VOICES 
 
 FROM THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 FROM THE CROWD 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 Che fai alma ? che pensi ? ' 
 
 PETRARCH. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS. 
 
 MDCCCLIII. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 THURSTON, TO.iRT, AND 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IT is not always that prefaces are necessary to books, 
 although custom has done its best, or worst, to make the 
 practice of writing, if not of reading them, an imperative 
 one. 
 
 In the present case, the author feels that it would be pecu- 
 liarly ungracious to depart from the established rule, and to 
 allow this volume to be placed before the American public, 
 without a few words of explanation and of acknowledgment. 
 
 The poems in this collection are now, for the first time, 
 brought together. They include three small volumes pub- 
 lished in England at intervals between the years 1846 and 
 1851, under the titles of * Voices from the Crowd,' * Voices 
 from the Mountains,' and ' Town Lyrics.' They also include 
 many fugitive pieces gathered from the periodical publications 
 and other works, in which they originally appeared, as well 
 as a considerable number of new poems, now first given to 
 the world. The author was requested by his friend Mr. J. 
 T. Fields, of the firm of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, to collect 
 them for the American public, and the present edition is the 
 result. 
 
 This circumstance he considers himself bound to mention 
 in the interests of Literature, to show that national and inter- 
 national treaties of copyright are not always necessary in 
 the transactions of authors in England and publishers in the 
 United States ; and that kindly feeling and a high sense of 
 
 273048 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 honor, may, in the absence of law, produce results which are 
 as satisfactory to the writers of books, as creditable to those 
 whose function it is to distribute them. 
 
 Mr. Emerson, in one of his thoughtful and beautiful 
 Essays, speaks of 'new voices reviving a hope that the 
 thoughts of the mind, may yet in some distant age, in some 
 happy hour, be executed by the hands.' The author hopes 
 that his ' New Voices ' may in this distant, but kindred land, 
 into which they are now cast, be as kindly received as they 
 were in his own, and that they may not altogether fail in 
 exciting others to indulge in the same aspirations for the 
 good of humanity, and in the same fervent love of Nature in 
 which he indulges himself. 
 
 It may perhaps be necessary to say a few words on the 
 political complexion of that portion of the collection, in- 
 cluded more especially under the title of ' Voices from the 
 Crowd.' 
 
 Those lyrical pieces were for the most part written in a 
 time of political and social agitation to aid as far as 
 rhymes could aid, the efforts of the zealous and able men 
 who were endeavoring to create a public opinion in favor of 
 untaxed food, and of free trade, and free intercourse among 
 the nations of the world. They were written as plainly as 
 possible, that they might appeal to the people, in the peoples' 
 language, and express the wants of the many in phraseology, 
 broad, simple and intelligible as the occasion. 
 
 LONDON, NOVEMBER 8, 1852. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE ...... 1 
 
 THE MAN IN THE DKAD SEA . .13 
 
 ETERNAL JUSTICE . . . . . .22 
 
 Now 25 
 
 THE VISION OF MOCKERY . . . . .28 
 
 WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW ... 37 
 
 THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE . . .39 
 
 THE CONFESSION ..... 45 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS . . . .55 
 
 LOVE OR WISDOM ? AN EXAMINATION . . 58 
 
 THE DROP OF AMBROSIA . . . . .61 
 
 THE FOLLOWER ..... 64 
 
 MELODIES AND MYSTERIES . . . . .68 
 
 THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER ... 70 
 
 IMOGEN'S JOURNEY . . . . . .75 
 
 Two MYSTERIES . . . . 83 
 
 THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS . . .85 
 
 THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES ... 102 
 EVERMORE NEVERMORE ..... 106 
 
 THE TRUE COMPANION .... 108 
 
 WELCOME BACK . . . . . .109 
 
 A LOVER'S FANCIES . . . . . Ill 
 
 THE NINE BATHERS . . . . .112 
 
 THE WATER TARANTELLA 118 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 To A LADY OF GENIUS . . . a .123 
 
 ANGELIC VISITANTS ..... 127 
 
 CATHEDRAL Music ...... 128 
 
 LOVE AND BEAUTY ..... 132 
 
 A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS .... 133 
 
 WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH . . . 135 
 
 THE PRAISE OF WOMEN ..... 139 
 
 SERENITY .... . 140 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE .... 142 
 
 DIONYSIA : OR FESTIVALS OF BACCHUS . . 146 
 
 NOON-TIME IN THE SHADE .... 150 
 
 THE CABARET IN THE PYRENEES . . . 153 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER ...... 159 
 
 THE LOST DAY ..... 161 
 
 TEARS . . . . . . .163 
 
 LITTLE AT FIRST BUT GREAT AT LAST . . 165 
 
 HAPPY LOVE ...... 167 
 
 UNHAPPY LOVE ..... 169 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE SPHYNX .... 172 
 
 A REVERIE IN THE GRASS .... 175 
 
 THE EARTH AND THE STARS . . . .179 
 
 THE YOUNG EARTH ..... 181 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE LIVING ..... 186 
 
 FREEDOM AND LAW ..... 187 
 
 FOLLOW YOUR LEADER . . . . . 193 
 
 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER . . . 197 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ...... 200 
 
 THE GOOD TIME COMING . . . 202 
 
 THE WANTS OF THE PEOPLE .... 205 
 
 THE THREE PREACHERS .... 207 
 
 OLD OPINIONS ....... 210 
 
 DAILY WORK ...... 214 
 
 TRADE AND SPADE ...... 216 
 
 AN EMIGRANT'S BLESSING . 219 
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE . . . 222 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 LET Us ALONE ..... 225 
 
 CLEON AND I ...... 228 
 
 THE LITTLE MOLES ..... 230 
 
 RAILWAYS ....... 233 
 
 THE FERMENTATION ..... 235 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S SUNDAY WALK . . .238 
 
 A CONVICT'S BLESSING .... 241 
 
 ENGLAND AND FRANCE ..... 244 
 
 RETRACTION AND REPENTANCE . . . 247 
 
 THE VISION OF DANTON ..... 250 
 
 A WELCOME TO Louis PHILIPPE . . . 254 
 
 KING SMITH ...... 258 
 
 THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER . . . 261 
 
 THE POET AND THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST . . 265 
 
 To A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS . . . 269 
 
 TRUE FREEDOM, AND How TO GAIN IT . . . 273 
 
 THE DYING MOTHER ..... 275 
 
 To IMPATIENT GENIUS ..... 278 
 
 THE GOLDEN CITY ..... 280 
 
 THE ENGLISH PEEP-O'-DAY-BOYS .... 284 
 
 THE DEPOSITION OF KING CLOG ... 288 
 
 THE OLD PHILOSOPHER ..... 292 
 
 ELLEN EVELINA ..... 295 
 
 LADY JANE ...... 297 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PAIR OF EYES . . . 300 
 
 MY PLAYFELLOW ...... 304 
 
 THE DOUBTFUL CASE ..... 306 
 
 STREET COMPANIONS ..... 308 
 
 THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW .... 312 
 
 MARY AND LADY MARY ; OR, NEXT DOOR NEIGHBORS 316 
 
 ABOVE AND BELOW ..... 220 
 
 JOHN LITTLEJOHN ..... 323 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S BIRD . . . . .326 
 
 UNKNOWN ROMANCES ..... 328 
 
 THE FLOATING STRAW ..... 330 
 
 A QUESTION ANSWERED .... 332 
 
 WHAT MIGHT BE DONE ..... 334 
 
 THE GOLDEN MADNESS . . 336 
 
Vill CONTENTS. 
 
 THE MOWERS. AN ANTICIPATION OF THE CHOLERA, 1848 340 
 
 SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I . . . 344 
 AN APPEAL TO PARIS. 1847 . . . .347 
 
 THOUGHTS . . . . . 350 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHIST. A PORTRAIT . . . 351 
 
 MOUNTAIN STREAMS ..... 354 
 
 BARON BRAEMAR. ...... 357 
 
 THE DUOMO OF SYRACUSE .... 360 
 
 WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR .... 363 
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY . . . 365 
 
 THE ENGLISH GIRL ..... 367 
 
 THE SWING ...... 369 
 
 HAPPY DAYS . . 372 
 
YOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
VOICES PROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 1 WE three are young ; we have a month to spare 
 
 Money enough ; and, whistling off our care, 
 
 We can forsake the turmoil of the town, 
 
 And tread the wilds making our faces brown 
 
 With sunshine, on the peaks of some high Ben. 
 
 Let us away three glad, unburden'd men 
 
 And trace some mountain-torrent to its source, 
 
 Mid fern, and heather, juniper, and gorse, 
 
 Braving all weathers. I, with gun, one day 
 
 Will cater for you, and go forth to slay 
 
 The grouse in corries, where it loves to dwell ; 
 
 Or sit with you, upon some granite-fell, 
 
 And talk for hours of high philosophy, 
 
 Or sun ourselves in warmth of poesy : 
 
 And should these tire, with rod in hand, we '11 go 
 
 To streams that leap too frolicsome to flow 
 
 Angling for trout, and catch them by themselves, 
 
 In fancied citadel, beneath the shelves 
 
 Of slippery stone, o'er which the waters rush. 
 
 Let us away. My cheeks and forehead flush 
 
 At the mere thought ; so glad would be my soul 
 
 To be alone with Nature for one whole 
 
4 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Untrammell'd month having no thought of dross 
 
 Or dull entanglements of gain and loss ; 
 
 Of Blackstone drear, or Barne well's Reports, 
 
 Or aught that smells of lawyers and the courts. 
 
 Let us away, this pleasant summer time, 
 
 Thou, Karl, canst muse, and shape the tuneful rhyme 
 
 Amidst thy well-beloved hills and straths : 
 
 Thou, Patrick, canst ascend the mountain-paths, 
 
 Thy well-filled flask in pocket, and rehearse 
 
 Plain prose with me, as genial as his verse ; 
 
 And wet or whet each argumental flaw 
 
 With running waters, dashed with usquebaugh.' 
 
 Thus Alistor, a Templar keen and young, 
 
 Of a clear head, and of a fluent tongue ; 
 
 Subtle logician, but with earnest mind, 
 
 And heart brimful of hope for human kind, 
 
 Spake to his friends ; and him, with voice of cheer, 
 
 Answer' d the rhymer : ' Half one toilsome year 
 
 I've moiled in cities, and, like thee, I long 
 
 To see the placid lochs, the torrents strong. 
 
 The purple moors, the white rocks, crimson-crowned, 
 
 And amber waters, in their depths embrowned. 
 
 One month of freedom, from the drowsy thrall 
 
 Of custom, would be health, joy, wisdom, all, 
 
 To us who know each other, and delight 
 
 To be let loose into the infinite 
 
 Of our own fancies free from task and rule, 
 
 And all the stiff conventions of the school 
 
 Of the great world. Our tyrant, lean-faced care, 
 
 Shall not pursue us to the mountain air, 
 
 If we play truant. Let us hence away, 
 
 And have one month of pleasure while we may.' 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Patrick, the rough in speech, the true in heart, 
 A sculptor, born to elevate his art, 
 And loving it with fervor, such as burned 
 In old Pygmalion's spirit, when he yearned 
 For the sweet image that his hands had made, 
 Shouted consent. ' But whither bound ? ' he said, 
 ' What far off mountain-summit shall we scale ? 
 What salt-sea loch, winding through many a vale, 
 Shall we explore ? Or shall we rather glide 
 Through lakes inland, unruffled by a tide ? 
 Not that it matters. Thou, friend poet, know'st 
 Better than we all grandeurs of the coast : 
 The lochs, the straths, the hoary-headed Bens, 
 The windy corries, and the wild, green glens, 
 And all the thunderous waterfalls that leap 
 Betwixt the Atlantic and the German deep ; 
 And we will follow, if our guide thou'lt be, 
 By Lomond, Linnhe, Lochy, or Maree ; 
 Through Rosshire moors, to Hebridean isle, 
 Or mid the lordly mountains of Argyll, 
 Where'er thou wilt.' The poet made reply, 
 With a keen pleasure sparkling in his eye : 
 ' There is a valley, beautifully lone, 
 Rude of access, to few but hunters known : 
 A glen so full of grey magnificence, 
 Of rock and mountain, that with love intense, 
 Salvator's self, if thither he had strayed, 
 Might, rapture-struck, a dwelling-place have made 
 Of some wild nook. There filled with ecstasies, 
 He might have sat, his spirit in his eyes, 
 And all his mind impregnate, till he wrought 
 On the dumb canvas an immortal thought. 
 
6 VOICES FROM THE MONUTAINS. 
 
 But not all rude and gloomy is the vale : 
 
 Ye wild thyme odors, floating on the gale ; 
 
 Ye tufts of heather, blooming on the slopes ; 
 
 Ye birch-trees, waving from the rocky copes 
 
 Of many a hill, your boughs festooned in braids, 
 
 Or drooping, like the locks of love-lorn maids ; 
 
 Ye dark green pines ; ye larches, fan-like, spread ; 
 
 And ye, witch-scaring rowans, gleaming red ; 
 
 Ye flowers innumerous, earth-jewels fair, 
 
 That lift your eyelids to the morning air ; 
 
 And all ye torrents, that with eloquent voice, 
 
 Call on the mountain-echoes to rejoice 
 
 And sing, amid the wilderness, a song 
 
 Of jubilant gladness, when your floods are strong ; 
 
 Attest the wild luxuriance of the scene 
 
 That lengthening spreads (with many a strath between, 
 
 And purple moorland, haunt of birds and bees) 
 
 Around the fern-clad feet and shaggy knees 
 
 Of mighty Nevis, monarch of the hills, 
 
 The paramount of mountains, gemmed with rills, 
 
 Scantily robed ; his Titan-shoulders nude, 
 
 Lifting his head in royal solitude 
 
 Above his peers, and looking grimly down 
 
 Over all Britain from his misty crown.' 
 
 Thus spake the rhymer ; and between them three 
 Was made a binding compact, suddenly, 
 That they should waken with the morning sun, 
 And journey northwards. As was said, was done. 
 Borne on the wings of steam, ten leagues an hour, 
 They called it slow, but blessed its mighty power ; 
 And thought awhile, in pensive wonder dumb, 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Of greater triumphs in the days to come. 
 When Distance (dim tradition of the Past, 
 Worn-out idea, too absurd to last) 
 Should bar no more the enterprise of man, 
 Nor time compress his efforts to a span ; 
 When docile lightnings, tethered to a wire, 
 Should turn to messengers at his desire, 
 And bearing thoughts from Europe to Cathay, 
 Start at the twilight and return ere day : 
 And of the social evils that should cease 
 Tn the new age of intercourse and peace ; 
 When War, old tyrant, bloody-faced and pale, 
 Should yield his breath, run over on the rail ; 
 Crushed by the car of Steam, no more to rise, 
 To fill the world with tears and agonies. 
 
 Short was their stay, nor turned they ev'n aside 
 To view the mighty city of the Clyde, 
 The great metropolis of plodding folk, 
 Tall chimneys, cotton, enterprise, and smoke ; 
 But bound for Crinan while the morn was new, 
 Bade to the lovely Firth a fond adieu. 
 
 Clear was the sky ; the sea reflected back 
 The morning lustre, as they held their track 
 By Rothesay, through the Kyles ; and evermore 
 Some varied beauty wooed them from the shore 
 To gaze upon it. Green hills speck'd with sheep, 
 Or jutting rocks that nodded o'er the deep ; 
 And, here and there, some mighty boulder stone, 
 Rolled from a precipice to stand alone 
 Memento of convulsions that had wrung 
 The hills to agony when earth was young. 
 
8 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 High to the south, majestic Arran rear'd 
 Its jagged peaks, storm-battered, riv'n, and seared; 
 And blue Lochfine, enswathed by mountains dun, 
 Displayed her teeming bosom to the sun, 
 And raised her ripples to reflect the light, 
 While graceful sea-gulls plumed in snowy white, 
 Followed the creaming furrow of the prow 
 With easy pinion pleasurably slow, 
 Then on the waters floated like a fleet 
 Of tiny vessels, argosies complete, 
 Such as brave Gulliver, deep wading, drew 
 Victorious from the ports of Blefuscu. 
 
 And sweet to these rejoicing mariners 
 Were Crinan's banks, o'ergrown with sunny furze, 
 With berried brambles, spotted foxglove bells, 
 Like Mab's pagodas built on pigmy fells, 
 With hawthorn bushes, purple-crested heath, 
 And orchis and anemones beneath 
 In plenteous beauty. Disembarking here, 
 Fresh for the exercise, and full of cheer, 
 They walked rejoicing onward, staff in hand, 
 Across the isthmus, nine good miles of land, 
 And left the lingering track-boat in the locks, 
 While they went scrambling over briery rocks 
 For heather sprigs, to grace their caps of blue ; 
 Then on again, rejoicing in the view 
 Of fertile valleys dotted black with kine, 
 And hills knee-deep in tamarisk and pine ; 
 Discoursing as they went of mica schist, 
 The old red sandstone, and the great ' Fire mist.' 
 Of nebulse exploded ; and the birth, 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Myriads of ages past, of a young earth ; 
 Still young and fresh, though venerably old ; 
 And of the wondrous tale in * Cosmos ' told, 
 Of heavenly architecture infinite, 
 Suns, systems, groups, revolving in the light 
 Of beauty eternal, and eternal law ; 
 Of infinite love, magnificence, and awe. 
 
 And thus the hours were rapidly consumed 
 In furnace of their thought, and toil entombed 
 In mental working ; so that when the sea 
 Burst on their startled vision suddenly, 
 They doubted if their eyes beheld indeed 
 Loch Crinan, and those seas that, like a mead 
 Sprinkled with flow'rs, were studded o'er with isles ; 
 But soon they knew them gleaming in the smiles 
 Of an unclouded sun; and once again 
 Stepping on ship-board, steamed along the main. 
 
 Most lovely ! oh ! most beautiful and grand 
 Were all the scenes of this romantic land ! 
 Isle after isle, with grey empurpled rocks, 
 Breasted in steadfast majesty the shocks, 
 Stupendous, of the wild Atlantic wave ; 
 Many a desolate sonorous cave 
 Re-echoed through its inmost vaults profound, 
 The mighty diapason and full sound 
 Of Corryvreckan awful orator 
 Preaching to lonely isles with eloquent roar ; 
 Many a mountain reared its lordly crest, 
 Bronzed or empurpled by the radiant west ; 
 
10 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Many a hill-girt loch indented far 
 
 The mainland ; many a high and frowning scaur, 
 
 The haunt of sea-fowl, raised its barren form, 
 
 Furrowed with age, defiant of the storm ; 
 
 And over all this hazy realm was spread 
 
 A halo of sad memories of the dead : 
 
 Of mournful love-tales ; of old tragedies, 
 
 Filling the heart with pity, and the eyes 
 
 With tears, at bare remembrance ; and old songs 
 
 Of love's endurance, love's despair, love's wrongs 
 
 And triumph o'er all obstacles at last ; 
 
 And all the grief and passion of the past. 
 
 Invoking these to daylight from the womb 
 
 Of dim tradition, into fuller bloom 
 
 Of their fresh fancy, greater ravishment 
 
 Was it to them to ponder as they went, 
 
 Upon each legend in its own sad place, 
 
 To which it lent a beauty and a grace. 
 
 And when they reached the rock-bound shore of Mull, 
 A land of driving sleets and vapors dull, 
 But filled with mournful grandeur and austere 
 Magnificence, the Western wave shone clear 
 In the last beams of day. The dying light, 
 Ere it departed, swathed each mountain height 
 In robes of purple ; and adown the west, 
 Where sea and sky seemed mingling breast to breast 
 Drew the dense banks of ponderous clouds, and spread 
 A mantle o'er them of a royal red, 
 Belted with purple lined with amber tinged 
 With fiery gold and blushing-purple fringed. 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 11 
 
 And gorgeous was it o'er the Western Isles 
 To gaze upon the sunset mid those piles 
 Of mountainous clouds. They reared their sunny copes 
 Like heavenly alps, with cities on their slopes, 
 Built amid glaciers bristling fierce with towers, 
 Turrets, and battlements of warlike powers 
 Jagged with priestly pinnacles and spires 
 And crowned with domes, that glittered in the fires 
 Of the slant sun, like smithied silver bright ; 
 The capitals of Cloudland. When the light 
 Grew paler, and the Eastern dark came down, 
 And o'er the mystery drew his mantle brown, 
 'T was lovely still to watch the shore and sea 
 Robed in the garment of obscurity ; 
 To see the head-lands looming through the mist, 
 As if dissevered from the earth, they wist 
 Not altogether of which element 
 They were a part, indissolubly blent. 
 
 The lights of Oban glimmer' d faint and far, 
 And over Cruachan shone out one star 
 Attendant on the moon : who, issuing forth 
 Yellow and full, displayed to all the north 
 Her matron face, and o'er each eastern hill 
 Poured sleepy lustre. Beautifully still 
 Lay Lochlin in her beams Lochlin whose breast 
 Wafted so oft the chieftains of the west 
 To bloody warfare ; Lochlin that of yore 
 The galleys of the Gael to battle bore 
 Against the men of haughty Innisfail ; 
 Lochlin of storms, where Fingal spread his sail 
 To meet Cuchullin ; Lochlin of the spears ; 
 
12 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Blue Lochlin of the songs of other years. 
 
 A mournful sea it was, a mournful shore ; 
 
 But yet so lovely, vestured in the hoar 
 
 Antiquity of many memories, 
 
 That they regretted when their watchful eyes 
 
 Described Fortwilliam and their journey's end, 
 
 And great Ben Nevis, corried, strath'd, and glenn'd, 
 
 Rising before them. Soon the sorrow pass'd, 
 
 For they had reached a resting place at last, 
 
 Where for a season they might feed Delight 
 
 On Beauty, and in worldly Care's despite 
 
 Give themselves up to Nature not in part, 
 
 But with all energy of mind and heart 
 
 That ere returning to the world again 
 
 That little month might make them better men. 
 
 And what they talked of, what they dreamed or sung, 
 
 What tales they told, or beads of fancy strung, 
 
 What aspirations of a better time, 
 
 They formed for men, behold in rhythm and rhyme. 
 
THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 
 
 AN APOLOGUE. 
 
 WALKING on the Dead Sea shore, 
 Meditating evermore, 
 Underneath the burning ray 
 Of intolerable day, 
 I beheld a fearful thing 
 
 Bloody deed as e'er was done, 
 Wrought, unblushing, unrelenting, 
 
 In the presence of the sun. 
 
 Fair, and young, and bright was he, 
 Who that morning walked with me, 
 By the margin of the sea ; 
 Calm, and eloquent, and wise, 
 
 Radiant in immortal youth ; 
 Knowledge sparkled from his eyes, 
 
 From his forehead living truth. 
 He was a youth indeed divine, 
 A master and a friend of mine, 
 For whose dear sake I would have given 
 All on the mortal side of heaven. 
 
14 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 We talked together and paced along ; 
 We did no mortal creature wrong ; 
 And sometimes sitting on the sands, 
 
 Or on the jutting rocks below, 
 He looked at me, and clasped my hands, 
 
 And told me things I ought to know 
 Things of heaven and things of earth, 
 Things of wisdom and of mirth ; 
 The wisdom cheerful, the mirth most wise, 
 And both brimful of mysteries. 
 
 There came a woman by the way, 
 
 A stately woman, proud and strong ; 
 Her robe of purple velvet shone, 
 Like a starry night, with precious stone, 
 
 And trailed the sands as she swept along. 
 She wore a dagger at her side, 
 
 Jewel-hilted, bright, and keen : 
 You might have told, by her crown of gold, 
 
 This gorgeous woman was a queen. 
 But more by her eyes, that flashed the fire 
 
 Of one accustomed to control ; 
 To rule in awe, and give the law 
 
 That binds the body and the soul. 
 And, in her train, there followed her 
 
 A well-armed troop of stalwart men, 
 So bloody and bare, I do not care 
 
 Ever to see their like again. 
 
 My friend arose and looked at her ; 
 
 Calm and beautiful he stood, 
 With such magnificence of eye, 
 
 As God but gives unto the good. 
 
THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 15 
 
 She scowled at him ; each quivering limb 
 
 In all her body spoke her wrath ; 
 And her fearful tongue loud curses flung 
 
 At the mild presence in her path : 
 * Monster of evil ! fiend of guile ! 
 
 What brings thee here to blast my sight ? 
 But since thou darest in the day, 
 To meet and brave me in the way, 
 
 We'll try thy power we '11 know thy right.' 
 
 ' Lady,' said he, and mildly spoke, 
 
 While heavenly beauty lit his face, 
 ' My God hath made me what I am, 
 
 And given me an abiding place ; 
 And if my presence please thee not, 
 
 The world is wide thou need'st not come, 
 To slay me in each quiet spot, 
 
 Where I have sanctified a home. 
 Thou'st taken from me wide domains, 
 
 And followed me with hate and scorn ; 
 Enjoy thine own let me alone 
 
 I wait in patience for the morn.' 
 
 A frenzy flushed her burning brow, 
 
 A rage too mighty to contain ; 
 Her nostrils widened, and seemed to smoke ; 
 She grasped her neck as she would choke, 
 
 And then, like one who suffered pain, 
 Her trembling lips she did compress; 
 Her cheeks grew cold and colorless. 
 But soon the madness of her blood 
 Boiled in her bosom where she stood ; 
 
16 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Her eyes seemed coals of living flame, 
 
 And incoherent curses came, 
 
 Gasping and gurgling, from her mouth. 
 
 Never tornado of the south 
 
 Made half the wreck as, in that hour, 
 
 She would have made had she the power. 
 
 My friend stood by, with folded arms, 
 
 Serene, and innocent, and pure ; 
 And when she saw that he but smiled 
 
 At all her hate, she could endure 
 No longer on his face to look, 
 
 But smote it with her jewelled hand : 
 'Insensate wretch !' she fiercely said, 
 
 ' Let me not slay thee where I stand ; 
 I will not stab thee to the heart, 
 
 Lest, in my haste, I mar delight, 
 And thou shouldst die and end thy pain 
 
 Too suddenly before my sight. 
 Not yet thy venomous blood shall flow, 
 But I will slay thee ere I go ! ' 
 
 Her body-guards, so fierce and grim, 
 Seized his arms and pinioned him ; 
 And every one, with his gauntlet on, 
 
 An iron gauntlet heavy to bear, 
 Smote him on his cheeks and eyes, 
 
 And bruised his lips, so ruddy fair, 
 Till the blood started and over-dyed 
 
 The bloom of his face with gory red. 
 And then they spat on him in spite, 
 
 And heaped foul curses on his head. 
 And he what could he do but pray, 
 
THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 17 
 
 And let them work their cruel will ? 
 Turned his looks to the judging sky, 
 Appealing, though forgiving still. 
 
 Then from his lily skin they tore 
 Every vestment that he bore ; 
 Smote him, threw him on the ground, 
 And his limbs with fetters bound ; 
 Naked, helpless, and forlorn, 
 Mark for all their wrath and scorn ; 
 And, with lying words, accused 
 
 Of every shame, deceit, and crime ; 
 And, when once he strove to speak, 
 
 Filled his mouth with sand and slime ; 
 Stamping on him as he lay, 
 Bound and bleeding on the way. 
 And I, alas ! alone, alone ! 
 Could but curse them and bemoan 
 That I could not, as I trod, 
 Grasp th' avenging bolts of God. 
 
 And as he lay upon the beach, 
 
 Deprived of motion and of speech, 
 
 The queen, that woman so proud and fierce, 
 
 Looked upon him with feverish joy ; 
 Her fiery glances seemed to pierce 
 
 Through and through the bleeding boy. 
 She put her hand on his naked breast, 
 
 And felt his heart : Ah ! well,' said she ; 
 ' It beats and beats, but shall not beat 
 
 To vex me thus incessantly.' 
 And she drew the poniard from her side, 
 2 
 
18 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Slowly, calmly, sheath and all ; 
 Unsheathed it felt if its edge was sharp, 
 
 And dipped its point in poisonous gall ; 
 And, kneeling down, with flashing face, 
 Gazed upon him, in that place. 
 
 She did not stab him : she grasped his flesh 
 
 As if she 'd tear it from his bones ; 
 Then took the slime from his bleeding mouth 
 
 That she might hear his piteous groans. 
 He faintly said, ' Thou canst not kill ; 
 My charmed life defies thy will.' 
 'I can/ she answered whispering low; 
 * This is the death that thou shalt know. 
 Thy days are numbered thy race is run; 
 Thou art an insult to the sun. 5 
 And in his breast, up to the hilt, 
 
 She plunged the dagger, and wrenched it round, 
 Then drew it out with a joyous cry, 
 
 And pointed to the ghastly wound ; 
 Then drove it in again again, 
 
 With force redoubled every time ; 
 And left it sticking in his heart 
 
 For very luxury of crime. 
 
 Sense and motion left his frame, 
 
 From his lips no breathing came : 
 
 'He's dead,' quoth she ; 'he's dead at last, 
 
 And all my agony is past. 
 
 Take him up, let the Dead Sea wave 
 
 Float him about without a grave ; 
 
 Take him up, and throw him in. 
 
THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 19 
 
 In these waters none can sink ; 
 Mid the foul naphtha let him swim, 
 To gorge the vultures, limb by limb, 
 
 When they come to the water's brink ; 
 And if they come not, let him lie, 
 Rotting betwixt the wave and sky ; 
 Take him by the heels and chin, 
 And spit on him, and cast him in.' 
 
 They twined their coarse hands in his hair ; 
 They took his body so white and fair ; 
 They spat upon his patient face, 
 Pale, but filled with heavenly grace ; 
 They took him up, and in the sea, 
 They cast him ignominiously. 
 And the fearful woman, proud and strong, 
 The fiendish woman who did the wrong, 
 Bade clarion sound, and trumpet play, 
 And went exulting on her way. 
 
 A sudden wind a treacherous wind 
 
 Arose upon that Dead Sea shore ; 
 The heavy waves began to swell, 
 
 To chafe, and foam, and lash, and roar ; 
 A gloom o'erspread the clear blue sky : 
 Once alone I could descry 
 His fair white limbs go floating by 
 
 On the crest of a distant wave ; 
 And I sat me down upon the sand, 
 Wailing that I, with strong right hand, 
 
 Had not snatched him from the grave, 
 And smitten the murderess to the dust 
 Ere she sacrificed the just. 
 
20 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 All that day the storm blew high, 
 And all that day I lingered there ; 
 
 There was no living thing but I 
 
 On the shore of that sad sea, 
 
 And I was moaning piteously. 
 
 Towards the night the wind blew fair, 
 
 And the silver rim of the bright new moon 
 Shone in a deep cerulean air, 
 
 And looked at itself in the salt lagoon. 
 
 And there was silence, cold as death ; 
 
 Not a motion but my breath. 
 
 Long I sat upon the shore, 
 
 Brooding on that cruel wrong, 
 Wondering if for evermore 
 
 The evil thing should be the strong ; 
 When I heard a sudden sound 
 
 In the waters far away, 
 And saw a phosphorescent track 
 On the breast of the waves so dull and black. 
 I listened I could plainly hear 
 The measured stroke, precise and clear, 
 Of a swimmer swimming near: 
 I looked I saw the floating locks, 
 
 The face upturned, the bosom brave, 
 The calm, full eyes, that looked on me, 
 Through the darkness of the sea ; 
 
 The strong limbs, battling with the wave : 
 I saw the motion I heard the breath, 
 I knew his victory over death. 
 
 It was my friend my living friend; 
 I clasped him, clad him, wept for joy. 
 
THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 21 
 
 ' They may think,' he said, ' to strike me dead ; 
 
 They can but wound me not destroy. 
 The strongest bands, the fastest chain 
 On my free limbs will not remain ; 
 For the deepest wounds that hate can strike 
 
 I find a healing in the air ; 
 Even poisoned weapons cannot kill ; 
 
 They're powerless 'gainst the life I bear. 
 And she, whose hate pursues me still, 
 
 A queen superb, of lofty line, 
 Shall have her day then fade away, 
 
 And all her empire shall be mine.' 
 
ETERNAL JUSTICE. 
 
 THE man is thought a knave or fool, 
 
 Or bigot, plotting crime, 
 Who, for the advancement of his kind, 
 
 Is wiser than his time. 
 For him the hemlock shall distil ; 
 
 For him the axe be bared ; 
 For him the gibbet shall be built ; 
 
 For him the stake prepared : 
 Him shall the scorn and wrath of men 
 
 Pursue with deadly aim ; 
 And malice, envy, spite, and lies, 
 
 Shall desecrate his name. 
 But truth shall conquer at the last, 
 
 For round and round we run, 
 And ever the right comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is justice done. 
 
 Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, 
 
 Cheerily to and fro ; 
 Trust to the impulse of thy soul 
 
 And let the poison flow. 
 
ETERNAL JUSTICE. i>3 
 
 They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay 
 
 That holds a light divine, 
 But they cannot quench the fire of thought 
 
 By any such deadly wine : 
 They cannot blot thy spoken words 
 
 From the memory of man, 
 By all the poison ever was brewed 
 
 Since time its course began. 
 To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored, 
 
 So round and round we run, 
 And ever the truth comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is justice done. 
 
 Plod in thy cave, grey Anchorite : 
 
 Be wiser than thy peers ; 
 Augment the range of human power, 
 
 And trust to coming years. 
 They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed, 
 
 And load thee with dispraise : 
 Thou wert born five hundred years too soon 
 
 For the comfort of thy days. 
 But not too soon for human kind : 
 
 Time hath reward in store ; 
 And the demons of our sires become 
 
 The saints that we adore. 
 The blind can see, the slave is lord ; 
 
 So round and round we run ; 
 And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong, 
 
 And ever is justice done. 
 
 Keep, Galileo, to thy thought, 
 And nerve thy soul to bear ; 
 
24 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring 
 
 From the pangs of thy despair : 
 They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide 
 
 The sun's meridian glow ; 
 The heel of a priest may tread thee down, 
 
 And a tyrant work thee woe ; 
 But never a truth has been destroyed : 
 
 They may curse it and call it crime ; 
 Pervert and betray, or slander and slay 
 
 Its teachers for a time. 
 But the sunshine aye shall light the sky, 
 
 As round and round we run ; 
 And the truth shall ever come uppermost, 
 
 And justice shall be done. 
 
 And live there now such men as these 
 
 With thoughts like the great of old ? 
 Many have died in their misery, 
 
 And left their thought untold ,- 
 And many live, and are ranked as mad, 
 
 And placed in the cold world's ban, 
 For sending their bright far-seeing souls 
 
 Three centuries in the van. 
 They toil in penury and grief, 
 
 Unknown, if not maligned ; 
 Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn 
 
 Of the meanest of mankind. 
 But yet the world goes round and round, 
 
 And the genial seasons run, 
 And ever the truth comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is justice done. 
 
NOW. 
 
 THE venerable Past is past ; 
 
 'Tis dark, and shines not in the ray : 
 'Twas good, no doubt 'tis gone at last 
 
 There dawns another day. 
 Why should we sit where ivies creep, 
 And shroud ourselves in charnels deep ; 
 Or the world's yesterdays deplore, 
 Mid crumbling ruins mossy hoar ? 
 Why should we see with dead men's eyes, 
 
 Looking at WAS from morn to night, 
 When the beauteous Now, the divine To BE, 
 
 Woo with their charms our living sight ? 
 Why should we hear but echoes dull 
 When the world of sound, so beautiful, 
 
 Will give us music of our own ? 
 Why in the darkness should wa grope, 
 When the sun, in heaven's resplendent cope, 
 
 Shines as bright as ever it shone ? 
 
 Abraham saw no brighter stars 
 
 Than those which burn for thee and me. 
 When Homer heard the lark's sweet song, 
 
 Or night-bird's lovelier melody, 
 
26 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 They were such sounds as Shakspere heard, 
 
 Or Chaucer, when he blessed the bird ; 
 
 Such lovely sounds as we can hear. 
 
 Great Plato saw the vernal year 
 
 Send forth its tender flowers and shoots, 
 
 And luscious autumn pour its fruits ; 
 
 And we can see the lilies blow, 
 
 The corn-fields wave, the rivers flow ; 
 
 For us all bounties of the earth, 
 
 For us its wisdom, love, and mirth, 
 
 If we daily walk in the sight of God, 
 
 And prize the gifts He has bestowed. 
 
 We will not dwell amid the graves, 
 
 Nor in dim twilights sit alone, 
 To gaze at moulder' d architraves, 
 
 Or plinths and columns overthrown ; 
 We will not only see the light 
 
 Through painted windows cobwebb'd o'er, 
 Nor know the beauty of the night 
 
 Save by the moonbeam on the floor : 
 But in the presence of the sun, 
 
 Or moon, or stars, our hearts shall glow ; 
 We '11 look at nature face to face, 
 
 And we shall LOVE because we KNOW. 
 The present needs us. Every age 
 Bequeaths the next for heritage 
 No lazy luxury or delight 
 But strenuous labor for the right ; 
 For Now, the child and sire of Time, 
 
 Demands the deeds of earnest men 
 To make it better than the past, 
 
 And stretch the circle of its ken. 
 
NOW. 27 
 
 Now is a fact that men deplore, 
 Though it might bless them evermore, 
 Would they but fashion it aright : 
 'Tis ever new, 'tis ever bright. 
 
 Time, nor Eternity, hath seen 
 A repetition of delight 
 
 In all its phases : ne'er hath been 
 For men or angels that which is ; 
 
 And that which is hath ceased to be 
 Ere we have breathed it, and its place 
 
 Is lost in the Eternity. 
 But Now is ever good and fair, 
 Of the Infinitude the heir, 
 And we of it. So let us live 
 That from ihe Past we may receive 
 Light for the Now from Now a joy 
 That Fate nor Time shall e'er destroy. 
 
THE VISION OF MOCKERY, 
 1845-6. 
 
 ALL happy things are earnest. Once I roamed 
 In England, or in Dreamland, through the streets 
 Of a huge, buzzing, dense, metropolis. 
 Slowly, in teeming thoroughfares, I walked, 
 One of the people, hearing with their ears, 
 Beholding with their eyes, and in their thought 
 Divining, till my soul was filled with grief 
 At all that I beheld, and felt, and knew. 
 
 It was a gibing, laughing, sneering crowd, 
 Devoid of truth, faith, love, and earnestness, 
 Except a horrid earnestness for gain ; 
 Fierce love of lucre, which, if one had not, 
 He was despised and trodden down of men : 
 Which, if one had, he was adored of all, 
 Placed on a pinnacle to be admired, 
 Flattered, and filled with other rich men's gifts ; 
 His overflowing fulness made more full, 
 His vulgarness thought choice gentility, 
 His vices virtues, and his prejudice 
 
THE VISION OF MOCKERY. <ZM 
 
 Wisdom innate, his coarse words oracles, 
 And he a chief and model of mankind. 
 
 But for all else than wealth these swarming crowds 
 Had slight regard ; and when their daily toil 
 In search of it was done, and time hung loose, 
 They gathered in their clubs and theatres, 
 In market-place, or corner of the streets, 
 And mocked and gibed, and held the best buffoon 
 The wisest man, so he but made them laugh. 
 Nothing was holy to these wretched crowds, 
 But all things food for jest and ribald wit, 
 Caricature, lampoon, and mockery. 
 I said to one, * Is this the end of life ? 
 Is there no reverence for God or man ? ' 
 He turned and looked, and with a well-bred stare, 
 Eyed me askance: ' What would you have?' quoth he; 
 ' We keep our reverence for sabbath-days, 
 And look demure the seventh part of our time. 
 If for six days we toil, six nights we laugh, 
 And who shall blame us ? What new bore art thou, 
 From lands hyperborean, that canst think 
 Laughter a crime ? ' ' Nay,' I replied, ' not so ; 
 Laughter is virtuous, if there be a cause : 
 But mockery ! ' Thereat he smiled again, 
 Arching his eyebrows, that his eyes, full-stretched, 
 Might take the measure of my littleness, 
 And disappeared amid the gathering throng. 
 
 I spake no more, but wandered wearily on, 
 Until I reached a wide and crowded mart, 
 Where one, a mild and venerable man, 
 
30 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Addressed the multitude with slow, clear voice. 
 Few gave him audience ; but he heeded not, 
 And spoke his thought, unmindful of the jeers 
 Of would-be wits, and shallow mountebanks, 
 Scoffers and punsters, and obese dull clowns. 
 
 * Vain and unhappy multitudes,' he said, 
 * That gibe and sneer at every holy thing, 
 Is this your law of life ? Is this the end ? 
 Lo ! ye have souls immortal and sublime, 
 To be made infinite in love and light, 
 And heavenly knowledge, if ye will but ope 
 The inner fountains and the inner eyes, 
 And see the deep and full significance, 
 The worth and wherefore of the life of man. 
 Is it not sad, O myriad, myriad souls, 
 Infinite and immortal as ye are, 
 That ye will make your own infinity 
 A retrogression ? Immortality, 
 Change of vile vesture for a viler still ? 
 That ye will circle with the feculent clay 
 Your life-light heavenly clear, until it burn 
 No fairer, to the outward world, than foul, 
 Thick exhalations of a stagnant fen ? 
 Is it not sad, that germs which should expand, 
 Even here, to trees of bole magnificent, 
 Should rot and perish in unsavory mire ; 
 Or, ere they rot, be eaten up by swine, 
 Swine of ill-passion, selfishness, and lust ? 
 Is it not sad a thing for bitter tears 
 Unless for hope, and efforts made more strong 
 By seeming hopelessness that men should live 
 
THE VISION OF MOCKERY. 31 
 
 And never know the meaning of their life ? 
 That they should die, and never know that death 
 Is change, not ceasing ; and that life and death 
 Are ebb and flow of an eternal tide, 
 In which the ripple may become a wave, 
 The wave a sea, the sea a universe ? 
 
 ' Alas ! poor crowds ! self-quenched, self-sacrificed, 
 Why will ye crawl, when ye might walk erect ? 
 Why will ye grovel, when ye might aspire ? 
 Why will ye don foul rags, when ye might wear 
 Angelic vestments ? Why co-herd with beasts, 
 And graze in fields, or wallow in the mire, 
 When ye might feed on manna dropped from heaven ? ' 
 
 Thereat a listener in the crowd exclaimed 
 One with a portly paunch, and large round face, 
 And little twinkling eyes, ' You waste your words : 
 Why do you preach to us of things like these, 
 Things transcendental and absurdly wise ? 
 The earth is man's ; man is the earth's. Forget 
 These idle dreams ; and eat, and drink, and laugh, 
 And speculate, and hoard a heap of gold ; 
 And so be one of us, that as you live 
 You may enjoy ; and when you die, die well, 
 Leaving plump money-bags to bless your sons/ 
 And all the people laughed, and cried, ' Hear ! hear ! ' 
 With loud applause, and shouts vociferous. 
 But still the orator undaunted stood, 
 Though laughter sputtered round him, and vain scoffs, 
 Like muddy showerlets, fell on every side ; 
 And more he would have said, but that a cry 
 
32 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Of one in haste, and in great stress of speech, 
 
 Made interruption : 4 Lo ! the children die ! 
 
 The little children, and you heed them not. 
 
 The children die : they perish, body and soul, 
 
 In pestilent lanes, and rotting alleys vile ; 
 
 Thousands on thousands, more than eyes can count. 
 
 God's sun shines on them, but they never heard 
 
 His name who made it : the fair world they tread 
 
 Is foul to them that never saw the fields, 
 
 The green trees, the great mountains, the bright streams, 
 
 Or knew that God, who fashioned all things, loves 
 
 All he has made, and children most of all, 
 
 The purest from his hand. Why should they die ? 
 
 For life in ignorance is very death. 
 
 Some of them toil, and waste their tender limbs 
 
 In mills, or mines, from morn till past the night : 
 
 Machines of flesh, too sorely overwrought 
 
 To reach maturity e'er they grow old. 
 
 Some of them toil not, but by night and day 
 
 Prowl in the fetid ways, and lie, and steal, 
 
 And curse ; and never know that words can bless, 
 
 Or that such thing as blessing in this world 
 
 Was ever heard of : Save, oh ! save them all : 
 
 If not for their sakes, for our own ! Not one 
 
 Of all these myriads, were we truly wise, 
 
 Should perish thus. For, though they live in shame, 
 
 And fill the world with crimes and miseries, 
 
 Great is their sorrow, but the guilt is ours.' 
 
 He ceased, and through the crowd a murmur ran, 
 As though his words had moved them to remorse, 
 Or pity but it died away ; and one 
 
THE VISION OF MOCKERY. 33 
 
 Speaking for many, as if he alone 
 Were mouth-piece and interpreter of men, 
 Exclaimed in pompous wise, ' Why should we heed ? 
 Why interfere ? It is a perilous thing 
 To step between a parent and its child. 
 Each for himself; each father for his own : 
 No good can come of such philosophy. 
 It weighs all things in theoretic scales, 
 And meddles but to mar. The world is good ; 
 Let it alone : 'twill educate itself.' 
 He ceased, and looked about him with a smile 
 That said, as plainly as a smile can say, 
 How smart he was, how practically wise. 
 Whereat another, taking up the chant, 
 Said, ' Bah ! it irks my patience evermore, 
 To hear such vulgar flattery of the crowd : 
 Were they not born to drudge, to groan, to sweat ? 
 Is't not so written in the Book ? If so, 
 Why give them knowledge they can never use ? 
 A little of it is a poisonous thing, 
 And much is utterly beyond their reach ; 
 So, prithee, Master Quack, let well alone. 
 If thou canst sing for our amusement, sing ; 
 Or dance, then dance ; or jest, then jest away ; 
 Stand on thy head, cut capers in the air, 
 Or any thing thou wilt but preach of this.' 
 Thereat the crowd laughed as with one accord ; 
 And when the earnest man again essayed 
 To speak his truth, they raised derisive shouts 
 That stifled all his words upon his lips, 
 And filled his heart and mine with pity and grief. 
 3 
 
34 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 What more was said I know not, nor how long 
 I stood amongst them ; but a sudden cry, 
 And rushing of the people to one place, 
 Aroused me from my lethargy, and, lo ! 
 I heard a voice potential with the crowd, 
 Coarse and stentorian, breaking on my ear : 
 4 Behold ! ' it said, 4 behold the game of games, 
 The chance of chances better than all trade, 
 Commerce, or industry pursued by man. 
 Who plays it well grows wealthy in a day ; 
 Who plays it ill may gain more great reward 
 Than Labor with his utmost pith and stress 
 Could sweat for in a life.' And as he spake, 
 Loose scraps of paper fluttered in his hands. 
 There seemed deep fascination in the sight, 
 For every eye beseeehed and every tongue 
 Implored him for them. From his vulgar clutch 
 They dropped like flakes of snow innumerous. 
 And then the scramble and the crash began ; 
 Old men and young, the famished and the full, 
 The rich and poor, widow, and wife, and maid, 
 Master and servant, all with one intent 
 Rushed on the paper ; from their eager- eyes 
 Flashing a fierce, unconquerable greed, 
 Their hot palms itching, all their being filled 
 With one desire ; so that amid the press 
 If some were crushed and smitten to the ground 
 They heeded not, but trod on fallen heads 
 As unconcernedly as racing steeds 
 Trample the sward. And still the paper flakes 
 Fell fast around ; and still the crowd rushed on, 
 Roaring and wild, their myriad hands held up 
 
THE VISION OF MOCKERY. 35 
 
 To grasp the glittering prizes ere they fell. 
 
