p&feif Hi 
 
 hJI £■'■■■■ '■'">■ - : 
 
 
 
 
 
 AND OTHER 
 POEMS
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 

 
 EL TI H 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 " But be the Star that guides the Wanderer, 'I'uov ! " 
 
 Bride of Abtdos. 
 
 18 5 9 
 
 v LONDON: 
 PRINTED BY R. BORN, GLOUCESTER STREET, 
 REGENT'S PARK.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 
 EL TIH .... 
 
 COMO REVISITED 
 
 THE LOIRE 
 
 SCHLOSS ELZ . 
 
 THE BRIDGE OP AUGUSTUS 
 
 THE LILY OF THE MONASTERY 
 
 A GIFT .... 
 
 A WREATH OF VINE, MYRTLE, 
 
 THE STAG 
 
 THE LNVITATION 
 
 TnE GUEST 
 
 THE SONG OF LEWIS . 
 
 HECTOR . 
 
 GIPSY .... 
 
 TO MISS . 
 
 TO THE MARQUISE DE 
 
 TO THE DUCHESSE DE 
 
 NICE, ON A WET DAY 
 THE PATE OF THE DEERHOUND 
 THE SPECTRE FORESTER . 
 IiOWOOD .... 
 
 AND 
 
 OLIVE 
 
 1 
 
 5 
 
 8 
 37 
 43 
 79 
 82 
 83 
 85 
 90 
 93 
 95 
 99 
 100 
 
 10] 
 
 103 
 106 
 108 
 112 
 118 
 124 
 
 861769
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Nearly all the verses contained in this little Book 
 were written at your suggestion, and for your 
 pleasure. 
 
 The only reason I can give for printing them 
 is that I may offer them to you in a more endur- 
 ing shape, as records of many hours of happiness 
 which I owe to you alone, and which you have 
 engraved upon my heart. 
 
 The two Cantos, which were written during a 
 journey, are called El Tih, or "The Wandering." 
 
 June, 1859.
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Thou art become the essence of my soul, 
 From darker thoughts my heart for ever free, 
 
 Yields itself blindly to thy sweet controul ; 
 I would not live could I not live with thee. 
 
 Thou art the chosen mistress of my lot, 
 
 Thou art the sunshine that illumes my path, 
 
 And happily, by all save thee forgot, 
 
 To me would life pass by, and then come death. 
 
 Charmed by thy smile in sorrows darkest hour, 
 Cheered by thy voice in sickness or in pain, 
 
 I would defy their desolating power, 
 So that I might return to thee again. 
 
 Bellagio, 1846.

 
 EL Till. 
 
 I love to gaze upon the winding shore, 
 Whose yielding sand the amorous wave embraces 
 In softest dalliance, fondly lingering there, 
 Like some sweet maiden on her lover's breast / 
 Veiled by descending mists, whose legions sail 
 High o'er the distant crags, or scour the plain ; 
 Born amid chasms where silver rivulets 
 Pursue their downward course, seeking repose 
 In the still bosom of the slumbering lake, 
 As wayworn pilgrims through a weary world 
 Tired with life's labours sink into the grave.
 
 COMO. 
 
 Beneath yon mount, whose solitary tower 
 Hangs its dark outline o'er the bright expanse 
 Of dancing waters, summon back the Past, — 
 The days of Chivalry, of beauteous dames, 
 And mailed knights, and valour's well-won meed 
 Borne from the listed field, or battle plain. 
 Alas ! the spider weaves his meshy thread 
 Where once portcullis grim and drawbridge high 
 Defied the plump of spears, and banner proud. 
 The knight's good sword sleeps in the church's aisle, 
 Mute is the trumpet's tongue ; the warder's call 
 Is heard no more ; the once proud fortalice 
 Is humble as the vassal's lowly cot ; 
 The wailing owlet seeks its mossy nest 
 On the forsaken keep, and noisome grass 
 Conceals the slimy lizard's dank abode. 
 
 Skims o'er the lake like seamew through the air 
 A distant sail ; advancing, it expands
 
 COMO. 
 
 Its snowy breast to woo the breeze ; each wing 
 Fans the blue waters, till its beak-like prow 
 Salutes the shore, while music's seraph tones 
 With mellow harmony steal o'er the sense, 
 From cool arcades and shady portals borne, — 
 Where yon bright gardens smile with varied hues 
 Of southern birth — orange, with jasmine blooms, 
 Pomegranates with the oleander vie, 
 That loves in Petra's red ravines to dwell, 
 In sultry home amid the arid sands, 
 Bright in the desert as by Como's wave. 
 Countless the treasures of those classic halls, 
 The sculptor's chisel, and the painter's brush 
 In turn have lavished their perfections there, 
 And kindly Nature with her gentlest smile, 
 Beams o'er the consecrated home of Art. 
 
 And yet, amid these ever-varying charms, 
 Basking in glories of Italian skies, 
 
 b 2
 
 COMO. 
 
 I love to think upon a colder clime, 
 
 Where misty curtains veil the frowning brows 
 
 Of granite mountains, royally attired 
 
 With ample robes of honey-scented heath, 
 
 In purple bloom, changing their hues apace 
 
 As ever and anon the morning's beam 
 
 Strays o'er dark chasms, within whose crevices 
 
 Sparkles the burn and sleeps the hidden lake ; 
 
 Here undisturbed the forest monarch loves 
 
 To browse at earliest dawn, while the shy herd, 
 
 More safe in sheltered corrie seek repose. 
 
 The eagle's voice, the torrent's hollow roar, 
 
 The black cock's challenge o'er the heathery waste. 
 
 Are Music sweeter to my soul than sound 
 
 Of gay guitar or song of gondolier. 
 
 Como, 1840.
 
 OOMO REVISITED. 
 
 Once more beside the brink of Como's lake 
 The musing stranger stands. A decade now 
 
 Parts life's swift current with a lengthened wake, 
 While Time sears furrows on the pilgrim's brow, 
 Since here borne swiftly by the fisher's prow, 
 
 I marked the vine-clad steep, the moss-grown tower, 
 The silver thread above, the stream below, 
 
 And owned the Ideal's sway mid Nature's power, 
 
 Content with memory's spells to witch the fleeting 
 hour.
 
 () COMO. 
 
 Bend low before the shrine of thine own heart, 
 
 Thou pilgrim of a safely guarded way ! 
 Wear palmer shell, nor leave the Cross apart, 
 
 Alike thy footsteps and thy spirits stay. 
 
 If thou hast borne the heat and dust of day, 
 Great is thy guerdon, priceless thy reward, 
 
 Blessings far more than thou hadst dared to pray, 
 
 All undeserved, if conscience give the award, 
 
 Since first thy track was stamped on Como's yielding 
 sward. 
 
 O'er many a path, intent on stranger clime, 
 
 We two have travelled far by land and sea, 
 Since first the Southern summer's early prime 
 
 Shed its bright hues o'er my sweet mate and me. 
 
 Sometimes the skies would lower, the shadows flee 
 Across the darkened heaven in sombre mien, 
 
 Our life, imlike those skies, from gloom was free, 
 Unclouded still, and decked in rosy sheen, 
 
 Protected as we roved by Mercy's light serene.
 
 COMO. 
 
 * 
 
 The northern blast has beat upon her cheek, 
 With snowy helm and icy dart severe ; 
 
 The sunny burn whose gentle murmurs speak 
 Soft welcome to the herd, hath soothed her ear, 
 And Scotland's hills have learned to hold her dear; 
 
 And the wild glens have marked the stranger's pace, 
 And joyed to know her passing footstep near, 
 
 Jealous of other lands who claim her race, 
 
 For Erin's self is proud of her bright happy face. 
 
 We saw the valleys of immortal France, 
 
 Immortal in her honours, and her blame ; 
 By her blue streams to-day the peasants dance, 
 
 To-morrow girds the land with smoke and flame. 
 
 To-day their stores the husbandmen reclaim, 
 To-morrow, wide the surging waters rage. 
 
 Thy fickle mood, fair land, is ne'er the same, 
 
 Change is the burden of thy story's page, 
 
 Volcano-like, on earth, thy fitful heritage. 
 Como, 1856.
 
 THE LOIRE. 
 
 River of the sunny lands, 
 River of the golden sands, 
 How blythe thy rolling waves advance, 
 The life-streams of thy glorious France ! 
 The pilgrim wandering near thy tide, 
 Forgets his toil those banks beside, 
 While chequered fancies, proud and vast, 
 Fling o'er his soul the mighty Past 
 Versez moi vite et bien a boire, 
 Here's to thy health, thou lovely Loire !
 
 THE LOIRE, 9 
 
 Not thine the lot in silent vale, 
 Unseen to kiss the osiers pale, 
 Through dreary pools or swamp to pass, 
 By stagnant lake or lone morass. 
 Springs forth thy source in earliest birth, 
 To deck with gifts the grateful earth, 
 Bears onward still the richest stores, 
 And casts its treasures on thy shores. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Yet is thy temper, sooth to tell, 
 Like that proud race thou lov'st so well, 
 And change conies o'er thv beaming smile, 
 Inconstant as a maiden's wile. 
 While all seems tranquil on thy face, 
 Sweeps o'er the plain thy sudden race, 
 And wide thy boiling surges roll, 
 O'er homestead lone or fenceless knoll. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 10 THE LOIRE. 
 
 The poplar, thy true vassal, sees 
 Thy angry torrents' frenzied power, 
 And, bending low before the breeze, 
 Pays homage to resistless power. 
 No change of dynasties is here, 
 Loire's gleaming sword is ever near ; 
 Crowns may be lost, and sceptres Avon, 
 But Loire for ever holds her own. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Far on the dim horizon's line, 
 
 Thy golden spires, fair Orleans, shine ; 
 
 With glories laden, as with years, 
 
 Thy giant minster's form appears ; 
 
 While still by Loiret's filial stream, 
 
 St. Mesmin's humbler lilies gleam, 
 
 And pious Clovis smiles above, 
 
 O'er broad lands driven for church's love. 
 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 THE LOIRE. 1 I 
 
 Pass onward to still distant Blois, 
 Dream of Beaugency and Dunois, 
 Breathe not too long St. Clery's air, 
 Nor seek the grave of " Maitre Pierre," 
 Let Menars with its flowers beguile, 
 Let Pompadour's ambitions smile, 
 Which royal love paid dear to buy, 
 Dwell on the pilgrim's memory. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Pause not where frowns yon darkling pile, 
 As though it shunn'd the sunbeam's smile, 
 Deserted Blois ! Thy vanes of yore 
 Aloft the royal lilies bore, 
 Yet lurked thy gloomy walls beneath, 
 Murder and treason, blood and death, 
 When Henry steeped his soul in crime, 
 And Catherine sought to master Time. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 12 THE LOIRE. 
 
 The bright stars shine upon thy shore, 
 River ! as they were wont of yore, 
 Still flow thy waves those portals by, 
 Where royal Guise was doomed to die ; 
 The dark astrologer unshriven 
 With Catherine waits the doom of Heaven ; 
 Victims and Kings alike are past, 
 To their dread trial at the last. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Come let us wander far away, 
 While shadows robe declining day. 
 O'er wooded plains, by coverts deep, 
 Where royal Chainbord's turrets sleep, 
 The sculptur'd lily, fresh and fair, 
 Symbol of sovereign power, is there, 
 No longer prostrate on the earth, 
 But blooming in a second birth. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 THE LOIRE. \:\ 
 
 Say, mighty river, is the sword 
 For ever sheath'd for Chambord's lord '. 
 France's pure lily seems a sham, 
 Unsheltered by the oriflamme. 
 Silence and solitude reign here, 
 And point to Henry's vacant chair. 
 Dark is the lot and deep the trance, 
 Of those that love the son of France. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Through tufted heights and woodlands green, 
 Fair Chaumont smiles the glades between ; 
 Time was when warriors kept this prize, 
 Time was 'twas given for woman's eyes. 
 Time is, and those embattled towers, 
 By woman's hand are crown'd with flowers ; 
 Through moss-grown walls the roses creep, 
 And woodbines kiss the hoary keep. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 14 THE LOIRE. 
 
