THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^-ef^^-H FIFTY MODERN POEMS. BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. LOiN DON : BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET. 186.5. vnL i TO A. F Dkah F. My " Work?," for so far, (trivial enough works !) arc now in three volumes, containing a hundred and thirteen poems, long and short. These claim to he genuine in their way, and beyond this the winter thinks or cares very little about them ; but it emboldens him to ask you to accept the present little book, and to continue to think kindly of Your Fiu i:\ i>. March, 1S65 CONTENTS. Page i. Invitation to a Painter .... 1 n. Song. '•' Wo Two" ..... 15 in. George Levison ; or, the Schoolfellows . . 17 iv. The Old Sexton 30 v. Recovery ....... 32 vi. The Shooting Star 33 vii. '* On the Longest Day" .... 35 via. Abbey Asaroe ...... 3S ix. Lute Autumn ....... 42 x. Robin Redbreast ...... 43 xi. Sir Hugh de la Pole . 45 xn. Sung 49 xiii. In Weimar ....... 50 xiv. Every Day ....... 54 xv. The Lupracaun, or Fairy Shoemaker . . 57 xvi. After Sunset ....... 61 xvii, Southwell Park ...... 62 xvin. The Little Dell 85 xix. A Wife 8S xx. Old Master Grunsey and Goodman Dodd . 00 xxi. The Poor Little Maiden .... 9S xxn. " Across the Sea" ..... 101 xxiii. His Town . . . . . . . 103 wiv. Hymn ....... 105 xxv. The Queen of the Forest .... L06 A ■> VJ1) Contents. Page XXVI. Progress ...... 109 XXVII. The Winding Bunks of Erne • or, the Emigrant's Adieu to Ballyshannon 111 XXVIII. Loss . . . . • 119 XXIX. Winter Verdure 121 XXX. A Dream of a Gate - 12-2 XXXI. Danger ..... 130 XXXII. The Abbot of Innisfallen . 131 XXXIII. Sunday Bells .... 137 XXXIV. Two Fairies in a Garden . 139 XXXV. Emily ..... 147 XXXVI. Nightwind .... 150 xx.wii. Winter Cloud .... 1 :>2 XXXVIII. Evening Prayer 153 XXXIX. A Vernal Voluntary 154 XL. A Gravestone .... 159 XL I. Angela 160 XI. II. The Mowers .... 1G3 XI.IU. Dogmatism .... ICG XI. IV. vEoliui) Harp .... 168 M.V. A mong the Heather . 170 XI. VI. Two Moods J 7:2 X LVI I. Mea Culpa .... 175 XI. \ III. Down on the Shore . 177 X LIX. To the Nightingales . 179 I.. •'■ These little Songs" Is-! Xoti;. Six of these poems, xi. i. xi. in. appeared in an t xiv, xxxm. xxx i \ . x ' . n v 1 1*1 v \ ollime. on! i 4' prim soin FIFTY MODERN POEMS. INVITATION TO A PAINTER. I. TM-.EE from London, good my Walter! bound- less? jail of bricks and pis; Care not if your Exhibition swarm with portrait and Gil Bias, Or with man els dear to Ruskin ; fly the swelter, i;\ the crush, jjritish Mammon in his glory, — in his breathless race and rush. Leave the hot tumultuous city for the breakers' rival roar, our soft suburban landscape for the rude hills by the shore, Invitation to a Painter Leagues of smoke for morning vapour lifted off a mountain-ran u'e, Crinoline for barefoot beauty, and for " something new and strange" All your towny wit and gossip. You shall both in field and fair, Paddy's cunning and politeness with the Cockney ways compare, Catch those lilts and old-world tunes the maidens at their needle sing, Peep at dancers, from an outskirt of the blithe applausive ring, See our petty Court of Justice, where the swearing's very strong*, our little plain St. Pi tor's v. ith its km peasant throng ; Hear the brogue and Gaelic round you: sketch a hundred Irish scenes, 'Xot mere whisky and shillelagh) — wedding ba? - rpiets, funeral hcciu s ; i'ovc til pleasure, noon or miduiii'ht; change a word. i all you mo i : T I'll times snt'er than in England, far less trammell'd iii vour I'm t. Invitation to a Painter. Here, the only danger known Is walking whore the land's your own. Landscape-lords are left alone. We are barren, I confess it ; but our scope of view is fine; Dignifying shapes of mountains wave on each horizon-line, So withdrawn that never house-room utmost pomp o1 cloud may lack, .,i or sunset, moon or planet, or mysterious zodiac, ilills beneath run all a-wrinkle, rocky, moory, pleasant green ; From its Lough the Flood descending, Hashes like a sword between, Through our crags and woods and meadows, to the mounded harbour-sand, Co the Bay, calm blue, or, sometimes, whose Titanic anus expand Welcome to the mighty billow rolling in from > cw foundland. Invitation to a Paint/ Outs, potatoes, cling in patches round the rocks and boulder-stones, Like a motley ragged garment for the lean Earth's jutting bones ; Moors extend, and bogs and furzes, where you seldom meet a soul, But the Besom-man or woman, who to ear:) a stingy dole Stoops beneath a nodding burden of the scents d heather-plant, Or a jolly gaiter' d Sportsman, striding near the grouse's haunt, Slow the anchoritic heron, musing by ids void I< - ,: pond, Startled, with the startled echo on the lonely cliff beyond, Rising, flaps away. And now a summit shows us, wide and ham, All the brown uneven country, lit with waters here and tin re ; liward, mountain? — north w ard, mountains — westward, golden mystery Of coruscation, when the 1 )ays tar flings his largi sse on the sea ; Invitation to a -Painter. 5 Peasant cots with humble haggarts ; mansions with obsequious groves ; A Spire, a Steeple, rival standards, which the liberal distance loves To set in union. There the dear but dirty little Town abides, And you and I come home to dinner after all our walks and rides. You shall taste a cleanly pudding; But, bring shoes to stand a mudding. Let me take you by the muruagh, sprinkled with the Golden Weeds Merry troops of Irish Fairies mount by moonlight for their steeds, — Wherefore sacred and abundant over all the land are they. Many cows are feeding through it ; cooling, of a sultry day, '■ Murvagh,"' level place near the sea, salt marsh. ■• Golden Weeds,-" 5 ragwort, called " bonghaleeu h (little veil -a boy), also t; fairy-horse.'' G Invitation to a Painter. By the River's brink, that journeys under Fairy Hill, and past Gentle cadences of landscape sloping to the sea at last. Now the yellow sand is round us, drifted in fantastic shapes, Heights and hollows, forts and bastions, pyramids and curving capes, Breezy ridges thinly waving with the bent-weed's pallid green, Delicate for eye that sips it, till a better feast is seen Where the turf swells thick-embroider' d with the fragrant purple thyme, Where, in plots of speckled orchis, poet larks begin their rhyme, Iloney'd galium waits an invitation to the gypsy bees, Rabbits' doorways wear for garlands azure tufts of wild heartsease, Paths of sward around the hillocks, dipping into ferny dells, Show you heaps of childhood's treasure- — twisted. varv-tinted shells Invitation to a Painter. Lnpt in moss and blossoms, empty, and forgetful of the wave. Ha! a creature scouring nimbly, bops at once into bis cave ; Brother Coney sits regardant, — wink an eye, and where is be I Towns and villages we pass through, but the people skip and flee. Over sandy slope, a Mountain lifts afar bis fine blue bead ; There the savage twins of eagles, gaping, hissing to be fed, Welcome back their wide-wing' d parent with a rabbit scarcely dead Hung in those powerful yellow claws, and gorge the bloody flesh and fur On ledge of rock, their cradle. Shepherd-boy ! with limbs and voice bestir To your watch of tender lambkins on a lonesome valley-side, If you, careless in the sunshine, see a rapid shadow glide Down the verdant undercliff. Afar that conquering eve can sweep 8 Invitation to a Painter. Mountain -glens, and moy, and warren, to the margin of the deep, Worse than dog or ferret, — vanish from your gold- gn en-mossy dells, Nibbling natives of the burrow ! seek your inmost winding cells When such cruelties appear; But a Painter do not fear, Xor a Poet, loitering near. 4, Painter, what is spread before you ? r Tis the great Atlantic sea ! Many-colour'd lloor of ocean, where the lights and shadows flee ; Waves and wavelets running landward with a .