenings cold, Around the fire. They would draw near And speak half-whispering, as in fear ; As if they thought tlie Earl could hear Their treason 'gainst his name. They thought the story tliat his pride Had stooped to wed a low-born bride, A stain upon his fame. Some said 'twas false ; there could not be Such blot on his nobility : Bxit others vowed that they had heard The actual storv word for word, From one who well my lady knew, And had declared the story true. In a far village, little known. She dwelt — so ran the tale — alone. A widowed bride, yet, oh ! so bright, Shone through the mist of grief, her charms ; They said it was the loveliest sight — The Sailor Boij. 167 She with her baby in her arms. The Earl, one summer morning, rode By the sea-shore where she abode ; Again he came — that vision sweet Drew him reluctant to her feet. Fierce must the strucrgle in his heart Have been, between liis love and pride, Until he chose that wondrous part, To ask her to become his bride. Yet, ere his noble name she bore, He made her vow that nevermore She would behold her child again. But hide his name and hers from men. The trembling promise duly spoken. All links of the low past were broken ; And she arose to take her stand Amid the nobles of the land. Then all would wonder — could it be That one so lowly born as she. Raised to such height of bliss, should seem Still living in some weary dream ? 'Tis true she bore with calmest grace The honours of her lofty place. Yet never smiled, in peace or jov. 168 The Sailor Boy. Not even to greet her princely boy. She heard, with face of white despair, The cannon thunder through the air, That she had given the Earl an heir. Nay, even more, (they whispered low, As if they scarce durst fancy so,) That, through her lofty wedded life, No word, no tone, betrayed the wife. Her look seemed ever in the past ; Never to him it grew more sweet ; The self-same wearv Glance she cast Upon the grey-hound at her feet. As upon him, who bade her claim The crowning honour of his name. !-( This gossip, if old Walter heard, He checked it with a scornful word : I never durst such tales repeat ; He was too serious and discreet To speak of what his lord might do ; Besides, he loved my lady too. And many a time, I recollect, Thev were toi^ether in the wood ; He, witli an air of gi-ave respect, The Sailor Boy. 169 And earnest look, uncovered stood. And though their speech I never heard, (Save now and then a louder word,) I saw he spake as none but one She loved and trusted, durst have done ; For oft I watched them in the shade That the close forest branches made, Till slanting golden sunbeams came And smote the fir-trees into flame, A radiant glory round her lit, Then down her white robes seemed to flit, Gilding the brown leaves on the ground. And all the waving ferns around. While by some gloomy pine she leant And he in earnest talk would stand, I saw the tear-drops, as she bent, Fall on the flowers in her hand. — Strange as it seemed and seems to be, That one so sad, so cold as she, Could love a little child like me — Yet so it was. I never heard Such tender words as she would say. And murmurs, sweeter than a Avord, Would breathe upon me as I lay. 170 The Sailor Boy. While I, in smiling joy, would rest, For hours, my head upon her breast. Our neighbours said that none could see In me the common childish cliarms, (So grave and still I used to be,) And yet she held me in her arms, In a fond clasp, so close, so tight — I often dream of it at night. She bade me tell her all — no other My childish thoughts e'er cared to know '■ For I — I never knew my mother ; I was an orphan long ago. And I could all my fancies pour, That crentle lovino* face before. She liked to hear me tell her all ; How that day I had climbed the tree, To make the largest fir-cones fall ; And how one day I hoped to be A sailor on the deep blue sea — She loved to hear it all ! Then wondrous things she used to tell, Of the strange dreams that she had known. I used to love to hear them well, The Sailor Boy. 171 £f only for her sweet low tone, Sometimes so sad, although I knew That such things never could be true. One day she told me such a tale It made me grow all cold and pale. The fearful thing she told ! Of a poor woman mad and wild Who coined the life-blood of her child, And tempted by a fiend, had sold The heart out of her breast for gold. But, when she saw me frightened seem, She smiled, and said it was a dream. When I look back and think of her, My very heart-strings seem to stir ; How kind, \lO^^ fair she was, how good I cannot tell you. If I could You, too, would love her. The mere thought Of her great love for me has brought Tears in my eyes : though far away, It seems as it were yesterday. And just as when I look on high Through the blue silence of the sky, Fresh stars shine out, and more and more, Where I could see so few before ; 172 The Sailor Boy. So, tlie more steadily I gaze Upon tliose far-off misty days, Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start Before my eyes and in my heart. I can remember how one day (Talking in silly childish way) I said how happy I should be If I were like her son — as fair. With just such bright blue eyes as he, And such long locks of golden hair. A