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LONDON : Printed by SPOTTISWOODE & Co. New-street Square. RURAL POEMS. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. LONDON: LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, & ROBERTS. 1S57. LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA iixlUV* ^f^/-^ATf__ ' '- TO JOHN A. C. GRAY, ESQ. AS AN EVIDENCE OF SINCERE REGARD BY THE AUTHOK. Philadelphia, 1856. CONTENTS. PROEM. Mr HERMITAGE , . . . 3 THE CLOSING SCENE . . . . .; . 9 ENDYMION . . . . *. . . .17 A SONG . . .' .. v . ... 23 LOVE'S GALLERY : MIRIAM . . . ., . . 29 BERTHA . * . , . . 31 MELANIE . . . . .33 AURELIA . . . , . " .35 AMY . . ... . . .37 A GLIMPSE OF LOVE . . . . .39 NIGHTFALL. IN MEMORY OP A POET . .43 A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR . . . 47 THE AWAKENING YEAR . , . .55 THE SUMMER SHOWER * . * . . .61 THE DESERTED FARM ' . * . * .65 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD: INTRODUCTION. THE MERRY MOWERS. . 71 THE ECLOGUE I. In middle of a noble space . .75 II. To own her sway the woods were proud . 77 III. What time came in the welcome spring . 79 Viii CONTENTS. Page SYLVIA ; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD (continued) : IV. Then May recrossed the southern hill . 81 V. How sweet it is when twilight wakes . 83 VI. A lover's heart hath no repose . .85 VII. Out of her tent as one afraid . .87 VIII. First of the mournful sights, I saw . 89 IX. And then I heard your neighing train . 91 X, I bore you in ; with my own hand . 93 XI. I know such dreams are empty, vain . 95 XII. You grew to her more fond and near . 97 XIII. And never more your ringing team . 99 XIV. "Forsworn !" The fields all sighed " for- sworn !" ", . . .101 XV. Proud Leon sits beside his bride . .103 CONCLUSION. THE MOURNFUL MOWERS . 105 MISCELLANEOUS. THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL . . . .113 DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN . . .123 THE FROZEN GOBLET . . . . .131 THE MINERS . " . . * .141 PASSING THE ICEBERGS .... 147 SOLEMN VOICES . ' . .153 MIDNIGHT . . , . 1 59 L'ENVoi. To ******. . . .163 PROEM. MY HEBMITAGE. DEEP in a sacred, summer wood I hid me from the world away, In sandal shoon and hermit hood, To sit with Nature, night and day. My cell, a ghostly sycamore, The roots and boughs were dead with age ; Decay had carved the gothic door Which looked into my hermitage. My library was large and full, Where, ever as a hermit plods, I read until my eyes were dull With tears ; for all those tomes were God's. B 2 MY HERMITAGE. The vine that at my doorway swung Had verses writ on every leaf, The very songs the bright bees sung In honey-seeking visits brief : Not brief, though each stayed never long, So rapidly they came and went, No pause was left in all their song ; For while they borrowed still they lent. % All day the woodland minstrels sang ; Small feet were in the leaves a-stir ; And often o'er my doorway rang The tap of a blue-winged visiter. Afar the stately river swayed, And poured itself in giant swells ; While here the brooklet danced and played, And gayly rang its liquid bells. MY HERMITAGE. The springs gave me their crystal flood, And my contentment made it wine ; And oft I found what kingly food Grew on the world-forgotten vine. The moss, or weed, or running flower, Too humble in their hope to climb, Had in themselves the lovely power To make me happier for the time. And when the starry Night came by, And stooping looked into my cell, Then all between the earth and sky Was circled in a holier spell. A height, and depth, and breadth sublime O'erspread the scene, and reached the stars, Until eternity and time Seemed drowning their dividing bars. B 3 MY HERMITAGE. And voices which the day ne'er hears, And visions which the sun ne'er sees, From earth and from the distant spheres Came on the moonlight and the breeze. Thus, day and night, my spirit grew In love with that which round me shone, Until my calm heart fully knew The joy it is to be alone. The time went by ; till one fair dawn I saw, against the eastern fires, A visionary city drawn, With dusky lines of domes and spires. The wind, in sad and fitful spells, Blew o'er it from the gates of morn, Till I could clearly hear the bells That rang above a world forlorn. MY HERMITAGE. And well I listened to their voice, And deeply pondered what they said, Then I arose there was no choice I went while yet the east was red ; My wakened heart for utterance yearned ; The clamorous wind had broke the spell ; I needs must teach what I had learned Within my simple woodland cell. THE CLOSING SCENE. THE CLOSING SCENE. WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low ; As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a muffled blow. 12 THE CLOSING SCENE. On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight, The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint, And like a star slow drowning in the light The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung ; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, The busy swallows, circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year ; THE CLOSING SCENE. 13 Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of the rosy east, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 14 THE CLOSING SCENE. Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known sorrow ; he had walked with her, Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust, And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned, and she gave her all ; And War, to her twice bowing his dark plume, Eegave the swords to rust upon her wall. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. THE CLOSING SCENE. 15 At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed, Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene, And neighbours came and smoothed the careful shroud, Where double Winter closed the autumn scene. ENDYMION. ENDYMION. WHAT time the stars first flocked into the blue, Behind young Hesper, shepherd of the eve, Sleep bathed the fair boy's lids with magic dew, 'Mid flowers that all day blossomed to receive Endymion. Lo ! where he lay encircled in his dream, The moss was glad to pillow his soft hair, And toward him leaned the lily from the stream, The hanging vine waved wooing in the air Endymion. c 2 20 ENDYMION. The brook, that whilom won its easy way O'errun with meadow grasses long and cool, Now reeled into a fuller tide, and lay Caressing, in its clear enamoured pool, Endymion. And all the sweet, delicious airs, that fan Enchanted gardens in their hour of bloom, Blown through the soft invisible pipes of Pan, Breathed, 'mid their mingled music and perfume, Endymion. The silvery leaves, that rustled in the light, Sent their winged shadows o'er his cheek entranced; The constellations wandered down the night, And whispered to the dew-drops, where they danced, Endymion. ENDYMION. 