THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 f
 
 a-*K 
 
 }j(J}^ ii.^^>'«>^
 
 B O M A N C E S 
 
 MINOR POEMS.
 
 EO MANGES 
 
 MINOE POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENEY GLASSFOED BELL. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 18GG.
 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 The contents of this Volume owe their exist- 
 ence to vacation honrs enjoyed at intervals during 
 the last twenty-five or thirty years. Their com- 
 position never interfered with the, real business 
 of a laborious life. But it would be unjust to 
 the noble science of jurisprudence to believe that 
 devotion to it (however continuous) is necessarily 
 destructive of all imaginative vivacity, — all youth- 
 ful freshness of feeling. On the contrary, the 
 very restraints which legal pursuits put on the 
 imagination, encourage that faculty to re-assert 
 its own rights in lighter and more recreative 
 seasons.
 
 VI PREFACE. * 
 
 Many of the verses belong to the daj's of 
 other years ; and are, on that account, miscel- 
 laneous both in tone and subject. With two 
 or three exceptions, they now pass for the first 
 time from manuscript into print. If the}" suc- 
 ceed in awakening some pleasurable emotions, 
 they may perhaps be dealt with gently like 
 otliei' Icviora dclicta.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 AN UNRECORDED CHRONICLE 1 
 
 THE PRINCESS OF SANTA CROCK S 
 
 HER LAST WORDS 14 
 
 MY VIS-A-VIS IS 
 
 THE REQUIEM 22 
 
 NOT TO THE MULTITUDE 27 
 
 JACK SYKES 28 
 
 I've DONE ALL THAT 33 
 
 THE ANGLER 37 
 
 THE MAUSOLEUM 38 
 
 MILAN CATHEDRAL 41 
 
 LADi- JANE GREY 44 
 
 A TRODDEN FLOWER 4f) 
 
 AT T-[,LESWATER 4U 
 
 THE SPIKENARD M 
 
 TIMli fid
 
 VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGR 
 
 THE TWO TOURISTS 59 
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS 65 
 
 THOU AND I 68 
 
 THE NAMELESS EARL 70 
 
 THE CI-DEVAJST JEUNE HOMME 75 
 
 ONCE MORE 79 
 
 IMPLORA PACE 82 
 
 THE SENSE OF TOUCH 85 
 
 DREAMS 88 
 
 THE RESCUE 91 
 
 THE VALE OF REST 92 
 
 NUTTING 93 
 
 HADDON HALL 95 
 
 IN do\t;dale 98 
 
 PHCEBE 101 
 
 TALLBOYS TO NORTH 103 
 
 CHRISTOPHER NORTH AT LUIB 105 
 
 THE END 106 
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 110 
 
 TO LIZZIE 123 
 
 THE WAYSIDE CRUCIFIX 127 
 
 THE RETURN AFTER DEATH 130 
 
 AT LLANGOLLEN 182 
 
 ►SCOTCH BALLAD 134 
 
 THE MOSELLE 137 
 
 ELLEN MAR 140
 
 CONTENTS. IX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE COTTAGE DOOR 143 
 
 ROSES 144 
 
 A LETTER TO MY COUSIX 146 
 
 A LETTER FROM MY COUSIN 153 
 
 STKATFOKD-OX-AVON AT NIGHT 158 
 
 LOVE UNRETURNED 162 
 
 MY ALPENSTOCK 163 
 
 CHESS . 167 
 
 lizzie's WEDDING-DAY 168 
 
 THE POOR OLD FINN 171 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 173 
 
 THE CHESTNTT OF BRAZENOSE 175 
 
 I MET HER THIS MORNING 176 
 
 THE SOURCE OF TEARS 179 
 
 EVER THE SAME 181 
 
 THE STEAMER ON THE RHINE 182 
 
 THE ROAD TO APENZELL 184 
 
 AMONG THE VINES 186 
 
 THE PASTEBOARD TOY 188 
 
 A LAST LOOK 189 
 
 CADZOW 191 
 
 ARTHUR RAE 193 
 
 WHAT THE DEUCE HAS BROUGHT BAi'K SPRING? . 195 
 
 MY NIGHTCAPS 198 
 
 CONSTANCE CAROLY 199 
 
 THE DEATH OF MARK ANTONY 202
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO 203 
 
 iJciLA 2Q4 
 
 COUNTRY TOWNS 206 
 
 A FLIRT 207 
 
 RATHER MORE THAN A MILE 210 
 
 THE PICTURE GALLERY 212 
 
 THE OLD DAYS 213
 
 POEMS
 
 AN UIs^PvECORDED CHROXICLE. 
 
 Roll back, roll back a hundred years, 
 Tliou ever-rolling wheel of time ; 
 
 Restore again dead hopes and fears, 
 Exhume the undiscovered crime. 
 
 Wliy should the tale remain untold, 
 Or noiseless Lethe waft it by 1 — 
 
 The actors in the scene are cold, \ 
 But human passions never die. \ 
 
 B
 
 AN UNRECORDED CHRONICLE. 
 
 She had no child ; a fatal spell 
 Hung over the unfruitful bands ; 
 
 Without a child the title fell, 
 
 A stranger took her lord's broad lands. 
 
 They went away beyond the sea, 
 They found beneath another sky 
 
 An infant on a mother's knee, — 
 What is there gold Avill fail to buy 1 
 
 A nameless infant, — was it sin 
 
 To snatch it from a hopeless doom. 
 
 Wrap it in ermine to the chin, 
 And cradle it in soft perfume ? 
 
 They took it home ; it was their own ; 
 
 The vassals welcomed it with joy ; 
 A bud, and then a flower half-blown, 
 
 A jocund, frank, and stii-ring boy.
 
 AN UNRECORDED CHRONICLE. 
 
 But heaven is high ; a change was wrought ; 
 
 Would that the past were all undone ! 
 A fruitful change the seasons brought, 
 
 She bore her own true lord a son. 
 
 Would that the past were blotted out 1 
 Was it for this the lie was told 1 
 
 For him, that nameless beggar's lout, 
 That vulgar chattel bought and sold ! 
 
 She gazed upon her sleeping son, 
 Fairer than all the flowers of May ; 
 
 Her flesh and blood, hef only one. 
 
 Whose bu'thright she had thrown away. 
 
 She cursed the floor on which he stept 
 Who bore an elder brother's name ; 
 
 Into her heart a serpent crept, 
 
 And gnawed it like a smouldering flame, 
 ij 2
 
 AX UNRECORDED CHRONICLE. 
 
 Herbs have tlieir juices, — nay, there lies 
 
 An essence in one golden flower 
 Beneath whose strength a giant dies, 
 
 Not instantly, but hour by hour. 
 
 Too slow for her ; she marked each day 
 The flushing cheek, the wasted limb, 
 
 The smile that still would feebly play 
 Although the filmy eye was dim. 
 
 One morn the summer sun shone bright 
 UpoTi the curtains rouiid his head, — 
 
 She looked, but there was no more light 
 Tor him who lay in that cold bed. 
 
 They buried him, for after death 
 
 Some things show stranger than before ; 
 
 They whispered in an nndorbreath, 
 
 " Why comes this blackness creeping o'er 1 "
 
 AX UNRECORDED GHRONICLE. 5 
 
 'Twas said her lord grew somewliat cold, 
 'Twas said she oft was seen to brood 
 
 O'er some deep thought that was not told, 
 Then suddenly to change her mood. 
 
 But let her lord be cold or kind, 
 
 Or let her mood be stern or mild, 
 One constant raj^ture filled her mind — 
 
 The growth of that late-granted child. 
 
 She watched him tlirough all chiklhood's pains, 
 She Avatched him through youth's fervent hours, 
 
 She held him in the softest chains 
 
 That love ere wove of thornless flowers. 
 
 And when he stood upon the brink 
 
 Of manhood, bold and eagle-eyed. 
 And when his mother saw eacli link 
 
 Of her ambition clasped, — he died.
 
 AN UNRECORDED CHRONICLE. 
 
 A sudden and a fearful doom, 
 
 His steed fell where the Avaters meet ; 
 They bore him liomc in speechless gloom, 
 
 They laid him dead before her feet. 
 
 She did not swoon — she did not shriek — 
 She saw tlie red gash on his head ; 
 
 Convulsively she tried to speak, 
 And in the trial reason fled. 
 
 She knew no luiman face again, 
 
 She would not stay within stone walls, 
 She sought the wild wind and the rain, 
 
 She sang by swollen waterfalls. 
 
 But most she lingered by the grave 
 
 Where that poor changeling's dust was laid, 
 
 By day or night it thrilled the brave 
 To hear the muttered words she said.
 
 AK UNRECORDED CHRONICLE. 
 
 All semblance to herself was lost, 
 Her matted hair fell lank and gray, 
 
 She gibbered like an unlaid ghost, 
 And no one dared to cross her way. 
 
 She passed, — and it is all forgot ; 
 
 But tldnk you those three souls have met 
 Where fleshless spirit dieth not, 
 
 Or do they wait the judgment yet 1
 
 THE PEINCESS OF SANTA CEOCE. 
 
 Wailing winds were round the castle, 
 Sleepless lay she until dawn, 
 
 And the pale light found her paler 
 Than her couch's snowy lawn. 
 
 Sigismund, her only brother, 
 
 Drew in dungeon-keep his breath, 
 
 He, to holy Church a rebel, 
 
 By the Pope was doomed to death.
 
 THE PEINCESS OF SANTA CROCE. 
 
 Ill the gray dawn of the morning 
 Like a golden light she rose, 
 
 And unlocked an antique casket 
 Never hands but hers unclose. 
 
 There, in bed of velvet cradled, 
 Shone an emerald dark and clear, 
 
 Which a diver in the ocean 
 
 Found in some far-distant year. 
 
 Then she summoned the old artist. 
 With his hair of silver gray, 
 
 Who on many a gem had sculptured 
 Fancies beautifid as day ; 
 
 Who had sculptured stone and marble 
 Into shapes minute and fine, 
 
 Delicate as early wildflowers, 
 Light as tendrils of the vine.
 
 10 THE PRINCESS OF SANTA CROCE. 
 
 " Take," she said, " my emerald sacred, 
 Carve upon it Christ His head ; " 
 
 To his lips he pressed it softly- 
 Like a bride when she is wed. 
 
 Two long days unwearied worked he, 
 "With a silent, reverent air, 
 
 Two long days and nights devoutly, 
 On the third, the head was there. 
 
 Many a forest, many a mountain 
 'Twixt her castle lay and Eome, — 
 
 With the emerald in her bosom 
 She has left her stately home. 
 
 From St. Angel's dark recesses, 
 Hark ! the miserere swells 
 
 For the soul of one who dieth 
 At the sound of matin bells.
 
 THE PRINCESS OP SAXTA CROCK 11 
 
 And Christ's vicar, the anointed, 
 
 Sits within the Vatican, 
 With the keys and the tiara, 
 
 Power to bless and power to ban. 
 
 'Tis a princess kneels before him, 
 
 Kneels to ask a brother's Hfo, 
 But his cold, averted visage 
 
 Cuts her like a two-edged knife. • ' 
 
 Til en from out her heaving bosom 
 Trembling she draws forth the gem. 
 
 And she lays it trembling, hunting, 
 On his garment's outmost hem. 
 
 Suddenly his brow grow scarlet, 
 Suddenly his eye flashed light, — 
 
 " Is she dead who was possessor 
 Of that ocean stalactite ]
 
 12 THE PRINCESS OF SANTA CROCE. 
 
 " Paul Donati, Paul Donati ! 
 
 She who had that stone of thee 
 Knew thee not as Pope or Kaisar, 
 Was thy playmate frank and free ; 
 
 " Often 'neath her father's castle 
 
 Has she roamed with thee unchecked, — 
 Thou, the chaplain and the tutor, 
 Taught her more than cold respect. 
 
 " Twelve long years, Paul Donati, 
 
 Twelve long years have flown since then, 
 She has kept her father's castle, 
 Thou hast set thy foot on men. 
 
 " On the last night ere you left her, 
 Tliis the emerald which you gave, 
 Though it bore not then the sculpture 
 Chi-ist arisen from the grave.
 
 THE PRINCESS OP SANTA CROCE. 13 
 
 " By this token, by that symbol, 
 Paul, thy pupil kneels to thee ; 
 Let the words of doom be cancelled, 
 Let her brother be set free ! " 
 
 For a moment in the silence 
 You might hear his pulses beat. 
 
 See his hand shake like an aspen 
 As lie raised her from his feet. 
 
 " Leonore ! the past is over ; 
 
 Eome hath set her seal on me ; 
 
 We must meet no more for ever ; 
 
 Take thy brother, — he is free."
 
 X X HER LAST WORDS. 
 
 Tell me, love, Avhile life jet lingers, 
 "Wliile iiiv brain can understand, 
 
 "Wliile my Aveak entwining fiirgers 
 Still can feel thy clasping hand ; 
 
 Will there be where I am going, 
 In that far, mysterious clime, 
 
 Ko. more ebbing, no more flowing 
 Of the mighty waves of time 1
 
 HER LAST WORDS. 15 
 
 I^othing springing, nothing fading, 
 
 Notliincj dawniuc: into liaht 
 
 "Will no shadow there be aiding 
 
 To make summer fields more bright ? 
 
 "Will there be no fond selection, 
 "No alternate joy or pain ; 
 
 Is emotion imperfection, 
 
 Choice of place or person vain 1 
 
 Be the thought, dear heart, forgiven, 
 But it seems so strange and new 
 
 To be doomed to love in heaven 
 Others as I now love you ! 
 
 Ah ! if love must be extended 
 From a part unto the Avhole, 
 
 The alliance wiU be ended 
 
 That has linked us soul to souL
 
 16 HER LAST WORDS. 
 
 Weak, and frail, and fast-decaying 
 As our mortal frame may be, 
 
 Wliat mere spiritual arraying 
 Ere can bring you back to me ? 
 
 When I leave you, sliall I never ; 
 
 Meet again tliat eartlily smile 1 
 Sliall I lose tliat arm for ever 
 
 \\niicli enfolds me yet awhile 1 
 
 Intuition is not seeing, 
 Ah ! 'tis a delusion, sweet, 
 
 This fond dream of after-being, — 
 We are partmg ne'er to meet ; 
 
 1^'e'er to meet as we have parted, 
 
 Tliough we live through endless years, 
 
 And though earth's poor broken-hearted 
 Shine through the celestial spheres.
 
 HER LAST WORDS. 1( 
 
 If tliis love that fills us wholly, 
 There be deemed no more divine, 
 
 Will no spirit pure and holy 
 For its lost existence pine ? 
 
 Pre3§*me closer, — clasp me stronger, — 
 
 Let the angels -svait above ; 
 1 would cling a little longer, 
 
 Death is change, and change ends love. 
 
 t" 
 
 o^ji U- U^. '^' ■^v-t^^t^ •
 
 MY VIS-A-VIS. 
 
 That olden lady ! — can it be 1 
 
 Well, well, how seasons slip away ! 
 Do let me hand her cup of tea 
 
 That I may gently to her say, 
 " Dear madam, thirty years ago, 
 
 When both our hearts were full of glee, 
 In many a dance and courtly show 
 
 I had you for my vis-^-vis. 
 
 «T 
 
 That pale blue robe, those chestnut curls, 
 That eastern jewel on your wrist, 
 That neck-encircling strmg of pearls 
 Whence hung a cross of amethyst, —
 
 MY VIS-A-VIS. 19 
 
 ] see them all, — I see the tulle 
 Looped up with roses at the knee, 
 
 Good Lord ! how fresh and beautiful 
 Was then your cheek, my vis-a-vis ! 
 
 '' I hear the whispered praises yet, 
 
 The buzz of pleasure when you came, 
 The rushing eagerness to get 
 
 Like moths within the fatal flame ; 
 As April blossoms, faint and sweet, 
 
 As apples when you shake the tree, 
 So hearts fell showering at your feet 
 
 In those glad days, my vis-k-vis. 
 
 f "And as for me, my breast was filled 
 "With silvery light in every cell ; 
 My blood was some rich juice distilled 
 From amaranth and asphodel ; 
 c 2
 
 20 MY VIS-A-VIS. 
 
 \ ;My thoughts were airier than the lark 
 That carols o'er the flowery lea ; 
 They well might breathlessly remark, 
 ' ' By Jove ! that is a vis-a-vis ! ' 
 
 '' time and change, what is't you mean ] 
 
 Ye gods ! can I believe my ears 1 
 Has that bald portly person been 
 
 Your husband, ma'am, for twenty vrars 1 
 That six-foot officer your son, 
 
 Who looks o'er his moustache at me ! 
 Why did not Joshua stop our sun 
 
 When I was first your vis-a-vis ? 
 