 Now seek we good St. Hubert's cell. 
 Where Amboise boasts her citadel, 
 Fortress and prison, pride and shame, 
 That makes, yet mars, a nation's fame. 
 Of old, dark records tell of cost 
 Of life, and lands, and freedom lost ; 
 And now, the Arab Emir's fate, 
 And France's honour, saved too late ! 
 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Joy to thee, noble river ! joy ! 
 No slothful brooks thy course alloy ; 
 Swiftly by curtained Azy's keep 
 Indre pours out her currents deep, 
 Sweeps on her course the winding Vienne, 
 Where Domremy sought royal ken, 
 And Chinon's leafy honours wave 
 Above de Molay's knightly grave. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 THE LOIRE. 15 
 
 Sweet are thy amorous precincts Cher ! 
 Spangled with flowers thy meadows are, 
 Fair as of old thy tangled woods, 
 And clear and deep thy gushing floods. 
 Yon stately pile is fresh and gay, 
 As Time had cast his scythe away, 
 Since unchaste Dian drew her bow 
 With hound and horn at Chenonceaux. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 When from the South the morning gales 
 Blow freshly on the swelling sails, 
 A thousand vessels stem the tide, 
 And mid thy willowed islets glide. 
 While plodding still with ceaseless tramp, 
 The boatman plies his heavy cramp, 
 In vain the shoals arrest his toil, 
 In vain the surging eddies boil. 
 Versez moi vite, &c.
 
 THE LOIRE. 
 
 Imprisoned now in caves profound 
 Thy fiercer spirit close is bound, 
 No storms brood o'er thy peaceful breast, 
 And raging passion is at rest. 
 When day's fresh breeze and light are gone, 
 And the moon rises chill and lone, 
 Down drops the sail by sheltered strand, 
 And the tired helmsman leaps to land. 
 Versez moi vite, &c. 
 
 Farewell thou loved and loving stream ! 
 A mist o'ercasts the pilgrim's dream, 
 Strange portents gleam upon the sky, 
 Thunders a nation's gathering crv. 
 The sound of many waters pours 
 Wild echoes on thy startled shores, 
 Say, who shall bid the tempest cease, 
 And give to France an Empire's peace ? 
 Versez moi vite et bien a boire, 
 Here's to thy health, thou lovely Loire.
 
 EL TIH. 17 
 
 Onward, our step advancing, still has wended, 
 By glittering peaks, mid avalanches grim, 
 
 Where snows with verdure, ice with rocks are blended, 
 And roseate smile fair morn and twilight dim : 
 Oft have we heard the distant echoes hymn 
 
 Through rugged wilds, with cadence sweet and long, 
 The peasant's joyous note, who lithe of limb, 
 
 Sped on his homeward path, nor thought of wrong, 
 
 Nor toil nor want, inspired by that melodious sono-. 
 
 All hail ye glorious summits, where the yoke 
 Of Austria's chivalry the peasant spurned, 
 
 When Freedom to his heart resistless spoke 
 The warning, while avenging spirits burned 
 To do her bidding. And the prize was earned 
 
 By long-enduring valour, when the race 
 
 Of mountain warriors on their tyrants turned — 
 
 A handful met an army face to face : 
 
 Subdued, that army fled and found no resting-place. 
 
 C
 
 18 EL Till. 
 
 And still, by Zurich's lake or wild Lucerne, 
 
 The bugle which of old Tell's children blew, 
 Prolongs, by silent dell or lonesome cairn, 
 
 The softer echoes of its cadence true. 
 
 Fair smiles the land before the stranger's view, 
 Peace casts her well-won honours o'er the plain 
 
 Whose sons refused a foreign lord to sue, 
 Enfranchised from the alien's iron reign, 
 And ready, as of old, to dare the fight again. 
 
 By the deep azure of her shining breast, 
 
 By the sweet choristers that haunt her bowers, 
 
 By the stern giants that protect her rest, 
 
 By sweet Lausanne, and Chillon's hoary towers, 
 By Jura's pine-clad heights and vernal showers, 
 
 By distant Martigny, and fair Vevay, 
 
 By Nature's choicest gifts, and richest powers, 
 
 Profusely shed o'er Leman's regions gay, 
 
 Long will her visions haunt the pilgrim's onward way
 
 EL TIH. 19 
 
 Upward, beside the headlong watercourse, 
 
 By shattered crags, through many a wild ravine, 
 
 Tracking the torrent to its native source, 
 
 Where wells the spring, the glaciers jaws between, 
 Gazing from hill to hill o'er valleys green, 
 
 And mounting still the pass, with bated breath, 
 We pause awhile. The Saviour's Cross is seen, 
 
 Where Bernard scanned the dangerous wilds beneath, 
 
 To blunt fell winter's spear, and rend the prey from Death. 
 
 Wondrous ice-desert ! where the summer's wind 
 
 That steals so gently through the downward vale 
 In depths profound, by frozen gates confined, 
 
 Lifts up its awful voice, a howling gale, 
 
 And impotent the very sunbeams quail 
 Met by the sea-green glacier's chill embrace ; 
 
 In snow-wreaths quenched, their wonted fires turn pale, 
 Eternal winter's armies hold the place, 
 And guard with jealous might the fortress of their race. 
 
 C 2
 
 20 EL TIH. 
 
 And now 'mid chestnut groves our steps descending, 
 Press on by balmy slopes to sunnier clime ; 
 
 Through realms of fruit and flowers alternate wending, 
 We hear the distant Campanile's chime, 
 To weary hind the note of resting-time, 
 
 When day's bright hues from labouring earth are gone, 
 And starry fires in azure heights sublime 
 
 Beam o'er a world whose woes they still bemoan, 
 
 In plaintive melodies attuned for Heaven alone. 
 
 The young day's earliest blushes tinge the sky 
 
 From Mont Blanc's dome to Monte Rosa's brow. 
 Along the barrier chain of Italy 
 
 Springs Cervin's horn, and gleams the pure Jungfrau. 
 
 While stately Milan, in the vale below, 
 Proud of her marble throne and iron crown, 
 
 Taunts with Carrara's gifts the mountain snow ; 
 And, in the smile of peace, or conflict's frown, 
 A Queen o'er Lombard plains still looks serenely down.
 
 EL TIH. 21 
 
 Go, stand abreast the Duomo's topmost spire, 
 
 And strain thy sight to yon horizon's bound. 
 Where shines amid the gloom that vestal fire, 
 
 A beacon for the climes enslaved around. 
 
 Piedmont the spark of Liberty has found, 
 And guards it well, with more than filial care ; 
 
 With Cavour's name her ringing halls resound, 
 Let Koine awake, let Austria's might beware, 
 For Turin's patriot flag of Freedom braves the air. 
 
 Not the fell messenger of guilt and woe, 
 
 That crimson emblem, whose accursed sign 
 Convulsed the nations with spasmodic throe, 
 
 Defied all social ties, and laws divine ; 
 
 With hideous portents destined to combine 
 Open revolt, mysterious vengeance, — all 
 
 Devised in secret, like the covert mine, 
 Whose bolts spread conflagration as they fall, 
 While Death o'er startled earth expands his funeral pall.
 
 22 EL TIH. 
 
 Freedom's broad ensign has no stains like these, 
 
 To shame its virgin tint. And when the slave 
 Uplifts that holy standard to the breeze, 
 
 He but asserts the right that Nature gave. 
 
 Heaven nerves his arm his country's cause to save, 
 Pours on his soul the balm of righteous hope, 
 
 Bids him not shrink from torture, or the grave, 
 But dare the might of monarch or of pope, 
 Nor fear from adverse stars a darkened horoscope. 
 
 There comes a time when reason speaks no more, 
 E'en to the wisest. When the iron point 
 
 Hath pierced too deeply in the throbbing sore, 
 
 When chains have numbed the flesh and torn the joint, 
 With wounds whose pain no healing balms anoint ; 
 
 Life to such suffering hearts becomes a curse ; 
 Fate hath no heavier trials to appoint 
 
 Than present ills. The future brings no worse, 
 
 Nor tyranny invents a system more perverse.
 
 EL TIH. 23 
 
 Then comes the storm of spirits, gathering 
 
 With hollow sound, and o'er the region steals, 
 As the wild waters from the mountains spring, 
 
 So rise the nations when the heart appeals. 
 
 The maddened element at once reveals 
 Its long compression, as released it tries 
 
 The measure of its strength, and Bondage feels 
 That Heaven's own arm protects its enterprize, 
 Lives but to break its chain, or struggling bravely dies. 
 
 Seek we the cause % Stern policy's decree 
 
 Hath bowed the world beneath its iron yoke, 
 And state-craft, compromise, and subtlety, 
 
 Have knit the bands which earlier races broke ; 
 
 And specious treaties deep devices cloak 
 With bribes and privileges for the few, 
 
 Who never words of hope or progress spoke, 
 Content with callous scorn the herd to view, 
 And mark with vengeful hate the aspiring and the true.
 
 24 EL TIH. 
 
 Sometimes before the irrevocable hour, 
 
 The voice of Hope embittered rage hath staid, 
 Checked for awhile the course of reckless power, 
 
 And soothed the passions by Despair arrayed. 
 
 Thus did Sardinia's leader, undismayed 
 By threatening foes and cold neutrality, 
 
 Nail to the mast the colours he displayed, 
 Invoked the aid of Albion's chivalry, 
 And breathed in despots' ears the spell of Liberty. 
 
 Will ye turn cold and deaf to the appeal, 
 
 Brave hearts of England, loyal, stout, and true? 
 Will ye despise Sardinia's infant zeal, 
 
 And bid her children bold their rashness rue ? 
 
 Will soft devices Tyranny subdue, 
 Or protocols replace a brandished blade ? 
 
 Your turn may come, and you may get your due : 
 The faithless, who such specious promise made, 
 May seek for help in vain, themselves in turn betrayed.
 
 EL TIH. 25 
 
 See the fierce breakers dash on Genoa's mole, 
 Where yon tall watch-tower flings its rays afar, 
 
 While at its base the foaming surges roll. 
 
 The capstan rings, the creaking topmasts mar 
 The landsman's rest, but cheer the ready tar, 
 
 Who loves the billow better than the bay, 
 In danger trusts to his protecting star, 
 
 Sneers at the princely halls, the palaced way, 
 
 Nor knows nor cares for all that owned the Doria's sway. 
 
 And while against the sky the mountains trace 
 Their outlines dim beyond the circling sea, 
 
 Where Corsica protects her wayward race, 
 'Mid savage rocks and pathless forests free, 
 He calls to mind some pleasant memory, 
 
 Strains on the warp which bids his craft advance, 
 Joys to behold the Alps upon his lee, 
 
 To mark around his keel the billows dance, 
 
 And longs to furl the sail and smoke his pipe in France.
 
 26 EL TIH. 
 
 Gaily we traverse Pisa's verdant meads, 
 
 Girt by the bounding legions of the main ; 
 Muse on her glories past and valiant deeds, 
 
 Palermo's captured port, and broken chain. 
 
 No more she rules, the mistress of the plain, 
 Her leaning belfry stands a tacit sign 
 
 Of her dependant fortunes, for in vain 
 Above her Freedom's sun would seek to shine : 
 While her fond hopes expire, her energies decline. 
 
 Deep falls the shade in Campo Santo's aisle, 
 
 The yellow moonbeams scarcely pierce the gloom 
 Of those dark precincts, where the dead awhile 
 
 Dwell undisturbed within then* honoured tomb. 
 
 Soft drops the stranger's footfall, where perfume 
 Of spring flowers fills the consecrated air, 
 
 And faintly Vesper's solemn lights illume 
 The last cold couch of those who slumber there, 
 Within that stately pile so hallowed and so fair.
 
 EL TIH. 27 
 
 The trace of master-hand, and master-mind, 
 Is on those walls impressed ; on every side 
 
 Tributes of love or honour are designed, 
 
 Less to pay homage to the dead, than guide 
 The living. For in vain to dust our pride 
 
 Would carve sarcophagus, or statue raise, 
 
 The dead themselves would our desires deride 
 
 Had we no other duty, but to praise 
 
 With pious memories the great of other days. 
 
 The Bard who struck his immemorial lyre, 
 The Painter revelling in matchless hue, 
 
 The Sculptor who endowed the clay with fire, 
 The Warrior who for right his falchion drew, 
 The Parent to his own so kind and true, 
 
 The Husband who was ne'er the cause of pain, 
 The gifted All, should be held up to view, 
 
 That others in their turn may seek to gain 
 
 Tributes as fair as these, nor yet aspire in vain.
 