strange smile on her pale face broke. And in strange solemn words she spoke : " My own, my darling one — no, no ! I love you, far, far better so. I would not change the look you bear. Or one wave of vour dark bro'mi hair. The mere glance of your sunny eyes. Deep in my deepest soul I prize Above that baby fair ! Not one of all the Earl's proud line In beauty ever matched with thine ; And, 'tis by thy dark locks thou art Bound even faster round my heart, And made more whollv mine ! " The Sailor Boy. 173 And then she paused, and weeping said, " You are like one who now is dead — Who sleeps in a far-distant grave. Oh may God grant that you may be As noble and as good as he, As gentle and as brave ! " Then in my childish way I cried, '' The one you tell me of who died, Was he as noble as the Earl ? " I see her red lips scornful curl, I feel her hold my hand again So tightly, that I shrink in pain — T seem to hear her say, '•'■ He whom I tell you of, who died, He was so noble and so gay. So generous and so brave, That the proud Earl by his dear side Would look a craven slave." She paused ; then, with a quivering sigh, She laid her hand upon my brow : " Live like him, darling, and so die. Remember that he tells you now, True peace, real honour, and content, In cheerful fiious toil abide ; 174 The Sailor Boy, That gold and splendour are but sent To curse our vanity. and pride." One day some childish fever pain Burnt in my veins and fired my brain. Moaning, I turned from side to side ; And, sobbing in my bed, I cried, Till night in calm and darkness crept Around me, and at last I slept. When suddenly I woke to see The Lady bending over me. The drops of cold November rain Were falling from her long, damp hair ; Her anxious eyes were dim with pain ; Yet she looked wondrous fair. Arrayed for some great feast she came. With stones that shone and burnt like flame ; Wound round her neck, like some bright snake, And set like stars within her hair. They sparkled so, they seemed to make A glory everywhere. I felt her tears upon my face. Her kisses on my eyes ; And a stransre thoudit I could not trace The Sailor Boy. 175 I felt Avithin my heart arise ; And, half in feverish pain, I said : " Oh if my mother were not dead !" And Walter bade me sleep ; but she Said, " Is it not the same to thee That I watch by thy bed ?" I answered her, " I love you, too ; But it can never be the same ; She was no Countess like to you, Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame.'' Oh the wild look of fear and dread ! The cry she gave of bitter woe ! I often wonder what I said To make her moan and shudder so. Throuo^h the long night she tended me With such sweet care and charity. But I should weary you to tell All that I know and love so well : Yet one night more stands out alone With a sad sweetness all its own. The wind blew loud that dreary night: Its wailing; voice I well remember ; The stars shone out so large and bright 176 The iSmlor Boy. Upon the frosty fir-boughs white, That dreary night of cold December. I saAv old Walter silent stand, Watching the soft white flakes of snov/ With looks I could not understand, Of strange perplexity and woe. At last he turned and took my hand, A.nd said the Countess just had sent To bid us come ; for she would fain See me once more, before she went Away — never to come again. We came in silence through the wood (Our footfall was the only sound) To where the great white castle stood, With darkness shadowing it around. Breathless, we trod with cautious care Up the great echoing marble stair ; Trembhng, by Walter's hand I held. Scared by the splendours I beheld : Now thinking, " Should the Earl appear !" Now looking up with giddy fear To tlie dim vaulted roof, that spread Its gloomy arches overhead. Long corridors we softly past. The Sailor Boy. 177 (My heart was beating loud and fast) And reached the Lady's room at last : A strange faint odour seemed to wein-h Upon the dim and darkened air ; One shaded lamp, with softened ray, Scarce showed the gloomy splendour there. The dull red brands were burning low. And yet a fitful gleam of light, Would now and then, with sudden glow, Start forth, then sink again in night. I gazed around, yet half in fear. Till Walter told me to draw near : And in the strange and flickering light, Towards the Lady's bed I crept ; All folded round with snowy white. She lay ; (one would have said she slept ;) So still the look of that white face. It seemed as it were carved in stone, I paused before I dared to place Within her cold white hand my own. But, with a smile of sweet surprise. She turned to me her dreamy eyes ; And slowly, as if life were pain. She drew me in her arms to lie : N 178 The Sailor Boy. She strove to speak, and strove in vain j Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh. The throbs that seemed to shake her breast, The trembling clasp, so loose and weak, A-t last grew calmer, and at rest ; And then she strove once more to speak : " My God, I thank thee, that my pain Of day by day and year by year, Has not been suffered all in vain, And I may die while he is near. I wall not fear but that Thy grace Has swept away my sin and woe, And sent this little angel face. In my last hour to tell me so." (And here her voice grew