 " Forgive me, if I've been too bold. 
 Permit me to return your cup ; 
 
 My heart was beating as of old, 
 
 One drop of youth still bubbled up.
 
 MY VIS-A-VIS. 21 
 
 So spoke I • then, like cold December, 
 
 Only these brief words said she, 
 "• I do net in the least remember 
 
 I ever was your vis-a-vis." ' "
 
 THE REQUIEM, 
 
 Poet, wandering throngh the past 
 In the tmlight's diisky gloom, 
 
 Pause in Salzburg's ancient citVr 
 Look into that antique room. 
 
 He whose cradle music rocked, 
 He for whom the common air 
 
 Breathed a melody divine 
 Sat in rapt emotion there.
 
 THE REQUIEM. '23 
 
 Young and pale, with features sucli 
 As women love and men desire,— 
 
 "Wasted, but illumined still 
 
 AVith th(> liglit of inward fire. 
 
 Suddenly, as there he pondered, 
 
 One of a majestic mould 
 Stood in that dim room before him — • 
 
 AVhence and how no tongue h;us told. 
 
 In a voice of solemn sadness, 
 Coming from and to the heart, 
 
 Thus the stranger spoke abrupt!}-, 
 Thus he said unto Mozart : 
 
 " I have brought thee a commission, — 
 Do it ere six weeks have fled ; 
 
 'J'hy reward shall be unbounded. 
 Make a requiem for tlie dead."
 
 24 THE REQUIEM. 
 
 The musician's listening soul 
 
 Thrilled beneath that earnest tone, 
 
 Eagerly his eyes he raised, 
 But the visitant was gone. 
 
 " Make a Requiem for the dead ! "' 
 He from whom there ever welled 
 
 All the brimming joys of life 
 
 Which his passionate bosom held ! 
 
 No ! there was a rebel hatred 
 Of the task thus set to do ; 
 
 Yet he watched the stars till morning, 
 Dreaming dreams confused and new. 
 
 And amidst the rebel hatred 
 
 Rose at length the ghastly doubt. 
 
 What if this hath been a warning 
 That my sand is near run out \
 
 THE REQUIEM. 
 
 " Haply all I yet have sung 
 
 Is too flushed with wordly pleasure ; 
 If the Eequiem be my own, 
 
 Let it breathe a purer measure." 
 
 Then there seemed to float behind him 
 Shining visions of the past, 
 
 And there seemed to gleam before him 
 Something grander and more vast. 
 
 Not without some plaintive murmur 
 Could he charm the past away ; 
 
 Not without some shadows trailing 
 Shone the coming calmer day. 
 
 Ah ! forgive him if there lingers 
 Round that last sublimest song, 
 
 Something which awakens sadly 
 Memories that to earth belong ; 
 
 25
 
 26 THE REQUIEM. 
 
 If wc hear the low faint parting, 
 If we see the portals closing, 
 
 ]u-e the soul is wafted upwards 
 On diviner love reposing. 
 
 Ah, forgive him ! Soon the measure 
 Eeaches a sublimer height, 
 
 Earthly clouds and vapours melting 
 In a blaze of holv light ! 
 
 So the deathless Requiem grew, 
 Till his spirit, soaring free, 
 
 Left within that antique chamber 
 Music's crowning victory !
 
 XOT TO THE :^rULTITUDE. 
 
 iS"'!! to the multitude — Oh, not to them ! — 
 But to the sacred fsAv — the circle small — 
 AMiich formed thy world, and was thy all in all. 
 Entrust thy memory, and like a gem, 
 TiOve's gift, worn ever next the heart, 'twill lie 
 Imbedded in delight, deep, stainless, warm ; 
 For if thy living voice, aspect, and form 
 rdaildened the ear and pleased the watchful eye 
 < )f old affection, doubt not thou that death 
 
 Will make thee doubly dear, and that no voice 
 Will e'er again those constant souls rejoice, 
 l,iki' that which God took from them Avith thy breath ; 
 Tliou diest to the crowd, but not to these, — 
 Th(^,y see thee in the mist, and hear thee in the breeze !
 
 JACK SYKES. 
 (Sec HuGHRs' "History of England," Vol. IV. p. 315.) 
 
 When Britain counts her heroes' deeds, 
 
 A task her proud heart likes, 
 She s]iall not pass in silence by 
 
 That deed of thine, Jack Sykes. 
 
 'Twas in the seventeen ninety-seven 
 
 Rear- Admiral ]S'elson lay 
 A short league off the Spanish coast, 
 
 Blockading Cadiz Bay.
 
 JACK SYKES. 
 
 The Spanish fleet lurked safe in port. 
 
 Behind the harbour bar ; 
 They knew when JSTelson struck the blov,' 
 
 Xo leecli could heal the scar. 
 
 " WeTl overhaul these skulking Dons, 
 We'll count their guns," quoth he ; 
 
 " Rig out my boat with ten good hands 
 To pull in-shore with me." 
 
 Tliey rigged the boat out with a will. 
 They pulled her tlirough the tide ; 
 
 Jack Sykes he was the stroke-oar man 
 With cutlass by his side. 
 
 Tlie Spanish Captain saw them come. 
 
 His barge held twenty-six ; 
 " Push off, push off, mtb axe and pike, 
 
 W'!T1 stop those faiglish tricks." 
 
 90
 
 30 JACK SYKES. 
 
 Twenty-six in the Spanish, barge, 
 Ten in old England's boat, 
 
 And never had those waters seen 
 Two better crews afloat. 
 
 They came together broadside on, 
 
 They spent no useless breath ; 
 Each grasped his weapon, — hand to hand 
 
 Each stood for life or death. 
 
 Their numbers gave the Spaniards strength. 
 
 They rushed in fore and aft ; 
 From bow, from gunwale, and from stern 
 
 Tliey bore down on our craft. 
 
 With quick bright eye beside his chief 
 Jack Sykes stood watch and Avard ; 
 
 And many a deadly blow was caught. 
 On his unfailing guard.
 
 JACK SYKES. 31 
 
 \ 
 
 Yet round tliey hemmed him more and more, 
 
 Til] with an iron mell 
 They broke the bone of Jack's right arm, — 
 
 His cutlass powerless fell. 
 
 dust then o'er Xelson tlashed an axe, 
 
 With thirsty edge and keen ; 
 Jack saw it, — there was one way left, — 
 
 He thrust his head betAveen. 
 
 A look, — "Thank God, Sir, you are safe !" 
 
 'Twas all that Jack Sykes said, 
 And smiling up in Xelson's face 
 
 He lay before him dead. 
 
 Then rose the lion in his wrath 
 
 And swept the assailants back ; 
 Ten corses floated on the wave 
 
 In vengeance for poor Jack.
 
 32 JACK SYKES. 
 
 'I'hey bound ten others neck and heel, 
 
 They took the barge in tow, 
 But when tliey reached the Admiral's ship, 
 
 Some tears were seen to flow. 
 
 'Twas after this the Xile was won 
 
 'Neath Nelson's guiding star. — 
 
 » 
 
 'Twas after this the world beheld 
 The day of Trafalgar ! 
 
 But would not all that blaze of fame 
 
 In Cadiz Bay lain hid, 
 Unless that dauntless British tar 
 
 Had done what Jack Svkes did 1
 
 I'VE DONE ALL THAT. 
 
 When I behold a bold bright boy 
 
 Poring intent on every book, 
 Devouring with an equal joy 
 
 Buffon, De Foe, and Captain Cook : 
 Or when I see the sparkling eye 
 
 With which he handles bow and bat, 
 1 \\-hisper with a gentle sigh — 
 
 " I've done all that, I've done all that ! " 
 
 And when I meet a youth full-grown, 
 Exulting in his summer tour, 
 
 As if the world were all his own, 
 In strength of will and limb secure, 
 
 S. B. ^
 
 34 I've done all that, 
 
 W'ith knapsack and with alpenstock. 
 And lady's favour in liis hat, 
 
 I think, with something of a shock, — 
 I've done all that, I've done all that ! 
 
 And when, some few more years advanced, 
 
 I see another hy his side. 
 In whose soft smile he basks entranced, 
 
 His more than friend, his own, his bride, 
 Aronnd whose form his arms entwine, 
 
 Till both their hearts go pit-a-pat, 
 I say in that old tone of mine — 
 
 " I've done all that, I've done all that ! " 
 
 ^Mien children gather round his knee, 
 Frank sturdy boys, and blue-eyed girls, 
 
 ]\Iakmg for him a rosary 
 
 Of fairy loves, of priceless pearls ;
 
 t've doxe all that. 35 
 
 When soft caresses fill his home 
 
 In which no hour lags slow ov flat.— ^ 
 
 Ah me ! 'neath this now vacant dome 
 I've seen all that, I've seen all that ! 
 
 Aiuhition comes, and anxious years, 
 
 And dreams of riches or of fame. 
 The world a listed field appears 
 
 "Whereon to win a deathless name j 
 In ceaseless efibrt to be first, 
 
 Excitement toils where patience sat, 
 Till soon or late the bubbles burst, — 
 
 I've felt all that, I've felt all that ! 
 
 Yet ne'er shall 1 on looking back 
 •Speak coldly of life's fleeting hours ; 
 
 No ! 'tis a wild and varied track 
 
 Besprent with weeds that look like flowei-s, 
 d2
 
 36 I've done all that. 
 
 And if they wither by and by, 
 
 We gain a point at length, whereat 
 
 The soul can say, without a sigh,' 
 I leave all that, I leave all that ! ■
 
 THE AXGLER. 
 
 Ax angler angling in a rocky nook 
 
 ITcanl a liuge noise which earth's foundations shmik, 
 
 And looking upwards, 'twixt him and the sky 
 
 He saw a railway train go thundering by, — 
 
 Choke full of human life and human cares. 
 
 Memory that saddens, hope that but ensnares ; 
 
 Each on tlie purpose of the moment bent, 
 
 Seeking a cui-e for some vague discontent. 
 
 The angler turned him to his sport again, 
 
 And on the waters lighted not in vain 
 
 riie mimic lure ; a yellow gleaming trout 
 
 Leaping and struggling drew the light line out ; 
 
 happy angler ! let the train sweep by ; 
 
 He weighs at least a pound, that snatcher of thy fly !
 
 THE MAUSOLEUM. 
 
 Bright lady of the scornful eye, 
 
 A time will come when thon shalt die, 
 
 And in the vault he laid 
 Where thy forefathers soundly sleep, 
 And none shall turn to pray or weep 
 
 For thy forgotten shade ! 
 
 But there is ground that vault beside, 
 Some six feet long by four feet wide, 
 
 Which doth pertain to me ; 
 And there the man Avhom thou hast spurned, 
 Through all the love with which he burned. 
 
 Shall lie till doom by thee !
 
 THE MAUSOLEUM. 3\) 
 
 Thou Avilt not fling him from thee then ; 
 For days of darkness, nights of pain, 
 
 He shall be paid at length ; 
 In spite of mould and coffin-rust, 
 His dust shall mingle with thy dust, 
 
 Death has such liomel)' strength. 
 
 It doth my very soul exalt 
 
 To count the stones in that old vault, 
 
 And iron staunclieons grim ; 
 The earth beneath, cold heart, is thine ; 
 The earth beside, proud heart, is mine ; 
 
 The bounding- wall is slim. 
 
 They keep it well, that vault of state, 
 Its marble slabs expectant wait 
 
 Thy praises to record ; 
 I'erchance with thine another name, 
 Who played with thee ambition's game, 
 
 My lady and ray lord !
 
 40 THE MAUSOLEUM. 
 
 No marble decks the adjoining bank, 
 But dockweed foid and nettles rank, 
 
 With lienbane intermixed ; 
 They'll cut them down to lay me there, 
 The base-born by the baron's heir, 
 
 With coffin-planks betwixt ! 
 
 And coffin-planks shall soon decay, 
 And winding-sheets be worn away, 
 
 And bone shall cleave to bone ; 
 Then mock me as thou wUt through life, 
 Our Avedding-day must come, dear wife, 
 
 That grave shall make us one !
 
 -MILAN CATHEDRAL. 
 
 O PEEULES15 church, of old Milan, 
 How brightly thou com'st back to ine, 
 
 With all thy minarets and towers, 
 ^\.nd sculptured marbles fair to see ! 
 
 With all thy airy pinnacles 
 
 So Avhite against the cloudless blue ; 
 
 With all thy richly-storied panes, 
 
 And mellowed sunlight streaming through.
 
 42 MILAN CATHEDEAL. 
 
 lovely church of loved jVIilan, 
 
 Can sadness with thy brightness blend I 
 
 Lo ! moving down that high-arched aisle, 
 Tliose mourners for an absent friend. 
 
 In every hand a lighted torch, 
 Above the dead a sable pall, 
 
 On every face a look that tells, 
 She was the best beloved of all. 
 
 And low and faint the funeral chaunt 
 Subdued the pealing organ's tone, 
 
 As past the altars of her faith 
 They slow and silent bear her on. 
 
 holy church of proud Milan, 
 A simpler tomb enshrines for me 
 
 The one I loved, who never stood 
 As now I stand to gaze on thee.
 
 MILAN CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Yet all I see perchance she sees, 
 And cLides not the unbidden tear, 
 
 That flows to think hoAv vain the wish 
 ^l\ life's companion, thou wert here ! 
 
 solemn church of gay Milan, 
 1 owe that pensive hour to thee ; 
 
 And oft may sacred sadness dwell 
 Within my soul to temper glee ! 
 
 Those airy pinnacles that shine 
 
 80 white against the dark blue sky. 
 
 Ascend from tranquil vaults where bones 
 A\Tiich wait the resurrection lie ! 
 
 43
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 Raising the eye from those lone waterfalls 
 
 And dark o'erhanguig woods, and uplands blue. 
 
 Which (xaspar Poussin's thoughtful pencil drew, 
 
 Regard that antique portrait on the walls : 
 
 ! Perchance no history the pale face recalls, 
 
 Yet Avill it fix your gaze, for you will see, 
 
 Beneath an outward meek serenity, 
 I 
 A something inward which the heart appals, 
 
 A struggle 'twixt what shall be and has been, 
 
 ' Y'outh's flushing Avarmth touched with a sudden chill, 
 
 A strange presentiment of coming ill, 
 
 A shuddering at the shadow dimly seen ; 
 
 Yet how divine the form, how chaste the mien ! 
 
 Nine days that stately brow shone forth as Euglaud's 
 
 queen !
 
 LADY JANK GREY. 45 
 
 II. 
 
 Not with her own consent, — she wished no crown ; 
 Tliough dying Edward gave his last command, 
 Though by her side stood great Northumberland, 
 
 Though Eidley called heaven's choicest blessings down, 
 
 She sighed not for the glare and the renown : 
 1 n dreams she saw the fiery rebel's sword 
 Hash through the dark locks of her heart's true lord, 
 
 In dreams she saw the wrathful ISIar^s frown ; 
 
 O false advisers of the Council Board, 
 silken flatterers, selfish and unsound, 
 \Vhen all your schemes fell toppling to the ground, 
 
 How clear the height to which her spirit soared ! 
 
 In that last scene the awe-struck bedesman found 
 
 Her calm refulgent brow unclouded though uncrowned !
 
 A TRODDEN FLOWER. 
 
 She watched him all the silent night, 
 She watched him all the noisy day, 
 
 She had no sense of sound or sight, 
 Save in the chamber where he lay. 
 
 She thought, — " God, if he shoiild die 
 What would the world become to me ! " 
 
 She could not pray — she knelt to try, 
 Bat blinding tears fell ceaselessly.
 
 A TRODDEX FLOWKH. 47 
 
 Yet when his languid eye looked u^j 
 
 As if it still could understand, 
 Ov Avhen his parched lips touched the cup 
 
 She proffered with a trembling hand, — 
 
 The phantom of a hope would flit 
 
 Athwart the gloom of her despair, 
 Or, like a scidptured dove, would sit 
 
 In marble stillness brooding there. 
 
 Days, weeks, and months ; — the blessed breath 
 
 Of life was in his nostrils still ; 
 Her sleepless care, her earnest faith 
 
 Survived the leech's worn-out skill. 
 
 Death reverenced, and withheM the blow, 
 The trailing cloud passed slowly o'er ; 
 
 The lamp of life began to glow, 
 
 Health, strength, delight returned once more.
 