-:, irkle and a song, Crystal green with foam enwoven, bursting, brightly Thousand living shapes ol' wonder in T i i . ■ clear pools of the rock : Invitation to a Painter. 9 Lengths of strand, and scafowl armies rising; like a puff of smoke ; Drift and tangle on the limit where the wandering' water fails ; Level faintly-clear horizon, touch'd with clouds and phantom sails, — come hither! weeks together let us watch the big Atlantic, Blue or purple, green or gurly, dark or shining, smooth or frantic. Par across the tide, slow-heaving, rich autumnal daylight sets ; See our crowd of busy row-boats, hear us noisy with our nets, Where the glittering sprats in millions from the Till there scarce is room for rowing, every gunwale nearly dipt ; Gulls around us, flying, dropping, thick in air as flakes of snow, Snatching luckless little fishes in their silvery over- How. Xow one streak of western scarlet lingers upon ocean's edge, 10 Invitation to a Pain it r. Xow through ripples of the splendour of the mooii we swiftly wedge Our loaded how.-: the fisher-hamlet beacons with domestic light : On the shore the carls and horses wait to travel through the night To a distant city market, while the boatmen sup and sleep, While the firmamental stillness arches o'er th dusky deep, Ever muttering chaunts and dirgi - Hound its reel:- and sandv \< rgi s. Ere we part at winter's portal, I shall rev, you of a night On a swirling Stygian river, to a ghostly yi I light. When the nights sire black and gusty, then do in myriads glide Through the pools and down the rapids. hurryinc OODBYE, goodbye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun ; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away, — But Robin's here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. 2. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; 44 Rubin Redbreast. The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough ; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do ? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheatstack tor the mouse. When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house ; The frosty ways like iron. The branches plumed with snow,- Alas ! in Winter dead and dark Where can poor Robin go ! Robin, Robin Redbreast, () Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. 45 XL SIR HUGH DE LA POLE. 1. SIR HUGH DE LA POLE was a sturdy old knight, Who in war and in peace had done every man right; Had lived with his neighbours in loving accord, Save the Abbot and Monks, whom he fiercely ab- horr'd, And to their feet alone refused oak-floor and sward. With guests round his table, good servants at call, His laughter made echo the wide castle-hall : He whoop' (1 to the falcon, he hunted the deer; If down by the Abbey, his comrades could hear — ,; A plague on these mummers, who mime all tin 4G Sir 11 a (fk de la Pole 3. And now see him stretch'd on his leave-taking bed. Five minutes ago with a calm smile lie said, " I can trust my poor soul to the Loi'd God of Heaven, '" Though living unpriested and dying unshriven. " Say all of you, friends,' May his sins he forgiven !' " But some who are near to him sorely repine He thus should decease like an ox or a swine: So a message in haste to the Abbey they send, When the voice cannot ring, and the arm cannot bend ; For this reign, as all reigns do, approaches an end. Savs my lady, "Too long 1 haveyii hied my mind." Son Richard " to go with the world" is inclined. " Sweel Mother of Mercy !" sobs Jane, bis youn: spouse, : - t ) Saviour, forget not my t< ars and my vows ! " In prayr for the dying her spirit she bows. Sir Hugh de la Pole. 47 (J. At once the good Abbot forgets every wrong. And speeds to the gate which repcll'd him so long; The stair (" Pax vobiscum !") is strange to his tread; lie puts everyone forth. Not a sound from that bed ; And the spark from beneath the white eyebrow is tied. 7. Again the door opens, all enter the place, Where pallid and stern lies the well-beloved face. " The Church, through God's help and Saint Simon's, hath won To her bosom of pity a penitent son." See the cross on his breast; hark, the knell is beerun. s. Who feasts with young Richard? who shrives the fair Jane ? Whose nude to the Castle jogs right, without rein? Our Abbey has moorland and meadowland wide, Where Hugh for his hunting and hawking would ride, Full oi priest-hating whimsies and paganish pride. 48 Sir Hvgh de la Pale. 9. In the chancel the tomb is of Hugh de la Pole. Ten thousand fine masses were said for his soul, With praying, and tinkling, and incense, and flame; In the centre whereof, without start or exclaim, His bones fell to dust. You may still read the name, 'Twixt an abbot's and bishop's who once were of fame. 49 XII. SONG. SPIRIT of the Summertime ! Bring back the roses to the dells 10 swallow from her distant clime. The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring- back the friendship of the sun ; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing ; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime; — Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime ! 50 XIII. IX WEIMAR. (OCTOBER, 1859. ) 1. IX little German Weimar, With soft green hills enfolded, Where shady Ilm-brook wanders, A Great Alan lived and wrote; In life and art and nature He conn'd their " open secret," Of men and hours and fortunes He reverently took note. I *pon a verge of Europe, Facing the silent sunsets, And loud Atlantic billows, for mo, too, rose his thought, Turn'd to a shape of stars on high Within the spiritual sky Of many an upward-gazing eye. In Weimar. 51 And now, this new October, Within a holy garden, 'Mid flowers and trees and crosses, When dusk begins to fall, — Where linden leaves are paling, And poplar leaves are gilded, And crimson is the wild-vine That hangs across the wall, — ■ I see the little temple Wherein, with dust of princes, The body lies of Goethe, And may not move at all. He mark'd all changes of the year ; He loved to live ; he did not fear The never-broken silence here. Slow foots the grey old Sexton, The ducal town's Dead-watcher. Attending day and night time A bell that never rings ; The corpse upon the pallet, A thread to every finger,— The slightest touch would sound it, But silence broods and clings. /// // eimar. Beside the room of stillness, While yet his couch is wanner, This old man hath his bidincr, Therefrom the key he brings. For mighty mortals, in his day, lie hath unlock'd the House of Clay ,- For them, as we are wont to say. By yellow-leafy midwalk Slow foots that aged Sexton ; " J a mold! I have seen Goethe, And spoken too with him.