21 Lo ! there he slept, and all his flock at will, Went star-like down the meadow's azure mist : What wonder that pale Dian, with a thrill, Breathed on his lips her sudden love, and kissed Endymion ? c 3 A SONG C 4 A SONG, BRING me the juice of the honey -fruit, The large, translucent, amber-hued, Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit The luxury that fills my mood. And bring me only such as grew Where fairest maidens tend the bowers ; And only fed by rain and dew Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. They must have hung on spicy trees, In airs of far enchanted vales, And all night heard the ecstasies Of noble-throated nightingales ; 26 A SONG. So that the virtues which belong To flowers may therein tasted be, And that which hath been thrilled with song May give a thrill of song to me. For I would wake that string for thee Which hath too long in silence hung, And sweeter than all else should be The song which in thy praise is sung. LOVE'S GALLERY. MIEIAM. FAIR Miriam's was an ancient manse, Upon the open plain ; It looked to ocean's dim expanse, Saw miles of meadow pasture dance Beside the breezy main. A porch, with woodbines overgrown, Faced eastward to the shore ; While Autumn's sun, through foliage brown, 'Twixt leaf and lattice flickered down To tessellate the floor. 30 MIRIAM. There walked fair Miriam : as she stept, A rustle thrilled the air ; Rare starry gems her tresses kept, While o'er her brow's bright crescent swept The darkness of her hair. But she too oft had paced the hall To ponder chronicles, which Time Had given at many an interval Ancestral shadows on the wall, Looking their pride sublime. And she too well had learned their look, And wore upon her tender age A haughtiness I could not brook : I said, it is a glorious book, But dared not trust the page. BEETHA. MILD Bertha's was a home withdrawn Beyond the city's din ; Tall Lombard trees hemmed all the lawn, And up the long straight walks, a dawn Of blossoms shone within. Along the pebble paths the maid Walked with the early hours, With careful hands the vines arrayed, And plucked the small intruding blade From formal plots of flowers. 32 BERTHA. A statued Dian to the air Bequeathed its mellow light ; She called the flying figure fair, The forward eyes and backward hair, And praised the marble's white. Her pulses coursed their quiet ways, From heart to brain controlled ; She read and praised in studied phrase, The bards whom it were sin to praise In measured words and cold. I love the broad bright world of snow, And every strange device Which makes the woods a frozen show, The rivers hard and still, but, oh, Ne'er loved a heart of ice ! MELANIE. WITHIN a dusky grove, where wound Great centenarian vines, Binding the shadows to the ground, The dark-eyed Melanie was found Walking between the pines. A sudden night of hair was thrown About her shining neck ; All woes she buried in her own ; Her sea of sadness carried down All lighter thoughts to wreck. 34 MELANIE. The past was hers ; the coming years No golden promise brought ; She gazed upon the midnight spheres To read her future ; and the tears Sprang vassals to her thought. She heard all night through her domain The river moan below ; The whip-poor-will and owlet's strain Filled up the measure of her pain, In streams of fancied woe. Thus as the mournful Melanie Passed through my waking dream, I said : Oh soul, still wander free, It is not written thou shalt see Thy image in this stream. AUKELIA. WHERE flamed a field of flowers, and where Sang noisy birds and brooks, Aurelia to the frolic air Shook down her wanton waves of hair, With laughter-loving looks. Her large and lustrous eyes of blue, Dashed with the dew of mirth, Bequeathed to all their brilliant hue ; She saw no shades, nor even knew She walked the heavy earth. D 2 36 AURELIA. Her ringing laughter woke the dells, When fell the autumn blight ; She sang through all the rainy spells ; For her the snow was full of bells Of music and delight. She swept on her bewildering way, By every pleasure kiss'd, Making a mirth of night and day, A brook all sparkle and all spray, Dancing itself to mist. I love all bright and happy things, And joys which are not brief; All sights and sounds whence pleasure springs ; But weary of the harp whose strings Are never tuned to grief. AMY, ROUND Amy's home were pleasant trees ; A quiet summer space Of garden flowers and toiling bees ; Below, the yellow harvest leas Waved welcome to the place. And Amy, she was very fair, With eyes nor dark nor blue ; And in her wavy chesnut hair Were braided blossoms, wild and rare, Still shimmering with the dew. D 3 38 AMY. Her pride was the unconscious guise Which to the pure is given : Her gentle prudence broke to sighs, And smiles were native to her eyes As are the stars to heaven. Here love, said I, thy rest shall be; Oh, weary, world-worn soul, Long tossed upon this shifting sea, Behold, at last the shore for thee Displays the shining goal. Dear Amy, lean above me now, And smooth aside my hair, And bless me with thy tender vow, And kiss all memories from my brow, Till thou alone art there. A GLIMPSE OP LOVE D 4 A GLIMPSE OF LOYE, SHE came, as comes the summer wind, A gust of beauty to my heart ; Then swept away, but left behind Emotions that shall not depart. Unheralded she came and went, Like music in the silent night ; Which, when the burthened air is spent, Bequeaths to memory its delight ; Or, like the sudden April bow That spans the violet-waking rain, She bade those blessed flowers to grow Which may not fall or fade again. 42 A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. Far sweeter than all things most sweet, And fairer than all things most fair, She came and passed with footsteps fleet, A shining wonder in the air. NIGHTFALL. NIGHTFALL, IN MEMORY OP A POET. I SAW, in the silent afternoon, The overladen sun go down ; While, in the opposing sky, the moon, Between the steeples of the town, Went upward, like a golden scale Outweighed by that which!" sank beyond ; And over the river, and over the vale, With odours from the lily-pond, The purple vapours calmly swung ; And, gathering in the twilight trees, The many vesper minstrels sung Their plaintive mid-day memories, 46 NIGHTFALL. Till, one by one, they dropped away From music into slumber deep ; And now the very woodlands lay Folding their shadowy wings in sleep. Oh, Peace ! that, like a vesper psalm, Hallows the daylight at its close ; Oh, Sleep ! that, like the vapour's calm, Mantles the spirit in repose ; Through all the twilight falling dim, Through all the song which passed away, Ye did not stoop your wings to him Whose shallop on the river lay Without an oar, without a helm ; His great soul, in his marvellous eyes, Gazing on from realm to realm Through all the world of mysteries. A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAE, COME hither, love, come hither, And sit you down by me ; And hither run, my little one, And climb upon my knee. But bring the flagon first, my love, And fill to friends and foes ; And let the old year dash his beard With wine before he goes ! Oh, do you not remember The night we let him in, The creaking signs, the windy blinds, The universal din ; 50 