 28 EL TIH. 
 
 Nor let the Sage's labours be forgot 
 
 By midnight oil unheeded as it burned ; 
 Nor Science, hidden in some lowly cot, 
 
 With steady gaze to heaven aspiring turned ; 
 
 Nor yet the statesman, who in danger learned 
 To read the future of his country's fame, 
 
 Who, firm in virtue's path, temptation spurned, 
 O'erthrew intrigue, and spoiled dark faction's game, 
 In sunshine or in storm whose heart was still the same. 
 
 This is a duteous and most holy trust 
 
 For those who mourn the dead. The callous mind 
 In vain rejects the records of the just 
 
 Which raise the heart, and elevate mankind. 
 
 For emulation shares with those behind 
 Her precious gifts, though not on all bestowed 
 
 As their inheritance, who toil and find 
 On earth to deathless fame the narrow road, 
 A.nd gain unfading crowns in God's supreme abode.
 
 EL TIH. 29 
 
 Pensive we strayed by Arno's gentle water, 
 
 While moonbeams lingered o'er thy lovely breast 
 City of blossoms, Flora's chosen daughter ! 
 
 Whose beauty, as he gazed, with stern behest 
 
 Denied thy Giotto's earnest spirit rest, 
 Till he had raised for thee a matchless pile 
 
 With shapely form and softest tints imprest ; 
 To soothe thy chiefs, thy people's rage beguile 
 And point to kindred skies thy own bewitching smile. 
 
 Here are the chosen haunts of memory, 
 
 Where Poet's song and Sage's tale combine, 
 Voices of those who with the stranger lie, 
 
 Or those who sleep by Santa Croce's shrine. 
 
 'Tis sweet to muse with Dante's strains divine, 
 To live by sparks of Ariosto's fire, 
 
 By Tasso's chaplet-covered tomb recline, 
 Or wait till Petrarch of his Laura tire, 
 Or charm thy dreaming soul with gay Boccacio's lyre.
 
 30 EL TIH. 
 
 Val d'Arno saw the star of Medici 
 
 Arise and fall. Not all great Cosmo's fame, 
 Lorenzo's skill, or Leo's mission high 
 
 Could save from wreck the fortunes of their name. 
 
 But there are brighter planets still the same, 
 Stars that for ever shine, undoomed to set, 
 
 Whose light unfading myriad tongues proclaim. 
 
 Realms yet to come, and nations unborn yet, 
 Shall in their turn refuse those glories to forget. 
 
 While the world lasts shall Galileo last, 
 
 And he, who in his epoch stands alone, 
 Of giant energies all unsurpassed, 
 
 A Painter, Sculptor, Warrior, all in one. 
 And here Orgagna claims a mighty throne, 
 Blazing with undimmed light o'er Art's domain, 
 And en-eat Cellini's skill survives to own 
 The Loggia's pride, where, though in form profane, 
 Perseus would rival David, nor aspire in vain.
 
 EL TIH. 31 
 
 Come through the pine-clad slopes and grassy glades, 
 Wander by sedgy pools, or gushing streams, 
 
 Mid gnarled patriarchs of the olive shades, 
 
 Where steeped in golden light the still lake gleams 
 Triumphed beside those mounds the crafty schemes 
 
 Of Hannibal's emprize, and Roman might, 
 Of easy conquest sure in morning dreams, 
 
 Low in the dust was laid before the night, 
 
 By Thrasymene's shore, subdued in that fierce fight. 
 
 In vain Flaminius stemmed the unyielding tide, 
 
 In vain the eagle's talons rent the prey, 
 The vanquished chivalry still fought, still died, 
 
 Yielding, though inch by inch, the narrow way. 
 
 Red were the brooks upon that fatal day, 
 With Rome's best blood, and of that haughty race, 
 
 A headlong flight scarce saved the small array, 
 That sought in caves and woods a hiding-place, 
 Too well inured to trust to Carthaginian grace.
 
 32 EL TIH. 
 
 On yonder heights, so desolate and hoary, 
 
 An ancient city sits in solitude 
 Still and unbroken ; her eventful story 
 
 Is of forgotten times and ages rude. 
 
 On these broad bulwarks the Pelasgian stood, 
 The wise Etruscan did those ramparts climb, 
 
 Rome, Genoa, Venice, Mauritanian blood, 
 All came and went since old Cortona's prime. — 
 Alas ! a mighty preacher is relentless Time ! 
 
 The moon is high in heaven, and shadows haste 
 
 To veil with mystic shapes the dreary plain ; 
 And lofty towers are looming o'er the waste 
 
 Like vision fair awhile, then dark again ; 
 
 Where Umbria's sacred battlements retain 
 Not the proud records of her ancient might, 
 
 But, more enduring, nor achieved in vain, 
 The painter's triumphs, like heaven's holy light, 
 Snatched by a daring hand to charm a mortal's sight.
 
 EL Till. 33 
 
 Well did he labour for that honoured spot. 
 
 Which gave the world her Perugino's name ; 
 And rightly did he prize his chosen lot 
 
 Who with his own achieved his city's fame* —   
 
 For her sake poured from heaven /the sacred flame 
 Fell on Perugia's altars, where it shone, 
 
 Bright as the star which to the shepherds came, 
 O'er nations in barbaric darkness lone, 
 Beaming with new-born light, as yet to earth unknown 
 
 Would ye explore a city of the dead, 
 
 Descend the winding pass to yonder mound, 
 Where, deep immured within their stony bed, 
 
 Etruria's race death's gloomy dwelling found. 
 
 While yet the yellow harvests veiled the ground, 
 And olives cast their shadows pale and drear, 
 
 Dreamed not the peasant, on his errand bound, 
 While o'er the soil he urged the mild-eyed steer, 
 Of that forgotten race, so distant, yet so near 1 
 
 D
 
 34 EL TIH. 
 
 By tapers' light we tread the rock-hewn stair : 
 
 Fallen is the massive slab that once defied 
 Intrusive footsteps, and the dead man's lair 
 
 From prying glance secure, was wont to hide. 
 
 Dim burns the light the murky gloom beside, 
 While pants the heart oppressed with stifling sense, 
 
 And aching vision yields its wonted pride, 
 As, wrapped in darkness mid the vapours dense, 
 The wondering pilgrims halt and gaze in strange suspense- 
 Fast watch and ward the portals used to keep, 
 
 Till patient science scanned the hidden way ; 
 And now her sons through quarried passes creep, 
 
 Break through the rocks, and bid the glare of day 
 
 Stream through those violated graves, where sway 
 The worm fckat . reign s for centuries, and foul 
 
 Insects and creeping things ; till also they 
 Had turned to dust. Around, the foxes prowl 
 And bark to the wild hooting of the sullen owl.
 
 EL TIH. 35 
 
 Grim effigies, all grouped as at a feast, 
 
 Sculptured like life, recline around the board, 
 
 Wife, children, serfs, the greatest and the least 
 All equal now, surround the Etruscan lord 
 At that stone festival, — an imaged word 
 
 Marking Time's footstep faithfully. The wreath, 
 The helm, the mail, the goblet and the sword, 
 
 And e'en the gods he worshipped with his breath, 
 
 Helpless and mute as then, stare on his couch of death. 
 
 The tall pines wave o'er Capranola's bowers, 
 
 Her princely courts are mouldering in decay, 
 In solitude expire the fleeting hours, 
 
 While shadows o'er her broken dials play. 
 
 Still is the minstrel's voice, the clarion's bray 
 Heralds nor martial show, nor warrior train ; 
 
 Long years shall roll before procession gay 
 
 The courtly pageant, or the dirge of pain, 
 
 Shall wake the echoes near those silent walls again. 
 
 d 2
 
 36 EL TIH. 
 
 'Tis sad to walk amid the homes of men 
 
 Deserted by the race of days gone by, 
 For contemplation dons her mourning then, 
 
 And Fancy shrouds the musing memory 
 
 In sable garb. In other lands have I 
 Gazed on such scenes, in desolation lone, 
 
 For not alone prostrate in Italy 
 Crumbles the wall and lies the column prone, 
 While the sad birds of night prolong their plaintive moan.
 
 37 
 
 SCHLOSS ELZ. 
 
 Hoary with unrecorded age, 
 Mute chronicler of many a tale, 
 
 Though shorn of state and heritage, 
 Fair Elz surmounts the winding vale. 
 
 No banner waves upon her keep, 
 
 Beneath her towers no morions gleam, 
 
 The only ray that lights her steep 
 Is glancing from yon silver stream.
 
 38 SCHLOSS ELZ. 
 
 Nor trumpet's call nor dirge's wail, 
 Awake the echoes of her walls ; 
 
 Her music is the evening gale, 
 Her melodies the waterfalls. 
 
 Still yon grey crags are fresh and bright 
 Bedeck'd with many a sylvan hue. 
 
 When bathed in each prismatic light 
 Their summits drink the early dew. 
 
 The wild thyme tints the sunny height, 
 The fox-glove seeks the deeper bower, 
 
 And many a flowret, screened from sight, 
 Blooms for its own allotted hour. 
 
 Lovely as when the world was born, 
 Ere yet Creation's race was run, 
 
 When the first light of eldest morn 
 
 Bade Heaven and Earth salute the Sun.
 
 SCHLOSS ELZ. 39 
 
 And joyfully the river plays, 
 
 AVhile sparkling brooks its eddies swell, 
 Blythe as when first in Time's young days 
 
 It rushed to meet the blue Moselle. 
 
 Still towers the falcon in the glen ; 
 
 While, nestling close within the grove, 
 The cushat shuns the haunts of men, 
 
 And trills unseen its notes of love. 
 
 The shaggy boar in thorny brake 
 
 Rears his grim brood in secret lair, 
 Roams by the copse or sedgy lake, 
 
 Or wary scents the morning air. 
 
 The wolf maintains his rocky hold, 
 
 The roebuck bounds beneath the steep, 
 
 The fox still prowls around the fold, 
 
 The trout springs high from currents deep.
 
 40 SCHLOSS ELZ. 
 
 Fair Earth expands her genial breast, 
 
 Exhales the air its gentlest breath ; 
 
 No signs of change are here confessed, 
 No traces of decay or death. 
 
 But where are they whose haughty race 
 Held these broad lands and stately tower, 
 
 Who owned nor Kings' nor Church's grace, 
 Defied their threats and scorned their power? 
 
 There's many a grave in the Abbey nave 
 And many a scutcheon frowns on high. 
 
 And faded plumes and banners wave 
 Above in ghastly heraldry. 
 
 And he whose footsteps through the vale 
 
 In solitude unbroken stray, 
 Shall muse upon the oft-told tale, 
 
 How surely man doth pass away.
 
 EL Till. 41 
 
 Descend the pass, while lingering sunbeams play 
 
 O'er the rich garners of the teeming lea, 
 Ere Appenine's tall summits fade away, 
 
 Like azure islands in some golden sea ; 
 
 And wheresoe'er it may seem good to thee 
 To cast thine eyes o'er yon wide stretching plain, 
 
 Some landmark on the page of history, 
 Some unforgotten spot, rewards thy pain ; 
 Look wheresoe'er thou wilt, thou cans't not look in vain. 
 
 Like altar huge, that fabled Titans pile, 
 High o'er the surface of the subject land, 
 
 While round the fane its guardian mountains smile, 
 As though they scorned the fierce invader's band, 
 Soracte bares his wrinkled forehead, fanned 
 
 By balmy Zephyrus, whose gentle voice 
 
 Sets free the ice-bound streams from winter's hand, 
 
 Woos in his path the blossoms of his choice, 
 
 And bids each flower beneath his glowing kiss rejoice.
 
 42 EL TIH. 
 
 At morn by Terni's ever-sounding woods, 
 
 Amid the whirling wreaths of ceaseless spray, 
 Where the bright rainbow spans the boiling floods, 
 
 Slowly we passed towards Narnia's dungeon grey. 
 
 A stranger met the pilgrims on their way, 
 A kindred tongue our sympathies awoke, 
 
 Bade us again by Nera's margin stay, 
 And Umbria's tutelary gods invoke, 
 While thus to while away the evening hour he spoke.
 