 Then came a pause. A fearful mockery 
 
 Began to spread. Each called his fellow fool ! 
 
 And every fool acknowledged so he was, 
 
 But thought his neighbor greater fool than he. 
 
 And there was laughter loud, and stifled groans, 
 
 And shouts obstreperous, till all at once 
 
 They dropped the scraps of paper from their hands, 
 
 As if a leprosy was in its touch ; 
 
 And in their haste, o'er eager to depart 
 
 From that gross presence, trod each other down. 
 
 As in a burning theatre, a crowd 
 Rushing by hundreds to one narrow door, 
 Meet certain death to flee uncertain fire ; 
 So they in panic at the lust of gain, 
 That each man saw in others, not in self, 
 Fled in confusion, breathless and distraught, 
 Nor cared who died, if they themselves escaped. 
 I stood amazed, and blushed for human-kind, 
 When on my ears a strain of music broke, 
 Melting in soft harmonious cadences. 
 I looked, and on a platform raised on high, 
 Beheld a lady beauteous as the dawn, 
 Dancing in robes of white and azure gauze ; 
 Her breast was bare ; her limbs nor bare, nor hid, 
 But full defined through her transparent robes, 
 Filled the beholders with voluptuous thoughts. 
 She seemed to float upon the buoyant air, 
 To be a creature of an element 
 More spiritual than earth ; and when she smiled 
 There was such witchery in her painted cheeks, 
 
36 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 That all the crowd, entranced with great delight, 
 
 And quite forgetful of their past distress, 
 
 Shouted with loud acclaim, and clapped their hands. 
 
 And when she twirl'd upon her pliant toe, 
 
 One fair limb vertical, the other raised 
 
 To horizontal straightness, such a burst 
 
 Of irrepressible, overpowering joy, 
 
 Filled all the air, it seemed as men were mad, 
 
 And dancing were supremest bliss of earth ; 
 
 The fairest dancer, first of woman-kind. 
 
 Then as she curtsied with a winning look 
 
 To her idolaters, a shower of wreaths, 
 
 Garlands, and evergreens, and laurel crowns, 
 
 Fell all around her, and another burst 
 
 Of universal gladness rang around ; 
 
 And she, descending from her platform, slid 
 
 Graceful into her chariot, and the crowd 
 
 Filled with new frenzy at her loveliness, 
 
 Unyoked her prancing jennets, dapple-grey, 
 
 And drew her forth triumphant to her home. 
 
 Still more amazed, I left this fearful crowd, 
 And wandered out amid the quiet woods 
 To hold communion with my secret soul, 
 And note, in Memory's many-storied book, 
 What I had seen and heard that pondering well 
 Its true significance, I might extract 
 Good from the ill, and from the darkness light. 
 
ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW.' 
 
 The Author is indebted for this phrase, and to the train of thought 
 which suggested the following Poem, to one of the noble Essays of 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 THOU, who in the midnight silence 
 
 Lookest to the orbs on high, 
 
 Feeling humbled, yet elated, 
 
 In the presence of the sky ; 
 
 Thou, who minglest with thy sadness 
 
 Pride ecstatic, awe divine, 
 
 That ev'n thou canst trace their progress 
 
 And the law by which they shine 
 
 Intuition shall uphold thee, 
 
 Even though reason drag thee low; 
 
 Lean on faith, look up rejoicing, 
 
 We are wiser than we know. 
 
 Thou, who nearest plaintive music, 
 
 Or sweet songs of other days ; 
 
 Heaven-revealing organs pealing, 
 
 Or clear voices hymning praise, 
 
 And wouldst weep, thou know'st not wherefore, 
 
 Though thy soul is steepM in joy ; 
 
 And the world looks kindly on thee, 
 
 And thy bliss hath no alloy 
 
38 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Weep, nor seek for consolation, 
 Let the heaven-sent droplets flow, 
 They are hints of mighty secrets, 
 We are wiser than we know. 
 
 Thou, who in the noon-time brightness 
 Seest a shadow undefined ; 
 Hear'st a voice that indistinctly 
 Whispers caution to thy mind : 
 Thou, who hast a vague foreboding 
 That a peril may be near, 
 Even when Nature smiles around thee, 
 And thy Conscience holds thee clear 
 Trust the warning look before thee 
 Angels may the mirror show, 
 Dimly still, but sent to guide thee, 
 We are wiser than we know. 
 
 Countless chords of heavenly music, 
 Struck ere earthly time began, 
 Vibrate in immortal concord 
 To the answering soul of man : 
 Countless rays of heavenly glory 
 Shine through spirit pent in clay, 
 On the wise men at their labors, 
 On the children at their play. 
 Man has gazed on heavenly secrets, 
 Sunned himself in heavenly glow, 
 Seen the glory, heard the music, 
 We are wiser than we know. 
 
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE.* 
 
 ' DIDST ever see a hanging ? ' ' No, not one ; 
 
 Nor ever wish to see such scandal done. 
 
 But once I saw a wretch condemned to die : 
 
 A lean-faced, bright-eyed youth ; who made me sigh 
 
 At the recital of a dream he had. 
 
 He was not sane and yet he was not mad ; 
 
 Fit subject for a mesmerist he seemed ; 
 
 For when he slept, he saw ; and when he dreamed, 
 
 His visions were as palpable to him 
 
 As facts to us. My memory is dim 
 
 Upon his story, but I '11 ne'er forget 
 
 The dream he told me, for it haunts me yet, 
 
 Impressed upon me by his earnest faith 
 
 That 'twas no vision, but a sight which Death 
 
 Opened his eyes to see, an actual glimpse 
 
 Into the world of spectres and of imps, 
 
 Vouchsafed to him on threshold of the grave 
 
 List ! and I'll give it, in the words he gave : 
 
 * It may be necessary to inform the reader, unacquainted with London, that 
 the church of St Sepulchre is close to the jail of Newgate ; and that its bell 
 is tolled when a criminal is executed. Few will need to be reminded that the 
 three stories related are not fabulous. 
 
40 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ' Ay, you may think that I am crazed, 
 
 But what I saw, that did I see. 
 
 These walls are thick, my brain was sick, 
 
 And yet mine eyes saw lucidly. 
 
 Through the joists and through the stones 
 
 I could look as through a glass ; 
 
 And from this dungeon, damp and cold, 
 
 I watched the motley people pass. 
 
 All day long, rapid and strong, 
 
 Rolled to and fro the living stream ; 
 
 But in the night, I saw a sight 
 
 I cannot think it was a dream. 
 
 < Old St. Sepulchre's bell will toll 
 
 At eight to-morrow, for my soul ; 
 
 And thousands, not much better than I, 
 
 Will throng around to see me die ; 
 
 And many will bless their happy fate, 
 
 That they ne'er fell from their high estate, 
 
 Or did such deed as I have done ; 
 
 Though, from the rise to the set of sun, 
 
 They cheat their neighbors all their days, 
 
 And gather gold in slimy ways. 
 
 But my soul feels strong, and my sight grows clear, 
 
 As my death-hour approaches near, 
 
 And in its presence I will tell 
 
 The very truth, as it befell. 
 
 * The snow lies on the house-tops cold, 
 Shrill, and keen the March winds blow ; 
 The rank grass of the churchyard mould 
 Is covered o'er with drifted snow ; 
 
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 41 
 
 The graves in old St. Sepulchre's yard 
 
 Were white last night, when I looked forth, 
 
 And the sharp clear stars seemed to dance in the 
 
 sky, 
 Rocked by the fierce winds of the north. 
 
 ' The houses dull seemed numb with frost, 
 
 The streets seemed wider than of yore, 
 
 And the straggling passengers trod, like ghosts, 
 
 Silently on the pathway frore, 
 
 When I look'd through that churchyard rail, 
 
 And thought of the bell that should ring my doom, 
 
 And saw three women, sad and pale, 
 
 Sitting together on a tomb. 
 
 'A fearful sight it was to see, 
 
 As up they rose and looked at me : 
 
 Sunken were their cheeks and eyes, 
 
 Blue-cold were their feet, and bare ; 
 
 Lean and yellow were their hands, 
 
 Long and scanty was their hair ; 
 
 And round their necks I saw the ropes 
 
 Deftly knotted, tightly drawn ; 
 
 And knew they were not things of earth, 
 
 Or creatures that could face the dawn. 
 
 * Seen dimly in th' uncertain light, 
 They multiplied upon my sight ; 
 And things like men and women sprung 
 Shapes of those who had been hung 
 From the rank and clammy ground. 
 
42 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 I counted them I knew them all, 
 Each with its rope around its neck, 
 Marshalled by the churchyard wall. 
 
 1 The stiff policeman, passing along, 
 
 Saw them not, nor made delay ; 
 
 A reeling bacchanal, shouting a song, 
 
 Looked at the clock, and went his way ; 
 
 A troop of girls, with painted cheeks, 
 
 Laughing and yelling in drunken glee, 
 
 Passed like a gust, and never looked 
 
 At the sight so palpable to me. 
 
 I saw them heard them felt their breath 
 
 Musty and raw and damp as death. 
 
 * These women three, these fearful shapes, 
 
 Looked at me through Newgate stone, 
 
 And raised their fingers, skinny and lank, 
 
 Whispering low in under tone : 
 
 "His hour draws near, he's one of us, 
 
 His gibbet is built, his noose is tied ; 
 
 They have put his name on his coffin lid : 
 
 The law of blood shall be satisfied. 
 
 He shall rest with us, and his name shall be 
 
 A by-word and a mockery." 
 
 *I whispered to one, "What hadst thou done?" 
 She answered, whispering, and I heard 
 Although a chime rang at the time 
 Every sentence, every word, 
 Clear, above the pealing bells : 
 
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 43 
 
 " I was mad, and slew my child ; 
 
 Better than life, God knows, I loved it ; 
 
 But pain and hunger drove me wild. 
 
 Scorn and hunger, and grief and care, 
 
 And I slew it in my despair. 
 
 And for this deed they raised the gibbet ; 
 
 For this deed the noose they tied ; 
 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 
 And the law of blood was satisfied." 
 
 * I said to the second, "What didst thou ? " 
 
 Her keen eyes flashed unearthly shine. 
 
 " I married a youth when I was young, 
 
 And thought all happiness was mine ; 
 
 But they stole him from me, to fight the French ; 
 
 And I was left in the world alone, 
 
 To beg or steal to live or die, 
 
 Robbed of my stay, my all, my own. 
 
 England stole my lord from me, 
 
 I stole a ribbon, was caught and tried ; 
 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 
 And the law of blood was satisfied." 
 
 ' I said to the third, " What crime was thine ? " 
 " Crime ! " she answered, in accents meek, 
 " The babe that sucks at its mother's breast, 
 And smiles with its little dimpled cheek, 
 Is not more innocent than I. 
 But truth was feeble, error was strong ; 
 And guiltless of a deed of shame, 
 Men's justice did me cruel wrong. 
 
44 VOICES *ROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 They would not hear my truthful words ; 
 They thought me filled with stubborn pride. 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 And the law of blood was satisfied." 
 
 ' Then one and all, by that churchyard wall, 
 
 Raised their skinny hands at me ; 
 
 Their voices mingling like the sound 
 
 Of rustling leaves in a withering tree : 
 
 " His hour has come, he 's one of us ; 
 
 His gibbet is built, his noose is tied ; 
 
 His knell shall ring, and his corpse shall swing, 
 
 And the law of blood shall be satisfied." 
 
 ' They vanished ! I saw them, one by one, 
 With their bare blue feet on the drifted snow, 
 Sink like a thaw, when the sun is up, 
 To their wormy solitudes below. 
 Though you may deem this was a dream, 
 My facts are tangible facts to me ; 
 For the sight grows clear as death draws near, 
 And looks into futurity.' 
 
THE CONFESSION. 
 
 I WAS betrayed, and cruelly undone. 
 Smitten to anguish in my sorest part, 
 And so disgusted with all human life, 
 That curses came spontaneous to my lips : 
 I cursed the day I cursed my fellow-men ; 
 I cursed my God, that made so bad a world. 
 Goaded to frenzy, by excess of pain, 
 I tore my hair, I dashed my bleeding head 
 Against a wall ; sobbed, wept, and gnashed my teeth. 
 I howled anathemas against myself 
 For being man, and living on the earth. 
 When suddenly a sweet and heavenly calm 
 Fell on my spirit ; and a mild clear light 
 Diffused itself about me where I stood ; 
 And I was conscious of a visible power 
 Unutterably great, divinely good ; 
 And a voice spake, not angrily, but sad : 
 1 Weak and unjust ! Thou hast blasphemed thy God ; 
 God, whom thou knowest not. Thou hast maligned 
 Thy fellow -men. Live, till thou knowest loth.' 
 The awful glory stole away my sense ; 
 Th' excess of splendor dazzled my dim eyes ; 
 The clear words made me dumb : and for a while 
 
46 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Torpid and clod-like on the earth I lay, 
 
 Till th' ineffable brightness disappeared. 
 
 And when I wakened, life was misery ; 
 
 Burden too mighty for my flesh to bear. 
 
 ' Live, till I know my God ! That might I, well ; 
 
 But live in sorrow till I know mankind ? 
 
 Heavy the curse ! But if it must be borne, 
 
 Let me gain knowledge quickly, and so die ! ' 
 
 Long did I live. One hundred years of time 
 
 I held the faith that all my people held ; 
 
 Observed their laws and to a God of FEAR 
 
 Knelt down in awe, and worshipped his dread name. 
 
 But still I lived, and cursed the weary days ; 
 
 And had no love or reverence for my kind. 
 
 And still my pain grew with my discontent, 
 
 That I could not release myself and die. 
 
 Youth in my limbs, but age upon my heart, 
 I roamed the earth. I dwelt among the Greeks : 
 I saw, well pleased, the majesty of life ; 
 The power of beauty, and the sense of joy ; 
 The physical grandeur of the earth and heaven. 
 But God himself was stranger to my thought : 
 I had a worship, but no inward faith ; 
 I prayed to gods of human lineament, 
 Emblems of natural forces and desires ; 
 I filled the woods with visionary shapes ; 
 Peopled the hills, the vales, the rocks, the streams, 
 The dark caves, and the sunny mountain-tops 
 With forms of beauty ; and conversed with them 
 Upon unseen, unreal phantasies, 
 Until they seemed so palpable to sight, 
 
THE CONFESSION. 47 
 
 So like to men in passion, vice, and crime, 
 
 I loathed, and shuddered, and abhorred them all ; 
 
 Nor knew in what abysm and hell of thought 
 
 To sink remembrance. And I lived and lived 
 
 Longer than hope ; and still I could not die. 
 
 Then far away into the burning east 
 I bent my steps. And at one drowsy noon, 
 Under a palm-tree shade, beside a well 
 Sat down, and groaned in bitterness of grief 
 That God was still an alien to my soul. 
 I cast my limbs upon the feverish ground, 
 And lay upon my face ; and with my tears 
 Moistened the dust around me, praying still 
 That I might die ; for I was sear of heart, 
 Old, miserably old, and most forlorn. 
 Thus lay I from the noon into the night, 
 And from the night into the sudden dawn ; 
 And all that day I battened on my tears. 
 When, lo ! there came a pilgrim by the way ; 
 A pale, deject, and wiry-featured wretch ; 
 With hands all sinewy, like a parrot's claws, 
 Thin lips, bright eyes, sunk cheeks, and grizzled hair. 
 There was a comfort in his hideousness, 
 As he sat down and gazed upon my grief, 
 And gave me pity, and contemptuous cheer. 
 ' Brother,' he said, ' why what a fool art thou ! 
 Neither in time, nor in eternity, 
 Neither in God, in nature, nor in man, 
 Is there aught worth the weeping of an hour. 
 'Tis good to run, but better far to walk ; 
 'T is good to walk, but better to sit still ; 
 
48 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 'Tis good to stand, and wake, but better far 
 
 To lie and sleep, untroubled by a dream ; 
 
 'T is good to be when thought has been destroyed 
 
 Better, far better, never to have been. 
 
 The grass is happy ; happier is the stone. 
 
 Highest of good is rest ; rest so sublime, 
 
 So deep, so thorough, as to seem like death. 
 
 Be rest thy God. Let the winds moan, not thou ; 
 
 Let the skies weep, but shed not thou a tear ; 
 
 And sleep and fast thy troublous life away 
 
 In one most happy and incessant calm, 
 
 Till sweet annihilation blots thee out. 
 
 This is religion this the only faith : 
 
 Bliss is absorption heaven is nothingness. 3 
 
 He led me with his eye, I followed him ; 
 
 And I became a dull, insensate lump, 
 
 And dozed in Budha's temples night and day ; 
 
 I bruised in mortar of my selfishness 
 
 All thoughts, all feeling, all desire, all vice, 
 
 All virtue, into one amorphous mass 
 
 Of apathy, and idiocy, and sloth. 
 
 How long I wallowed in this senseless sty 
 
 I never knew ; I was but half alive, 
 
 And had no memory of time or change, 
 
 Only at intervals a grievous pain. 
 
 I was aroused at last, and scourged with whips, 
 Kicked, beaten, spat on, cast into the mire. 
 Change had come o'er the places where I dwelt ; 
 There was new law for men, new faith for God ; 
 The conqueror's sword had passed upon the plain, 
 And what was spared did homage for its life. 
 
THE CONFESSION. 49 
 
 God and his Prophet were the Lords of earth. 
 
 And suddenly awaked, I found that I, 
 
 Even I, was living ; that the world was new, 
 
 Though I was old, most lamentably old, 
 
 But still condemned to mingle with my kind, 
 
 And choose my faith. I did as others did ; 
 
 Learned the new law, and thought I served my God. 
 
 I served him not. Obedience blind, inept, 
 
 Unthinking, dull, insensate, was the law : 
 
 Fate lorded over will ; necessity 
 
 Turned men into machines. I cast my eyes, 
 
 Despairing still, upon the firmament, 
 
 Jewelled with worlds, and reasoned with myself y 
 
 If Fate or Will upheld them in their place ; 
 
 And, in the infinite madness of my brain, 
 
 Conceived that each, majestic as it shone, 
 
 Was filled with misery and doubt like mine. 
 
 A rolling Hell set in the sky to preach 
 
 To other hells, as wretched as itself, 
 
 The dreadful power, the boundlessness of ilL 
 
 Long did I struggle with this deep despair, 
 
 And vehemently pray, both morn and night, 
 
 That I might be extinguished utterly ; 
 
 That I might lay upon the arid soil 
 
 My lifeless bones, to feed the hungry roots 
 
 Of hemlock or mandragora with lime ; 
 
 That I at least might end my doubts in death ; 
 
 Though Death were but the gate to other worlds- 
 
 Of spiritual anguish more intense than this. 
 
 Another change came over me. Ere long 
 I wandered forth o'er Asiatic plains ; 
 
50 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Dwelt with the lizard in the crumbling halls 
 
 Of antique cities desolate, whose names 
 
 Were lost from memory. I shared the tent 
 
 Of roving spearmen and banditti fierce, 
 
 ;So utter old and sad, that murderous thieves 
 
 Took pity on my want and misery, 
 
 And spake me kindly, even when they loathed. 
 
 I lay beneath the palms at set of sun, 
 
 And wished that ravenous and night-prowling beasts 
 
 Would tear me limb from limb before the dawn. 
 
 I crossed great deserts in the burning heat, 
 
 Forded strong rivers, pierced- through trackless woods- 
 
 A thing so utter sad, that the lean wolves 
 
 Fled terror-smitten when they met my glance, 
 
 And hungry serpents hissed and slunk away. 
 
 How long the madness burned, 'twere vain to tell; 
 
 Time and Eternity seemed one to me. 
 
 But in a bright and lovely summer's morn 
 
 I felt my limbs supple and strong again, 
 
 As in my youth, ere grief and I were friends. 
 
 Far had I journeyed to an eastern clime, 
 
 'Mid an old people, and an older faith. 
 
 I found some comfort, yet I could not die. 
 
 Still was obedience law : childish and calm, 
 
 Not to a blind and cruel destiny, 
 
 But to the wise irrevocable rule 
 
 Of a just Deity, that made mankind, 
 
 And sent his clay vicegerents to the earth 
 
 To rule them justly, if they would submit 
 
 To walk for ever in the same dull track, 
 
 To live and act, from barren age to age, 
 
 In the same fashion, with the same desires, 
 
THE CONFESSION. 51 
 
 Same thoughts, same habits, and same prejudice ; 
 More dull and senseless than a stagnant mire 
 That even in its rottenness and sloth 
 Breeds something novel from its fruitful slime ; 
 But they bred nothing only their dull selves ; 
 And I despised them hated them and lived, 
 And knew by living I was still accursed, 
 And loved not God nor yet my fellow-men. 
 
 There was no resting here : my fiery soul 
 Felt mortal anguish to co-herd with theirs. 
 I went again a wanderer o'er the earth, 
 Taking no heed of time, or place, or change, 
 But weary, weary, abject, and forlorn. 
 
 One year ago 't was but one little year 
 I entered, in my rags and squalidness, 
 A large, fair city of the populous west : 
 The church-bells rang ; the people were astir, 
 In countless multitudes, through all the streets ; 
 Gay banners flaunted in the morning air, 
 And waves of music, from the Gothic porch 
 Of a cathedral, rushed in floods divine ; 
 Now in full tidal flow, and now in ebb, 
 So grand, so awe-inspiring, that even I, 
 Despised, abandoned, abject, and abhorred, 
 Felt holy joy to listen to the sound 
 Which soothed my spirit with melodious peace. 
 I listened long ; for my sad heart was full. 
 I could have floated painlessly to death, 
 And blessed the music with my latest sigh, 
 But that a sudden plucking at the hem, 
 
52 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 All mire-bedraggled, of my tattered robe, 
 
 Caused me to turn : I saw a fair young face, 
 
 Sweet even as hers who loved me in her youth 
 
 She whom I now, for the first time, forgave 
 
 For wrongs inflicted on my trusting heart. 
 
 Like but unlike ; lovely yet not so fair ; 
 
 And at my miserable feet she knelt 
 
 To crave my blessing : ' Blessing ! and from me ? 
 
 From me, the vilest, meanest of mankind ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, and from thee ! ' she said ; we know thee well ; 
 
 Thou hast long suffered thou'rt a saint of God.' 
 
 And all the people, gathering round about, 
 
 Joined in her supplication; kneeling down, 
 
 To crave my blessing not in mockery, 
 
 But with deep reverence. Strange it seemed that I, 
 
 Who had not known for spanless gulfs of time 
 
 What blessing meant, should have the power to bless. 
 
 I could but bless her ; for I felt my heart 
 
 Glow with dear memories forgotten long, 
 
 Brought back upon me by her mild sweet face. 
 
 The burden of my long-enduring pain 
 
 Was lightened by that pity, and I wept ; 
 
 And every tear I shed became to me 
 
 Relief and joy, as, with an earnest voice, 
 
 I blessed the people, showing them the while 
 
 My own unworthiness more great than theirs ; 
 
 Unmeet my lips to utter words of peace, 
 
 Who long had cursed myself and all my kind. 
 
 And now the hoary portals opening wide, 
 Forth issued an array of robed priests, 
 In white and scarlet ; boys with censers, flung 
 
THE CONFESSION. 53 
 
 Rich incense in the air ; while others hymned, 
 
 With sweet clear voice, ' Hosanna to the Lord.' 
 
 And all the people knelt, and with them I. 
 
 The solemn music filled the pliant air, 
 
 And a religious sense was wafted round, 
 
 Sense superadded, and unfelt hefore. 
 
 I could not rise : my cramped and weary joints 
 
 Seemed bloodless as the stones on which I knelt ; 
 
 And the procession and the people passed, 
 
 In all their gorgeousness ; and I was left 
 
 To my own strength, to follow if I list, 
 
 Or lie upon the pavement and expire. 
 
 I rose. I felt within my secret soul 
 
 More peace than had been mine since the great curse 
 
 Was spoken by the Presence for my sin. 
 
 But as I could not stay to be a saint, 
 
 And bear the flattery of the ignorant, 
 
 With a new courage I endued my heart, 
 
 And prayed for strength, and went upon my way. 
 
 Here am I now. In thy serene abode 
 I've gained new comfort from thy reverend lips, 
 And learned the secret of my destiny. 
 'Twas thou that taught me from the blessed Book 
 That God was Love ; and that those served Him best 
 Who loved their fellows, and obeyed the law 
 Sublime but easy, preached by Him who died 
 To seal his doctrine by his guiltless blood. 
 
 I have not long to live. My race is run : 
 I would live longer, were it but to preach 
 To other souls as wretched as my own, 
 
54 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The mighty truth, that God is Love indeed, 
 But feel within me that mine hour is come. 
 I shall not see the morning dawn again : 
 My sin is pardoned I shall die in peace. 
 Bury me by myself under a cross, 
 And put a fair white tombstone o'er my grave. 
 Place on it name, nor date, nor words, save these 
 * He learned in suffering that God was Love, 
 And died in hope.' Bear with me for a while ; 
 I shall not die ere I have slept an hour. 
 Mine eyes are weary : let me close them now ; 
 I shall awake to bless thee and depart. 
 Visions of glory throng upon my soul : 
 Brother, farewell. I'll see thee yet again, 
 Here and hereafter. Let me slumber now. 
 

 THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. 
 
 A LITTLE child, beneath a tree 
 
 Sat and chanted cheerily 
 
 A little song, a pleasant song, 
 
 Which was she sang it all day long 
 
 ' When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 
 
 But a good God reigns over all.' 
 
 There passed a lady by the way, 
 Moaning in the face of day : 
 There were tears upon her cheek, 
 Grief in her heart too great to speak ; 
 Her husband died but yester-morn, 
 And left her in the world forlorn. 
 
 She stopped and listened to the child 
 
 That looked to heaven, and singing, smiled ; 
 
 And saw not for her own despair, 
 
 Another lady, young and fair, 
 
 Who also passing, stopped to hear 
 
 The infant's anthem ringing clear. 
 
 For she but few sad days before 
 Had lost the little babe she bore ; 
 
58 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And grief was heavy at her soul 
 As that sweet memory o'er her stole, 
 And showed how bright had been the Past, 
 The Present drear and overcast. 
 
 And as they stood beneath the tree 
 Listening, soothed and placidly, 
 A youth came by, whose sunken eyes 
 Spake of a load of miseries ; 
 And he, arrested like the twain, 
 Stopped to listen to the strain. 
 
 Death had bowed the youthful head 
 Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 
 Her marriage robes were fitted on, 
 Her fair young face with blushes shone, 
 When the destroyer smote her low, 
 And changed the lover's bliss to woe. 
 
 And these three listened to the song, 
 Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 
 Which that child, the livelong day, 
 Chanted to itself in play : 
 1 When the wind blows the blossoms fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all.' 
 
 The widow's lips impulsive moved ; 
 The mother's grief, tho' unreproved, 
 Softened, as her trembling tongue 
 Repeated what the infant sung ; 
 And the sad lover, with a start, 
 Conned it over to his heart. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. 57 
 
 And though the child if child it were, 
 And not a seraph sitting there 
 Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 
 Went on their way resignedly, 
 The song still ringing in their ears 
 Was it music of the spheres ? 
 
 Who shall tell ? They did not know. 
 But in the midst of deepest woe 
 The strain recurred when sorrow grew, 
 To warn them, and console them too : 
 ( When the wind blows the blossoms fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all.' 
 
LOVE OR WISDOM? 
 
 AN EXAMINATION. 
 
 WERE I so mad as I have been of yore 
 I would be happy : mad with Beauty's eyes ; 
 Mad with the voice of one I could adore, 
 And the sweet music of her soft replies : 
 Mad with the charms of a serene bright face ; 
 Possessed, and inly haunted by the grace 
 Of some fair creature, in her form and mind 
 The star and paragon of all her kind. 
 
 For, if I were so happy-mad again, 
 
 I 'd live anew. I 'd feed upon delights ; 
 
 I 'd find enraptured frenzy in a pain ; 
 
 I 'd roam, dreaming awake, through summer nights, 
 
 And hear a murmuring music in the air, 
 
 Which I would harmonize into a word 
 
 That word her name. I'd kneel, with forehead bare, 
 
 Out in the solemn woods, unseen, unheard, 
 
 And call on earth to bless her as she trod ; 
 
 Sweet winds to fan her, skies to drop her joy ; 
 
 And would invoke the providence of God 
 
 To keep her harmless, nor let care annoy, 
 
LOVE OR WISDOM ? 59 
 
 Nor sorrow vex, nor pleasure pall on sense ; 
 
 My being hers, hers mine, and both intense 
 
 With a full, throbbing, rapturous, infinite bliss 
 
 In being loved. For madness such as this, 
 
 I 'd give up wisdom and her castled clouds. 
 
 I would unlearn all I have learned ; give back 
 
 Experience, and the blazoning breath of crowds 
 
 Wafting Fame's incense forward on my track. 
 
 I would forego all hope, and all desire 
 
 But one : that life might be a blank white page, 
 
 Where Fate might write one word of heavenly fire 
 
 LOVE : that so breathing the delicious rage, 
 
 My veins might run it, and my brain might take 
 
 That for sole impulse, and for Love's sweet sake 
 
 Nature put on her bridal robes, and blush 
 
 Beauty upon me from each tree and flower ; 
 
 And in her nightly gleam, her morning flush, 
 
 Her buzzing noon, and evening's golden hour, 
 
 Converse with me upon the one great theme 
 
 With all her voices; meadow, mountain, stream, 
 
 Forest and ocean, uttering but one sound 
 
 Ever and ever as the world went round, 
 
 The stars repeating it, with meanings rife, 
 
 And that word LOVE ; this would be living life. 
 
 For why ? And wert thou in that fiery craze 
 So happy, that thou wouldst indeed recall 
 What thou hast seen, done, suffered in the days 
 When thy blood boiled, and thou wert passion all ? 
 Poor fool ! forgetful of departed woes, 
 Past misery, anguish, discontent, and tears; 
 Mindful alone of pleasure and repose, 
 Seen through the wave of the refractive years 
 
60 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 In colors not their own. When Love was thine, 
 Wert thou not heart-sore ? Didst thou not repine 
 For something that was past, or was to come ? 
 Was not that day as wearisome as this ? 
 Its music stale ? Its friendly voices dumb, 
 And thou a dreamer of remoter bliss ? 
 Poor fool ! to-morrow thou wilt bless to-day, 
 And wish it back ; and with a new disgust 
 Think of the newest time, till fled away 
 It leaves thee memory, and a fresh mistrust. 
 And so thou journeyest, thankless to the dust. 
 Be not so mad as thou hast been of yore, 
 Yet happier far. Is not the Now thine own ? 
 Now ever present ? now for evermore ? 
 Now always with thee, but its worth unknown, 
 Or lightly thought of ? Lay its mystery bare, 
 And learn the mighty secret how to live; 
 Learn that if mind be pure, the world is fair ; 
 And that the outer sunshine cannot give 
 Such Warmth, and Joy, and Beauty, as the light 
 Cast by the inner spirit infinite, 
 When it is clear from every sensual stain. 
 Simple and thankful, live not thou in vain, 
 Nor hurry to the goal with desperate haste 
 To make the present past, and both a waste. 
 
THE DROP OF AMBROSIA. 
 
 ' WHITHER away ? whither away, 
 
 With thine eyes through the distance looking so keen ? 
 
 The road is narrow, and is not long ; 
 
 And if thou wouldst but awhile delay, 
 
 I would show thee sights thou hast not seen. 
 
 And thou shouldst hear a voice of song, 
 
 And thou shouldst learn of things unknown, 
 
 And live a double and fuller life. 
 
 Whither away ? I prithee stay, 
 
 There are angels near; thou'rt not alone 
 
 The very air is with beauty rife. 
 
 The night is lovely, fair is the day, 
 
 Why this hurry to travel away, 
 
 To close thy journey, to shut thy book ? 
 
 Why at the end wilt thou ever look ? 
 
 Why on the tide wilt thou ever think, 
 
 And neglect the flowrets on the brink ? ' 
 
 He said, in answer to my cries, 
 * Let me alone, nor vex my soul ; 
 I've set my mind on a glittering prize 
 That I see midway towards the goal. 
 
62 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 It shines, 'mid cloud on the mountain-top, 
 
 A bright, divine, ambrosial drop. 
 
 Sad, till I grasp it, the time appears ; 
 
 Into hours weeks I'd pack, 
 
 Compress the lingering drawling years 
 
 To months, and never wish them back. 
 
 Why should I stay ? What boots delay ? 
 
 What do I care for an angel's song ? 
 
 For the stars of night, or the flowers of day, 
 
 When lingering would the hours prolong ? 
 
 Let me alone : my mind and heart 
 
 Are full of a joy thou canst not see, 
 
 And each impediment is pain; 
 
 Thy very talk is grief to me. 
 
 Let me away. Why should I stay, 
 
 Wasting time by answering thee ? ' 
 
 ' Already,' said I, ' thy prime is past, 
 
 Thy flush of youth, thy warmth of noon, 
 
 And many delights which the sunshine cast, 
 
 Must wither away beneath the moon. 
 
 The path thou goest is short at best ; 
 
 And between thine eyes and the bliss they crave, 
 
 To trip thy feet in their course so fleet, 
 
 May there not be an open grave ? 
 
 Why wilt thou hurry towards the end ? 
 
 There are pleasant fields on the highway-side, 
 
 Bowers whence the hymns of Love ascend, 
 
 And rivers rolling a joyous tide, 
 
 In which to lave the weary limbs 
 
 Is bliss beyond the ambrosial drop, 
 
 Which, far away, 'mid storm and dark, 
 
THE DROP OF AMBROSIA. 63 
 
 Thou seest upon the mountain-top. 
 Straight is the path to the yawning tomb ; 
 But we may linger on the road, 
 And turn to the left, and turn to the right, 
 To enjoy the kindly gifts of God. 
 I would not live my life so soon, 
 I would not spend it on one desire, 
 Nor in such fearful haste as thine 
 Exhaust the fuel of its fire.' 
 
 Vain was my speech : he closed his ears 
 
 Straight on he rushed, nor looked behind. 
 
 He saw afar his glittering star, 
 
 The prize for which his spirit pined. 
 
 On every side were stars as fair 
 
 Fairer, I thought ; and drops of joy, 
 
 Divinest given to mortal man, 
 
 To cheer of his life the little span, 
 
 And sanctify its right employ. 
 
 He saw them not, but ran his race 
 
 With a speed that passion alone could give ; 
 
 Grew hard and grey on his narrow way, 
 
 And spent his life ere he learned to live. 
 
 And I saw before he reached his prize, 
 
 That he sunk in the grave before my eyes. 
 
THE FOLLOWER. 
 
 ' WHY dost thou look so sad and wan ? 
 And why art thou so wo-begone ? 
 Why dost thou mutter words of fear ? 
 Do I not love thee, father dear ? 
 Is not earth a place of joy ? 
 Tell me, father, tell thy boy.' 
 
 ii. 
 
 ' There is a fiend doth follow me ; 
 A fearful fiend thou canst not see 
 But I behold him. Day or night 
 He is not absent from my sight : 
 I know thou lovest me, O my child, 
 But this demon drives me wild. 
 
 in. 
 
 * The world was once both good and fair, 
 
 There was a glory in the air, 
 
 When my heart was pure and young, 
 
 By guilt and misery unwrung ; 
 
 But a demon such as this, 
 
 Makes an agony of bliss. 
 
THE FOLLOWER. 65 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' He besets my daily path, 
 
 I am the victim of his wrath : 
 
 He smears his fingers o'er my meat, 
 
 And poisons every thing I eat ; 
 
 Puts fatal acid in my drink 
 
 Oh, it is misery to think ! 
 
 v. 
 
 ' He lies beside me in my bed : 
 He places thorns beneath my head : 
 He sits upon my suffering breast, 
 And sends the dreams that spoil my rest : 
 He tracks my steps where'er I stray, 
 And gibes and mocks me night and day. 
 
 ' When sympathetic friends condole, 
 And whisper comfort to my soul, 
 This spiteful devil comes to and fro, 
 And turns each friend into a foe ; 
 Perverts my comfort into pain, 
 Maddening my heart and brain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' When I think I'm all alone, 
 I start to hear his mocking groan : 
 I see his fearful face and eyes, 
 That hellish face which multiplies, 
 And fills the room from roof to floor 
 With scowling demons evermore. 
 5 
 
66 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 * Cruel is he. His power is great. 
 He pursues me. He is fate. 
 
 If I look to heaven and pray, 
 I see his dreadful shape midway. 
 And ev'n the placid stars assume 
 His sneering likeness in the gloom. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' He leads my steps to dark, deep pools, 
 And says, none live but wretched fools. 
 He puts sharp weapons in my sight, 
 And shows me laudanum, ruby bright, 
 And whispers, if I like him not, 
 How soon my freedom may be got. 
 
 x. 
 
 * At times I think my heart will break, 
 But I resist him for thy sake : 
 
 His power departs when thou art near 
 Of thy sweet face he stands in fear ; 
 And if thou 'It love me, O my boy, 
 I'll grapple with him, and destroy.' 
 
 XI. 
 
 ' Father, I love thee. I will pray 
 For strength to drive this fiend away. 
 And if thou wilt be bold of heart, 
 I know the demon will depart ; 
 And I will walk with thee abroad, 
 And scare him with the name of God. 
 
THE FOLLOWER. 67 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' I'll lie beside thee in the night, 
 He shall not come to plague thy sight. 
 Why should his face fill up the skies 
 With hideousness and mockeries ? 
 There are fair faces up in heaven, 
 That always smile on the forgiven. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 1 They beam upon us : they are strong : 
 This fiend shall not resist them long. 
 We'll see them in the stars and moon, 
 We'll see them in the sun at noon ; 
 We'll see them in the leaves and flowers, 
 And hear them singing 'mid the bowers. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ' He is but one. Why should we fear 
 When smiling angels fill the sphere ? 
 And one among them known to thee 
 Chief angel of my memory 
 My mother, dead and gone before.' 
 * Talk thus, my child, I'll fear no more. 
 
 xv. 
 
 ' Thy heart is pure, thy speech is mild, 
 I gain instruction from a child : 
 The fiend that haunts me must depart, 
 He cannot vex me where thou art 
 Thy mother's memory ! God ! and thee ! 
 The fiend has fled my soul is free.' 
 
MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. 
 
 WOULDST thou know what the blithe bird pipeth, 
 
 High in the morning air ? 
 
 Wouldst thou know what the bright stream singeth, 
 
 Rippling o'er pebbles bare ? 
 
 Sorrow the mystery shall teach thee, 
 
 And the words declare. 
 
 Wouldst thou find in the rose's blossom 
 
 More than thy fellows find ? 
 
 More in the fragrance of the lily 
 
 Than odor on the wind ? 
 
 Love Nature, and her smallest atoms 
 
 Shall whisper to thy mind. 
 
 Wouldst thou know what the moon discourseth 
 
 To the docile sea ? 
 
 Wouldst hear the echoes of the music 
 
 Of the far infinity ? 
 
 Sorrow shall ope the founts of knowledge, 
 
 And heaven shall sing to thee. 
 
MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. 69 
 
 Wouldst thou see through the riddle of Being 
 
 Further than others can ? 
 
 Sorrow shall give thine eyes new lustre 
 
 To simplify the plan ; 
 
 And love of God and thy kind shall aid thee 
 
 To end what it began. 
 
 To Love and Sorrow all Nature speaketh ; 
 
 If the riddle be read, 
 
 They the best can see through darkness 
 
 Each divergent thread 
 
 Of its mazy texture, and discover 
 
 Whence the ravel spread. 
 
 Love and Sorrow are sympathetic 
 
 With the earth and skies ; 
 
 Their touch from the harp of Nature bringeth 
 
 The hidden melodies ; 
 
 To them the eternal chords for eve 
 
 Vibrate in harmonies. 
 
THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER. 
 
 FOR Ernest was a palace built, 
 A palace beautiful to see ; 
 Marble porched, and cedar chambered, 
 Hung with damask drapery ; 
 Bossed with ornaments of silver, 
 Interlaid with gems and gold ; 
 Filled with carvings, from cathedrals 
 Rescued in the days of old ; 
 Eloquent with books and pictures, 
 All that luxury could afford ; 
 Warm with statues that Pygmalion 
 Might have fashioned and adored. 
 In his forest glades and vistas 
 Lovely were the light and gloom ; 
 Fountains sparkled in his gardens, 
 And exotics breathed perfume. 
 
 With him to that lordly palace 
 
 Went the friend who loved him best. 
 
 In good fortune unexalted, 
 
 In misfortune undepressed. 
 
 Little recked that friend of grandeur ; 
 
 Dearer far to him than all 
 
THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER. 71 
 
 Wealth could offer, were the rose-buds 
 Growing on the garden-wall. 
 Dearer far were simple pleasures, 
 And the charms by Nature spread, 
 Than all gauds of power and splendor, 
 Heaped upon their favorite's head. 
 Plain was he in speech and raiment, 
 Humble-minded, and imbued 
 With a daily love of virtue, 
 And a daily gratitude. 
 
 Ere these palace-halls received them, 
 Steadfast was the faith they bore ; 
 No estrangement came between them, 
 Darkening their study door. 
 Ernest in his friend's communion, 
 Loved himself and all his kind, 
 Cherishing a loving nature, 
 Tutored by a happy mind, 
 Rich and poor were equal brothers, 
 In that heart too pure to hold 
 Pride of lineage or of station, 
 Or the vanity of gold. 
 Never chanced it, in that season, 
 That he formed a thought unjust 
 Of the meanest fellow-mortal 
 Fashioned of a common dust. 
 
 But his palace somewhat changed him ; 
 Rose-buds gathered early walks 
 Sunset roamings nightly musings 
 Mystic philosophic talks 
 
72 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Nothing as of old engrossed him ; 
 And the promptings of his friend 
 Fell upon his sated spirit, 
 Not to guide him, but offend. 
 Daily grew the chilling coolness, 
 Till, ere many months had flown, 
 Ernest shut his door upon him, 
 And resolved to live alone : 
 And retreating 'mid his splendor 
 Rooted out all love he bore 
 For that friend, so true, so noble, 
 Banished, lost for evermore. 
 
 Scarcely had that friend departed, 
 Pained and pensive, but resigned, 
 When another sought the palace, 
 More accordant to his mind. 
 He in Ernest's lordly chambers 
 Sat, and called him first of men ; 
 Praised his pictures and his statues, 
 Flattered him with tongue and pen ; 
 Pressed the milk of human kindness 
 From his bosom cold and sere, 
 Taught him to be harsh and cruel, 
 Proud, disdainful, and austere ; 
 Filled him up with vain inflation, 
 And contempt for meaner clay, 
 As if he were born to govern, 
 It to flatter and obey. 
 
 Sometimes on his lonely pillow, 
 When his conscience showed the truth, 
 
THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER. 73 
 
 He deplored his blind estrangement 
 From the comrade of his youth ; 
 But the daylight chilled the current 
 Of that feeling, and it froze 
 Hard enough to bear the burden 
 Of such memories as those. 
 And all day, in gloomy grandeur, 
 In his corridors and halls, 
 Looking at his old escutcheons, 
 And the portraits on the walls, 
 He and his companion wandered, 
 Calm of eye, with lips upcurled, 
 Aliens to the worth and goodness, 
 And the beauty of the world. 
 
 Wintry winds of human anguish, 
 Blowing round them day and night, 
 Never moved them never clouded 
 Their serenity of light. 
 They were made of choice material, 
 Tempest-proof, from lightning free, 
 And the world, its joys and sorrows, 
 Was to them a shipless sea, 
 Dark, unfathomable, trackless, 
 Far beyond their care or ken, 
 Save at times, when ostentation 
 Brought them to the gaze of men ; 
 But ev'n this was painful to them : 
 Man was cold, and earth was wide ; 
 They preferred the warm seclusion 
 Of their apathy and pride. 
 
74 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Who was he, the first out-goer? 
 He was HUMAN SYMPATHY; 
 And the in-comer that displaced him ? 
 He was WORLDLY VANITY. 
 With the first Religion vanished, 
 Charity, and Faith in Man, 
 And the genial Love of Nature, 
 Boundless as Creation's plan. 
 With the second entered Hatred, 
 Harsh Intolerance, and Scorn : 
 Ernest in his life's cold evening 
 Saw the error of his morn 
 Saw his error and deplored it, 
 And upon his death-bed lain, 
 Prayed for mercy, while confessing, 
 Dying, he had lived in vain. 
 
IMOGEN'S JOURNEY. 
 
 THE MESMERIST AND THE CLAIRVOYANTS. 
 