faint and low,) " My child, where'er thy life may go. To know that thou art brave and true, VV^ill pierce the highest heavens through. And even there my soul shall be More joyful for this thought of thee." She folded her white hands, and stayed ; All cold and silently she lay : I knelt beside the bed, and prayed The prayer she used to make me say. The Sailor Boy. 179 I said it many times, and then She did not move, but seemed to be In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. No sound woke in the silent room, Or broke the dim and solemn o-loom. Save when the brands that burnt so low. With noisy fitful gleam of light, Would spread around a sudden glow. Then sink in silence and in nio^ht. How long I stood I do not know : At last poor Walter came, and said (So sadly) that we now must go, And whispered, she we loved was dead. He bade me kiss her face once more. Then led me sobbing to the door. I scarcely kncAv what dying meant. Yet a strange grief, before unknown, Weighed on my spirit as we went And left her lying all alone. We went to the far North once more. To seek the well-remembered home, Where my poor kinsman dwelt before, Whence now he was too old to roam ; 180 The Sailor Boy. And there six happy years we past, Happy and peaceful till the last ; When poor old Walter died, and he Blessed me and said I now might be A sailor on the deep blue sea. And so I go ; and yet in spite Of all the joys I long to know, Though I look onward with delight, With something of regret I go ; And young or old, on land or sea. One guiding memory I shall take — Of what She prayed that I might be, A.nd what I will be for her sake ! 181 A CROWN OF SORROW. SORROW, wet with early tears Yet bitter, had been long with me ; I I wearied of this weight of years, And would be free. I tore my Sorrow from my heart, I cast it far awav in scorn ; Right joyful that we two could part — Yet most forlorn. I sought, (to take my Sorrow's place,) Over the world for flower or gem- But she had had an ancient grace Unknown to them. I took once more with strange delight IMy slighted Sorrow ; proudly now, T wear it, set with stars of light, Upon my brow. 182 THE LESSON OF THE WAR. (1855.) I HE feast is spread through England For rich and poor to-day ; Greetings and laughter may be there, But thoughts are far avvav ; Over the stormy ocean, Over the dreary track. Where some are gone, wliom England Will never welcome back. Breathless she waits, and listens For every eastern breeze That bears upon its bloody wings News from beyond the seas. The leafless branches stirring Make many a watcher start ; The distant tramp of steed may send A throb from heart to heart. The Lesson of the War. 183 The rulers of tlie nation, The poor ones at their gate, With the same eager wonder The same great news await. The poor man's stay and comfoil, The rich man's joy and pride, Upon the bleak Crimean shore Are fighting side by side. The bullet comes — and either A desolate hearth may see ; And God alone to-night knows where The vacant place may be ! Tlie dread that stirs the peasant Thrills nobles' hearts with fear — Yet above selfish sorrow Both hold their country dear. The rich man who reposes In his ancestral shade, The peasant at his ploughshare. The worker at his trade. Each one his all has perilled, Each has the same great stake, 184 The Lesson of the IVar. Each soul can but have patience, Each heart can only break ! Hushed is all party clamour; One thought in every heart, One dread in every household, Has bid such strife depart. England has called her children ; Long silent — the word came That ht the smouldering ashes Through all the land to flame. Oh you who toil and suffer, You gladly heard the call ; But those you sometimes envy Have they not given their all ? Oh vou who rule the nation, Take now the toil-worn hand — Brothers you are in sorrow, In duty to your land. Learn but this noble lesson Ere Peace returns again, And the life-blood of Old England Will not be shed in vain. 185 THE TWO SPIRITS. (1855.) AST night, when weary silence fell on allj, And starless skies arose so dim and vast, I heard the Spirit of the Present call Upon the sleeping Spirit of the Past. Far off and near, I saw their radiance shine. And listened while they spoke of deeds divine. The Spirit of the Past. My deeds are writ in iron ; My glory stands alone ; A veil of shadowy honour Upon my tombs is thrown ; The great names of my heroes Like gems in history lie ; 186 The Two Spirits. To live they deemed ignoble, Had they the chance to die ! The Spirit of the Present. My children, too, are honoured ; Dear shall their memory be To the proud lands that own them ; Dearer than thine to thee ; For, though they hold that sacred Is God's great gift of life, At the first call of duty They rush into the strife ! Tlie Spirit of the Past. Then, with all valiant precepts Woman's soft heart was frauglit ; '* Death, not dishonour," echoed The war-cry she had taught. Fearless and glad, those mothers, At bloody deaths elate, Cried out they bore their children Only for such a fate ! The Two Spirits. 