*' The lamp with cord he lowers, And I, l>v steps descending, Behold through grated doorway A chambi r chill and dim, — ( laze on a dark red coffer : Full fourscore years wen.' counted, \\ In n that grand head lay useless, A ml each heroic limb. Schiller's dust is close beside, And Carl August's not far, — denied His chosen place by princely pride. In Weimar. .53 The day had gloom'd and drizzled, But clear' d itself in parting, The hills were soft and hazy, Fine colours streak'd the west, (Above that distant ocean) And Weimar stood before me, A dream of half my lifetime, A vision for the rest : The House that fronts the fountain, The Cottage at the woodside, — Long since I surely knew them, But still, to see was best. Town and Park for eyes and feet : But all th' inhabitants I greet Are Ghosts, in every walk and street. 54 XIV. EVERY DAY. LET us not teach and preach so much. But cherish, rather than profess ; Be careful how the thoughts we touch Of God, and Love, and Holiness, — A charm, most spiritual, faint, And delicate, forsakes the breast, Bird-like, when it perceives the taint Of prying breath upon its nest. Esing, enjoying, let ii< live; Set. here to urow, what should we do lint take what soil and climate give ? For thence must come our sap and line Blooming as sweetly as we may, Xor beckon comers, nor debar: Let then) take halm or gall away, According as their natures are: Every Day. 55 Look straight at all things from the soul, But boast not much to understand; Make each new action sound and whole, Then leave it in its place unscann'd : Be true, devoid of aim or care ; Nor posture, nor antagonise : Know well that clouds of this our air But seem to wrap the mighty skies : Search starry mysteries overhead, Where wonders gleam ; yet bear in mind That Earth 's our planet, firm to tread, Nor in the star-dance left behind : For nothing is withheld, be sure, Our being needed to have shown • The far was meant to be obscure, The near was placed so to be known. Cast we no astrologic scheme To map the course we must pursue ; But use the lights whene'er they beam, And every trustv landmark too. 56 Every Day. The Future let us not permit To choke us in its shadow's clasp ; It cannot touch us, nor we it ; The present moment's in our grasp. Soul sever' d from the Truth is Sin ; The dark and dizzy gulf is Doubt; Truth never moves, — unmoved therein, Our road is straight and firm throughout. This Road 'for ever doth abide. The universe, if fate so call, May sink away on either side: But This and God at once shall fall. 0/ XY. L THE LUPRACAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER. (a rhyme for the children.) 1. ITTLE Cowboy, what Lave you beard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound ? Only the plaintive yellow bird Sighing in sultry fields around, Chary, chary, chary, cln e-ee ! Only the grasshopper and the bee? " Tip-tap, rip-rap, Tick-a-tack-too ! Scarlet leather sewn together, This will make a shoe. Left, right, pull it tight ; Summer days are warm ; Underground in winter, Lauidiimi' at the storm !" Iiiith,'"' ancient earthen fort. YTelL \\ bird.'-' the vulluw-buntinsj, or yorli, i8 The Lupracaun. Lay your ear close to the hill. Do you not catch the tiny clamour — Busy click of an elfin hammer, Voice of the Lupracaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade ? He's a span And a quarter in height. Get him in sight, hold him tight, And you 're a made Man ! 2. You watch your cattle the summer day, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; How would you like to roll in your carriage, Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage? Seize the Shoemaker — then you may ! " Big boots a-hunting, Sandals in the hall, White ibi' a wedding-feast, Pink for a ball. This way, thai way, So we make a shoe : The Lupracaitn. 59 (retting rich every stitch, Tick-tack-too !" Nme-and-ninety treasure-crocks This keen miser-fairy hath, Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks, Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath, And where the cormorants build ; From times of old Guarded by him ; Each of them fill'd Full to the brim With gold ! 3. I caught him at work one day, myself, In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows, — A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded elf, Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron — shoe in his lap — " Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tack- tack-too ! (A grig skipp'd upon my cap, Awav the moth Hew) GO The Lupracaun. Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son, — Pay me well, pay me well, When the job is clone !" The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. I stared at him ; he stared at me; iC Servant, Sir!" " Humph!" says he, And pull'd a snuff-box out. He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased, The queer little Lupracaun ; Offer' d the box with a whimsical grace, — Pouf ! he Hung the dust in my face, And, while I sneezed, Was <^one ! 61 XVI. AFTER SUNSET. r ]jHlIE vast and solemn company of clouds Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined, Cool into ashy wan; a.s Night enshrouds The level pasture, creeping up behind Through voiceless vales, o'er lawn and purpled hill And hazed mead, her mystery to fulfil. Cows low irom far-off farms ; the loitering wind Sighs in the hi dge, you hear it if you will, — Though all the wood, alive atop with wind's Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks, Seethes with the clamour often thousand rooks. Xow every sound at length is hush'd away. These few are sacred moments. One more Day Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things. G2 XVII. SOUTHWELL PARK. I. FROM THE HIGHWAY. , JMIIEXL) Edward, from this turn remark A vista of the Bridegroom's Park, Fair Southwell, shut while you were here By selfish Cupid, who allows A sunny glimpse through heechen boughs Of dells of grass with fallow deer, And one white corner of the house Built for the young Heir's wedding-day, The dull old walls being swept away. Wide and low, its eaves arc laid Over a slender colonnade, Partly hiding, partly seen, Amid redundant veils of green, Which garland pillars into bowers, And top theni with a frieze of flowers: Southwell Park. 63 The slight fence of a crystal door (Like air enslaved by magic lore) Or window reaching to the floor, Divides the richly furnish'd rooms From terraces of emerald sward, Vases full of scarlet blooms, And little gates of rose, to guard The sidelong steps of easy flight ; Or, with a touch, they all unite. All 's perfect for a Bride's delight, And She a worthy queen of all ; Gold-hair'd (I've seen her), slim and tall; With — O a true celestial face Of tender gravity and grace, And gentle eyes that look you through, Eyes of softly solemn blue. Serene the wealthy mortal's fate, Whose last wild-oats is duly sown ! Observe his Paradise's gate, With two heraldic brutes in stone For sentries. Did the coppice move ? A straggling deer perhaps. By Jove ! A woman brushing through : she's gone. 6-t Soutlncell Park. Now what the deuce can bring her there? Jog, lad: it's none of our affair. Well — you're to voyage, and I'm to stav. Will Lucy kiss you, some other (lav, When you cany your nuggets back this way You must not grow so rich and wise That friends shall fail to recognise The schoolboy-twinkle in your eves. Each his own track. I'll mind my farm, And keep the old folk's chimney warm. But however we strive, and chance to thrive, We shall scarcely overtake this Youth, Who has all to his wish, and seems in truth The very luckiest man alive.'"' II. — BY THE POXI). " These walls of green, my Emmelinc, A labyrinth of shade and -been, Bar out the world a thousand miles, Helping tin.' pathway's winding wiles To po-e you to the end. INow think, What thanks