 48 A TRODDEN FLOWER. 
 
 It passed away that darkened room, 
 There came instead a bridal feast ; 
 
 He was the gay, the proud Ijridegroom, 
 6'Ae had no place before the priest. 
 
 A lonely gravestone, cold and pale. 
 Cold as the dreary winter snows, 
 
 No name to tell the sleeper's tale. 
 
 These all the words the tablet sIk^ws : — 
 
 " Cease, heart forsaken ! cease to squander 
 God's priceless gift ; enough for thee 
 
 If w^ealth is grand, that love is grander, 
 And death the grandest of the three !"
 
 AT ULLESWATER. 
 
 I HAD come o'er the mountains for manj- a mile, 
 
 I was hungry and wet, I Avas wear}' and cold, — 
 She welcomed me in with an exquisite smile, 
 
 She tended me like a stray lamh from the fold ; 
 She heaped iip the fire, and she drew in the chair, 
 
 She boiled the best fowl, and she broached the best 
 bin. 
 She looked as if life had no trouble or care. 
 
 That blythe little maiden of Pattcrdale Inn.
 
 50 AT ULLESWATER. 
 
 There was snow on the hills, though the valleys were 
 green, 
 
 'Twas at Easter in April — I can't tell the year, — 
 1 fancy through Lent little custom had been, 
 
 But tourists and daisies began to appear ; 
 I asked her, as neatly my dinner she set, 
 
 She said they were dropping down slowly and tliin, 
 " And indeed you're the first real gentleman yet," 
 
 Quoth the dear little girl at Patter dale Inn. 
 
 Then the dance and the fiddle ! — some stout village 
 swains, 
 
 Some rosy-cheeked lasses in tafieta gowns ; 
 Such stamping, such bobbing, such ear-splitting strains, 
 
 Such whirling, such laughing, such kissing, such 
 frowns ! 
 But light as a fairy, as graceful and small, 
 
 And as if every countess to her had been kin, 
 She tripped like a spirit, with sunshine for all, 
 
 That bright little damsel of Patterdale Inn.
 
 AT ULLESWATER. 51 
 
 XoAv, Clara, my princess, you must not be jealous, 
 
 Xor will you, as soon as my moral is knuAvn, — 
 Those men, be assured, are the sensible fellows, 
 
 Who judge of a woman as woman alone ; 
 It is not the title that sweetens the blood, 
 
 It is not the jewel that whitens the skin ; 
 If a rose be a rose 'tis a rose from the bud, . 
 
 Whether reared in a palace or Patterdale Inn. ^ 
 
 E 2
 
 THE SPIKENARD. 
 
 In a garden green and sliady, 
 
 Slowly pacing up and down, 
 Walked a knight and noble lady, 
 
 Wearing beauty as a crown. 
 
 "Envious fates," he said, "divide u.s, 
 Ear to foreign lands I roam ; 
 
 Years may pass as yonder tide does 
 Ere again I wander home.
 
 THE SPIKENARD. 53 
 
 " Yestereve as westward slanted 
 
 Golden light o'er all the land, 
 Here this spikenard green I planted 
 
 "With a reverent heart and hand. 
 
 " If true love its tendrils cherish 
 They in love will breathe perfumes, 
 
 And my life will fade or flourish 
 As that spikenard fades or blooms." 
 
 O'er the flower she bent down lowly, 
 Bright tears to her bright eyes started ; 
 
 Words she spoke not ; sad and slowly 
 Eose she up ; — he had departed. 
 
 Since they two stood there together, 
 Years have come and years have gone ; 
 
 Silently as falls a feather 
 Time seemed present but passed on.
 
 54 THE SPIKENARD. 
 
 Youth has changed to manhood in him, 
 Cheek more bronzed and smile less gay, 
 
 xVh ! how often fond thoughts win him 
 Back to where that garden lay ! 
 
 Came at length an evening golden, 
 Came a ship to that fair strand, 
 
 Came a flush of visions olden 
 Ere the wanderer dared to land. 
 
 " Shall I find my spikenard blooming 1 
 
 Is it withered, dead, forgot ? 
 "\^^lat mysterious future looming, 
 
 Stamps with bliss or woe my lot 1 " 
 
 Tremblingly that garden shady 
 Saw him pass its outward bound ; 
 
 Tremblingly that noble lady 
 
 Knew his stej), and turning round, —
 
 THE SPIKEXARD. 55 
 
 " See ! " she said, " thy spikenard statel}' 
 
 Wafts to thee its rich perfume ; 
 I have watched it trul}'', greatly, 
 
 Through the years its leaves entomb. 
 
 " Nothing else by me was cherished, 
 
 Morn, or noon, or dewy night ; 
 And I knew thy life had flourished. 
 
 And my lonely heart grew light." 
 
 O'er the flower he bent down lowly, 
 Bright tears to Ms bright eyes stai'ted ; 
 
 Clasped together, soft and holy 
 
 Came the words, — " our souls ne'er parted ! "
 
 TIME. 
 
 "ehetj fugaces! " 
 
 I STRIVE against the strength of time, 
 But, well-a-day ! I strive in vain ; 
 
 He crusts me o'er like frozen rime 
 Upon a darkened window-pane. 
 
 "No more the orient light shines through 
 To gild the pictures of the soul, — 
 
 It only glimmers faintly blue. 
 
 Like some cold day-break at the pole.
 
 TIME. 57 
 
 Ah ! Time, wliy circixmvent me so ? 
 
 It was so gladsome to be young, 
 With mnged heel, and springy toe, 
 
 And love fresh dropping from the tongue. 
 
 Dear Time, be merciful ! — look back I 
 I was a favourite with thee once ; 
 
 In travelling o'er life's morning track 
 Thou didst not deem me knave or dunce. 
 
 I kept abreast with thee, and laid 
 ]\Iy finger on thy keen bright scythe, 
 
 Until thy visage, cahn and staid. 
 
 At sight of mine grew almost blythe. 
 
 Would I could match thee still, old friend ! 
 
 And then perchance it might be said 
 That e'er my brief life reached its end, 
 
 I left some high aim perfected.
 
 58 TIME. 
 
 Alack ! my thriftless past appears 
 A broken glass with shattered lights, 
 
 ! grant me yet some golden years 
 To set the crystal toy to rights ; 
 
 That men may see reflected there, 
 ^'ot visions of a careless youth, 
 
 But forms that on their forehead bear 
 The stamp of reverence and of truth.
 
 THE TWO TOURISTS. 
 
 FIRST TOURIST. 
 
 the dolcefar niente 
 Wandering co7i tranqnilla mente 
 
 Throudi those sunnier lands than ours ; 
 Inns luxurious, customs curious, 
 Princely chateaux, groups like Watteau's, 
 Palace, hovel, all so novel, 
 
 With sweet girls who offer flowers. 
 
 Down by Zurich, or hy Yevay 
 When could any day feel heavy, 
 Who could tire of Switzer-land ?
 
 GO THE TWO TOURISTS. 
 
 Mountain passes, towering masses, 
 Deep green valley, far ofF-chalet, 
 CJ oat-bells tinkling 'neath stars twinkling, 
 Lakes by Alpine breezes fanned ! 
 
 Then when we from Berne or Brugen, 
 By the Siniplon or the Splugen 
 
 Enter cloudless Italy, 
 Art's rich treasures yield neAV pleasures, 
 Marble charms us, colour warms us, 
 Such as Titian, grand Venetian, 
 
 Flashed from pencil bold and free ! 
 
 Tasso's music there still lingers, 
 There Canova's plastic fingers 
 
 Re-illumed the fire of Greece ; 
 Faith ne'er falters by those altars 
 Where there beameth one who dreameth, 
 Gazing meetly, softly, sweetly, 
 
 On the lamb she folds in peace !
 
 THE TWO TOURISTS.' 61 
 
 By Lugano or ilaggiore, 
 Light is rapture, life a story 
 
 One would long to linger o'er ; 
 Tired of all tilings, great and small tilings, 
 Pliny, Pasta, Sforza, D'Este, 
 Taglioni, and ^lanzoni. 
 
 Found a rest upon this shore ! 
 
 Grateful am I to have seen it, 
 Though as yet I canmiot win it, — • 
 
 Duty calls me back awhile ; 
 But it brightens and it lightens 
 All the sorrow of to-morrow 
 To have wandered and have pondered 
 
 O'er such scenes through many a mile.
 
 G2 THE TWO TOURISTS. 
 
 SECOND TOURIST. 
 
 Oh ! this fretting and this fever ! 
 Murray is a gross deceiver, — 
 
 Every tour is worse and worse ; 
 Heat consumes you, smoke perfumes you, 
 Porters cheat you, beggars meet you, 
 Insects bite you, waiters slight you, 
 
 Nought is cared for but your purse ! 
 
 UnknoAvn towns at midnight reaching, 
 Vainly for your trunk beseeching, 
 
 Crammed into an ovinihoo ; 
 Inns prodigious, dark and hideous, 
 Stairs ascending, never ending. 
 Faint and weary, bedrooms dreary, 
 
 " Voila, monsieur, ce'st pour vous ! "
 
 THE TWO TOURISTS. 63 
 
 Bed that measures four feet seven, 
 Thougli yoiu- length is six eleven, 
 
 Doubled up to groan all night ; 
 Knocks at daybreak shake the fabric, 
 If you hasten to your basin 
 'Tis a slopbowl, holds a cupful, 
 
 With no scrap of soap in sight ! 
 
 For our sins, I -wonder, is it 
 That those churches we must visit 
 
 With tliis hack commissionaire 1 
 Ceaseless jabbering, and be-slabbtiring 
 (For piasters) of old masters. 
 Old and shaky, spotted, flalcy. 
 
 Colourless through tear and wear. 
 
 Then the thing they call a dinner 
 Makes a man both sour and thinner, 
 Tablc-d'hotc or a la carte ;
 
 G-i THE TWO TOURISTS. 
 
 Bones infracted, soup extracted, 
 Tasteless fishes, greasy hashes, 
 Beef like leather, fowls like heather, 
 Sweets that go against the heart ! 
 
 Let me get across the channel. 
 Give me back my winter flannel, 
 
 Give me hack my Christmas cheer ; 
 'Tis all folly this Beaujolais, 
 "Where's the merit of tlmi claret 1 
 They are asses who leave Bass's 
 
 Ale for what these men call beer !
 
 FAMILY POETEAITS. 
 
 We are pictures of the dead, — 
 Look on us and think of death ; 
 
 What you have from us has fled, 
 Motion, vigour, warmth, and breath. 
 
 We were pictures of the living, — 
 All the joys you hold so dear 
 
 Gladdened us, with no misgiving 
 That our final day was near.
 
 66' FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 In the room where you are sitting 
 We too sat, and laughed, and sung, 
 
 Many a fancy round us flitting, 
 Many a kind word on our tongue. 
 
 Children used to gather round us, 
 Would not quit their eager hold, 
 
 Till the evening firelight found us 
 Telling stories quaint and old. 
 
 There came sickness, there came sorroAV ; 
 
 Once a hearse stood at the door, — 
 Xo gold hair shone on the morrow, 
 ="' One sweet face smiled nevermore. 
 
 Time passed on, hut still the places 
 
 Knew us that had known us long ; 
 Has the limner caudit no traces 
 
 Of the thoughts that used to throng;
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 67 
 
 "When oui memory backward wandered 
 
 To the days of long ago, 
 As with saddened hearts we pondered 
 
 On our life's long ebb and flow ! 
 
 'No one now has any notion 
 
 Of the pains and joys we knew ; 
 
 Careless eyes without emotion 
 Our ancestral features view. 
 
 But, still ebbing, and still flowing, 
 Such as we are you must be ; 
 
 Death alone ensures the growing 
 Of the boasted ftimily tree. 
 
 Let them paint you ; in due season 
 
 Careless eyes on you will fall ; 
 
 Not a sold will know the reason 
 
 Why you hang there on the wall. 
 f2
 
 THOU AND I. 
 
 Love still and be beloved ; — but I have crossed 
 The gloomy barrier where love followeth not ; 
 Where thou art, summer's sun shines strong and liot,- 
 The venturous heart on molten waves is tossed, 
 The outward in the inward world is lost, 
 Desire more fervid, passion more intense, 
 The flesh half spiritual, the soul half sense, 
 The eager and the ardent valued most : 
 Where / am, life has turned into a pain, 
 Dim phantoms of the past flit strangely by, 
 No colour animates the leaden sky, 
 Time drags, and apathy and silence reign ; 
 Wliy should remembrance linger ? — ne'er again 
 Swings hope's closed portal on its sullen chain.
 
 THOU AND ]. 69 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet may there not, when sprmg hath ceased to flow- 
 In gladdening currents tlirough each swelling vein, 
 May there not be, 'neath winter's icy cham, 
 
 A solemn beauty iu the silent snow ? 
 
 And may there not, when warm airs cease to blow, 
 Hot clouds to thunder, and false lights to shine, 
 May there not fall a calmness more divine 
 
 Than when wild pulses flutter to and fro ? 
 
 Delight is not repose ; he sleeps the best 
 Who wakevS to quietness ; and still better he 
 Wlio, passing gently from the things that be, 
 
 Is all absorbed into gi'ccn nature's breast ; 
 
 Emotion is a fitful wayward guest, 
 
 I'he essence of the Infinite is rest !
 
 THE l^AMELESS EARL. 
 
 Two days lie fled from the lost battlefield ; 
 But still pursuit grew closer ; on the thii-d 
 He came to ]\Iinden Hall, where Veriion dwelt, 
 The friend of happier years. With open arms 
 They met the fallen Earl ; but at night 
 The troops of Cromwell thundered at the gate. 
 He by the secret postern made his way 
 Into the dim old woods ; the soldiers came 
 And found brave Vernon in the Earl's gear : 
 They seized and bore him to the man they served, 
 Believing 'twas the Earl they had ta'en.
 
 THE NAMELESS EARL. 7 
 
 In silence Vernon heard his doom pronounced, 
 And died a soldier's death to save his friend. 
 
 Time rolled away, and all the realm was changed : 
 The King came back ; the Earl regained his own ; 
 IJut Vernon's widow crossed him like a ghost, 
 i 'rying, " Give back my husband ! " Vernon's son 
 ►Scowled darkly at him ; and pale Eosamond, 
 The only daughter of that orphaned house, 
 Shuddered to hear his name. 
 
 Beside the King 
 False Eocbester held place. His eye had seen 
 The starry light of Eosamond, and noted still 
 Young Vernon by her side to brush away 
 1'lxe poison of court flies that buzzed around her. 
 For this, false Eochester devised his ruin ; 
 The King's too easy ear was filled with lies, 
 And Vernon lay a prisoner in the Tower. 
 The mother and the daughter sued in vain ;
 
 '2 THE NAMELESS EAEL. 
 
 Unconscious and incredulous of gtiilt, 
 
 They hid their grief and scorn in Minden Hall, 
 
 And, world-forsaken, prayed for help from Heaven. 
 
 One night they slept, nor in the darkness dreamt 
 "\^1iat trailing serpent crawled around their walls. 
 Wit] I Rochester a band of hirelings came, 
 Their purjDose rapine, and their weapon fire. 
 The rafters blazed, the crackling walls fell in ; 
 Shrieks wild and sudden rent the midnight air : 
 A form of beauty, pulseless, but in life, 
 Thrown hotly o'er a steed, was borne away. 
 The distraught mother, childless as she deemed, 
 Swooned 'mongst the whitening ashes of her home. 
 
 Upon the day preceding that foul night, 
 A muffled form knocked loudly at the Tower, 
 And gave the King's sign manual to set free 
 The prisoner Vernon, with command to take
 
 THE NAMELESS EARL. 73 
 
 Instant departure for his fatlier's Hall. 
 The stranger rode beside him, nor slacked rein 
 Till evening fell, and they had reached the woods 
 Beloved by both, by both remembered well. 
 ]\Iore slow they thrid the green and shadowy path, 
 When suddenly the gleam of men-at-arms 
 Came in the dark upon them, with the moan 
 Of one in pain on a conducted steed ; 
 A burst of moonlight told them all the rest. 
 Three bit the dust beneath the stranger's sword ; 
 Thrice did he turn aside the deadly blows 
 Aimed at young Vernon's hfe, and thrice the blood 
 Of Rochester flowed down, till with him fled 
 His kindred crew. Then tenderly they turned 
 That virgin-laden barb, and led it back 
 To what had been the stately Minden Hall. 
 