 How dost travel, Imogen, 
 When the trance upon thee lies 1 
 Lo ! I shed the influence o'er thee 
 How dost travel to the skies 1 
 
 ' On a wonder working steed, 
 Like the steed in the eastern tale ; 
 I mount his back I try his speed 
 I guide him over hill and dale, 
 Deftly ever I hold the reins, 
 And sit in the saddle haughtily ; 
 Over the mountains and over the plains, 
 Over the land and over the sea.' 
 
 Imogen, I know thou wanderest 
 At thy pleasure through the air ; 
 Canst thou tell what thou hast witnessed, 
 And thy mysteries declare ? 
 
76 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ' Much I see 
 Lovingly, 
 
 I feast on the beauty of the earth, . 
 In its sadness, in its mirth, 
 In its decay, and in its bloom, 
 In its splendor, in its gloorn ; 
 To every clime remote or near 
 I soar in my saddle and never fear. 
 
 ' Much I see 
 Mournfully, 
 
 Want, and ignorance and strife, 
 And the agonies of death and life ; 
 Intemperance mowing its victims down 
 In countless hosts through city and town ; 
 And hapless infants, newly born, 
 Cast on the world to shame and scorn : 
 Taught to lie, to steal, to swear, 
 Nurtured in hatred and despair, 
 Trained in obedience, reckless, and blind 
 To the worst passions of their kind. 
 
 * Much 1 see 
 
 Indignantly, 
 
 The prosperous evil, the suffering good ; 
 
 And battening, fattening, 
 
 Fawning, lying, 
 
 God denying, 
 
 Pestilent ingratitude. 
 
 Sons bringing shame to a father's cheek, 
 
 And daughter's doing their mothers wrong ; 
 
 The strong man trampling on the weak, 
 
 The weak man worshipping the strong ; 
 
IMOGEN'S JOURNEY. 77 
 
 The white man selling the black for a slave 
 
 And quoting scripture in his defence, 
 
 And giving the money the holy knave 
 
 In support of pulpit eloquence : 
 
 Harsh intolerant Bigotry 
 
 Taking the name of Charity ; 
 
 And Vice, in a masquerading dress, 
 
 White robed like virgin loveliness, 
 
 Sitting in Virtue's seat, unchallenged, 
 
 And passing herself in all men's sight 
 
 As a radiant creature 
 
 In form and feature, 
 
 A visitant of love and light ; 
 
 Tyrants ruling, 
 
 Wise men fooling, 
 
 And stolid Ignorance preaching and schooling : 
 
 Alt this I see 
 
 Most mournfully, 
 
 And haste to descend to the Earth again, 
 
 And rest on the level ground with men. 
 
 * But in my trance of yesterday 
 
 I was travelling far away ; 
 
 Far away in the air upborne, 
 
 I, clear-seeing Imogen, 
 
 Lost myself in the depths serene 
 
 Twelve hours eastward of the morn. 
 
 The full round Earth beneath me lay 
 
 A large bright orb of silvery gray, 
 
 The bi-centuple of the moon ; 
 
 I heard her rolling on her way, 
 
 Her tidal oceans pealing a tune, 
 
78 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Sea with sea, 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 
 Through the dread Infinity. 
 
 And a living voice spake to my soul, 
 
 As I watched the mighty planet roll ; 
 
 An angel of another sphere, 
 
 An alien and a wanderer here ; 
 
 And spirit to spirit, mind to mind, 
 
 I to him, and he to me 
 
 We spoke together bodilessly, 
 
 On the deeds of human kind. 
 
 * " Oh, lovely is your world," he said ; 
 " Behold the glory round it spread, 
 Behold its oceans, how they shine 
 Suffused with radiance divine : 
 Its teeming continents behold 
 Its mountain summits fired with gold ; 
 Its gleaming poles of purest white, 
 Its tropics bathed in fruitful light ; 
 A lovely world, a gorgeous plan 
 How fares the brotherhood of man ? " 
 
 1 " The brotherhood of man ? " said I, 
 Mingling a whisper and a sigh : 
 " Alas, the Earth, though old in time, 
 Is young in wisdom : Brotherhood ? 
 There is no land in any clime 
 Where even the word is understood : 
 Look below at yon fair isles, 
 Laving themselves in Ocean's smiles, 
 
IMOGEN'S JOURNEY. 79 
 
 They rule the Earth, yet cannot teach 
 The simple truth thy words convey, 
 Though ever the few dissuade, and preach, 
 Ever the many fight and slay." 
 
 ' " Blind creatures," said the voice to me, 
 " If they know not Charity 
 But surely they have learned the truth 
 That God is love and growing wise, 
 They study from their tenderest youth 
 That holiest of mysteries ? " 
 
 ' " They know it not," I made reply, 
 " Of all the swarms that live and die 
 Upon that wide revolving ball, 
 The pettiest faction of them all 
 Has heard that truth : and of those few 
 Though hundreds think, the units do. 
 Aliens, foes, estranged from birth, 
 Are the nations of the earth ; 
 One to the east of a mountain cope, 
 Hates the one to the western slope ; 
 One to the left bank of a river, 
 Pursues with its deadly wrath for ever 
 The one that prospers on the right, 
 And works for ever to its despite ; 
 And to the earth's extremest bound, 
 Brotherhood is nowhere found." 
 
 * " But is there none," said the voice, " to show 
 The wrong, the shame, the guilt, the woe, 
 
80 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The fearful madness of such crime ? 
 
 Is there none with a soul sublime 
 
 To open their hearts that they may see 
 
 That Love is the law of infinity, 
 
 The dominant chord of the mighty seven 
 
 That form the harmonies of heaven ? " 
 
 ' Many to teach, but few to hear. 
 
 Though scant the boundaries of our sphere, 
 
 Truth goes slowly over the zones, 
 
 And stumbles over pebble stones. 
 
 The laziest worm that ever crept, 
 
 Although at each remove it slept, 
 
 Would measure the girth of the rolling earth 
 
 Ten times o'er, in a tithe of the time 
 
 It takes slow-footed Truth to climb 
 
 The dense obstructions in its course, 
 
 Raised by folly, fraud, or force, 
 
 And circle it once from pole to pole ; 
 
 Never yet, thou wandering soul, 
 
 Has one great Truth pierced through the crust 
 
 Of universal human dust.' 
 
 ' " It cannot be," said the voice again : 
 " Was there never born 'mong men 
 Th' incarnate God ? " " Alas ! " I said, 
 " Look at the Earth behold it spread 
 Its countless regions to the day ; 
 Behold I'll show thee in the ray, 
 Every little speck of land 
 Where the truth has made a stand 
 I could cover them with my hand. 
 
IMOGEN'S JOURNEY. 81 
 
 ' " See yon little continent, 
 
 And close beside it other two 
 
 Of aspect more magnificent, 
 
 And large dimensions, looming through 
 
 An atmosphere of radiant blue : 
 
 The smallest spot alone has heard 
 
 The great and civilising word 
 
 That God is Love ; and even there 
 
 Men hate each other, and declare 
 
 Fierce war for difference of degree, 
 
 And shadows of divergency 
 
 On minor points, and dogmas dim, 
 
 That whether we cling to or let fall 
 
 Is of no account in the eyes of Him 
 
 Who gave a law beyond them all. 
 
 ' " Ignorance is the lord below ; 
 
 Hatred, Bigotry, and Scorn 
 
 Do his bidding, and scatter woe 
 
 On the climates of the morn : 
 
 Do his bidding and high behest 
 
 On the regions of the west, 
 
 Obey his rules from north to south, 
 
 And take their orders from his mouth." 
 
 ' "Farewell ! " said the voice of the upper air, 
 " I '11 change my track, I '11 go not there ; 
 To other planets I will roam, 
 Where Love and Knowledge find a home." 
 " Farewell ! " said I, " thou wandering sprite, 
 I must return to earth ere night, 
 6 
 
82 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And bear for awhile, as best I can, 
 The cold, dull ignorance of man." ' 
 
 Now thou *rt wakened, Imogen, 
 Dost thou know where thou hast been 1 
 ' No,' she said, and rubbed her eyes, 
 And looked around her with surprise, 
 * I have slept and I have heard 
 Something nothing who can tell ? 
 Waking memory knows no word, 
 And has no sense of what befell. 
 But when again thy fingers pour 
 The influence through me, if it chance 
 That I can summon up once more 
 The lost ideas of my trance, 
 I '11 tell thee truly what I see, 
 Wise or foolish, as may be. 3 
 
TWO MYSTERIES. 
 
 Two awful mysteries compass me around, 
 
 And follow me for ever as I go : 
 
 I see, yet see them not. I know they are, 
 
 And that they change more rapidly than thought, 
 
 Yet feel 'mid variability that change, 
 
 While it affects them, leaves them still the same. 
 
 Sane, I enjoy them both both are myself: 
 
 Insane, I fly them, but they haunt me still : 
 
 Two mysteries and yet one one infinite. 
 
 Two undistinguished points in space and time, 
 
 Ever effaced and ever permanent. 
 
 Two little atoms so magnificent 
 
 That all the past conspired to give them birth, 
 
 And all the mighty future hangs on one. 
 
 My Self, my Now; God's Self, God's Now; so 
 
 linked 
 
 That not Eternity can disentwine 
 One from the other. Both to be employed 
 So that their circle evermore shall stretch 
 Till suns, and systems, and whole firmaments 
 Shall seem but points commensurate with them, 
 
84 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And aye to widen ever and evermore, 
 Nearing the throne where the Eternal sits, 
 Is joy, love, knowledge, happiness divine 
 Oh that the secret of their use was mine ! 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 ['The Girondins spent the last night of their captivity in the great 
 dungeon that Hall of Death. The tribunal had ordered that the still warm 
 corpse of Valaze should be taken back to the prison, carried on the same cart 
 with his accomplices to the place of execution, and buried with them. . . . 
 The gendarmes placed the body in a corner of the prison. The Girondins, one 
 after the other, kissed the heroic hand of their friend. They covered his face 
 with his mantle. " To-morrow ! " said they to the corpse ; and they gathered 
 their strength for the coming day. It was near midnight. The deputy 
 Bailleul, proscribed like them but concealed in Paris, had promised to send 
 them from without, on the day of their judgment, a last repast of triumph 
 or of death, according as they might be acquitted or condemned. By the help 
 of a friend, he kept his word. The funeral supper was spread in the great 
 dungeon. Costly viands, rare wines, flowers, and lights, covered the oak 
 table of the prison. . . . The meal lasted till the dawn of day. Vergniaud, 
 seated near the centre of the table, presided with the same calm dignity which 
 he had preserved during the night of the 10th of August while presiding over 
 the Convention. The guests ate and drank with sobriety merely to recruit 
 their strength. Their discourse was grave and solemn, though not sad. 
 Many of them spoke of the immortality of the soul, and expressed their belief 
 In a future state.' LAMARTINE'S HISTORY OF THE GIRONDINS. 
 
 'The last night of the Girondins was sublime. Yergniaud was provided 
 with poison. He threw it away that he might die with his friends. They took 
 a last meal together, at which they were by turns merry, serious, and eloquent. 
 Brissot and Gensonne were grave and pensive. Verguiaud spoke of expiring 
 liberty in the noblest terms of regret, and of the destination of man with per- 
 iuasive eloquence. Ducos repeated verses which he had composed in prison ; 
 and they all joined in singing hymns to France and liberty.' 
 HISTORY OP THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.] 
 
86 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 VERGNIATJD. 
 
 NEVER despair of Goodness. Men are bad, 
 
 But have been worse. The badness shall die out ; 
 
 The goodness, like the thistle-down, shall float, 
 
 Bearing a germ beneath its tiny car 
 
 A germ predestined to become a tree, 
 
 To fall on fruitful soil, and on its boughs 
 
 Bear seed enough to stock the universe. 
 
 Never despair of freedom. Though we die 
 
 In cruel martyrdom most undeserved, 
 
 What matters it if Truth survive our bones ? 
 
 No, my dear brothers, we shall not despair, 
 
 Now or hereafter, for ourselves or men ; 
 
 For we are sorrow-proof; our souls have borne 
 
 All the worst ills that can afflict the just. 
 
 We can sit down, strengthened by virtuous will, 
 
 And dare all malice and all power of men 
 
 To add one mental pang to bodily death, 
 
 Or rob us of the smallest privilege 
 
 That appertains to our humanity. 
 
 They may manure their gardens with our flesh, 
 
 And decompose our scaffolding of bones, 
 
 But cannot harm us, cannot touch the J, 
 
 The Thou, that dwells in clay receptacle, 
 
 Vast, awful, inaccessible, alone, 
 
 And indestructible as earth or heaven. 
 
 BRISSOT. 
 
 Would we could summon our poor Valaze 
 To visit us, and his forsaken corpse, 
 Which bears us now such mournful company 
 What secrets he could tell us if he might. 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 87 
 
 Perchance even now he listens to our words, 
 And shares our sorrow as he shared before. 
 
 SILLERY. 
 
 I do propose that in a solemn pledge 
 Over this wine we bear our love to him 
 The soul of Valaze, if soul he have, 
 Outliving its poor garb of flesh and bone, 
 Or I, or thou, or any piece of dust 
 That walks on legs and calls itself a man ; 
 Here's to his memory ! and, if he live, 
 May he be happy in the light of heaven. 
 
 BRISSOT. 
 
 Dear Valaze ! 't is pleasant to my soul, 
 For soul /have, coeval with its God, 
 To think that he is with us at this hour ; 
 Filled with the virtuous joy that shall be ours, 
 Soon as the bloody knife has done its work 
 In opening the door 'twixt earth and heaven, 
 And letting us go free. 
 
 LASOTTRCE. 
 
 Free of the earth, perhaps, but free as gods ? 
 To love, to know, to labor, to aspire ? 
 They say that heaven is full beatitude, 
 Bliss infinite, and yet a bliss complete, 
 Sum of all hopes, and crown of all desire. 
 I would not pass into a stagnant heaven, 
 For ever singing psalms and saying prayers. 
 Ah, no ; the heaven that my spirit craves, 
 If place it be, and not a state of mind, 
 
88 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Is place for Progress infinite as God. 
 There is no good but effort. Paradise, 
 With nothing to be done, would be to me 
 Worse than the blackest Hell that Dante drew, 
 Or English Milton in his awful song. 
 
 DUCOS. 
 What work would' st do ? Would'st like to strive 
 
 in heaven 
 
 With Robespierres or Dantons ? or would'st go 
 Down to the other place to battle there ? 
 
 LASOURCE. 
 
 As for the other place, there is no hell 
 But that which dwells in the ungodly soul 
 A hell eternal as the soul itself. 
 But for the virtuous and aspiring mind 
 There is no task more adequate to heaven 
 Than war with Error. Light was only made 
 To change the alien Darkness to itself; 
 Love but to conquer and extinguish Hate. 
 
 CARRA. 
 
 I have two doubts ; but to my tranquil mind 
 Each is a comfort. If perchance I go 
 Out of this body and remain myself, 
 I feel that God fs good, and that this self 
 Shall not be damned, whatever bigots feign, 
 But shall enjoy the infinitude of love. 
 And if I go not hence if I am this, 
 This bag of joints, and arteries, and flesh 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 89 
 
 Nothing besides and consciousness expires 
 When the lungs cease their functions, and the heart 
 Sends to the pulse the living stream no more, 
 There is nor disappointment, grief, nor pain, 
 In thought of nothingness. I 've lived my life, 
 And can go down to Death without a pang, 
 And think annihilation bliss indeed. 
 
 DUCOS. 
 
 I not. I take an interest in things, 
 And would be glad to learn the fate of France-, 
 For whose dear sake we die to-morrow morn ;: 
 And if the ' incorruptible ' corrupt 
 And bloody Robespierre shall 'scape the toils 
 He sets for us. I should be glad to know 
 How long the savage hounds that lap our blood 
 Shall offer up such holocausts to Hate, 
 As we shall be, ere shines another sun. 
 Nor that alone ; I should rejoice to see 
 What great new poets shall arise with Time, 
 What famous plays and mighty play-actors 
 Shall draw the tears from lovely ladies' eyes, 
 Or dimple their sweet cheeks to heavenly smiles; 
 What new discoveries shall yet be made, 
 Greater than printing or than gunpowder ; 
 And what shall be the fashion of men's beards 
 And young girls' petticoats a century hence ; 
 How long the French Republic shall endure, 
 And whether any Cromwell shall arise 
 To turn our troubles to his own account ; 
 Or worst of all, whether the Capet race 
 Shall mount the throne again to play the fool, 
 
90 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And drive humanity a century back ; 
 And whether Catholic and Protestant 
 Shall hate each other in the days to come, 
 And do foul murder for the love of God, 
 As they have done since Luther was a priest. 
 
 FONFREDE. 
 
 And so should I ; but not alone to know. 
 
 To see the miseries of this poor world, 
 
 Without the power to aid in their relief, 
 
 Would be indeed as bad as pitchy hell, 
 
 And worms that die not, and tormenting fiends. 
 
 No, no, Ducos ; if we return at all, 
 
 We shall return refreshed, and play a part. 
 
 VERGNIAUD. 
 
 Keep to thy thought, Fonfrede, and lose it not ; 
 The soul, partaker of Divinity, 
 Must be partaker of Infinity 
 Must know alike the secrets of all space, 
 And of this little grain of rolling sand 
 That we are born upon. Yes, we shall see, 
 Clear as a book, the riddle of the world ; 
 We shall repeat the watchword of the stars ; 
 We shall drink in divine enravishment, 
 As full upon us burst the harmonies 
 Of rolling planets, systems, firmaments. 
 The key-note of the music shall be plain, 
 And we shall strike it whensoe'er we will, 
 And add to infinite Joy, Love infinite. 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 91 
 FAUCHET. 
 
 If we are worthy. Not to every soul 
 Such love and joy as thou depicturest. 
 Freed from its earthly shell, th' eternal mind 
 Must struggle there, as it has struggled here, 
 Upward, still upward, with incessant toil, 
 To make itself partaker of the bliss, 
 That in a widening circle God hath spread 
 Through his ineffable eternity. 
 
 SILLERY. 
 
 Is talking, struggling ? For I trust, dear friend, 
 
 There will be talking in the other world, 
 
 And that we, twenty-one, now supping here, 
 
 Discoursing mistily of earth and heaven, 
 
 Shall have a nobler banquet in the sky, 
 
 And better talk in better company, 
 
 To-morrow night; banquet of heavenly fruits, 
 
 Ambrosia, nectar, manna, wine of gods, 
 
 And converse with the mighty men of yore : 
 
 Socrates, Plato, Buddha, Mahomet, 
 
 Homer, Anacreon, Euripides, 
 
 Ovid and Dante, Shakspere and Corneille, 
 
 With Caesar, Antony, and Constantine, 
 
 With Cleopatra, Hero, Helena, 
 
 Eve, and Semiramis, and Joan of Arc, 
 
 And a whole host of the undying dead 
 
 Sages, philosophers, and ancient kings, 
 
 Bards, statesmen, actors, dancing girls, and wits, 
 
 And most beloved, our brother Valaze, 
 
 Gone as a herald to announce the doom 
 
 Of three times seven unconquerable souls, 
 
92 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Coming to join them ere the world goes round, 
 Or the next twilight deepens into day. 
 
 LASOURCE. 
 
 What ails our friend, our brother Vergniaud ? 
 His gaze is fixed upon vacuity 
 He hears us not he looks, hut sees us not. 
 Kind sleep has thrown her mantle over him, 
 And in his slumber flow unbidden tears. 
 
 FONFREDE. 
 
 I could weep with him. Here we sit and talk 
 Of heaven and hell, unloosing knotty points, 
 Or grappling with them, but to make the coil 
 A worse entanglement forgetting France, 
 And those who love us. I 've not shed a tear, 
 But I could weep a flood, and in each drop 
 Pay tribute to my own humanity, 
 Which blushes for me, that I should forget 
 In these last hours, my few, my faithful friends ; 
 And she, the dear companion of my soul 
 My love my better life that prays for me 
 In solitude and sorrow ; or, perchance, 
 Watches outside these very walls, and weeps. 
 The tears are gathering in my eyes for her, 
 And they must flow, or make my heart a wreck. 
 
 VERGNIAUD. 
 
 Let the flood burst : tears are the wine of grief, 
 And will inspire thee more than sparkling Ai 
 Can stir the pulses of a bacchanal. 
 I crave no pardon for the tears I've shed, 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 93 
 
 The latest luxury that I shall taste. 
 In one short minute I have lived a life, 
 Felt all my joys, and suffered all my woes ; 
 Loved all my loves, hoped all my hopes, despaired 
 All the despairs that ever dulled my sense ; 
 Spoken my speeches, stirred a listening land 
 In name of freedom and the rights of men, 
 Ending this cosmorama of my days 
 By weeping on the breast of her I love 
 The tears you saw me shed the tears whose flow 
 Refreshed my heated brain, and bore me back 
 To consciousness of now, which I had lost. 
 
 GENSONNE\ 
 
 Even so with me. I have been living lives 
 In minutes since our festival began. 
 Aye as the sands grow scanty in the glass 
 Of unrelenting Time, the falling grain 
 Exceeds in value all that went before, 
 And years of feeling load the back of each. 
 Five minutes past I was a little child 
 I roamed in meadows, gathering violets, 
 I bathed my tiny feet in running streams, 
 I strutted o'er the sward with martial drum, 
 I conned my painful lesson in the school, 
 I nestled in my little sister's breast, 
 And fell asleep, my arms entwining her. 
 And then I grew into a thoughtful boy, 
 Full of high projects and intense desires 
 Passion and folly, wisdom and romance, 
 Ruling my soul by turns. Another grain 
 Dropped in the glass, and, lo ! I was a man, 
 
94 VOICES FROM! THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Filled with ambition, and desire of fame, 
 
 Raising my voice above the popular din, 
 
 To swell the rallying cry of ceaseless war 
 
 To royal tyranny and feudal wrong. 
 
 Another grain dropped through, and I was wed, 
 
 And lived long years of bridal happiness. 
 
 I built my house upon a hill. I planned 
 
 Gardens and orchards, parks, and sloping lawns, 
 
 And fled from clash of modern politics 
 
 To ancient lore and calm philosophy. 
 
 Another grain, and all the visions fled. 
 
 I braved false judges in the judgment-seat, 
 
 Dishonoring judgment and the name of man ; 
 
 Defied them to their teeth, and dared to die, 
 
 And leave my fate a legacy to Time. 
 
 All this, and more, unwinding like a scroll, 
 
 Has passed before me at this feast of death, 
 
 Even as I talked, and drank, and laughed with you. 
 
 A double consciousness an added self 
 
 Swathed me all o'er, as glory swathes a saint. 
 
 DUCOS. 
 
 Thy visions have been brave, dear Gensonne. 
 I have been thinking of my mistresses, 
 Eulalie, Marie, Gabrielle, Fifine 
 Who loved me first who last and who the best ; 
 And whether one of them, to-morrow morn 
 Will give a last and solitary thought 
 To me, a man defrauded of my head, 
 Having no property in my own life, 
 And lost to them for loving liberty, 
 And daring to interpret for myself 
 What meant the name. 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 95 
 
 SILLERY. 
 
 Did'st love the four at once ? or two by two ? 
 Or did 'st thou take the darlings one by one ? 
 Or love this liberty still more than them ? 
 In either case why should they weep for thee, 
 So loose and fickle in thy preference ? 
 And yet 'tis sweet to know a woman sighs 
 For our distresses, and would share them all, 
 If sharing would relieve. Fill up again 
 We grow lugubrious. 7, that ever laughed, 
 Crutch-ridden, and decrepit as I am, 
 At nightly comedy, and daily farce, 
 Played in all places forum, palace, street, 
 In church and tavern attic or saloon 
 Must not be tragic, ev'n though dungeon walls 
 Shut from my vision that stupendous farce 
 The rolling earth. Fill to the brim your cups. 
 We '11 toast our friends, our wives, our mistresses. 
 
 VERGNIATTD. 
 
 God bless the maid whose image fills my soul, 
 The incarnation of all purity 
 All modesty all loveliness all grace, 
 My own heart's partner my betrothed wife. 
 Never to see me in this mortal state 
 Never to these pale, faithful lips of mine 
 To give the answering kiss of plighted truth. 
 God shower His blessings on her ! May she live, 
 Unscathed, in all the perils of the time, 
 And love of me be thought no crime in her 
 By those who wield the destinies of France, 
 And slay the innocent. 
 
96 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 FAUCHET. 
 
 Amen, amen for her, and all we love. 
 
 DUCOS. 
 
 We grow too serious. If we ransack thus 
 
 The stores of memory for joys bygone, 
 
 For hopes decayed, and loves for ever lost, 
 
 We shall unman ourselves, and yield our breath 
 
 Like love-sick maidens, who, in deep decline, 
 
 Aye prattle prettily of moonlit seas, 
 
 Fresh flowers, green meads, and shady forest walks, 
 
 To the last moment of their artless lives, 
 
 In my philosophy there are no tears, 
 
 No sighs, no groans, no useless fond regrets, 
 
 But a stout heart, and laughter to the last. 
 
 (Sings.) 
 THE CAP AND BELLS. 
 
 Did you ever trust a friend, 
 
 And when cheated trust him more ? 
 Ever seek to gain your end, 
 
 Knocking at a rich man's door ? 
 Do you trust your Doris fair, 
 
 When her tale of love she tells ? 
 You deserve the cap you wear, 
 
 Jingle, jangle shake your bells. 
 
 Think you that the men are wise 
 Who embark in public strife ? 
 
 Or their judgment do you prize 
 Who for country risk their life ? 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 97 
 
 Truth's existence could you swear ? 
 
 Or affirm where honor dwells ? 
 You deserve the cap you wear, 
 
 Jingle, jangle shake your bells. 
 
 FONFREDE. 
 
 The voice is good the singer, my good friend 
 
 The manner perfect, but the song itself 
 
 A baseless libel. Try again, Ducos, 
 
 And give us something in a nobler mood. 
 
 We may not die with falsehood on our tongues, 
 
 And gibes and sneers curvetting on our lips. 
 
 DUCOS. 
 
 If, like a swan, I must expire in song, 
 Hear my death anthem. Join it, if you will. 
 
 THE GREY OWL. 
 
 The grey owl sat on the belfry leads, 
 
 And looked o'er the Seine to the place of heads, 
 
 Over the Seine to the Place de Greve. 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying. 
 
 The moonlight streamed o'er the abbey nave, 
 Over the housetops silently lying 
 White as the mist when the morn is new ; 
 
 And aye the owl, so solemn of look, 
 
 The speckled grey of his plumage shook, 
 And screeched in the turret tu wheet, tu whoo ! 
 
 Clear and full the moonlight swam 
 Around the towers of Notre Dame, 
 
 7 
 
VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And tinged on the Greve the guillotine 
 TJie winds were sighing, the trees replying 
 
 When a cry was heard the gusts between, 
 A moan for the dead, and not for the dying, 
 Dolefully sounding the faubourgs through. 
 
 'Twas the howl of a dog for his master slain, 
 
 And the grey owl flapped his wings again, 
 And screeched in the turret tu wheel, tu whoo ! 
 
 He flapped his wings, and away he lurched 
 Over the Seine, and resting, perched 
 
 On the high cross-beam of the guillotine top. 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying. 
 
 The tail of the howling hound did drop 
 As he saw through the pallid moonlight flying 
 The doleful bird loom into his view ; 
 
 He ceased his moan and slunk away, 
 
 And the old owl rustled his pinions grey, 
 And screeched from the scaffold tu wheet, tu whoo! 
 
 ' Hurra !' quoth he, as the creature ran; 
 
 ' What right have dogs to moan for man, 
 Or of love like this to make pretence ? ' 
 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying. 
 
 1 Such canine truth is a foul offence ; 
 
 For if every fool on the guillotine dying, 
 
 Had a friend like this to howl and rue, 
 Their noise would drown the people's roar 
 When it tasted blood and clamored for more.' 
 
 And the grey owl screeched tu wheet, tu whoo ! 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 99 
 
 1 1 wot that to-morrow's sun shall see 
 The death of a goodly company 
 
 I trust no dogs will howl for them.' 
 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying. 
 
 ' Two-and-twenty we condemn 
 One has escaped from the shame of dying, 
 Opened a door and glided through ; 
 
 Yet two-and-twenty heads in all 
 
 Under the bloody knife shall fall.' 
 And the grey owl screeched tu wheel, tu whoo ! 
 
 ' Many shall follow them day by day, 
 The harvest-time shall not delay 
 
 The headsman's harvest, so ripe, so red.' 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying. 
 
 I 1 know the name of each sentenced head 
 Danton, the harsh and death-defying 
 
 All his friends that think him true 
 
 Brutal and greedy Pere Duchesne, 
 
 With all his comrades, all his train.' 
 And the grey owl screeched tu wheet, tu whoo ! 
 
 ' And after a while a greater still 
 
 Shall tread the road, shall climb the hill, 
 
 Amid the shouts of the changeful crowd ' 
 The winds were sighing, the trees replying 
 
 ' And shall headless sleep in a bloody shroud. 
 Hated in life, accursed in dying, 
 He shall meet the doom of the twenty -two ; 
 
 And his name shall live the world to scare 
 
 'Tis Robespierre ! 'tis Robespierre !' 
 And the grey owl screeched tu wheet, tu whoo ! 
 
100 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 SILLERY. 
 
 Who is your owl, Ducos ? the embodied soul 
 Of Marat visiting the earth again ? 
 Whoe'er he be, his prophecies are safe, 
 And through the glooms of Time his eyes can see 
 About as clearly as some men's, I know. 
 'Tis a brave bird, Ducos, and speaks the truth, 
 Although his voice is harsh, his truth a fear, 
 And deeds of blood his too familiar thought. 
 
 LASOITRCE. 
 
 Behold the dawn. It breaks upon the world. 
 
 How at this hour the oceans sport their waves, 
 
 And turn their frothy ringlets to the light. 
 
 And all the peaks of Alps and Apennines 
 
 Catch on their snowy heights the ruddy gold, 
 
 The silver, and the purple, and the grey, 
 
 And all the glory of its majesty. 
 
 The ancient forests shake their lordly boughs, 
 
 And pay obeisance to the rising morn, 
 
 The green fields smile, dew glistening, in its face, 
 
 The distant towns and villages awake, 
 
 The milk-maid sings, the cow-boy winds his horn, 
 
 And lowing cattle climb the sunward hills, 
 
 The twin grey towers of ancient Notre Dame 
 
 Are gilded with a smile, like hoary age 
 
 Relaxing to behold an infant's play 
 
 Aye, even the gory guillotine receives 
 
 The splendor of the morning, and the slave 
 
 Drinks of the sunshine freely as the free. 
 
 What beauty compasses the teeming world ! 
 
 What hideous spectacles ungrateful men 
 
THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE G1RONDINS. 101 
 
 Throw in its face, to tire it of itself! 
 Beautiful morn ! my blessing upon day ! 
 
 SILLERY. 
 
 And mine if worth acceptance. But, behold, 
 The gaoler comes our feast is at an end ; 
 The death-bell tolls. Time fades to nothingness ; 
 The hideous dream of life draws to its close ; 
 The morning of Eternity is near. 
 Let us arise, and wake like healthful men. 
 
 FAUCHET. 
 
 May God have mercy on us, and forgive 
 Our enemies, as we forgive them now. 
 
 VEEGNIAUD. 
 
 Farewell, dear brothers farewell, friends beloved. 
 
 The victims of a fearful tyranny 
 
 We die, but leave our names an heritage 
 
 That France shall wear, and boast of to the world. 
 
THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 A LEGEND OF HAVERING. 
 
 [Ilavering-atte-Bower, in Essex, was the favorite retirement of King Edward 
 the Confessor, who so delighted in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up 
 in them for weeks at a time. Old legends say that he met with but one annoy- 
 ance in that pleasant seclusion the continual warbling of the nightingales, 
 pouring such floods of music upon his ear during his midnight meditations, as 
 to disturb his devotions. He therefore prayed that never more within the 
 bounds of that forest might nightingale's song be heard. His prayer, adds the 
 legend, was granted. The following versification of the story shows a different 
 result to his prayers a result which, if it contradict tradition, does not, it is 
 presumed, contradict poetical justice.] 
 
 KING Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower 
 Old, and enfeebled by the weight of power 
 Sick of the troublous majesty of kings 
 Weary of duty and all mortal things 
 Weary of day weary of night forlorn 
 Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born, 
 Thick woods environed him, and in their shade 
 He roamed all day, and told his beads, and prayed. 
 Men's faces pained him, and he barred his door 
 That none might find him ; even the sunshine bore 
 No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight ; 
 And darkness pleased no better than the light. 
 
THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES. 103 
 
 He scorned himself for eating food like men, 
 
 And lived on roots and water from the fen ; 
 
 And aye he groaned, and bowed his hoary head 
 
 Did penance, and put nettles in his bed 
 
 Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast 
 
 Told all his follies, all his sins confessed 
 
 Made accusations of himself to Heaven, 
 
 And owned to crimes too great to be forgiven, 
 
 Which he had thought, although he had not done 
 
 Blackening his blackness ; numbering one by one 
 
 Unheard of villanies without a name, 
 
 As if he gloried in inventing shame, 
 
 Or thought to win the grace of heaven by lies, 
 
 And gain a saintship in a fiend's disguise. 
 
 Long in these woods he dwelt a wretched man, 
 Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban 
 Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows, 
 Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs. 
 But sore distressed he was, and wretched quite, 
 For every evening with the waning light 
 A choir of nightingales, the brakes among, 
 Deluged the woods with overflow of song. 
 ' Unholy birds,' he said, ' your throats be riven, 
 You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from 
 
 heaven.' 
 
 But still the song, magnificent and loud, 
 Poured from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud. 
 Now to his vexed and melancholy ear 
 Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear; 
 Anon it deepened on his throbbing brain 
 To full triumphal march or battle strain; 
 
104 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Then seemed to vary to a choral hymn, 
 
 Or De Profandis from cathedral dim, 
 
 ' Te Deum,' or ' Hosanna to the Lord' 
 
 Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord. 
 
 He shut his ears, he stamped upon the sod 
 
 ' Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God ! 
 
 And thou, beloved saint, to whom I bend, 
 
 Lamp of my life, my guardian and my friend, 
 
 Make intercession for me, sweet St. John, 
 
 And hear the anguish of thy suffering son. 
 
 May nevermore within these woods be heard 
 
 The song of morning or of evening bird, 
 
 May nevermore their harmonies awake 
 
 Within the precincts of this lonely brake, 
 
 For I am weary, old, and full of woe, 
 
 And their songs vex me. This one boon bestow, 
 
 That I may pray ; and give my thoughts to thee, 
 
 Without distraction of their melody ; 
 
 And that within these bowers my groans and sighs 
 
 And ceaseless prayers be all the sounds that rise. 
 
 Let God alone possess me, last and first; 
 
 And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed.' 
 
 This having said, he started where he stood, 
 And saw a stranger walking in the wood ; 
 A purple glory, pale as amethyst, 
 Clad him all o'er. He knew th 1 Evangelist; 
 And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet, 
 He kissed his garment's hem, and clasped his fee. 
 ' Rise,' said the saint, ' and know, unhappy king, 
 That true Religion hates no living thing ; 
 
THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES. 105 
 
 It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man, 
 And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can 
 Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives, 
 Bestows its sympathy on all that lives, 
 Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee, 
 And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy. 
 Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers, 
 But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs ; 
 So shall it mount on wings of love to heaven, 
 And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven.' 
 
 The calm voice ceased ; King Edward dared not 
 
 look, 
 
 But bent to earth, and blushed at the rebuke ; 
 And though he closed his eyes and hid his face, 
 He knew the saint had vanished from the place. 
 And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang 
 With the sweet song the birds of evening sang. 
 No more he cursed them ; loitering on his way 
 He listened pleased, and blessed them for their lay, 
 And on the morrow quitted Havering 
 To mix with men, and be again a king, 
 And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less, 
 Increased in virtue and in happiness. 
 
EVERMORE NEVERMORE. 
 
 ' WILT thou run to me for ever ? ' 
 
 Said the ocean to the river. 
 
 ( Will ye ever fall on my hills and plains ? ' 
 
 Said the dry land to the rains. 
 
 ' Will ye ever blossom while I sing ? ' 
 
 Said the lark to the flowers of spring. 
 
 ' Will ye ever ripen while I shine ? ' 
 
 Said the sun to the corn and vine. 
 
 And ever the answer the breezes bore 
 
 Was, ' Evermore for Evermore' 
 
 ' As long as all these things shall be,' 
 
 Said I, to Rosa kissing me, 
 
 ' Shall Truth be sharper than a sword ? 
 
 Shall kindness be its own reward ? 
 
 Shall a free heart smooth the roughest way ? 
 
 Shall Hope shed light on the darkest day ? 
 
 Shall tempests spare the reeds that bow, 
 
 And thou love me as thou lovest now ? ' 
 
 And ever the answer her sweet lips bore 
 
 Was, ' Evermore for evermore? 
 
EVERMORE NEVERMORE. 107 
 
 ' But shall I ever come back from thee ? ' 
 
 Said the river to the sea ; 
 
 ' Or I ? ' said the flower that Rosa threw 
 
 Into its waters bright and blue. 
 
 ' Will ye bloom again on the summer eves ? ' 
 
 Said the tree to its withered leaves. 
 
 ' Wilt thou fall again when the north winds blow ? ' 
 
 Said the grass to the melting snow. 
 
 And ever the answer the breezes bore 
 
 Was, ' Nevermore oA, nevermore.' 
 
 ' If such the rule beneath the skies/ 
 
 Said Rosa, gazing in my eyes, 
 
 * Shall Duty quit the debt we owe her, 
 
 Or blisses fail the bliss bestower ? 
 
 Shall a miser's heart be improved by his gold ? 
 
 Shall the wealth of love be ever told ? 
 
 Or thou prove false to the tender vow 
 
 Thou swearest and repeatest now ? ' 
 
 And aye the answer my true lips bore 
 
 Was 'Nevermore oh, nevermore.' 
 
THE TRUE COMPANION. 
 
 GIVE me the man, however old and staid, 
 
 Or worn with sorrow and perplexity, 
 Who, when he walks in sunshine or in shade, 
 
 By woodland bowers, or bare beach of the sea, 
 
 O'er hill-top, or in valleys green with me, 
 Throws off his age, and gambols like a child, 
 And finds a boyish pleasure in the wild, 
 
 Rejuvenescent on the flowery lea : 
 Him shall the years press lightly as he goes ; 
 
 The kindly wisdom gathered in the fields 
 Shall be his antidote to worldly woes ; 
 
 And the o'erflowing joy that nature yields 
 To her true lovers, shall his heart enclose, 
 
 And blunt the shafts of care like iron shields. 
 
WELCOME BACK. 
 
 SWEET songs of nightingale and lark 
 
 That greet the golden dawn, 
 Or twilight deepening into dark, 
 
 By mountain, grove, or lawn ; 
 Long days, clear nights, and balmy winds, 
 
 Fresh flowers and forest leaves, 
 Birds, blossoms, fruits of ruddy rinds, 
 
 New hay, and barley sheaves ; 
 All joys of nature, sounds or sights 
 
 Of forest, stream, or plain, 
 Ye 're welcome, welcome, welcome ever, 
 
 And welcome back again. 
 
 Fair hopes, forgotten 'mid our toils ; 
 
 Sweet visions dreamed of yore, 
 Calm thoughts effaced in life's turmoils, 
 
 Old songs we 've sung before ; 
 Forgotten comrades, friends estranged, 
 
 Acquaintance o'er the seas, 
 Old feelings weakened, lost, or changed, 
 ' And youthful memories ; 
 
110 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Pure joys of home, kind words, sweet smiles, 
 
 And sympathy in pain, 
 Ye 're welcome, welcome, welcome ever, 
 
 And welcome back again. 
 
 For Heaven is kind and makes no stint 
 
 Of blessings, though we die ; 
 They pass in circles, and imprint 
 
 Their footsteps as they fly. 
 'Tis ours to train them when begun 
 
 To keep the circle true, 
 And not neglect, forget, or shun 
 
 The old ones for the new. 
 Ne'er to the hearts that prize them well 
 
 They hold their course in vain : 
 They're welcome, welcome, welcome ever, 
 
 And welcome back again. 
 
A LOVER'S FANCIES. 
 
 ' Wliat sounds like pewter ? ' said my Rose, in play 
 
 ' The fall of earth upon a coffin lid.' 
 ' Like tin? ' ' The cock-crow heralding the day, 
 
 Or infant wailing that its mother chid.' 
 ' Like steel ? ' ' The quick sharp twitter on the spray 
 
 Of numerous sparrows in the foliage hid.' 
 ' Like gold ? ' ' The strong wind over forests borne, 
 
 Or full bass singer chanting prayer and creed.' 
 ' Like brass ? ' ' The neighing of a frightened steed, 
 
 Or roar of people clamoring for corn.' 
 
 * Like iron ? ' ' Thunder-claps suddenly woken, 
 
 Startling the city in the summer night.' 
 
 * Like silver ? ' 'Thy sweet voice that speaks delight, 
 
 And breathes Love's promise, never to be broken.' 
 
THE NINE BATHERS. 
 
 ' I WOULD like to bathe in milk,' 
 Said little Agnes, fresh and fair, 
 With her taper fingers smooth as silk, 
 Her cherry cheeks, and nut-brown hair 
 ' In a bath of ivory, filled to the brim, 
 I would love to lie and swim, 
 And float like a strawberry plucked at dawn 
 In the lily-white waves of milk new drawn.' 
 
 4 And I,' said Rose, with her eyes divine, 
 ' Would love to bathe in the ruddy wine, 
 Trailing my long and coal-black locks 
 In purple claret and amber hocks ; 
 And I would have a fountain play 
 So that the wine might fall in spray, 
 And I might stand in the sparkling rain, 
 Statue-like, in perfect rest ; 
 And if the droplets left a stain, 
 I'd have a fountain of champagne 
 To wash the purple from my breast, 
 And troops of slaves, in rich attire, 
 Should scatter myrrh and incense sweet 
 
THE NINE BATHERS. 113 
 
 And bring me, should my looks desire, 
 
 A golden ewer to wash my feet. 
 
 I 'd tread on carpets of velvet woof, 
 
 My mirrors should reach from floor to roof, 
 
 And every slave should envy me 
 
 My loveliness and luxury.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Jane, with her eyes' dark glances 
 
 Radiant with untold romances, 
 
 ' Would choose a milder bath than thine, 
 
 Nor crumple my curls with fiery wine. 
 
 In a bath of alabaster bright, 
 
 In a marble-floored and lofty hall, 
 
 Transplendent with the regal light 
 
 Of a thousand lamps from roof and wall. 
 
 Amid exotics rich and rare 
 
 Filling with odors all the air, 
 
 In clear rose-water I would lie, 
 
 Like a lily on a lake serene, 
 
 Or move my limbs to the harmony 
 
 Of an orchestra unseen, 
 
 Placed in a chamber far remote, 
 
 And floating sing, and singing float.' 
 
 ' Sweet bath,' said the calm, fair Margaret ; 
 ' But the bath I 'd choose is sweeter yet. 
 I'd have it in a rich saloon 
 Open to the breeze of noon, 
 With marble columns smooth and high, 
 And crimson damask drapery, 
 Filled with statues chaste and rare 
 Of nymphs and gods divinely fair. 
 8 
 
114 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Of jet-black marble the bath should be, 
 With no white speck on its purity ; 
 It should not flow with milk or wine, 
 With scented waters or with brine ; 
 It should be filled with meadow dew, 
 Gathered at morning in the grass, 
 'Mid harebell cups and violets blue, 
 And my bath should be my looking-glass ; 
 And I would have a score of maids 
 Glowing with beauty, each and all, 
 To twist my locks in graceful braids, 
 And dress me for a festival.' 
 
 ' And I/ said Lilias, raising her eyes 
 
 Clear as morn, of passion full, 
 
 * Would love to bathe under Eastern skies, 
 
 In the palace gardens of Istamboul, 
 
 In the hanging groves of Babylon, 
 
 Or Bagdad, city of the sun, 
 
 'Mid orange, date, and trailing vine, 
 
 Palm, and myrtle, and eglantine ; 
 
 I would have fifty fountains fair, 
 
 'Mid bowers of roses and evergreens, 
 
 And bathing in the odorous air, 
 
 I would be waited on by queens.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Ann, with her drooping tresses, 
 
 And eyes as full of love's caresses 
 
 As the morning is of day, 
 
 And mouth so ripe and kindly smiling 
 
 'T was never made to answer * Nay,' 
 
THE NINE BATHERS. 115 
 
 ' I would bathe in the fresh blue sea 
 With the wild waves sporting over me ; 
 I would toy with the harmless foam, 
 Passing my fingers like a comb 
 Through the crest of each wave that reared 
 Its spray, as white as Neptune's beard; 
 With a fresh wind blowing across the reach, 
 I would dive and float again and again, 
 And dress myself on the bare sea-beach, 
 In a nook invisible to men.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Laura, ' would choose my bath 
 
 Where a river took its lonely path 
 
 On round smooth shingle, clear in its flow, 
 
 Showing the pebbles that slept below, 
 
 Through a flowery lawn well shaven and soft 
 
 And cool to the feet. I would not care 
 
 For bands of music, if larks aloft 
 
 Filled with their songs the sunny air ; 
 
 I would not ask for lustres bright, 
 
 If the clear morning shed its light ; 
 
 Not for marble statue of youth and maid, 
 
 If oaks and poplars lent their shade ; 
 
 Nor for exotics of choice perfume, 
 
 If the meadow-sweet were fresh in bloom ; 
 
 I would but ask for a summer day, 
 
 And nearest eyes ten miles away.' 
 