mi^'ht one deser\e for this Which lately was a swamp, and is Southivell Park. 65 An elfin lake, its curving brink Embost with rhododendron bloom, Azaleas, lilies, — jewelries, (Ruby and amethyst grow like these Under our feet) on fire to dress, Round every little glassy bay, The sloping turf with gorgeousness ? As right, we look our best to day ; No petal dropt, no speck of gloom. Emmeline, this faery lake Rose to its margins for your sake; As yet without a name, it sues Your best invention ; think and cboose. Its Hood is gather' d on the fells, (Whose foldings you and I shall trace) Hid in many a hollow place ; But through Himalayan dells, Where the silvery pinnacles Hanging faint in furthest heaven Catch the flames of morn and even, Hound the lowest rampart swells The surge of rhododendron flow'rs, Indian ancestry of ours : And the tropic woods luxuriantly G6 Southwell Park. By Oronooko's river-sea Nurtured the germs of this and this : And there's a blossom first was seen In a dragon-vase of white and green 13y the sweetheart of a mandarin, Winking her little eyes for bliss. Look, how these merry insects go In rippling meshes to and fro, Waltzing over the liquid glass, Dropping their shadows to cross and travel, Like ghosts, on the pavement of sunny gravel, Maybe to music, whose thrills outpass Our finest ear, — yes, even yours, Whom the mysticism of sound allures From star to star. In this gulf beyond, Silent people of the pond Slip from noonday glare, to win Their crystal twilights far within. See the creatures glance and hide. Turn, and waver, and glimmer, and glide. Jerk away, ascend, and poise, Come and vanish without noise, Mope, with mouth of drowsy drinking, Wavinir fins and eves unwinking. Southwell Park. Flirt a tail, and shoot below. How little of their life we know ! Or these birds' life that twittering dart To the shrubbery's woven heart. Which is happier, bird or fish ? Have they memory, hope, and wish ? Various temper ? perverse will ? The secret source of boundless ill. Why should not human creatures run A careless course through shadow and sun ? Ah, Love, that may never be ! We are of a different birth, Of deeper sphere than the fishes' home, Higher than bird's wings may roam, Greater than ocean, air, and earth. The Summer's youth is now at prime. Swiftly a season whirls away. Two days past, the bladed corn Whisper' d nothing of harvest-time ; Already a tinge of brown is born On the barley-spears that lightly sway; The plumes of purple-seeded grass, Bowing and bending as you pass, Our mowers at the break of dav 68 Southwell Park. Shall sweep them into swathes of hay. So the season whirls away. And every aspect we must learn, Southwell's every mood discern ; All sides, over the country speed, ' She upon her milk-white steed, And lie upon his grey,' to roam Gladly, turn more gladly home; Plan, improve, and set; our tenants; Visit neighbours, for pleasure or penance; Excellent people some, no doubt, And the rest will do to talk about. June, Jul} 1 , and August: next September comes ; and here we stand To watch those swallows, some clear day, With a birdish trouble, half perplex'd, Bidding adieu in their tribe's old way, Though the sunbeam coaxes them yet to stay ; Swinging through the populous air, Dipping, every bird, in play, To kiss ii> (lying image there. And when Autumn's wealthy heavv hand Paints with brown gold the beechen leaves. And ibe wind conns cool, and the latest sheaves. Southwell Park. 69 Quivers fill'd with bounty, rest On stubble-slope, — then we shall say Adieu for a time, our fading bow'rs, Pictures 'within and out-of-doors, And all the petted greenhouse flow'rs. But, though your harp remains behind, To keep the piano company, Your gentle Spirit of Serenades Shall watch with us how daylight fades Where sea and air enhance their dyes A thousand-fold for lovers' eyes. And we shall fancy on far-off coast The chill pavilions of the frost, And landscapes in a snow-wreath last. — You, the well-feuded nunlike child, i, the bold youth, left loose and wild, Join'd together for evermore, To wander at will by sea and shore, — Strange and very strange it seems ! More like the shifting world of dreams. Choose a. path, my Emmeline, Through this labyrinth of green, As though 'twere life's perplexing scene. To go in search of vour missing book, 70 Southwell Park. You careless girl ? one other search ? Wood or garden, which do you say? 'Twere only toil in vain : for, look — I found it, free of spot or smirch, On a pillow of wood-sorrel sleeping Under the Fox's Cliff to-day. Not so much as your place is lost, Given to this delicate warden's keeping, — Jasmin, that deserves to stay Enshrined there henceforth, never toss'd Like other dying blooms away. Summer, autumn, winter, — yes, And much will come that we cannot «;uess ; Every minute brings its chance. Bend we now a parting glance Down through the peaceful purity, The shadow and the mystery, As old saints look into their grave. Water-elves may peep at me; < )nly my own wife's face I see, Like sunny light within the wave, Dearer to me than sunny light. It rose, and look'd away my ni^ht; Southwell Park. 7 1 Whose phantoms, of desire or dread, Like foo;s and shades and dreams are fled." III. THROUGH THE WOOD. " A fire keeps burning in this breast. The smoke ascending to my brain Sometimes stupefies the pain. Sometimes my senses drop, no doubt. I do not always feel the pain : But my head is a weary weary load. What place is this ? — I sit at rest, With grass and bushes round about; Xo dust, no noise, no endless road, No torturing light. Stay, let me think, Is this the place where I knelt to drink, And all my hair broke loose and fell And floated in the cold clear well Hung with rock-weeds? two children came With pitchers, but they scream'd and ran ; The woman stared, the cursed man Laugh'd, — no, no, this is not the same. I now remember. Dragging through 72 Southwell Park. The thorny fence has torn my gown. These boots are very nearly done. What matter? so 's my journey too. Nearly done ... A quiet spot ! Flowers touch my hand. It's summer now. What summer meant I had forgot ; Except that it was glaring hot Through tedious days, and heavy hot Through dreadful nights. This drooping bough Is elm ; the shadow lies below. Gathering flowers, we used to creep Along the hedgerows, where the sun Came through like this ; then, every one, Find out some arbour close and cool, To weave them in our rushy cap?, — Primroses, bluebells, such a heap. The children do so still, perhaps. Some, too, were quite tall girls. You fool ! Was it for this you made your way To Southwell Park by night and day? — A million times I used to sav Southwell Park. 73 These two words, lest they might he lost : After a while, turn where I would I heard them. . . . This is his domain ; Each tree is his, each blade of grass Under my feet. How dare I pass, A tatter' d vagrant, half insane, Scarce fit to slink by the roadside, These lordly bounds, where, with his Bride — I tell you, kneeling on this sod, He is, before the face of God, My husband ! I was innocent The day 1 first set eyes on him, Eyes that no tears had yet made dim, Nor fever wild. The day he went, (That day, O God of Heaven !) I found, In the sick brain slow turning round, Dreadful forebodings of my fate. A week was not so long to wait : Another pass'd,— and then a third. My face grew thin — eyes fix'd — I heard And started if a feather stirr'd. Each night ' to-morrow !' heard me say, Each morning ' he will come to-day.' 74 Southwell Park. Who taps upon the chamber door?