 The widow, opening her bewildered eyes, 
 Saw her lost children kneeliim at her side ! —
 
 74 THE NAMELESS EARL. 
 
 Then spake the Earl : " I can bring no more 
 " The friend of other years ; but, lady, take 
 " His stainless offspring from my ruthful hand ; 
 " And, as I leave the realm for evermore, 
 " Exchange this vacant site for my old towers, 
 " That so the curse may from my soul fall oft", 
 " And I may draw life's heavy breath in peace." 
 
 The mother placed her hand upon his head, 
 Her son took his with strong returning grasp, 
 And Eosamond essayed to smile, but wept.
 
 THE CI-DEVANT JEUNE HOMME. 
 
 I've seen the day, — but now no more 
 
 Bright eyes glance brighter when I come ; 
 By Jove ! I'm abnost tliought a bore, 
 
 They ciutsey, and grow staid and dumb ; 
 Or, whispering to' themselves, they say, 
 
 " How old he looks ! how old ! dear me ! " 
 Then carelessly they turn away, 
 
 And pass me by like ships at sea. 
 
 1 sometimes wonder what the deuce 
 Such shocking want of manners means, 
 
 And try to find some fair excuse 
 For silly girls scarce in their teens ;
 
 76 THE CI-DEVANT JEUNE HOMME. 
 
 I've hardly got a gray hair yet, 
 My teeth are nearly all my own ; 
 
 I am by no means heavy set, 
 
 Indeed, I'm barely fourteen stone. 
 
 I still can dance with perfect grace. 
 
 My voice is musical and strong ; 
 There's scarce a crowfoot on my face, 
 
 My hand is white, my fingers long ; 
 My tailor says he never saw 
 
 A finer shape at forty-three, — 
 And yet, by some mysterious law, 
 
 They pass me by like ships at sea. 
 
 'Tis most preposterous, I vow. 
 
 The fancy that they have for boys ! 
 
 They liked Tnen formerly, but now 
 Mere curled darHjigs, nursery toys ;
 
 THE CI-DEVANT JEUNE HOMME. 77 
 
 I asked that girl, with all her faults, 
 
 And she refused me like a fool, 
 And now she's whirling through the waltz 
 
 "With that thin stripling fresh from school. 
 
 Those red coats, too, that hang so loose 
 
 On .shoulders without breadth or strength, 
 Why, now-a-days, the veriest goose 
 
 In such a coat goes any length ! 
 And budding maidens gasp and blush 
 
 As if they stood by Gengis Khan, 
 And walcliful mothers jump and rush 
 
 To ask him to a the dansant ! 
 
 While /, forsooth, am left to stand 
 In some odd comer by myself, 
 
 And hear old tabbies underhand 
 Pronounce me fairly on the shelf.
 
 78 THE CI-DEVANT JEUNE HOMME. 
 
 By Heaven ! it almost looks as if 
 
 They spoke tlie truth ; for, light and free, 
 
 Each gilded jDOop, each buoyant skiff, 
 Goes sailing past me out to sea ! 
 
 So be it ! I have seen the day 
 
 I could have won of smiles my fill. 
 But if we will not Allien we may, 
 
 Perhaps we may not when we will ; 
 Then let them take their beardless pet, 
 
 And lisp with Harry, Dick, or Tom, 
 But if they want a true man yet, 
 
 I'll back the ci-devant jetme homme !
 
 ONCE MOEE. 
 
 When tliy heart is sick with care, 
 Sick with breathing heavy air, 
 Sick with thinking foul things fair, 
 
 Sick with land and sea ; 
 When thy pulse beats faint and low, 
 When thy blood flows cold and slow, 
 When life's weeds its flowers o'ergrow, 
 
 Turn once more to me ! 
 
 Long thy heart has shut me out, 
 Half in carelessness or doubt, 
 Half because the loud world's rout 
 Claimed thee for its own ;
 
 so ONCE MORE. 
 
 But some stray thoughts lingered yet, 
 'Midst the fever and the fret, 
 Like old jewels quaintly set, 
 Worn in days long flown ! 
 
 Change goes hand in hand with time. 
 Sadder change than change of cHme, 
 Or from morning's golden prime 
 
 To pale twilight's liour ; 
 Change 'neath which old feelings freeze, 
 Loves and friendships cease to please, 
 Freshness dies out from the breeze. 
 
 Perfume from the flower ! 
 
 Friend, if such dark change he thine, 
 Ere the flickering light decline 
 Give at least one parting sign — 
 For sweet charity !
 
 ONCE MOBE. SI 
 
 Here the old smiles wait thee still, 
 Here glad tears love's eyelids fill, 
 Smiles that warm, and tears that thrill, 
 Turn once more to me ! 
 
 o
 
 IMPLOEA PACE. 
 
 SCOTTICE REDDITUM. 
 
 When I lie catild beneath t£e mool 
 My death will gie but sma' concern, 
 
 The railway trains will still be full, 
 
 And steamboats crammed frae stem to stem. 
 
 When I lie cauld beneath the mool 
 Others will stand in dead men's shoes, 
 
 Wee rosy bairns will gang to school, 
 And newspapers be fu' o' news.
 
 IMPLORA PACE. 83 
 
 Wlieu I lie cauld beneath the mool 
 They'll gie great denners to sma' men ; 
 
 The northern blast will blaw at yuiUe, 
 And gowks will fecht wi' sword and pen. 
 
 Care darkens soon the brightest face, 
 
 Life's lesson is to toil and thole, 
 The grave is no sae bad a place 
 
 Altho' it looks a gruesome hole. 
 
 This warld's doubtfu' joys I ken, 
 
 I've tasted maist it has to gie ; 
 I've won some praise frae bearded men, 
 
 And lasses hae been fond o' me. 
 
 But years tak' aff the gladsome zest, 
 
 And a' grows wearisome and dull ; 
 There's nactliing after a' like rest, 
 
 For weary banes and aching skull : 
 G 2
 
 84 IMPLOEA. PACE. 
 
 Rest from the joys and pains o' sense, 
 Rest from the east wind and the snaw, 
 
 Rest from a wrangle about pence, 
 Rest from divinity and law. 
 
 Let wakerife thousands wade through life, 
 Where swamps lie cauld and rivers roll, 
 
 I'll wash my hands of a' the strife, 
 And lie content in yonder hole.
 
 ^ THE SENSE OF TOUCH. 
 
 Ere form or colour Avins the eyes, 
 Ere music for the ear has charms, 
 
 The grateful infant smiling lies 
 
 Pressed in its mother's gentle arms. 
 
 Sweet sense of touch ! — the first, the last, 
 That links together human-kind ; 
 
 When sight and sound are fading fast 
 The clasping hand remains behind.
 
 86 THE SENSE OP TOUCH. 
 
 Looks may reveal tlie heart's deep store ; 
 
 Love may be breathed in words intense ; 
 But one touch on the palm thrills more / 
 
 Than all a poet's eloquence. 
 
 Say, what electric fire, fair gu-l, 
 
 •Shot through thy trembling frame even now. 
 As, bending near, that golden curl 
 
 One moment touched thy lover's brow ? 
 
 Fond wife, who like the heliotrope 
 Turnest to him thy constant face, 
 
 Wliat wouldst thou barter for the hope 
 Of that long, earnest, close embrace 1 
 
 ! brightest hour of hearts that meet, 
 O ! darkest hour of parting care, 
 
 What makes the one so trebly sweet, 
 Wliat saves the other from despair \ —
 
 THE SENSE OF TOUCH. 87 
 
 The wreatliing arms, tlie swelling veins 
 
 TlLTOugli wliicli tlie blood in concert runs, — 
 
 The clinging trust in fleshly chains 
 Beyond the circuit of the suns. 
 
 Thanks be to God for starry sight ! 
 
 Thanks for the sounds that melt and move ! 
 But touch, surpassing all delight, 
 
 Transcends all thanks, for touch is love !
 
 /> DREAMS. 
 
 Far wandering through the night, 
 With eyelids closely pressVl, 
 And every sense at rest, 
 "Where is my spirit's flight 
 Tar wandering through the night 1 
 
 The distant and the past, 
 Dim scenes of other years, 
 Pale bridals, and dark biers, 
 Caves shadowy and vast. 
 Spectres that smile aghast ; —
 
 DREAMS. 89 
 
 Dead love with draggled liair, 
 
 "WTiite hate ^vitli dripping sword, ^ 
 Fixed eyes that have no word 
 
 To breathe upon the air 
 
 The meaning of their stare ; — 
 
 Slow waters with no sound, 
 !N'o sparkling in the sun, 
 But eddies, many a one, 
 From whose green depths profound 
 There surgeth Tip the drowned ; — 
 
 'Tis not my eyes that see ; 
 
 My eyes are closed ; 'tis night ; 
 
 Whence the mysterious light 1 
 Whence come those shapes to me 
 Of heaven, and earth, and sea 1
 
 90 DREAMS, 
 
 Without my will's control, 
 Self-stirred they come and go, 
 As waves of ocean flow, 
 And commune with my soul, 
 And pass on to their goal. 
 
 Are waking tilings more real 1 
 Is faith to daylight due. 
 And sleep alone untrue ? 
 
 Or is not the ideal 
 
 The end-all and the be-all 1
 
 THE BESCUE. 
 
 A PICTTJEE BY MILLAIS. 
 
 ^Mother ! thy agony is changed to bliss ; 
 
 The billowy flame that bursts through wall and floor, 
 Raging unmastered, shakes thy soul no more, 
 Tliou hear'st no more its fiery serpent-hiss : 
 When came an argosy with freight like this 1 — 
 Thy loved ones rescued from the fangs of death, 
 Light in their eyes, and in their nostrils breath, 
 Lips eager yet to meet thy frantic kiss : 
 But let them wait ; fling thou thy arms around 
 
 That calm heroic man, and on his breast 
 Sob out a rapture keener, more profound. 
 
 Than words or fleeting kisses e'er expressed, — 
 ( Jod's messenger, with air divinely sweet, 
 Laying thy unscathed children at thy feet !
 
 THE VALE OF REST. 
 
 A PICTURE BY MILLAIS. 
 
 A PLAIN good woman digs in holy ground, 
 And in the sadness of the evening air, 
 A convent grave, as one who doeth there 
 A simple duty with no thought profound : 
 She knew and loved the sister whose small mound 
 Of mother earth is all that waits her now : — 
 But with a deeper heart and nobler brow 
 The lady abbess hears the constant sound 
 Of clod on clod ; and, dreaming of the past, 
 Or wandering onward through the vague and vast. 
 Or meditating on the love of Him 
 Who left the praises of the seraphim 
 To die for that poor sister and for all, 
 Feels on her soul God's solemn shadow fall !
 
 K"UTTINa 
 
 Loud was our laughter the day we went nutting, 
 TJp the steep side of the thick-wooded hill ; 
 
 Brambles were tearing, and sharp stones were cutting 
 Onward we pressed with a resolute will. 
 
 Fences, and thickets, and brooklets, and ditches 
 Forced us to scramble, jump, wriggle, and stoop ; 
 
 Task pretty hard for a thin pair of breeches, 
 Harder for crinoline, whalebone, or hoop. 
 
 Kuts, when we saw them, were commonly growing 
 High in the air on some far-away twig ; — 
 
 Struggling, and grasping, and stretching, and blowing, 
 Legs among broken boughs dancing a jig, —
 
 94 NUTTING, 
 
 Often we failed the brown cluster to gather, 
 Gaining but scratches and thorns in the flesh ; 
 
 Far from disheartening, these strengthen'd us rather 
 For all the bumps and the bruises afresh. 
 
 Had we not cause to be thankful and merry 1 
 Limbs so elastic, and spirits so high ; 
 
 Finding more joy in a nut or a berry 
 
 Thau in false pleasures men fight for or buy. 
 
 Seated in winter around the warm ember, 
 Cracking our nuts with an innocent pride, 
 
 Toasts shall be quaffed to that day in September, 
 Gleesome, and pranksome, on yonder hillside !
 
 X haddo:n^ hall. 
 
 Rutland, Vernon, whatsoe'er 
 
 The boasted rank, the lordly name, 
 
 All have melted into ah, 
 
 Ceased like an extinguished flame. 
 
 Solemn in the summer noon, 
 Memory-ridden, hope-bereft, 
 
 Ghost-like 'neath the midnight moon 
 By some trailing shadow cleft.
 
 96 HADDON njiLL. 
 
 Vacant chamber of the dead, 
 
 Through whose gloom fierce passions swept 
 Mouklering couch whereon, 'tis said, 
 
 The majesty of England slept ; 
 
 Hall of wassail, which has rung 
 To the unquestioned baron's jest ; 
 
 Dim old chapel, where were hung 
 Offerings of the o'erfraught breast ; 
 
 Moss-clad terrace, strangely still, 
 Broken shaft, and crumbling frieze, 
 
 Still as lips that used to fill 
 
 With bugle blasts the morning breeze ! 
 
 Careless river, gliding under, 
 Ever ghding, lapsing on, 
 
 With no sense of awe or wonder 
 At the ages wliich have gone ;
 
 HADDON HALL. 97 
 
 Every record of the past 
 
 ^Slakes the present more intense, 
 Love's old temple overcast 
 
 Wakes to love the living sense. 
 
 In the long-deserted hall, 
 
 In dead beauty's withered bower, 
 Closer clings the heart to all 
 
 That makes glad the fleeting hour 
 
 Closer cling we unto those 
 
 Who must leave us or be left ; 
 
 Brighter in the sunset glows 
 Life's mysterious warp and weft. 
 
 H
 
 IN DOVEDALE. 
 
 Isaac ! still thou anglest near me 
 By the green banks of thy Dove, 
 
 Still thy gentle ghost may hear me 
 Breathe my reverence and love. 
 
 Thou, whose ears drank in the warble 
 (Df all streams in crystal play, — 
 
 Will thy bones beneath cold marble 
 Lie in peace so far away 1 * 
 
 * He is buried in Winchester Cathedral.
 
 IN DOVEDALE. 99 
 
 my kindly old piscator, 
 
 See'st thou not these waters clear 1 
 
 Time, thou changeling, Time, thou traitor, 
 Give him back, — his home was here ! 
 
 Lo ! at yonder bend he standeth, 
 
 Where round rocks the wave bells out. 
 
 See ! with skilful touch he landeth 
 
 Now a grayling, now a trout. 
 t 
 
 Stream of beauty ! winding, singing 
 Through the world's divinest dale, 
 
 Ever to thy music bringing 
 That old spirit calm and pale ! 
 
 Learned in all honest learning, 
 
 Trustful, truthful, pure of heart ; 
 Peaceful, blameless honour earning 
 
 By the magic of his art.
 
 100 IN DOVEDALE. 
 
 In life's fitful turmoil often 
 Have I longed to be like liim, 
 
 And have felt my nature soften 
 Musing on that phantom dim, — 
 
 Now a trout and now a grayling 
 Luring from the shaded pool, 
 
 God's white clouds high o'er him sailing, 
 All around the beautiful !
 
 PHCEBE. 
 
 0, Phcebe of Dolgethly inn ! 
 
 Thy smile would soften stock or stone ; 
 Thou smil'st on all, yet with such grace 
 
 Each deems thou smil'st for him alone. 
 
 'Tis hut thy cheerfulness of heart 
 
 That welcomes thus the wandering wight 
 
 Who to the " Golden Lion " comes, 
 
 And meets that smile so soft and bright. 
 
 Life has few better things to give, 
 Sigh as we may for pelf and power, 
 
 Than smiles like these which add the charm 
 Of kindness to the passing hour.
 
 102 PHCEBE. 
 
 Could smiles be put into the bill 
 
 Metliinks the charge would be but small 
 
 Though every smile should cost as much 
 As breakfast, dinner, bed, and all. 
 
 But, like the light of summer sky. 
 Thy sunshine, Phosbe, has no price ; 
 
 We weigh not cheerfulness in scales. 
 We sell not kindness by the slice. 
 
 X 
 
 We can but give thee smile for smile, 
 
 And deem it not in vain to win, 
 All slight and fleeting though they be, 
 I The brief affections of an inn. 
 
 For, when the wayworn traveller sees 
 The last of many a weary mile, 
 
 What pompous pride, what golden state, 
 Has half the charm of Phoebe's smile !
 
 TALLBOYS TO NORTH.* 
 
 By stream and by mountain, bj^ loch and by glen, 
 Love lives in thy presence, joy smiles by thy side ; 
 
 Other friends may have doubts of the how or the when. 
 But I shall be with thee whatever betide ! 
 
 'Tis a glory to meet with bright nature and thee 
 
 1 n tlie innocent spirit of earlier days ; 
 Tliy lof)ks and thy words have a magic for me, 
 
 Like the song of the birds, or the breath of the 
 braes ! 
 