187 The Spirit uf the Present. Though such stern laws of honour Are faded now away, Yet many a mourning mother, With nobler grief than they, Bows down in sad submission : The heroes of the fight Learnt at her knee the lesson, " For God and for the Right !" The Spirit of the Past. No voice there spake of sorrow : They saw the noblest fall With no repining murmur ; Stern Fate was lord of all. And when the loved ones perished. One cry alone arose, Waking the startled echoes, " Vengeance upon our foes !'* 188 The Two Spirits. The Spirit of the Present. Grief dwells in France and England For many a noble son ; Yet louder than the sorrow, " Thy will, Oh God, be done !" From desolate homes is risins: One prayer, " Let carnage cease ! On friends and foes have mercy, Oh Lord, and give us peace ! " The Spirit of the Past. Then, every hearth was honoui'ed That sent its children forth. To spread their country's glory. And gain her south or north. Then, little recked they numbers, No band would ever fly. But stern and resolute they stood To conquer or to die. i The Two Spirits. 189 The Spirit of the Present. And now from France and England Their dearest and their best Go forth to succour freedom, To help the much oppressed ; Now, let the far-off Future And Past bow down to-day, Before the few vouncj hearts that hold Whole armaments at bay. The Spirit of the Past. Then, each one strove for honour. Each for a deathless name ; Love, home, rest, joy, were offered As sacrifice to Fame. They longed that in far ages Their deeds might still be told, And distant times and nations Their names in honour liold. 190 The Two Spirits. Tlie Spirit of the Present. Though nursed by such old legends, Our heroes of to-day Go cheerfully to battle As children go to play ; They Siaze with awe and wonder On your great names of pride, Unconscious that their own will sliine Til glory side by side ! Day dawned ; and as the Spirits passed away, Methought I saw, in the dim morning grey, The Past's bright diadem had paled before The starry crown the glorious Present wore. 191 A LITTLE LONGER. LITTLE longer yet— a little longer, Shall violets bloom for thee, and gweet birds sing ; And the lime branches where soft winds are blowing, Shall mui-mur the sweet promise of the Spring ! A little longer yet — a little longer, Thou shalt behold the quiet of the morn ; While tender grasses and awakening flowers Send up a golden mist to greet the dawn ! A little longer yet — a little longer, The tenderness of twilight shall be thine, The rosy clouds that float o'er djang daylight, Nor fade till trembling stars begin to shine. A little longer yet — a little longer. Shall starry night be beautiful for thee ; 192 A Little Longer. And the cold moon shall look through the blue silence, Flooding her silver path upon the sea. A little longer yet — a httle longer, Life shall be thine ; life with its power to will ; Life with its strength to bear, to love, to conquej', Bringing its thousand joys thy heart to fill. A little longer yet — a Uttle longer, The voices thou hast loved shall charm thine ear ; And thy true heart, that now beats quick to hear them, A little longer yet shall hold them dear. A little longer yet— joy while thou mayest ; Love and rejoice ! for time has nought in store : And soon the darkness of the grave shall bid thee Lo've and rejoice and feel and know no more. A little longer still — Patience, Beloved A little longer still, ere Heaven unroll A Little Longer. 193 The Glory, and the Brightness, and the Wonder, Eternal, and divine, that waits thy Soul ! A little longer ere Life true, immortal, (Not this our shadowy Life,) will be thine own ; And thou shalt stand where winged Archangels worship, And trembling bow before the Great White Throne. A little longer still, and Heaven awaits tliee. And fills thy spirit with a great delight ; Then our pale joys will seem a dream forgotten. Our Sun a darkness, and our Day a Night. A little longer, and thy Heart, Beloved, Shall beat for ever with a Love divine : . And joy so pure, so mighty, so eternal, No creature knows and lives, will then be thine. A little longer yet — and angel voices Shall ring in heavenly chant upon thine ear ; Angels and Saints await thee, and God needs thee : Beloved, can we bid thee linger here ! 194 GRIEF. I N ancient enemy have I, And either he or I must die ; ii For he never leaveth me, Never gives my soul relief, Never lets my sorrow cease. Never gives my spirit peace — For mine enemy is Grief ! Pale he is, and sad and stem ; And whene'er he cometh nigh, Blue and dim the torches burn, Pale and shrunk the roses turn ; While my heart that he has pierced Many a time with fiery lanoe, Beats and trembles at his glance ; Clad in burning steel is he, All my strength he can defy j For he never leaveth me — And one of us must die ! Grief. 195 I have said, " Let ancient sages Charm me from my thoughts of pain I " So I read their deepest pages, And I strove to think — in vain ! Wisdom's cold calm words I tried. But he was seated by my side : — Learning I have won in vain ; She cannot rid me of my pain. When at last soft sleep comes o'er me, A cold hand is on my heart ; Stern sad eyes are there before me ; Not in dreams will he depart : And when the same dreary vision From my weary brain has fled. Daylight brings the living phantom, He is seated by my bed, Bending o'er me all the while, With his cruel, bitter smile, Ever with me, ever m