— A letter — he will come no more. Then stupor. Then a horrid strife Trampling my brain and soul and life, — Hunting me out as with a knife From home — from home — And I was young, And happy. May his heart be wrung As mine is ! learn that even I Was something, and at least can die Of such a wound. In any case He'll see the death that's in my face. To die is still within the power Of girls with neither rank nor dower. This is Southwell. I am here. The house lay that side as one came. How sick and deadly tired I am ! Time has been lost : this new fear, That I may fall and never rise ! Clouds come and go within my eyes. I 'm hot and cold, my limbs all slack, My swollen feet the same as dead ; A weight like lead draws down my head, Southwell Park. 75 The boughs and brambles pull me back. Stay : the wood opens to the hill. A moment now. The house is near. But one may view it closer still From these thick laurels on the right. . . . What is this? Who come in sight? He, with his Bride. It sends new might Through all my feeble body. Hush ! Which way ? which way ? which way ? that bush Hides them — they 're coming — do they pause ? He points, almost to me ! — he draws Her tow'rds him, and I know the smile That's on his face — O heart of guile ! Xo, 'twas the selfish gaiety And arrogance of wealth. I see Your Bride is tall, and graceful too. That arch of leaves invites you through. I follow. Why should I be loth To hurt her? . . . Ha! I '11 find them both. Six words suffice to make her know. Both, both shall hear— it must be so." 76 Southwell Park. IV. — MOSSGBOWX. " Seven years gone, and we together Ramble as before, old Ned ! Not a brown curl on your head Soil'd with touch of time or weather. Yet no wonder if you fear'd, With that broad chest and bushy beard, Lucy might scarce remember you. My letters, had they painted true The child grown woman ? Here's our way. Autumn is in its last decay; The hills have misty solitude And silence; dead leaves drop in the wood. And free in Southwell Park we stray, Where only the too-much freedom baulks. These half-obliterated walks, The tangling grass, the shrubberies choked With briars, the runnel which has soak'd Its lawn-foot to a marsh, between The treacherous tufts of brighter green, The garden, plann'd with costly care, IVow wilder'd as a maniac's hair; Southwell Park. 77 The blinded mansion's constant gloom, Winter and summer, night and day, Save when the stealthy hours let fall A sunbeam, or more pallid ray, Creeping; across the floor and wall From solitary room to room, To pry and vanish, like the rest, "Weary of a useless quest; The sombre face of hill and grove, The very clouds which seem to move Sadly, be it swift or slow, — How unlike this, you scarcely know, Was Southwell Park seven years ago. Human Spirits, line by line, Have left hereon their visible trace; As may, methinks, to Eye Divine, Human history, and each one's share, Be closely written everywhere Over the solid planet's face. A sour old Witch, — a surly Youth, Her grandson,- — three great dogs, uncouth To strangers (I 'in on terms with all), Are household now. Sometimes, at fall Of dusk, a Shape is said to move 78 Southwell Park. Amid the drear entangled grove, Or seems lamentingly to stand Beside a pool that 's close at hand. Rare are the human steps that pass On mossy walk or tufted grass. Let 's force the brushwood barrier, No path remaining. Here 's a chair ! Once a cool delightful seat, Now the warty toad's retreat, Cushioned with fungus, sprouting rank, Smcar'd with the lazy gluey dank. No doubt the Ghost sits often there — A Female Shadow with wide eyes And dripping garments. Tins way lies The pool, the little pleasure-lake, Which cost a pretty sum to make. Stoop for this bough, and see it now A dismal solitary slough, Scummy, weedy, ragged, rotten, Shut in jail, forsook, forgotten. Most of the story you have heard : The bower of bliss at length prepared To the last blossom, line of gilding, (Never such a dainty building) Southwell Park. One day, Bride and Bridegroom came ; The hills at dusk with merry flame Crowning their welcome : they had June, Grand weather — and a honeymoon ! Came, to go away too soon, And never come again. The Bride Was in her old home when she died, On a winter's day, in the time of snow, (She never saw that year to an end), And he has wander'd far and wide, And look'd on many a distant hill, But not on these he used to know, Round his Park that wave and hend, And people think he never will. Who can probe a spirit's pain ? Who tell that man's loss, or gain ? How far he sinn'd, how far he loved, How much by what befell was moved, If there his real happiness Began, or ended, who shall guess ? Trivial the biographic scroll Save as a history of the soul, Perhaps whose mightiest events 80 Southwell Park. Are dumb and secret incidents. A man's true life and history Is like the bottom of the sea, Where mountains and huge valleys hide Below the wrinkles of the tide, Under the peaceful mirror, under Billowy foam and tempest-thunder. Rude is the flower-shrubs' overgrowth, Dark frowns the clump of firs beyond. At twilight one might well be loth To linger here alone, and find The story vivid in one's mind. A Young Girl, gently bred and fail-, A widow's daughter, whom the Heir Met somewhere westward on a time, Came down to this secluded pond. That's now a mat of weeds and slime, One summer-day seven years ago. Sunshine above and flowers below ; Neglect had driven her to despair; And, poor thing, in her frenzied mood Bursting upon their solitude, She drown'd herself, before the face Of Bride and Bridegroom. Here's the place. Southwell Park. 81 Now mark — that very summer day Von, Ned, and I look'd down this way, And saw the girl herself — yes, we ! Skirting the coppice — that was She. Imagine (this at least is known) The frantic creature's plunge ; the bride Swooning by her husband's side ; And him, alone, and not alone, Turning aghast from each to each, Shouting for help, but none in reach. He sees the drowning woman sink, Twice — thrice — then, headlong from the brink, He drags her to the grass — too late. There by his servants was he found, Bewilder" d by the stroke of fate; With two pale figures on the ground, One in the chill of watery death, One with long-drawn painful breath Reviving. Sudden was the blow, Dreadful and deep the change. We go To rind the house. Suspicion pries from wrinkled mouth and wrinkled eyes, Deaf dame ! Yet constant friends are we, 82 Southwell Park. Or never should I grasp this key, Or tread this broad and lonely stair From underground, or let this glare Of outdoor v.'orld insult the gloom That lives in each forsaken room, Through which the gammer daily creeps, And all from dust and mildew keeps. Few hands may slide this veil aside, To show — a picture of the Bride. Is she not gently dignified? Her curving neck, how smooth ami lon'j; : Her eyes, tin y softly look you through : To think of violets were to wrong Their lucency of living lilac. The new hope of that fair young wile. The -acred and mysterious life Which counts a- yd no - para;-' hours. Yielding to sorrow's hurtful powers, Quench'd its faint gleam before a morn; And when her breathless babe wa< born. Almost a.- .