 * Tallboys is one of the collorinitors in the " Dies Boreales," 
 the last series of papers by the late Professor Wilson which 
 appeared in Blackwood's Magazine.
 
 104 TALLBOYS TO NORTH. 
 
 Then be it when tempests encircle the land, 
 Or be it when spring smiles on valley and lea ; 
 
 Or be it when waves lie asleep on the strand, 
 
 And the summer sun flashes far out on the sea ; — 
 
 We'll roam the brown moorlands, or breast the steep 
 
 hm. 
 
 Or steer the light skiff o'er the lone Highland lake, 
 Or lure starry trout from the pool and the rill 
 
 Ere the roe in the woods of Strath-Tummel awake I 
 
 And sometimes in silence, and sometimes in song. 
 We'll bend at the footstool of nature our knee ; 
 
 While thick-coming fancies around us that throng 
 Will blend, like old melodies, sadness with glee. 
 
 Ah ! something remains, though the best be no more, 
 When we two may yet in old kindliness meet. 
 
 And as onward we tend to the shadowy shore 
 
 Still gather the wild flowers that spring at our feet !
 
 CHEISTOPHEPv NOETH AT LUIB. 
 
 Was it reality, or but a dream 1 
 
 Methought that having left the hum of men, 
 
 And crossed a lake, and wandered up a glen, 
 I saw the Wizard of the Dochart stream ! 
 liadiant his eye, and like the golden gleam 
 
 Of Avestern orb his comb-deriding locks ; 
 
 As flowers on battlements, or leaves on rocks, 
 Well did his shoulders their rich load beseem ! 
 And all the mountain spirits OAvned his spell, 
 
 The hoary trees were his familiar friends ; 
 For him ^olian numbers sink or swell, 
 
 The lark springs up, his head the wild deer bends ; 
 Ai-ound his steps deep-treasured memories dwell, 
 
 The sunlight of his face for dark years makes amends
 
 X THE END. 
 
 I know at length the truth, my friend, — 
 Some ten or fifteen seasons more, 
 
 And then for me there comes the end — 
 My joys and sorrows will be o'er. 
 
 Nor deem I the remaining years, 
 
 Which soon must come and soon must go, 
 Which wake no hopes, excite no fears, 
 
 Will teach me more than now I know.
 
 THE END. lOi 
 
 They'll bring the same unfruitful round, 
 
 The nightly rest, the daily toil, 
 The smiles that soothe, the slights that wound, 
 
 The little gain, the feverish moil. 
 
 As manhood's fire burns less and less, 
 The languid heart grows cold and dull, 
 
 Alike indifferent to success, 
 And careless of the beautifid. 
 
 Kought but the past awakes a throb, 
 And even the past begins to die, — 
 
 The burning tear, the anguished sob, - 
 Give place to listless apathy. 
 
 And when at last Death turns the key, 
 And throws the earth and green turf on, 
 
 ^Miate'cr it was that made up me, 
 Is it, my friend, for ever gone 1
 
 108 THE END. 
 
 Dear friend, is all we see a dream ? 
 
 Does this brief glimpse of time and space 
 Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme 
 
 Intended for tlie human race 1 
 
 Sliall even the star-exploring mind, 
 Wliich thrills with spiritual desire, 
 
 Be, like a breath of summer wind, 
 Absorbed in sunshine and expire ! 
 
 Or will what men call death restore 
 
 The living myriads of the past 1 
 Is dying but to go before 
 
 The myriads who will come at last t 
 
 If not, whence sprung the thought 1 and when(;e 
 
 Perception of a power divine, 
 AVho symbols forth omnipotence 
 
 In tlowers that bloom, in suns that shine I
 
 THE END. 109 
 
 "Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, 
 "lis not these fihny eyes that see ; 
 
 ThiV niind and matter break the link, 
 ^lind does not therefore cease to be. 
 
 Siioh end is bnt an end in part, 
 Snch death is but the body's goal ; 
 
 Blood makes the pidses of the heart, 
 But not the emotions of the soul.
 
 X X ^lARY QITEE^^ OF SCOTS.* 
 
 ' ' EUe etait de ce moiide oii les plus belles clioses 
 Ont le pire destin." — MalHerbe. 
 
 I looked far back into tlie past, and lo ! in liright array, 
 I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. 
 
 It was. a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, 
 And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft 
 the footstep falls ; 
 
 * This poem, having been fortunate enougli to obtain some 
 popularity, is here reprinted as the volume in Mdiich it origi- 
 nally appeai-ed ha& been long out of print.
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Ill 
 
 And o'er tlie antique dial-stone the creeping shadow 
 
 crept, i 
 
 And, all around, the noon-day light in drojw-sy radiance 
 
 slept. 
 No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister 
 
 dim. 
 The tinkling of the silver hell, or the sisters' holy 
 
 hymn. 
 And there five nohle maidens sat heneath the orchard 
 
 trees, 
 In that first budding spring of youth, when all its 
 
 prospects please, 
 And little recked they, Avhen they sang, or knelt at 
 
 vesper prayers, 
 That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none 
 
 more dear than theirs ; 
 And little even the loveliest thoxight, before the 
 
 Virgin's slirine, 
 Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient 
 
 Stuart line :
 
 112 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 1 Calmly her liappy days flew on, uncounted in tlieir 
 
 flight, . 
 / And, as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light. 
 
 The scene was changed. — It was the court, the gay 
 
 court of Bourbon, 
 Where 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand 
 
 courtiers thron" : 
 And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well pleased, I ween, 
 
 to see 
 The land assemble all its wealth of grace and 
 
 chivalry ; — 
 Gray Montmorency, o'er whose liead has passeil a storm 
 
 of years. 
 Strong in himself and children, stands, the first among 
 
 his peers ; 
 Next him the Guises, who so well fame's steepest 
 
 heights assailed, 
 And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest 
 
 hearts have failed, —
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 113 
 
 And higher yet their path shall he, and stronger wax 
 
 their might, 
 For before them IMontmorenc/s star shall pale its 
 
 waning light ; 
 There too the Prince of Conde wears his all-iin- 
 
 conquered sword, 
 With great Coligni by his side, each name a house- 
 hold word ; 
 And there walks she of jNIedici, that proud Italian 
 
 line. 
 The mother of a race of kings, the haughty Catht;- 
 
 rine ! 
 The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine 
 
 make, 
 A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering 
 
 wake : 
 But fairer far than all the crowd, -who bask on fortune's 
 
 tide, 
 r^tfulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made 
 
 bride ! 
 
 8. B. J
 
 114 MART QUEEN OF SCOTS-. 
 
 The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond deep love 
 
 of one — 
 The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are 
 
 but begim, 
 They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her 
 
 cheek, 
 They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy 
 
 bespeak. 
 Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all 
 
 its brilliant hoiu's, 
 She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine 
 
 and its flowers 1 
 
 The scene was changed. — It was a bark that slowly 
 
 held its way, 
 And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of 
 
 evening lay ; 
 And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful 
 
 eyes 
 Upou the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.
 
 MART QUEEN OF SCOTS. 115 
 
 Xo marvel that the lady wept, — there was no land 
 
 on earth 
 She lov'd like that dear land, although she owed it 
 
 not her birth : 
 It was her mother's land ; the land of childhood and 
 
 of friends ; 
 It was the land where she had found for all lier 
 
 gi'iefs amends ; 
 The laud where her dead husband slept ; the land 
 
 where she had known 
 The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splen- 
 dours of a throne : 
 Xo marvel that the lady wept, it was the land of 
 
 France, 
 The chosen home of cliivalry, the garden of ro- 
 mance ! 
 The past was bright, like those dear hiUs so far behind 
 
 her bark ; 
 The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and 
 dark !—
 
 116 MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS. 
 
 One gaze again — one long last gaze ; " Adieu, fair 
 France, to tliee ! " 
 
 The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the uncon- 
 scious sea. 
 
 The scene was changed. — It was an eve of raw and 
 surly mood, 
 
 And in a turret-chamber high of ancient HoljTOod 
 
 Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the 
 winds, 
 
 That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncer- 
 tain minds. 
 
 The touch of care had blanched her cheek, her snaile 
 was sadder now ; 
 
 The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her 
 brow ; 
 
 And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field ; 
 
 The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she 
 could not wield.
 
 MARY QUEEX OP SCOTS. 117 
 
 8he tliouglit of all her bliglited hopes, the dreams 
 
 of youth's brief day, 
 Aiid suiumon'd Eizzio Avith liis lute, and hade the 
 
 minstrel play 
 The songs she loved in other years, the songs of gay 
 
 Xavarre, 
 The songs, perchance, tliat erst were sung by gallant 
 
 Chatelar : 
 They half beguileil her of her cares, they soothed lier 
 
 into smiles, 
 They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce 
 
 domestic broils. 
 But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' 
 
 battle-cry ! 
 They come, they come ! and lo ! the scowl of Iluth- 
 
 ven's hollow eye ! 
 Stern swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, her words, 
 
 her prayers are vain, 
 The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful liizzio's 
 
 slain !
 
 118 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 Then Mary Stuart brushed aside the tears that trick- 
 ling fell ; 
 
 "Xow for my father's arm," she said, " my woman's 
 heart, farewell ! " 
 
 The scene was changed. — It was a lake with one 
 
 small lonely isle. 
 And there within the prison walls of its baronial pile. 
 Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should 
 
 stooji to sign 
 The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her 
 
 ancestral line : 
 " My lords, my lords ! " the captive cried, " were I 
 
 but once more free, 
 With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my 
 
 cause and me. 
 That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze 
 
 that blows, 
 And once more reign, a Stuart queen o'er my remorse- 
 less foes ! "
 
 MART QUEEN OF SCOTS. Ill) 
 
 A red spot burned upon her clieek, streamed lier rich 
 tresses doAvn; 
 
 She wrote the words — she stood erect, a queen with- 
 out a crown ! 
 
 The scene was changed. — A royal host a royal banner 
 
 bore ; 
 The faithful of the land stood round their smiling 
 
 queen once more : 
 She stayed her steed upon a hill, she saw them march- 
 ing by, 
 She heard their shouts, she read success in every 
 
 flashing eye : 
 The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies 
 
 away, 
 And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — 
 
 where are they? 
 Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and 
 
 undone — 
 God ! to see what she has lost, and think what 
 
 guilt has won ;
 
 120 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's 
 
 part ; 
 Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in 
 
 thy heart. 
 
 The scene was changed. — Beside the block a sullen 
 
 headsman stood, 
 And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon 
 
 must di-ip with blood. 
 With slow and steady step there came a lady through 
 
 the hall. 
 And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched 
 
 the hearts of aD ; 
 Rich were the sable robes she wore, her white veil 
 
 round her fell. 
 And from her neck there hung the cross, that cross 
 
 she loved so well ! 
 I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was 
 
 its bloom, 
 I saw that grief had deck'd it out — an offering for 
 
 the tomb !
 
 5IARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 121 
 
 I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so 
 
 brightly shone ; 
 1 knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled 
 
 ■with every tone ; 
 I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of 
 
 living gold ; 
 I knew that bounding grace of step, that S}Tiimetry of 
 
 mould : 
 Even noAv I see her far away, in that calm convent 
 
 aisle, 
 I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy 
 
 snule, — 
 Even noAv I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal 
 
 morn, 
 A new star in the firmament, to light and glory 
 
 bom ! 
 Alas, the change ! she placed her foot upon a triple 
 
 throne. 
 And on the scaffold now she stands, beside the block, 
 
 alone !
 
 122 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the 
 
 crowd 
 Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round 
 
 her footsteps bowed ! 
 Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul has 
 
 passed away ; 
 The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of 
 
 clay ! — 
 A solemn text ! Go, think of it, in silence and 
 
 alone. 
 Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a 
 
 throne !
 
 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 From Westmoelanp. 
 
 ! if thiiiking could liave won thee, 
 T am thinking always on thee ! 
 From Whitehaven to St. Bees, 
 Up the hill and through the trees ; 
 From St. Bees to Ennerdale, 
 In the moonshine cold and pale ; 
 And as thence my steps I urge 
 Ul) that stormy mountain gorge, 
 Bent on reaching Wasdale Head, 
 Still with thee my soul is fed !
 
 124 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 Thee my vivid fancy sees 
 
 Sitting on the scraggy screes ; 
 
 Surely these be thy small hands 
 
 Beckoning to the town of Strands ! 
 
 In my comfortable bed, 
 
 Dozing in the " Old King's Head," 
 
 To my lips Avith dreamy laugh, 
 
 (->ft I press thy photograph : 
 
 Think not thou, Avhen morning breaks, 
 
 That I care for chops and steaks ; 
 
 Yonder tourist, never shaken 
 
 With the grief of one forsaken, 
 
 Gulps his eggs and bolts his bacon ; 
 
 I, like bush without a bud on, 
 
 Wander by the banks of Duddon, 
 
 Lying, like a stranded wreck, 
 
 On the braes at Cockly Beck ; 
 
 Sighing for thee, jeAvel, still 
 
 All the way by Stanley Gill,
 
 TO LIZZIK. 
 
 All the waj' to Ooplia kirk, 
 
 "Where I see, thee in the mirk, 
 
 Gleaming like a spirit blest, 
 
 High above the " TraveUer's Eest,"— 
 
 Eest for some, but not for me, 
 
 I have none "when wanting thee ! 
 
 Call it stirpid, call it shabby, 
 
 Thus to stalk through Furness Abbej', 
 
 Gazing like a gaping oyster, 
 
 On the transept, nave, and cloister, — 
 
 Gazing on the locutorium, 
 
 Chapter-house and old scriptorium, 
 
 As devoid of proper spunk 
 
 As that grim Cistercian monk, 
 
 Who has never said an ave, 
 
 SiiTce men sang the psahns of Dav}' ! 
 
 "Who can tell my spirit's lowness, 
 
 As I straggle on to Eowness ! 
 
 !Many a large and lustrous tear 
 
 Trickles into "Windermere ; 
 
 125
 
 126 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 Newby Bridge and green StoiTS Hall 
 See them gather, burst, and fall ! 
 Troutbeck stares with sudden fear, 
 As I, woe-begone, draw near ! 
 Soft enchantress ! could I lay 
 These sad limbs, this April day, 
 I^eath the grass at EUeray, 
 Haply in some future time, 
 Blooming in your perfect prime, 
 You might look down on my grave, 
 And, with that bright way you have, 
 Humming some sw^et cheerful tune, 
 Think me an amazing spoon !
 
 THE WAYSIDE CEUCIEIX. 
 
 A PIOUS hand has carved this wood, 
 
 A loving hand has wreathed these flowers, 
 
 The offering rests where offering should, 
 To Him who saved this world of ours. 
 
 Eye never saw a fairer scene, 
 
 A fairer scene heart never felt. 
 Of winding waters, flocks, and green, 
 
 And hills that into blue air molt.
 
 128 THE WAYSIDE CRUCIFIX. 
 
 And even o'er that witliered form, 
 
 Who counts okl heads as there she kneels, 
 
 And kioks a wreck of life's long storm, 
 The influence of the landscape steals. 
 
 The siunmer yet has charms for her, 
 The song of hirds still soothes her ear. 
 
 The flowers and murmuring streamlets stir 
 Some memory of a long-past year. 
 
 But fairer than the streams that run. 
 And dearer than the stars that shine. 
 
 That cross from which God's holy Son 
 Passed to the arms of love Divine. 
 
 And faith and hope for ever fresh. 
 
 Great thoughts that Avith her heing mix, 
 
 Unweakened by the failing flesh. 
 Have brought her to that crucifix.
 
 THE WAYSIDE CRUCIFIX. 129 
 
 She worships there, — she holds up there 
 Hands palsied in life's last decaj^, — 
 
 And those poor hands and that thin hair 
 Shine in the gleam of parting day. 
 
 K
 
 THE EETUEX AFTER DEATH. 
 
 Say not the grave all memory effaces ; 
 
 Even from the grave how wondrous sweet to come 
 Once every hundred years hack to the hum 
 
 Of life, and see the old familiar 2:»laces ! 
 
 To find hy hill or stream some lingering traces 
 
 Of times long past, when life for thee was young, 
 To hear new voices s^jealc thy native tongue, 
 
 To see fair forms with gentle unknown faces ; 
 
 To learn the onward glories or disgraces 
 
 Of this hrave sea-ght isle, — what patriots rose, 
 
 4 
 
 What evil passions hroke the AvorkVs repose, 
 What science found in far-off starry spaces ; 
 To feel that even in tlie charnel vault 
 Xature can charm and sj-mpathy exalt !
 