 ' And I,' said tuneful Isabel, 
 With her soft blue eyes and cheek vermeil', 
 With her witching smile and modest blush, 
 And voice to make the blackbird hush, 
 
116 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ' I would not bathe by the sea-beach cold, 
 
 Nor river running through open wold ; 
 
 I would not bathe in halls of state, 
 
 In wine, or milk, or honey-dew ; 
 
 On me should no serving maidens wait, 
 
 Nor luxury my senses woo. 
 
 I would bathe far up in a Highland burn, 
 
 Hidden from sight in its every turn, 
 
 Deep embowered 'mid pendent larch, 
 
 And silver birches poised on high, 
 
 With nothing alive to cross my path 
 
 But the bright incurious butterfly ; 
 
 In a limpid basin of the rocks 
 
 I would unbind my flaxen locks, 
 
 And lay my clothes on the mossy stone, 
 
 Happy happy and all alone.' 
 
 * And I,' said Geraldine, smoothing back, 
 
 From her stately brow, her tresses black, 
 
 A blush, like morning over the isles, 
 
 Dawning upon her cheeks, and smiles 
 
 Flashing about her lips and eyes, 
 
 Full of meanings and mysteries, 
 
 4 1 would love to bathe in a quiet mere, 
 
 As a mirror smooth, as a dew-drop clear, 
 
 So still that my floating limbs should make 
 
 The only ripples upon the lake ; 
 
 I'd have it fringed with fruits and flowers, 
 
 Forests and orchards, groves and bowers, 
 
 That whenever I bathed in the noons of spring 
 
 I might pluck laburnums blossoming, 
 
THE NINE BATHERS. 117 
 
 Or shake, as I floated, the lilac blooms, 
 
 Or chestnut cones with their rich perfumes, 
 
 Over my glancing neck and shoulders, 
 
 Concealed in the leaves from all beholders, 
 
 Except from the ring-dove too intent 
 
 On her own pleasures to look at mine ; 
 
 And if I bathed when the flowers were spent, 
 
 And peaches blushed in the autumn shine, 
 
 1 would choose a solitary nook, 
 
 By the confluence of a brook, 
 
 Whe're the apples were ripe, and the jet-black cherries, 
 
 And the juicy luscious dark mulberries, 
 
 Or jargonelles of a ruddy gold, 
 
 And nectarines as sweet to taste 
 
 As the kisses of urchins three years old, 
 
 Grew within reach, that stretching in haste 
 
 My hand to the boughs as I floated near, 
 
 Or stood knee-deep in the lucid mere, 
 
 I might rustle and shake the pulpy treasure 
 
 Into the water for my pleasure, 
 
 Catching an apple as it fell, 
 
 Or diving for a jargonelle.' 
 
THE WATER TARANTELLA. 
 
 [ ' The condition of those who were afflicted with Tarantism was in many 
 cases united with so great a sensiblity to music, that at the very first tone of 
 their favorite melodies, they sprang up shouting for joy, and danced on without 
 intermission until they sank to the ground exhausted, and almost lifeless. 
 Some loved to hear the sound of water, and delighted in hearing of gushing 
 springs, and rushing cascades and streams.' BECKER'S EPIDEMICS OP THE 
 MIDDLE AGES. THE DANCING MANIA.] 
 
 THE winds blow low on the fields and hedges, 
 
 There is a murmur amid the sedges, 
 
 A low sweet sound where the water gushes 
 
 Forth from the grass amid the rushes ; 
 
 It is a streamlet small and young, 
 
 It loves to dally the mosses among, 
 
 It trickles slowly, 
 
 It whispers lowly, 
 
 On its breast the thistle drops its down, 
 
 The water lily 
 
 So white and stilly 
 
 Sleeps in its lap till its leaves grow brown. 
 
 Dance, poor Eveleen dance, and dream 
 Soft is the music, and fresh the stream. 
 
THE WATER TARANTELLA. 119 
 
 We will follow thec where it flows 
 
 It leaves the sedges dank behind, 
 
 And on its fringe a willow shows 
 
 Its silvery leaflets to the wind ; 
 
 And a brook comes down from far away 
 
 And babbles into it all the day 
 
 And both together creep through meads 
 
 Where the shy plover hides and feeds; 
 
 And then away through fields of corn 
 
 Or stretch of meadows newly shorn, 
 
 Noiselessly they flow and clear 
 
 By open wold and covered brake, 
 
 But if you listen you may hear 
 
 The steady music that they make. 
 
 Dance, poor Eveleen, dance we follow 
 
 O'er fold, through copse, o'er lawn, through hollow. 
 
 And now the stream begins to run 
 
 Over the pebbles in its bed, 
 
 To rumple its breast and glance in the sun, 
 
 And curl to the light breeze overhead. 
 
 No longer loitering, lingering, calm, 
 
 It hurries away o'er the chafing shingle, 
 
 Humming a song, singing a psalm, 
 
 Through the orchard, down the dingle. 
 
 Pools like mirrors adorn its breast, 
 
 And there the trout and the minnow rest, 
 
 The ringdove sings in her nest alone 
 
 The tender song that love has taught her, 
 
 And the redbreast sits on the boulder stone, 
 
 Washing his plumes in the wimpling water. 
 
120 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Brisker now let the music sound ; 
 Dance, Eveleen, dance, we follow thee ever, 
 And tread the ground with a quick rebound, 
 Away, away with the rolling river. 
 
 Fed by its tributary rills 
 
 From distant valleys with circling hills, 
 
 And travelling seaward merrily brawling, 
 
 Wild, impassioned, rapid, and strong, 
 
 With a voice of power to the green woods calling, 
 
 The impetuous river dashes along, 
 
 And is sweeping, leaping, through the meadows 
 
 Almost as fast as the driving shadows 
 
 Of clouds that fly before the wind, 
 
 Down to the chasmy precipices, 
 
 There to burst in foaming fall ; 
 
 It bursts, it thunders, it roars, it hisses 
 
 An iris is its coronal ; 
 
 And the pendulous trees above it shiver, 
 
 Bathed by the rain of that rampant river. 
 
 So dance, fair Eveleen, faster, faster, 
 Unloose thy zone, thy locks untwine ; 
 Thy bosom, no more like the alabaster, 
 Is flushed, and heated, and red like wine : 
 Thy pulse is beating, thy blood is heating, 
 Thy lips are open, thine eye-balls shine. 
 
 And now the river speeds its wrath, 
 The music sinks, the winds blow low ; 
 Its bosom broad is a nation's path 
 Smooth and pleasant is its flow. 
 
THE WATER TARANTELLA. 121 
 
 A boat shoots by with its rowers trim, 
 A ferryman plies his lazy oar ; 
 And miles adown, in the distance dim, 
 There stands a city on the shore. 
 
 By cornfields yellow, by meadows green, 
 And stately gardens, we advance ; 
 Still we follow thee, Eveleen 
 Gentle, gentler, be thy dance. 
 
 Behold, upon a grassy lawn, 
 
 Sloped smoothly downwards to the brink, 
 
 With large soft eyes, a dapple fawn 
 
 Stoops to the lucid wave to drink ; 
 
 And lo ! an avenue of oak, 
 
 Whose wrinkled stems of giant girth, 
 
 Have stood unharmed the winter's stroke 
 
 For thrice a century, firm in earth, 
 
 Their boughs o'ertopped by the turrets hoary 
 
 Of a mansion old and famed in story. 
 
 They pass, all pass, 
 
 As in magic glass, 
 
 And still we trace the placid stream 
 
 Castle and tower, 
 
 And park and bower ; 
 
 Dance, poor Eveleen, dance and dream. 
 
 A hundred ships are in the river, 
 Their tall masts point to a clear blue sky, 
 Their sails are furled, their pennants curled, 
 To the sweet west wind that wantons by, 
 
122 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And every flag emblazoned fair, 
 Flaps at its will on the sunny air. 
 There is a peal of sabbath bells, 
 Over the river's breast it swells ; 
 The tall proud steeples look calmly down 
 On the quiet houses of the town ; 
 'Tis a day of love, of rest, of peace, 
 Eveleen, the song must cease. 
 
 Gently, Eveleen, gently rest, 
 
 Softly on thy pillow sleep ; 
 
 The jit is o'er, thy heaving breast 
 
 Will calm itself in slumber deep ; 
 
 TJwu 'st danced, poor maid, the tarantelle, 
 
 Thou'st danced it long, and danced it well, 
 
 Thou^st trod the maze, and traced the shore, 
 
 Thou skalt be healed for evermore. 
 
TO A LADY OF GENIUS. 
 
 IMBUED with the seraphic fire 
 
 To wake the music of the lyre, 
 
 To love to know and to aspire : 
 
 Thou seest in thy truthful dream 
 All Nature robed in light supreme, 
 And thou wouldst carol in the beam. 
 
 Happy yet most unhappy still ! 
 I dread to think what good and ill, 
 What joy and grief thy heart shall fill ! 
 
 Think, ere thou choose such high career, 
 If thou hast strength to persevere, 
 And scale the summit, cold and clear. 
 
 Great shall thy pleasures be thy soul 
 Shall chant with planets as they roll, 
 Made one with Nature part and whole. 
 
 The clouds that flush the morning sky, 
 The wind that woos the branches high, 
 The leaves that whisper and reply ; 
 
124 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The heart of every living thing, 
 
 The flowers that gem the breast of spring, 
 
 The russet birds that soar and sing ; 
 
 The pendulous click of night and day, 
 The change of seasons as they play 
 In heavenly unison alway ; 
 
 The summer's sigh, the winter's roar, 
 The beat of billows on the shore, 
 Making deep music evermore ; 
 
 All sight, all sound, all sense shall be 
 The fountains of thy ecstasy, 
 And daily minister to thee ; 
 
 To thee the past shall disengage 
 The wisdom of its darkest page, 
 And give it for thy heritage ; 
 
 The present with its hopes and fears, 
 Its struggles, triumphs, smiles, and tears, 
 And glory of the coming years ; 
 
 All shall be giv'n to feed thy mind 
 With Love and Pity for thy kind, 
 And every sympathy refined. 
 
 All these, and more, shall be thine own, 
 And round thine intellectual throne 
 Th' applause of nations shall be blown. 
 
TO A LADY OF GENIUS. 125 
 
 Thy words shall fill the mouths of men, 
 The written lightnings of thy pen 
 Shall flash upon their wondering ken. 
 
 Oh Fate oh Privilege sublime ! 
 
 And art thou tempted ? Wilt thou climb ? 
 
 Young genius ! budding to thy prime ? 
 
 Reflect : and weigh the loss and gain ; 
 All Joy is counterpoised by Pain : 
 And nothing charms which we attain. 
 
 Who loves the music of the spheres 
 And lives on Earth, must close his ears 
 To many voices which he hears. 
 
 'Tis evermore the finest sense 
 That feels the anguish most intense 
 At daily outrage, gross and dense. 
 
 The greater joy, the keener grief, 
 Of Nature's balances, the chief, 
 She grants nor favor, nor relief. 
 
 And vain, most vain, is youthful trust, 
 For men are evermore unjust 
 To their superior fellow-dust, 
 
 And ever turn malicious eyes 
 On those whom most they idolize, 
 And break their hearts with calumnies. 
 
126 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Their slanders, like the tempest stroke, 
 May leave the cowslip's stem unbroke, 
 But rend the branches of the oak. 
 
 If Genius live, 'tis made a slave 
 And if it die, the true and brave 
 Men pluck its heart out on its grave, 
 
 And then dissect it for the throng, 
 
 And say, ' 'twas this, so weak, or strong, 
 
 That poured such living floods of song.' 
 
 Each fault of genius is a crime, 
 For Cant or Folly to beslime 
 Sent drifting on the stream of Time. 
 
 Wouldst thou escape such cruel fate, 
 And thou a woman ? watch and wait, 
 But seek oh seek not to be great. 
 
 But if thou lovest song so well 
 
 That thou must sing, though this befell 
 
 And worse than this, ineffable, 
 
 May all good angels keep thy heart 
 
 Pure to itself, and to thine art, 
 
 And shield it from the poison dart, 
 
 That when thou sittest on the height, 
 Thy song may be its own delight, 
 And cheer thee in the world's despite. 
 
ANGELIC VISITANTS. 
 
 ON Mamre's plain, beside the Patriarch's door 
 The ministering Angels sat the world was young, 
 
 And men beheld what they behold no more. 
 
 Ah no ! The harps of Heaven are not \mstrung ! 
 
 The angelic visitants may yet appear 
 
 To those who seek them ! Lo ! at Virtue's side, 
 Its friend, its prop, its solace, and its guide, 
 
 Walks FAITH, with upturned eyes and voice of cheer, 
 
 A visible Angel. Lo, at Sorrow's call, 
 
 HOPE hastens down, an angel fair and kind, 
 
 And whispers comfort whatsoe'er befall ; 
 While CHARITY, the seraph of the mind, 
 
 White-robed and pure, becomes each good man's guest, 
 
 And makes this Earth a Heaven to all who love her 
 best. 
 
CATHEDRAL MUSIC. 
 
 THE VOLUNTARY. 
 
 THE solemn organ poured sonorous waves 
 
 Of melody through the cathedral aisles 
 
 Dim, but most beautiful, that stood in gloom 
 
 Like antique forests, hardened into stone. 
 
 And as th' invisible musician played, 
 
 And all the pious women told their beads, 
 
 I, a spectator not a worshipper 
 
 Of a strange creed, and in a foreign land, 
 
 Thought of the music more than of the prayers, 
 
 Yet felt the spirit of devotion fill 
 
 And permeate my being. All my soul 
 
 Glowed with seraphic raptures of delight, 
 
 Until it seemed upon those seas of sound 
 
 To leave its cold mortality behind, 
 
 And float with favoring winds from Earth to Heav'n. 
 
 The anthem ceased ; the kneeling women rose ; 
 The long aisles slowly emptied of the crowd ; 
 But still the organ pealed its solemn tones ; 
 Touched by a mighty master of his art, 
 
CATHEDRAL MUSIC. 129 
 
 It gave its soul of melody for his. 
 He played a Voluntary to himself 
 Unconscious of a listener. What he dreamed 
 I never knew ; but I that heard him play 
 Shaped his imaginings to suit my own, 
 And formed them into this : 
 
 The low, soft notes 
 Trickled upon each other like the drip 
 Of rain in summer upon trees and flowers. 
 And lo I wandered knee-deep in the grass 
 Through a green meadow pied with butter-cups, 
 Valerian, daisies, and wild hyacinths. 
 I heard the rippling murmur of a brook, 
 Whose limpid waters sparkled to the sun ; 
 Upon its brink a troop of children sat 
 Fair boys with chubby cheeks and laughing eyes, 
 And girls with ringlets waving to the wind. 
 They braided garlands of the meadow flowers, 
 And tied them up with rushes : I could hear 
 Their joyous laughter and their artless talk ; 
 The song of blackbirds in the neighboring copse, 
 The trumpet of the gnat, the bee's loud horn, 
 And click of grasshoppers, like meeting spears. 
 
 Anon the organ poured a deeper strain 
 And carried me away far, far away 
 In the green meadows, miles and miles adown 
 A lengthening river, widening evermore. 
 I saw the towns and cities on its banks 
 I heard the pealing of the holiday bells, 
 And roar of people in the market-place, 
 
130 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The flapping of the sails of merchant-ships 
 
 Laden with corn, that with each flowing tide 
 
 Came upwards to the towns : I heard the creak 
 
 Of chains and dropping anchors in the ports, 
 
 A chorus at the capstan, of the crews, 
 
 As round and round they trod with measured steps, 
 
 And all the bustle of their busy life. 
 
 And still away away in floods of sound ! 
 The unseen musician sitting at his keys, 
 Transported me, a willing auditor, 
 Where'er his fancy would : the deep full tones 
 Grew deeper, fuller, louder, more sublime, 
 Until the waves of music swelled to seas 
 Whose angry billows, white with crests of foam, 
 Rushed with impetuous thunders on the land. 
 The moon withdrew her splendor from the clouds 
 And hid herself in darkness the wind rose, 
 And soared in chorus with th' exulting sea 
 That answered it with thunders of her own. 
 Rain, hail, and sleet, and avalanche of spray 
 Broke in succession wind, and sea, and sky, 
 Octave on octave burst in worlds of sound, 
 The mighty discords clashing evermore, 
 Only to melt and fuse in harmonies. 
 
 Anon the lightning flashed upon the dark, 
 And thunder rattled o'er the cloudy vault, 
 As if the chariots of the heavenly host 
 Drove to the judgment-seat, and Earth's last day 
 Were sounded by the trumpets of the spheres. 
 The echoes rolled through the cathedral aisles 
 
CATHEDRAL MUSIC. 131 
 
 And died in silence : Lo, the round full moon 
 
 Peered from the bosom of a rifted cloud ; 
 
 The winds sank low the raging seas grew calm, 
 
 While loud clear voices from the upper air 
 
 Sang in sweet harmonies ' The Lord is great 
 
 His loving-kindness lasts for evermore.' 
 
LOVE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 BEAUTY and Love and are they not the same ? 
 
 The one is both and both are but the one 
 
 Pervasive they of all around the sun, 
 Of one same essence, differing but in name. 
 Lo ! when pure Love lights his immortal flame, 
 
 He, and all Earth and Heaven in Beauty shine ; 
 
 And when true Beauty shows her face divine, 
 Love permeates the universal frame. 
 Holy of holies mystery sublime ! 
 
 Who truly loves is beautiful to see, 
 
 And scatters Beauty wheresoe'er he goes. 
 They fill all space they move the wheels of Time ; 
 
 And evermore from their dread Unity, 
 
 Through all the firmaments Life's ocean flows. 
 
A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS. 
 
 FROM the deep and troubled waters 
 
 Comes the cry ; 
 Wild are the waves around me 
 
 Dark the sky : 
 
 There is no hand to pluck me 
 From the sad death I die. 
 
 To one small plank that fails me 
 
 Clinging low, 
 I am dashed by the angry billows 
 
 To and fro ; 
 
 I hear death-anthems ringing 
 In all the winds that blow. 
 
 A cry of suffering gushes 
 
 From my lips, 
 As I behold the distant 
 
 White-sail'd ships 
 O'er the dark waters gleaming 
 Where the horizon dips. 
 
134 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 They pass ; they are too lofty 
 
 And remote, 
 They cannot see the spaces 
 
 Where I float. 
 
 The last hope dies within me, 
 With the gasping in my throat. 
 
 Through dim cloud-vistas looking 
 
 I can see, 
 The new moon's crescent sailing 
 
 Pallidly : 
 
 And one star coldly shining 
 Upon my misery. 
 
 There are no sounds in Nature 
 
 But my moan, 
 The shriek of the wild petrel 
 
 All alone, 
 
 And roar of waves exulting 
 To make my flesh their own. 
 
 Billow with billow rages, 
 
 Tempest-trod ; 
 Strength fails me ; coldness gathers 
 
 On this clod : 
 
 From the deep and troubled waters 
 I cry to Thee, my God. 
 
WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH. 
 
 WHEN I lie cold in death, 
 
 Bury me where ye will, 
 Though if my living breath 
 
 May urge my wishes still, 
 When I shall breathe no more ; 
 
 Let my last dwelling be, 
 Beneath a turf with wild flowers covered o'er, 
 
 Under a shady tree, 
 
 A grave where winds may blow and sunshine fall, 
 And autumn leaves may drop in yearly funeral. 
 
 I care not for a tomb, 
 
 With sculptured cherubim, 
 Amid the solemn gloom 
 
 Of old cathedrals dim. 
 I care not for the pride 
 
 Of epitaphs well-meant, 
 Nor wish my name with any pomps allied, 
 
 When my last breath is spent ; 
 Give me a grave beneath the fair green trees 
 And an abiding-place in good men's memories. 
 
136 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 But wheresoe'er I sleep 
 
 I charge you, friends of mine, 
 With adjuration deep 
 
 And by your hopes divine ; 
 Let no irreverent pen 
 
 For sake of paltry pay, 
 Expose my faults or follies unto men, 
 
 To desecrate my clay : 
 
 Let none but good men's tongues my story tell, 
 Nor even they, I'd sleep unvexed by any knell. 
 
 Why should the gaping crowd 
 
 Claim any right to know 
 How sped in shine or cloud 
 
 My pilgrimage below ? 
 Why should the vulgar gaze 
 
 Be fixed upon my heart, 
 When I am dead, because in living days 
 
 I did my little part 
 
 To sing a music to the march of man 
 A lark high carolling to armies in the van ? 
 
 But still if crowds will claim 
 
 A moral, to be told, 
 From my unwilling name, 
 
 When slumbering in the mould, 
 I'll tell the tale myself 
 
 A story ever new 
 Yet old as Adam. Oh, ye men of pelf, 
 
 Ye would not tell it true 
 But I will tell it in my noon of life, 
 And wave the flag aloft ere I depart the strife. 
 
WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH. 137 
 
 I wasted precious youth, 
 
 But learned before my prime 
 The majesty of Truth 
 
 The priceless worth of Time ; 
 I hoped, and was deceived 
 
 I built without a base 
 I err'd I suffered doubted and believed 
 
 I ran a breathless race, 
 
 And when half-way toward the wished-for goal, 
 Despised the bauble crown, for which I'd given my 
 soul. 
 
 I thought that I was wise, 
 
 When folly was my rule, 
 But with late-open'd eyes 
 
 Confess' d myself a fool. 
 I strove in vain to flee 
 The penalty of sin ; 
 I plucked the apple, Pleasure, from the tree, 
 
 And found it dust within. 
 I sow'd ill seed in spring-time of my years 
 And reap'd the natural crop of agony and tears. 
 
 I never did a wrong 
 
 That brought not punishment, 
 In sufferings keen and long 
 
 By chastening mercy sent. 
 I never did the right 
 
 Without a sweet reward 
 Of inward music and celestial light 
 
 In beautiful accord. 
 
 I never scorn'd but with result of scorn, 
 Nor loved without new life when I was most forlorn. 
 
138 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 I think I loved my kind 
 
 And strove to serve it too, 
 And in my secret mind 
 
 Adored the good and true. 
 I know I never dipped 
 
 My pen in slime or gall, 
 Or wrote a sentence which the purest lipp'd 
 
 Would scruple to recall ; 
 I think my lyre gave forth a manly tone 
 I know I never preached opinions not my own. 
 
 I found, as man or boy, 
 
 Delight in wild woods green, 
 And reapM perpetual joy 
 
 From every natural scene. 
 I nursed amid the crowd 
 
 My human sympathies; 
 To heart and brain they made appeal aloud, 
 
 With voice of mysteries. 
 And in the forest paths, or cities throng'd, 
 Nature was in my soul and to my soul belonged. 
 
 In all my life I felt 
 
 God's presence evermore, 
 And reverently knelt 
 
 To love and to adore ; 
 Such let the record be 
 
 I charge ye, friends of mine, 
 Add but a date to this life-history 
 
 Th' obituary line, 
 
 Say that I lived and died, and did my best, 
 But spare my secret heart, and let my follies rest. 
 
THE PRAISE OF WOMEN. 
 
 1 My curse on those of women who speke 
 I praye to God that their neckys doe breke.' 
 
 CHAITCK :. 
 
 WOMAN may err Woman may give her mind 
 
 To evil thoughts, and lose her pure estate ; 
 But for one woman who affronts her kind 
 
 By wicked passions and remorseless hate, 
 A thousand make amends in age and youth, 
 
 By heavenly Pity, by sweet Sympathy, 
 By patient Kindness, by enduring Truth, 
 
 By Love, supremest in adversity. 
 Theirs is the task to succor the distressed, 
 
 To feed the hungry, to console the sad, 
 To pour the balm upon the wounded breast, 
 
 And find dear Pity, even for the bad. 
 Blessings on Women ! In the darkest day 
 
 Their love shines brightest ; in the perilous hour 
 Their weak hands glow with strength our feuds to stay. 
 
 Blessings upon them ! and if Man would shower 
 His condemnation on the few that err, 
 
 Let him be calm, and cease his soul to vex ; 
 Think of his mother, and for sake of her 
 
 Forgive them all, and bless their gentler sex. 
 
SERENITY. 
 
 A FANCY SUGGESTED BY JEAN PAUL. 
 
 STANDING alone, in vale or mountain-top, 
 
 Upon the grassy plain or ocean shore, 
 
 Or far away upon a ship at sea, 
 
 We are the middle of the Universe. 
 
 Around us as a centre, Earth and Heaven 
 
 Describe their mystic circles evermore. 
 
 We move ; and all the radii shape themselves 
 
 To the one point and focus of our eyes. 
 
 But in our mental life we disobey 
 
 The law of circles : on the outer verge 
 
 We stand for ever, sometimes looking down 
 
 Upon extraneous evil far removed 
 
 Beyond the bound of Earth's circumference, 
 
 Adown dark tangents infinitely stretched, 
 
 Through gloomy Chaos, troubled by Despair. 
 
 At other times we seek the sunniest verge, 
 
 The amber and the purple blooms of Heaven, 
 
 And strive with yearning eyes, made dim by tears, 
 
 To pierce the secrets of a happier state. 
 
 Exulting are we now, and now forlorn. 
 
SERENITY. 
 
 141 
 
 Lord grant us wisdom ! grant that we may stand 
 In the fair middle of the spiritual world, 
 Undarken'd by the glooms of utter night, 
 Undazzled by the noontide glow of day. 
 True wisdom and serenity of soul 
 Dwell in the centre, and avoid extremes. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 I HAVE a wondrous house to build, 
 
 A dwelling, humble yet divine ; 
 A lowly cottage to be filled 
 
 With all the jewels of the mine. 
 How shall I build it strong and fair ? 
 This noble house, this lodging rare, 
 
 So small and modest, yet so great ? 
 How shall I fill its chambers bare 
 
 With use with ornaments with state ? 
 
 My God hath given the stone and clay ; 
 
 'Tis I must fashion them aright; 
 'Tis I must mould them day by day, 
 
 And make my labor my delight ; 
 This cot, this palace, this fair home, 
 This pleasure-house, this holy dome, 
 
 Must be in all proportions fit, 
 That heavenly messengers may come 
 
 To lodge with him who tenants it. 
 
 No fairy bower this house must be, 
 To totter at each gale that starts, 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE. 143 
 
 But of substantial masonry, 
 
 Symmetrical in all its parts : 
 Fit in its strength to stand sublime, 
 For seventy years of mortal time, 
 
 Defiant of the storm and rain, 
 And well attempered to the clime 
 
 In every cranny, nook and pane. 
 
 I'll build it so, that if the blast 
 
 Around it whistle loud and long, 
 The tempest when its rage has pass'd 
 
 Shall leave its rafters doubly strong. 
 I'll build it so, that travellers by 
 Shall view it with admiring eye, 
 
 For its commodiousness and grace : 
 Firm on the ground straight to the sky 
 
 A meek, but goodly dwelling-place. 
 
 Thus noble in its outward form ; 
 
 Within I'll build it clean and white, 
 Not cheerless cold, but happy warm, 
 
 And ever open to the light. 
 No tortuous passages or stair, 
 No chamber foul, or dungeon lair, 
 
 No gloomy attic shall there be, 
 But wide apartments order' d fair 
 
 And redolent of purity. 
 
 With three compartments furnished well, 
 The house shall be a home complete ; 
 
 Wherein, should circumstance rebel, 
 The humble tenant may retreat. 
 
144 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The first a room wherein to deal 
 With men for human nature's weal, 
 
 A room where he may work or play, 
 And all his social life reveal 
 
 In its pure texture day by day. 
 
 The second, for his wisdom sought, 
 
 Where, with his chosen book or friend, 
 He may employ his active thought 
 
 To virtuous and exalted end. 
 A chamber lofty and serene, 
 With a door-window to the green, 
 
 Smooth-shaven sward and arching bowers, 
 Where lore or talk or song between, 
 
 May gild his intellectual hours. 
 
 The third an oratory dim, 
 
 But beautiful, where he may raise, 
 Unheard of men, his daily hymn, 
 
 Of love and gratitude and praise. 
 Where he may revel in the light 
 Of things unseen and infinite, 
 
 And learn how little he may be, 
 And yet how awful in thy sight, 
 
 Ineffable Eternity ! 
 
 Such is the house that I must build 
 This is the cottage this the dome, 
 
 And this the palace, treasure-fill'd 
 For an immortal's earthly home. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE. 145 
 
 Oh noble work of toil and care ! 
 Oh task most difficult and rare ! 
 
 Oh simple but most arduous plan ! 
 To raise a dwelling-place so fair, 
 
 The sanctuary of a Man. 
 
THE DIONYSIA: OR FESTIVALS OF BACCHUS. 
 
 1 The Lantern of Diogenes probably a corruption of " Dionysia," is one 
 of the most celebrated and the most beautiful of the ruins of ancient Athens. 
 The Choragi to whom such monuments were dedicated, and perhaps by whom 
 also they were erected, were persons chosen by the Athenian citizens to pre- 
 side at, and defray the cost of the singers, dancers, and musicians, employed 
 to celebrate the Dionysia, or festivals of Bacchus. On these occasions trage- 
 dies and comedies were exhibited in the theatre, and hymns in honor of Bac- 
 chus, accompanied by the flute, were chanted in the Odeum.' 
 
 MY fancy travelled back three thousand years 
 
 To find the meaning of the ancient days, 
 
 And disencumber their simplicity 
 
 From the corruptions of a later time. 
 
 I fashioned in my mind, the god-like shape 
 
 Of Dionysius, mighty conqueror, 
 
 Who taught the early nations how to live : 
 
 No vulgar Bacchus straddling on a cask 
 
 Drunken and bestial, but a king of men ; 
 
 Noble in intellect, and fair in form, 
 
 With ivy and with budding violets crowned, 
 
 And bearing on his cheerful face, the glow 
 
 Of kindly wisdom and perpetual youth. 
 
 So to my thought appeared the demi-god ; 
 
 The same that taught the ignorant hinds of Greece 
 
 To plough the soil, and reap the annual corn, 
 
THE DIONYSIA I OR FESTIVALS OF BACCHUS. 147 
 
 That taught the grateful villagers to press 
 The grape and apple for refreshing drink, 
 To clip the goat, and shear the sheep for wool, 
 To draw from witling Earth its constant stores 
 Of blessings, and be thankful for the gifts, 
 Proving their thankfulness by temperate use : 
 The same that swept his armies o'er the East 
 And conquered India mightiest name maligned 
 Philosopher and Hero. Once his praise 
 Resounded o'er the smiling vales of Greece, 
 And youths and maidens came from all the bowers 
 To chant loud hymns in honor of his name ; 
 And Athens, ere she rotted to her fall 
 With luxury, lasciviousness and sloth, 1 
 Vied with all Greece to celebrate his feasts 
 With greatest pomp of high solemnity. 
 
 Come from your graves, ideas of the past ! 
 
 And live again in song. The Athenian streets 
 
 Teem with a multitude of young and old, 
 
 The Archons, and the people, and the priests, 
 
 To celebrate the Dionysian rites, 
 
 With dance, and song, and joyous revelry. 
 
 A troop of youths come first, who with them bear 
 
 Two sacred vessels. One is filled with wine, 
 
 And one with water : holiest the last, 
 
 For water is the mother of the vine, 
 
 The nurse and fountain of fecundity, 
 
 The adorner and refresher of the world. 
 
 Then come a hundred virgins flower of Greece 
 
 Clad in white robes, with ivy in their hair, 
 
 Who carry baskets filled with choicest fruits, 
 
 With apples and pomegranates, figs and grapes, 
 
148 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Amid which twine and slide small silvery snakes, 
 
 To teach the people, by a parable, 
 
 There dwells a poisonous serpent in excess. 
 
 The thyrsus-bearers follow in a rout, 
 
 With drums, and pastoral pipes, and mellower flutes. 
 
 Amid the crowd they scatter cones of pine, 
 
 As emblems of the fruitfulness of Earth ; 
 
 And sing, full-voiced, the Dionysian hymn. 
 
 lo ! lo ! Evoke ! 
 Let the dance and song abound : 
 The corn is springing from the ground, 
 The vine puts forth its tender leaves, 
 The swallow builds in barns and eaves, 
 
 lo ! Bacche ! Evoke ! 
 There shall be bread for all the year, 
 And wine the heart of man to cheer 
 lo ! lo ! Evoke ! 
 
 lo ! lo ! Evoke ! 
 For these bounties ever free 
 Ever grateful let us be, 
 And use them wisely, day and night, 
 For health, and strength, and pure delight. 
 
 lo ! Bacche ! Evoke ! 
 God of the water and the wine, 
 The blessing's ours, the praise is thine. 
 
 lo ! lo ! Evoke ! 
 
 The chorus passes ; and another crowd 
 Follow with other rites, and other songs. 
 
THE DIONYSIA : OR FESTIVALS OF BACCHUS. 149 
 
 Lo ! mounted on an ass, Silcnus rides, 
 
 Obese and drunken, crowned with happy flowers, 
 
 And reeling as he sits. Around him throng 
 
 The crowd of men and women, shouting forth 
 
 Their gibes and jests, their laughter and their scorn. 
 
 Wise are the people, even in rites like these. 
 
 Each ceremony, frantic or grotesque, 
 
 Has its own meaning, and subserves an end. 
 
 Great Dionysius teaches evermore 
 
 The principles of use, and temperate joy. 
 
 But as the will is weak when pleasure goads 
 
 To overstep the wholesome boundaries 
 
 That separate enjoyment from abuse, 
 
 Silenus ever follows in his train, 
 
 The type of gluttony, excess, and lust. 
 
 Him all the people point at as he goes, 
 
 Half falling from his ass with idiot stare, 
 
 And mock him with their fingers and their songs. 
 
 Dirty Silenus ! god of swine, 
 Drunken on the lees of wine ; 
 Mad Silenus, old and fat, 
 Round and ponderous as a vat, 
 Youth and Beauty gaze on thee, 
 Warned by thy deformity. 
 
 Foolish god, that hast grown old 
 Ere thy middle life is told ; 
 Bald, and blear, and weak, and dull, 
 Ere thy growth has reached its full ; 
 Mad Silenus ! god of swine, 
 Drunken on the lees of wine. 
 
NOON-TIME IN THE SHADE. 
 
 FAR away oh far away 
 From cities all this summer-day, 
 On the fresh grass beneath the trees, 
 Lulled by the voice of birds and bees, 
 And music of the boughs above, 
 We'll sit and sing, and read of love, 
 And quite forget so happy, then 
 The tramp and crash of living men. 
 
 Far away oh far away 
 We will be selfish for a day, 
 And flying from incessant strife, 
 Live with the leaves a careless life ; 
 One day it is not much to crave, 
 Out of the ocean, one small wave 
 On which to float, nor seek to know 
 How the incessant world may go. 
 
 Far away oh far away 
 
 I will sing my love a lay ; 
 
 And she shall sit among the flowers, 
 
 And hear of ancient troubadours. 
 
NOON-TIME IN THE SHADE. 151 
 
 And if it please my fancy well, 
 
 My passion in disguise to tell, 
 
 I'll woo my lady in a song, 
 
 And she shall blush nor think me wrong. 
 
 Far away oh far away 
 We will be happy while we may ; 
 And when my song has done its part, 
 To wake emotions in her heart, 
 I'll beg her with my best of smiles 
 To read some tale of lovers' wiles 
 Some lay or legend of romance 
 Of Spain, or Italy, or France. 
 
 Far away oh far away 
 
 To joy our cloudland we will stray, 
 
 We will be idle will not work 
 
 To please or Kaiser, Pope or Turk ; 
 
 But lying on luxurious grass, 
 
 Catch the rose-odors as they pass, 
 
 Nor take one thought of men or sorrow, 
 
 Or the dawning of to-morrow. 
 
 Far away oh far away 
 Thankful for a summer-day ; 
 We will enjoy it like the leaves, 
 Or ripening corn that never grieves, 
 Or mellowing fruit upon the bough, 
 That blushes thanks for sunshine now ; 
 Or lark that sings in heaven's blue cope 
 A thing too happy ev'n to hope. 
 
152 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Far way oh far away 
 We'll make a gem of Time to-day; 
 And should the future need the spark, 
 We'll draw the jewel from the dark 
 Of all our jewels prized the best, 
 And wear it upon Memory's breast, 
 To show, whatever Fate contrives, 
 We once were happy in our lives. 
 
THE CABARET IN THE PYRENEES. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S TALE. 
 
 OF what shall travellers talk on rainy days ? 
 
 Of rain and snow ? the sunshine and the storm ? 
 
 Of Politics ? Religion ? Scandal ? Shop ? 
 
 Or personal anecdote ? The weather ? No ; 
 
 The topic is full stale. Of politics ? 
 
 'T is dangerous ground. Of creed ? More dangerous 
 
 still. 
 
 Of scandal ? Heaven forefend ! Or of the shop ? 
 I prithee let us leave the shop alone ! 
 Of personal anecdote ? Why, what is that 
 But the old scandal in a new disguise ! 
 What shall we talk of then ? I know not well, 
 Unless you'll hear a mournful thing that chanced 
 Here in the Pyrenees, two years ago. 
 I parted from the heroes of the tale, 
 Two friends and comrades, in this very room, 
 And little thought, amid their merriment, 
 Their lusty health and joyous hopefulness, 
 How soon the end would come. This cabaret 
 
154 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Resounding now with laughter, jest and talk, 
 Seems no fit scene to lodge a tragedy. 
 Yet so it was : but let me tell the tale. 
 
 'Twas in September, just two years ago, 
 
 That Vere and Huntley, youths scarce twenty-one, 
 
 And fresh from Cambridge, on their way to Spain 
 
 Stopped in the Pyrenees. They did not hunt, 
 
 Or shoot, or angle, or delight in sport, 
 
 But seemed to glory in ascending hills, 
 
 Scaling high rocks and tracking waterfalls. 
 
 They loved the rude and dizzy mountain-top, 
 
 And all the splendor of its wildest scenes. 
 
 Vere had a poet's eye and painter's hand, 
 
 And Huntley, though no poet, stored his mind 
 
 With images of beauty : both would walk 
 
 Three leagues ere breakfast to a precipice, 
 
 To see the sunrise in its majesty ; 
 
 Ever on foot, and ever full of joy. 
 
 Their cheeks were tanned in the healthy open air ; 
 
 Their limbs were vigorous, their hearts were light, 
 
 Their talk was cheerful as the song of birds, 
 
 And when they laughed the clear loud volleys rang 
 
 With such contagious music, that I 've laughed 
 
 For very sympathy, yet knew not why. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, crisp and fresh, 
 When they invited me to share their walk, 
 And trace a mountain-torrent to its source. 
 They had no object but the exercise, 
 And search for natural beauty, ever new. 
 But I had promised Jean Baptiste, the guide, 
 
THE CABARET IN THE PYRENEES. 155 
 
 To hunt the chamois with him, and I longed 
 
 For my own sport, more hazardous than theirs, 
 
 And more congenial to my ruder tastes. 
 
 And so we parted. ' We Ml be back,' said Vere, 
 
 'At six, to dinner in the Cabaret : 
 
 Wilt thou dine with us, Nimrod of the hills ?' 
 
 ' With all my heart ! ' and so we went our ways, 
 
 And far adow'n the valley I could hear 
 
 Their jocund voices singing English songs, 
 
 And catch amid the pauses of the tune 
 
 The echoes of their laughter on the wind. 
 
 I had good sport upon the hills that day. 
 
 When I returned, I noticed as I came 
 
 A crowd of peasants standing at the door ; 
 
 Here was a group of women, there of men* 
 
 And all discussing something that had chanced, 
 
 With quick gesticulation, and confused 
 
 And broken sentences : some raised their hands, 
 
 Looked up to heaven, and shook their heads and sighed. 
 
 While twenty voices speaking all at once, 
 
 Told the same story twenty different ways. 
 
 ' Here comes the other Englishman,' said one : 
 
 ' There 's a sad sight within ! ' ' Aye ! sad indeed ! ' 
 
 Replied another. Quickly passing through, 
 
 I forced my way into the inner room, 
 
 And there beheld poor Huntley on the bed 
 
 With Vere beside him, kneeling on the ground, 
 
 Clasping his hands, and burying his face 
 
 Between them, and the body of his friend. 
 
 In all the beauty and the pride of youth, 
 
 Huntley went forth at morning, and ere night 
 
156 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 He lay a corpse : an awful loveliness 
 
 Sat on his clay-cold form ; so calm he lay 
 
 Amid the hurry and anxiety 
 
 And deep distress and pitying words and groans 
 
 Of those around it seemed as he alone 
 
 Of all that crowd were happy. He was dead, 
 
 But how he died, 'twas long ere I could learn 
 
 From the survivor, who with senseless words 
 
 And sobs, and groans, and prayers to Heaven for help, 
 
 Broke off continually what he began. 
 
 I learned it afterwards when he grew calm, 
 
 And loved him ever since. They'd track'd the stream 
 
 From morn till noon, discovering as they went, 
 
 New beauties, grandeurs and sublimities 
 
 At every step. Right well in all her moods, 
 
 Those friends congenial loved dear Nature's face. 
 
 'T was now the torrent with its burst and fall, 
 
 That charmed their sight; now, 'twas th' umbrageous 
 
 arch 
 
 Of trees, high-perched on the o'erhanging rock; 
 Then 't was the rock itself, with lichens grown, 
 And pine, and larch ; and then it was a glimpse 
 Betwixt the crags into a world beneath, 
 Stretching in loveliness of cultured plains, 
 Studded with farms and clustering villages 
 That filled them with delight ; and so they clomb 
 From crag to crag, and conquered as they went 
 More perils than they knew : lured ever on 
 By novelty of beauty and the heat 
 Of young adventure ; but they clomb too well. 
 Vere took an upward track, and scaled the crag, 
 While Huntley, travelling lower, reached a ledge, 
 
THE CABARET IN THE PYREENES. 157 
 
 He knew not how where pausing on the brink 
 
 With scarcely room enough to lodge his heel, 
 
 He could not stand with safety or descend 
 
 Without the risk of falling from the height, 
 
 An hundred feet into a chasm below, 
 
 Where boiled the angry flood o'er jutting rocks. 
 
 Ten feet above him in security 
 
 Stood Vere alarmed, but how to reach his friend 
 
 Seemed to defy all knowledge to discern, 
 
 Or known, his utmost daring to attempt. 
 
 To mount seemed easier than to clamber down ; 
 
 And he was growing dizzy where he stood. 
 
 Vere stretched himself upon the beetling edge 
 
 Of the tall precipice, and held his hand 
 
 Toward his friend, in hope, if hands could meet, 
 
 He might, by help of some projecting root, 
 
 Some angle of the rock, a tufted herb, 
 
 Hoist him in safety ; but the attempt was vain. 
 
 Their hands, by utmost stress of yearning grasp 
 
 Could reach no nearer than a long arm's length ; 
 
 So Vere bethought him of his walking-stick, 
 
 An old companion of his mountain walks, 
 
 And stretched the handle to his eager friend, 
 
 That he might grasp it with his strong right hand, 
 
 And with the left spring upward to the root, 
 
 Twisted and sinuous, of a mountain ash 
 
 That nodded o'er the stream ; and by this aid 
 
 Attain the safe high platform of the rock. 
 
 He caught the friendly aid ; but as he grasped, 
 
 He felt it lengthening lengthening in his hand ; 
 
 And his eyes swam in horror, as he saw 
 
 The handle separating from the stick, 
 
158 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Leaving a scabbard in the hand of Vere, 
 And sword in his. Vere shrieked in agony : 
 He had forgotten. Huntley groaned but once 
 Cried to his God for mercy on his soul, 
 And lost his footing. Down amid the rocks 
 He fell and fell again, and all was o'er. 
 
 When Vere descended by the usual path 
 
 And found his friend, the breath of life had fled ; 
 
 The skull was fractured, but his face unhurt, 
 
 Seemed as he slumbered, while his stiff cold hand 
 
 Still held the fatal sword-stick in its grasp. 
 
 They brought the body to the Cabaret, 
 
 And on the third day laid him in his grave. 
 
 I thought, at times, two other deaths would fill 
 
 The awful measure of this tragedy. 
 
 That Vere's remorse, contrition, and despair, 
 
 At his unhappy, but most innocent act, 
 
 Would end his days. Yet though his grief was great, 
 
 'Twas nothing to the misery I saw 
 
 When Huntley's mother, young and beautiful, 
 
 Although her son was twenty years of age, 
 
 Hastened from London to behold the grave 
 
 Where they had lain her darling. Let me close 
 
 This sad recital : language fails to tell 
 
 The holy madness of a grief like hers. 
 
THE ASTRONOMER. 
 
 UPON thy lofty tower, 
 
 O lonely sage, 
 Reading at midnight hour 
 
 Heaven's awful page. 
 Thine art can poise the sun 
 
 In balance true, 
 And countless worlds that run 
 
 Beyond our view. 
 Thou scannest with clear eyes 
 
 The azure cope ; 
 To thee the galaxies 
 
 Their secrets ope ; 
 Thou know'st the track sublime 
 
 Of every star ; 
 Space infinite, and Time, 
 
 Thy problems are. 
 O sage, whose mental span 
 
 Thus grasps the sky, 
 How great the soul of man, 
 
 That soars so high ! 
 
160 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 But yet thou canst not guess, 
 
 With all thy skill, 
 What seas of happiness 
 
 My bosom fill. 
 Thou canst not track the woe, 
 
 The hope, the faith, 
 That prompt the ebb and flow 
 
 Of my pbor breath. 
 Outspeeding with thy thought 
 
 The solar ray, 
 Thou canst not, knowledge -fraught, 
 
 Discern my way. 
 My love its depth and height, 
 
 Thou canst not sound ; 
 Nor of my guilt's dark night 
 
 Pierce the profound. 
 O student of the sky, 
 
 My pride departs ; 
 Worlds undiscover'd lie 
 
 In both our hearts. 
 
THE LOST DAY. 
 
 FAREWELL, O day misspent ! 
 Thy fleeting hours were lent 
 
 In vain to my endeavor. 
 In shade and sun 
 Thy race is run 
 
 For ever ! oh, for ever ! 
 The leaf drops from the tree, 
 
 The sand falls in the glass, 
 And to the dread Eternity 
 
 The dying minutes pass. . 
 