-till the mother lay, Ainu ist a- dumb, day after day, Till on the fifth >he pa--'d awa\ : And liar ioo soon ) he;' marria^e-bedl Southwell Park. Must now begin to ring - her knell. Greybeard, and child, and village-lass, Who stood to see her wedding pass — Xo farther stoops the hoary head, The merry maid is still unwed, The child is yet a child, no more, Watching her hearse go by their door. Her bridal wreath one summer gave, The next, a garland for her grave. Close the shutter. Bright and sharp The ray falls on those shrouded things, — A grand piano and a harp, Where no one ever plays or sings. Him ? — he hardly can forget. Still, life goes on ; he's a young man yet; His road has many a turn to take. He may tell this wood, fill up the lake, Throw down the house (so should not I), ( >r sell it to you, Ned, if you'll buy. Or, perhaps, come thoughtfully back some day, V\ iih humble heart, and head grown grey. Homeward now, as (puck as you will : These afternoons are short and chill. There's my haggart, under the hill; f, like thee , ;n See Lun non, to find oul whal ".Teal nun he. Ay, mtiriy . iiiusl they. Saints ! to sec the ' Take water down to Gn ■uwieh : ih .• •■ line -por; ILr IIi'_liness in her frills and pud's ami p -arls, Barons, and lords, ami ehamherlaius, aim earls, Goodman Dodrf. 95 So thick as midges round her, — look at such An thou would'st talk of greatness ! why, the touch Is on their stewards and lackeys, Goodman Dodd, Who'll hardly answer Shakespeare wi' a nod, And let him come, doff 'd cap and bended knee. We knows a trifle, neighbour, thee and me. D. We may, Sir. This here's grand old Strat- ford brew ; Xo better vale in Lunnon, search it through. New-Place ben't no such bargain, when all's done; Twas deai', I knows it. G. Thou bought'st better, nam, At Hoggin Fields: all ain't alike in skill. 1). Thanks to the Lord above ! I've not done ill. No more has thee, friend Grunsey, in thy trade, G. So-so. But here's young Will wi' mone} made, 96 Old Master Grunsey and And money saved ; whereon I sets him down, Say else who likes, a credit to the town ; Tho' some do shake their heads at player-folk. I). A very civil man, to chat and joke ; I've ofttimes had a bit o ? talk wi" Will. G. How doth old Master Shakespeare .' I). Bravely still. And so doth madam too, the comely dame. G. And Willy's wife— what used to be her name ! ]). Why, Hathaway, fro' down by Shotton -'ate. 1 don't think she's so much aboul o late. Their sou, thou see'st, the only son they had. I )i;-d last year, and she took on dreadful had : And so the fayther did awhile, I'm told. This buy o' iheii's was nine or ten year old. Willy himself may hide here now. inavhap. Goodman Docld. 97 (i . He always -was a clever little chap. I'm glad o' his luck, an "twere for old John's Your arm, sweet sir. Oh, how my legs do ache ' 98 XXL THE POOR LITTLE MAIDEN A 1. GENTLE face and clear blue ey The little maiden hath, who plies Her needle at the cottage door, Or, with a comrade girl or more, Group'd on the shady hedgerow-grass. I love to find her as I pass, — Humbly contented, simply gav, And singing sweetly: many a da\ I've carried far along my way From that fair infant's look and voic< A strength that made my soul rejoice. • > - d ! her father died last \< i! r mother knows not where to seel; The Poor Little Maiden. 99 Five children's food; the little maid Is far too young for others' aid. Willingly would she do her hest To slave at strangers' rude behest ; But she is young and weak. Her thread. From dawn till blinding rushlight sped. Could never win her single bread. 3. And must the Poorhouse save alive This Mother and her helpless five, Where Guardians, no Angelic band, With callous eye and pinching hand, Receive the wretched of their kin, Cursing the law that lets them in ? I see her growing pale and thin, Poor Child; (the little needle-song [s ended) — and perhaps ere long Her coffin jolting in their cart To where the paupers lie apart. 4, Just from that cottage-step one sees A Mansion with its lawn and trees. 100 The Poor JAttle Maiden. Where man and wife are wearing; old Within a wilderness of gold, Amidst all luxuries and graces, Except the light of children's faces. Ah, had the little Maid forlorn In that fine house heen only born, How she were tended, night and morn A long-tail'd pony then were hers, And winter mantles edged with furs, And servants at her least command. And wealthy suitors for her hand. 101 XXII. SONG—" ACROSS THE SEA.' 1. IWALK'D in the lonesome evening - , And who so sad as 1, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily passing by. To thee, my Love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee ! While the ripples fold upon sands of gold And 1 look across the sea. 1 stretch out my hands ; who will clasp them ? L call, — thou repliest no word : O why should heart-longing he weaker Than the waving wings of a bird ! 102 " Across the Se To thee, my Love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee ! For the tide's at rest from east to west. And I look across the sea. There's joy in the hopeful morning 1 , There's peace in the parting day, There's sorrow with every lover Whose true-love is far away. To thee, my Love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee ! And the water \s bright in a still moonlight. As I look across the sea.. 103 XXIII. HIS TOWN. FAR-OFF Town my memory haunt? Shut in by fields of corn and flax, ike housings gay on elephants Heaved on the huge hill-backs. Row pleasantly that image came ! As down the zigzag road I press'd, Blithe, but unable yet to claim /lis roof from all the rest. And 1! should see my Friend at home, Be in the little town at last Those welcome letters dated from, Gladdening the two years past. -04 His Town. I recollect the summer-light, The bridge with poplars at its end, The slow brook turning left and right, The greeting of my friend. I found him ; he was mine, — his books, His home, his day, his favourite walk, The joy of swift-conceiving looks, The wealth of living talk. July, no doubt, comes brightly still On blue-eyed dax and yellowing wheat But sorrow shadows vale and hill Since one heart ceased to beat. Is not the climate colder there, Since that Youth died ? — it must be so ; A dumb regret is in the air; The brook repines to How. Wing'd thither, fancy only sees An old church on its rising ground, And underneath two sycamore trees A little irrassv mound. 105 XXIV. HYMN. OHOW dimly walks the wisest On his journey to the grave, Till Thou, Lamp of Souls, arisest, Beaming over land and wave ! Blind and weak behold him wander, Full of doubt and full of dread ; Till the dark is rent asunder, And the gulf of light is spread. Shadows were the gyves that bound him, Now his sotd is light in light; Heav'n within him, Hcav'n around him, Pure, eternal, infinite. 106 XXV. THE QCEEX OF THE FOREST. (a fantasy.) 1. EAUTIFUL, beautiful Queen of the Forest, Plow art thou hidden so wondrous deep ! Bird never sung there, fay never morriced. All the trees are asleep. Xi'ili the drizzling waterfall Plumed ferns wave and wither; Voices from the woodlands call, " Hither, O hither!*' Calling all the summer d;\y, Through the woodlands, far awa\ . Who l>\ the rivulet loiters and lingers, Tranced bv a mirroi', a murmur, a ii'eak ; Thrown where the <^rass"> cool line fingers Phiv with hi- dreamful cheek .' The Queen of the Forest. 