A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. The melancholy sounds which bade The poor old year adieu ; The sudden clamour and the bells That welcomed in the new ? He brought to us a world of hope Beneath his robe of snows : Then let the old year dash his beard With wine before he goes ! Oh, then the year was young and fair, And loved all joyful things ; And under his bright mantle hid The warning of his wings. And you remember how the Spring Beguiled him to her bowers ; How Summer next exalted him Unto her throne of flowers ; And how the reaper, Autumn, crowned Him 'mid the sheaves and shocks : A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD TEAR. 51 You still may see the tangled straws In his disordered locks. The yellow wheat, the crimson leaves, With purple grapes, were there ; Till, Bacchus-like, he wore the proof Of plenty 'mid his hair ; A proof that woos in harvest-homes Brown labour to repose : Then let the old year dash his beard With wine before he goes ! But soon the Winter came and took His glory quite away : A frosty rime o'erspread his chin, And all his hair went gray ; His crown has fallen to his feet, And withers where he stands, While some invisible horror shakes The old man by the hands. E 2 52 A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD TEAK. Oh, woo him from his cloud of grief And from his dream of woes, And bid the old year dash his beard With wine before he goes ! For he hath brought us some new friends, And made the old more dear ; And shown how love may constant prove And friendship be sincere. Though it may be some venomed tooth Hath wrought against the file ; And though perchance a Janus' face Hath cursed us with its smile ; Come, fill the goblet till its rim With Lethe overflows ; The Year shall drown their memory With wine before he goes. A CUP OP WINE TO THE OLD TEAR. 53 But hark ! a music nears and nears, As if the singing stars Were driving closer to the earth In their triumphal cars ! And hark ! the sudden pealing crash Of one who will not wait, But flings into the ringing dark Old Winter's crystal gate. A sigh is on the midnight air, A ghost is on the lawn, The broken goblet strews the floor, The poor old year is gone ! E 3 THE AWAKENING YEAR. E 4 THE AWAKENING YEAE. THE blue-birds and the violets Are with us once again, And promises of summer spot The hill-side and the plain. The clouds around the mountain-tops Are riding on the breeze, Their trailing azure trains of mist Are tangled in the trees. The snow-drifts, which have lain so long, Haunting the hidden nooks, Like guilty ghosts have slipped away, Unseen, into the brooks. 58 THE AWAKENING YEAH. The streams are fed with generous rains, They drink the wayside springs, And flutter down from crag to crag Upon their foamy wings. Through all the long wet nights they brawl, By mountain homes remote, Till woodmen in their sleep behold Their ample rafts afloat. The lazy wheel that hung so dry Above the idle stream, Whirls wildly in the misty dark, And through the miller's dream. Loud torrent unto torrent calls, Till at the mountain's feet, Flashing afar their spectral light, The noisy waters meet ; THE AWAKENING YEAR. 59 They meet, and through the lowlands sweep, Toward briny bay and lake, Proclaiming to the distant towns, " The country is awake !" THE SUMMER SHOWER. THE SUMMER SHOWER, BEFORE the stout harvesters falleth the grain, As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain, And loiters the boy in the briery lane ; But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, Like a long line of spears brightly burnished and tall. Adown the white highway, like cavalry fleet, It dashes the dust with its numberless feet. Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat, The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat; And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall. 64 THE SUMMER SHOWER. The swallows alone take the storm on their wing, And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing ; Like pebbles, the rain breaks the face of the spring, While a bubble darts up from each widening ring ; And the boy, in dismay, hears the loud shower fall. But soon are the harvesters tossing the sheaves ; The robin darts out from its bower of leaves ; The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves ; And the rain-spattered urchin now gladly perceives That the beautiful bow bendeth over them all. THE DESERTED FARM, THE DESEETED FAEM. THE elms were old, and gnarled, and bent ; The fields, untilled, were choked with weeds, Where, every year, the thistles sent Wider and wider their winged seeds. Farther and farther the nettle and dock Went colonizing o'er the plain ; Growing, each season, a plenteous stock Of burrs to protect their wild domain. The last who ever had ploughed the soil, Now in the furrowed churchyard lay ; The boy who whistled to lighten his toil, Was a sexton somewhere far away. P 2 68 THE DESERTED FARM. Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole Burrowed and furrowed with never a fear ; How the tunnelling fox looked out of his hole, Like one who notes if the skies are clear. No mower was there to startle the birds With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe ; The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds, Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe. Now all was bequeathed, with pious care The groves and fields fenced round with briers To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air, And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars. SYLVIA; THE LAST SHEPHERD. AN ECLOGUE. F 3 INTRODUCTION. THE MERRY MOWERS. WITHIN the clover's crimson realm, Here will we pass the glowing noon. Beneath this broad and liberal elm, Slow nodding to his hundredth June. On this low branch our scythes shall sway, Fresh reeking from the field in bloom ; While, breathing o'er the new-mown hay, The air shall fan us with perfume. And here the cottage-maid shall spread The viands on the stainless cloth ; The golden prints, the snow-white bread, The chilly pitcher crowned with froth. 