 It was not till thine end 
 I knew thou wert my friend. 
 But now, thy worth recalling, 
 My grief is strong 
 I did thee wrong, 
 And scorn'd thy treasures falling. 
 But sorrow comes too late ; 
 
 Another day is born. 
 Pass, minutes, pass ; may better fate 
 Attend to-morrow morn. 
 11 
 
162 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Oh birth, oh death of Time ! 
 Oh mystery sublime ! 
 
 Ever the rippling ocean 
 Brings forth the wave 
 To smile or rave, 
 
 And die of its own motion. 
 A little wave to strike 
 
 The sad responsive shore, 
 And be succeeded by its like 
 
 Ever and evermore. 
 
 A change from same to same 
 A quenched, yet burning flame 
 
 A new birth, born of dying 
 A transient ray, 
 A speck of day, 
 
 Approaching, and yet flying 
 Pass to Eternity. 
 
 O day, that came in vain ! 
 A new wave surges on the sea 
 
 The world grows young again. 
 
 Come in, To-DAY, come in ! 
 I have confess' d my sin 
 
 To thee, young promise-bearer ! 
 New Lord of Earth ! 
 I hail thy birth 
 
 The crown awaits the wearer. 
 Child of the ages past ! 
 
 Sire of a mightier line ! 
 On the same deeps our lot is cast : 
 
 The world is thine and mine ! 
 
TEARS. 
 
 YE tears ! O ye tears ! that have long refused to flow, 
 Ye are welcome to my heart, thawing, thawing, like 
 
 the snow ; 
 
 1 feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drops 
 
 spring, 
 
 And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses 
 sing. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! I am thankful that ye run ; 
 Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glisten in 
 
 the sun. 
 
 The rainbow cannot shine, if the drops refuse to fall, 
 And the eyes that cannot weep, are the saddest eyes 
 
 of all. 
 
 ye tears ! O ye tears ! till I felt ye on my cheek, 
 
 1 was selfish in my sorrow ; I was stubborn, I was 
 
 weak. 
 
 Ye have giv'n me strength to conquer, and I stand 
 erect and free, 
 
 And know that I am human, by the light of sympa- 
 thy. 
 
164 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! ye relieve me of my pain ; 
 The barren rock of Pride has been stricken once again : 
 Like the rock that Moses smote amid Horeb's burning 
 
 sand, 
 It yields the flowing water, to make gladness in the 
 
 land. 
 
 There is light upon my path ! there is sunshine in my 
 
 heart ! 
 
 And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. 
 Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long 
 
 ago 
 O ye tears ! happy tears ! I am thankful that ye flow ! 
 
LITTLE AT FIRST BUT GREAT AT LAST. 
 
 A TRAVELLER through a dusty road, 
 
 Strewed acorns on the lea, 
 And one took root, and sprouted up, 
 
 And grew into a tree. 
 Love sought its shade at evening time, 
 
 To breathe its early vows, 
 And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, 
 
 To bask beneath its boughs : 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, 
 
 The birds sweet music bore ; 
 It stood a glory in its place, 
 
 A blessing evermore ! 
 
 A little spring had lost its way 
 
 Amid the grass and fern ; 
 A passing stranger scoop'd a well, 
 
 Where weary men might turn ; 
 He walFd it in, and hung with care 
 
 A ladle at the brink 
 He thought not of the deed he did, 
 
 But judg'd that toil might drink. 
 
166 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 He pass'd again and lo ! the well, 
 
 By summers never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 
 
 And saved a life beside ! 
 
 A dreamer dropp'd a random thought ; 
 
 3 Twas old, and yet was new 
 A simple fancy of the brain, 
 
 But strong in being true ; 
 It shone upon a genial mind, 
 
 And lo ! its light became 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, 
 
 A monitory flame. 
 The thought was small its issue great : 
 
 A watch-fire on the hill, 
 It sheds its radiance far adown, 
 
 And cheers the valley still ! 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd 
 
 That throng' d the daily mart, 
 Let fall a word of Hope and Love, 
 
 Unstudied, from the heart ; 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown 
 
 A transitory breath 
 It raised a brother from the dust, 
 
 It saved a soul from death. 
 O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! 
 
 O thought at random cast ! 
 Ye were but little at the first, 
 
 But mighty at the last ! 
 
HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 SINCE the sweet knowledge I possess 
 
 That she I love is mine, 
 All Nature throbs with happiness, 
 
 And wears a face divine. 
 The woods seem greener than they were, 
 
 The skies are brighter blue ; 
 The stars shine clearer, and the air 
 
 Lets finer sunlight through. 
 Until I loved I was a child, 
 
 And sported on the sands ; 
 But now the ocean opens out, 
 
 With all its happy lands. 
 
 The circles of my sympathy 
 
 Extend from earth to heaven : 
 I strove to pierce a mystery, 
 
 And lo ! the clue is given. 
 The woods, with all their boughs and leaves, 
 
 Are preachers of delight, 
 And wandering clouds in summer eves 
 
 Are Edens to my sight. 
 
168 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 My confidants and comforters 
 
 Are river, hill, and grove, 
 And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deeps, 
 
 And all that live and move. 
 
 O friendly hills ! O garrulous woods ! 
 
 sympathizing air ! 
 
 many-voiced solitudes ! 
 
 1 know my love is fair. 
 
 1 know that she is fair and true, 
 
 And that from her you've caught 
 The changeful glories ever new 
 
 That robe you in my thought. 
 Grief, from the armor of my heart, 
 
 Rolls off like rustling rain : 
 'Tis life to love ; but double life 
 
 To be beloved again. 
 
UNHAPPY LOVE. 
 
 OH ye are dull, ye skies, 
 
 A gloom hath o'er you roll'd, 
 
 A sorrow on me lies 
 Too mighty to be told ; 
 
 The glory of Nature dies, 
 And all her heart is cold. 
 
 He whom I love is false ; 
 
 The sweetest vow he swore, 
 His changeful mind recalls 
 
 Never, oh nevermore ; 
 Day darkens, and life palls, 
 
 And sickens at its core. 
 
 His love's last nickering gleam 
 In his cold heart has died ; 
 
 ' But yet, if I could deem 
 My passion satisfied, 
 
 With friendship and esteem, 
 He'd give me both,' he cried. 
 
170 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Friendship ! 'twixt him and me ! 
 
 It cannot flourish long. 
 I pass its death's decree ; 
 
 In all life's pulses strong, 
 Protest in agony 
 
 Against the bitter wrong. 
 
 I feel its end draw near, 
 I know the coming fate, 
 
 I will not shed a tear 
 
 Though crushed and desolate; 
 
 But for his friendship swear, 
 My fierce, undying Hate. 
 
 Yes ! Hate as strong and true 
 As was the love I bore, 
 
 Hate, in my thought still new, 
 Shall flourish evermore ; 
 
 Shall haunt him and pursue, 
 And shadow him o'er and o'er. 
 
 Hate ! bitter Hate ! alas ! 
 
 What is such Hate to me ? 
 Were He but kind, I'd pass 
 
 From Hate to Ecstasy, 
 And love him oh, my soul ! 
 
 To Love's Eternity. 
 
 More than my tongue could tell, 
 More than my pen could write 
 
UNHAPPY LOVE. 171 
 
 Or fancy syllable 
 
 Love true Love infinite ! 
 Kind Heaven ! my soul is dark ! 
 
 Oh lead me to the light. 
 
NAPOLEON AND THE SPHYNX. 
 
 I. 
 
 BENEATH him stretched the sands 
 
 Of Egypt's burning lands, 
 The desert panted to the swelt'ring ray ; 
 
 The camel's plashing feet, 
 
 With slow, uneasy beat, 
 Threw up the scorching dust like arrowy spray, 
 
 And fierce the sunlight glowed, 
 
 As young Napoleon rode 
 Around the Gallic camp, companionless that day. 
 
 ii. 
 
 High thoughts were in his mind, 
 
 Unspoken to his kind ; 
 Calm was his face his eyes were blank and chill ; 
 
 His thin lips were compress'd : 
 
 The secrets of his breast 
 Those portals never pass'd, for good or ill; 
 
 And dreaded yet adored 
 
 His hand upon his sword, 
 He mused on Destiny, to shape it to his will. 
 
NAPOLEON AND THE SPHYNX. 173 
 III. 
 
 ' Ye haughty Pyramids ! 
 
 Thou Sphynx ! whose eyeless lids 
 On my presumptuous youth seem bent in scorn, 
 
 What though thou hast stood 
 
 Coeval with the flood 
 Of all earth's monuments the earliest born ; 
 
 And I so mean and small, 
 
 With armies at my call, 
 Am recent in thy sight as grass of yester-morn ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 * Yet in this soul of mine 
 
 Is strength as great as thine, 
 O dull-eyed Sphynx that wouldst despise me now ; 
 
 Is grandeur like thine own, 
 
 O melancholy stone, 
 With forty centuries furrow'd on thy brow : 
 
 Deep in my heart I feel 
 
 What time shall yet reveal, 
 That I shall tower o'er men, as o'er these deserts thou. 
 
 v. 
 
 * I shall upbuild a name 
 Of never-dying fame, 
 
 My deeds shall fill the world with their renown : 
 
 To all succeeding years, 
 
 The populous hemispheres 
 Shall pass the record of my glories down ; 
 
 And nations yet to be, 
 
 Surging from Time's deep sea, 
 Shall teach their babes the name of great Napoleon. 
 
174 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 * On History's deathless page, 
 From wondering age to age, 
 
 New light and reverence o'er that name shall glow. 
 
 My deeds already done, 
 
 Are histories begun, 
 Whose great conclusion centuries shall not know. 
 
 O melancholy Sphynx ! 
 
 Present with Future links, 
 And both shall yet be mine. I feel it as I go !' 
 
 VII. 
 
 Over the mighty chief 
 There came a shadow of grief. 
 The lips gigantic seemed to move and say, 
 
 * Know'st thou his name that bid 
 Arise yon Pyramid ? 
 
 Know'st thou who placed me where I stand to-day ? 
 
 Thy deeds are but as sand, 
 
 Strewn on the heedless land : 
 Think, little mortal, think ! and pass upon thy way ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Pass, little mortal, pass! 
 
 Grow like the vernal grass 
 The autumn sickle shall destroy thy prime. 
 
 Bid nations shout the word 
 
 Which ne'er before they heard, 
 The name of Glory, fearful yet sublime. 
 
 The Pharaohs are forgot, 
 
 Their works confess them not : 
 Pass, Hero ! pass ! poor straw upon the gulf of Time.' 
 
A REVERIE IN THE GRASS. 
 
 HERE let me rest, amid the bearded grass, 
 Sprinkled with buttercups ; and idly pass 
 One hour of sunshine on the green hill slope : 
 Watching the rigid clouds, that o'er the cope 
 Of visible heaven sail quietly along ; 
 Listening the wind, or rustling leaves, or song 
 Of blackbird, or sweet ringdove in the copse 
 Of pines and sycamores, whose dark green tops 
 Form a clear outline right against the blue : 
 Here let me lie and dream : losing from view 
 All vex'd and worldly things ; and for one hour 
 Living such life as green leaf in a bower 
 Might live ; breathing the calm pure air, 
 Heedless of hope, or fear, or joy, or care. 
 
 Oh, it is pleasant in this summer time 
 
 To sit alone, and meditate or rhyme : 
 
 To hear the bee plying his busy trade, 
 
 Or grasshopper alert in sun and shade, 
 
 With bright large eyes and ample forehead bald, 
 
 Clad in cuirass and cuishes emerald. 
 
 Here let me rest, and for a little space 
 
 Shut out the world from my abiding place ; 
 
176 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Seeing around me nought but grass and bent, 
 Nothing above me but the firmament ; 
 For such my pleasure, that in solitude 
 Over my seething fancies I may brood, 
 Encrucibled and moulded as I list, 
 And I, expectant as an alchymist. 
 
 Oh, beautiful green grass ! Earth-covering fair ! 
 
 What shall be sung of thee, nor bright, nor rare, 
 
 Nor highly thought of? Long green grass that waves 
 
 By the wayside over the ancient graves 
 
 Or shoulders of the mountain, looming high 
 
 Or skulls of rocks bald in their majesty, 
 
 Except for thee, that in the crevices 
 
 Livest on the nurture of the sun and breeze ; 
 
 Adorner of the nude rude breast of hills ; 
 
 Mantle of meadows ; fringe of gushing rills ; 
 
 Humblest of all the humble : Thou shalt be, 
 
 If to none else, exalted unto me, 
 
 And for a time, a type of Joy on Earth 
 
 Joy unobtrusive, of perennial birth, 
 
 Common as light and air, and warmth and rain, 
 
 And all the daily blessings that in vain 
 
 Woo us to gratitude : the earliest born 
 
 Of all the juicy verdures that adorn 
 
 The fruitful bosom of the kindly soil ; 
 
 Pleasant to eyes that ache, and limbs that toil. 
 
 Lo ! as I muse, I see the bristling spears 
 Of thy seed-bearing stalks, with some, thy peers, 
 Lift o'er their fellows nodding to and fro 
 Their lofty foreheads as the wild winds blow. 
 
A REVERIE IN THE GRASS. 177 
 
 And think thy swarming multitudes a host 
 Drawn up embattled on their native coast, 
 And officer' d for war : the spearmen free 
 Raising their weapons, and the martial bee 
 Blowing his clarion while some poppy tall 
 Displays the blood-red banner over all. 
 
 Pleased with the thought, I nurse it for awhile ; 
 And then dismiss it with a faint half smile : 
 And next I fancy thee a multitude, 
 Moved by one breath obedient to the mood 
 Of one strong thinker the resistless wind, 
 That passing o'er thee bends thee to its mind. 
 See how thy blades, in myriads as they grow, 
 Turn ever eastward as the west winds blow ; 
 Just as the human crowd is sway'd and bent, 
 By some great preacher, madly eloquent, 
 Who moves them at his will, and with a breath 
 Gives them their bias both in life and death. 
 Or by some wondrous actor, when he draws 
 All eyes and hearts, amid a hush'd applause 
 Not to be utter'd lest delight be marr'd ; 
 Or, greater still, by hymn of prophet-bard, 
 Who moulds the lazy present by his rhyme, 
 And sings the glories of a future time. 
 
 And ye are happy, green leaves, every one, 
 Spread in your countless thousands to the sun, 
 Unlike mankind, no solitary blade 
 Of all your verdure ever disobey'd 
 The law of nature : every stalk that lifts 
 Its head above the mould, enjoys the gifts 
 12 
 
178 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Of liberal heaven the rain, the dew, the light, 
 And points, though humbly, to the Infinite ; 
 And every leaf, a populous world, maintains 
 Invisible nations on its wide-stretch'd plains. 
 So great is littleness ! the mind at fault 
 Betwixt the peopled leaf and starry vault, 
 Doubts which is grandest, and with holy awe 
 Adores the God who made them, and whose law 
 Upholds them in Eternity or Time, 
 Greatest and least, ineffably sublime. 
 
THE EARTH AND THE STARS. 
 
 SAID the Earth to the Stars, ' Oh my sisters, 
 Fellow-travellers through this dread immensity, 
 Send a voice to my spirit and declare, 
 If, serenely as ye smile on me, and fair, 
 
 Ye are dwellings for all miseries, like me ? 
 
 * Oh tell me if in you, my glorious sisters, 
 
 Rules a tyrant like the one enthroned here ? 
 If death has ever enter'd in your climes, 
 And Suffering, and Calamity, and Crimes 
 Ever rob you of the children that you rear ? 
 
 ' Oh tell me if in you, my myriad sisters, 
 The weak are ever trampled by the strong ? 
 If Malice, and Intolerance, and Hate, 
 And Warfare, and Ambition to be great, 
 
 Ever cause the Right to suffer from the Wrong ? 
 
 * Oh tell me, silent sisters, are ye happy ? 
 
 Are the multitudes that live beneath your skies, 
 Full of knowledge, unaccursed by such a ban 
 As man has ever issue dagainst man; 
 Are they happy, are they loving, are they wise ? ' 
 
180 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Said the Stars to the Earth ' Oh mournful sister, 
 Rolling calmly through the calm infinity, 
 
 We have rolPd for countless ages on our track, 
 Ever onward pressing onward never back; 
 
 There is progress both for us and for thee. 
 
 ' Thou wilt make, oh thou foolish little sister, 
 The full cycle of thy glory, in thy time ; 
 We are rolling on in ours for evermore ; 
 Look not backward see Eternity before, 
 
 And free thyself of Sorrow and of Crime. 
 
 1 God who made thee, never meant thee, mournful sister, 
 To be fill'd with sin and grief eternally ; 
 
 And the children that are born upon thy breast 
 Shall, in fulness of their Destiny, be blest : 
 There is Progress for the Stars and for Thee.' 
 
THE YOUNG EARTH. 
 
 ' The earth gives signs of age, disease, and fickleness. It yields its increase 
 grudgingly, and demands an exorbitant fee beforehand, in toil and sweat from 
 the husbandman. It has ill turns, or paroxysms, when it rouses the ocean 
 into a tempest, and makes sport of navies, strewing the shore with the wrecks 
 and carcasses of men. It rocks a continent or sinks an island ; shaking 
 massive cities into countless fragments, and burying its wretched inhabitants 
 in indiscriminate ruin ; anon it writhes and groans in mortal agony, and finds 
 relief only by disgorging its fiery bowels, burying cities and villages in burning 
 graves. THE EARTH is OLD AND FEEBLE, and must needs groan on until it 
 renews its prime.' Miseries and Liabilities of the present Life. 
 
 OLD EARTH? YOUNG EARTH! though myriad years, 
 
 Since Time's primeval morn, 
 She may have bloom' d amid the spheres 
 
 Before a man was born. 
 
 Still young ; though race succeeding race 
 
 Have trod her breast sublime, 
 And flourish'd in their pride of place 
 
 Their full allotted time, 
 
 Then pass'd away, like daily things, 
 
 Nor left a trace behind 
 To tell how many thousand Springs 
 
 They lived before mankind. 
 
182 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 We, who for threescore years and ten 
 
 Toil deathwards from our birth, 
 Deem sixty centuries of men 
 
 A ripe old age for Earth. 
 
 But all our deeds, though back we look 
 
 With yearning keen and fond, 
 Fill but a page : the mighty book 
 
 Lies fathomless beyond. 
 
 She is not old, or waxing cold, 
 
 But vigorous as of yore 
 When 'mid her kindred globes she roll'd, 
 
 Exulting evermore. 
 
 Six thousand years of human strife 
 
 Are little in the sum ; 
 A morning added to her life, 
 
 And noonday yet to come. 
 
 4 
 
 Six thousand years ! what have they brought, 
 
 O poor ephemeral man ? 
 Go, reckon centuries by thought, 
 
 Thou 'It find them but a span. 
 
 Go, reckon time by progress made, 
 
 And lo, what ages pass, 
 Swift as the transitory shade 
 
 Of clouds upon the grass. 
 
 Six thousand years ! and what are they ? 
 A cycle scarce begun ; 
 
THE YOUNG EARTH. 183 
 
 The fragment of a grander clay 
 Unmeasured by the sun ; 
 
 Too short to purify the sight 
 
 Of souls in Error blind 
 Too short to show the healing light 
 
 Of Love to all mankind. 
 
 For lo ! the lesson has been read 
 
 In every clime and tongue ; 
 The Sea has breathed it from her bed, 
 
 And Earth and Air have sung. 
 
 The Sun has beam'd it from above 
 
 To all his worlds around ; 
 The Stars have preached that God is Love : 
 
 But answer never found. 
 
 The generations, cold and dark, 
 
 Have lived and pass'd away, 
 And never caught the faintest spark 
 
 Of Love's eternal ray. 
 
 The myriads, seeking to create 
 
 An idol to adore, 
 Have made their God a God of Hate, 
 
 And worshipp'd him with gore. 
 
 And living multitudes have heard 
 
 That Love is Nature's plan ; 
 Yet shut their souls against the Word 
 
 That teaches love to man. 
 
184 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 But there is progress in the spheres, 
 
 The glorious Earth is young ; 
 The seed has lain six thousand years, 
 
 The tender shoots have sprung. 
 
 She is not old, but young and fair; 
 
 And marching to her prime, 
 Her teeming bosom yet shall bear 
 
 The harvest of her time. 
 
 And generations thought-endued, 
 
 Each wiser than the last, 
 Shall crowd, in one short year, the good 
 
 Of centuries of the past ; 
 
 Shall, living, aid by loving deeds 
 
 The truth for which we pine, 
 And, dying, sow the fruitful seeds 
 
 Of Progress more divine. 
 
 The struggle long and sorely fought 
 
 EmbitterM as it spread 
 For simplest rights free hand, free thought, 
 
 And sustenance of bread : 
 
 The struggle of the righteous weak 
 Against th' unrighteous strong 
 
 Of Justice firm, though mild and meek, 
 Against oppressive Wrong 
 
 Draws in, and must be ended yet 
 It ripens to its hour : 
 
THE YOUNG EARTH. 185 
 
 The mighty combatants have met ; 
 And Truth has challenged Power. 
 
 Young Earth ! her sad six thousand years 
 
 Now passing swift away, 
 Are but her infancy of tears 
 
 The dawn before the day. 
 
A PLEA FOR THE LIVING. 
 
 WHO knows how many a potentate of mind 
 
 Has lived a stranger on the callous earth, 
 Nor left a name or memory behind ? 
 
 How many an art has perish'd in its birth, 
 That might have changed the fortunes of mankind, 
 
 And re-imparadised us ? Who shall tell 
 All we have lost ? What bliss ineffable 
 
 Has shone before us we remaining blind, 
 Or hostile and indifferent to the light ? 
 
 Who tell what thoughts, that might have stirr'd the 
 
 zones, 
 Have died unheard, because we deem'd it right 
 
 To raise great cenotaphs o'er dead men's bones, 
 And starve the quick ? or what millennia bright, 
 
 Our studied scorn of living worth postpones ? 
 
FREEDOM AND LAW. 
 
 WILDEST wind that shakes the blossoms, 
 Or on ocean chafes and swells, 
 
 Blows not uncontroll'd and wanton, 
 But as LAW compels. 
 
 Streams that wander and meander, 
 Loitering in the meads to play, 
 
 Or that burst in roaring torrents 
 Into foam and spray. 
 
 Avalanches, forest-crushing, 
 
 Fires that rage in Etna's breast, 
 
 Lava-floods and tides of ocean, 
 All obey the same behest. 
 
 Law releases, Law restrains them : 
 Lo ! the Moon, her forehead bent 
 
 Earthward, makes her revolution, 
 Docile, beauteous, and content. 
 
 Lo ! the Earth, her mighty mistress, 
 In her own appointed place, 
 
188 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Yields, like her, sublime obedience 
 To the Law that governs space. 
 
 And the godlike Sun, exhaling 
 Light and Life from every pore, 
 
 On his axis, law-directed, 
 Wheels majestic evermore ; 
 
 Bearing with him to Orion 
 
 All the worlds that round him shine, 
 To complete the awful cycle 
 
 Of a destiny divine. 
 
 While the Stars and Constellations, 
 
 Glowing in eternal light, 
 Teach the Majesty of Order, 
 
 And that LAW is Infinite. 
 
 Is the immortal spirit freer, 
 Mated with its mortal clod ? 
 
 Lo ! it soars, and, faith-supported, 
 Claims affinity with God. 
 
 Proudly it disdains the shackles 
 Of the frame to which it clings, 
 
 And would fly to heights celestial 
 Upon Love's angelic wings. 
 
 But the hand of LAW restrains it ; 
 
 Narrow is the widest span, 
 Measured by tne deeds or efforts 
 
 Of the aspiring soul of man. 
 
FREEDOM AND LAW. 189 
 
 Like the imprison' d lark, that carols 
 
 To salute the dawning day, 
 It can see the sky, and gather 
 
 Hope and rapture from its ray. 
 
 It can see the waving branches 
 
 Of its long-lost happy bowers, 
 It can feel the heavenly breezes, 
 
 And the scent of meadow flowers. 
 
 But if it would strive to reach them, 
 
 It is doom'd to fruitless pain, 
 And with bleeding bosom struggles 
 
 At its prison-doors in vain. 
 
 If the mind be less.entrammerd, 
 And is freed from sensual bound ; 
 
 Still the LAW restrains and moulds it, 
 And attracts it to the ground. 
 
 Like the young rejoicing Eaglet, 
 Knowing nought of gyves and bars, 
 
 It may imp its virgin pinions 
 By a flight towards the stars ; 
 
 High above the sterile Andes, 
 
 Of the Himalayan snow, 
 Breasting ether, robed in sunlight, 
 
 Unimpeded it may go. 
 
 But a Law has placed its limits, 
 And to pass them should it dare, 
 
190 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Numbness falls upon its pinions, 
 Death o'ercanopies the air. 
 
 Such thy fate, terrestrial spirit ; 
 
 Such thy freedom; thou may'st soar 
 
 To the empyrean summits, 
 
 Where no mortal breathed before. 
 
 But Infinitude surrounds thee ; 
 
 Nature stays thee in thy flight ; 
 Thou must turn thee, or be stricken 
 
 Powerless on thy topmost height. 
 
 Thou must travel lower, lower, 
 Nearer to the earthly mould 
 
 Safer for thee there to fashion 
 New ideas out of old. 
 
 There to judge of the unfathom'd 
 By the things within thy ken, 
 
 Of the ways of God Eternal 
 By the futile ways of men. 
 
 Yet, oh soul ! there's FREEDOM for thee ; 
 
 Thou may'st win it ; not below ; 
 Not on earth with mortal vesture, 
 
 Where to love, to feel, to know, 
 
 Is to suffer ; but unfetter'd, 
 
 Thou may'st spring to riper life, 
 
 Purified from Hate and Evil, 
 And Mortality and Strife. 
 
FREEDOM AND LAW. 
 
 Death is gaoler; he'll release thee ; 
 
 Through his portals thou shalt see 
 The perfection that awaits thee, 
 
 If thou 'rt worthy to be free. 
 
 Be thou meek ; to exaltation 
 
 Death shall give thee wings to soar ; 
 
 Loving God, and knowing all things, 
 Upwards springing evermore. 
 
 191 
 
FOLLOW YOUR LEADER. 
 
 THE STORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 Follow your leader ! ' So said HOPE, 
 In the joyous days when I was young. 
 O'er meadow path, up mountain slope, 
 Through fragrant woods, I followed and sung ; 
 And aye in the sunny air she smiled, 
 Bright as the cherub in Paphos born, 
 And aye my soul with a glance she wiled, 
 And tinged all earth with the hues of morn. 
 Long she led me o'er hill and hollow, 
 Through rivers wide, o'er mountains dun, 
 Till she soared at last too high to follow, 
 And singed her pinions in the sun. 
 
 1 Follow your leader !' So said LOVE, 
 
 Or a fairy sporting in his guise. 
 
 I followed to lift the challenging glove 
 
 Of many a maid with tell-tale eyes. 
 
 I followed, and dreamed of young delights, 
 
 Of passionate kisses, joyous pains, 
 
 Of honied words in sleepless nights, 
 
 And amorous tear-drops thick as rains. 
 
FOLLOW YOUR LEADER. 193 
 
 But, ah ! full soon the frenzy slackened ; 
 There came a darkness and dimmed the ray, 
 The passion cooled, the sunshine blackened, 
 I lost the glory of my day. 
 
 ' Follow your leader! ' So said FAME 
 
 In the calmer hours of my fruitful noon. 
 
 O'er briery paths, through frost, through flame, 
 
 By torrent, and swamp, and wild lagoon, 
 
 Ever she led me, and ever I went, 
 
 With bleeding feet and sun-brown skin, 
 
 Eager ever and uncontent, 
 
 As long as life had a prize to win. 
 
 But Dead-Sea apples alone she gave me 
 
 To recompense me for my pain, 
 
 And still, though her luring hand she wave me, 
 
 I may not follow her steps again. 
 
 ' Follow your leader /' So said GOLD, 
 
 Ere the brown of my locks gave place to grey. 
 
 I could not follow her looks were cold ; 
 
 Icy and brittle was the way. 
 
 And GOLD spread forth her wiles in vain, 
 
 So taking POWER to aid her spell, 
 
 * Follow your leaders ! ' exclaimed the twain, 
 
 ' For where we go shall pleasure dwell.' 
 
 I followed, and followed, till age came creeping, 
 
 And silvered the hair on my aching head, 
 
 And I lamented in vigils weeping 
 
 A youth misspent, and a prime misled. 
 
 13 
 
194 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 'Follow your leader /' I hear a voice 
 Whispering to my soul this hour ; 
 ' Who follows my light shall for ever rejoice, 
 Nor crave the perishing arm of Power ; 
 Who follows my steps shall for ever hold 
 A blessing purer than earthly Love, 
 Brighter than Fame, richer than Gold 
 So follow my light and look above.' 
 'T is late to turn, but refuse I may not, 
 My trustful eyes are heavenwards cast, 
 And ever the sweet voice says, ' Delay not, 
 Pm thyjirst leader and thy last."* 
 
 'Tis the friend of my youth come back again, 
 
 Sobered and chastened but lovelier far 
 
 Than when in those days of sun and rain 
 
 She shone in my path as a guiding star. 
 
 She led me then, a wayward boy, 
 
 To things of Earth, and never of Heaven, 
 
 But now she whispers diviner joy, 
 
 Of errors blotted, of sins forgiven. 
 
 To a purpling sky she points her finger, 
 
 As westward wearily I plod, 
 
 And while I follow her steps, I linger 
 
 Calm as herself, in the faith of God. 
 
VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. 
 
 ' WHAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower ? 
 Is the day breaking ? comes the wished-for hour ? 
 Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, 
 If the bright morning dawns upon the land.' 
 
 1 The stars are clear above me, scarcely one 
 Has dimm'd its rays in reverence to the sun ; 
 But yet I see on the horizon's verge, 
 Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge.' 
 
 ' Look forth again, oh, watcher on the tower 
 The people wake, and languish for the hour; 
 Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine 
 For the full daylight that they know must shine.' 
 
 4 1 see not well the morn is cloudy still ; 
 There is a radiance on the distant hill. 
 Even as I watch, the glory seems to grow ; 
 But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow.' 
 
 And is that all, oh, watcher on the tower ? 
 Look forth again ; it must be near the hour. 
 
198 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes, 
 And the green woods beneath them on the slopes ? ' 
 
 'A mist envelops them; I cannot trace 
 Their outline ; but the day comes on apace. 
 The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, 
 And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks.' 
 
 ' We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower ; 
 But look again ; and tell us, hour by hour, 
 All thou beholdest ; many of us die 
 Ere the day comes ; oh, give them a reply ! ' 
 
 ' I see the hill-tops now ; and Chanticleer 
 Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear ; 
 I see the distant woods and fields of corn, 
 And ocean gleaming in the light of morn.' 
 
 'Again again oh, watcher on the tower 
 We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, 
 Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be 
 A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free ? ' 
 
 ' I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a song, 
 Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong, 
 As of a lark young prophet of the noon 
 Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune.' 
 
 ' What doth he say oh, watcher on the tower ? 
 Is he a prophet ? Doth the dawning hour 
 Inspire his music ? Is his chant sublime, 
 Fill'd with the glories of the Future time ? ' 
 
THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. 199 
 
 ' He prophesies ; his heart is full ; his lay 
 Tells of the brightness of a peaceful clay 
 A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm, 
 But sunny for the most, and clear and warm.' 
 
 'We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, 
 For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour 
 When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong, 
 And Right shall rule supreme and vanquish Wrong? ' 
 
 ' He sings of Brotherhood, and joy, and peace, 
 Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease ; 
 When war shall die, and man's progressive mind 
 Soar as unfetter'd as its God designed.' 
 
 ' Well done ! thou watcher on the lonely tower ! 
 Is the day breaking ? dawns the happy hour ? 
 We pine to see it : tell us, yet again, 
 If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain ? ' 
 
 ' It breaks it comes the misty shadows fly: 
 A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky; 
 The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear ; 
 The plain is yet in shade, but day is near? 
 
CLEAR THE WAY. 
 
 MEN of thought ! be up, and stirring 
 
 Night and day : 
 Sow the seed withdraw the curtain 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 Men of action, aid and cheer them, 
 
 As ye may ! 
 
 There's a fount about to stream, 
 There's a light about to beam, 
 There's a warmth about to glow, 
 There 's a flower about to blow ; 
 There 's a midnight blackness changing 
 
 Into grey. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 
 Once the welcome light has broken, 
 
 Who shall say 
 What the unirnagined glories 
 
 Of the day ? 
 What the evil that shall perish 
 
 In its ray ? 
 
 Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 
 Aid it, hopes of honest men ; 
 
CLEAR THE WAY. 201 
 
 Aid it, paper aid it, type 
 
 Aid it, for the hour is ripe, 
 
 And our earnest must not slacken 
 
 Into play. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAT ! 
 
 Lo ! a cloud's about to vanish 
 
 From the day ; 
 And a brazen wrong to crumble 
 
 Into clay. 
 Lo ! the right's about to conquer : 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 With the right shall many more 
 Enter smiling at the door; 
 With the giant wrong shall fall 
 Many others, great and small, 
 That for ages long have held us 
 
 For their prey. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 
THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 THERE'S a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 We may not live to see the day, 
 But earth shall glisten in the ray 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 Cannon balls may aid the truth, 
 
 But thought's a weapon stronger; 
 We'll win our battle by its aid ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The pen shall supersede the sword, 
 And Right, not Might, shall be the lord, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 
 
 And be acknowledg'd stronger ; 
 The proper impulse has been given; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 A good time coming : 
 
THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Nations shall not quarrel then, 
 
 To prove which is the stronger ; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Hateful rivalries of creed 
 Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride, 
 
 And flourish all the stronger; 
 And Charity shall trim her lamp ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 And a poor man's family 
 Shall not be his misery 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Every child shall be a help, 
 
 To make his right arm stronger; 
 The happier he, the more he has; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Little children shall not toil, 
 Under, or above, the soil, 
 
 203 
 
201 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 In the good time coming; 
 But shall play in healthful fields 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger; 
 And every one shall read and write; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The people shall be temperate, 
 And shall love instead of hate, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 They shall use, and not abuse, 
 
 And make all virtue stronger. 
 The reformation has begun ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There 's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Let us aid it all we can, 
 Every woman, every man, 
 
 The good time coming. 
 Smallest helps, if rightly given, 
 
 Make the impulse stronger; 
 'Twill be strong enough one day; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
THE WANTS OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 1546. 
 
 WHAT do we want ? Our daily bread ; 
 
 Leave to earn it by our skill : 
 Leave to labor freely for it, 
 
 Leave to buy it where we will : 
 For 'tis hard upon the many, 
 
 Hard unpitied by the few, 
 To starve and die for want of work, 
 
 Or live, half-starved, with work to do. 
 
 What do we want ? Our daily bread ; 
 
 Fair reward for lafcor done ; 
 Daily bread for wives and children ; 
 
 All our wants are merged in one. 
 When the fierce fiend, Hunger, grips us, 
 
 Evil fancies clog our brains, 
 Vengeance settles on our hearts, 
 
 And Frenzy gallops through our veins. 
 
 What do we want ? Our daily bread : 
 Give us that ; all else will come ; 
 
 Self-respect, and self-denial, 
 And the happiness of home ; 
 
1206 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Kindly feelings, Education, 
 Liberty for act and thought ; 
 
 And surety that, whate'er befall, 
 
 Our children shall be fed and taught. 
 
 What do we want ? Our daily bread ; 
 
 Give us that for willing toil : 
 Make us sharers in the plenty 
 
 God has shower' d upon the soil ; 
 And we'll nurse our better natures 
 
 With bold hearts and judgment strong, 
 To do as much as men can do 
 
 To keep the world from going wrong. 
 
 What do we want ? Our daily bread, 
 
 And trade untrammel'd as the wind ; 
 And from our ranks shall spirits start, 
 
 To aid the progress of mankind. 
 Sages, poets, mechanicians ; 
 
 Mighty thinkers shall arise, 
 To take their share of loftier work, 
 
 And teach, exalt, and civilize. 
 
 What do we want ? Our daily bread : 
 
 Grant it : make our efforts free ; 
 Let us work, and let us prosper ; 
 
 You shall prosper more than we ; 
 And the humblest homes of England 
 
 Shall, in proper time, give birth 
 To better men than we have been, 
 
 To live upon a better earth. 
 
THE THREE PREACHERS. 
 
 THERE are three preachers, ever preaching, 
 
 FilPd with eloquence and power. 
 One is old, with locks of white, 
 Skinny as an anchorite ; 
 
 And he preaches every hour 
 With a shrill fanatic voice, 
 
 And a Bigot's fiery scorn : 
 ' BACKWARD ! ye presumptuous nations ; 
 
 Man to misery is born ! 
 Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer 
 
 Born to labor and to pray ; 
 BACKWARD ! ye presumptuous nations, 
 
 Back ! be humble and obey ! ' 
 
 The second is a milder preacher; 
 
 Soft he talks, as if he sung ; 
 Sleek and slothful is his look, 
 And his words, as from a book, 
 
 Issue glibly from his tongue. 
 With an air of self-content, 
 
 High he lifts his fair white hands : 
 1 STAND YE STILL ! ye restless nations ; 
 
 And be happy, all ye lands ! 
 
208 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Fate is law, and law is perfect ; 
 
 If ye meddle, ye will mar ; 
 Change is rash, and ever was so : 
 
 We are happy as we are.' 
 
 Mightier is the younger preacher ; 
 
 Genius flashes from his eyes : 
 And the crowds who hear his voice, 
 Give him, while their souls rejoice, 
 
 Throbbing bosoms for replies. 
 Awed they listen, yet elated, 
 
 While his stirring accents fall ; 
 * FORWARD ! ye deluded nations, 
 
 Progress is the rule of all : 
 Man was made for healthful effort ; 
 
 Tyranny has crush' d him long ; 
 He shall march from good to better, 
 
 And do battle with the wrong. 
 
 ' Standing still is childish folly, 
 
 Going backward is a crime ; 
 None should patiently endure 
 Any ill that he can cure : 
 
 ONWARD ! keep the march of Time. 
 Onward ! while a wrong remains 
 
 To be conquered by the right ; 
 While oppression lifts a finger 
 
 To affront us by his might : 
 While an error clouds the reason 
 
 Of the universal heart, 
 Or a slave awaits his freedom, 
 
 Action is the wise man's part. 
 
THE THREE PREACHERS. 209 
 
 ' Lo ! the world is rich in blessings 
 
 Earth and Ocean, Flame and Wind, 
 Have unnumber'd secrets still, 
 To be ransack'd when you will, 
 
 For the service of mankind ; 
 Science is a child as yet, 
 
 And her power and scope shall grow, 
 And her triumphs in the future 
 
 Shall diminish toil and woe ; 
 Shall extend the bounds of pleasure 
 
 With an ever-widening ken, 
 And of woods and wildernesses 
 
 Make the homes of happy men. 
 
 ' ONWARD ! there are ills to conquer, 
 
 Daily wickedness is wrought, 
 Tyranny is swoll'n with Pride, 
 Bigotry is deified, 
 
 Error intertwined with Thought, 
 Vice and Misery ramp and crawl. 
 
 Root them out, their day has pass'd : 
 Goodness is alone immortal ; 
 
 Evil was not made to last : 
 ONWARD ! and all Earth shall aid us 
 
 Ere our peaceful flag be furl'd.' 
 And the preaching of this preacher 
 
 Stirs the pulses of the world. 
 
OLD OPINIONS. 
 
 ONCE we thought that Power Eternal 
 
 Had decreed the woes of man ; 
 That the human heart was wicked 
 
 Since its pulses first began ; 
 That the earth was but a prison, 
 
 Dark and joyless at the best, 
 And that men were born for evil, 
 
 And imbibed it from the breast ; 
 That 'twas vain to think of urging 
 
 Any earthly progress on. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought all human sorrows 
 
 Were predestined to endure ; 
 That, as man had never made them, 
 
 Men were impotent to cure ; 
 That the few were born superior, 
 
 Though the many might rebel ; 
 Those to sit at Nature's table, 
 
 These to pick tbe crumbs that fell ; 
 
OLD OPINIONS. 211 
 
 Those to live upon the fatness, 
 
 These the starvlings, lank and wan. 
 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters I 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought that Kings were holy, 
 
 Doing wrong by right divine ; 
 That the Church was Lord of Conscience, 
 
 Despot over Mine and Thine : 
 That whatever priests commanded, 
 
 No one could reject and live ; 
 And that all who differ' d from them 
 
 It was error to forgive, 
 Right to send to stake or halter 
 
 With eternal malison. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought that holy Freedom 
 
 Was a cursM and tainted thing ; 
 Foe of Peace and Law and Virtue ; 
 
 Foe of Magistrate and King; 
 That all vile degraded passion 
 
 Ever followed in her path ; 
 . Lust and Plunder, War and Rapine, 
 
 Tears, and Anarchy, and Wrath ; 
 That the angel was a cruel, 
 
 Haughty, blood-stain'd Amazon. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
212 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Once we thought it right to foster 
 
 Local jealousies and pride ; 
 Right to hate another nation 
 
 Parted from us by a tide ; 
 Right to go- to war for glory, 
 
 Or extension of domain ; 
 Right, through fear of foreign rivals, 
 
 To refuse the needful grain ; 
 Right to bar it out till Famine 
 
 Drew the bolt with fingers wan. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters I 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought that Education 
 
 Was a luxury for the few ; 
 That to give it to the many 
 
 Was to give it scope undue ; 
 That 'twas foolish to imagine 
 
 It could be as free as air, 
 Common as the glorious sunshine 
 
 To the child of want and care ; 
 That the poor man, educated, 
 
 Quarrel' d with his toil anon. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone I 
 
 Old opinions, rags and tatters ; 
 
 Ye are worn ; ah, quite threadbare ! 
 We must cast you off for ever ; 
 
 We are wiser than we were : 
 Never fitting, always cramping, 
 
 Letting in the wind and sleet, 
 
OLD OPINIONS. 213 
 
 Chilling us with rheums and agues, 
 Or inflaming us with heat. 
 
 We have found a mental raiment 
 Purer, whiter to put on. 
 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
DAILY WORK. 
 
 1846. 
 
 WHO lags for dread of daily work, 
 
 And his appointed task would shirk, 
 
 Commits a folly and a crime ; 
 
 A soulless slave a paltry knave 
 A clog upon the wheels of Time. 
 With work to do, and store of health, 
 The man's unworthy to be free, 
 
 Who will not give, that he may live, 
 His daily toil for daily fee. 
 
 No ! Let us work ! We only ask 
 Reward proportioned to our task : 
 We have no quarrel with the great ; 
 
 No feud with rank with mill or bank- 
 No envy of a lord's estate. 
 If we can earn sufficient store 
 To satisfy our daily need ; 
 
 And can retain, for age and pain, 
 A fraction, we are rich indeed. 
 
 No dread of toil have we or ours ; 
 
 We know our worth, and weigh our powers ; 
 
DAILY WORK. 215 
 
 The more we work the more we win : 
 Success to Trade ! Success to Spade ! 
 
 And to the corn that 's coming in ! 
 And joy to him, who o'er his task 
 
 Remembers toil is Nature's plan ; 
 
 Who, working, thinks and never sinks 
 
 His independence as a man. 
 
 Who only asks for humblest wealth, 
 Enough for competence and health ; 
 And leisure, when his work is done, 
 
 To read his book by chimney nook, 
 Or stroll at setting of the sun. 
 Who toils as every man should toil 
 For fair reward, erect and free : 
 
 These are the men the best of men 
 These are the men we mean to be ! 
 
TRADE AND SPADE. 
 
 BETWEEN two friends in days of old 
 
 A bitter strife began, 
 And Father Spade with Brother Trade 
 
 Disputed man to man. 
 ' You're vain, undutiful, and proud/ 
 
 Said Spade, with flashing eyes. 
 ' You earn your thousands while I starve ; 
 
 You mock my children's cries. 
 You ride in state with lordly looks ; 
 
 You dwell in bower and hall ; 
 You speak of me reproachfully, 
 
 And prosper on my fall. 
 So from this hour, in shine or shower, 
 
 We '11 learn to live apart. 
 I ruled the earth ere you were born 
 
 I cast you from my heart/ 
 
 And Trade lost temper in his pride ; 
 
 He uttered words of scorn : 
 ' You do not know the ways of men, 
 
 Amid your sheep and corn. 
 You doze away the busy day, 
 
 Nor think how minutes run. 
 
TRADE AND SPADE. 217 
 
 Go, put your shoulder to your work, 
 
 And do as T have done. 
 You've all the earth to yield you wealth 
 
 Both corn and pasture land ; 
 I only ask a counting-house, 
 
 And room whereon to stand. 
 And from this hour, in shine or shower, 
 
 I '11 learn to live alone ; 
 I'll do without you well enough 
 
 The world shall be my own ! ' 
 
 And thus they wrangled night and day, 
 
 Unfair, like angry men, 
 Till things went wrong between them both, 
 
 And would not right again. 
 But growing wiser in distress, 
 
 Each grasp'd the other's hand ; 
 ' 'Twas wrong,' said Spade, ' to rail at Trade ; 
 
 He loves me in the land.' 
 And Trade as freely owned his fault : 
 
 ' I've been unjust,' he said, 
 ' To quarrel with the good old man, 
 
 Who grows my daily bread. 
 Long may we flourish, Trade and Spade, 
 
 In city and in plain ! 
 The people starve while we dispute 
 
 We must not part again.' 
 
 And all the people sang for joy, 
 
 To see their good accord, 
 While Spade assembled all his sons 
 
 And piled his plenteous board. 
 
218 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 He fed them on the best of fare, 
 
 Untax'd the foaming ale, 
 And prayed in England's happy shore 
 
 That Trade might never fail. 
 And busy Trade sent fleets of ships 
 
 To every sea and strand, 
 And built his mills and factories 
 
 O'er all the prosperous land. 
 And so we'll sing God save the Queen ! 
 