 43 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF AUGUSTUS. 
 
 I saw the Caesars' arches, where they rise 
 Stately and lone beneath old Namia's walls, 
 The grave historians of an earlier age — 
 Still gazing on the flood they span no more 
 That rushing stream, born in hoar Appenine, 
 Nursed by Rieti's olive-mantled lakes, 
 Was wedded to Velino's angry surge, 
 Where bursts in thunder on the misty crags, 
 The mighty cataract. No gentle lord
 
 44 THE BRIDGE OF AUGUSTUS. 
 
 Did Nera own. When Time was yet a child, 
 When first the bow was set upon the cloud, 
 That bridal brought its curse upon mankind ; 
 And still, while century on century 
 Rolled on like Neptune's army of huge waves, 
 The gushing rivers in their wild career 
 Defied the sage's skill, the warrior's power. 
 On Terni's bridal couch of adamant 
 In vain the Roman laid his iron hand, 
 Fruitless the bold artificer's device, 
 And unsubdued Velino's stubborn force. 
 Down yon ravine, beneath Papigno's towers, 
 Fair Nera smiles upon her chafing mate, 
 And gently steals into his rough embrace ; 
 The boiling eddies yield before her sway, 
 And calmer currents roll with measured speed 
 Steeping the arid soil with bounteous dew, 
 Winding in crystal folds through grateful plains 
 
 By many a hamlet gay, or feudal tower.
 
 THE BRIDGE OF AUGUSTUS. 45 
 
 On some bright summer eve, while wending home 
 By Nera's banks, his noon-day labours o'er, 
 The Umbrian boor descried a mighty host 
 Encamped upon the brink of those bright waves ; 
 And day by day, as onward still he hied, 
 To his accustomed toil, till Vesper's star 
 Brought rest and home again, he paused to gaze 
 On that unwonted throng, and scan their task. 
 He marked the mighty fabric, as it rose 
 As though created by enchanter's spell. 
 Huge blocks from nodding mountains strew the soil, 
 And massive slabs from distant quarries torn, 
 Polished and fashioned by the mason's skill, 
 Rise from the plain arrayed in shapely tiers, 
 And spread their new-born surface to the light. 
 Fresh from its mountain bed the travertine 
 Sinks down amid the subjugated stream. 
 All unimpaired by the bright chisel's point. 
 Now the first buttress bravely breasts the tide,
 
 46 THE BRIDGE OF AUGUSTUS. 
 
 Another stems the flood, and soon an arch 
 
 Springs oer the foaming gulf. The bands are knit, 
 
 And a broad causeway spreads from shore to shore. 
 
 The parting sun, before his disk was veiled 
 
 Beneath the curtains of the western sky, 
 
 Poured his slant rays upon the new-born pile, 
 
 And robed in radiant hues the blushing stone, 
 
 Like Tyre's own purple or Columbia's gold — 
 
 Fit coronation of the imperial work. 
 
 In peace or war, as ages passed away, 
 
 Oft did the Roman Eagle spread its wing 
 
 O'er Nera's tide, in stately pageant borne. 
 
 The Lictor's fasces, and the Flamen's train, 
 
 The embattled hosts in panoplied array, 
 
 The chariots rolling on in martial pomp, 
 
 The war steeds fiercely chafing on the bit, 
 
 Swords, spears, and shields, the breast-plate and the helm, 
 
 The ponderous ram, the deadly catapult, 
 
 All in their turn, have passed along the way,
 
 THE BRIDGE OF AUGUSTUS. 47 
 
 Till e'en the Caesars' diadem was lost. 
 
 A heavier burthen than the warriors' tread 
 
 At length these arches knew. — The stern old man 
 
 Whose scythe uplifted knows no resting-place, 
 
 Whose measured gait no doubtful pause arrests, 
 
 Still journeyed surely on by Nera's tide: 
 
 One winter came — those arches were no more ; 
 
 The mighty fabric with its gorgeous freize, 
 
 The pediment, the column, and the span, 
 
 The balustrade, the statues, — all were gone. 
 
 When summer sweetly beams o'er Umbrian plains, 
 
 And Nera joys in her Velino's smile, 
 
 Go muse alone beneath the solemn shade 
 
 Which the rent arches cast upon the shore, 
 
 And ask thyself, amid that stern decay, 
 
 Is there no trace of ruin deeper still ? 
 
 Rome fell to rise no more ; yet was her fall 
 
 The type of an abyss still more profound — 
 
 A day of shadows and a night of gloom.
 
 48 EL TIH. 
 
 Change we the scene. — Beneath a grass-grown mound, 
 
 Whose shattered form o'erhangs the slimy lake, 
 Where moss and rushes choke the soil around, 
 
 And croaking frogs discordant echoes wake, 
 
 While solitary birds sad music make, 
 And round the pool on heavy pinions fly, 
 
 We halt, and for a while short respite take, 
 While at our feet the graves of nations lie, 
 And wails the fitful breeze in dirge-like melody. 
 
 Not Egypt's sands nor parched Arabia's stone — 
 That boundless desolation, where the eye, 
 
 Seeking repose, no resting place can own, 
 
 While the frame sinks beneath the parching sky — 
 Not Russian steppes or wilds of Tartary, 
 
 Cast o'er the heart a deeper shade of gloom, 
 Than that which thy deserted wastes supply, 
 
 Forlorn Campagna ! — witnesses of doom 
 
 Amidst whose night for hope the future finds no room.
 
 EL TIH. -J 9 
 
 Decay is of this world the destined part — 
 Its essence, its condition. Look around, 
 
 Survey the noblest monuments of art, 
 
 The mind, the hand's best triumphs, all are bound 
 By one unerring law. — But man is found 
 
 The sole exception, while from age to age 
 
 He struggles on, till death at last has crowned 
 
 With immortality life's ending page ; 
 
 Then, the poor player passes to another stage. 
 
 Were it not so, did man's frail being share 
 The fate of all things open to our sense, 
 
 Works of Titanic strength, raised high in air, 
 Colossal cliffs and mountain chains immense, 
 Slow crumbling into dust ; his first offence 
 
 Had passed unpunished, and the fratricide 
 Had mocked at Infinite Intelligence ; 
 
 While his whole race, without a path or guide, 
 
 Would lose that hope, alike their glory and their pride. 
 
 E
 
 50 EL Till. 
 
 Hell is not worse than life without an aim — 
 To live without an object here would prove 
 
 A curse more fell than Cain's — a price to claim, 
 He tilled the soil with labour, not of love, 
 But hate and crime, with blood and tears. To move 
 
 Hard rocks and uproot weeds, his forfeit doom > 
 His price was food. Ay, better this than rove 
 
 Through life as aimless as the wild simoom 
 
 Whose frenzied death-blast shrouds the gasping earth 
 in gloom. 
 
 Night casts around our path her dusky fold, 
 
 And in the West, with shorn and faded beam, 
 The last pale vestige of Day's car of gold 
 
 Lights the dark sky with melancholy gleam ; 
 
 While, as the wondrous offspring of a dream, 
 Whose undefined proportions dimly come 
 
 And to the sleepers' soul unearthly seem, 
 
 Looms o'er the plain St. Peter's wondrous dome, 
 
 We pass old Tiber's flood and tread the courts of Rome. 
 
 Rome, 1856.
 
 EL TTH. 51 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 Wheee are Rome's Eagles ? Is that mighty pinion 
 
 Torn, which of old to Britain's distant shore, 
 The messenger of conquest and dominion, 
 
 War's deadly bolts, across the ocean bore? 
 
 Unchecked since first the sage Etruscan's lore 
 Strove to avert young Latium's virgin sword, 
 
 And foremost still, when Gaul's fair regions o'er 
 In dread array her serried legions poured 
 The brimful cup of fury with red vengeance stored. 
 
 e 2
 
 52 EL TIH. 
 
 O'er Hadrian's tomb the Eagle bends his wing, 
 
 Where a new race of warriors owns his sway ; 
 If the loud summons of the trumpet ring, 
 
 Imperial bands still guard the leaguered way ; 
 
 Not as of old, in armour's bright array, 
 But clothed with their own might, on many a plain, 
 
 So oft displayed in conflict's hard-fought day, 
 Where, as war's current ebbed and flowed again, 
 Earth's bosom groaned beneath the slayer and the slain. 
 
 Once in yon gloomy pile, with duteous care 
 
 For him alone upreared, a nation rose, 
 And while death's solemn dirges filled the air, 
 
 Bore their lost monarch to his long repose. 
 
 That honoured dust these walls no more enclose. 
 Death hath given place to life. The tomb within 
 
 Boast, jest, and song resound in turn, of those 
 Who with fierce symphathies, and ceaseless din, 
 Fight o'er their battles won, and those they hope to win.
 
 EL TIH. 53 
 
 Jove's messenger is a capricious bird, 
 
 Inconstant in his nature, prone to change, 
 By Heaven's great King he sate of old, we've heard, 
 
 Till he contrived his domicile to change ; 
 
 Cradled in heaven, he found earth's regions strange, 
 And mourned the glories of his azure home. 
 
 He fled o'er villa, forest, farm and grange, 
 Bathed his sharp beak in Tiber's silv'ry foam, 
 And folded his tired wings upon the gates of Rome, 
 
 And there for centuries in peace he reigned, 
 
 In war before her conquering standards flew, 
 Till the good sword no more her power maintained, 
 
 And her stern policy enfeebled grew. 
 
 Then to fair Latium's skies he bade adieu, 
 And built his eyrie in an icebound clime ; 
 
 The Kremlin's towers arose before his view, 
 On Russia's plumed crest he sat sublime, 
 But, fickle, prized his new love only for a time.
 
 54 EL TIH. 
 
 His character becomes immoral now ; 
 
 Like a young libertine, lie seeks to rove, 
 Hovers awhile o'er Hapsburg's haughty brow, 
 
 Anon dark Hohenzollern owns his love ; 
 
 And next mid rude Atlantic gales he strove 
 To meet the light of young Columbia's glance ; 
 
 Then, as if bent his changeful mood to prove, 
 Borne on the tempest blast, with swift advance, 
 He soared away to guard the tricolor of France. 
 
 Downcast, with tresses loose, and tearful eye, 
 
 The Caesars' crown from her proud forehead torn, 
 While rude compeers exulting pass her by, 
 
 Behold the mistress of the nations mourn. 
 
 Was ever grief like hers ? For bitter scorn 
 Or helpless pity is her portion now ; 
 
 By care and trials marked, she sits forlorn, 
 While a tiara weighs upon her brow, 
 But hidden fetters lurk her purple robes below.
 
 EL TIH. 55 
 
 Who reigns in Latium ? Is imperial power 
 
 Quenched? Are the she-wolf's dynasties a tale 
 Already told ? Is the allotted hour 
 
 Come when the gods of old no more prevail ? 
 
 Does Rome at no dictator's mandate quail ? 
 Are consuls, tribunes, forum, senates gone ? 
 
 Does she her lost ascendancy bewail : 
 Her prostrate fanes, her columns overthrown, 
 Her glories past and her unrivalled state undone ? 
 
 Yes, from that fatal hour when first the Cross 
 With its deep warning ruthlessly she spurned, 
 
 And from its light, all reckless of her loss, 
 Hardened in pride, away to darkness turned, 
 For gods of wood and stone her incense burned ; 
 
 Proscribed the teachers of a holier creed, 
 And well deserved the destiny she earned ; 
 
 While, with fell purpose and remorseless deed, 
 
 She tortured saints and bade devoted martyrs bleed.
 
 56 el Tin. 
 
 Vain were her efforts. Vainly, while the sword, 
 
 Or beast, or fire destroyed, men sought to stay 
 The onward progress of the Saviour's word, ' 
 
 And check the Gospel's pare and healing way. 
 
 The night was vanquished by a brighter day, 
 And Faith, by persecution sorely tried, 
 
 Spread o'er the world, as nations learned to pray 
 To Him whom their forefathers had defied, 
 For whose redeeming love, resigned, the Christians died. 
 