72 SYLVIA; OK, THE LAST SHEPHERD. And you, fair youth, whose shepherd look Brings visions of the pastoral time, Your hay-fork shouldered like a crook, Your speech, the natural voice of rhyme ; Although the world is far too ripe To hark, or hearkening would disdain, Come, pour along your fancied pipe The music of some rustic strain ! We '11 listen as we list the birds, And being pleased will hold it wise, And deem we sit 'mid flocks and herds Beneath the far Arcadian skies." Thus spake the mowers : while the maid, The fairest daughter of the realm, Stood twining, in the happy shade, A wreath of mingled oak and elm. SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 73 And this with acorns interwound, And violets inlaid with care, Fame's temporary priestess bound In freshness round her druid's hair. The breeze with sudden pleasure played, And, dancing in from bough to bough, Let one slant sunbeam down which stayed A moment on the crowned brow. The birds, as with a new-born thrill, Sang as they only sing at morn ; While through the noon, from hill to hill, Echoed the winding harvest-horn. With upturned face and lips apart, He mused a little, but not long ; For clustered in his boundless heart Sang all the morning stars of song. THE ECLOGUE. IN middle of a noble space Of antique wood and boundless plain, Queen Sylvia, regent of all grace, Held long-descended reign. The diadem her forehead wore Was her bright hair a golden band- And she, as sceptre, ever bore A distaff in her hand. In russet train, with rustling tread, She walked like morning, dewy-eyed ; And, like Saint Agnes, ever led A white lamb at her side. 76 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. And she to all the flow'ry land Was dear as are the summer skies ; And round her waving mulberry wand Swarmed all the butterflies. Queen was she of the flaxen skein, And Empress of the snowy fleece ; And o'er the silkworm's small domain Held guard in days of peace. n. To own her sway the woods were proud, The solemn forests wreathed and old ; To her the plumed harvests bowed Their rustling ranks of gold. Mantled in majesty complete, She walked among her flocks and herds ; Where'er she moved, with voices sweet/ Sang all her laureate birds. All happy sounds waved softly near, With perfume from the fields of dew ; From every hill bold chanticleer His silver clarion blew. 78 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. The bees her honey-harvest reaped, The fields were murmurous with their glee, And loyal to her hives, they heaped Her waxen treasury. All pleasures round her loved to press, And sang to her sweet madrigals ; She never knew the weariness Which dwells in grander halls. III. WHAT time came in the welcome spring, The happy maiden looked abroad, And saw her lover gaily fling The flax athwart the sod. Hither and thither, the yellow seed Young Leon sprinkled o'er the plain ; As a farmer to his feathery breed Full hands of golden grain. As o'er the yielding mould he swayed, He whistled to his measured tread A happy tune for he saw the maid Spinning the future thread : 80 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. Or saw the shuttle in her room, Fly like a bird from hand to hand : And then his arm, as at a loom, Swung wider o'er the land. He wondered what the woof would be, Or for the poor, or for the proud ! A bridal garment fluttering free, Or formal winding shroud ! IV. THEN May recrossed the southern hill ; Her heralds thronged the elms and eaves ; And Nature, with a sudden thrill, Burst all her buds to leaves. Loud o'er the slope a streamlet flung Fresh music from its mountain-springs, As if a thousand birds there sung And flashed their azure wings. " Flow on," the maiden sang, " and whirl, Sweet stream, your music o'er the hill; And touch, with your light foot of pearl, The wheel of yonder mill." G 82 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. It touched the wheel, and in the vale Died from the ear and passed from view, Like a singing-bird that is seen to sail Into the distant blue, Died where the river shone below, Where white sails through the vapour glowed, Like great archangels moving slow On some celestial road. V. How sweet it is, when twilight wakes A many-voiced eve in May, When Sylvia's western casement takes The farewell flame of day, \ When cattle from the upland lead Or drive their length'ning shadows home, And, bringing from the odorous mead Deep pails of snowy foam, The milkmaid sings, .and while she stoops Her hands keep time, the night hawk's wail Pierces the twilight, till he swoops And mocks the sounding pail. G 2 84 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. Then sings the robin he who wears A sunset memory on his breast Pouring his vesper hymns and prayers To the red shine of the west. Deep in the grove the woodland sprites Start into frequent music brief, And there the whip-poor-will recites The ballad of his grief. The plows turn home, the anvils cease, The forge has faded with the sun, The heart of the loom is soothed to peace, And the toiling day is done. VI. A LOVER'S heart hath no repose "Tis ever muttering in his ear The story of his joys and woes ; The light remote, the shadow near. And Leon, penning his fleecy stock, Felt hope as painful as despair, While, one by one, Heaven's starry flock Came up the fields of air. True shepherd, like the men of old, He knew to call each as it came ; And, as the flock leapt in the fold, Each had a starry name. G 3 86 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. There, clustered close in slumbrous peace, He gazed on them with shepherd pride, And saw each deep and pillowy fleece Through Sylvia's soft hands glide. In that still hour, where none might mark, He leaned against the shadowy bars ; Soft tearlight blurred the deepening dark, And doubled all the stars. And starlike, through the valley dim, The tapers shot their guiding rays : But one there was which seemed to him To set the night a-blaze. To his impatient feet it flowed, A stream of gold along the sod ; Then, like the road to glory, glowed The love -lit path he trod. vn. OUT of her tent, as one afraid, The moon along the purple field Stole, like an oriental maid, Her beauty half concealed. And, peering with her vestal torch Between the vines at Sylvia's door, She saw two shadows in the porch Pass and repass the floor. On the far hill, the dreary hound Saddened the evening with his howl ; In the near grove, a shuddering sound, Echoed the ominous owl. G 4 88 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. Three times, as at a robber band, The guardian mastiff leapt his chain, Three times the hand in Leon's hand, Grew chill and shook with pain. And Sylvia said, " These, Leon, these Are the dismal sounds which, three nights past, Came herald to the mysteries Of dreams too sad to last. VIII. f FIRST of the mournful sights, I saw Our flocks fly bleating from a hound, And many a one his savage jaw Dragged bleeding to the ground. The rest sought shelter in despair, And in a brake were robbed and torn ; The cruel hound had an ally there In every briar and thorn. In nightmare dreams my feet were set, For I could neither move nor scream ; Oh ! Leon, it makes me tremble yet, Although 'twas but a dream. 90 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. Anon I struggled forth, and took From off my mastiff's neck the chain ; He leapt the gate, he leapt the brook, And snarled across the plain. Then how they fought ! my sight grew dim In straining to that field remote. At length he threw that blood-hound grim, And held him by the throat. IX. AND then I heard your neighing train, Its silver bells rang down the breeze, And saw the white arch of your wain Between the road-side trees. Announced as by an ocean-storm, A horseman from the east in ire Rode to retrieve his hound ; his form Was robed in scarlet fire. But, when you saw our murdered field, And saw in midst the struggling hounds, And him whose sword made threat to wield Destruction o'er our grounds, 92 SYLVIA; OK, THE LAST SHEPHERD. You loosed the best steed of your team, And seized the weapon nearest hand, Then sped the hill, and leapt the stream, And bade the invader stand. Then came the horrid sight and sound; At length I saw the foe retreat, And swooned for joy ; but, waking, found You bleeding at my feet. I BORE you in ; with my own hand I tended you long nights and days, And heard with pride how all the land Was ringing with your praise. But when your deepest wounds were well, - This, Leon, is the saddest part, A lady came, with witching spell, And claimed your hand and heart. She came in all her southern pride, And, though she was as morning bright, An Afric bondmaid at her side Stooped like a starless night. 