 And long may Brother Spade, 
 For sake of both the rich and poor, 
 
 Unite with Brother Trade. 
 
AN EMIGRANT'S BLESSING. 
 
 FAREWELL, England ! blessings on thee, 
 
 Stern and niggard as thou art ; 
 Harshly, Mother, thou hast used me, 
 And my bread thou hast refused me, 
 
 But 'tis agony to part. 
 'Twill pass over; for I would not 
 
 Bear again what I could tell ; 
 Half the ills that I have suffer' d : 
 
 Though I loved thee twice as well. 
 So my blessings on thee, England, 
 
 And a long and last farewell ! 
 
 Other regions will provide me 
 
 Independence for my age ; 
 Recompense for hard exertion 
 For my children, the reversion 
 
 Of a goodly heritage. 
 England this thou couldst not give me ; 
 
 England, pamperer of squires, 
 Landlord-ridden, pride-encumber'd, 
 
 Quencher of the poor man's fires ; 
 But, farewell ! My blessing on thee ; 
 
 Thou art country of my sires. 
 
220 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Though I love, I'm glad to fly thee; 
 
 Who would live in hopeless toil, 
 Evil-steep'd and ill-exampled, 
 Press' d and jostled, crush'd and trampled, 
 
 Interloper on the soil 
 If there were one other country 
 
 Where an honest man might go : 
 Winning cornfields from the forest 
 
 All his own, too blow by blow? 
 Farewell, England I regret thee, 
 
 But my tears refuse to flow. 
 
 Haply o'er the southern ocean 
 
 I shall do my part, to rear 
 A new nation, Saxon-blooded, 
 Which with plenty crown' d and studded, 
 
 To its happy children dear, 
 Shall eclipse thy fame, O England ; 
 
 Taught and warn'd alike by thee ; 
 Mightier with unshackled commerce, 
 
 Mightier in her men more free, 
 Mightier in her virgin vigor, 
 
 And her just equality. 
 
 But, farewell ! My blessing on thee ; 
 
 Never, till my latest day, 
 Shall my memory cease to ponder 
 On thy fate, where'er I wander ; 
 
 Never shall I cease to pray 
 That the many may be happy ; 
 
 That the few their pride may quell ; 
 
AN EMIGRANT'S BLESSING. 221 
 
 That thou may'st in peaceful progress 
 
 All thy misery dispel ; 
 Queen of nations : once their model 
 
 God be with thee ! Fare-thee-well ! 
 
THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE. 
 
 WHO is it that mourns for the days that are gone, 
 When a noble could do as he liked with his own ? 
 When his serfs, with their burdens well fill'd on their 
 
 backs, 
 
 Never dared to complain of the weight of a tax ? 
 When his word was a statute, his nod was a law, 
 And for aught but his ' order ' he cared not a straw ? 
 When each had his dungeon and rack for the poor, 
 And a gibbet, to hang a refractory boor ? 
 
 They were days when a man with a thought in his pate 
 Was a man that was born for the popular hate ; 
 And if 'twere a thought that was good for his kind, 
 The man was too vile to be left unconfined ; 
 The days when obedience, in right or in wrong, 
 Was always the sermon and always the song ; 
 When the people, like cattle, were pounded or driven, 
 And to scourge them was thought a King's license 
 from heaven. 
 
 They were days when the sword settled questions of 
 
 right, 
 And Falsehood was first to monopolize Might ; 
 
THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE. 223 
 
 When the fighter of battles was always adored, 
 And the greater the tyrant, the greater the lord ; 
 When the King, who by myriads could number his 
 
 slain, 
 
 Was consider' d by far the most worthy to reign ; 
 When the fate of the multitude hung on his breath 
 A god in his life, and a saint in his death. 
 
 They were days when the headsman was always pre- 
 pared 
 
 The block ever ready the axe ever bared ; 
 When a corpse on the gibbet aye swung to and fro, 
 And the fire at the stake never smoulder' d too low ; 
 When famine and age made a woman a witch, 
 To be roasted alive, or be drown'd in a ditch ; 
 When difference of creed was the vilest of crime, 
 And martyrs were burn'd half a score at a time. 
 
 They were days when the gallows stood black in the way, 
 The larger the town, the more plentiful they; 
 When Law never dream'd it was good to relent, 
 Or thought it less wisdom to kill than prevent ; 
 When Justice herself, taking Law for her guide, 
 Was never appeased till a victim had died ; 
 And the stealer of sheep, and the slayer of men, 
 Were strung up together again and again. 
 
 They were days when the crowd had no freedom of 
 
 speech, 
 
 And reading and writing were out of its reach; 
 When ignorance, stolid and dense, was its doom, 
 And bigotry swathed it from cradle to tomb ; 
 
224 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But the Present, though clouds o'er her countenance 
 
 roll, 
 
 Has a light in her eyes, and a hope in her soul. 
 And we are too wise, like the bigots to mourn 
 For the darkness of days that shall never return. 
 
LET US ALONE. 
 
 MANY and yet our fate is one, 
 And little after all we crave 
 Enjoyment of the common sun, 
 Fair passage to the common grave ; 
 Our bread and fire, our plain attire, 
 The free possession of our own : 
 Rulers, be wise, and lords and kings, 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 We have a faith, we have a law ; 
 A faith in God, a hope in man ; 
 And own, with reverence and awe, 
 Love universal as His plan. 
 To Charity we bow the knee, 
 The earth's refiner and our own : 
 Bigots, and fighters about words, 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 The world is the abode of men, 
 And not of demons stark and blind ; 
 And Eden's self might bloom again 
 If men did justice to mankind. 
 15 
 
226 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 We want no more of Nature's store 
 Than Nature meant to be our own : 
 Masters, and gerents of the earth, 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 Your meddling brought us grief and care, 
 And added misery day by day ; 
 We're not so foolish as' we were, 
 Nor fashioned of such ductile clay ; 
 Your petty jars, your wicked wars, 
 Have lost their charm, the gilding's gone : 
 Victorious marshals, vaulting kings, 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 Though dwellers in a little isle, 
 
 We bear no hate to other lands, 
 
 And think that all the earth might smile, 
 
 If we and others joined our hands. 
 
 In wrong or right, why should we fight ? 
 
 We '11 war no more we 're wiser grown 
 
 Quibblers, and stirrers up of hate, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 White man or black, to us alike ; 
 Foemen of no men, we will live ; 
 We will not lift our hands to strike, 
 Or evil for advantage give. 
 Our hands are free to earn their fee, 
 Our tongues to let the truth be known : 
 So despots, knaves, and foes of right, 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
LET US ALONE. 227 
 
 Great are our destinies : our task, 
 Long since begun, shall never end 
 While suffering has a boon to ask, 
 Or truth needs spokesmen to defend ; 
 While vice or crime pollute the time, 
 While nations bleed, or patriots groan : 
 Rulers be wise, and kings and priests, 
 Let its alone let us alone. 
 
CLEON AND I. 
 
 CLEON hath a million acres, 
 
 Ne'er a one have I ; 
 
 Cleon dwelleth in a palace, 
 
 In a cottage I ; 
 
 Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, 
 
 Not a penny I ; 
 
 Yet the poorer of the twain is 
 
 Cleon, and not I. 
 
 Cleon, true, possesseth acres, 
 
 But the landscape I ; 
 
 Half the charms to me it yieldeth 
 
 Money cannot buy. 
 
 Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, 
 
 Freshening vigor I ; 
 
 He in velvet, I in fustian, 
 
 Richer man am I. 
 
 Cleon is a slave to grandeur, 
 Free as thought am I ; 
 Cleon fees a score of doctors, 
 Need of none have I : 
 
CLEON AND I. 229 
 
 Wealth-surrounded , care-environed , 
 Cleon fears to die ; 
 
 Death may come, he '11 find me ready, 
 Happier man am I. 
 
 Cleon sees no charms in Nature, 
 
 In a daisy I ; 
 
 Cleon hears no anthems ringing 
 
 In the sea and sky ; 
 
 Nature sings to me for ever, 
 
 Earnest listener I ; 
 
 State for state, with all attendants, 
 
 Who would change ? Not I. 
 
THE LITTLE MOLES. 
 
 WHEN grasping tyranny offends, 
 
 Or angry bigots frown ; 
 
 When rulers plot for selfish ends 
 
 To keep the people down ; 
 
 When statesmen form unholy league 
 
 To drive the world to war; 
 
 When knaves in palaces intrigue 
 
 For ribbons or a star ; 
 
 We raise our heads survey their deeds, 
 
 And cheerily reply, 
 
 Grub, little moles, grub under ground, 
 
 There 's sunshine in the sky. 
 
 When canting hypocrites combine 
 
 To curb a free man's thought, 
 
 And hold all doctrine undivine 
 
 That holds their canting naught ; 
 
 When round their narrow pale they plod, 
 
 And scornfully assume 
 
 That all without are cursed of God, 
 
 And justify the doom : 
 
 We think of God's eternal love 
 
 And strong in hope reply, 
 
THE LITTLE MOLES. 231 
 
 Grub, little moles, grub under ground, 
 There 's sunshine in the sky. 
 
 When greedy authors wield the pen 
 
 To please the vulgar town, 
 
 Depict great thieves as injured men 
 
 And heroes of renown 
 
 Pander to prejudice unclean, 
 
 Apologize for crime, 
 
 And daub the vices of the mean 
 
 With flattery like slime : 
 
 For MILTON'S craft for SHAKSPERE'S tongue 
 
 We blush, but yet reply, 
 
 Grub, little moles, grub under ground, 
 
 There's sunshine in the sky. 
 
 When smug philosophers survey 
 
 The various climes of earth, 
 
 And mourn, poor sagelings of a day ! 
 
 Its too prolific birth ; 
 
 And prove by figure, rule, and plan, 
 
 The large fair world too small 
 
 To feed the multitudes of man 
 
 That flourish on its ball : 
 
 We view the vineyards on the hills, 
 
 Or corn-fields waving high ; 
 
 Grub, little moles, grub under ground, 
 
 There 's sunshine in the sky. 
 
 When men complain of human kind 
 In misanthropic mood, 
 
232 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 And thinking evil things, grow blind 
 
 To presence of the good ; 
 
 When, walled in prejudices strong, 
 
 They urge that evermore 
 
 The world is fated to go wrong 
 
 For going wrong before : 
 
 We feel the truths they cannot feel, 
 
 And smile as we reply, 
 
 Grub, little moles, grub under ground, 
 
 There 's sunshine in the sky. 
 
RAILWAYS. 
 
 1846. 
 
 ' No poetry in Railways ! ' foolish thought 
 
 Of a dull brain, to no fine music wrought. 
 
 By Mammon dazzled, though the people prize 
 
 The gold alone, yet shall not we despise 
 
 The triumphs of our time, or fail to see 
 
 Of pregnant mind the fruitful progeny 
 
 Ushering the daylight of the world's new morn. 
 
 Look up, ye doubters, be no more forlorn ! 
 
 Smooth your rough brows, ye little wise : rejoice,. 
 
 Ye who despond : and with exulting voice 
 
 Salute, ye earnest spirits of our time, 
 
 The young Improvement ripening to her prime, 
 
 Who, in the fulness of her genial youth, 
 
 Prepares the way for Liberty and Truth, 
 
 And breaks the barriers that, since earth began, 
 
 Have made mankind the enemy of man. 
 
 Lay down your rails, ye nations, near and far 
 Yoke your full trains to Steam's triumphal car; 
 Link town to town ; unite in iron bands 
 The long-estranged and oft-embattled lands. 
 
234 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Peace, mild-eyed Seraph Knowledge, light divine, 
 
 Shall send their messengers by every line. 
 
 Men, joined in amity, shall wonder long 
 
 That Hate had power to lead their fathers wrong ; 
 
 Or that false Glory lured their hearts astray, 
 
 And made it virtuous and sublime to slay. 
 
 Blessings on Science ! When the earth seemed old, 
 When Faith grew doting, and the Reason cold, 
 'Twas she discover'd that the world was young, 
 And taught a language to its lisping tongue : 
 'Twas she disclosed a future to its view, 
 And made old Knowledge pale before the new. 
 
 Blessings on Science ! In her dawning hour 
 Faith knit her brow, alarm'd for ancient power; 
 Then look'd again upon her face sincere, 
 Held out her hand, and hail'd her Sister dear; 
 And Reason, free as eagle on the wind, 
 Swoop'd o'er the fallow meadows of the mind, 
 And, clear of vision, saw what seed would grow 
 On the hill slopes, or in the vales below ; 
 What in the sunny South, or nipping Nord, 
 And from her talons dropp'd it as she soar'd. 
 
 Blessings on Science, and her handmaid Steam ! 
 They make Utopia only half a dream ; 
 And show the fervent, of capacious souls, 
 Who watch the ball of Progress as it rolls, 
 That all as yet completed, or begun, 
 Is but the dawning that precedes the sun. 
 
THE FERMENTATION. 
 
 LONELY sitting, deeply musing, 
 
 On a still and starry night, 
 Full of fancies, when my glances 
 Turn'd upon those far romances 
 
 Scatter' d o'er the Infinite ; 
 On a sudden, broke upon me 
 
 Murmurs, rumors, quick and loud, 
 And, half-waking, I discover'd 
 
 An innumerable crowd. 
 
 'Mid the uproar of their voices 
 
 Scarcely could I hear a word ; 
 There was rushing, there was crushing, 
 And a sound like music gushing, 
 
 And a roar like forests stirr'd 
 By a fierce wind passing o'er them : 
 
 And a voice came now and then, 
 Louder than them all, exclaiming, 
 
 * Give us Justice ! we are men ! ' 
 
 And the longer that I listen'd, 
 More distinctly could I hear, 
 
236 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 'Mid the poising of the voicing, 
 Sounds of sorrow and rejoicing, 
 
 Utterance of Hope and Fear ; 
 And a clash of disputation, 
 
 And of words at random cast 
 Truths and Errors intermingling, 
 
 Of the present and the past. 
 
 Some were shouting that Oppression 
 
 Held their consciences in thrall ; 
 Some were crying ' Men are dying, 
 Hunger-smit, and none supplying 
 
 Bread, the birthright of us all.' 
 Some exclaim' d that Wealth was haughty, 
 
 Harsh, and callous to the poor ; 
 Others cried, the poor were vicious, 
 
 Idle, thankless, insecure. 
 
 Some, with voice of indignation, 
 
 Told the story of their wrongs, 
 Full of dolor life-controller 
 That for difference of color 
 
 They were sold like cattle throngs. 
 Others, pallid, weak, and shivering, 
 
 Said that laws were surely bad, 
 When the willing hand was idle, 
 
 And the cheeks of Toil were sad. 
 
 ' Give us freedom for the conscience ! ' 
 
 < Equal Rights ! ' < Unfetter'd Mind ! * 
 ' Education ! ' ' Compensation ! ' 
 ' Justice for a mighty nation ? ' 
 
THE FERMENTATION. 237 
 
 ' Progress ! ' ' Peace with all mankind ! ' 
 ' Let us labor ! ' l Give us churches ! ' 
 
 ' Give us Corn where'er it grow ! ' 
 These, and other cries, around me 
 
 Surged incessant, loud or low. 
 
 Old opinions jarr'd with new ones ; 
 
 New ones jostled with the old ; 
 In such Babel, few were able 
 To distinguish truth from fable, 
 
 In the tale their neighbors told. 
 But one voice above all others 
 
 Sounded like the voice of ten, 
 Clear, sonorous, and persuasive : 
 
 ' Give us Justice ! we are men ! ' 
 
 And I said, ' Oh, Sovereign Reason, 
 
 Sire of Peace and Liberty ! 
 Aid for ever their endeavor : 
 Boldly let them still assever 
 
 All the rights they claim in thee. 
 Aid the mighty Fermentation 
 
 Till it purifies at last, 
 And the Future of the people 
 
 Is made brighter than the Past.' 
 
THE POOR MAN'S SUNDAY WALK. 
 
 THE morning of our rest has come, 
 
 The sun is shining clear ; 
 I see it on the steeple-top : 
 
 Put on your shawl, my dear, 
 And let us leave the smoky town, 
 
 The dense and stagnant lane, 
 And take our children by the hand 
 
 To see the fields again. 
 I've pined for air the livelong week; 
 
 For the smell of new-mown hay ; 
 For a pleasant, quiet, country walk, 
 
 On a sunny Sabbath day. 
 
 Our parish church is cold and damp ; 
 
 I need the air and sun ; 
 We '11 sit together on the grass, 
 
 And see the children run. 
 We '11 watch them gathering butter-cups, 
 
 Or cowslips in the dell, 
 Or listen to the cheerful sounds 
 
 Of the far-off village bell ; 
 And thank our God with grateful hearts, 
 
 Though in the fields we pray ; 
 
THE POOR MAN'S SUNDAY WALK. 239 
 
 And bless the healthful breeze of heaven, 
 On a sunny Sabbath day. 
 
 I'm weary of the stifling room, 
 
 Where all the week we're pent; 
 Of the alley filPd with wretched life, 
 
 And odors pestilent. 
 And long once more to see the fields, 
 
 And the grazing sheep and beeves; 
 To hear the lark amid the clouds, 
 
 And the wind among the leaves ; 
 And all the sounds that glad the air 
 
 On green hills far away : 
 The sounds that breathe of Peace and Love, 
 
 On a sunny Sabbath day. 
 
 For somehow, though they call it wrong, 
 
 In church I cannot kneel 
 With half the natural thankfulness 
 
 And piety I feel, 
 When out, on such a day as this, 
 
 I lie upon the sod, 
 And think that every leaf and flower 
 
 Is grateful to its God ; 
 That I, who feel the blessing more, 
 
 Should thank him more than they, 
 That I can elevate my soul 
 
 On a sunny Sabbath day. 
 
 Put on your shawl, and let us go ; 
 For one day let us think 
 
240 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Of something else than daily care, 
 
 Or toil, and meat, and drink : 
 For one day let our children sport 
 
 And feel their limbs their own : 
 For one day let us quite forget 
 
 The grief that we have known : 
 Let us forget that we are poor ; 
 
 And, basking in the ray, 
 Thank God that we can still enjoy 
 
 A sunny Sabbath day. 
 
A CONVICT'S BLESSING. 
 
 BLESSINGS on England ! but why should I bless her? 
 
 I that she tutor'd from bad into worse ; 
 /that could never, since Reason possess' d me, 
 
 Balance my faults by the weight of my purse. 
 She's a very good land for the man who has money, 
 
 But Misery gives her, as I do, a curse. 
 
 What else should I give her? One day, in my boyhood, 
 I pluck'd from a branch a fair apple, that swung 
 
 Tempting and ripe o'er the wall of an orchard, 
 But, ere the first morsel delighted my tongue, 
 
 Was hurried to gaol, where some older offenders 
 Conceived it their duty to train up the young. 
 
 When I came out, is it likely that goodness 
 
 Brighten'd my face or made warmth in my breast? 
 
 Blighted in name, with a mark set upon me, 
 And vengeance within me to trouble my rest 
 
 I practised their lessons for want of employment, 
 And lived upon others, and fared on the best. 
 
 16 
 
242 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 For three dreary months I was doom'd to the treadmill, 
 For killing a pheasant one midsummer night; 
 
 For six I was shut from all sight of my fellows, 
 For catching a hare when my pocket was light; 
 
 And now I am banish'd for shooting a keeper 
 A murder or manslaughter done in a fight. 
 
 Blessings on England ! Perhaps when she alters, 
 And ceases to worship a lord, as a lord ; 
 
 When the soul of a man is worth more than a partridge, 
 And labor may see healthy cheeks at its board ; 
 
 When her laws are alike for her poor and her wealthy; 
 And Justice is not quite so fond of her sword. 
 
 Meantime I can give her but that which is in me, 
 That which will cling to my heart evermore ; 
 
 That which so many, heart-broken, have given her, 
 To rankle and fester, life-deep at her core ; 
 
 The curse which she gave me instead of a blessing 
 The curse which she brands me with, leaving her 
 shore. 
 
 Had she but taught me in days of my childhood, 
 The folly of youth had not ripen'd to crime ; 
 
 Had she butgiven me a chance of amendment, 
 I might have been useful and happy in time ; 
 
 Had she not treated the boy like a felon, 
 
 The man might have been a good man ere his prime. 
 
 But this was denied me. So, blessings on England ! 
 Blessings ay, give them that name if ye will ; 
 
A CONVICT'S BLESSING. 243 
 
 Such blessings as mine ever turn into curses 
 I cannot give good for a life-time of ill. 
 
 Blessings on England ! the word may be pleasant ; 
 But the Curse and the Vengeance shall follow her 
 still. 
 
ENGLAND AND FRANCE. 
 [!ST MARCH, 1846.] 
 
 WE make no boast of Waterloo ; 
 
 Its name excites no pride in us ; 
 We have no hatred of the French, 
 
 No scorn of Yankee or of Russ. 
 The GLORY that our fathers gain'd 
 
 In bloody warfare years agone, 
 And which they talk of o'er their cups, 
 
 Gives us no joy to think upon. 
 
 In truth we rather love the French, 
 
 And think our fathers did them wrong ; 
 And sometimes blush when in the streets, 
 
 Quite out of date, an ancient song 
 Ghost of a prejudice comes back, 
 
 And tells us how, in days gone out, 
 The best of Englishmen was he 
 
 Who put a dozen French to rout. 
 
 We have no foolish thoughts like these, 
 Of France, or any other land ; 
 
ENGLAND AND FRANCE. 245 
 
 And jealousies so poor and mean, 
 We're somewhat slow to understand. 
 
 We 'd rather with our friends, the French,. 
 Encourage kindliness of thought, 
 
 Than gain a score of Waterloos, 
 Or any battle ever fought. 
 
 And in this year of ( forty-six/ 
 
 We rising men, in life's young prime, 
 Are men who think the French have done 
 
 The world good service in their time ; 
 And for their sakes, and for our own, 
 
 And Freedom's sake o'er all the earth, 
 We'd rather let old feuds expire, 
 
 And cling to something better worth. 
 
 If thought of battles gain'd by us 
 
 Disturb or gall them, let it rest ; 
 Napoleon was a man of men, 
 
 But neither wickedest nor best ; 
 Neither a demon nor a god ; 
 
 And if they will adore a king, 
 The honest man who rules them now 
 
 Deserves a little worshipping. 
 
 To be at strife, however just, 
 
 Has no attraction to our mind ; 
 And as for nations fond of war, 
 
 We think them pests of humankind. 
 Still if there must be rivalry 
 
 Betwixt us and the French; why then 
 
246 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Let earth look on us, while we show 
 Which of the two are better men. 
 
 We '11 try the rivalry of Arts, 
 
 Of Science, Learning, Freedom, Fame 
 We '11 try who first shall light the world 
 
 With Charity's divinest flame 
 Who best shall elevate the poor, 
 
 And teach the wealthy to be true : 
 We want no rivalry of arms, 
 
 We want no boasts of Waterloo. 
 
RETRACTION AND REPENTANCE 
 
 FOR HAVING CALLED LOUIS PHILIPPE AN HONEST MAN. 
 OCTOBER, 1847. 
 
 YES : I was wrong, and very wrong, 
 
 In the eulogium of my lay, 
 So I indite another song, 
 
 To clear my conscience while I may. 
 A year ago I thought him wise, 
 
 I thought him virtuous of intent ; 
 But time has purified my eyes, 
 
 And I repent me I repent ! 
 
 I thought and call'd him honest man, 
 
 Unsvvay'd by dirty love of pelf : 
 Too great to crave too wise to plan 
 
 A mean advantage for himself. 
 I thought his high sagacious mind 
 
 A star to guide the nations sent ; 
 But I was hasty I was blind, 
 
 And I repent me I repent ! 
 
 I thought he loved his native land, 
 
 K And wish'd its ancient feuds to cease ; 
 
248 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 I thought his firm and temperate hand 
 A sacred guarantee of peace ; 
 
 That he desired all earth to dwell 
 In friendship, freedom, and content; 
 
 But I was wrong I see it well, 
 And I repent me I repent ! 
 
 I knew not that his fingers itch'd 
 
 For ducats tempting, but defiled ; 
 That he could bear to be enrich' d 
 
 Upon the ruin of a child : 
 That lust of power had drain'd his mind 
 
 Of virtues, once its ornament, 
 Of justice, honor, love of kind ; 
 
 But I repent me I repent ! 
 
 I never thought him lost to shame, 
 
 Or that in lewd unmanly plot, 
 He could conspire to blast the fame 
 
 And life of one that harm'd him not; 
 That, to destroy a helpless girl, 
 
 He'd pander, bully, circumvent; 
 I could not think him such a churl ; 
 
 And I repent me I repent ! 
 
 I did not think that pelf or power 
 
 Could make him play so foul a part ; 
 That he could barter, for a dower, 
 
 A nation's weal a sovereign's heart. 
 That he could peril France and Spain 
 
 All Europe sooner than relent ; 
 But I was bias'd, it is plain, 
 
 And I repent me I repent : 
 
RETRACTION AND REPENTANCE. 'J 19 
 
 Nor I alone : a murmur flics 
 
 O'er Europe and men's bosoms glow 
 Indignant, as before their eyes 
 
 Is play'd this mclodrame of woe. 
 Frenchmen that loved him, clench their hands, 
 
 And wait a time, now imminent, 
 To show to France and all the lands, 
 
 That they repent that they repent ! 
 
THE VISION OF DANTON. 
 
 The Hotel de Tille and the Place de Grve are celebrated as having been the 
 scene of most of the present and preceding revolutions. The pavement of 
 the Greve has been stained with the blood of the victims of all the revolutions, 
 and with that of criminals executed by the hand of justice, till within the last 
 few years. This fabulous dream of Danton, in the chambers of this historical 
 mansion, the very Palace of Revolution, was written in October, 1847, in an- 
 ticipation of the Revolution which broke out in February, 1848 ; and which 
 was confidently predicted to the author at that time by two of the greatest 
 writers in France, and each of whom has played a part in the drama that suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 WEARY of strife renewed from day to day, 
 Th' inveterate war of parties brought to bay, 
 With clash of hatreds jarring on his sense, 
 And poison'd darts of hostile eloquence, 
 With all the excitement of the brain and heart, 
 That forms the life of men, who play their part 
 In mighty dramas, Danton lay at rest, 
 His face to Heaven, his hands upon his breast, 
 And said within himself, ' It must not be 
 Surely this grief shall end, and France be free.' 
 
 He closed his eyes, and saw a vision pass 
 Clear as a show in a magician's glass ; 
 He saw a figure massive like his own 
 Headless, and quivering, from a scaffold thrown ; 
 
THE VISION OF DANTON. 251 
 
 He saw the pavement running red with blood, 
 
 And crowds insatiate dabbling in the flood. 
 
 He saw Despair at every threshold stand 
 
 And ruffian Terror stalking o'er the land, 
 
 And sigh'd remorseful ' Mine the guilt,' said he, 
 
 ' But surely it shall pass, and France be free.' 
 
 The vision changed : he saw th' embattled world, 
 And France defiant with her flag unfurled : 
 He heard her trumpets peal; her cannons roar; 
 Her captains shout and wave her tricolor. 
 He saw their leader fattening the sod 
 With bones of myriads ; heard the cry to God, 
 Raised by the ravaged lands ; he heard and saw 
 That Might was murder, and that Force was law ; 
 And sighed for pity ' Heaven is just,' said he, 
 'And this new plague shall pass, and France be free.' 
 
 The vision darken'd : Paris the superb, 
 
 The beautiful, impatient of a curb, 
 
 Received the law from strangers at her gate, 
 
 And gave for insults nothing but her hate. 
 
 She who with trumpet- voice had roused the lands, 
 
 Felt on her prostrate neck the Cossack's hands ; 
 
 Heard in her panting streets th' invader's drum, 
 
 And groan'd for worse indignities to come : 
 
 And ev'n in slumber Danton blushed to see 
 
 * Surely this shame shall pass, and France be free.' 
 
 It changed again : and lo ! a royal drone, 
 Untaught by suffering dozed upon the throne, 
 
252 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Or waking, fancied that his hands could bind 
 The tide of Thought, the Reason of mankind. 
 Another followed, bigoted, but strong, 
 Who, deeming Time had gone a century wrong, 
 Strove with a desperate force to turn the hand, 
 And bring the darkness back upon the land ; 
 And Danton groan' d 'Oh, that these eyes might see 
 This folly brought to shame, and France made free.' 
 
 The vision brighten' d : Paris as of old 
 Aroused her faubourgs as the tocsin tolPd ; 
 Placed in each hand a weapon for the Right, 
 And fought its battle in the world's despite ; 
 Dragg'd the degraded purple through the town, 
 Roll'd in the dust the sceptre and the crown ; 
 And read the nations listening far and near 
 A mighty lesson full of hope and fear ; 
 And Danton shouted in his sleep to see 
 ' Now has the sorrow passed, and France is free.' 
 
 Another change and shifting of the parts 
 The fool was foil'd the knave essay'd his arts; 
 He hated Freedom and her priests and scribes, 
 And swore to crush her, not with force, but bribes. 
 Th' ignoble plan succeeded for a while 
 The halcyon days of mammon and of guile ; 
 The dense corruption spread from high to low, 
 Till virtue perish' d in its overflow ; 
 And Danton groan' d ' Oh, worst of infamy ! 
 When shall this sorrow pass, and France be free ? ' 
 
THE VISION OF DANTON. 253 
 
 What more he saw was dim before his eyes, 
 Shapes undefined and huge unsymmetries 
 Darkness and storm and thunder-clouds afar, 
 And forms gigantic panoplied for war ; 
 But still a radiance glimmered through the cloud, 
 And a voice seemed to speak to him aloud : 
 ' Not all in vain the struggles thou hast seen, 
 Truth bides her time and keeps her brow serene : 
 Each seed she scatters bears its destined tree 
 The grief shall pass, and France shall yet be free.' 
 
A WELCOME TO LOUIS PHILIPPE. 
 MARCH, 1848. 
 
 WE do not cheer thee, faithless king, 
 
 Nor shout before thee now ; 
 We have no reverence for a thing 
 
 So false of heart as thou : 
 We form no crowds to welcome thee, 
 
 And yet we cannot hate 
 Though parricide of liberty 
 
 An old man desolate. 
 
 When, in such sudden dark eclipse, 
 We see thine overthrow ; 
 
 The hisses die upon our lips, 
 We turn and let thee go. 
 
 Poor, weak, denuded royalty, 
 So abject, so forlorn, 
 The greatness of thy misery 
 Shall shield thee from our scorn. 
 
 We saw thee yesterday elate 
 In majesty and pride, 
 
A WELCOME TO LOUIS PHILIPPE. 255 
 
 Thy flowing wealth, thy gorgeous state, 
 
 Thy power half deified. 
 Based on the faults of humankind 
 
 We saw thy meshes lurk, 
 And constant Fortune's favoring wind 
 
 Still waft thee tools to work. 
 
 We saw thee building, building up 
 
 Thy pomps before our eyes, 
 And ever in thy flowing cup 
 
 The sparkling bubbles rise : 
 Alliance, worship, all were thine, 
 
 And, spectacle unmeet, 
 Ev'n genius, drunk with bribery's wine, 
 
 Lay grovelling at thy feet. 
 
 When earnest men affirm' d the right, 
 
 And ask'd the judging Heaven, 
 If ever, since the birth of light, 
 
 Had fraud and falsehood thriven ? 
 Our fingers pointed with mistrust 
 
 To thee as our reply 
 A living mockery of the just, 
 
 That gave their truth the lie. 
 
 All this thou wert but yester-morn 
 
 Thy fall is Freedom's birth ; 
 To-day thou art a mark for scorn, 
 
 A vagrant on the earth. 
 A truth pervading all the lands 
 
 Inspired the people's heart 
 It throbb'd, it beat, it nerved their hands 
 
 It made thee what thou art. 
 
256 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Lo, like a coward, self-accused, 
 
 We saw thee skulk and fly, 
 And hug a life that none refused, 
 
 For want of strength to die. 
 To 'scape th' imaginary chase 
 
 That made thy soul afraid, 
 We saw thy shifts, thy shaven face, 
 
 Thy piteous masquerade. 
 
 We blush' d, we groan' d, to see thee seek 
 
 Mean safety in disguise, 
 And, like a knavish bankrupt, sneak 
 
 From sight of honest eyes. 
 Forlorn old man, our hate expires 
 
 At spectacle like this 
 Our pity kindles all its fires 
 
 We have not heart to hiss. 
 
 Live on thou hast not lived in vain. 
 
 A mighty truth uprears 
 Its radiant forehead o'er thy reign, 
 
 And lights the coming years : 
 Though specious Tyranny be strong, 
 
 Humanity is true, 
 And Empire based upon a wrong 
 
 Is rotten through and through. 
 
 Though falsehoods into system wrought, 
 
 Condensed into a plan, 
 May stand awhile, their power is nought - 
 
 There is a God in man. 
 
A WELCOME TO LOUIS PHILIPPE. 257 
 
 His revolutions speak in ours, 
 
 And make His justice plain 
 Old man forlorn, live out thine hours, 
 
 Thou hast not lived in vain. 
 
 17 
 
KING SMITH. 
 
 ' " Mr. Smith ! " exclaimed the King. " That is curious indeed, and very 
 remarkable, that the first to welcome me should be a Mr. Smith, since the as- 
 sumed name by which I escaped from France was SMITH ; and, look ! this is 
 my passport made out in the name of Smith." ' TIMES : March Gth, 1848. 
 
 SAID great King Smith to great Guizot, 
 ' Does Virtue dwell in this world below ? 
 I 've travelled much, but never found 
 A true, good man above the ground. 
 How shall I curb this folk of mine 
 This rampant, raging herd of swine ? 
 To rule this people, what shall I cfo ? 
 Tell me, Guizot tell me true ? ' 
 
 'The people! bah!' said great Guizot 
 ' Bribe the needy, high and low ; 
 Pay them, tickle them scatter wide 
 Star and ribbon to please their pride ; 
 Give them places, give them pelf; 
 The law of man is the love of self. 
 Every conscience may be sold, 
 Every man has his price in gold.' 
 
KING SMITH. 
 
 Said great King Smith to great Guizot, 
 ' Thou art the wisest man I know : 
 flonor and Virtue are mist and cloud ; 
 Who looks for goodness in a crowd ? 
 Inborn villany dwells in man, 
 And we will work it as we can : 
 In one hand bribes, in the other a sword, 
 And Smith shall rule, unquestioned Lord !' 
 
 So great King Smith and great Guizot 
 Opened the sluice for the mud to flow, 
 And cast about for needy knaves, 
 Grovelling spirits, fawning slaves 
 Paid their price, and ruled the land 
 "With a strong and systematic hand, 
 Till the world avowed with stress and pith, 
 There was never a king so great as Smith. 
 
 Said great King Smith to great Guizot, 
 ' Money 's the only god below ; 
 And all my little Smiths must wed 
 Wives with money, or lack their bread.' 
 Said great Guizot, ' The truth is plain ; 
 There is a glorious prize in Spain 
 One bride to make, and one to mar, 
 And cash in hand how lucky we are ! ' 
 
 And great King Smith and great Guizot 
 Played the trick, as all men know ; 
 And never dreamed, in their great delight, 
 There was a day for the longest night 
 
260 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Never dreamed that, in human hearts, 
 There lurked a scorn of treacherous arts ; 
 Or that Retribution's arm of pith 
 Might do its duty even on Smith. 
 
 Said great King Smith to great Guizot, 
 * I hear a murmuring from below.' 
 Said great Guizot, ' The troops are strong, 
 Our game is sure there's nothing wrong: 
 We'll send some grape-shot into the town 
 We'll keep the restless people down. 
 We rule, O King, on a deep-laid plan ; 
 We know the worthlessness of man.' 
 
 But great King Smith and great Guizot 
 Made a fearful blunder, as we know ; 
 The Virtue scorned, the Truth denied, 
 Surged o'er the land in a living tide 
 It swept Guizot clean out of the track, 
 With all his system on his back, 
 And wakened SMITH, as he dozed and dreamt, 
 And buried him in the world's contempt. 
 
THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. 
 
 AROUND the board the guests were met, the lights above 
 
 them beaming, 
 And in their cups, replenish'd oft, the ruddy wine was 
 
 streaming ; 
 Their cheeks were flush'd their eyes were bright, their 
 
 hearts with pleasure bounded, 
 The song was sung, the toast was given, and loud the 
 
 revel sounded. 
 I drain'd a goblet with the rest, and cried, * Away with 
 
 sorrow ! 
 
 Let us be happy for to-day ; what care we for to- 
 morrow ? ' 
 But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, and slumber deep 
 
 came o'er me, 
 And, 'mid the whirl of mingling tongues, this vision 
 
 pass'd before me. 
 
 Methought I saw a demon rise : he held a mighty 
 
 bicker, 
 Whose burnish'd sides ran brimming o'er with floods 
 
 of burning liquor ; 
 
262 VOICES FROM THE CKOWD. 
 
 Around him press'd a clamorous crowd, to taste this 
 
 liquor, greedy, 
 But chiefly came the poor and sad, the suffering and 
 
 the needy ; 
 All those oppressed by grief or debt, the dissolute, the 
 
 lazy, 
 Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths, and palsied 
 
 women crazy ; 
 'Give, give!' they cried, ' Give, give us drink, to 
 
 drown all thought of sorrow ; 
 If we are happy for to-day, we care not for to-morrow ! ' 
 
 The first drop warm'd their shivering skins, and drove 
 
 away their sadness ; 
 The second lit their sunken eyes, and fill'd their souls 
 
 with gladness ; 
 The third drop made them shout and roar, and play 
 
 each furious antic ; 
 The fourth drop boil'd their very blood ; and the fftk 
 
 drop drove them frantic. 
 4 Drink ! ' said the Demon, ' Drink your fill ! drink of 
 
 these waters mellow ; 
 They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, and turn 
 
 your white skins yellow; 
 They'll fill your homes with care and grief, and clothe 
 
 your backs with tatters ; 
 They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts ; but never 
 
 mind ! what matters ? 
 
 ' Though virtue sink, and reason fail, and social ties 
 
 dissever, 
 I'll be your friend in hour of need, and find you homes 
 
 for ever ; 
 
THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. 263 
 
 For I have built three mansions high, three strong and 
 goodly houses, 
 
 To lodge at last each jolly soul who all his life ca- 
 rouses. 
 
 The Jirst, it is a spacious house, to all but sots appall- 
 ing, 
 
 Where, by the parish bounty fed, vile, in the sunshine 
 crawling, 
 
 The worn-out drunkard ends his days, and eats the dole 
 of others, 
 
 A plague and burthen to himself, an eyesore to his 
 brothers. 
 
 ' The second is a lazar-house, rank, fetid, and unholy; 
 Where, smitten by diseases foul and hopeless melan- 
 choly, 
 The victims of potations deep, pine on the couch of 
 
 sadness, 
 Some calling Death to end their pain, and others 
 
 wrought to madness : 
 The third and last is black and high, the abode of 
 
 guilt and anguish, 
 And full of dungeons deep and fast, where death- 
 
 doom'd felons languish ; 
 So drain the cup, and drain again ! One of my goodly 
 
 houses, 
 Shall lodge at last each jolly soul who to the dregs 
 
 carouses ! ' 
 
 But well he knew that Demon old how vain was 
 
 all his preaching, 
 The ragged crew that round him flock' d were heedless 
 
 of his teaching ; 
 
264 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Even as they heard his fearful words, they cried, with 
 
 shouts of laughter, 
 ' Out on the fool who mars to-day with thought of an 
 
 hereafter ! 
 We care not for thy houses three ; we live but for the 
 
 present ; 
 And merry will we make it yet, and quaff our bumpers 
 
 pleasant.' 
 Loud laugh'd the fiend to hear them speak, and, lifting 
 
 high his bicker, 
 ' Body and soul are mine ! ' said he, ' I'll have them 
 
 both for liquor.' 
 
THE POET AND THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST. 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST. 
 
 PKITHEE, Poet, why this spinning, 
 Spinning verses all the day ? 
 
 Vain and idle thy vocation, 
 
 Thy art useless to the nation, 
 In thy labor and thy play. 
 
 Little doth the world esteem thee, 
 And it takes thee at thy worth ; 
 Loftiest rhyme that e'er was fashion'd, 
 Sounding, gorgeous, or impassion'd, 
 Is a drug upon the earth. 
 
 Go and be a cotton-spinner; 
 
 Put thy hand upon the spade ; 
 Weave a basket out of willow ; 
 Dig the mine, or sail the billow 
 
 Anything but such a trade. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Why thy scorn, O man of logic ? 
 Speak of that within thy ken ; 
 
266 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 I despise thee not ; thy labors, 
 If they make us better neighbors, 
 Are not valueless to men. 
 
 Highly all the world esteems thee, 
 
 And a poet may declare, 
 That the wise should place reliance 
 On the efforts of thy science 
 
 To diminish human care. 
 
 Bring thy hidden truth to daylight, 
 
 And I'll ne'er complain of thee ; 
 Dull thou'rt calPd and dullness cumbers, 
 Yet there's wisdom in thy numbers; 
 Leave my numbers unto me. 
 
 Each of us fulfills a duty, 
 
 And, though scorn'd, I'll cling to mine, 
 With a passion ever growing, 
 In my heart to overflowing ; 
 
 Cling thou with as much to thine. 
 
 TJwu 'rt a preacher ; I'm a prophet: 
 Thou discoursest to thy time ; 
 
 / discourse to generations ; 
 
 And the thoughts of unborn nations 
 Shall be fashion' d by my rhyme. 
 
 Thou, to dubious politicians, 
 
 Staid, and passionless, and slow, 
 Givest pros and cons with candor, 
 Bland and patient, ever blander 
 As thy trim deductions flow. 
 
THE POET AND THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST. 267 
 
 / send forth electric flashes 
 
 To the bosom of the crowd ; 
 Rule its pulses, cheer its sadness, 
 Make it throb and pant with gladness, 
 
 Till it answers me aloud. 
 
 Not for me to linger idly, 
 
 Gathering garlands by the way ; 
 Singing but of flowers and sunsets, 
 Lovers' vows, or nightly onsets, 
 
 Or of ladies fair as May. 
 
 No, the poet loves his calling, 
 
 Nature's lyre is all his own ; 
 He can sweep its strings prophetic, 
 Till the nations, sympathetic, 
 
 Gather breathless to its tone. 
 
 For he knows the PEOPLE listen 
 
 When a mighty spirit speaks, 
 And that none can stir them duly 
 But the man that loves them truly, 
 
 And from them his impulse seeks. 
 
 What they feel, but cannot utter ; 
 
 What they hope for day and night;. 
 These the words by which he fires them, 
 Prompts them, leads them, and inspires them 
 
 To do battle for the right. 
 
 These the words by which the many 
 Cope for justice with the few ; 
 
VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 These their watchwords, when oppression 
 Would resist the small concession 
 But a fraction of their due. 
 
 These the poet, music-hearted, 
 Blazons to the listening land ; 
 And for these all lands shall prize him, 
 Though the foolish may despise him, 
 Or the wise misunderstand. 
 
 Go thy way, then, man of logic, 
 
 In thy fashion, speak thy truth ; 
 Thou hast fix'd, and I have chosen; 
 Thou shalt speak to blood that's frozen, 
 I to vigor and to youth. 
 
 Haply we shall both be useful, 
 
 And, perchance, more useful thou, 
 
 If their full degree of merit 
 
 Unto other moods of spirit 
 Thou wilt cherfully allow. 
 
 As for me, I fear no scorning, 
 
 And shall speak with earnest mind 
 
 What is in me ; self-rewarded 
 
 If I aid, though unregarded, 
 The advancement of my kind. 
 
TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS. 
 
 AFRAID of critics ! an unworthy fear : 
 
 Great minds must learn their greatness and be bold. 
 
 Walk on thy way ; bring forth thine own true thought ; 
 
 Love thy high calling only for itself, 
 
 And find in working recompense for work, 
 
 And Envy's shaft shall whiz at thee in vain. 
 
 Despise not censure ; weigh if it be just, 
 
 And if it be amend, whate'er the thought 
 
 Of him who cast it. Take the wise man's praise, 
 
 And love thyself the more that thou couldst earn 
 
 Meed so exalted ; but the blame of fools 
 
 Let it blow over like an idle whiff 
 
 Of poisonous tobacco in the streets, 
 
 Invasive of thy unoffending nose. 
 
 Their praise no better, only more perfumed. 
 
 The Critics let me paint them as they are. 
 Some few I know, and love them from my soul : 
 Polish'd, acute, deep read ; of inborn taste 
 Cultured into a virtue ; full of pith 
 And kindly vigor ; having won their spurs 
 In the great rivalry of friendly mind, 
 
270 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 And generous to others, though unknown ; 
 
 Who would, having a thought, let all men know 
 
 The new discovery. But these are rare ; 
 
 And if thou find one, take him to thy heart, 
 
 And think his unbought praise both palm and crown, 
 
 A thing worth living for, were nought beside. 
 
 Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true thyself; 
 
 And look for fame, now, if the wise approve, 
 
 Or, from a wiser jury yet unborn. 
 
 The Poetaster may be harm'd enough, 
 
 But Criticasters cannot crush a Bard. 
 
 If to be famous be thy sole intent, 
 
 And greatness be a mark beyond thy reach, 
 
 Manage the critics, and thou 'It win the game; 
 
 Invite them to thy board, and give them feasts, 
 
 And foster them with unrelaxing care ; 
 
 And they will praise thee in their partial sheets, 
 
 And quite ignore the work of better men. 
 
 But if thou wilt not court them let them go, 
 
 And scorn the praise that sells itself for wine, 
 
 Or tacks itself upon success alone, 
 
 Hanging like spittle on a rich man's beard. 
 