 See where as yet unrivalled as of old, 
 
 Though its rent brow the scathing lightning sears, 
 Oft as the lurid clouds that form enfold, 
 
 The Coliseum reigns supreme. The tears 
 
 Of tortured slaves, below the dust of years 
 In yon arena, and the crimson dew 
 
 That fell from martyr's brow mid savage cheers, 
 Moisten the spot whence deeds of promise drew 
 Their earliest strength, and, rooted once, resistless grew.
 
 EL TIH. 57 
 
 Ay, if those stones could speak, where piled on high 
 
 Rise tier on tier the spacious galleries, 
 Vast in expanse, of matchless symmetry, 
 
 Beneath encircling walls, on which the skies 
 
 Appear to rest with gorgeous canopies ; 
 While Day's bright monarch smiles with cloudless beam, 
 
 Until to quench his fire pale Vesper flies, 
 
 And mid the gloom mysterious as a dream, 
 
 Unveiled, the watchful stars and bright-eyed planets 
 gleam : 
 
 No song of joy, no piercing shriek of shame, 
 
 No startling scream that bids the senses ache, 
 Nor the loud shouts that victory proclaim 
 
 The moody torpor of the spot would wake; 
 
 But wail, and woe, and shrill lament would make 
 Flesh creep and senses quail. The horrid cry 
 
 Of those whose bones are crushed, whose sinews break, 
 The prey of savage beasts, condemned to die 
 While lingering torture marks their parting agony.
 
 58 EL Till. 
 
 Who reigns in Latium 1 O'er old Tiber's flood 
 Pass onward towards the crowd that lingers there ; 
 
 Measure the countless masses by the rood, 
 
 Wedged deep and dense in that capacious square — 
 While yon gigantic dome, in middle air 
 
 Upraised, upon St. Peter's flock looks down, 
 The Pontiff sits in the Apostles' chair, 
 
 To bless or curse, to rule with smile or frown — 
 
 A Shepherd King who claims, for heaven, on earth a 
 crown. 
 
 Where are the sheep ? Is theirs the blessed lot 
 
 By cooling streams and pastures green to stray 
 Around the precincts of that sacred spot 
 
 Where Peter's martyr-spirit passed away ? 
 
 Are shepherds keeping watch by night and day, 
 Abiding in the fields, who in their arms 
 
 Bear the defenceless lambs? — the menaced prey 
 Of him whose rage the guilty soul alarms 
 Him for whom death and hell alone abound in charms !
 
 EL TIH. 59 
 
 Yes, they are guarded. War's grim panoply 
 Girds, like a zone, the space with circling line, 
 
 And here or there, as roves the searching eye 
 
 Bright sabres flash and glittering bayonets shine, 
 Strange guardians these of mystery divine ! 
 
 Flock watching flock, blind leaders of the blind ! 
 While statesmen shrewd and subtle priests combine 
 
 In conclave dark religion's veil behind, 
 
 To fetter the strong arm, and enervate the mind. 
 
 Bursts forth the warning trumpet's blast, and loud 
 Rings o'er expectant Rome the cannon's peal ; 
 
 With gazing eyes and lifted hands the crowd, 
 Prostrate at once in reverent silence kneel : 
 Hushed is each tongue, save one whose accents steal 
 
 O'er all, in solemn tones and cadence even, 
 "While those who watch afar are taught to feel 
 
 The prayer, the praise, the parting blessing given 
 
 By him who reigns on earth and holds the key of heaven.
 
 60 EL TIH. 
 
 I do not much esteem a cardinal 
 
 With his broad hat, sleek horses, and gold coach, 
 Nor with a Monsignore share at all 
 
 The awe some ladies feel at his approach ; — 
 
 Topics like these perhaps 'tis wrong to broach, 
 Or criticize such precious qualities. 
 
 I grieve on holy men to cast reproach, 
 And yet to cure Rome's sad realities, 
 I'd do away with all Church temporalities. 
 
 We seldom find that spiritual things 
 With temporal combine, as is the case 
 
 Which conscience to my recollection brings, 
 With some exceptions, in "another place;" 
 But while our Bishops are a quiet race 
 
 Compared with folks like these, sure even they 
 Would serve their Master with a better grace, 
 
 If never led by politics astray — 
 
 Their wisdom turned aside from Heaven's purer way.
 
 EL TIH. 61 
 
 Oh thou, beneath whose pale yet unquenched star 
 
 Art claims a home, and history a shrine, 
 How many a weary heart from climes afar 
 
 Hath left its household gods to worship thine ! 
 
 Consoled by thee, the sad forget to pine, 
 Care casts its heavy burthen at thy gate, 
 
 Crowns his dark brow with wreaths the Muses twine, 
 While duty leaves his task, and pride his state, 
 And seek with thee to woo a more propitious fate. 
 
 Eternal Rome, with thee the thirsty spirit, 
 
 While deeply drinking from the stream of time, 
 Ask shall the present from the past inherit 
 
 Its precious instincts and its dreams sublime ; 
 
 Joy in the glories of thine unchanged chme, 
 Brood o'er the records of thine ancient fame 
 
 And while day fades, and knells the passing chime, 
 Sigh at the sounds which fleeting hours proclaim 
 When sets the twilight sun, the symbol of thy name.
 
 62 EL TIH. 
 
 I love the artist's studio — the school 
 
 Where practised Science guides creative thought, 
 And Genius, bending to a sterner rule, 
 
 Accepts the yoke by earnest study brought. 
 
 Here the rapt soul, with burning impulse fraught, 
 Eager to soar, unfolds ambition's wings, 
 
 The fate of Icarus esteems as nought, 
 Enduring courage to the effort brings, 
 And listens whde sweet hope of future triumph sings. 
 
 This is his treasure-house — a precious store 
 
 Gathered from Art's domain and Nature's breast; 
 And here his chafing spirit ponders o'er 
 
 Past, Present, Future, and disdains to rest. 
 
 Here thrives the growth of new-born Fancy, best 
 Cradled mid ruined fanes by wrinkled age ; 
 
 Here beams the smile of inspiration, blest 
 With dreams of fame and fortune that assuage 
 Doubt, care, and fear, the struggling artist's heritage.
 
 EL TIH. 63 
 
 And when at eve, by Tiber's bank he stays, 
 
 To snatch short respite for his fevered brain, 
 While the soft breeze around his temples plays, 
 
 He fain would seek the spot he loves again. 
 
 Rest is, for minds like his, a secret pain ; 
 Art reigns his mistress, while the willing slave 
 
 Pleasure with brightest offerings tempts in vain. 
 Time's miser he, intent each hour to save, 
 
 And kiss the heavy chains which love resistless gave. 
 
 And though sweet memories of other times, 
 
 Of early loves and former joys arise, 
 Of a far distant home in sterner climes, 
 
 By purer waters, beneath paler skies ; 
 
 Though softly smile in dreams his mother's eyes, 
 While well-known shapes surround him as of yore, 
 
 Though seems to weep that form he used to prize — 
 Awake, he stifles thoughts so dear before, 
 And uncomplaining bears his chosen yoke once more.
 
 64 EL TIH. 
 
 Whoe'er has trod the Vatican by night, 
 
 And loved to linger 'mid that solemn gloom, 
 Sees ghostly shadows in the mystic light, 
 
 And shapes unearthly from the portals loom. 
 
 Start not. There are no spectres in the room, 
 Save those which memory summons, though the flame 
 
 Of torches 'mid the darkness black as doom 
 Gives semblance there of life. Here only Fame 
 Amid these statues lives, and consecrates each name. 
 
 Mark those unnumbered tablets, raised on high 
 Around thy path. Time's witnesses are they, 
 
 With quaint device and concise history, 
 
 Records of those whom Christ inspired to pray, 
 What time the cross was hidden from the day, 
 
 To be more dearly cherished in the night 
 Of Persecution's trials, while its ray 
 
 Shone dim, yet steadfast, till the Sun of Right 
 
 Burst on expectant Faith, and triumphed in its might.
 
 EL TIH. 65 
 
 Ay, here, indeed, the graves give up their dead, 
 
 The saints arise from their mysterious home, 
 Earth yields her proofs from many a secret bed, 
 
 From quarried rock and hollow catacomb. 
 
 Say, did the worship of their humble dome, 
 Their hearts' pure incense, less avail on high 
 
 Than all the pride that clings to papal Rome, 
 Than gorgeous pomps and haughty pageantry ; 
 Useless alike to teach mankind to live or die ? 
 
 To him who slowly treads that marble mile 
 
 Comes many a thought unrealized before, 
 Such as did once his schoolboy hours beguile, 
 
 And spells unwonted on his studies pour. 
 
 While, as he moves beneath each stately door, 
 Rise heads encircled with th' immortal wreath, 
 
 And stately shapes, which had he known before, 
 Would have aroused his pulse and stopped his breath 
 With stifling sense of pride, only less strong than Death. 
 
 F
 
 06 EL TIH. 
 
 I know, he cries, the Caesars' dignity, 
 
 I mark old Tally's meditative brow : 
 Here is the toga, there the panoply, 
 
 The poet's chaplet, or the mother's vow. 
 
 The sculptor's mastery doth here endow 
 With life the dying athlete ; there the eye 
 
 Rests on the parted lips that seem, e'en now, 
 Persuasive reason's eloquence to try, 
 Alike o'er crowds and senates used to victory. 
 
 Rome ! thou art sad to me. I guess not why 
 
 My thoughts of thee are chronicled in pain ; 
 I know not why the sound of melody 
 
 Sinks here to minor chords, nor swells again. 
 
 The heart is out of tune, and all in vain 
 The spirit wars against impression's sway. 
 
 When gloomy visions haunt the moody brain 
 We blame the clime or atmosphere, and pray 
 For health of body, while the mind is far astray.
 
 EL TIH. 07 
 
 Here busy life flows sluggish on its course, 
 
 Here fettered Progress veils its drooping head, 
 The pulse of industry hath lost its force, 
 
 And gives no sign. The nation's heart is dead 
 
 To its own degradation, and the dread 
 Of power unsparing stifles in its rise 
 
 Each onward thought of nobler instincts bred : 
 No fostering tributes wait on enterprise, 
 And genius weeps unknown, while hope desparing dies. 
 
 Type of the old world ! art thou chained for ever ? 
 
 Is there no trumpet that can break thy dream ? 
 Will no resolve aspire thy bonds to sever, 
 
 And free the current of thy life-blood's stream? 
 
 Awake ! Thy long-lost power, thy fame redeem, 
 For younger worlds, impatient of thy fate, 
 
 With straining eyes await the day-spring's gleam 
 When freedom's voice shall thunder at thy gate, 
 And nations, as of old, shall bend before thy state. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 EL TIH. 
 
 I love thee not, thou lone Campagna ! home 
 
 Of sickly airs, gaunt Fever's chosen clime; 
 I envy not the mood that loves to roam 
 
 By dank morass and pools of oozy slime. 
 
 Better Albano's genial slopes to climb 
 'Mid patriarch oaks that guard the forest glade, 
 
 By Nemi's wave forget the march of time, 
 
 And rest beneath the solitary shade, 
 
 While sweet illusion's dreams, unchecked, the heart in- 
 vade. 
 
 Here, mindful of the bard who sought that rest 
 
 From courtly toils, and Rome's tumultuous swarm, 
 Repose beneath Gennaro's sheltering breast, 
 
 And trace the outlines of his Sabine farm. 
 
 Mute is his lyre, unnerved his country's arm, 
 Her doom misfortune, powerless her will; 
 
 Yet his sweet songs succeeding ages charm, 
 And by each time-worn crag and crystal rill 
 His verse undying owns her magic echoes still.
 
 EL TIH. 69 
 
 Why sleeps the god who erst o'er Latium flung 
 
 Impassioned strains from ever-sounding shell, 
 Or magic harp, by inspiration strung, 
 
 Alike her glories and her faults to tell ? 
 
 No more for Rome exulting Pagans swell, 
 Her hopes, her fears, alike unheeded, stay, 
 
 And that fair land the Muses love so well 
 Nor sings nor wails aloud, for iron sway 
 Hath tied her tongue, and cast her broken lute away. 
 
 The lyre is dumb, the poet's voice is hushed, 
 
 And fettered science shuts her treasured page, 
 While in despair, her children long have blushed, 
 
 Spoiled of the glories of their heritage. 
 