94 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. She moved as she were monarch born, And smiled her sweetest smile on you ; But scorned me with her lofty scorn, Until I shrank from view. When you were gone all hope had flown, Grief held to me her bitter crust, My distaff dropt, my loom, o'erthrown, Lay trampled in the dust. XI. I KNOW such dreams are empty, vain, And yet they rest upon the heart Like chillness of a summer rain After the clouds depart ! And still the dream went on, each hour Some new-born wonder filled the dream, First came the labourers to o'erpower, And chain our little stream. A giant prison-wall they made ; Our brook, recoiling in her fears, Over our meadows wildly strayed, And drowned them with her tears. 96 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. And then they reared a stately home, Not one, but many, for this queen ; The gleam of tower, and spire, and dome Through all the land was seen. And, when her orgies swelled the breeze, Loudly, a mile away or more, Was borne the voice of her revelries, The rattle and the war. xn. You grew to her more fond and near, And mine no more ! Ah, never more You brought the antler'd forest-deer, And laid it at my door ! And ever round the hall and hearth, These branching emblems of the chase Mocked me with memory of the mirth Which once made bright the place. No more, 'neath Autumn's sun or cloud, You paid to me the pleasing tax Of labour at the swingle loud, Breaking the brittle flax. H 98 SYLVIA ; OR, THE LAST SHEPHEKD. No more, when Winter walked our clime, We woke the evening-lighted room With laugh and song, still keeping time To whirring wheel or loom. Nor blazed the great logs as of yore, Cheered with the cricket's pastoral song ; The cider and the nuts were o 'er, And gone the jovial throng. The hearth was basely narrowed down, The antlered walls were stripped and bare ; The oaken floor no more was known, A foreign woof was there. XIII. AND never more your ringing team Made music in our happy dale ; Instead, an earthquake winged with steam Roared through our sundered vale. And where yon river seaward runs, The white winged barges ceased to roam ; Instead, came great leviathans, Trampling the waves to foam. And there was rushing to and fro, As if the nation suddenly Made haste to meet some foreign foe Impending on the sea. H2 100 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. And all this horrid roar and rage, The clash of steel and flash of ire, Was the giant march of the conquering age Flapping his flags of fire. He strode the land from East to West : Then death in my despair was sweet ; And soon, above my buried breast, Trampled the world's loud feet. The dreary dream is past and told ; But Leon, swear to still be true, Even though, with charms a thousand-fold, A queen should smile on you ! " This Leon swore swore still to pay The fealty he long had borne, The years which followed best can say If Leon was forsworn. XIV. "FORSWORN!" The fields all sighed " forsworn !" When Sylvia pined into her shroud, And all the pastures lay forlorn, O'ershadowed with a cloud. The homesteads wept with childish sob, "Forsworn !" and every wheel was dumb ; The looms were muffled each low throb Was like a funeral drum. The maidens hid in Maytime grots, Their distaffs twined with blossoms sweet, With pansies and forget-me-nots, And laid them at her feet, ii 3 102 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. "Forsworn !" they sighed, and sprinkled o'er Her breast the loveliest flowers of May ; And then these fair pall-bearers bore Her gentle dust away. " Forsworn ! " the grandams moved about Like useless shadows in their gloom; And oft they brought their distaffs out, And sat beside her tomb. " Forsworn ! " all nature sighs " forsworn ! " And Sylvia's is a nameless grave, The blossoms, which above her mourn, *Mid tangled grasses wave. XV. PROUD Leon sits beside his bride, His chariot manned by Nubian grooms, His lady rustling in the pride Of stuffs of foreign looms. Secure, important and serene, The master of a wide domain, He looks abroad with lordly mien, This once poor shepherd swain. You scarce would think, to see him now In all his grandeur puffed and full, He e'er had guided flock or plow, In simple home-spun wool ! H 4 104 SYLVIA ; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. The chain of gold is still a chain There may be moments he would pay The bulk of all his marvellous gain For what has passed away ! CONCLUSION. THE MOURNFUL MOWERS. THUS sang the shepherd crowned at noon ; And every breast was heaved with sighs ; Attracted by the tree and tune, The winged singers left the skies. Close to the minstrel sat the maid, His song had drawn her fondly near ; Her large and dewy eyes betrayed The secret to her bosom dear. The factory people through the fields Pale men, and maids and children pale Listened, forgetful of the wheels, Till the loud summons woke the vale. 106 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. And all the mowers rising, said, " The world has lost its dewy prime ; Alas ! the Golden Age is dead, And we are of the Iron Time ! The wheel and loom have left our homes ; Our maidens sit with empty hands, Or toil beneath yon roaring domes And fill the factory's pallid bands. The fields are swept as by a war ; Our harvests are no longer blythe ; Yonder the iron mower's car Comes with its devastating scythe. They lay us waste by fire and steel ; Besiege us to our very doors ; Our crops before the driving wheel Fall captive to the conquerors. SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. J07 The pastoral age is dead ! is dead ! Of all the happy ages chief ! Let every mower bow his head In token of sincerest grief. And let our brows be thickly bound With every saddest flower that blows, And all our scythes be deeply wound With every mournful leaf that grows ! " Thus sang the mowers, and they said, " The world has lost its dewy prime ; Alas, the Golden Age is dead, And we are of the Iron Time ! " Each wreathed his scythe and turned his head, They took their slow way through the plain, The minstrel and the maiden led Across the fields the solemn train. 