 THE RETURN AFTER DEATH. 131 
 
 II. 
 
 «l 
 
 Yet U ! the sadness of remeniljerecl days, 
 
 Keinembered only by one Imman liedrt ! 
 And ! the desolation of that gaze, 
 
 When in the gazer's feelings none take part ! -^ 
 The place that knew -would knoAV thee then no more. 
 
 The unconscious hills return not thy regard ; 
 The kindly hearts that beat with thine of yore 
 
 Woidd be but as the mould beneath the sward ! 
 Tlien why revisit scenes from -svliich has fled 
 
 The essence of enjopnent % Avhy reverse 
 'J'he law of nature that gives dead to dead, 
 
 And shuts out life's emotions from the hearse % 
 Xo ! when on earth thy vital course has run, 
 JJetter to be as dust till God shall quench the sun. 
 
 k2
 
 AT LLAXGOLLEK 
 
 How clearly ring those Sabbath bells 
 A welcome to this sunny morn, 
 
 As (It)wn the riclily wooded dells 
 
 Their voice on summer's breath is borne ! 
 
 ! gentle bells, ye surely bring 
 Earth's gentlest hearts to holy fane, 
 
 Else ^'ainly doth this river sing. 
 
 And all those green-clad hills are vain.
 
 AT LLANGOLLEX. 133 
 
 Man may not with cold unconcern 
 Eeceive the smallest gift of God ; 
 
 ^liat man's deserts could ever earn 
 The wild-flower smiling from the .sod 1 
 
 Then sm'ely here, where all unites . 
 
 To charm the eye and soothe the ,S(jul, 
 Where eartldy forms and heavenly lights 
 
 Blend into one harmonious whole, — 
 
 ! surely here the Sabbath chimes 
 
 Fall upon humbler, purer ears, 
 Like memories from the olden times 
 
 Tliat change our careless smiles to tears.
 
 SCOTCH BALLAD. 
 
 " I'll no walk by the kirk, mother, 
 I'll no walk by the manse ; 
 I aye meet wi' the minister, 
 Vfhsi looks at me askance." 
 
 What ails you at the minister 
 A douce and sober lad ; 
 
 I trow, it is na every day 
 That siclike can be had."
 
 SCOTCH BALLAD, 135 
 
 •' I dinna like liis smootii-kaimed hair, 
 Xor yet his pawky face ; 
 I (limia like a preacher, mother, 
 But in a preaching place." 
 
 " Then ye'll gang down by Holylee, — 
 Ye need na look sae scared ! 
 For wha kens but at Holylee 
 Ye'll aiblins meet the laird." 
 
 " I canna bide the laird, mother, 
 He says sic things to me ; 
 Ac half he says Avi' wily tongue, 
 And ae half wi' his e'e." 
 
 " Awa ! awa ! ye giaikit thing ! 
 It's a' that Geordie Younu' : 
 The laird has no an e'e like him, 
 ^or the minister a tongue :
 
 •136 SCOTCH BALLAD. 
 
 " He's fleeched you out o' a' ye hae, 
 For nane but him ye care ; 
 ]5ut love can ne'er be lasting, bairn, 
 That gangs baith cauld and bare." 
 
 " The faithf a' heart Avill aye, mother, 
 Put trust in Ane above ; 
 And liow can folks gang bare, mother, 
 "Wrapped in the faulds o' love 1 " 
 
 '• Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn, 
 And walk baith slow and sly ; 
 My certie ! weel ye ken the gate 
 That Geordie Young comes by ! " 
 
 " His plighted troth is mine, mother, 
 And in the blytliesome spring 
 I'll loose my silken snood, mother, 
 And wear the gowden ring."
 
 THE MOSELLE. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis dying out in nie 
 
 The old fire of poesy, 
 
 Else my heart, though dark as night, 
 
 Would be filled with new delight 
 
 Thus to float, as in a dream, 
 
 Down this old heroic stream, 
 
 By whose banks Ausonius sung 
 
 In the dead Yirgilian tongue, 
 
 Down from where the noiseless waves 
 
 Lap the solemn Avails of Treves, 
 
 Down by hamlet, tower, and shrine, 
 
 Till at length the stately Ehine,
 
 138 THE MOSELLE. 
 
 Like a bridegroom watching well 
 Weds and bears thee off, Moselle ! 
 
 All ! 'tis dying out in nie, 
 Else 1 feel that there would be 
 Kindled in my eager eye 
 A diviner ecstasy 
 
 By those hills o'er Avhicli heaven's sign 
 iShone in fire to Constantino, — 
 Hills that swell to fairest shape, 
 Sun-touched peak, and wooded cape, 
 Jutting crag Avith crown of green. 
 Quietest valley spread between, 
 Where, if sense of awe be less, 
 Deeper groAvs the tenderness, 
 Deeper the delight to dwell 
 Where thou art, beloved Moselle ! 
 
 Up and down the mightier Ehine 
 Castles rise and cities shine ;
 
 THE MOSELLE. 139 
 
 Thou, like some sweet rustic maid, 
 Half of thy own charms afraid, 
 Half unconscious of the grace 
 Heaven has showered upon thy face, 
 Wanderest at thy own pure will 
 ^Vhere the landscape lieth still, 
 Far from passion and from sin, 
 Hearing not the loud world's din, 
 IvnoAving not that yonder Ehine 
 Soon shall mix his life with thine, 
 Soon like bridegroom watching well. 
 Wed and bear thee off, Moselle !
 
 / ELLEN MAE. 
 
 As a fatlier loves a claugliter, 
 
 As the moon may love a star, 
 As a Avild flower loves sweet water, 
 
 So I love tliee, Ellen Mar ! 
 
 Had we met when hope was crescent, 
 
 Burning like an orient sign, 
 Not a youth of all the present 
 
 Could have loved "with love like mine.
 
 ELEEN MAR. 141 
 
 But the day witli nie is over 
 
 "When I lay at beauty's feet ; 
 leaver more as joyful lover 
 
 Can I woo thee, EUen sweet ! 
 
 And at times my heart is swelling 
 
 With a dull and heavy pain, 
 When I wish for thy sake, Ellen, 
 
 Bygone days could come again. 
 
 Yet, although my life is laden 
 
 With the years that crowd so fast, 
 
 Though I cannot hring thee, maiden, 
 All that perished in the past ; — 
 
 Though I ask for no surrender 
 
 Of a single thought to me, 
 Still the love is true and tender 
 
 Which thy beauty Avins from me.
 
 142 ELLEN MAR. 
 
 Take it, Ellen, as I give it, — 
 Purer that it shines afar ; 
 
 Nought of mine Avill now outlive it. 
 Take it, keep it, Ellen JNIar !
 
 X THE COTTAGE DOOR. 
 
 I low softly summer's Lreatli is -wafted here 
 
 From the high peaks of green and silent hills ! 
 
 How gentl}' warble at tlieir own sweet wills 
 Tlie song-birds nestled trustingly and near ! 
 Nor is thy song less sweet, streamlet clear ! 
 
 That wimples through this quiet beloved glen ;- 
 
 AMiat other water in the world again 
 Will l)e to me so musical, so dear ? 
 Yet softer, sweeter, dearer than all these, 
 
 The household A^oices at my cottage door, 
 AVith joy enriching every passing breeze, 
 
 Till the full heart with thankfulness runs o'er, 
 And pensive fancy with no sadness sees 
 
 Lost faces smiling from the shadowy shore !
 
 PtOSES. 
 
 Rose ! tlioii art fair, but not more faix 
 Than countless roses dead and gone, 
 
 Roses that did enrich the air 
 
 For those whose graves old stones lie on. 
 
 And Avhen this world for us shall cease, 
 When other steps than ours shall stray 
 
 Through those sweet paths that whisper peace 
 In sylvan beauty far away, —
 
 ROSES. 145 
 
 A tliousand roses still sliall bloom, 
 And other lips shall o^ti, like oiu's, 
 
 That the poor dust within the tomb 
 
 Once felt the same fond love for flowers. 
 
 Thus golden links of feeling bind 
 
 From age to age the race of man, 
 And tune's remotest hour shall find 
 
 The heart unchanged since time began. 
 
 S B
 
 A LETTEE TO MY COUSIK 
 
 I WOULD write you a dozen letters, coz, 
 
 A dozen letters a-day, 
 But I'm growing so old and so stupid, coz, 
 
 I scarce know a tiling to say ; 
 'Tis a long long time since we met, dear coz, 
 
 And I'm sadly changed since then ; 
 I hardly think you would know me, coz, 
 
 I'm so very like other men. 
 
 I mind when you used to tell me, coz. 
 That I never would sober down ; 
 
 And tlirough my teens and my twenties, coz, 
 I was wild enough, I ovm ;
 
 A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 147 
 
 But, like a regiment of men in red, 
 
 They have all marched by at last, 
 And the sonnd of their music and merry tread 
 
 In the distance is dying fast. 
 
 It is very strange to consider, coz, 
 
 \^^lat a feAV short years may do, — 
 Thej have made a respectable man of mc, 
 
 And a wife and mother of you ; 
 But, O ! that I were a boy again^ 
 
 And you a gui once more. 
 When we wandered together among the woods. 
 
 Or picked up shells by the shore. 
 
 And do you remember the garden seat 
 Where we read the Arabian Mghts 1 
 
 And do you remember the neat little room 
 "VVHiere I made my paper kites ? 
 l2.
 
 14S A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 
 
 I am sure you remember the big kite, coz, 
 That was higher a foot than me, 
 
 For you know you let go the string one day, 
 And it flew away over the sea. 
 
 I am sure you remember the pony, too, 
 
 That we used so to kiss and hug ; 
 And the pup that we thought a K'ewfoundland pup, 
 
 Till it turned out a black-nosed pug ; 
 I am sure you remember the dancing-school. 
 
 And my pumps always down in the heel. 
 That were constantly dancing off my feet 
 
 In the middle of every reel. 
 
 I what would I not give now, dear coz, 
 For a single King's birth-day ; 
 
 1 see there are squibs ajid crackers stiU, 
 
 But then- magic is passed for aye !
 
 A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 149 
 
 So all the hopes of my boyhood, coz, 
 
 That rocket-like went forth, 
 Have blazed for a moment and then gone out. 
 
 And fallen unmarked on the earth. 
 
 Have the flowers as pleasant a smell, sweet coz, 
 
 As they used to have long ago ? 
 When you wander out on a summer night. 
 
 Has the air as soft a glow 1 
 Do you stand at the window to count the stars, 
 
 Before you lie down to sleep ? 
 Do you pray for yoiu' father and mother now, 
 
 Then think they may die, and weep ? 
 
 Ah ! time has been flying on, dear coz. 
 
 One year after another, 
 Until each year is as like the last, 
 
 As a brother is to a brother;
 
 150 A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 
 
 For very little variety, coz, 
 
 Is strewed upon nianliood's jiatli ; 
 
 Truth flings her pebble at Fancy, coz, 
 And she falls like Goliath of Gath. 
 
 And what men caU " society," coz, 
 
 Is the vapidest thing in life ; 
 I wish from my heart I was buried, coz. 
 
 Or married to some old wife. 
 And living away on a far hill-side. 
 
 With a garden, a cow, and a pig, 
 A happy and simple cottar, coz. 
 
 With a Bible and Sunday wig. 
 
 O ! better by far to have tranquil thoughts, 
 
 And wishes of narrow range, 
 Better to look on your own green glen, 
 
 And never to wish for change, —
 
 A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 161 
 
 Thau to feel the poverty of wealth, 
 
 The littleness of state, 
 And to turn with a smile of bitter scorn, 
 
 From the nothings of which men prate. ^ 
 
 Alas ! there is many an hour, dear coz, 
 
 A\Tien my heart grows sick and faint, 
 And I gaze on the haggard face of life, 
 
 And view it without its paint ; 
 -\.ud deeply I feel how lonely it is 
 
 To have no one to feel with me ; 
 For they see me mingKng MT.th the rest, / 
 
 And they judge but as they see. 
 
 Yet there is joy in memory, coz, 
 
 If fancy hallow it ; 
 And thou shin'st in my memory, coz, 
 
 Like the cross on some old minaret,
 
 152 A LETTER TO MY COUSIN. 
 
 Which glitters first in the morning sun, 
 And last m the evening hght, 
 
 And holy and calm ever rises up, 
 Like a dream in the dead of night. 
 
 With thee there is linked for ever, coz, 
 
 The gladness my spring-time knew, 
 Wlien the very mists looked brighter, coz, 
 
 Than the heavens themselves now do ; 
 But dark tho' my path may he, dear coz, 
 
 Still let my sand-glass run, — 
 From thee my heart catches a lingering glow, 
 
 Like a cloud in the wake of the sun. 
 
 lu^i. U \rpvWl- J-- — Atx. t'L ^ H4/t, -
 
 A LETTER FEOM MY COUSIN. 
 
 I THINK I could write you a letter, Hal, 
 
 In the style of your letters to me, 
 AVith a little sense, and a little rliyme, 
 
 And a very little poetrie : 
 You know when I was a girl, Hal, 
 
 I scribbled some brilliant things, 
 At least I remember you used to say 
 
 " They should only be read by kings." 
 
 That Avas a flight of fancy, Hal, 
 
 And we both have changed since then ; 
 
 Yet stiU when I write to you, dear Hal, 
 ]SIy heart is in my pen :
 
 loi ' A LETTER FROM MY COUSIN. 
 
 I have taken my seat in the arbour, Hal, 
 In tlie midst of the bees and the flowers ; 
 
 And the summer winds and odours, Hal, 
 Eecall many long-lost hours. 
 
 I Avish you Avould pack your portmanteau, Hal, 
 
 And fling yourself into the mail, — 
 It wiU take little more than a day and a night 
 
 To bring you to Langley Dale ; 
 'Tis the sweetest spot in the world, Hal, 
 
 And just for a poet like you ; 
 A lovelier scene of hiU and grove 
 
 ^0 painter ever drew. 
 
 And I want you to laiow my husband, Hal, 
 I'm siu-e you'll be pleased with each other ; 
 
 And, besides, we have three rosy cliildren, Hal, 
 All amaxuagly like their mother ; —
 
 A LETTER PROM MY COUSIN. 155 
 
 I hear their merry voices now, 
 
 Even now from among tlie trees, — 
 
 Hal ! what a fotliomless depth of joy 
 For a mother in sounds like these. 
 
 Then there's a winding streamlet, Hal, 
 
 With trout in every pool : 
 And tlu'ee miles off a broad blue lake, 
 
 Most clear and beautiful ; 
 And we've got a dehcious garden, Hal, 
 
 With a capital bot-house too ; 
 Tho peaches that grow on the nortli-east wall 
 
 Are the largest you ever knew. 
 
 Ai-e you still as fond of music, Hal, 
 
 As you used to be of yore 1 
 For I've many songs to sing to you now 
 
 That you never heard before ;
 
 156 A LETTER FROM MY COUSIN. 
 
 But I'll sing you aU the old songs too, 
 That Ave so loved long ago, 
 
 The little playful madrigals. 
 And the airs of sadder flow. 
 
 I have heard there's a first-rate singer, Hal, 
 
 Who has sung all her songs to you, 
 And perhaps you may value my feebler notes 
 
 Not so much as you wont to do ; 
 But my simple voice, as it chants to you, Hal, 
 
 Some once familiar thing. 
 May many a thought of our childhood, Hal, 
 
 Back to your memory bring. 
 
 Be sure then to come and see us, Hal, 
 Ere the golden months be past. 
 
 For I think you are not so happy, Hal, 
 As when we parted last ;
 
 nT 
 
 A LETTER FROM MY COUSIN. 157 
 
 And if there "be song or word of mine 
 
 That can either soothe or please, 
 We'll bury all your cares, dear Hal, 
 
 Deep in obhvion's seas. 
 
 "We'll bury all your cares, dear Hal, 
 
 A thousand fathoms down, 
 And we'll send you back a merrier man 
 
 To your friends in the busy town ; 
 We'll send you back -wdtli a ruddier cheek, 
 
 And a brighter-beaming eye, 
 For where, if not in old friendship, Hal, 
 
 Do the healing virtues lie 1
 
 STEATFORD-OIs^-AA^ON" AT NIGHT. 
 