 One, if thou 'rt great, will cite from thy new book 
 The tamest passage, something that thy soul 
 Revolts at, now the inspiration 's o'er, 
 And would give all thou hast to blot from print 
 And sink into oblivion, and will vaunt 
 The thing as beautiful, transcendent, rare 
 The best thing thou hast done. Another friend, 
 With finer sense, will praise thy greatest thought, 
 
TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS. V.'7 I 
 
 Yet cavil at it ; putting in his ' buts ' 
 
 And ' yets ' and little obvious hints, 
 
 That though 'tis good, the critic could have made 
 
 A work superior in its every part. 
 
 Another, in a pert and savage mood, 
 
 Without a reason, will condemn thee quite, 
 
 And strive to quench thec in a paragraph. 
 
 Another with dishonest waggery, 
 
 Will twist, misquote, and uttterly pervert 
 
 Thy thought and words ; and hug himself meanwhile 
 
 In the delusion, pleasant to his soul, 
 
 That thou art crush' d, and he a gentleman. 
 
 Another with a specious fair pretence, 
 Immaculately wise, will skim thy book, 
 And self-sufficient, from his desk look down 
 With undisguised contempt on thee and thine ; 
 And sneer and snarl thee from his weekly court, 
 From an idea, spawn of his conceit, 
 That the best means to gain a great renown 
 For wisdom, is to sneer at all the world, 
 With strong denial that a good exists ; 
 That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, stale, 
 Except this critic who outshines mankind. 
 
 Another, with a foolish zeal, will prate 
 Of thy great excellence ; and on thy head 
 Heap epithet on epithet of praise 
 In terms preposterous, that thou wilt blush 
 To be so smother'd with such fulsome lies. 
 Another, calmer, with laudations thin, 
 Unsavory and weak, will make it seem 
 
272 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 That his good nature, not thy merit, prompts 
 
 The baseless adulation of his pen. 
 
 Another, with a bull-dog's bark, will bay 
 
 Foul names against thee for some fancied slight 
 
 Which thou ne'er dream' d of, and will damn thy work 
 
 For spite against the worker ; while the next, 
 
 Who thinks thy faith or politics a crime, 
 
 Will bray displeasure from his monthly stall, 
 
 And prove thee dunce, that disagreest with him. 
 
 And, last of all, some solemn sage, whose nod 
 
 Trimestrial, awes a world of little wits, 
 
 Will carefully avoid to name thy name, 
 
 Although thy words are in the mouths of men 
 
 And thy ideas in their inmost hearts, 
 
 Moulding events, and fashioning thy time 
 
 To nobler efforts. Little matters it : 
 
 Whate'er thou art, thy value will appear. 
 
 If thou art bad, no praise will buoy thee up ; 
 
 If thou art good, no censure weigh thee down, 
 
 Nor silence, nor neglect prevent thy fame. 
 
 So fear not thou the critics ! Speak thy thought ; 
 
 And, if thou'rt worthy, in the people's love 
 
 Thy name shall live, while lasts thy mother tongue. 
 
TRUE FREEDOM, 
 
 AND HOW TO GAIN IT. 
 
 I. 
 
 WE want no flag, no flaunting rag, 
 
 For LIBERTY to fight ; 
 We want no blaze of murderous guns, 
 
 To struggle for the right. 
 Our spears and swords are printed words, 
 
 The mind our battle-plain ; 
 We've won such victories before, 
 
 And so we shall again. 
 
 ii. 
 We love no triumphs sprung of force 
 
 They stain her brightest cause : 
 'Tis not in blood that Liberty 
 
 Inscribes her civil laws. 
 She writes them on the people's heart 
 
 In language clear and plain ; 
 True thoughts have moved the world before, 
 
 And so they shall again. 
 18 
 
274 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 III. 
 
 We yield to none in earnest love 
 
 Of freedom's cause sublime ; 
 We join the cry, ' FRATERNITY ! ' 
 
 We keep the march of Time. 
 And yet we grasp nor pike nor spear, 
 
 Our victories to obtain ; 
 We've won without their aid before, 
 
 And so we shall again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We want no aid of barricade 
 
 To show a front to wrong ; 
 We have a citadel in truth, 
 
 More durable and strong. 
 Calm words, great thoughts, unflinching faith, 
 
 Have never striv'n in vain ; 
 They've won our battles many a time, 
 
 And so they shall again. 
 
 v. 
 Peace, progress, knowledge, brotherhood 
 
 The ignorant may sneer, 
 The bad deny ; but we rely 
 
 To see their triumph near. 
 No widows' groans shall load our cause, 
 
 No blood of brethren stain ; 
 We've won without such aid before, 
 
 And so we shall again. 
 
THE DYING MOTHER. 
 
 THE angels call me lo, I come ! 
 Children, I die ! I'm going home ! 
 All pangs, save one, have pass'd away, 
 All griefs and sufferings of clay, 
 Except this lingering, fond distress, 
 That yields not to forgetfulness 
 The last affection of my heart, 
 The pain, the grief, that we must part. 
 
 No more ! a hope to sorrow given 
 Says earthly love may bloom in heaven, 
 May soar, if pure, to God's right hand : 
 I go, I seek the happy land. 
 Ah ! no, not yet ; the sunshine fair 
 Revives me for a while : the air 
 Blows calm and cool. Oh, living breath ! 
 It gives me strength to look on death. 
 
 It gives me courage to implore, 
 By all the love you ever bore, 
 A foolish, fond, but last request, 
 That you will choose my place of rest, 
 
276 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 In the green fields, beneath a tree, 
 Where west winds linger lovingly, 
 Where dews may drop and buds may bloom, 
 And moonlight sleep upon my tomb. 
 
 I would not that my bones should lie 
 (Forgive the earthly vanity) 
 In rotting churchyards of the town, 
 Dishonor'd, public, trodden down, 
 To be disturb'd, untomb'd, exposed, 
 The secrets of my grave disclosed, 
 Ere kind decay had blurr'd the line 
 Of form and feature that were mine. 
 
 Although no pangs can touch our dust, 
 And death is stingless on the just, 
 Yet grant my prayer, and lay my clod 
 Far from the town, beneath the sod. 
 Who strews a flower, or drops a tear, 
 Or sighs, when passing crowds may hear 
 Or watches fondly over graves 
 Where busy Traffic works her slaves ? 
 
 Husband, I die my peace is won ; 
 
 I linger, but my race is run. 
 
 Oh ! choose a grave where I may sleep, 
 
 Untroubled, in a silence deep; 
 
 Where thou, perchance, at evening's hour, 
 
 May'st o'er my headstone drop a flower; 
 
 And where each sunny Sabbath day, 
 
 The children may come forth to pray. 
 
THE DYING MOTHER. 277 
 
 Farewell, the world ! Come kiss my lips ! 
 My soul grows dark 'tis life's eclipse. 
 Husband, farewell I'm going hence 
 I loved thee love thee parting sense 
 Abide, and let my tongue bestow 
 A mother's blessing ere I go. 
 The angels call me lo ! I come 
 Children ! I die I'm going home ! 
 
TO IMPATIENT GENIUS. 
 
 PAINTER that with soul-creations 
 Would 'st attain th' applause of nations ; 
 And deserve a name of glory 
 To be writ in future story ; 
 
 Work thy way. 
 
 Live with Nature, love her truly, 
 Wisely, wholly : and so duly 
 
 Bide thy day. 
 
 With high thoughts thy mind adorning, 
 Heed no critic's shallow scorning, 
 
 Nor at yelping curs repine : 
 Every light must cast a shadow, 
 
 So must thine. 
 
 Sculptor, with ambition glowing, 
 Steep thyself to overflowing 
 In the majesty and greatness, 
 Strength, and beauty, and sedateness 
 
 Of th' antique : 
 But forget not living Nature, 
 Heavenly in its form and feature, 
 
 For the Greek. 
 
TO IMPATIENT GENIUS. 279 
 
 Beauty is renew'd for ever : 
 Let its love support endeavor, 
 
 Though neglect enwrap thee now 
 Work: and men will find a laurel 
 For thy brow. 
 
 Poet, singing in the earnest 
 
 Love and Hope with which thou burnest, 
 
 And upon a lofty summit 
 
 Sounding nature with the plummet 
 
 Of thy song : 
 
 Grieve not if thy voice be chidden, 
 And thy tuneful lustre hidden 
 
 Under wrong. 
 
 Scorn not Fame, but rise above it; 
 Truth rewards the minds that love it ; 
 Like the planets shine and sing ; 
 Noontide follows every morning, 
 
 Summer, spring. 
 
 One and all, be up and doing ; 
 Glory needs incessant wooing; 
 And if Faith not mere ambition 
 Prompts you to a noble mission, 
 
 You shall rise : 
 
 But the acorn, small and flower-like, 
 Must have time to flourish bower-like 
 
 To the skies. 
 
 Bide you yours : of wealth not lustful ; 
 Ever patient, calm, and trustful : 
 
 Years shall magnify your bole, 
 And produce immortal foliage 
 
 Of the soul. 
 
THE GOLDEN CITY. 
 
 JUNE, 1846. 
 
 WEARY and sickening of the dull debate 
 
 And clang of politics ; weary of hate 
 
 And sorrow, and calamity, and crime 
 
 Of daily history told us in our time ; 
 
 Weary of wrong that rear'd its hydra head 
 
 And hiss'd from all its mouths ; dispirited 
 
 With rich man's apathy to poor man's hurt, 
 
 And poor men's ignorance of their own desert, 
 
 And for a moment hopeless of mankind 
 
 And that great cause, the nearest to my mind, 
 
 Progress the dream of poet and of sage 
 
 I lean'd back in my chair, and dropp'd the page 
 
 Diurnal, fill'd with all the misery, 
 
 And fell asleep ; if sleeping it could be 
 
 When, in their natural sequence in the brain, 
 
 Thought folio w'd thought, more palpable and plain 
 
 Than when I waked ; when words took music's voice, 
 
 And all my being inly did rejoice. 
 
 And what I saw, I sang of at the time, 
 
 With ease unparallel'd by waking rhyme, 
 
THE GOLDEN CITY. 281 
 
 And to this tune, which, many a day since then, 
 A haunting music has come back again. 
 
 Oh the golden city, 
 
 Shining far away ! 
 With its domes and steeples tall, 
 And the sunlight over all ; 
 
 With the waters of a bay 
 Rippling gently at its feet, 
 Dotted over with a fleet ; 
 Oh the golden city so beautiful to see ! 
 It shall open wide its portals, 
 
 And I'll tell you if it be 
 The city of the happy, 
 
 The city of the free. 
 
 Oh the glorious city, 
 
 Shining far away ! 
 In its boundaries every man 
 Makes his happiness a plan, 
 
 That he studies night and day, 
 Till he thinks it not alone, 
 Like his property, his own : 
 Oh the glorious city so beautiful to see ! 
 But spreads it round about him, 
 
 Till all are bless' d as he ; 
 His mind an inward sunshine, 
 
 And bright eternally. 
 
 Oh the splendid city, 
 Gleaming far away ! 
 
282 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Every man by Love possess'd 
 Has a priest within his breast, 
 
 And, whene'er he kneels to pray, 
 Never breathes a thought unkind 
 Against men of other mind : 
 Oh the glorious city so beautiful to see ! 
 But knows that God Eternal 
 
 Will shower all blessings free 
 On hearts that live to love Him, 
 
 And cling to Charity. 
 
 Oh the gorgeous city, 
 
 Shining far away ! 
 Where a Competence is bliss, 
 And each man that lives has this 
 
 For his labor of the day ; 
 A labor not too hard, 
 And a bountiful reward : 
 Oh the glorious city so beautiful to see ! 
 Where mighty wheels creative 
 
 Revolve incessantly, 
 And Science gains to cheer him 
 
 A daily Victory. 
 
 Oh the glorious city, 
 
 Shining far away ! 
 Neither Misery nor Crime, 
 Nor the wrongs of ancient Time, 
 
 Nor the Kingly lust of sway 
 Ever come within its wall, 
 To degrade or to enthral : 
 
THE GOLDEN CITY. 283 
 
 Oh the glorious city so Ira utiful to see ! 
 But Peace and Love, and Knowledge, 
 
 The civilizing Three, 
 Still prove by GOOD that has been 
 The BETTER that may be. 
 
 Thus dream'd I, to this rhythm, or something near, 
 
 But far more copious, musical, and clear ; 
 
 And when I waken'd, still my fancy ran 
 
 'Twas not all dream ; and that large Hopes for man 
 
 Were not such idle visions as the wise, 
 
 In days like ours, should heedlessly despise : 
 
 I thought that Love might be Religion yet, 
 
 Not form alone, but soul and substance met; 
 
 The guide, the light, the glory of the mind, 
 
 Th' electric link uniting all mankind ; 
 
 That if men loved, and made their Love the Law, 
 
 All else would follow : more than ever saw 
 
 Poet or Prophet in the utmost light 
 
 Of heavenly glory opening on his sight. 
 
 But dream, or no dream, take it as it came : 
 
 It gave me hope, it may give you the same. 
 
 And as bright Hopes make the Intention strong, 
 
 Take heart with me, and muse upon my song. 
 
THE ENGLISH PEEP-O'-DAY-BOYS. 
 
 KNOW ye not the Peep-o'-day-boys ? 
 
 Bound, both heart and hand, 
 To do something worth the doing 
 
 For our English land ? 
 Though no rebels and no traitors, 
 
 Yet a plot we've laid : 
 English hearts, we pray you give it 
 
 Countenance and aid ; 
 And the watchword, if you'll join us, 
 
 You shall learn anon : 
 Hear it learn it think upon it : 
 
 * On for ever on!' 
 
 Sanguine are the Peep-o'-day-boys : 
 
 Solemn league we've sworn, 
 That we '11 fight a strenuous battle 
 
 For each child that's bom : 
 And maintain with growing fervor 
 
 Its inherent right, 
 Not to bread and raiment only, 
 
 But to mental light 
 To the food of Education, 
 
 To be kept from none : 
 
THE ENGLISH PEEP-o'-DAY-BOYS. 285 
 
 Join the phalanx, shouting with us 
 ' On for ever on /' 
 
 And we hopeful Peep-o' -day-boys, 
 
 Shamed by Vice and Crime, 
 Think we '11 manage to reform them : 
 
 Only give us time. 
 And as Ignorance is mother 
 
 Of the teeming brood, 
 We have vow'd to cease no effort 
 
 Till she is subdued : 
 Sturdy war we'll make against her, 
 
 Till her strength is gone : 
 Aid us ; and repeat the watchword, 
 
 ' On for ever on ! ' 
 
 Other plots, we Peep-o'-day-boys, 
 
 Hour by hour, advance ; 
 And such hatred have we taken 
 
 To Intemperance, 
 As the plague-spot of the people, 
 
 Poisoning brain and heart, 
 That we 've sworn to struggle with it 
 
 On the People's part, 
 And already gain'd some triumphs 
 
 And a benison : 
 Join our league ; and pass the watchword, 
 
 1 On for ever on!' 
 
 Then we think the Hangman's office 
 Ought not to endure : 
 
286 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Cruel quacks are not our doctors, 
 
 Killing's not our cure. 
 And 'tis portion of our compact, 
 
 Sworn with earnest faith, 
 That we'll make a sinecurist 
 
 Of this man of death 
 Both his trade and his example 
 
 Out of date are gone. 
 Aid the plot ; and pass the watchword, 
 
 ' On for ever on ! ' 
 
 And we active Peep-o'-day-boys, 
 
 Busy as we are, 
 Still have time to pick a quarrel 
 
 With the demon War. 
 Many a plot we form to thwart him : 
 
 And success, though slow, 
 Shall at last reward our efforts, 
 
 And we'll smite him low. 
 Late or early we shall vanquish 
 
 This Apollyon : 
 Join us aid us pass the watchword, 
 
 * On for ever on ! ' 
 
 Now you know the Peep-o'-day-boys ; 
 
 And they are not few : 
 .Over all the land you'll find them 
 
 Zealous, firm, and true ; 
 Never wearying in the struggle, 
 
 Lagging ne'er a jot : 
 Friend or foe, you're pledged to join us, 
 
 Now you 're in the plot ; 
 
THE ENGLISH PEEP-o'-DAY-BOYS. 287 
 
 You're the master of our secret 
 
 Power of choice is gone : 
 Take the vows; and pass the watchword, 
 
 ' On for ever on ! ' 
 
THE DEPOSITION OF KING CLOG. 
 
 KING CLOG was a mighty monarch, 
 
 He sat on his lofty seat, 
 With his golden crown and his ermine-down, 
 
 And his courtiers at his feet. 
 His power seem'd firm as the mountains 
 
 Inert but strong was he ; 
 And he ruled the land with a heavy hand, 
 
 And a placid tyranny. 
 And whenever a boon was asked him, 
 
 He stared with a calm amaze, 
 And said, ' Ye foolish people, 
 
 Ye must stand on the ancient ways.' 
 
 And long o'er the suffering nations 
 
 King CLOG and his courtiers ruled, 
 And men half wise, who could use their eyes, 
 
 And were taught, and train'd, and schooPd, 
 Conceived this ponderous monarch 
 
 Was bountiful, wise, and good ; 
 And held it just to kneel in the dust 
 
 And smear him with gratitude. 
 And whenever the people murmur'd, 
 
 The king and his statesmen frown'd, 
 
THE DEPOSITION OF KING CLOG. 289 
 
 But stoutly refused to aid them, 
 And so the world went round. 
 
 He was a drowsy monarch, 
 
 They were a drowsy crew, 
 And from hour to hour, in their pride of power, 
 
 Duller and drowsier grew : 
 But a cry for reformation, 
 
 Which rose for evermore, 
 Disturb'd their sleep with its mutterings deep, 
 
 And stirr'd them to the core : 
 * We will not change,' said the courtiers, 
 
 * For change is ever an ill ; 
 We '11 crush these restless people, 
 
 If we cannot keep them still.' 
 
 But CLOG, like all things mortal, 
 
 " Decay 'd as he grew old, 
 He loved to dose, in warm repose, 
 
 High on his throne of gold. 
 And the people saw his weakness, 
 
 And shouted in his ear, 
 ' We've groan'd too long in sorrow and wrong : 
 
 Awake ! let the right appear.' 
 And the king, with eyes half open'd, 
 
 A lingering answer sent : 
 1 Let me alone, ye rabble 
 
 And toil and be content.' 
 
 'We're weary of our bondage,' 
 Said they : ' Oh, king, be just ; 
 19 
 
290 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 We delve and spin, but cannot win 
 
 Our raiment and our crust ; 
 We ask no boon from favor 
 
 That Justice should not give ; 
 From cradle to grave we groan and slave, 
 
 And die that we may live.' 
 But CLOG replied, hard-hearted, 
 
 ( Your sires were wise as you ; 
 They never complained ; poor wretches, 
 
 Ye know not what ye do.' 
 
 But still the people clamor' d, 
 
 And the cry o'er the nation spread 
 ' Freedom of speech, freedom to teach, 
 
 Freedom to earn our bread ; 
 These must we have, O monarch ! 
 
 Whether you will or no ; 
 Too long we've pined, body and mind, 
 
 In ignorance and woe.' 
 ' Let me alone, I pray you,' 
 
 Said CLOG, ' nor vex my soul ; 
 As the world has roll'd for ages, 
 
 So must it ever roll.' 
 
 And he folded his arms on his bosom, 
 
 And slept, and never heard 
 The measured beat of the trampling feet, 
 And the oft-repeated word 
 That came from the solemn conclave 
 
 Of the people, met to plan 
 Some better laws, to aid the cause 
 
 Of the happiness of man : 
 
THE DEPOSITION OF KING CLOG. 291 
 
 Nor the voices loud resounding, 
 
 Like waves upon the shore, 
 That proclaimed to the listening nations 
 
 That CLOG should rule no more. 
 
 But JOG, the next successor, 
 
 Who understood his time, 
 Stepp'd on the throne : ' Father, begone : 
 
 To linger is a crime. 
 Go to thy bed and slumber, 
 
 And leave the world to me ; 
 Thy mission's done; thy race is run 
 
 I'm ruler of the free.' 
 So CLOG retired, obedient, 
 
 And JOG, his son, was crown'd. 
 We hope he '11 govern better : 
 
 And so the world goes round. 
 
THE OLD PHILOSOPHER'S ADVICE 
 TO A YOUNG ONE, 
 
 WHO WAS AFRAID TO SPEAK HIS MIND ON A GREAT QUESTION, 
 
 SHAME upon thee, craven spirit ! 
 
 Is it manly, just or brave, 
 If a truth have shone within thee, 
 
 To conceal the light it gave ? 
 Captive of the world's opinion 
 
 Free to speak but yet a slave ? 
 
 All conviction should be valiant 
 Tell thy truth if truth it be ; 
 
 Never seek to stem its current, 
 Thoughts like rivers find the sea ; 
 
 It will fit the widening circle 
 Of Eternal Verity. 
 
 Speak thy thought if thou believ'st it, 
 
 Let it jostle whom it may, 
 Ev'n though the foolish scorn it, 
 
 Or the obstinate gainsay : 
 Every seed that grows to-morrow, 
 
 Lies beneath a clod to-day. 
 
THE OLD PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 If our sires, the noble-hearted 
 
 Pioneers of things to come, 
 Had like thee been weak and timid, 
 
 Traitors to themselves, and dumb ; 
 Where would be our present knowledge, 
 
 Where the hoped Millennium ? 
 
 Where would be triumphant Science, 
 Searching with her fearless eyes, 
 
 Through the infinite creation 
 In the soul that underlies, 
 
 Soul of Beauty, soul of Goodness, 
 Wisdom of the earth and skies ? 
 
 Where would be all great Inventions, 
 Each from by-gone fancies born, 
 
 Issued first in doubt and darkness, 
 Launched 'mid apathy or scorn ? 
 
 How could noontime ever light us, 
 But for dawning of the morn ? 
 
 Where would be our free opinion, 
 Where the right to speak at all, 
 
 If our sires like thee, mistrustful, 
 Had been deaf to duty's call, 
 
 And concealed the thoughts within them, 
 Lying down for fear to fall ? 
 
 Should an honest thought, outspoken, 
 Lead thee into chains or death 
 
 What is life, compared with Virtue ? 
 Shalt thou not survive thy breath ! 
 
294 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Hark ! the future age invites thee ! 
 Listen, trembler ! what it saith ! 
 
 It demands thy thought in Justice, 
 Debt, not tribute of the free ; 
 
 Have not ages long departed, 
 
 Groaned and toiled and bled for thee ? 
 
 If the Past have lent thee wisdom, 
 Pay it to Futurity. 
 
ELLEN EVELINA. 
 
 THOU hast smiles for all the world, 
 
 Ellen Evelina ; 
 
 Beautiful those smiles may be, 
 Warm as sunshine and as free ; 
 But I'd rather, I confess, 
 Love a maid, who, smiling less, 
 Gave her sweetest smiles to me, 
 
 Ellen Evelina. 
 
 Thou canst win the world's applause, 
 
 Ellen Evelina; 
 Thou'rt a wit and bel esprit, 
 Living upon flattery ; 
 But I'd rather all my days 
 Love a woman, seeking praise, 
 Not from others, but from me, 
 
 Ellen Evelina. 
 
 When thou singest, hearts beat low, 
 
 Ellen Evelina; 
 Admiration great and free 
 Lingers on thy melody ; 
 
296 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But no song, however fair, 
 
 In my fancy can compare 
 
 With a whispered ' I love thee,' 
 
 Ellen Evelina. 
 Oft I think against my will, 
 
 Ellen Evelina, 
 Notwithstanding all I see, 
 Bright and beautiful in thee, 
 That thou lovest, Oh my belle, 
 Thy enchanting self too well, 
 To give love enough to me, 
 
 Ellen Evelina. 
 
 Thou hast chosen so have I 
 
 Ellen Evelina ; 
 In thy track I'll cease to run, 
 I will end as I begun ; 
 She whom I would choose for life, 
 For my love, my friend, my wife, 
 Must have heart and thou hast none,. 
 
 Ellen Evelina. 
 
LADY JANE. 
 
 OH, Lady Jane, dear Lady Jane, 
 
 Those beautiful and earnest eyes 
 Have shot their beams through many a brain, 
 
 And prompted many a world of sighs. 
 No wonder ! stony-hard and cold 
 
 Were he, who gazing on their light 
 Ay, were he eighty winters old 
 
 Felt no pulsation of delight. 
 
 But tell us, dearest Lady Jane, 
 
 What secret witchery and spell 
 Hast thou to rule the hearts of men, 
 
 That not the hardest can rebel ? 
 The hearts of men ? Not theirs alone ; 
 
 For women do not love thee less ; 
 Thou hast some secret of thine own, 
 
 Thou saucy little sorceress ! 
 
 The blind old beggar on the road, 
 Fed by thy bounty, loves thee more 
 
 For gentle sympathy bestowed, 
 Than for the tribute from thy store. 
 
298 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 The peevish beldame, sour'd by want, 
 And teased by urchins far and near, 
 
 Selects thee for her confidant, 
 
 And breathes her sorrows in thine ear. 
 
 The kittens on the hearth prefer 
 
 Thy soft caress, than ours more sweet ; 
 And jealous hound, and snarling cur 
 
 Frolic with pleasure at thy feet. 
 The parrot swinging to and fro, 
 
 That sulks at others talks to thee ; 
 And tearful babes forget their woe 
 
 And cuddle, happy, round thy knee. 
 
 In fact, there 's something, lady dear, 
 
 In thee, and on thee, and about, 
 A power a charm an atmosphere 
 
 A fascination in and out, 
 That make all creatures, high and low, 
 
 Love thee and trust thee. Tell us, then, 
 The reason why we love thee so 
 
 Thou little fairy, Lady Jane ! 
 
 What can it be ? for I confess 
 
 I know of beauty great as thine ; 
 Yet if it be not loveliness, 
 
 'Tis something in thee more divine. 
 'Tis not thy wit or eloquence 
 
 And thou hast both in ample store ; 
 'T is not thy birth or wealth or sense 
 
 That makes us captive evermore. 
 
LADY JANE. 299 
 
 What is it then ? Thou canst not say 
 
 Then let me tell thcc, Lady Jane : 
 'Tis bright good humor, warm as day 
 
 'Tis sympathy for others' pain 
 'Tis heart, and mind, and patience rich 
 
 'Tis loving-kindness, failing never; 
 These are thy spells, thou potent witch 
 
 We can't resist we're thine for ever! 
 
THE HISTORY OF A PAIR OF EYES. 
 
 ' You tell the history of mine eyes ? 
 
 Well some men's fancies are unruly ! 
 'T would take three volumes at the least 
 
 Ay twenty, if you told it truly.' 
 ' No matter : let me try the task, 
 
 Though possibly my heart may rue it, 
 If, gazing on their light meanwhile, 
 
 I strive to render justice to it. 
 
 ' One morn 'twas twenty Mays ago 
 
 The meadows gleamed with flowery whiteness, 
 When on the world those eye -lids oped, 
 
 And showed their inner orbs of brightness ; 
 Two litttle gem-like spheres they were, 
 
 That knew no change of day or morrow ; 
 Yet shone 'mid tears, as if to prove 
 
 The joy that had been shown 'mid sorrow. 
 
 ' Ere May a second time return' d, 
 
 Those little worlds were worlds of graces ; 
 
 They looked upon the earth and sky 
 And knew the light of loving faces. 
 
THE HISTORY OF A PAIR OF EYE^ 301 
 
 They wept they glittered wept again 
 And friends from strangers could remember, 
 
 And garner* d smiles beneath their lids, 
 To dart like meteors of November. 
 
 1 Seven springs and summers cheer' d the earth 
 
 Seven winters howl'd with stormy bluster, 
 And every season as it passed, 
 
 Left on those eyes increasing lustre. 
 They glow'd with many a baby-joy, 
 
 Suffused with tears of childlike gladness, 
 And sparkled with affections pure 
 
 With hopes, and sympathies, and sadness. 
 
 ' Ten years ; and then on Nature's face, 
 
 Their long and silken lashes under, 
 At sunlight, starlight, or the moon, 
 
 They gazed with pleasure or with wonder. 
 They loved all lovely things of earth 
 
 They beam'd with every sweet emotion 
 Turn'd to the ground with modest grace, 
 
 Or look'd to Heaven with young devotion. 
 
 ' But sixteen seasons wrought a change 
 
 They learn' d a secret by this token : 
 That they could read in others' eyes 
 
 The admiration never spoken. 
 They learned what tell-tale mirrors showed 
 
 That whosoe'er might flout their bearer, 
 There might be maids as fair, perchance, 
 
 But not a living maiden fairer. 
 
302 * VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 * The knowledge brought its natural fruit, 
 
 But being linked with gentle feeling, 
 With sense, and modesty, and truth, 
 
 And virtue, past my wits' revealing ; 
 Men's hearts were overthrown at once, 
 
 And through the world, you bright enslaver, 
 You walked a thing of life and light 
 
 On whom to look was joy and favor. 
 
 ' The hearts you wounded, who shall count ? 
 
 Talk of three volumes of romances ! 
 A hundred could not chronicle 
 
 The hurts, fatalities, mischances ! 
 I cannot tell such endless tales 
 
 Half through, or quarter ; who could read 'em ? 
 Then, oh, be spiteful heartless vain 
 
 And leave, oh, leave us to our freedom ! 
 
 ' But while, as now, you win our hearts 
 
 By sense and virtue, wit and kindness, 
 We gaze we doat we kneel we pray 
 
 The wisest worst, for utter blindness. 
 Take pity, Clara, make your choice 
 
 The story of your eyes I 've told you ; 
 The sooner wed, the better fate 
 
 For those who hope as they behold you. 7 
 
 So sang a knight of olden time ; 
 
 The eyes he praised, with pleasure shining; 
 And Clara tripping from the porch, 
 
 Unloosed his arms around her twining. 
 
THE HISTORY OF A PAIR OF EYES^ 
 
 'I've made my choice, for love is blind, 
 And it has proved my wits' undoing ; 
 
 So fix the day, you foolish knight 
 I'll marry you, and stop your wooing ! ' 
 
MY PLAYFELLOW. 
 
 WHAT though you're only five years old, 
 
 A little roguish, romping fairy, 
 And I'm a man of care and toil 
 
 We 're comrades true, my little Mary ! 
 We 're friends, and playmates, close and fond 
 
 And heedless of the wind or weather ; 
 Out-doors or in, 'tis all the same, 
 
 We leap, and laugh, and run together. 
 
 We love to sit upon the grass 
 
 In summer days, in shady valleys, 
 Or play at merry ' hide-and-seek ' 
 
 Behind the trees in garden alleys. 
 And don't we wander forth alone, 
 
 To gather crops of meadow-daisies ? 
 Or hunt the noisy grasshopper 
 
 In all his green and secret places ? 
 
 And don't we catch the butterfly, 
 With mealy pinions, sailing lightly ? 
 
 And don't you, when I let him free, 
 Gravely decide, I acted rightly ? 
 
MY PLAYFELLOW. 305 
 
 And don't wo teach the dog to beg, 
 
 And little puss to frisk and caper ? 
 And don't I paint you birds and fish, 
 
 And cut you purses out of paper ? 
 
 And don't we spin our humming-top 
 
 Together on the parlor table ? 
 And don't your father call me fool, 
 
 And smile to utter such a fable ? 
 And don't I tell you fairy tales, 
 
 At intercession of your mother ? 
 And don't you kiss me when I've done, 
 
 And ask rne to begin another ? 
 
 And don't you oft, with hands outstretched, 
 
 And eyes that shine like sun-lit fountains, 
 Protest you love me ' big as trees ' 
 
 ' Big as the world and all its mountains ? ' 
 And don't you sometimes fall asleep, 
 
 Lock'd in my arms, quite worn and weary ? 
 And don't I carry you to bed, 
 
 Too drowsy for your prayers, my deary ? 
 
 Oh, yes ! we 're friends, and comrades true, 
 
 There's not a bit of guile about you ; 
 You shed such light about your path, 
 
 I'd think the world was dark without you. 
 And if to fourscore years I live, 
 
 However Time and Fate may vary, 
 I'll wish no better friend than you, 
 
 My little, laughing, romping Mary. 
 20 
 
THE DOUBTFUL CASE OF ABSTINENCE AND TEM- 
 PERANCEWITH THE UMPIRE'S OPINION. 
 
 THE WATER-DRINKERS. 
 
 As long as there are wells and springs, 
 
 And clear, refreshing fountains, 
 As long as mighty rivers run 
 
 To ocean, from the mountains, 
 As long as seas give back to clouds 
 
 The rains that form the river, 
 We '11 drink our draughts of water pure, 
 
 And bless the bounteous Giver. 
 
 THE WINE-DRINKERS. 
 
 As long as vineyards yield the grape, 
 
 And nectarines grow mellow, 
 As long as apples load the trees, 
 
 And barley-fields are yellow, 
 We'll drink our cider, ale, or mead, 
 
 And wine, the best of liquors, 
 And press whatever juice we please 
 
 To fill our flowing bickers. 
 
THE DOUBTFUL CASE. 30? 
 
 THE WATER-DRINKERS. 
 
 Let those who toast the lords of war, 
 
 And demi-gods of battle, 
 Prefer the draught of fiery wine, 
 
 And make the tables rattle ; 
 We drink to men of fearful deeds, 
 
 To men abhorring slaughter, 
 The civilizers of the Earth, 
 
 And here 's to them ! in water ! 
 
 Let those whose fitful passions rove 
 
 From new to newer beauty, 
 Drink to their changeful loves in wine, 
 
 And scorn the charms of duty ; 
 We drink the mild domestic hearth, 
 
 The wife, the son, the daughter 
 The bright fireside of honest men 
 
 And here 's to it ! in water ! 
 
 THE WINE-DRINKERS. 
 
 Let you, who are so puling weak 
 
 So lost to self-reliance, 
 As not to trust your own resolve 
 
 To bid excess defiance ; 
 Drink, if you will, at pumps and wells, 
 
 Lest use of wine should hurt you ; 
 We '11 taste the blessings Heaven has sent, 
 
 Nor think denial virtue. 
 
 Poor souls ! you fear not other men, 
 You dread internal treason, 
 
308 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But if you starved for fear you'd choke, 
 You'd show as much of reason. 
 
 We too can honor virtuous love, 
 And fame unbought of slaughter 
 
 We'll drink to both in wholesome wine ; 
 And wash ourselves in water ! 
 
 THE UMPIRE'S OPINION. 
 Like every umpire ever named, 
 
 A doubtful case to settle, 
 I can but say, I like ye both, 
 
 Oh goblet ! and oh kettle ! 
 Whene'er I drink to honest hearts, 
 
 I'll drink with equal pleasure, 
 The limpid water from the brook, 
 
 Or wine in flowing measure. 
 
 Let those, who, masters of themselves, 
 
 Can use without abusing, 
 Drink the good wine whate'er it be 
 
 I leave it to their choosing. 
 But those who feel their want of strength, 
 
 When woo'd by potions richer, 
 Are wise if they confine their draughts 
 
 To water from the pitcher. 
 
STREET COMPANIONS. 
 
 WHENE'ER through Gray's Inn porch I stray, 
 I meet a spirit by the way ; 
 He wanders with me all alone, 
 And talks with me in under-tone. 
 
 The crowd is busy seeking gold, 
 It cannot see what I behold ; 
 I and the spirit pass along 
 Unknown, unnoticed, in the throng. 
 
 While on the grass the children run, 
 And maids go loitering in the sun, 
 I roam beneath the ancient trees, 
 And talk with him of mysteries. 
 
 The dull brick houses of the square, 
 The bustle of the thoroughfare, 
 The sounds, the sights, the tramp of men, 
 Are present, but forgotten then. 
 
 I see them, but I heed them not, 
 I hear, but silence clothes the spot ; 
 
310 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 All voices die upon my brain, 
 Except that spirit's in the lane. 
 
 He breathes to me his burning thought. 
 He utters words with wisdom fraught, 
 He tells me truly what I am 
 I walk with mighty Verulam. 
 
 He goes with me through crowded ways, 
 A friend and mentor in the maze, 
 Through Chancery Lane to Lincoln's Inn, 
 To Fleet Street, through the moil and din. 
 
 I meet another spirit there, 
 A blind old man with forehead fair, 
 Who ever walks the right-hand side, 
 Toward the fountain of St. Bride. 
 
 Amid the peal of jangling bells, 
 Or peoples' roar that falls and swells, 
 The whirl of .wheels and tramp of steeds, 
 He talks to me of noble deeds. 
 
 I hear his voice above the crush, 
 As to and fro the people rush ; 
 Benign and calm, upon his face 
 Sits Melancholy, robed in grace. 
 
 He hath no need of common eyes, 
 He sees the fields of Paradise ; 
 He sees and pictures unto mine 
 A gorgeous vision, most divine. 
 
STREET COMPANIONS. 311 
 
 He tells the story of the Fall, 
 He names the fiends in battle-call, 
 And shows my soul, in wonder dumb, 
 Heaven, Earth, and Pandemonium. 
 
 He tells of Lycidas the good, 
 And the sweet lady in the wood, 
 And teaches wisdom, high and holy, 
 In mirth and heavenly melancholy. 
 
 And oftentimes, with courage high, 
 He raises freedom's rallying cry; 
 And, ancient leader of the van, 
 Asserts the dignity of man 
 
 Asserts the rights with trumpet tongue, 
 That Justice from Oppression wrung, 
 And poet, patriot, statesman, sage, 
 Guides by his own a future age. 
 
 With such companions at my side, 
 I float on London's human tide ; 
 An atom on its billows thrown, 
 But lonely never, nor alone. 
 
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 
 
 LATE or early home returning, 
 In the starlight or the rain, 
 I beheld that lonely candle 
 Shining from his window-pane. 
 Ever o'er his tattered curtain, 
 Nightly looking, I could scan, 
 Aye inditing, 
 Writing writing, 
 The pale figure of a man ; 
 Still discern behind him fall 
 The same shadow on the wall. 
 
 Far beyond the murky midnight, 
 
 By dim burning of my oil, 
 
 Filling aye his rapid leaflets, 
 
 I have watched him at his toil ; 
 
 Watched his broad and seamy forehead, 
 
 Watched his white industrious hand, 
 
 Ever passing 
 
 And repassing ; 
 
 Watched, and strove to understand 
 
 What impelled it gold, or fame 
 
 Bread, or bubble of a name. 
 
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 313 
 
 Oft I've asked, debating vainly 
 In the silence of my mind, 
 What the services he rendered 
 To his country or his kind ; 
 Whether tones of ancient music, 
 Or the sound of modern gong, 
 Wisdom holy, 
 Humors lowly, 
 Sermon, essay, novel, song, 
 Or philosophy sublime, 
 Filled the measure of his time. 
 
 Of the mighty world of London 
 He was portion unto me, 
 Portion of my life's experience, 
 Fused into my memory. 
 Twilight saw him at his folios, 
 Morning saw his fingers run. 
 Laboring ever, 
 Wearying never 
 Of the task he had begun ; 
 Placid and content he seemed, 
 Like a man that toiled and dreamed. 
 
 No one sought him, no one knew him, 
 Undistinguished was his name ; 
 Never had his praise been uttered 
 By the oracles of fame. 
 Scanty fare and decent raiment, 
 Humble lodging, and a fire 
 These he sought for, 
 These he wrought for, 
 
314 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 And he gained his meek desire ; 
 Teaching men by written word 
 Clinging to a hope deferred. 
 
 So he lived. At last I missed him ; 
 
 Still might evening twilight fall, 
 
 But no taper lit his lattice 
 
 Lay no shadow on his wall. 
 
 In the winter of his seasons, 
 
 In the midnight of his day, 
 
 'Mid his writing, 
 
 And inditing, 
 
 Death had beckoned him away, 
 
 Ere the sentence he had planned 
 
 Found completion at his hand. 
 
 But this man so old and nameless 
 Left behind him projects large, 
 Schemes of progress undeveloped, 
 Worthy of a nation's charge ; 
 Noble fancies uncompleted, 
 Germs of beauty immatured, 
 Only needing 
 Kindly feeding 
 
 To have flourished and endured ; 
 Meet reward in golden store 
 To have lived for evermore. 
 
 Who shall tell what schemes majestic 
 Perish in the active brain ? 
 What humanity is robbed of, 
 Ne'er to be restored again ? 
 
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 315 
 
 What we lose because we honor 
 
 Overmuch the mighty dead, 
 
 And dispirit 
 
 Living merit, 
 
 Heaping scorn upon its head ? 
 
 Or perchance, when kinder grown, 
 
 Leaving it to die alone ? 
 
MARY AND LADY MARY; 
 
 OR, NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS. 
 
 THE Lady Mary's placid eyes 
 Beam with no hopes, no memories ; 
 Beneath their lids no tear-drops flow 
 For Love or Pity, Joy or Woe. 
 She never knows, too barren she, 
 The fruitfulness of sympathy ; 
 She never weeps for others' pain, 
 Or smiles, except in her disdain. 
 
 Her face is pallid as the pearl, 
 
 Her hair is sleek, without a curl ; 
 
 With finger-tip she condescends 
 
 To touch the fingers of her friends, 
 
 As if she feared their palms might brand 
 
 Some moral stigma on her hand ; 
 
 Her pulse is calm, milk-white her skin, 
 
 She hath not blood enough to sin. 
 
 o 
 
 A very pattern, sage and staid, 
 Of all her sex a model maid ; 
 
MARY AND LADY MARY. 317 
 
 Clear star bright paragon of men 
 She breaks no law of all the ten ; 
 Pure to the sight as snow-peakM hill 
 As inaccessible and chill 
 In sunshine but repelling heat 
 And freezing in her own conceit. 
 
 If ever known to breathe a sigh, 
 
 It was for lack of flattery. 
 
 Though cold, insensible and dull, 
 
 Admirers call her beautiful ; 
 
 She sucks their incense, breathes it, doats 
 
 On her own praise, that gently floats 
 
 On Fashion's wave and lies in wait 
 
 To catch admirers of her state. 
 
 t 
 
 In published charities, her name 
 Stands foremost, for she buys her fame ; 
 At church men see her thrice a-wcek, 
 In spirit proud, in aspect meek; 
 Wearing Devotion like a mask, 
 So marble cold, that sinners ask, 
 Beholding her at Mercy's throne, 
 ' Is this a woman or a stone ? ' 
 
 But different, far, the little maid, 
 
 That dwells unnoticed in the shade 
 
 Of Lady Mary's pomp and power; 
 
 A Mary, too, a simple flower, 
 
 With face all health, with cheeks all smile, 
 
 Undarkened by one cloud of guile ; 
 
 And ruddy lips that seem to say, 
 
 ' Come kiss me, children, while ye may.' 
 
318 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 A cordial hand, a chubby arm, 
 And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm ; 
 Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust, 
 A look all innocence, all trust, 
 Lit up at times by sunny mirth, 
 Like summer smiling on the earth ; 
 A ringing laugh, whose every note 
 Bursts in clear music from her throat. 
 
 A painter's daughter poor, perchance, 
 
 But rich in native elegance ; 
 
 God bless the maid she may not be 
 
 Without some touch of vanity. 
 
 She twines red rose-buds in her hair, 
 
 And smiles to know herself so fair ; 
 
 And quite believes, like other belles, 
 
 The pleasant tale her mirror tells. 
 
 A very woman, full of tears, 
 Hopes, blushes, tendernesses, fears, 
 Griefs, laughter, kindness, joys and sighs, 
 Loves, likings, friendships, sympathies ; 
 A heart to feel for every woe, 
 And pity, if not dole, bestow ; 
 A hand to give from scanty store, 
 A look to wish the offering more. 
 
 In artless faith and virtue strong, 
 Too loving to do Love a wrong; 
 She takes delight in simple things, 
 And in the sunshine works and sings. 
 Sweet bird ! so meekly innocent, 
 The foulest hawk that ever rent 
 
MARY AND LADY MARY. 319 
 
 A trusting heart, would gaze, and fly, 
 And spare her in her purity. 
 
 Take Lady Mary ye who will, 
 Her woods, her castle on the hill, 
 Her lands o'er half a county spread 
 And wither in her loveless bed ; 
 But give me Mary, frank and free, 
 Her beauty, grace, and modesty ; 
 I pass My Lady in the mart 
 I take the Woman with the heart. 
 
ABOVE AND BELOW. 
 
 MIGHTY river, oh, mighty river, 
 
 Rolling in ebb and flow for ever, 
 
 Through the city so vast and old ; 
 
 Through massive bridges by domes and spires, 
 
 Crowned with the smoke of a myriad fires ; 
 
 City of majesty, power, and gold ; 
 
 Thou lovest to float on thy waters dull 
 
 The white-winged fleets so beautiful, 
 
 And the lordly steamers speeding along, 
 
 Wind-defying, and swift and strong ; 
 
 Thou bearest them all on thy motherly breast, 
 
 Laden with riches, at Trade's behest 
 
 Bounteous Trade, whose wine and corn 
 
 Stock the garner and fill the horn, 
 
 Who gives us Luxury, Joy, and Pleasure, 
 
 Stintless, sumless, out of measure 
 
 Thou art a rich and a mighty river, 
 
 Rolling in ebb and flow for ever. 
 
 Doleful river, oh, doleful river, 
 
 Pale on thy breast the moonbeams quiver, 
 
ABOVE AND BELOW. 321 
 
 Through the city so drear and cold 
 City of sorrows hard to bear, 
 Of guilt, injustice, and despair 
 City of miseries untold ; 
 Thou hidest below, in thy treacherous waters, 
 The death-cold forms of Beauty's daughters ; 
 The corses pale of the young and sad 
 Of the old whom sorrow has goaded mad 
 Mothers of babes that cannot know 
 The sires that left them to their woe 
 Women forlorn, and men that run 
 The race of passion, and die undone; 
 Thou takest them all in thy careless wave, 
 Thou givest them all a ready grave ; 
 Thou art a black and a doleful river, 
 Rolling in ebb and flow for ever. 
 