107 Cautious creatures gliding by, Mystic sounds fill Ids pleasure, Tangled roof iidaid with sky, Flowers, heaps of treasure : Wandering slowly all the day, Through the woodlands, far away. 3. Late last night, betwixt moonlight and morning, Came She, unthought of, and stood by his bed ; — A kiss tor love, and a kiss for warning, A kiss for trouble and dread. Now her flitting fading gleam Haunts the woodlands wide and lonely; Now. a half-remember'd dream Tor his comrade only, lie shall stray the livelong day Through the forest, far awoy. 4, Dare not the biding enchantress to follow • Hearken the yew, he hath secrets of hers. The grey owl stirs in an oaktree's hollow, The wind in the gloomy lirs. 108 The Queen of the Forest. Down among those dells of green, Glimpses, whispers, ran to wile thee; Waking eyes have nowhere seen Her that would beguile thee — Draw thee on, till death of day, Through the dusk woods, far away. 109 XXVI. PROGRESS. IVE back my youth !'" the poets cry, " Give back my youth !" — -so say not I. Youth play'd its part with us ; if we Are losers, should we gainers be By recommencing;, with the same Conditions, all the finish'd game ? [f w< see better now, we are Already winners just so far,- — And merely ask to keep our winning, \\ ipe out loss, for a new beginning ! This may come, in Heaven's good way. How, no mortal man shall say ; But not by fresh-recover' d taste For sugarplums, or valentines, Or conjuring back the brightest day Which gave its gift and therefore shines. 110 Prog, Win or lose, possess or miss, There cannot be a weaker waste Of memory's privilege than this — To dwell anionu' cast-off designs, Stages, larva.- of yourself, And leave the true thing on the shelf. The Present-Future, wherewith blent! Hours that hasten to their end. Ill XXVII. THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE: OR. THE EMIGRANTS ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNON. (a local ballad.) 1. ADIEU to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred and born ; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn, The kindly spot, the friendly town, where even one is known. And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own ; There's not a house or window, there's not a held or hill, But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still. 112 The Winding Bunks of Erne. I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I'm forced to turn — So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding"' bank? of Erne ' 2. No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net. and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off! — she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps ; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clue, Till a silver wave of salmon roils in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pip< s a-lit, and many a joke and ' yarn' ; — Adieu to Ballyshannon. and the winding banks of Erne ! Tin music of tin waterfall, the mirror of the tidt , \\ hen all the green-hill'd harbour is lull from side to side — The Winding Banks of Erne. 113 From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky Tnis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills grey ; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern ; — Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne! 4. Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore ; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean- mountain steep, : ix hundred yards in air aloft, -ix hundred in the From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Fallen strand, i 114 The Winding Banks of Erne. Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand ; — ■ Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern ! — Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne ! •5. Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic- setting sun ; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves ; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves ; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish ; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish ; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn — And 1 must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne ! The Winding Banks of Erne. 115 6. Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek ; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below ; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green ; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between ; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern, — For I must say adieu — adieu to the winding banks of Erne ! 7. The thrush will call through Camlin groves the livelong summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank with wild flowers gay ; The girls will brino- their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, 116 The Winding Banks of Erne. Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn ; Along; the river side they go, where I have often been,— O, never shall I see again the days that I have seen ! A thousand chances are to one I never may return, — Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne ! 8. Adieu to evening dances, when merrv neighbours And lh - iiddi says to hoys and girls, " Get up and shake your i'ei t '. " To " >h: naehus" and wise old talk of Erin's davs n'one by — Who tr- ueli'd the ratli on such a hid, ami wim; Of -km. or kbiu', or warrior chief: with tales of ti ii-v nuwer, . ! ■ .- . i ' . The Winding Banks of Erne. 117 And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn — Adieu, my dear companions on the winding hanks of Erne ! 9. Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Hound the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, — I wish no one am hurt ; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me ; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the Sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne. 118 The Winding Banks of Erne. 10. If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd ; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away — Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside ; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne. 119 xxvii r. LOSS. RIEVE not much for loss of wealth, -* 1 Loss of friends, or loss of fame, Loss of years, or loss of health; Answer, hast thou lost the shame Whose early tremor once could flush Thy cheek, and make thine eyes to gush, And send thy spirit, sad and sore, To kneel with face upon the floor, Burden' d with consciousness of sin .' Art thou cold and hard within, — Sometimes looking back surprised On thy old mood, scarce recognized, As on a picture of thy face In blooming childhood's transient grace ! Then hast thou cause for grief; and most In seldom missing what is lost. 120 Loss. With the loss of Yesterday, Thou hast lost To-day, To-morrow, — All thou might'st have been. pray, (If prav thou canst) for poignant sorrow 121 XXIX. WINTER VERDUR] I SAT at home, and thought there lived no green, Because the time is winter; but, to-day, Entering a park a mile or two away, Smooth laurels tower' d as if no cold had been : The tangled ivy, holly sharp and sheen, Hung over nested ferns, and craglets \\ u alarm : " B lovi d Sin ep. bewan . beware ! '■ 1 his is no true tiling, bin a f-uar ■ : '■ Xo note or mark or sign or token " Whereof the oracles have spoki n • ■ T l ins like our promised lieuy'ii ! —to mix '• With in ithi us and wit! icivtics ! " Ajiollyon t in th -on o!' Li J,r. " But soon the Bridegroom shall invite, A Dream of a Gate. 125 " We're saved, the others flung to Hell, i; And hallelujah ! all is well. ■' Close eye and ear, my brethren, — say " Phantom ! Delusion ! Fiend ! away !" 