108 SYLVIA; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. The air was rife with clamorous sounds Of clattering factory, thundering forge, Conveyed from the remotest bounds Of smoky plain and mountain gorge. Here, with a sudden shriek and roar, The rattling engine thundered by ; A steamer past the neighbouring shore Convulsed the river and the sky. The brook, that erewhile laughed abroad, And o'er one light wheel loved to play, Now, like a felon groaning, trod Its hundred treadmills night and day. The fields were tilled with steeds of steam, Whose fearful neighing shook the vales ; Along the road there rang no team ; The barns were loud, but not with flails. SYLVIA ; OR, THE LAST SHEPHERD. 109 And still the mournful mowers said, " The world has lost its dewy prime ; Alas, the Golden Age is dead, And we are of the Iron Time !" THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL, THE SCULPTOE'S FUNEKAL, THROUGH the darkened streets of Florence, Moving toward thy church, Saint Lorenz, Marched the bearers, masked and singing, With their ghostly flambeaux flinging Ghostlier shadows, that went winging Round the portals and the porches, As if spirits, which had hovered In the darkness undiscovered, Danced about the hissing torches, Like the moths that whirl and caper Drunken round an evening taper, i 2 116 THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. Unconsoled and unconsoling Rolled the Arno, louder rolling As the rain poured and the tolling Through the thick shower fell demurely, Fell from out one turret only, Where the bell swung sad and lonely. Prisoned in the cloud securely. Masked in black, with voices solemn, Strode the melancholy column, With a stiff and soulless burden, Bearing to the grave its guerdon ; While the torch-flames, vexed and taunted By the night winds, leapt and flaunted, 'Mid the funeral rains that slanted ; Those brave bearers marched and chanted, Through the darkness thick and dreary, With a woful voice and weary, " Miserere." THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 117 " Light to light and dark to dark, Kindred natures thus agree ; Where the soul soars none can mark, But the world below may hark Miserere, Domine ! " Dew to dew, and rain to rain, Swell the streams and reach the sea ; When the drouth shall burn the plain, Then the sands shall but remain Miserere, Domine ! " Flame to flame let ashes fall Where the fireless ashes be ; Embers black and funeral Unto dying cinders call Miserere, Domine ! i 3 118 THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. " Life to life and dust to dust ! Christ, who died upon the tree, Thine the promise, ours the trust ; We are weak but thou art just Miserere, Domine ! " FIRST BYSTANDER. There, stand aside, the very eaves are weeping As are the heavens in sympathy with us : Italians air hath not within its keeping A nobler heart than that which lies there sleeping, For whom the elements are wailing thus. SECOND BYSTANDER. I reverenced him he was a marvellous schemer ; Hath built more airy structures in his day Than ever wild and opiate-breathing dreamer Hath drugged his dreams with even in Cathay. THE SCULPTOR'S FUNEKAL. 119 His fancy went in marble round the earth And whitened it with statues where he trod The silent people leapt to sudden birth, And all the sky, exulting high and broad, Became a mighty Pantheon for God. THIRD BYSTANDER. You reverenced him ? I loved him with a scope Of feeling I may never know again ; And love him still, even though, beyond all hope, The priest, the bishop, cardinal, and pope Should banish him to wear a burning chain In those great dungeons of the unforgiven, Under the space-deep castle walls of Heaven ! I know the Church considered it a sin, I know the Duke considered it a shame, That our Alzoni would not stoop to win What any blunderer, now-a-day, may claim, i 4 120 THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. A niche in Santa Croce, which hath been, And is, to them, the very shrine of Fame ! Why, look you, why should one carve out his soul In bits to meet the world's unthankful stare ; For Ignorance to hold in his control, And sly-eyed Jealousy's detracting glare ? To see the golden glories of his brain Out-glittered by a brazen counterfeit ? The starriest spirit only shines in vain, When every rocket can outdazzle it ! CHORUS OF STUDENTS, FOLLOWING. " They bear the great Alzoni he is dead, Our hope is dead, and lies on yonder bier ; There is no comfort left for any here Since he is dead ! THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 121 O, mother Florence, droop your queenly head, And mingle ashes with your wreath of flowers ; Build funeral altars in your ducal towers ; For he is dead ! " Ye dusky palaces, whose gloom is wed To princely names that never may depart, Drown all your lights in tears the prince of Art, Your hope, is dead ! Ye spirits who to glory have been led, In years agone, departed souls of might, Make joyful space in Heaven, for our delight On earth is dead ! " 122 THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. And thus, with melancholy songs, they bore him Into the chapel ; 'twixt the columns vast They set the bier, and lit great tapers o'er him, And looked their last. They looked and pondered on his dreamy history, Whose sudden close had left them broken- hearted, Till cloudy censers veiled the light in mystery, And they departed. DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. DOOMED AND FOEGOTTEN, Two mighty angels in the outer blue, With great palm-branches slanting in their hands, Stood by the golden gate that guards the view Wherein God's temple stands. So still they were, the porphyry pillars high That propt the fretted cornice and the frieze, Stood not more breathless when the choral sky Withheld its symphonies. And golden haloes bound their brows in light, Till each head shone like Saturn with his rings, And to their sandals, beautiful and bright, Went down their crosswise wings. 126 DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. Low at their feet, with pinions all distraught, As they the Siroc's stormy path had swept, And ashen cheeks still hot with burning thought, A spirit sat and wept ; And shed such tears as from the heart can flow Alone when Hope flies far from our distress, Leaving no guide athwart the world of woe, The pathless wilderness. Thus have I seen some sad and sightless one, Before a palace, with nor hound nor staff, Sit weeping in the sultry dust, with none To speak in his behalf. But happier far that prisoner from the day, With all the sunlight mocking his blank eyes, Than he, whose doomed path forgotten lay Along the under skies. DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 127 Doomed and forgotten ! These are sounds attuned To all the world conceives of misery ; They drown the heart, as if the last wave swooned Above us in the sea ! Doomed and forgotten ; by our God forgot, Who noteth even the sparrow in his fall ; With whom the smallest living thing is not For his great care too small ! Doomed and forgotten at the angel's feet He sat with dull and weary wings deprest; But now, where once the song of peace was sweet, There came no voice of rest ! There was a time, while yet his cheeks' soft glow Bloomed in the boyhood of his earthly years, He had a vision, which no man may know, That drowned his eyes with tears. 