 No listener's ear can eloquence engage, 
 Might cramps the student's zeal, the author's tale ; 
 
 Quenched is the fire of youth, the zeal of age ; 
 While princes, mute, in tame submission quail, 
 And humbler serfs, unmarked, their destiny bewail.
 
 70 EL TIH. 
 
 The fortunes of a realm are somewhat critical 
 
 When priests in secret conclave rule the state ; 
 While faith assumes a garb political, 
 
 And new-made doctrines men's belief await. 
 
 Are these conceptions so immaculate % 
 Can change of doctrine keep the earnest soul 
 
 In the straight path to heaven's appointed gate % 
 Can man's decree new mysteries unroll 
 And cunning policy eternal truth control? 
 
 Yet Rome beholds each day's expediency 
 Devise fresh dogmas, which the crowd obey, 
 
 Intrigue and guile their baleful calling ply ; 
 For where the carcase is the eagles stay, 
 Destroy the frame, and rend the heart away. 
 
 If to his own the great Apostle came, 
 
 Would modern Rome his simple truths gainsay ? 
 
 His homely garb, his poverty disclaim, 
 
 And shun his precepts, while she glories in his name %
 
 EL Till. 71 
 
 With certain steps, advancing on its track, 
 
 Draws near the solemn hour, when statecraft's trade, 
 O'erthrown, its long account must render back, 
 
 And error's lights before the dawning fade. 
 
 And when the scale appears, where all are weighed, 
 God's gifts for blessing, man's device for harm, 
 
 Too late awakening conscience shall upbraid, 
 Yet lack the power to quell its own alarm, 
 Or judgment's fearful terrors of their power disarm. 
 
 Homeward we turn. The joyous spirit hails 
 
 The northern breeze from old Soracte's steep ; 
 Returning energy no longer fails, 
 
 To rouse the moody senses from their sleep. 
 
 Behind — the land where prostrate nations weep, 
 Before — the cliffs of freedom's sacred shore, 
 
 Where guardian instincts through the tempest keep, 
 Unchanged, a purer faith's abiding lore, 
 And children lisp the prayers their sires have lisped 
 before.
 
 72 EL TIH. 
 
 Fair are Bolseno's woods and fortress grey, 
 
 Mid sylvan bowers reposing on the wave. 
 Around whose base the treacherous waters play, 
 
 Dark Lethe's rivals, heralds of the grave. 
 
 Here death defies the leech's skill to save, 
 The poisoned air invades the panting breast ; 
 
 In vain the peasant dares his fate to brave, 
 Grim fever stalks around, a hideous guest, 
 Whose fell embraces doom the suffering frame to rest. 
 
 Where azure hills surmount the golden plain, 
 
 And sparkling waters wander to the sea 
 Mid vine-clad slopes, by Orvieto's fane, 
 
 Rest thy tired foot, and set thy spirit free, 
 
 Nor marvel if awhile the witchery 
 Of art's fond labour, or those forests green 
 
 Where Nature with her handmaid loves to vie, 
 Should wean thy thoughts from home, so brightly seen, 
 Though billows roll, and lands un traversed lie between.
 
 EL TIH. 73 
 
 I love the legend and the fresco quaint, 
 That robe Sienna's walls, and deck its site. 
 
 Though some scarce know the city, or the paint, 
 Until by travel they are polished quite, 
 And Murray hath refined their appetite. 
 
 Good Simon Peter, whom they knew of old, 
 Yields here to Simon Memmi half his right ; 
 
 For, though mankind still owns Faith's varying hold, 
 
 Art shines unchanged, and sways her empire uncon- 
 trolled. 
 
 Pass once again through Arno's scented clime, 
 
 And look thy last on Vallombrosa's bowers, 
 Through smiling vales advancing till the chime 
 
 Of evening guides thee to Bologna's towers ; 
 
 Where tenderly betimes her budding flowers 
 Fair science nursed for student and for sage ; 
 
 And well did fame repay their lavished hours, 
 While, as each triumph marked the mastered page, 
 Onward refinement sped, responsive to the age.
 
 74 EL Till. 
 
 If on the dead 'tis sweet to moralize, 
 
 Whose tomb is in men's hearts, whose glories shine 
 Through fleeting years, and fading dynasties, 
 
 In immortality almost divine, 
 
 Go where the shadows fall of some huge pine, 
 Beneath whose roots the Adriatic tide 
 
 Its murmurs with the sighing breeze combine, 
 And mourn Ravenna's ruined shrines beside, 
 Her pristine honours, and her once imperial pride. 
 
 Behold her walls o'erthrown, her fenceless gate, 
 
 Where once supreme the haughty Exarch strode, 
 His palace and his tomb are desolate, 
 
 Profaned his earliest and his last abode. 
 
 The land that once victorious chieftains trode 
 No more its burdens nor its honours bears, 
 
 And while decay's unsparing hours corrode 
 Her widowed garb the lonely city wears, 
 And, long neglected, sinks beneath the load of years.
 
 EL TIH. 75 
 
 Yet here the musing heart can well invoke 
 
 The bay-crowned monarchs of an earlier day, 
 liecall the spells their burning accents spoke, 
 
 And beat responsive to each tuneful lay. 
 
 Here Dante's harp resounds upon thy way, 
 By sandy creeks along yon pine-clad shore, 
 
 Where England's exiled Harold loved to stray, 
 To Italy a votive chaplet bore, 
 And knelt in reverence the Tuscan shrine before. 
 
 Good night ! O'er earth the twilight shadows creep, 
 Subdued at last the lin^erino; sunbeam dies : 
 
 No longer curtained by the swelling deep, 
 See side by side two kindred planets rise : 
 Thus, dearest, be in life our sympathies ; 
 
 While on our destined path we linger yet, 
 May each on other smile with beaming eyes, 
 
 And, nearer still than e'en when first we met, 
 
 May we together run our course, together set. 
 
 Ravenna, 1857.
 
 MINOR POEMS.
 
 79 
 
 THE LILY OF THE MONASTERY. 
 
 Beneath the desecrated shrine 
 
 The orange lily spread 
 Its glowing colours to the sky, 
 
 And reared its haughty head. 
 
 Silent and lonely now those halls, 
 Where once the pilgrim trod, 
 
 And they are gone who 'mid the rocks 
 Sang praises to their God.
 
 80 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Mute is the sound of matin bell, 
 The vesper hymn is o'er, 
 
 The chant the saints had loved so well 
 Peals on a distant shore. 
 
 The monks are gone to other climes, 
 But still in dreams they hear 
 
 The echoes of their native chimes 
 Warbled in cadence dear. 
 
 By spoilers hand with ruthless zeal 
 From home and altars driven, 
 
 Regardless of all earthly weal, 
 They put their trust in Heaven. 
 
 For thee, fair flower, in other lands 
 The badge of party strife, 
 
 No faction here shall raise her hands 
 To close thy peaceful life.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 81 
 
 No arch triumphal seeks thy aid, 
 
 No fife and drum proclaim 
 That gorgeous flag and flashing blade 
 
 Are flourished in thy name. 
 
 Put forth thy hues, as thou hast done, 
 
 As tributes rich and rare 
 To Him who, sitting on his throne, 
 
 Considers thou art there. 
 
 Pfeffers, 1846. 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 A GIFT. 
 
 Rose of the Alps ! on rugged precipice, 
 Veiled in the mist, that lovest to repose 
 Nurtured 'mid rocks, and blossoming in snows 
 Of regions bound in everlasting ice, 
 Where still the chamois, shunning each device 
 
 Of crafty hunter, undisturbed doth stray, 
 In Flora's crown thou gem above all price ! 
 
 Shedding o'er savage wilds thy cheering ray, 
 Thee will I cull, my tenderness to prove, 
 And wreath a chaplet wild to deck my gentle love. 
 Splugbn, 1846.
 
 83 
 
 A WREATH OF VINE, MYRTLE, AND OLIVE. 
 
 Bright progeny of sunlit vales, 
 Fanned into life by southern gales, 
 Not yours the fate by crag or dell, 
 In mountains lone unseen to dwell ; 
 Destined to haunt some smiling strand, 
 Pouring rich odours o'er the land ; 
 Or basking on some hillock's brow, 
 Where sparkling waters ever flow ; 
 Or under some tall cliff to brave 
 The rude caress of Ocean's wave. 
 
 G2
 
 84 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Ye love to spread your richest stores 
 On parched Iberia's sandy shores ; 
 Or where the Rhine's swift eddies fall, 
 By ruins grey, or crumbling wall. 
 How happily ye rest upon 
 The lordly Loire, or soft Garonne, 
 By haughty nobles' silent towers, 
 Or beauteous dames' deserted bowers ! 
 Another fate is yours awhile, 
 A gentle mistress claims your smile ; 
 Sweet exiles from your native shore, 
 Contented to return no more. 
 
 Bellagio, 1846.
 
 85 
 
 THE STAG. 
 
 High on a distant peak of mountain lone, 
 The monarch stands upon his granite throne ; 
 The morning mist, by earliest sunbeams driven 
 O'er the bright azure of the smiling; heaven, 
 
 © © 7 
 
 Sheds o'er his regal form a mantle wild, 
 And lingers fondly o'er its favoured child. 
 Son of the cloud ! for thee its fleecy fold 
 Is spread through silent glen and dreary wold, 
 Far from the haunt of men to shield thy form, 
 And veil its beauties in the dusky storm.
 
 86 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Yet there, about thy path and round thy bed 
 The fairest flowrets raise their votive head, 
 Freshest ere yet the sun's meridian blaze 
 Has chased the shadows with his searching gaze ; 
 When panting in the streamlet's cool retreat 
 Thy limbs are stretched upon its mossy seat ; 
 When on the earth is cast thy antlered crown, 
 Thy sinewy frame amid the heath is thrown; 
 Thy neck no longer proudly raised on high, 
 But mid wild grasses drooping listlessly, 
 Gladly for thee the dancing waters play, 
 And cool thy brow with their refreshing spray : 
 Or when the evening breeze across the heath 
 In perfumes wild exhales its gentle breath, 
 If haply, wandering down the deep ravine 
 By rocks or silent tarn, thy form is seen, 
 Around thy path the freshest verdure springs, 
 To bear the scion of a race of kings. 
 What forms are those which, moving noiselessly 
 O'er the dim outline of the distant sky,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 87 
 
 So gently creep along the craggy breast 
 
 Of yon still mountain, and yet break its rest ? 
 
 The ptarmigan is startled from his home, 
 
 The plover whistles as the spoilers come. 
 
 Beware, thou denizen of liberty, — 
 
 The messengers of death are sped for thee ! 
 
 Alas ! no warning can alarm thee now, 
 
 While idly browsing near the mountain's brow. 
 
 Nearer and nearer still, those figures grey, 
 
 Stealthy and slow, advance upon their way ; 
 
 Now by those cairns they glide across the waste, 
 
 Now down the burn they speed with ruthless haste, 
 
 With eager eyes intent, and bated breath, 
 
 Like subtle snakes they creep along the heath. 
 
 They gloat upon thee ! Mark that fitful gleam ! 
 
 Will no tiling rouse thee from thy waking dream ? 
 
 Poised in sure aim, the deadly rifle lies ; — 
 
 Now turn to scent the gale, now view the skies. 
 
 For thee no more shall verdant corry spread 
 
 Its richest pasture and its softest bed ;
 
 88 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 No more thy subject dames expectant rove, 
 Obedient vassals of thy haughty love. 
 Wildly thy jealous rivals shall rejoice, 
 And revel mid the beauties of thy choice. 
 Too well I love thy living majesty 
 To dwell on life's departing agony, 
 When from thy breast the panting heart is riven, 
 And thy mild eyes in anguish turn to heaven. 
 For me, when dimly wanes the setting sun, 
 And chill age whispers that my course is run, 
 What though no more my eager footsteps speed 
 Swift, as of yore, across the purple mead ? — 
 Still to these eyes the errand of my youth 
 Shall fancy colour with unfading truth, 
 Once more I climb Benvoirlich's rugged side, 
 Or wander near Glenartney's crystal tide, 
 Or through the wilds of fair Glenorchy's vale, 
 Where high in clouds the eagle loves to sail, 
 Or westward far amid the isles of mist, 
 By thunder splintered Skye or stormy Uist,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 89 
 
 Or tread the dreary solitudes again, 
 
 Where distant Wyvis frowns upon the plain. 
 