 Twenty-seven paces in front, 
 
 And barely eleven deep, 
 Lights in every window but it, — 
 
 Are they dead, or do they sleep 1 
 
 The merry gossips of Stratford, 
 Gossip in shops aU round, — 
 
 From that mitenanted mansion 
 ■ There cometh not a sound.
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON AT NIGHT. 159 
 
 If you knock you "will get no answer, — 
 
 Ejiock reverently and low, 
 For the sake of one who was living there 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 He was born in the upper chamber, 
 
 Had playmates down the street ; 
 They noted at school, when he read the lesson, 
 
 That his voice was soft and sweet. 
 
 His father, they say, was a glover, 
 
 Though that is not so clear ; 
 He married his sweetheart at Shottery, 
 
 Allien he came to his nineteenth year. 
 
 ♦ 
 And then he left old Stratford, 
 
 And nobody missed him much, 
 For Stratford, a thriving burgh. 
 
 Took Httle account of such .
 
 160 STRATFORD-ON-AVON AT NIGHT. 
 
 But someliow it came to he whispered, 
 When some short years had. flown, 
 
 That the glover's son was making himself 
 A credit to that good town. 
 
 The best folks scarcely believed it, 
 And dreamily shook their head, — 
 
 But the world was owning the archer 
 Whose arrows of light had sped ; 
 
 Whose arrows were brightening space 
 
 With fire unknown before, 
 Plucked from a grander quiver 
 
 Than Phoebus-ApoUo bore. 
 
 So his birth-place came to be famous, 
 
 And the ground where his bones were laid. 
 And to Stratford, the tliiiving biu*gh, 
 • I^ations their pilgrimage made.
 
 STRATFORD-OX AVON AT XIGHT. 161 
 
 They saw the tenautless dwelling, 
 
 They saw the bare flat stone ; 
 But the soul that had brightened the w^rld 
 
 Still lived to brighten their own. 
 
 And they learned the sacred lesson, 
 
 That he whom the proud eschew, 
 
 The simplest and the lowliest, 
 
 \ 
 Ma}^ have God's best work to do. . 
 
 St
 
 > LO\^E UXEETUEXED. 
 
 She said she did not love me, yet lier look 
 
 Had to my eyes a tenderness divine ; 
 She said she did not love me, yet she took 
 
 My hand in hers, or laid her own m mine ; — 
 Perchance 'twas pity ; if so, I must brook 
 
 Desires and wishes that for ever burn ; 
 My heart must be a sealed forgotten book. 
 
 My hopes poor mariners that ne'er return ; — 
 Perchance 'twas some coy touch of womanhood 
 
 That would not show what had before lain hid ;- 
 Say that it was not love, but some kind mood 
 
 Which to her gentle bosom came unbid. 
 What form of love has e'er my nature moved, 
 Like her's by whom I thus am unbeloved ?
 
 :my alpenstock. 
 
 TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 " Ici on marque les batons." 
 
 Swiss Sign i^assijn. 
 
 Eest of artists ! mark for me, 
 
 On my trusty alpenstock, 
 All the proper tilings, d'ye see, 
 
 Every mountain, every rock : 
 
 That when I go home therewith. 
 Friends may know that I have heen 
 
 Quite as high as Albert Smith, 
 Or balloon of jNfr. Green. 
 M 2
 
 164 MY ALPENSTOCK. 
 
 Mark it with tlie Eighi first, 
 Some say that's an easy hill, 
 
 Yet I own the place accurst 
 Found me at the bottom still. 
 
 Then the Brunig, mark it strong, 
 Truth itself can't take offence, 
 
 All that height I came along, 
 Eattling in the Diligence. 
 
 Mark it with the Yungfrau next, 
 Very few have ventured on her ; 
 
 That I did not I am vext, 
 
 For I meant it, on my honour ! 
 
 From ]\Iartigny hy Tete ISToir, 
 Or the Col de Balme they pace ; 
 
 I said only " an revoir," 
 
 WTien I saw the kind of place :
 
 MY ALPENSTOCK. 165 
 
 But I saw it ; therefore paint it, 
 
 Paint in letters bold and broad ; 
 
 'Tis a pleasant proverb, ain't it, 
 
 1 
 That a wink's as good's a nod. , - 
 
 Artist, deeply now indent 
 
 Scheideck where I played the fool, 
 Sore and saddle-sick I went 
 
 Up and down upon a mule. 
 
 Mark the Ghenimi ; all confess, 
 
 He who has ascended it 
 !N"eed not talk of breathlessness, 
 
 Is for any mountain fit : 
 
 I went there and hired my guide, 
 AVith a fear I don't conceal, 
 
 But the scheme went all aside, 
 For a nail ran up my heel.
 
 166 MY ALPENSTOCK. 
 
 ]\Iark it lastly with JNIont Blanc, 
 Tho' it made me gasp and quake, 
 
 "With a kind of mortal pang, 
 Just to view it from the lake. 
 
 Thanks, my artist ! now I go 
 Back to London ynth delight, 
 
 For my alpenstock will show 
 What becomes a man of might. 
 
 AATien I take it to my club, 
 
 Jones himself will cease to sneer, 
 
 BroAvn will own, the spiteful cub. 
 That my legs are no small beer.
 
 CHESS. 
 
 Frient) ! not Napoleon, when at Austerlitz 
 
 He played for empire and a deathless name, 
 Met a more sharp encounter of bold wits 
 
 Than they have done who prize this peerless game ; 
 For doubt not that the heart may beat as high, 
 
 Within the precincts of a quiet room, 
 As when steeds neigh, and banners flout the sky 
 
 On hostile plains, where angry monarchs fume : 
 The goodly armies on these ordered squares 
 
 March, counter-march, advance, deploy, retreat, — 
 Some fall prepared, and some at unawares, 
 
 • At outposts some, more in the battle's heat. 
 Until the soul, with hope of glory fed, 
 Tlirills to the conoueror's cry — "The King is dead ! "
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDI>^a-DAY. 
 
 Dreaming dreams of by-gone hours, 
 Tracing visions in the air, 
 
 Treasuring all my withered flowers- 
 Dead because they were too fair, 
 
 Viewless voices seem to say — 
 
 " This is Lizzie's wedding-day ! " 
 
 Then the waters of Loch Gare, 
 As they sparkle on their way, 
 
 Tremblingly the cadence bear, 
 To the woods within the bay, 
 
 All the silver wavelets say — \ 
 
 "This is Lizzie's wedding-day." \
 
 lizzie's weddixg-day. IGO 
 
 In the hush of yonder glen, 
 
 Where the stock-clove broods alone, 
 
 Echo, watching, hears the strain, 
 And the words, in softest tone, 
 
 To the distant uplands stray, — 
 
 " This is Lizzie's wedding-day." 
 
 Flushed \ntii beauty, Autumn fills 
 
 All her lap with purple sweets. 
 Flings her gold upon the liills, 
 
 Tints with light her green retreats^ 
 Brightens every bank and brae, — 
 Tliis is Lizzie's wedding-day. 
 
 Clasping arms, and tender sighs. 
 New-born hopes, and gentle fears. 
 
 Glistening deep in household eyes 
 All the gathered love of years. 
 
 Blessings wafted on her way, — 
 
 This is Lizzie's wedding-day.
 
 170 lizzie's wedding-day. 
 
 Has her childhood passed so soon 1 
 Have the happy years flown on 1 
 
 Has she, like a merry tune, 
 
 From her old companions gone 1 
 
 Woe is me ! for those who stay 
 
 After Lizzie's wedding-day ! 
 
 Blissful bridegroom, guard her well ; 
 
 Wear her in thy heart of hearts ; 
 Who the j)riceless joy can tell 
 
 Love like hers to thee imparts, 
 "\ATio with soul so full can say — 
 " This is Lizzie's wedding-day 1 " 
 
 One, perchance, round whom the light 
 Dieth now on shore and sea, 
 
 As the silent solemn night 
 
 Settles down on moor and lea ; 
 
 Morn and night may pass away, 
 
 Never Lizzie's wedding-day !
 
 THE POOR OLD FINN. 
 
 FROM THE KTJSSIAX. 
 
 Xo, my barque she was not empty 
 
 As we sailed to Tovartgood, — 
 AVe had eighty casks of black pitch, 
 
 And some logs of fresh birchwood ; 
 Fair the breeze, and all went jolly 
 
 As Ave sailed to Tovartgood. 
 
 i\Iany seasons had I traded, 
 
 Though I cleared but little tin ; 
 
 Sprats, and pitch, and sometimes birchwood 
 I to Petersburg took in ; 
 
 Russians never used me badly, 
 For they liked the poor old Finn.
 
 172 THE POOR OLD FINN. 
 
 But upon that breezy morning, 
 As our course we fairly stood, 
 
 Up there came the French and English 
 In their fleet near Tovartgood, 
 
 And they took my pitch and small sprats, 
 Took my logs of fresh birch wood. 
 
 Then the Admiral, says he, then, 
 " Hand me up your purse, my lad ; " 
 
 And I gave him from my pocket 
 Tliirteen rubles, — all I had ; 
 
 Til en with many a jeer they left me, 
 Thinking it would di'ive me mad. 
 
 They may take my thirteen rubles. 
 Though I iU can spare the tin ; 
 
 But 'twill take them somewhat longer 
 Ere to Sveaborg they get in ; 
 
 And they dare not look at Cronstadt, 
 Though they've robbed a poor old Einn. 
 
 /
 
 / K THE IXEVITABLE. 
 
 I When the world grows bright before us, 
 I Shadow into sunshine starting, 
 Grieve not that there hovers o'er us, 
 Some dim sense of future parting. 
 
 Would this life ennoble duty. 
 Make love limitless, if death 
 1 Did not track the steps of beauty, 
 J Snap the golden links of faith ?
 
 174 THE INEVITABLE. 
 
 Hearts thro' it grow pure and tender, 
 Love lies nestled among fears, 
 
 Strongest when it learns to render 
 Homage to the power of tears. 
 
 Hope and doubt, in alternation, 
 Set hfe's warmest pulses heating ; 
 
 If there were not separation, 
 
 Where would he the bliss of meeting 1 
 
 If no sacred graves were holding 
 Hallowed memories of the past, . 
 
 Would there be this close enfolding 
 Of earth's treasures while they last 1 
 
 No ! 'tis change works out the changeless, — 
 Great the gain and small the scaith, — 
 
 Man's far-reaching thoughts were rangeless. 
 Had they wrestled not Avith death !
 
 THE CHESTXUT OF BE4ZEX0SE. 
 
 Doctors from Eadcliffe's dome look down on thee, 
 Unconscious chestnut with the leafy crown ! 
 
 And so on unpruned nature, fresh and free, 
 Learning too often looks complacent down, — 
 Learning decorous in her cap and gown, 
 
 And feasting on the brains of men long dead, 
 "V\niat should she see in all this stately toAvn 
 
 To make her bend the Imee or veil the head ? 
 
 And yet not Plato, not the Stagyrite, 
 
 Could teach a bud to expand into a flower ; 
 
 Take then thy pen, book-worsliipper, and write. 
 Learning is but a secondary power, — 
 
 And look not down, but reverently look up 
 
 To every blossomed spray that rears its dewy cup I ■ •
 
 I MET HER THIS MORNING. 
 
 Aha ! no one knows whom I mean when I say, 
 " I met her this morning ! I saw her to-day !" 
 I keep my own secret ; she knows not, not she, 
 How fast she is drawing my heart out of me : 
 We stop not, we speak not ; I pass with a look 
 As light as a rose-leaf that falls on a brook ; 
 She feels it; for sometimes I fancy there slips 
 A faint little smile from her eye to her lips ; 
 No other sign gives she ; I go on my Avay, 
 But all the air whispers — " You saw her to-day ! "
 
 I MET HER THIS MORNING. 177 
 
 You may well look amazed wlien I frankly confess, 
 That I now understand all the magic of dress ; 
 She Aveai'S it arranged with such paramount taste, 
 So faultlessly fitted to shoulder and waist, — 
 So justly designed where it tightens or flows. 
 Giving freedom to motion, and grace to repose, 
 That, feeling how something is passing me by 
 Too delicious to gaze at, I cast down my eye; 
 But then in a moment it lights on the boot 
 Encircling her ankle, and cradling her foot , — • 
 It shakes me all over, — I've scarce breath to say 
 " I saw her this morning ! I met her to-day ! " 
 
 Yet well I discern, as she trips lightly forth, 
 
 She values not dress any more than 'tis worth ; 
 
 She knows she has charms which dress cannot improve, 
 
 She knows that di'ess plays but a small part in love ; 
 
 By Jove ! Sir, she knows, though apparelled like Eve, 
 
 That many an Adam would hang on her sleeve ; 
 ■^. a. ^
 
 178 I MET HER THIS MORNING. 
 
 She knows, Sir, that you in a frenzy would kneel 
 Though her toilet was all in a vague deshabille ; — 
 You may spare the fatigue ; for I venture to think 
 She has found out the clasp for her heart's golden link 
 And the loveliest lips in the whole world say, 
 " I met him this morning ! I saw him to-day ! "
 
 X THE SOUECE OF TEAES. 
 
 The source of tears ! Ali ! -who can know 
 ^ vVnat may become the source of tears 1 
 1 How many a light event may grow 
 A fount of grief in after years ? 
 
 The door, at which a beaming eye 
 ^ A thousand tender welcomes gave, 
 l Creaks on its hinges to a si^h 
 
 Sad as the night-wind round a grave. 
 n2
 
 18U THE SOURCE OF TEARS. 
 
 The tree, which, love's entwining hand 
 Planted on some long sunny day, 
 
 Sees round its faded branches stand, 
 The ghosts of glad hours passed away. 
 
 The very altar where we knelt, 
 y, God's holy altar, may assume 
 I A desolation, and be felt 
 
 No more an altar, but a tomb. 
 
 Winter with treble bleakness clads 
 What summer saw all flower-bedecked, 
 
 And friendship's treasured smile but adds 
 A bitterer pang to pale neglect. 
 
 Thus sowing joy, Ave sorrow reap ; 
 
 Thus pleasure has a zone of fears ; 
 And they who smile, and they who weep, 
 
 Trace to one source their smiles and tears !
 
 "EVEE THE SAME." 
 
 " Ever the same ! " Ah ! no, not now the same ; 
 Years imperceptibly evolve a change ; 
 New incidents siuTound us ; the old range 
 Of thoughts and feelings alters ; the old flame 
 Unconsciously burns out ; the earthly frame 
 
 Takes new conditions ; and without a fault, 
 Or choice of ours, old pleasures call a halt, 
 And later cares jiut in a closer claim : 
 Still loving, still sincere, still glad to meet 
 
 The friend of other years, yet not as then, — 
 IMore quietly, finding him like other men, 
 The smile less winning, and the voice less sweet ; 
 Ah ! days departed ! who would harshly blame 
 The kindly tongue that whispers — " Still the same !"
 
 / THE STEAMER OX THE EHIXE. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 Some sat in silence with a vacant air; 
 Some portly ladies slumbered here and there ; 
 Five gentlemen drank beer ; and other two 
 With greasy whiskers gobbled up a stew ; 
 One read the Times ; and one was on the rack 
 Because his trunk was left at Andernack ; 
 The steward went about with cakes and ices, 
 And German sausages in dumpy slices ; 
 Some pug-nosed dogs lay in some spinsters' laps ; 
 Some soldiers strutted in some odd-shaped caps ;
 
 THE STEAMER OX THE RHINE. 183 
 
 Promiscuous groups, stretched listless 'neath the 
 
 awning, 
 Were smoking, knitting, munching grapes, and 
 
 yawning : 
 The breathing landscape swept in glory by, — 
 " When will they give us dinner 1 " was the cry ; 
 Green summer smiled upon the vine-clad hills, — 
 The tourists counted up their little bQls ; 
 Old church, and older castle, lovely both, — 
 " Thank heaven ! at last they lay the tablecloth ! " • "^
 
 THE EOAD TO APEXZELL. 
 
 Green sunny road that skirts the foot 
 Of low hills, clad from top to toe 
 
 With vines, beneath whose ripening fruit 
 The yellow-coated pumpkins grow ; 
 
 Road winding by the ruined tower, 
 Whose olden story none can tell. 
 
 Road fringed with many a mountain flower, 
 Road leading on to Apenzell !
 
 THE ROAD TO APEXZELL. 185 
 
 jNIay thy soft shadows ne'er be less, 
 Thy brawling brooklet never dumb ! 
 
 Tlie hoiu'S were winged with happiness 
 Which saw me thro' thy valley come. 
 
 And by my side there tripped along 
 The fairest of the mountain maids, 
 
 "Who sang unasked her mountain song, 
 And sbowed me all the rocks and glades. 
 