128 DOOMED AND FOEGOTTEN. Some God-sent angel, wavering down the sky, Had sought him when the world was most apart And given this vision to his dreaming eye, And stamped it on his heart. Then he withdrew from all his fellow youths, His heaven-touched soul with inspiration filled, And said, " My time is God's ; the cause is Truth's ; Beneath their dome I build ! " For days and nights he walked the solemn wood, Rounding to fullest form his great intent, And viewless phantoms all about him stood, And followed where he went. If he despaired, the pine-cone in his way Fell from the bough that sentinels the wind ; The small spring whispered courage where it lay In ancient rocks enshrined. DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 129 The wintry mountain stood with glory top't, And Iris bound the labouring torrent's brow ; The acorn, full of future summers, dropt From out the stormy bough. The flowery vines, in Nature's unseen hand, Curled into wreaths, as if Fame wandered there ; The laurel, leaning o'er the pathway, fanned The brightness of his hair. There was a time ! oh, Bad and bitter breath That sighs o'er loss of days no more to be, Of actions dropt to dreams, and dreams to death, And then Eternity ! There crouched the spirit, abject and forlorn, Upon the azure highway, like a blot, And raised its low voice, for they needs must mourn, The doomed and the forgot. K 130 DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. But soon, abashed to hear his own " Alas ! " He took his way aslant the nether space, And. wheresoe'er a star beheld him pass, It turned and veiled its face ! Oh soul, remember, howe'er small the scope Of thought, or action, that around thee lies, It is the finished task alone can ope The gates of Paradise ! THE FROZEN GOBLET, K '2 TEE FKOZEN GOBLET, THE night was dark, the winds were loud, The storm hung low in a swinging cloud ; The blaze on my chamber lamp was dim, And athwart my brain began to swim Those visions that only swim and sweep Under the wavering wings of sleep ; And suddenly into my presence came A spectre, thin as that dismal flame That burns and beams, a moving lamp, Where the dreary fogs of night encamp. Her lips were pale, her cheeks were white, Her eyes were full of phantom light ; Once, twice, thrice, K3 134 THE FROZEN GOBLET. A goblet, wrought to a rare device, She held to fevered lips of mine ; But mocked them with its frozen wine, Till they were numb on the dusky ice. I could not speak, I could not stir, I could do nought but look at her ; Nought but look in her wonderful eyes, And lose me in their mysteries. The goblet shone, the goblet glowed, But from its rim no liquid flowed. Its sides were bright with pictures rare Of demons foul and angels fair, And Life and Death o'er Youth contending, And Love on luminous wings descending, Celestial cities with golden domes, And caverns full of labouring gnomes. Once, twice, thrice, That goblet, wrought to a rare device, THE FROZEN GOBLET. 135 She held to fevered lips of mine ; But mocked them with its frozen wine, Till they were numb on the dusky ice. Loud rang the bell through the stormy air, And the clock replied on the shadowy stair ; And chanticleer awoke and flung The echo from his silvery tongue. All nature, with a sudden noise, Proclaimed the momentary poise Of that invisible beam, that weighs At midnight the divided days. The Phantom beckoned and turned away ; I had no power to speak or stay ; We passed the dusky corridor, Her sandal gems illumed the floor ; And with a ruddy phosphor light The frozen goblet lit the night. Once, twice, thrice, K 4 136 THE FROZEN GOBLET. That goblet, wrought to a rare device, She held to fevered lips of mine ; But mocked them with its frozen wine, Till they were numb on the dusky ice. She led me through enchanted woods, Through deep and haunted solitudes, By threatening cataracts, and the edges Of high and dizzy mountain ledges, And over bleak and perilous ridges, To frail and air-suspended bridges, Where, in the muffled dark beneath, Invisible rivers talked of death ; Until, for very sympathy With the unfathomed mystery, I cried, " Here I resign my breath, " Here let me taste the cup of Death ! " Once, twice, thrice, That goblet, wrought to a rare device, THE FKOZEN GOBLET. 137 She held to fevered lips of mine ; But mocked them with its frozen wine, Till they were numb on the dusky ice. And then a voice within me said, " Would'st thou journey to the dead ? Shed this mantle, and pass for ever Into the black, eternal river ? For very sympathy, depart From the tumult of this heart ? Know'st thou not that mightier river, Rolling on in darkness ever, Ever sweeping, coiling, boiling, Howling, fretting, wailing, toiling, Where every wave that breaks on shore Is a human heart that can bear no more ?" Once, twice, thrice, That goblet, wrought to a rare device, She held to fevered lips of mine; 138 THE FROZEN GOBLET. But mocked them with the frozen wine, Till they were numb on the dusky ice. And then in sorrow and shame I cried, " Oh, take me to that river's side, And I will shun the languid shore, And plunge me into the dark uproar, And drink of the waters till they impart A generous sense, and a human heart." And all at once, around me rose A mingled mutiny of woes, And my soul discerned those sounds to be The wail of a wide humanity ; Till my bosom heaved responsive sighs, And tremulous tears were in my eyes. Once, twice, thrice, That goblet, wrought to a rare device, She held to fevered lips of mine; And at their instant touch the wine Flowed freely from the dusky ice. THE FROZEN GOBLET. 139 I drank new life, I could not stop, But drained it to its latest drop ; Till the Phantom with the goblet rare Dissolved into the shining air, Dissolved into the outer gloom ; And once more I was in my room ; Yet oft before my waking eyes The figures of that goblet rise, The angels and the fiends at strife, And Youth 'twixt warring Death and Life, The domes, the gnomes, mysterious things ! And Love descending on luminous wings. Once, twice, thrice, That goblet, wrought to a rare device, Fair memory holds to lips of mine; And bathes them with the sacred wine, The tribute of that dusky ice. THE MINERS. THE MINERS, BURROW, burrow, like the mole, Ye who shape the columned caves ! Ye are black with clinging coal r Black as fiery Afric's slaves ! Sink the shadowy shaft afar Deep into our native star ! Rend her iron ribs apart, Where her hidden treasures are, Nestled near her burning heart ! Dig, nor think how forests grow Above your heads, how waters flow Responsive to the song of birds, How blossoms paint, in silent words, 144 THE MINERS. What hearts may feel but cannot know ! Dig ye, where no day is seen ; Vassals in the train of night, Build the chambers for your Queen Where with starless locks she lies, Robbed of all her bright disguise ! There no precious dews alight, None but what the cavern weeps Down its scarred and dusky face ! There's no bird in all the place ; Not a simple flower ye mark, Not a shrub or vine that creeps Through the long, long Lapland dark ! Burrow, burrow, like the mole, Dark of face, but bright of soul ! Labour is not mean or low ! Ye achieve with every blow, Something higher than ye know ! Though your sight may not extend Through your labours to the end, THE MINERS. 