7. suddenly a little Child Llan up to where that Angel smiled, And caught his skirt; who, stooping low, Lifted him ; and I saw them go, And sigh'd, — and sighing, waken'd so; Amidst, methought, a boundless How ij !e, many voici s I>1< nt, Sea-like; \ knew not what it meant. S;;i::t Wiibrod, where a Pagan King knelt at the font, had bow'd to fling ■] ira< ulous water <>u his head ; But the gray; 1 King rose up, and said, ■• This was not thought of; can'st thou tell " If my forefathers he in IL ii. " Or Heaven ?" " In [PI],-" the saint's re] To whom the Kino; with loftier eve. 126 A Dream of a Gate. " Enough ! I will not quit my race." — To answer, Ilea rat is not a place, Were bringing' passports to disgrace. 9. Such doctrines Mather fear'd at Salem,* And, lest his own belief should fail him, (So godly, that he turn'd inhuman) Hang'd twice a week some poor old woman, Nay, Brother Burroughs' self, who doubted, — That Scripture's letter be not scouted; Which, with all marvels big and little, Not held and hugg'd in every tittle, Faith were slain dead (that 's now so strong), And Truth, and Sense of Right and Wrong; Yes, the Almighty then, no doubt, From soul of man were blotted out. Predominancy, a great tree Of Upas kind, drips constantly The violent poison, Persecution ; * II. -nd n c-uri ms and in.-tnn live red rtl in Chapter xix. uf i'l's Histm-ii of tin ('iiltnl States. A Dream of a Gate. 127 Greater the marvel, though, if you shun Harm from a small infesting weed Which cloth the self-same venom breed, Verbality, whose mesh is found In every field and garden-ground. Spirit to spirit, we are wise To meditate of mysteries, To see a little, dark and dim, For mortals are not Seraphim. 11. A Dream should as a dream be told, Nor do I this of mine uphold Above the dreams of other men, Where all is out of waking ken. Let's to our daylight tasks, and trust The future, as we ought and must. Go, noisy tongues, howe'er you will ! One hath His plan, who keepeth still. What is, He sees, — we cannot, see ; He knows, we know not, what shall be. 12. Though High-Priest, Medicine-man, nor Lam,;, Zerdusht, Mohammed, Buddh, nor 13 rah ma. A Dream of a Gate. Nor any Prophet, meek or blatant, For true Religion hold a patent, Can mathematicise the line Connecting Human and Divine, The tine, say rather, that doth reach From God to every soul and each, — Though Splurgeon's overhead revealing Pierce not the tabernacle-ceiling, — Th'Augur of Crown-Court might play ' Sensation' parts across the way, With less affront to his own soul, And yours, than in his present role, — Though Pio Xono know no more i Cantuar. of LVt< r's ! )oor, Voi' more than whoso made the last Through uiui ty-hve < diiions pass'd, — Thou >h everv parable and vision ■ >}' sv'i lies internal and eh sian, ! i -,' j)i'()|:!ie!-j)oef S Li'eniliS told, ' ..■ .11 i iiou-fold, W'iieiiier o!" ( I reek, or J -w, or Swede. •J.' I -..:.■ indeed ii ;i;iv i'airv-fale W(.' read. — A Dream of a Gate. 129 Though man's best wisdom on the earth, Man's learning, be as little worth For this, as to be six feet one Helps you to pry into the sun, — Still, when the Soul is walking right, Heaven is sure to come in sight, Near or distant, faint or bright. 130 XXXI, DANGER. I STROVE for wicked peace, but might not win; The bonds would bite afresh, one moment slack. " Then burst them!" .... instantly I felt begin Damnation. Falling through a chasm of black, I swiftly sunk thousands of miles therein. Sonl grew incorporate with gross weight of sin, Death clang about my feet : let none dare track My journey. But a far Voice call'd me back. I breathe this world's infatuating air, And tremble as I walk. Most men are bold — Perchance through madness. () that I could hold One path, nor wander to the fen, nor dare Between the precipice- and wild-beast's lair! For penalties are stablish'd from of old. 131 XXXII. THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN (a killarxey legend.) 1. r T^TIE Abbot of Innisfallen Awoke ere dawn of day ; Under the dewy green leaves Went he forth to pray. The lake around his island Lav smooth and dark and deep, And wrapt in a misty stillness The mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was dim and grey; The prayers of his holy office He faithfully 'f freakish mischief and annovance 144 Tu:o Fairies in a Garden. In the universal joyance, One of whom I saw of late As I peep'd through window-grate, (Under roof I may not enter) Haunt the housewife to torment her; Tangle up her skeins of silk, Throw a mouse into her milk, Hide her thimble, scorch her roast. Quickly drive her mad almost; And I too vex'd, because I would Have brought her succour if I could. — But where shall this be holden, sa\ ? Far awav ?" '• ; < ). far awa} . ( Kit river must we fly. * )ver the sea, and the mountain )\\ r j\i, ( >ver city, seen afar Like a low and misty star. — Soon hem atli us glitt'-rinrj Like million spark-worms, i'ut our wing For the flight will ne'er suffice. Some are training Hitter-mice. 1 a silver moth." Two Fairies in a Garden. 145 " Be ware How I'll thrid the vaulted air ! A dragon-fly with glassy wings, Born beside the meadow springs, That can arrow-swiftly glide Thorough the glowing eventide, Nor at twilight-fall grow slack, Shall bear me on his long red back. Dew-stars, meteors of the night, May not strike him with affright, He can needle through the wood, That "s bke a green earth-chained cloud, Mountain-summits deftly rake; Draw swift line o'er plain and lake; If at Lysco I be last, Other elves must journey fast. Luavo!" " But Elf, I rede, Of all your herbs take special heed. Our Mistress tholes no garden flowers, Though we have freedom of these bowers. Tell me what you mean to treasure, Each in 's atom ?" 146 Two Fairies in a Garden. " Gold-of-Pleasure, Medic, Plumeseed, Fountain-arrow, Vervain, Hungry-grass, and Yarrow, Quatrefoil and Melilot." " These are well. And I have got Moon wort and the Filmy Fern, Gather' d nicely on the turn. Wo to fairy that shall bring Bu gloss for an offering, Toad-flax, Barley of the Wall, Enchanter's Xightshade, worst of all. — Oh, brother, hush ! I faint with fear ! A mortal footstep threatens near." "' None can see us. none can hear. Yet, to make thee less afraid, [lush we both as thou hast pray'd. I will seek the verse to spell Written round my dark flow'r's bell, To sim'' at sunset. Fare-thee-well !" 147 XXXV. E M I L Y '•' f^ 001) evening. Why, of course it's you ^— ^ You ' half-imagined,' — O I knew ! There, there, don't make a fuss, my dear, Come in and let 's have supper here. You 're married now, George; yes, I heard And looking bright, upon my word. And I I — a little thin or so ? — ■ One can't make cottage-roses grow As well in London — O dear me ! But never mind ; its life, you see. Her name — don't tell me ; I don't care. Of course you make a loving pair. Your jolly healths ! Why, there you sit, And never eat or drink a bit. 148 Emily. ' I low well I'm drest' — you think so, eh .' You like my hair done up this way ? Oh don't go yet, George ! stay, do stay ! Five minutes longer ! please don't go ! I 'm not fit company, I know — But just this one time — -just this last ! 1) 'ye ever think of days gone past, When you and I a-courting went, So loving, and so innocent ? • ■ssa