 In ebb and flow for ever and ever 
 So rolls the world, thou murky river, 
 So rolls the tide, above and below : 
 Above, the rower impels his boat ; 
 Below, with the current the dead men float ; 
 The waves may smile in the sunny glow, 
 While above, in the glitter, and pomp, and glare, 
 The flags of the vessels flap the air ; 
 But below in the silent under-tide, 
 The waters vomit the wretch that died : 
 Above, the sound of the music swells, 
 From the passing ship, from the city bells ; 
 From below there cometh a gurgling breath, 
 As the desperate diver yields to death : 
 21 
 
322 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Above and below the waters go, 
 Bearing their burden of Joy or Wo ; 
 Rolling along, thou mighty river, 
 In ebb and flow for ever and ever. 
 
JOHN LITTLEJOHN. 
 
 JOHN LITTLEJOHN was staunch and strong, 
 
 Upright and downright, scorning wrong ; 
 
 He gave good weight, and paid his way, 
 
 He thought for himself, and he said his say. 
 
 Whenever a rascal strove to pass, 
 
 Instead of silver, money of brass, 
 
 He took his hammer, and said, with a frown, 
 
 * The coin is spurious, nail it down? 
 
 John Littlejohn was firm and true, 
 
 You could not cheat him in * two and two ; ' 
 
 "When foolish arguers, might and main, 
 
 Darkened and twisted the clear and plain, 
 
 He saw through the mazes of their speech 
 
 The simple truth beyond their reach ; 
 
 And crushing their logic, said, with a frown, 
 
 * Your coin is spurious, nail it down? 
 
 John Littlejohn maintained the right, 
 Through storm and shine, in the world's despite ; 
 When fools or quacks desired his vote, 
 Dosed him with arguments, learned by rote, 
 
324 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Or by coaxing, threats, or promise, tried 
 To gain his support to the wrongful side, 
 4 Nay, nay? said John, with an angry frown, 
 4 Your coin is spurious, nail it down? 
 
 When told that kings had a right divine, 
 
 And that the people were herds of swine, 
 
 That nobles alone were fit to rule, 
 
 That the poor were unimproved by school, 
 
 That ceaseless toil was the proper fate 
 
 Of all but the wealthy and the great, 
 
 John shook his head, and swore, with a frown, 
 
 ' The coin is spurious, nail it down? 
 
 When told that events might justify 
 
 A false and crooked policy, 
 
 That a decent hope of future good 
 
 Might excuse departure from rectitude, 
 
 That a lie if white was a small offence 
 
 To be forgiven by men of sense, 
 
 4 Nay, nay,' said John, with a sigh and frown, 
 
 * The coin is spurious, nail it down? 
 
 When told from the pulpit or the press, 
 
 That heaven was a place of exclusiveness, 
 
 That none but those could enter there 
 
 Who knelt with the < orthodox ' at prayer, 
 
 And held all virtues out of their pale 
 
 As idle works of no avail, 
 
 John's face grew dark, as he swore, with a frown, 
 
 ' The coin is spurious, nail it down.' 
 
JOHN LITTLEJOHN. 325 
 
 Whenever the world our eyes would hlind 
 
 With false pretences of such a kind, 
 
 With humbug, cant, and bigotry, 
 
 Or a specious, sham philosophy, 
 
 With wrong dressed up in the guise of right, 
 
 And darkness passing itself for light, 
 
 Let us imitate John, and exclaim, with a frown, 
 
 ' The coins are spurious, nail them down.'' 
 
THE POOR MAN'S BIRD. 
 
 A YEAR ago I had a child, 
 A little daughter fair and mild ; 
 More precious than my life to me, 
 She sleeps beneath the churchyard tree. 
 Oh ! she was good as she was fair, 
 Her presence was like balmy air ; 
 She was a radiance in my room, 
 She was sunlight in my gloom. 
 
 She loved thee well, thou little bird, 
 Her voice and thine were ever heard ; 
 They roused me when the morning shone, 
 But now I hear thy voice alone. 
 She called me gently to her side, 
 Gave me her bird, and, smiling, died. 
 Thou wert her last bequest to me ; 
 I loved her fondly I love thee. 
 
 'Tis true, I often think it hard, 
 Sweet lark, to keep thee here imbarred, 
 Whilst thou art singing all day long, 
 As if the fields inspired thy song, 
 
THE POOR MAN'S BIRD. 327 
 
 As if the flow'rs, the woods, the streams, 
 Were present in thy waking dreams ; 
 But yet, how can I let thee fly ? 
 What could'st thou do with liberty ? 
 
 What could'st thou do ? Alas, for me ! 
 What should / do if wanting thee, 
 Sole relic of my Lucy dear ? 
 There needs no talk thou 'rt prisoner here. 
 But I will make thy durance sweet, 
 I'll bring thee turf to cool thy feet; 
 Fresh turf, with daisies tipped in pink, 
 And water from the well to drink. 
 
 I need thee. Were it not to choose, 
 Ere sunshine dry the morning dews, 
 Thy fresh green turf, I should not stray 
 Out to the fields the live-long day 
 I should be captive to the town, 
 And waste my life in alleys brown ; 
 Thy wants impel me to the sward, 
 And Nature's face is my reward. 
 
 Sweet bird, thou 'wakenest by thy song 
 Bright memories and affections strong; 
 At sight of thee I dream of flowers, 
 And running streams, and branching bowers ; 
 But most of her whose little face 
 Was luminous with love and grace ; 
 Thou art a link I may not break 
 I love thee for my Lucy's sake. 
 
UNKNOWN ROMANCES. 
 
 OFT have I wandered when the first faint light 
 
 Of morning shone upon the steeple vanes 
 Of sleeping London, through the silent night, 
 
 Musing on memories of joys and pains ; 
 And looking down long vistas of dim lanes 
 
 And shadowy streets, one after other spread 
 In endless coil, have thought what hopes now dead 
 
 Once bloomed in every house, what tearful rains 
 Women have wept for husband, sire, or son, 
 
 What love and sorrow ran their course in each, 
 And what great silent tragedies were done ; 
 
 And wished the dumb and secret walls had speech, 
 That they might whisper to me, one by one, 
 
 The sad true lessons that their walls might teach. ^ 
 
 n. 
 Close and forgetful witnesses, they hide, 
 
 In nuptial chamber, attic, or saloon, 
 Many a legend sad of desolate bride 
 
 And mournful mother, blighted all too soon ; 
 
UNKNOWN ROMANCES. 329 
 
 Of strong men's agony, despair, and pride, 
 
 And mental glory darkened ere its noon. 
 But let the legends perish in their place, 
 
 For well I know where'er these walls have seen 
 Humanity's upturned and heavenly face, 
 
 That there has virtue, there has courage been 
 That ev'n 'mid passions foul, and vices base, 
 
 Some ray of goodness interposed between. 
 Ye voiceless houses, ever as I gaze, 
 
 This moral flashes from your walls serene. 
 
THE FLOATING STRAW. 
 
 A THOUGHT IN THE COMMERCIAL PANIC OF 1847- 
 
 THE wild waves are my nightly pillows, 
 
 Beneath me roll th' Atlantic billows ; 
 
 And as I rest on my couch of brine 
 
 I watch the eternal planets shine. 
 
 Ever I ride 
 
 On a harmless tide, 
 
 Fearing naught enjoying all things 
 
 Undisturbed by great or small things. 
 
 Alas ! for the lordly vessel 
 
 That sails so gallantly. 
 
 The winds may dash it, 
 
 The storms may wash it, 
 
 The lightnings rend its tall masts three ; 
 
 But neither the wind, nor the rain, nor the sea 
 
 Can injure me can injure me. 
 
 The lightnings cannot strike me down, 
 
 Whirlwinds wreck, or whirlpools drown ; 
 
 And the ship to be lost ere the break of morn, 
 
 May pass o'er my head in saucy scorn ; 
 
THE FLOATING STRAW. 331 
 
 And when the night unveils its face, 
 I may float, unharmed, in my usual place, 
 And the ship may show to the pitying stars 
 No remnant but her broken spars. 
 
 Among the shells 
 In the ocean dells 
 
 The ships, the crews, and the captains lie, 
 But the floating straw looks up to the sky. 
 And the humble and contented man, 
 Unknown to fortune, escapes her ban, 
 And rides secure when breakers leap, 
 And mighty ships go down to the deep. 
 
 May pleasant breezes waft them home 
 That plough with their keels the driving foam. 
 Heaven be their hope, and Truth their law ; 
 There needs no prayer for the floating straw. 
 
A QUESTION ANSWERED 
 
 WHAT to do to make thy fame 
 Live beyond thee in the tomb ? 
 
 And thine honorable name 
 
 Shine, a star, through History's gloom ? 
 
 Seize the Spirit of thy Time, 
 Take the measure of his height, 
 
 Look into his eyes sublime, 
 
 And imbue thee with their light. 
 
 Know his words e'er they are spoken, 
 And with utterance loud and clear, 
 
 Firm, persuasive, and unbroken, 
 Breathe them in the people's ear. 
 
 Think whate'er the Spirit thinks, 
 Feel, thyself, whate'er he feels, 
 
 Drink at fountains where he drinks, 
 And reveal what he reveals. 
 
A QUESTION ANSWERED. 333 
 
 And whate'er thy medium be, 
 
 Canvas, stone, or printed sheet, 
 Fiction, or philosophy, 
 
 Or a ballad for the street ; 
 
 Or, perchance, with passion fraught, 
 Spoken words, like lightnings thrown, 
 
 Tell the people all thy thought, 
 And the world shall be thine own. 
 
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 
 
 WHAT might be done if men were wise 
 What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, 
 
 Would they unite, 
 
 In love and right, 
 And cease their scorn of one another ? 
 
 Oppression's heart might be imbued 
 With kindling drops of loving-kindness, 
 
 And knowledge pour, 
 
 From shore to shore, 
 Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 
 
 All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, 
 All vice and crime might die together ; 
 
 And wine and corn, 
 
 To each man born, 
 Be free as warmth in summer weather. 
 
 The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
 The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 
 
 Might stand erect 
 
 In self-respect, 
 And share the teeming world to-morrow. 
 
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 335 
 
 What might be done ? This might bo done, 
 And more than this, my suffering brother 
 More than the tongue 
 Ever said or sung, 
 If men were wise and loved each other. 
 
THE GOLDEN MADNESS. 
 
 BY the road-side there sat an aged man, 
 
 Who all day long^from dawn into the night 
 
 Counted with weary fingers heaps of stones. 
 
 His red eyes dropped with rheum, his yellow hands 
 
 Trembled with palsy, his pale sunken cheeks 
 
 Were marked with deep and venerable seams, 
 
 His flat bald brow was ever bent to earth, 
 
 His few grey hairs waved to the passing winds, 
 
 His straggling teeth, blackened and carious, 
 
 Rattled and tumbled from his bloodless gums. 
 
 I spoke him kindly, saying, ' W r hy this toil 
 
 At task like this, cracking thy rotten bones, 
 
 To gain nor health, nor recompense, nor thanks ? ' 
 
 He made no answer, but went counting on, 
 
 Mumbling and muttering slowly to himself, ' 
 
 Chinking the stones with melancholy sound, 
 
 Piece after piece ; looking nor right, nor left, 
 
 Nor upwards, but aye down upon the heap. 
 
 I asked again, ' What is it that thou dost, 
 
 Wasting the remnant of thy days in toil, 
 
 Without fruition to thyself or kind, 
 
 As earnestly as if these stones were gold, 
 
THE GOLDEN MADNESS. 337 
 
 And all thine own to spend and to enjoy ? * 
 
 He looked upon me with a vacant eye, 
 
 And stopped not in his task. 'Gold ! didst thou say? 
 
 They are gold precious, ready coined, and pure, 
 
 And all mine own to spend and to enjoy, 
 
 When I have counted them. So, get thee gone, 
 
 Unless thou art a borrower or a thief, 
 
 When I shall summon aid to make thee go, 
 
 And scourge thee for thy pains.' And aye he chinked 
 
 The flints, and pebbles, and small chips of slate, 
 
 One after one, muttering their numbers o'er, 
 
 At every hundred stopping for awhile 
 
 To rub his withered palms, and eye the heap 
 
 With idiot happiness, ere he resumed. 
 
 There came a stranger by the way. I asked 
 If he knew aught of this forlorn old man. 
 < Right well,' he said ; ' the creature is insane, 
 And hath been ever since he had a beard. 
 He first went mad for greediness of gold.' 
 ' Know ye his story ? ' ' Perfectly,' said he. 
 ' Look how he counts his miserable flints 
 And bits of slate. Twelve mortal hours each day 
 He sits at work, summer and winter both. 
 'Mid storm or sunshine, heat or nipping frost, 
 He counts and counts ; and since his limbs were young, 
 Till now that he is crooked and stiffened old, 
 He hath not missed a day. The silly wretch 
 Believes each stone a lump of shining gold, 
 And that he made a bargain with the fiend, 
 That if he 'd count one thousand million coins 
 Of minted gold, audibly, one by one, 
 22 
 
VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 The gold should be his own the very hour 
 When he had told the thousand millionth piece ; 
 Provided always, as such bargains go, 
 The fiend should have his soul in recompense. 
 
 ' Unskilled in figures but brimful of greed, 
 He chuckled at his bargain, and began ; 
 And for a year reckoned with hopeful heart. 
 At last a glimpse of light broke on his sense, 
 And showed the fool that millions quickly said 
 Were not so quickly counted as he thought. 
 But still he plies his melancholy task, 
 Dreaming of boundless wealth and curbless power, 
 And slavish worship from his fellow-men. 
 
 ' If he could reckon fifty thousand stones 
 Daily, and miss no day in all the year, 
 'T would take him five-and-fifty years of life 
 To reach the awful millions he desires. 
 He has been fifty of these years or more 
 Feeding his coward soul with this conceit. 
 Exposed to every blast, starved, wretched, old, 
 Toothless, and clothed with rags and squalidness, 
 He eyes his fancied treasure with delight, 
 And thinks to cheat the devil at the last. 
 Look at his drivelling lips, his bloodshot eyes, 
 His trembling hands, his loose and yellow skin, 
 His flimsy rottenness, and own with me 
 That this man's madness, though a piteous thing, 
 Deserves no pity, for the avarice 
 So mean and filthy that was cause of it.' 
 
 I gazed once more upon his wrinkled face, 
 Vacant with idiotcy, and went my way 
 
THE GOLDEN MADNESS. 339 
 
 Filled with disgust and sorrow, for I deemed 
 
 That his great lunacy was but a type 
 
 Of many a smaller madness as abject, 
 
 That daily takes possession of men's hearts 
 
 And blinds them to the uses of their life. 
 
 Poor fool ! he gathers stones they gather gold 
 
 With toil and moil, thick sweat and grovelling thought ; 
 
 He has his flints, and they acquire their coin. 
 
 And who 's the wiser ? Neither he nor they. 
 
THE MOWERS. 
 
 AN ANTICIPATION OF THE CHOLERA, JANUARY, 1848. 
 
 DENSE on the stream the vapors lay, 
 Thick as wool on the cold highway ; 
 Spongy and dim each lonely lamp 
 Shone o'er the streets so dull and damp ; 
 The moonbeam could not pierce the cloud 
 That swathed the city like a shroud. 
 There stood three Shapes on the bridge alone, 
 Three figures by the coping stone ! 
 Gaunt, and tall, and undefined, 
 Spectres built of mist and wind ; 
 Changing ever in form and height, 
 But black and palpable to sight. 
 
 'This is a city fair to see,' 
 Whispered one of the fearful three ; 
 ' A mighty tribute it pays to me. 
 Into its river, winding slow, 
 
 Thick and foul from shore to shore, 
 The vessels come, the vessels go, 
 
 And teeming lands their riches pour. 
 
THE MOWERS. 341 
 
 It spreads beneath the murky sky 
 A wilderness of masonry ; 
 Huge, unshapely, overgrown, 
 Dingy brick and blackened stone. 
 Mammon is its chief and lord, 
 Monarch slavishly adored ; 
 Mammon sitting side by side 
 With Pomp, and Luxury, and Pride ; 
 Who call his large dominions theirs, 
 Nor dream a portion is Despair's. 
 
 ' Countless thousands bend to me 
 
 In rags and purple, in hovel and hall, 
 
 And pay the tax of misery 
 
 With tears and blood, and spoken gall. 
 
 Whenever they cry 
 
 For aid to die, 
 
 I give them courage to dare the worst, 
 
 And leave their ban on a world accurst. 
 
 I show them the river so black and deep, 
 
 They take the plunge, they sink to sleep ; 
 
 I show them poison, I show them rope, 
 
 They rush to death without a hope. 
 
 Poison, and rope, and pistol ball, 
 
 Welcome either, welcome all ! 
 
 I am the lord of the teeming town 
 
 I mow them down, I mow them down !' 
 
 ' Aye thou art great, but greater I,' 
 The second spectre made reply ; 
 ' Thou rulest with a frown austere, 
 Thy name is synonym of Fear. 
 
342 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But I, despotic and hard as thou, 
 Have a laughing lip, an open brow. 
 I build a temple in every lane, 
 
 I have a palace in every street; 
 And the victims throng to the doors amain, 
 
 And wallow like swine beneath my feet. 
 To me the strong man gives his health, 
 The wise man reason, the rich man wealth, 
 Maids their virtue, youth its charms, 
 And mothers the children in their arms. 
 Thou art a slayer of mortal men 
 Thou of the unit, I of the ten ; 
 Great thou art, but greater I, 
 To decimate humanity. 
 'Tis Jam the lord of the teeming town 
 / mow them down, I mow them down ! ' 
 
 ' Vain boasters, to exult at death,' 
 
 The third replied, ' so feebly done ; 
 I ope my jaws, and with a breath 
 
 Slay thousands while you think of one. 
 All the blood that Csesar spilled, 
 
 All that Alexander drew, 
 All the hosts by " glory" killed, 
 
 From Agincourt to Waterloo, 
 Compared with those whom I have slain, 
 Are but a river to the main. 
 I brew disease in stagnant pools, 
 
 And wandering here, disporting there, 
 Favored much by knaves and fools, 
 
 I poison streams, I taint the air ; 
 I shake from my locks the spreading pest, 
 I keep the typhus at my behest ; 
 
THE MOWERS. 313 
 
 In filth and slime 
 
 I crawl, I climb. 
 
 I find the workman at his trade, 
 
 I blow on his lips and down he lies ; 
 
 I look in the face of the ruddiest maid, 
 And straight the fire forsakes her eyes 
 She droops, she sickens, and she dies; 
 
 I stint the growth of babes new born, 
 
 Or shear them off like standing corn ; 
 
 I rob the sunshine of its glow, 
 
 I poison all the winds that blow ; 
 
 Whenever they pass they suck my breath, 
 
 And freight their wings with certain death. 
 
 'Tis Jam the lord of the crowded town 
 
 7 mow them down, I mow them down ! 
 
 1 But great as we are, there cometh one 
 
 Greater than you greater than I, 
 To aid the deeds that shall be done, 
 To end the work that we 've begun, 
 
 And thin this thick humanity. 
 I see his footmarks east and west, 
 
 I hear his tread in the silence fall, 
 He shall not sleep, he shall not rest 
 
 He comes to aid us one and all. 
 Were men as wise as men might be, 
 They would not work for you, for me, 
 For him that cometh over the. sea ; 
 But they will not heed the warning voice. 
 The Cholera comes, rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 He shall be lord of the swarming town, 
 And mow them down, and mow them down ! ' 
 
SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. 
 
 I'M poor and quite unknown, 
 
 I have neither fame nor rank ; 
 My labor is all I own, 
 
 I have no gold at the bank ; 
 I'm one of the common crowd, 
 
 Despised of the passers-by, 
 Contemned by the rich and proud - 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 I want, and I cannot obtain, 
 
 The luxuries of the earth ; 
 My raiment is scant and plain, 
 
 And I live in the fear of dearth ; 
 While others can laugh or sing, 
 
 I have ever some cause to sigh ; 
 I'm a weary wanderling 
 
 Said I to myself^ said I. 
 
 But is this grieving just ? 
 
 Is it wise to fret and wail ? 
 Is it right, thou speck of dust, 
 
 Thine envy should prevail ? 
 
SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. 
 
 Is it fitting thou should'st close 
 Thy sight to the sunny sky, 
 
 And an utter dark suppose ? 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 If poor, thou hast thy health ; 
 
 If humble, thou art strong ; 
 And the lark, that knows not wealth, 
 
 Ever sings a happy song. 
 The flow'rs rejoice in the air, 
 
 And give thy needs the lie ; 
 Thou 'rt a fool to foster care, 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 If the wants of thy pride be great, 
 
 The needs of thy health are small, 
 And the world is the man's estate 
 
 Who can wisely enjoy it all. 
 For him is the landscape spread, 
 
 For him do the breezes ply, 
 For him is the day-beam shed 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 For him are the oceans rolled, 
 
 For him do the rivers run, 
 For him doth the year unfold 
 
 Her bounties to the sun ; 
 For him, if his heart be pure, 
 
 Shall common things supply 
 All pleasures that endure 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
346 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 For him each blade of grass 
 
 Waves pleasure as it grows : 
 For him, as the light clouds pass, 
 
 A spirit of beauty flows ; 
 For him, as the streamlets leap, 
 
 Or the winds on the tree-tops sigh, 
 Comes a music sweet and deep 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 Nor of earth are his joys alone, 
 
 How mean soever his state 
 On him from the starry zone 
 
 His ministering angels wait ; 
 With him in voiceless thought 
 
 They hold communion high; 
 By them are his fancies fraught 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
 I will mould my life afresh, 
 
 I will circumscribe desire ; 
 Farewell to ye, griefs of flesh ! 
 
 And let my soul aspire. 
 I will make my wishes few, 
 
 That my joys may multiply ; 
 Adieu, false wants, adieu ! 
 
 Said I to myself, said I. 
 
AN APPEAL TO PARIS. 
 OCTOBER, 1847. 
 
 [At the time these Hues were written and published, the author did not 
 expect that his prediction of a revolution would be so speedily fulfilled ; nor 
 that a despotism would so shortly emerge from the re-establishment of the 
 Republic. He still hopes (1852) that the liberty of the French people will yet 
 result.] 
 
 BEAUTIFUL Paris ! morning star of nations ! 
 The Lucifer of cities ! Lifting high 
 The beacon blaze of young democracy ! 
 Medina and Gomorrha both in one 
 Medina of a high and holy creed, 
 To be developed in a coming time ; 
 Gomorrha, rampant with all vice and guilt : 
 Luxurious, godless, grovelling, soaring Paris, 
 Laden with intellect, and yet not wise : 
 Metropolis of satire and lampoon, 
 Of wit, of elegance, of mirth, of song, 
 And fearful tragedies done day by day, 
 Which put our hair on end in the open streets : 
 The busy hive of awful memories, 
 The potent arbiter of popular will, 
 The great electric centre whence the shocks 
 
348 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Of pulsing freedom vibrate through the world : 
 
 Beautiful Paris ! sacred to our hearts, 
 
 With all thy folly, all thy wickedness, 
 
 If but for Bailly, Vergniaud, Gensonne, 
 
 And noblest Roland, she of Roman soul, 
 
 And the great patriots and friends of man, 
 
 Who went to death for holy liberty. 
 
 Lift up thy voice, oh, Paris ! once again, 
 
 And speak the thought that labors in thy breast. 
 
 Shake off thy gauds and tinsels be thyself; 
 
 Cease thy lewd jests, and heartless revelries, 
 
 And adorations of all worthless things 
 
 Thy scorn, thy sarcasm, and thy unbelief, 
 
 And in the conflict and the march of men 
 
 Do justice to thy nature, and complete 
 
 The glorious work, so gloriously begun 
 
 By the great souls of pregnant eighty-nine. 
 
 Come forth, oh, Paris ! freed from vice and stain, 
 
 Like a young warrior, dallying too long 
 
 With loving women, wasting precious hours 
 
 In base delights and enervating sloth, 
 
 Who, when he shakes them off, puts back his hair 
 
 From his broad brow, and places on his head 
 
 The plumed helmet throws his velvets off, 
 
 And swathes his vigorous limbs in glancing steel, 
 
 To lead true hearts to struggle for mankind. 
 
 Or if no more, soldier of liberty, 
 
 Thou 'It lead the nations stand upon the hill, 
 
 And, like a prophet, preach a holy creed 
 
 Of freedom, progress, peace, and happiness ; 
 
 And all the world shall listen to thy voice, 
 
 And Tyranny, hyena big with young, 
 
AN APPEAL TO PARIS. 349 
 
 Dreading the sound, shall farrow in affright, 
 
 And drop, still-born, her sanguinary cubs, 
 
 And many a bloody feud be spared mankind. 
 
 Poland again, with desperate grasp, shall seize 
 
 The neck of her enslaver, and extort 
 
 Full justice from his terror. Hungary, 
 
 Ermined and crowned, shall sit in her own seat 
 
 In peaceful state and sober majesty. 
 
 And Italy, unloosening her bonds 
 
 By her strong will, shall be at last the home 
 
 Of broadly based and virtuous liberty ; 
 
 And in her bosom nurture evermore, 
 
 Not the fierce virtues of her Roman youth, 
 
 But the calm blessings of her later time 
 
 Science and art, and civilizing trade, 
 
 Divine philosophy, diviner song, 
 
 And true religion reconciled with man. 
 
 Speak out, oh, Paris ! Purify thyself 
 
 By noble thoughts, and deeds will follow them. 
 
 The world has need of thee. Humanity 
 
 Droops for thy dalliance with degraded things, 
 
 Alien, and most unworthy of the soul 
 
 That sleeps within thee. Rouse thyself, oh, Paris ! 
 
 The time expects thee. Pyrenees, and Alps, 
 
 And Appenines, and snow-clad Balkans, wait, 
 
 With all their echoes, to repeat the words 
 
 Which thou must utter ! Thou hast slumbered long 
 
 Long dallied. Speak ! The world will answer thee ! 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 TRUE thoughts, your days of grief are done, 
 No more shall scorn or hate impede you 
 Born in the light, where'er the sun 
 Shines on mankind, mankind shall heed you. 
 
 So grow, ye grains of mustard-seed, 
 
 Grow each into a tree, 
 
 And kindle, sparks, to beal-fires bright, 
 
 That all the earth may see ; 
 
 And spread, ye thoughts of Truth and Right, 
 
 O'er all humanity. 
 
 Time was when thoughts bore tears and death 
 To the wise few that dared to raise them ; 
 Time is when thoughts are living breath, 
 And the world's throbbing heart obeys them. 
 
 So grow, ye grains of mustard-seed, 
 
 Grow each into a tree, 
 
 And kindle, sparks, to beal-fires bright, 
 
 That all the earth may see ; 
 
 And spread, ye workers for the Right, 
 
 Onwards eternally. 
 
THE PIIILOSOPHIST. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 HE turns to heaven his small grey eyes, 
 He opes his lips in pompous wise, 
 And lets his measured accents fall 
 With a rough burr and northern drawl, 
 As he expounds his theories. 
 
 He talks of Nature and her laws, 
 
 Of man, the mind, the great First Cause, 
 
 Demand, supply, life, death, increase, 
 
 The over-fruitfulness of peace, 
 
 And prates upon them, clause by clause. 
 
 War, like a thunder-storm, quoth he, 
 Is moral electricity ; 
 It thins the heavy air, makes clear 
 The dense and dangerous atmosphere 
 O'erladen with humanity. 
 
 'Tis cruel shame, mistake most dire, 
 That men should mate in young desire, 
 
352 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 And trust alone to honest toil, 
 The kindly heaven, the genial soil, 
 For food, and shelter, and attire. 
 
 He thinks it time the truth were said 
 That mouths, too many to be fed, 
 Swarm on the superpopulous land, 
 And that small wit may understand 
 That stupid peasants should not wed. 
 
 He thinks it decent, for the sake 
 Of lords with large domains at stake, 
 That ' common people ' should not breed 
 More plenteously than they can feed, 
 And that steam husbandmen would ' take. 
 
 If each poor couple, boors and clowns, 
 Or dirty artizans of towns, 
 Would, when they wed, produce but two 
 To take their place in season due, 
 Philosophy might spare its frowns ; 
 
 But this not chancing, he declares 
 The rich alone should live in pairs, 
 And for their sake each other man 
 Consume as little as he can, 
 And die unmated in his cares. 
 
 He thinks, while sympathy is sure, 
 That mendicancy is the cure 
 For pauperism ; that 't is not right 
 To mulct the rich in their despite, 
 But that the poor should feed the poor. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHIST. 353 
 
 This said, he clasps his fingers ten, 
 And sniffs th' applause of voice and pen ; 
 Bows placidly, goes home to dine, 
 And wastes the food, in pomp and wine, 
 Of half a hundred better men. 
 
 23 
 
MOUNTAIN STREAMS. 
 
 AN ASPIRATIOiN FROM LONDON. 
 
 WHAT time the fern puts forth its rings, 
 
 What time the early throstle sings, 
 
 I love to fly the murky town, 
 
 And tread the moorlands, bare and brown ; 
 
 From greenest level of the glens, 
 
 To barest summit of the Bens, 
 
 To trace the torrents where they flow, 
 
 Serene or brawling, fierce or slow ; 
 
 To linger pleased, and loiter long, 
 
 A silent listener to their song. 
 
 Farewell, ye streets ! Again I'll sit 
 On crags to watch the shadows flit ; 
 To list the buzzing of the bee, 
 Or branches waving like a sea ; 
 To hear far off the cuckoo's note, 
 Or lark's clear carol high afloat, 
 And find a joy in every sound, 
 Of air, the water, or the ground ; 
 Of fancies full, though fixing nought, 
 And thinking heedless of my thought. 
 
MOUNTAIN STREAMS. 355 
 
 Farewell ! and in the teeth of care 
 I'll breathe the buxom mountain air, 
 Feed vision upon dyes and hues 
 That from the hill-top interfuse, 
 White rocks, and lichens born of spray, 
 Dark heather tufts, and mosses grey, 
 Green grass, blue sky, and boulders brown, 
 With amber waters glistening down, 
 And early flowers blue, white, and pink, 
 That fringe with beauty all the brink. 
 
 Farewell, ye streets ! Beneath an arch 
 Of drooping birch or feathery larch, 
 Or mountain ash that o'er it bends, 
 I '11 watch some streamlet as it wends ; 
 Some brook whose tune its course betrays, 
 Whose verdure dogs its hidden ways 
 Verdure of trees and bloom of flowers, 
 And music fresher than the showers, 
 Soft-dripping where the tendrils twine ; 
 And all its beauty shall be mine. 
 
 Aye, mine, to bring me joy and health, 
 And endless store of mental wealth 
 Wealth ever given to hearts that warm 
 To loveliness of sound or form, 
 And that can see in Nature's face 
 A hope, a beauty, and a grace 
 That in the city or the woods, 
 In thoroughfares or solitudes, 
 Can live their life at Nature's call, 
 Despising nothing, loving all. 
 
356 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Sweet streams, that over summits leap, 
 Or fair in rock-hewn basins sleep ; 
 That foaming burst in bright cascades, 
 Or toy with cowslisps in the shades ; 
 That shout till earth and sky grow mute, 
 Or tinkle lowly as a lute ; 
 That sing a song of lusty joy, 
 Or murmur like a love-lorn boy, 
 That creep or fall, that flow or run 
 I doat upon you every one. 
 
 For many a day of calm delight, 
 And hour of pleasure stol'n from night ; 
 For morning freshness, joy of noon, 
 And beauty rising with the moon ; 
 For health, encrimsoner of cheeks, 
 And wisdom gained on mountain peaks ; 
 For inward light from Nature won, 
 And visions gilded by the sun ; 
 For fancies fair, and waking dreams 
 I love ye all, ye mountain streams. 
 
BARON BRAEMAR: 
 
 OR, THE LORD OF GLEN TILT. 
 
 ' I 'M lord of the Corrie, I 'm chief of the Ben, 
 
 I rule like a kaiser o'er mountain and glen ; 
 
 The people may tramp over city and town, 
 
 But their feet shall not tread on my moorlands so brown. 
 
 Their presence would trouble the tremulous deer, 
 
 And grouse, and not men, shall be denizens here, 
 
 As long as my title holds good against bar, 
 
 And all for my pleasure,' quoth Baron Braemar. 
 
 ' I 've drained off the peasants, I've banished them forth, 
 There is scarcely a Celt on the hills of the North ; 
 And the few that remain by the shores of the sea, 
 May die or live on without hindrance from me. 
 And, thanks to the law, while my land is my own 
 I'll keep it for grouse, or the red-deer alone, 
 And roam o'er my mountains supreme as a czar, 
 And meet not a pauper,' quoth Baron Braemar. 
 
 ' The land may be lovely, most pleasant its paths, 
 Most lordly its mountains, most verdant its straths, 
 
358 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Most beauteous the torrents that scatter their spray, 
 Or dash down in foam, o'er the rocks in the way ; 
 What matters its beauty to cockneys or snobs, 
 To Jones or to Jenkins, to Smith or to Hobbs ? 
 The region is mine, both the near and the far ; 
 They shall not behold it,' quoth Baron Brae mar. 
 
 ' What business have they in my glens or my woods, 
 To clamber my mountains, to roam by my floods, 
 To tread my wild heather, or wander at will 
 From the vale to the mist-covered cope of the hill ? 
 Did I not inherit ? am I not the lord ? 
 Let them place but a foot upon moorland or sward, 
 And my dogs and my gillies shall " nose " them afar, 
 And hunt them for pastime,' quoth Baron Braemar. 
 
 * 'T'is true that a murmur resounds from the crowd, 
 
 A murmur fast spreading, indignant, and loud, 
 
 That starts ugly questions of " Justice " and " Right," 
 
 And doubts to be solved by the popular might ; 
 
 A murmur which hints that such questions should sleep 
 
 If those who still hold are desirous to keep ; 
 
 But let them rail on 'tis with words that they war; 
 
 My weapons are stronger,' quoth Baron Braemar. 
 
 O mighty Lord Baron, great dealer in deer, 
 Great owner of moorlands, a word in your ear : 
 Would you like, in your fulness of insolent pride, 
 To farm out the sea and take rents for the tide ? 
 Would you like the Earth's fatness to grow but for you ? 
 Would you shut us from sunshine, the air, and the dew ? 
 Would you fence out the sky from us vulgar afar ? 
 You would if you could, my Lord Baron Braemar. 
 
BARON BRAEMAR. 
 
 One word as a warning : We think 'twould be wise 
 If you 'd come from your deserts and open your eyes ; 
 Free foot on the mountain, free path in the glen 
 Not all for your cattle leave something for men. 
 And if from the tourist you shrink with dismay, 
 Turn the wilds into cornfields and keep him away : 
 Our isle is too narrow for Nimrods, by far ; 
 We cannot afford them, my Lord of Braemar. 
 
 Were Commerce extinct were our Trade at a stand 
 Were the mouths to be fed growing few in the land 
 Were we back to the point of a century agone 
 We might leave you your moors to go shooting upon. 
 But e'en in such case 't would be worse than insane 
 To refuse us a sight of the hills where you reign. 
 Is it safer just^iow ? Look at things as they are, 
 And be wise while there's time, my Lord Baron Braemar. 
 
THE DTJOMO OF SYRACUSE. 
 
 RELICS OF PAGANISM IN CHRISTIAN COUNTRIES. 
 
 Two English travellers walked through Syracuse, 
 And gazed upon the Duomo. ' Strange,' said one, 
 ' To find such relic of departed times, 
 And such a junction of the Old and New, 
 The Pagan Temple and the Christian shrine. 
 It shocks the notions of us western men, 
 To find such combination in a church. 
 Minerva and the Virgin are not names 
 That people like to utter in one breath.' 
 
 * Yet,' said the other, ' if we think awhile, 
 Odd as it seems, that old Minerva's fane 
 Should echo with the chants of Christian priests, 
 And that these Pagan relics should endure 
 So far into the middle of this age 
 Of printing, electricity, and steam ; 
 These ancient pillars are but harmless s&nes, 
 That do not fructify ; but in our thoughts, 
 Our actions, and our modes 'of utterance, 
 We have some relics that are stranger far. 
 Our very " Sunday" is a Pagan word, 
 
THE DUOMO OF SYRACUSE. 361 
 
 The relic of a worship long expired. 
 
 Our "Monday" Pagan; "Tuesday"; all the week 
 
 We 've not a single name among the seven, 
 
 That is not heathen either Greek or Norse. 
 
 And then our months are quite as destitute 
 
 Of Christian meaning ; only one of twelve, 
 
 And that in language hidden from the crowd, 
 
 Proclaims its true relation to the year 
 
 April the opener of the breathing spring. 
 
 The rest are either named from heathen gods, 
 
 And heathen Caesars ; relics of their pride 
 
 Or carry like September to the three 
 
 That follow to the climax of the year 
 
 A false misnumbering, on their innocent fronts, 
 
 Stamped on them by the Pagan men of Rome. 
 
 ' But all our speech is tainted less or more 
 With the incongruous mixture : lovers still 
 Write, speak and think of Venus and her charms. 
 Cupid is more a Cupid to the mass 
 Of European people, young and old, 
 Than e'er he was to Romans or to Greeks. 
 Hymen's a name familiar to all ears, 
 And bears his torch as bravely as of yore 
 While Bacchus plays a part in modern speech, 
 As if the English really credited 
 That such a being brewed their foaming malt, 
 Or for the French and Germans pressed the grape. 
 We blame the " Fates " for our calamities, 
 And " Fortune," in the speech of heedless men, 
 Is a blind goddess, as she was of old. 
 'Tis scarcely twenty years since poets dropped 
 Their invocations to the " tuneful nine :" 
 
362 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But they've learned better: and if poet now 
 Appealed, except in jesting, to the Muse, 
 The critics, daily and hebdomadal, 
 Monthly and quarterly, would tilt him down 
 And crush him for the future into prose 
 Or, better still, to silence, and a trade. 
 
 ' Not only these, which are but forms of words, 
 But Pagan thoughts and Pagan rites remain, 
 And Pagan superstitions without end. 
 Omens and auguries, Pagan every one, 
 Infect the popular mind. We spill the salt, 
 And dread calamity. The thirteenth guest 
 Sits at the board, and gloom but ill concealed 
 Dwells in each Pagan mind. The blazing coal 
 Flies from the grate and lo ! the gossip sees 
 A coffin or a purse. The piebald horse, 
 Or flight of magpies, or a bumpkin's path, 
 Becomes an augury of good or ill. 
 In fact, good friend, if we reflect we '11 find 
 We're somewhat heathen through all Christendom. 
 Minerva's pillars, Pagan though they be, 
 Yet serve a Christian end in Syracuse : 
 We cannot say as much for Pagan words 
 And Pagan thoughts that linger with ourselves.' 
 
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 
 
 GREAT King William spread before him 
 
 All his stores of wealth untold, 
 Diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. 
 
 Heaps on heaps of minted gold. 
 Mournfully he gazed upon it 
 
 As it glittered in the sun, 
 Sighing to himself, * Oh ! treasure 
 
 Held in care, by sorrow won; 
 Millions think me rich and happy, 
 
 But, alas ! before me piled, 
 I would give thee ten times over 
 
 For the slumbers of a child. 1 
 
 Great King William from his turret 
 
 Heard the martial trumpets blow, 
 Saw the crimson banners floating 
 
 Of a countless host below ; 
 Saw their weapons flash in sunlight, 
 
 As the squadrons trod the sward ; 
 And he sigh'd, Oh ! mighty army, 
 
 Hear thy miserable lord ; 
 
364 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 At my word thy legions gather 
 At my nod thy captains bend 
 
 But with all thy power and splendor, 
 I would giVe thee for a friend ! ' 
 
 Great King William stood on Windsor, 
 
 Looking from its castled height, 
 O'er his wide-spread realm of England 
 
 Glittering in the morning light ; 
 Looking on the tranquil river 
 
 And the forest waving free, 
 And he sigh'd, ' Oh ! land of beauty, 
 
 Fondled by the circling sea, 
 Mine thou art, but I would yield thee, 
 
 And be happy, could I gain, 
 Tn exchange, a peasant's garden 
 
 And a conscience free from stain.' 
 
OLD ENGLISH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 WE may not praise the good old times 
 
 For all that they record, 
 When Wrong was Right, if saucy Might 
 
 Affirmed it with the sword. 
 The gate and bridge, the moat and tower, 
 
 Were best defences then, 
 Rough hearts were served by sturdy hands, 
 
 And Force was king of men. 
 But though our sires had errors great, 
 
 Their virtues let us own ; 
 They made the poor their welcome guests - 
 
 They hushed the widow's moan. 
 
 When redbreasts sought the garden plot, 
 
 To pick the scanty crumb ; 
 When winds blew cold o'er frozen wold, 
 
 And all the groves were dumb ; 
 When poverty and age were sad, 
 
 To see the drifting flakes ; 
 W T hen widows kissed their orphan babes, 
 
 And shuddered for their sakes ; 
 
366 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Then glowed the fire upon the hearth ; 
 
 In many an ancient hall 
 The tables shook the platters smoked 
 
 The poor were welcome all. 
 
 The Ancient Virtue is not dead, 
 
 And long may it endure ; 
 May wealth in England never fail, 
 
 Nor pity for the poor. 
 Though cold inhospitable skies 
 
 O'erarch us as we stand, 
 They cannot dull the genial hearts 
 
 That glow within the land. 
 And evermore when winds blow cold 
 
 We'll imitate our sires 
 We'll spread the board we'll feed the poor- 
 
 We '11 light the cottage fires. 
 
THE ENGLISH GIRL. 
 
 GIVE, oh give us English welcomes, 
 
 We '11 forgive the English skies ; 
 English homes and English manners, 
 
 And the light of English eyes. 
 Give us for our props in peril, 
 
 English valor, pith, and stress, 
 And for wives sweet English maidens 
 
 Radiant in their loveliness. 
 
 Foreign tastes perchance may differ, 
 
 On our virtues or our laws, 
 But who sees an English matron, 
 
 And withholds his deep applause ? 
 Who beholds an English maiden, 
 
 Bright and modest, fair and free, 
 And denies the willing tribute 
 
 Of a fond idolatry ? 
 
 Lovely are the maids of Rhineland, 
 Glowing are the maids of Spain, 
 
 French, Italians, Greeks, Circassians, 
 Woo our homage not in vain 
 
368 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 But for Beauty to enchant us, 
 And for Virtue to enthral, 
 
 Give our hearts the girls of England 
 Dearer, better than them all. 
 
THE SWING: A LOVER'S DIALOG UK. 
 
 4 1 LOVE my Love in the days of Spring, 
 With her I'll go a-garlanding, 
 A-garlanding in the merry May, 
 Laughing and singing all the day. 
 We roam the woods, we trace the streams, 
 Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams ; 
 No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky, 
 Is happier than my love and I.' 
 
 I love to swing in the garden-bowers, 
 
 Under the branches all alone ; 
 
 I've heard your speeches, full of flowers, 
 
 Till I am weary of the hours 
 
 So, prithee, babbler, get you gone. 
 
 Can you not leave me to myself? 
 
 I wantjo swing and not to woo ; 
 
 I've had no rest, since first betrothed, 
 
 I've been a listener to you. 
 
 'I'll love my Love in the Summer-time, 
 Our years shall ripen to their prime ; 
 We '11 sit in the shade a little more, 
 Beneath the elm-trees at our door; 
 24 
 
370 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 We'll watch the joy our children run, 
 We'll give the world our benison; 
 No bird in its nest on the tree-tops high 
 Shall be more blithe than my Love and I.' 
 
 'T is very well. You talk : no doubt : 
 Let go the rope pick up my glove 
 You're in the way stand further out 
 You'll make me scold, you awkward lout. 
 And so you call such fancies, ' Love ? ' 
 You cannot help it ? ' Love,' indeed ! 
 I vow I '11 never praise it more ; 
 I'd just as soon praise two and two 
 For condescending to be four ! 
 
 ' I'll love my Love in the Autumn eves, 
 We'll gather in our barley sheaves, 
 We'll reap our corn, we'll press our vine, 
 We '11 hear on the hills our lowing kine ; 
 We '11 pluck our peaches from the wall, 
 We'll give our friends a festival : 
 There is no joy the world can buy 
 That we shall not share ; my Love and I.' 
 
 Ah, well ! I think I'll be resigned; 
 But, prithee, let me swing in peace, 
 I cannot hear the whispering wind, 
 Nor stockdove in the woods behind, 
 You make such prattle, will you cease ? 
 Do stand aside and give me room, 
 If thus our stream of life must flow, 
 I'll bear as calmly as I can 
 The love you've threatened to bestow. 
 
THE SWING. 371 
 
 ' I'll love my Love in the Winter cold, 
 
 So shall our tale of life be told ; 
 
 We'll sit together by the hearth, 
 
 Spectators of a younger mirth ; 
 
 And as the children come and go 
 
 We Ml dwell in the light where their faces glow : 
 
 We'll live in love ; and loving die, 
 
 And still love on, my Love and I.' 
 
 There take my hand put on my glove 
 And help me gently from the swing, 
 I've had enough and as for love, 
 I swear by all yon clouds above, 
 I cannot trust in such a thing. 
 And yet 'tis pleasant to believe 
 That some one loves us not in vain 
 So, sweetheart, when you swing me next, 
 I'd like to hear that song again. 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 COME back come back thou youthful Time 
 
 When joy and innocence were ours, 
 When life was in its vernal prime, 
 
 And redolent of sweets and flowers. 
 Come back and let us roam once more 
 
 Free-hearted through Life's pleasant ways, 
 And gather garlands as of yore 
 
 Come back come back ye happy days. 
 
 Come back come back 'twas pleasant then 
 
 To cherish faith in Love and Truth, 
 For nothing in dispraise of men 
 
 Had sour'd the temper of our youth. 
 Come back and let us still believe 
 
 The gorgeous dream Romance displays, 
 Nor trust the tale that men deceive 
 
 Come back come back ye happy days. 
 
 Come back oh freshness of the past 
 When every face seem'd fair and kind, 
 
 When sunward every eye was cast, 
 And all the shadows fell behind. 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 373 
 
 Come back! 'twill come: true hearts can turn 
 
 Their own Decembers into Mays, 
 The secret be it ours to learn 
 
 They come they come the happy days ! 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 CDMSSTME11 
 
 IC159045