 I cross once more the Beachan's treacherous ford 
 
 To breast the pinnacles of Ben-y-bourd, 
 
 With slow advances scale the " muckle brae," 
 
 Or through the " snowy corries " thread my way, 
 
 Not undisposed a respite brief to earn 
 
 By the bright waters of the " crimson burn," 
 
 Casting at times a peering glance afar 
 
 To scan the corries of too jealous Mar. 
 
 Once more amid these scenes be mine to stray, 
 
 And dream the remnant of my life away. 
 
 Braemar, 1846.
 
 90 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 On Glasher's peaks the storm-gusts blow, 
 Moneffa's brow is chill with snow, 
 The mist its dismal shroud uprears, 
 And Isla's vale is dim with tears ; 
 The silver burns no longer glide 
 Unbroken down the mountain side, 
 But, quivering beneath the blast, 
 In spray across the heath are cast. 
 The deer have left their mountain lair, 
 Shrinking beneath the wintry air,
 
 MINOE POEMS. 91 
 
 And, seeking a more genial home, 
 Downward through crag and corry come : 
 No more the cock's loud challenge rings, 
 No more the trout in streamlet springs, 
 No longer, fenced by shadows deep, 
 On mossy slopes the sunbeams sleep ; 
 The gun is laid within the hall, 
 The pony slumbers in his stall, 
 The hounds are crouching at the fire, 
 And all is sad but young Desire, 
 Who, nursed by Hope, unyielding stays, 
 To hail the birth of, brighter days. 
 
 Then seek, my" , our mountain home, 
 
 Through glen, and wold, and torrent come; 
 Come quickly, nor forget with thee 
 To bring thy potent witchery ; 
 Thy pencil, magic wand, shall play 
 Its part, to charm the storms away ; 
 The snow shall melt beneath its power, 
 The deer no more in covert lower,
 
 92 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 The boimy trouts again shall rise 
 Obedient to thy wizard flies, 
 And joyful at thy call, my Giles, 
 All nature shall be decked in smiles ; 
 For thee our fire shall gaily burn, 
 For thee our maids the bannocks turn, 
 For thee our venison crown the board, 
 
 And   shall unlock her hoard, 
 
 Prepare for thee her gentlest wiles, 
 And bid thee welcome with her smiles. 
 
 Glenisla, 1852.
 
 93 
 
 THE GUEST. 
 
 He came, but too late, for the spirit had fled, 
 
 And far from our dwelling, was destined to roam; 
 
 And sad was the valley she loved so to tread, 
 And sad was her mate by his desolate home. 
 
 He came, but the day-spring had faded away, 
 
 The sweet laugh was silent, the kind voice was 
 gone, 
 
 The vision so lately all smiling and gay 
 
 Was locked in our hearts' deep recesses alone.
 
 94 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 In vain once again the soft azure of heaven 
 Beamed cloudless above us, exulting in light, 
 
 In vain from his hold had the north wind been driven, 
 Our sky was still black, and our day was as night. 
 
 The brightest of colours, the sweetest of forms, 
 Are faded and shapeless when daylight is o'er : 
 
 Our daylight was quenched and o'er-shadowed by 
 storms, 
 When she who was near us was near us no more. 
 
 Glenisla, 1852.
 
 95 
 
 THE SONG OF LEWIS. 
 
 Along Glenisla's grassy vale, 
 
 With listless mind and gentle pace, 
 
 I love by rocks with lichens pale 
 My mother's footsteps dear to trace ; 
 
 Before the sun's meridian power 
 
 Sheds o'er the heath its scorching beam, 
 
 And while the dew still decks the flower 
 That blooms beside yon gentle stream.
 
 9C) MINOR POEMS. 
 
 The dun deer on the corrie's brow, 
 Rejoicing, scents the southern air, 
 
 And, wandering through the copse below, 
 Still seeks for some more sheltered lair. 
 
 I see above the eagle soar, 
 
 I mark the heron's heavy flight, 
 
 While still the falcon, hovering o'er, 
 Dares his poor victim to the fight. 
 
 Gladly I tread fair Isla's shore, 
 
 Where heather blooms mid mosses rare, 
 
 And treasure up my gathered store 
 For wreaths to deck my mother's hair. 
 
 I sit beside the waterfall, 
 
 And muse on some enchanted spell, 
 Or listen for my mother's call — 
 
 That gentle sound I love so well.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 97 
 
 I think of Maurice far away, 
 
 Climbing the tall mast's dizzy height, 
 
 Who trims the swelling sail by day, 
 Or watches through the solemn night. 
 
 I muse upon our pleasures gone, 
 Our infant sports in earlier hours, 
 
 Childhood's inheritance alone, 
 Which never can again be ours. 
 
 For him the page of busy life 
 
 Is opened, ne'er again to close, 
 Till weary age concludes the strife, 
 
 And calls him to a long repose. 
 
 Sometimes I follow on the track 
 
 Where pensive Mervyn gently strays, 
 
 To lure the wandering deer-hounds back, 
 Or watch the wary black cock's ways. 
 
 H
 
 98 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Or, edging near him by the burn, 
 I mark his pencil's ready art, 
 
 Striving to emulate in turn, 
 
 And in his fancies bear my part. 
 
 Such are my joys, and then a prayer 
 Swells in my heart and soars above, 
 
 Committing to my Maker's care 
 The destiny of those I love. 
 
 Glenisla, 1853.
 
 99 
 
 HECTOR. 
 
 By Dargle's stream, and Powerscourt's smiling steeps, 
 
 On Erin's breast our Highland Hector sleeps. 
 
 With tearful eyes and bated breath we tread, 
 
 Through the dark pines that canopy his head. 
 
 Ye fairy bands, who haunt the winding shore, 
 
 Beneath this shade your revels keep no more ! 
 
 Ye sylvan deities, whose mystic song 
 
 Wails in the evening breeze the woods among ; 
 
 Ye elves who dwell amid the tufted woods, 
 
 Ye fair-haired nymphs who guard the crystal floods, 
 
 From spoiler's hand these buried ashes save, 
 
 Protect his rest, and consecrate his grave ! 
 
 Powerscourt, 1853. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 GIPSY. 
 
 The loveliest scion of a lovely race 
 Beneath this shade has found her resting-place. 
 In form uncalled, unsurpassed in mind, 
 She knew no rival, and left none behind. 
 Here, where the earliest violet loves to dwell, 
 Smiles the first primrose, blooms the last blue-bell, 
 The morning birds their earliest vigils keep, 
 Nor cease till evening grey to guard poor Gipsy's sleep. 
 Drakelowe, 1854.
 
 101 
 
 TO MISS 
 
 WHOSE MOTHER WOULD NOT ALLOW HER TO SING 
 "THE LOW -BACKED CAR." 
 
 A fair spirit came from the western shore, 
 But her eye was dim, and she smiled no more, 
 For a sterner angel frowned from afar, 
 And locked the wheels of her jaunting-car.
 
 102 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Yet she came a vision to charm the sight, 
 And she sang soft notes in a lay of delight, 
 Till we listened, entranced, with ravished ears, 
 And forgot that the car was detained in the spheres. 
 
 If creatures so sweet condescend for awhile 
 
 To gladden the earth with their radiant smile, 
 
 Let us hope they may change their " own 'ma " into 
 
 marriage, 
 And take their first flight from a car to a carriage. 
 
 Powerscourt, 1854.
 
 103 
 
 TO THE MARQUISE DE 
 
 She sat beneath the shadowy pines, 
 From home and kindred far apart ; 
 
 In vain for her the sunbeam shines, 
 
 Dark are her dreams, and sad her heart. 
 
 While gazing on the wild wood flowers 
 That ope their petals to the day, 
 
 She mourns the bloom of bygone hours, 
 And sighs for blossoms far away.
 
 104 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 For her the brightest hues are pale, 
 
 Tints have no spell to soothe her pain, 
 The sweetest roses of the vale 
 
 Blush through their diamond dews in vain. 
 
 A broken lily from her breast 
 
 Droops where the deepest shadow falls,- 
 This is the spell that breaks her rest, 
 
 And, mutely, happier years recalls. 
 
 Beside her, to attune her verse, 
 A lute, her loved companion, lay ; 
 
 Sad notes she would at times rehearse, 
 And sigh her melting soul away. 
 
 Her pencil, too, whose magic power 
 Kecalls the forms that Nature drew, 
 
 Neglected, felt that darkened hour, 
 When Fancy's child so listless grew.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 105 
 
 Oh, strike those thrilling chords again ! 
 
 Their seraph sounds shall wake thy soul ; 
 And bid the poet's gentle strain 
 
 With thine own notes harmonious roll ; 
 
 Or seek thy faithful pencil's aid, 
 
 And rosy beam of dawn pourtray, 
 Whose birth no murky clouds shall shade, 
 
 When sullen night awakes to day. 
 
 Then in its stainless purity, 
 
 The royal lily shall arise, 
 And through its native valleys free 
 
 Bloom beneath France's sunlit skies. 
 
 Then realise the dream of years, 
 
 When, faithful still, like thee, his own, 
 In robes of white shall dry th^ tears, 
 And crowd around their Henri's throne. 
 Mariexbad, 1857.
 
 106 
 
 TO THE DUCHESSE DE 
 
 From jasmine bowers and orange groves, 
 From the sweet land of songs and loves, 
 With melting glance and eye of flame, 
 In all her country's charms she came. 
 
 On our cold northern breasts she smiled, 
 With sunnier light the hours beguiled, 
 And bade her willing slaves rejoice 
 At the glad music of her voice.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 107 
 
 She thought not of her lineage high, 
 For hers was Nature's majesty, 
 Kich in the gifts men love to own, 
 In peasant's hut or monarch's throne. 
 
 And Venus loves thy raven hair, 
 And Cupid wreathes those tresses fair, 
 Or in thy dimpled features plays, 
 And fondly pets his own Therese. 
 
 Bright planet of a dawning sky, 
 Whose light foretells its destiny, 
 Piercing with fire the shadows dense, 
 To shine with glories more intense ! 
 
 While thou and such as thou art left, 
 Thy land is not of hope bereft, 
 For thou canst feel and nurse the flame, 
 The symbol of thy country's fame. 
 Marienbad, 1857.
 
 108 
 
 NICE, 
 
 ON A WET DAY. 
 
 Rain, rain, rain, 
 Drops with might and main, 
 Over and over again, 
 Incessantly. 
 
 Plash, plash, plash, 
 Puddle, and mud, and splash 
 Over the window-sash, 
 Remorselessly.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 109 
 
 Waves, waves, waves, 
 The sea in torment raves, 
 Chafing in rocks and caves, 
 Complainingly. 
 
 Shore, shore, shore ! 
 Echo the sound no more, 
 Cease to prolong the roar, 
 Obediently. 
 
 Sun, sun, sun, 
 Is thy race early run ? 
 Dost thou the sad earth shun, 
 Relentlessly ? 
 
 Light, light, light, 
 
 Burst from the Orient bright, 
 
 In empyreal might, 
 
 Triumphantly.
 
 110 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Cloud, cloud, cloud, 
 Gloomy, and dark, and proud, 
 Why dost thou heaven's beam shroud, 
 Eternally % 
 
 Stones, stones, stones, 
 Ringing with ocean's moans, 
 Like tortured culprits' groans, 
 Unsparingly. 
 
 Sands, sands, sands, 
 Back to your native strands, 
 From these o'er-flooded lands, 
 Impetuously ! 
 
 Wind, wind, wind, 
 Blow soft if thou art kind, 
 Airs that leave rest behind, 
 Benignantly.
 
 MINOR POEMS. L 1 1 
 
 Bark, bark, bark. 
 Seek not the breakers dark, 
 Trust not the frail sea mark, 
 Confidinglv ! 
 
 Home, home, home ! 
 Onward the fishers come, 
 Safe from the treacherous foam, 
 Rejoicingly. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep, 
 Spread forth thy curtains deep, 
 O'ershadow plain and steep, 
 Unceasingly ! 
 
 Till both the earth and sky 
 
 Wake with a joyous cry : 
 
 Wet is gone, come is dry, 
 
 So Jubilate ! 
 Nice, 1856.
 