 I ne'er shall hear that song again, 
 I ne'er sball see that Switzer dell, 
 
 But in my heart will aye remain 
 The road that leads to Apenzell ; — 
 
 The sunny road that skirts the foot 
 Of low hills, clad from top to toe 
 
 With vines, beneath wbose ripening fruit 
 The yellow-coated pumpkins grow !
 
 AMO^'G THE VI^ES. 
 
 In among the vines I saw her, 
 With the sunshine in her eyes, 
 
 And their radiance flashed back on me 
 In a glad burst of surprise ! 
 
 Baskets round her, brimming over 
 With the old god's purple fruit ; 
 
 Well it seemed with golden tresses, 
 And those ripest lips to suit.
 
 AMOXG THE VINES. 18} 
 
 O ! had I been pendant bunches 
 To be phicked by that light hand ! 
 
 ! had I been laden baskets 
 By that fahy foot to stand ! 
 
 Stretching up-srards, bending downwards, 
 
 Every mc>tion a new grace ; 
 Blessings on each tendril twinino; 
 
 Its green ringlets round her face ! 
 
 Far away now ! — Is she shining 
 Yet, I wonder, 'niongst the vines ? 
 
 Happy wandering wind of summer, 
 To her bosom waft my lines !
 
 THE PA8TEB0AED TOY. 
 
 One day my youngest son, a little boy 
 
 Of seven or eight, came smiling np to me, 
 And said, " Papa ! look what a pretty toy 
 
 My aunt bought for me last night after tea." 
 I looked, and lo ! it was a Highlander, 
 
 Cut out in pasteboard very tastefully. 
 And wearing, that he might look handsomer, 
 
 A tasselled i^ouch gay dangling at his knee. 
 Between his legs there was a bit of string, 
 
 Which, when I pulled, it made me laugh to sec 
 How the smart man his little limbs could fling. 
 
 Kicking and capering very lustily ! 
 " Amazing ingenuity !" said I ; 
 " I'll play with tliis small figure frequently."
 
 A LAST LOOK. 
 
 On yonder chequered pathway, 
 
 Where gloom with brightness vies, 
 
 A distant form receding 
 
 Still fills my straining eyes, — 
 
 He passes into sunshine 
 As far from me he hies. 
 
 We met at early morning, 
 
 ISTone knew the spot we chose ; 
 
 Hours flew uncounted o'er us, 
 We wondered at their close,— 
 
 He passes into sunshine 
 x\s far from me he goes.
 
 190 A LAST LOOK. 
 
 Perchance it had been better 
 That tryst had ne'er been made ; 
 
 Warm hands grow cold unclasping, 
 Warm words seem all unsaid, — 
 
 He passes into sunshine, 
 I into deeper shade !
 
 CADZOW. 
 
 The birds are singing by Avon Bridge, 
 The sky is blue o'er Cbatelraiilt, 
 
 And all through. Cadzow's wooded glades 
 The softest airs of summer blow. 
 
 ! birds that sing by Avon Bridge, 
 Why should your notes so richly flow ? 
 
 ! tranquil sky of cloudless blue, 
 T^Tiy shine so bright o'er Chatclrault 1
 
 192 CADZOW. 
 
 Avon ! rolling gently down, 
 
 "Why keep'st thou that old tuneful tone ? 
 Where is the voice so soft and low 
 
 Whose music echoed back thy own 1 
 
 Cadzow ! why this rustling pomp 
 Of leafy boughs that wave so high 1 
 
 Where is the light that gleamed through all 
 Thy shadowy paths in days gone by 1 
 
 O summer airs ! why thus recall 
 
 The sweeter breath, that seemed to bring 
 
 The balmy dews of southern skies, 
 And all the roses of the spring !
 
 AETHUE EAE. 
 
 " Why so oft do you cross my path, 
 "VVTiy do you whisper love to me 1 
 Another your heart and promise hath, 
 Plighted you are to Eveline Lee." 
 
 " Eveline Lee I thought I loved, 
 
 But what love was I never knew ; 
 By Eveline's side I sit unmoved, 
 My pulses beat when I sit by you." 
 ■ » o
 
 194 ARTHUR RAE. 
 
 " Sit no more near me, Arthur Eae, 
 
 It is not good what thou hast done ; 
 Shame ! tliat ever thy tongue should say— 
 I courted two, I loved but one." 
 
 " I'll keep my troth to Eveline Lee, 
 
 I'll give my hand though not my heart 
 I'll keep my troth, Aileen, to thee, 
 I'll love thee still although we part." 
 
 " Thy troth is falsehood, Arthur Eae ; 
 
 You'll break the heart of Eveline Lee ; 
 And I, — when you have gone your way, 
 It matters not what becomes of me."
 
 WHAT THE DEUCE HAS BROUCxHT BACK 
 
 SPEING? 
 
 AFTER BERANGER. 
 
 Froji my window I could see licr 
 
 At her own all winter through ; 
 We loved before we knew each other, 
 
 And betwixt us kisses flew ; 
 Every tree, thank heaven ! was leafless, 
 
 I was happy as a king ; 
 Xow they all resume their foliage, — 
 
 What the deuce has brought back spring ? 
 
 She, who from her casement often 
 Fed the small birds 'midst the snoAv, 
 
 K'ow is hid from me completely 
 By the flowers that round it blow ; 
 o 2
 
 196 WHAT THE DEUCE HAS BROUGHT BACK SPRING 1 
 
 Do the flowers and leaves imagine 
 That they are so fine a thing 1 
 
 Snow is fifty times more lovely, — 
 
 What the deuce has brought back spring ? 
 
 I have seen her in the mornuig 
 
 As Aurora fresh and gay, 
 When she with her rosy fingers 
 
 Draws the curtains of the day ; 
 Like a setting star at evening, 
 
 Smiles on me she used to fling ; 
 Now these verdant clouds obscure her, 
 
 What the deuce has brought back spring ? 
 
 Winter, why not last for ever ? 
 
 When shall I behold again 
 Branches bare, and friendly haUstones 
 ■ Pattering on the window pane 1 I
 
 WHAT THE DEUCE HAS BROUGHT BACK SPRING 1 197 
 
 What to me blue skies and zephyrs, 
 All the joys that long days bring ? 
 
 If it hides her windcw from me, 
 
 Wiiat the deuce has brought back spring 1
 
 MY E"IGHTCAPS. 
 
 If softest fabric hy fair fingers knit 
 
 Can give repose unto an aching head, 
 Then balmy sleep shall on my eyelids sit, 
 
 And tranquil rest revisit my lone bed ; 
 And T shall dream of that most pleasant room 
 
 Which looks upon the Avon's wooded stream, 
 Where those bright wires, that emulate the loom, 
 
 Create for poesy a fitting theme, — 
 No warrior's helmet, or no churchman's cowl, 
 
 No Turkish tui'ban, or no Greek capote, 
 No bonnet rouge in which fierce rebels howl, 
 
 No masker's hat where jaunty feathers float, 
 But for the drowsy head the magic gear. 
 Welcomed each night by peasant and by peer 1
 
 CONSTANCE CAEOLY. 
 
 Ah, Constance Caroly ! that hour we first met, — 
 Thougli the sun which was setting for ever has set. 
 Its tender gleam lingers around the heart yet, 
 Ah, Constance Carbly ! 
 
 We stood on those battlements crowning the Ehine, 
 Wo looked o'er a land rich with corn and with wine, 
 IJut a tear broke the light of that dark eye of thine, 
 Constance Caroly !
 
 200 CONSTANCE CAROLY. 
 
 Thou saw'st not the river ; thy vision Avent far 
 Past the plains, past the hills, past the first-risen star ; 
 I whispered, — " Eeveal where thy wandering thoughts 
 are, 
 
 Sad Constance Caroly ! " 
 
 " It glitters," you said, " o'er Hungarian fields, 
 AVhere my countrymen lie on their blood-dabbled 
 
 shields. 
 For blood is the harvest Slavonia yields 
 The house of Caroly ! 
 
 "An exile, — an outcast, — Ah ! stranger, I know 
 Thou lovest thy native land, — thinlc of the Avoe 
 To have lost it for ever, and let the tears flow 
 Of Constance CarMy ! " 
 
 "Despair not," I answered; "thy country shall be 
 Wherever yet linger the true and the free, 
 And brave hearts shall bring love and homage to thee, 
 Sweet Constance Caroly ! "
 
 COXSTA^'CE CAROLT. 201 
 
 A fleeting smile passed o'er her exquisite face, — 
 One knew not Avliich. lent it the lovelier grace, — 
 The smile, or the sadness it could not displace, 
 Dear Constance Car61y ! 
 
 '•Ah ! love is a plant of slow growing," she said ; 
 " You may water the leaves, you may nourish the bed. 
 But the labour is vain if the roots be all dead," 
 Said Constance Caroly. 
 
 " Yet true love," cried I, " if once felt^ is for ever ; 
 Unswayed by the turmoil of life's fitful fever, 
 Its course is as sure as the course of yon river, 
 O Constance Cart)ly ! " 
 
 She turned with one look — 'twas a last look, I knew ; 
 She passed away slowly like light from the view. 
 But for long hovu's I mused 'neath the stars and the dew, 
 On Constance Car61y !
 
 THE DEATH OF MAEK AJ^TOXY. 
 
 ' ' Of many thousand kisses the poor last 
 I lay upon thy lips." — Shakespeare. 
 
 So breathing out his soul he died : the thought 
 
 That hallowed death Tvas love — the crown of life ; 
 There came not back to him in that dread strife 
 
 Aught of the fame his conquering legions brought ; 
 
 His closing ear no lingering murmur caught 
 
 Of Eome's loud triumph round his blazoned car, — 
 Nor gleamed there on him dimly from afar 
 
 The purple and the tlu'one for which he fought ; 
 
 Eut love was with him, like a setting star, 
 
 With tremulous radiance lighting him to death ; 
 Love made the sweetness of his parting breath 
 
 Sweeter than life : let not detraction mar 
 
 The virtue of such end, which doth outlive 
 
 Vices we scorn, and frailties we forgive.
 
 TO 
 
 As sudden songster in a silent grove, 
 
 As sail fresh-gleaming on a summer sea, 
 As unexpected star whose light of love 
 
 Gives the dark vault a new-born witchery, — 
 Even so hast thou into my secret mind 
 
 Come with a sudden flush as of spring flowers, — 
 Even so through thee this cold world looks more kind. 
 
 And happier thoughts make bright my lonely hours ! 
 1 know not whence or how thy influence came, 
 
 I dare not deem there is an unseen chord 
 Of tuneful sympathy ; but if such claim 
 
 Be bUss too high, thou can'st at least afford 
 To let my voiceless wishes still be thine, 
 Floating like incense round a radiant shrine !
 
 LEILA. 
 
 Say, wilt thou, Leila, when alone, 
 
 Eemember days of bliss gone by ; 
 Wilt thou beside thy native Ehone 
 
 E'er for om- distant streamlets sigh 1 
 Beneath thy own glad sun and sky, 
 
 Ah, Leila ! wilt thou think of me 1 — 
 She blushed, and murmured in reply — 
 
 " My life is one long thought of thee ! " 
 
 Sweet girl ! I would not have it so ; 
 
 My destiny must not be tliine. 
 For wildly as the wild waves flow, 
 
 Will pass this fleeting life of mine ;
 
 LEILA. 205 
 
 " And let thy fate he weal or woe," 
 
 She smiling said, " my thoughts are free, 
 
 And well the watchful angels know 
 My life is one long thought of thee ! " 
 
 Then, Leila ! may thy thoughts and prayers 
 
 Be with me in my hour of need, 
 "When round me throng the cold world's cares, 
 
 And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed ; — 
 •' Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed, 
 
 For full of fame thy days shall be. 
 And mine shall share the well-won mead. 
 
 Since life is one long thought of thee ! "
 
 COUNTEY TOWNS. 
 
 \ Kind Heaven forlbid that ever I should dwell 
 \ A pedling blockhead in a country town ! 
 Within tlie hearing of its cracked church bell, 
 
 A vegetating thing, a neuter noun ; 
 A scandal-monger, and a theme for scandal, 
 An undervaluer of my neighbours' wares, 
 )^ A c;yTLic searching vnth a lighted candle 
 
 In all men's necks, in hopes to find out hairs ; 
 The old maid's best companion ; a poor driveller, 
 
 Hagghng "with butchers, quarrelling with bakers ; 
 Meeting at night with some lugubrious sniveller, 
 WTiose family seems a bunch of undertakers : 
 Eather than suffer such a fate as this, 
 Let life go out with a brief crack and hiss.
 
 A FLIET. 
 
 She flirts with great and small, 
 Old men, and boys, and all, — 
 Her flirting would appal 
 
 All ordinary flirts ; 
 The sparks who smoke cigars, 
 The lads who dress like tars, 
 The maimed come home from wars, 
 
 All haag upon her skirts. 
 
 Tliin striplings, boobies, brats. 
 Stout gudgeons, sharps and flats. 
 Mosquitoes, midges, gnats, 
 Blind puppy, whelji, and cur ;
 
 208 A FLIRT. 
 
 The cockney hot from town, 
 The gaping country clown, 
 Jones, Eobinson, and Brown, 
 'Tis all the same to her. 
 
 She sways them with a feather, 
 She knows their length of tether. 
 She cooks them all together, 
 
 Or roasts them one by one ; 
 And all the time so winning 
 Her ogling and her grianing, 
 They dream not she is skinning 
 
 Live eels before the sun. 
 
 men ! if ye be men, 
 Eschew this false pea-hen, 
 Or lift her mask, and then 
 Behold her when unvizored, —
 
 A FLIRT. 
 
 A bloodless soulless myth, 
 A cold-veined nionolyth, 
 A pulseless creature with 
 
 A heart that has been rizzored. 
 
 209
 
 ^ EATHER MOEE THAN A MILE. 
 
 We met but an instant, — she spoke but five words ; 
 
 I asked her the distance, — she said, with a smile. 
 Going straight through the heart, and a voice like 
 a bird's, 
 
 Only sweeter by far, — " Eather more than a mile." 
 
 She passed, — I went on; — thus our chances we 
 spurn, — 
 But I thought iu the twilight, when musing awhile, 
 Ah ! why, gentle maiden, why did I not turn. 
 
 And go back with thee — " rather more than a 
 mile!"
 
 RATHER MORE THAN A MILE, 211 
 
 I shall wander away over hill and through glade, 
 
 I shall meet with indifFerence, falsehood, and guile, 
 I shall feel, when too late, with what folly I've 
 strayed 
 From enchantment and thee — "rather more than 
 a mile!"
 
 THE PICTUEE GALLEEY. 
 
 Let silence be thy guide, tliough murmuring round 
 Presumptuous tongues profane the thoughtful walls ; 
 Far happier thou if on thy spirit falls 
 
 A solemn stillness shutting out all sound ; 
 
 Apart and earnest, let thy soul he found 
 Soaring with Titian to the golden heights 
 Where colour, revelling in her own delights, 
 
 Sees earth and sky with a new glory crown'd ; 
 
 Or with severer Eembrandt finding strength . 
 In cu'cumjacent gloom ; or shedding tears 
 "With Guido's Mary, — or with Eastern seers 
 
 Adoring by the manger ; or at length 
 
 Tvu'ning to Eaphael with impassioned lieart 
 
 To find all beauty, and to bless all art !
 
 X THE OLD DAYS. 
 
 I HEAR thee ask with tearful eye 
 
 And lips that press my fevered brow, 
 
 " Why heave so oft that painful sigh, 
 Why look so rarely happy now 1 " 
 
 Alas ! I sigh for what has fled, 
 I look, and only look in vain. 
 
 For stars gone out, for odours shed, — 
 
 ! give me the old days again, 
 
 The old, old days ! 
 
 I see them with their golden light, 
 
 1 hear them with then- silvery wings, 
 At purple morn, at dewy night, 
 
 Love's ever gentle murmurings ;
 
 214 THE OLD DAYS. 
 
 How gaily glowed the winter hearth, 
 How softly fell the summer rain ! 
 
 It hardly looks the same green earth, — 
 ! give me the old days again, 
 The old, old days ! 
 
 Like to a tale that has been told 
 
 The present fades, and all that seems 
 So bright to thee, is dull and cold 
 
 To one who lives in far-off dreams ; 
 Years bring no more what years destroy, 
 
 And though remembrance be a pain, 
 'Tis all that now is left of joy, — 
 
 U ! give me the old days again, 
 The old, old days ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 UNAEic^iPY OF CALIFORNLi: 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LONDON : 
 
 R. CLA1-, SOS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, 
 
 BREAD STREET HILL.
 
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