145 Every honest stroke ye give, Every peril that ye brave In the dark and dangerous cave, In some future good shall live ! PASSING THE ICEBERGS. L 2 PASSING THE ICEBERGS, A FEARLESS shape of brave device, Our vessel drives through mist and rain, Between the floating fleets of ice, Those navies of the northern main ; Those arctic ventures blindly hurled, The proofs of Nature's olden force, Like fragments of a crystal world Long shattered from its skiey course. These are the buccaneers that fright The middle sea with dream of wrecks, And freeze the south winds in their flight, And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. L 3 150 PASSING THE ICEBERGS. At every dragon prow and helm There stands some Viking as of yore, Grim heroes from the boreal realm Where Odin rules the spectral shore. And oft beneath the sun or moon, Their swift and eager falchions glow ; While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune Comes chafing through some beard of snow. And when the far north flashes up With fires of mingled red and gold, They know that many a blazing cup Is brimming to the absent bold. Up signal there ! and let us hail Yon looming phantom as we. pass ; Note all her. fashion, hull and sail, Within the compass of your glass ! PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 151 See at her mast the stedfast glow Of that one star of Odin's throne ; Up with our flag, and let us show The Constellation on our own ! And speak her well ; for she might say, If from her heart the words could thaw, Great news from some far frozen bay, Or the remotest Esquimaux. Might tell of channels yet untold, That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; Of lands which God designs to hold A mighty people yet to be ; Of wonders which alone prevail Where day and darkness dimly meet ; Of all which spreads the Arctic sail ; Of Franklin and his venturous fleet : L 4 152 PASSING THE ICEBERGS. How, haply, at some glorious goal His anchor holds, his sails are furled ; That fame has named him on her scroll, " Columbus of the Polar World." Or how his ploughing barques wedge on Through splintering fields, with battered shares, Lit only by that spectral dawn, The mask that mocking darkness wears ; Or how, o'er embers black and few, The last of shivered masts and spars, He sits amid his frozen crew In council with the norland stars. No answer, but the sullen flow Of ocean heaving long and vast ! An argosy of ice and snow, The voiceless North swings proudly past. SOLEMN VOICES. SOLEMN VOICES. I HEARD from out the dreary realms of Sorrow The various tongues of Woe : One said, " Is there a hope in the to-morrow ? " And many answered, " No ! " And they arose and mingled their loud voices, And cried in bitter breath, " In all our joys the Past alone rejoices ; There is no joy but Death. " Oh dreadful Past, beyond thy midnight portal Thou hast usurped our peace ; And if the angel Memory be immortal, When shall this anguish cease ? " 156 SOLEMN VOICES. And suddenly, within the darkened distance, The solemn Past replied, " In my domains your joys have no existence, Your hopes they have not died ! " Nought comes to me except those ghosts detested, Phantoms of Wrong and Pain ; But whatsoe'er Affection hath invested, Th' eternal years retain. " Then stand no more with looks and souls dejected To woo and win despair ; The joys ye mourn the Future hath collected, Your hopes are gathered there. " And as the dew, which leaves the morning flowers, Augments the after rain, And as the blooms, which fall from summer bowers, Are multiplied again, SOLEMN VOICES. 157 " So shall the joys the Future holds in keeping Augment your after peace ; So shall your hopes, which now are only sleeping, Return with large increase." MIDNIGHT. MIDNIGHT, THE moon looks down on a world of snow, And the midnight lamp is burning low, And the fading embers mildly glow In their bed of ashes soft and deep ; All, all is still as the hour of death ; I only hear what the old clock saith, And the mother and infant's easy breath That flows from the holy land of Sleep. Say on, old clock ! I love you well, For your silver chime, and the truths you tell ; Your every stroke is but the knell Of hope or sorrow buried deep ; M 162 MIDNIGHT. Say on, but only let me hear The sound most sweet to my listening ear. The child and the mother breathing clear, Within the harvest fields of Sleep. Thou watchman, on thy lonely round, I thank thee for that warning sound ; The clarion cock and the baying hound Not less their dreary vigils keep ; Still hearkening, I will love you all, While in each silent interval I hear those dear breasts rise and fall Upon the airy tide of sleep. Old world, on time's benighted stream Sweep down till the stars of morning beam From orient shores, nor break the dream That calms my love to pleasure deep ! Roll on, and give my Bud and Rose The fulness of thy best repose, The blessedness which only flows Along the silent realms of Sleep ! L'ENVOI M 2 TO I BRING the flower you asked of me, A simple bloom, nor bright nor rare ; But like a star its light will be Within the darkness of jour hair. It grew not in those guarded bowers Where rustling fountains sift their spray, But gladly drank the common showers Of dew beside the dusty way. 166 L'ENVOI. It may be in its humble sphere It cheered the pilgrim of the road, And shed as blest an alms as e'er The generous hand of wealth bestowed. Or though, save mine, it met no eye, But secretly looked up and grew, And from the loving air and sky Its little store of beauty drew, And though it breathed its small perfumes So low they did not woo the bee, Exalted, how it shines and blooms Above all flowers, since worn by thee ! And thus the song you bade me sing May be a rude and artless lay, And yet it grew a sacred thing To bless me on Life's dusty way. L'ENVOI. 167 And unto this, my humble strain, How much of beauty shall belong, If thou wilt in thy memory deign To wear my simple flower of song ! THE END. LONDON : Printed by SPOTTISVVOODE & Co, New-street Square. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE RECALL LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS Book Slip-50m-12,'64(F772s4)458 390674 Read, T.B. Rural poems PS2684 R8 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS STABLE TALK ai _ ^ Young Sportsmen. By HAT; RY HIEOVJSB. 2 vols. 8vo. 'Us. With Hii " s The STUD FARM ; or, Hints on Breeding" Horses for the Turf, the Chase, and the Road. By CECIL. Fcp.8vo.5s. The STUD for PRACTICAL PURPOSES and of a Horsefor Use tha RECORDS of the CHASE, and MEMOIRS of SPOETSMEN - T ^ CE ^- With Two Plates by B. ELAINE'S ENCYCLOPEDIA of RURAL SPORTS r. A.GHAHAK: With HINTS on SHOOTING, FISHING, & c . f both on SE 1 and Colonel HAWKER'S INSTRUCTIONS to YOUNG rs^^;^ London: LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, and ROBERTS. 10 ^^^^^ ^ BOUNDBY