 112 
 
 THE FATE OF THE DEERHOUND. 
 
 Sleep, noble hound ! 
 
 By chasm profound, 
 In the stern silence of thy native hills ; 
 
 By echoing streams, 
 
 Whose bright wave gleams, 
 Poured from the depths of earth's mysterious rills.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 113 
 
 On yonder steep, 
 
 Where snow wreaths sleep, 
 The forest monarch sought his rocky home, 
 
 With stately pace, 
 
 O'er Glasher's face, 
 The toiling herd with slow advances come. 
 
 o 
 
 A start, a spring — 
 
 No falcon's -wing 
 Is fleeter than that mad and rushing flight. 
 
 Fate sits behind 
 
 The tainted wind, 
 And death is lurking 'mid the snow wreaths bright. 
 
 Two fall to rest 
 
 On Glasher's breast, 
 The third shall seek his native hills no more ; 
 
 On that lone heath, 
 
 Stricken to death, 
 He dyes the lichens with his purple gore. 
 
 I
 
 114 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 The fourth, the king, 
 
 Is a shapeless thing, 
 Crippled his sinews, and his life-blood flowing, 
 
 With limping pace, 
 
 Pie tries the race, 
 No thought on pain, in agony bestowing. 
 
 Far far away 
 
 On summit grey, 
 The herd still linger for their master's form, 
 
 And scan the vale, 
 
 And scent the gale, 
 Nor heed the piercing sleet or darkening storm. 
 
 Alas ! no more, 
 
 As wont of yore, 
 He climbs the scaur, or scales the precipice ; 
 
 His shattered frame 
 
 Is but a name, 
 His strength is gone, his heart is chill as ice.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 115 
 
 Beware, beware, 
 
 The hunter's snare! 
 Staunch in yon mossy pool thy reeking wound, 
 
 One struggle try, 
 
 For liberty, 
 For now upon thee darts the noble hound. 
 
 He is up and away, 
 
 By the head of the brae, 
 Bravely he mounted o'er yon shelving slope ; 
 
 On that sky line, 
 
 His antlers shine, 
 Once more he seeks the wind with joy and hope. 
 
 Once more the hill, 
 
 With crafty skill, 
 Dauntless, he tries to face, but all in vain ; 
 
 Now down the rock, 
 
 With sudden shock, 
 He turns, but ne'er may climb that path again. 
 
 12
 
 116 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 With rush and bound, 
 
 The noble hound 
 Strains on each nerve, and follows on the track ; 
 
 Falters the stag, 
 
 And seems to lag, 
 As the doomed monarch turns and gazes back. 
 
 It cost him dear, 
 
 That glance so clear, 
 Seemed as if death alone could light such beam, 
 
 But films of pain 
 
 Soon veil again 
 Those eyeballs, straining yet in life's last dream. 
 
 He sees the hound, 
 
 With frantic bound 
 Springs o'er the stream that rends the mountain's side, 
 
 In death's first throe 
 
 Turns on his foe, 
 And stands at bay within the foaming tide.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 11' 
 
 Instant as light, 
 
 In mettled might 
 That noble hound, who fear nor danger knew, 
 
 Nor care nor heed, 
 
 With reckless speed 
 Full at his bristling throat undaunted flew. 
 
 His antlered crown 
 
 The king bent down : 
 A struggle fierce, a cry, and all was past! 
 
 Then o'er the rock 
 
 With one fell shock 
 High in the air a senseless form was cast. 
 
 Sleep, noble hound ! 
 
 By chasm profound, 
 In the stern silence of thy native hills, — 
 
 By echoing streams, 
 
 Whose bright wave gleams, 
 
 Poured from the depths of earth's mysterious rills, 
 
 Sleep, noble hound ! 
 Glekisla, 1853.
 
 118 
 
 THE SPECTRE FORESTER. 
 
 On a desolate rock, 
 
 'Mid the elements' shock, 
 The skeleton forester spies, 
 
 And the skeleton deer, 
 
 Scattered far and near, 
 Escape not the glance of his eyes.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 1 1 ( J 
 
 A skeleton hound 
 
 Is stretched on the ground, 
 And his nostrils are red with flame ; 
 
 But lips he has none, 
 
 And his tongue is gone, 
 And he stares on the spectre game. 
 
 In a fleshless hand, 
 
 Which the telescope spanned, 
 The forester held a staff, 
 
 And as he looked forth 
 
 On the cheerless north, 
 Yon might hear the demon laugh; 
 
 For he sees the dead, 
 On the wild heath spread, 
 Their bones are recalled to life; 
 That devilish glass 
 Restores each mass, 
 As it mingles again in the strife.
 
 120 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 The stag at the ford, 
 As he fell when the lord 
 
 Struck him down with a deadly blow, 
 The hound at the burn, 
 When, with treacherous turn, 
 
 The stag had laid him low. 
 
 The lord of the s;len 
 
 Is stalking again, 
 And his skeleton form appears 
 
 In a grisly shroud ; 
 
 He is seen in a cloud, 
 And the skeleton forester sneers. 
 
 The eagle is seen, 
 
 All bony, I ween, 
 For feathers and flesh are decayed, 
 
 And the skinless fox 
 
 Prowls over the rocks 
 Where in life his gaunt form strayed.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 121 
 
 The fiend looked on, 
 
 From his cursed stone, 
 And laughed as the dead increased, 
 
 And his eyeballs glare 
 
 With a hellish stare, 
 And on ghastly visions feast. 
 
 But it is not alone that he sees the past ; 
 
 The coming doom is before him cast, 
 And he knows that all must die, 
 
 And all is bone, 
 
 And dust and stone, 
 In that cold and rayless eye. 
 
 The storm spirit shrieks 
 
 On the icy peaks, 
 And the blast shrivels up the green sod, 
 
 On wings of flame, 
 
 The tempest came, 
 And spoke with the voice of God.
 
 122 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Burst forth the thunder, 
 And rent asunder 
 
 The skeleton forester's stone; 
 The demon scowled, 
 And horribly howled, 
 
 As he fled to the torrid zone. 
 
 Bright daylight rose 
 
 On the melting snows, 
 And the south wind's gentle breatli 
 
 Shed its influence mild 
 
 O'er the desolate wild, 
 And cast forth the shadows of death. 
 
 And hope and love 
 
 In that brightening hour 
 Resumed once more 
 
 Their joyous power,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 123 
 
 And village bells 
 Were heard to ring, 
 
 As Sabbath morn 
 Was hastening. 
 
 Glenisla, 1853.
 
 124 
 
 BOWOOD, 
 
 THE COUNTRY SEAT OF THE MARQUIS OF LANSDOWNE. 
 
 Shadowy, beechen bowers, where baffled and impotent 
 
 sunbeams 
 Shrink from the serried array, and yield to the hosts of 
 
 the woodland, 
 Hail to your sacred rest ! May the seasons shed, in their 
 
 courses, 
 Fostering balms o'er your leafy abodes, while centuries 
 
 linger,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 125 
 
 Sparing the crests of your aged chiefs, and greeting 
 
 the newborn 
 Levies that spread their legions to guard each access of 
 
 the forest. 
 Warrior patriarchs, rise ! defending against the invader 
 Frontiers marked by the hand of time, who yearly 
 
 beholds them 
 Garrisoned all anew with youthful and vigorous sap- 
 lings, 
 Whose ranks arise from the flowery turf in the vesture 
 
 of springtide; 
 While from the moss-grown cradles of stems decrepit 
 
 and hoary, 
 Rocked at their birth by the sounding wind, and fed 
 
 by the rain-drops, 
 New scions start into life, with panoplies leafy and 
 
 branching. 
 Giant cedars are here displaying the pride of their 
 
 honours ;
 
 126 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Oak and ash and elm contesting the sway of the 
 
 greensward ; 
 Yews, of the Norman breed, frown gloomily over the 
 
 thickets, 
 Close by the pine of the rock, with the dark green 
 
 plume on his helmet. 
 Slumbers the turf beneath their canopies dense, like a 
 
 virgin 
 Modestly decked with chaplets of violet, primrose, and 
 
 daisy ; 
 While from above woodcreepers are spreading an 
 
 odorous curtain ; 
 Wild rose, and woodbine, and clematis grey entwining 
 
 each other; 
 Labyrinths teeming with perfume, and rich with the 
 
 store of the wild bee. 
 Home of unseen spirits where Pan and his revelling 
 
 Satyrs 
 Gambol on summer nights, when the hamlet is buried in 
 
 slumber,
 
 MINOR POEMS. 127 
 
 Undisturbed by mortal advance in the hour of their 
 
 pastime. 
 Blasted be woodman's power that would shatter the 
 
 couch of the Dryad; 
 Palsied be arm that would rend asunder the veil of the 
 
 temple 
 Where the elves dance in fairy rings by the light of the 
 
 glow-worm ! 
 Playing till morning breaks the spell, -«ikh the signal of 
 
 parting 
 Beams in the eastern sky, dispersing the shadows 
 
 before it. 
 Suddenly starts the waking hind from her lair in the 
 
 coppice, 
 Eager to lead her dappled fawn to the tenderest pasture, 
 Lazily stretches his lirnbs the stag as he slowly advances, 
 Through sunlit glades, to some secret spot by the edge 
 
 of the forest, 
 Freshened by early showers, and spangled wiih silvery 
 
 raindrops,
 
 128 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Where he may scent the breeze of dawn, and browse at 
 
 his leisure. 
 Yonder, amid green slopes, where the line of the distant 
 
 horizon 
 Undulates over still valleys, and dips to the course of the 
 
 streamlet, 
 Wander the herds, so stately and grave, in the pride of 
 
 their fatness, 
 While each grassy ascent seems sprinkled all over with 
 
 snow-flakes — 
 Spotted by fleeces of countless flocks as they stray o'er 
 
 the high-lands f — 
 Circled by velvet lawns, and shrined in the heart of the 
 
 woodland, 
 Sheltered from winter's blast, and, courting the kiss of 
 
 the south wind, 
 Throned upon terraced slopes, where Flora her loveliest 
 
 altars 
 Heaps with treasure from every clime, and joys in her 
 
 honours —
 
 MINOR POEMS. 129 
 
 Balmiest incense pouring from bud and petal and blos- 
 som ; 
 
 While the deep notes of the bee resound in melodies 
 choral, 
 
 Rises a structure fair, the home of the sage and the 
 statesman. 
 
 Where, in the evening of life, from labour his spirit 
 reposes, 
 
 Musing on memories past, serenely awaiting the future 
 
 In calm retrospect of a long career unspotted and 
 
 blameless. 
 
 Foremost in Council to lead, and chief in the Senate to 
 reason, 
 
 Tempering zeal with wisdom, and soothing the strife of 
 debaters, 
 
 Long and well, has he toiled with energy sure and un- 
 failing, 
 
 Guiding the young by precept, and teaching the old by 
 example. 
 
 K
 
 130 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Selfish rewards he spurned, his aim the advance of his 
 
 country ; 
 
 Safely he kept the Crown, yet guarded the rights of the 
 
 people. 
 When on a virgin brow was placed the circlet of 
 
 Empire, 
 Close by her side he stood, in the strength of his 
 
 honour and wisdom, 
 Bracing the untried nerves which bore the weight of 
 
 the sceptre. 
 Years rolled on, and still through the stormy political 
 
 ocean 
 Watched he close by the helm that guided the State 
 
 and its fortunes, 
 Sharing the danger with all, regardless of guerdon or 
 
 glory, 
 Yielding to others the palm which of all he best could 
 
 lay claim to. 
 Happy the chosen guests who meet round the hearth of 
 
 the Statesman !
 
 M1NOB POEMS. L31 
 
 Science unfolds its stores, and poetry breathes out its 
 
 numbers ; 
 \\ T it plays sparkling around, while genius hallows the 
 
 circle ; 
 Music and painting and sculpture are here to lavish 
 
 their treasures ; 
 Art has no dearer dwelling, and owns no holier altars. 
 Sweet is the hour for him, the signal of rest from his 
 
 labours, 
 When smiling pastures bound his path, or the depths of 
 
 the forest 
 Shelter his head from the noonday flood of glorious 
 
 sunlight, 
 Welcoming home their lord to his rest in the woodlands 
 
 of Bowood! 
 
 October, 1858.

 
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