THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES x^^^ ^^^ POEMS Notice. — This is tue Volume tublisded by Messrs. rodtledge and co. in 1855. DAY AND NIGHT SONGS; AND THE MUSIC-MASTER. A LOVE POEM. BY WILLIAM ALLINGIIAM. WITH NINE WOODCUTS, SEVEM DESia:lish (as most of them now do), usinj^ his customary phraseology', and also keeping within the laws of poetic taste and the rules of gi-ammar ; ibr that })hi-aseology, being, as regards its structural j)ecu- liarities, hut an imperfect or distoi'ted expression, not an ancient dialect like that of Scotland, is generally too corrupt (though often forcible) to bear transplantation into jiootrv. Only familiar experi- ence, too, and constant attention can enable one to use words in the exact significance which the popular custom has assigned : for instance, among the Irish peasantry, ** distress," as far as I know, always means hodily inmt ; " trouble,'' aJfJlrfion of m'nid ; " misery,'' ])eniirwus7iefis; " care," rcspousihilitij ; and "sorrow" commonly means iU-hich, misfortune; wliile " sorry" has the usual dictionary meaning. From these conditions it comes that the choice of words for poetiy in Irish-English is narrowly * [Has since stopped : one volume |)iil)libhed.] PREFACE. IX limited, instead of there being that accession both of variety and raciness which is sometimes in the gift of a genuine peculiar dialect. Those excellent painters who on my behalf have submitted their orenius to the* risks of wood-engrav- ing will, I hope, pardon me for placing a word of sincere thanks in the book they have honoui-ed with this evidence, through ait, of their valued friendship. As to the book itself, which belongs to the period of vouth and early manhood, I can unaffectedly say I spend little thought, and make less claim, with regard to its chances of reception ; satisfied with its being a genuine poetic result, however small a one, of my experience thus far. There are at least some who will receive it kindly, for whose sake it is worth while to publish it, and to plan future pages that may better deserve their perusal. W. A. Lane, Bally shannon, Ireland, May, 1855. Through harmony of words may mormur the harmony of things ; whispers of human life and the world our scene, pensive memories, high hopes musically mingling, — at fit moments to soothe, cheer, strengthen. Fine, complex and mystical is our being, in the midst of manifold operation, which wc feel without comprehending; and Poetry is no less real than Existence. CONTENTS. Day and Night Songs— First Series :— Page I. The Valley Stream . . 3 II. Evey .... . . . . 5 III. Windlass Song . 8 IV. Venus of the Needle , . 10 V. The Fisherman . . 13 VI. ^olian Harp—" What saith the River ? " 15 VII. Oh ! were my Love . . 17 VIII. The Fairies ... 19 IX. The Euined Chapel . . 23 X. A Dream . . 25 XI. Levavi Oculos . . 28 XII. Cross-Examination . 30 XIII. The Cupids . 32 XIV. Lovely Mary Donnelly . 34 XV. In a Spring Grove . 38 XVI. Serenade . . 39 XVII. The Dirty Old Man . . 41 XVIII. The Bright little Girl . 46 XIX. The Wayside Well . . 48 XX. The Lover and Birds . 52 XXI. The Milkmaid . 55 Xll CONTENTS xxii. The Lighthouse . xxin. The Touchstouo XXIV. vEtjliaii Harp — " Is it all in XXV. Lady Alice x.wi. Thcrania . XXVII. Wayconnoll Tower xxvin. The Witch Bride XXIX. Spring is come . XXX. The Messenger . XXXI. Autumnal Sonnet The Music-Master— a Love Poem vain V " Page 58 OO 62 64 67 69 72 73 76 78 81 Day and Night Songs — Second Series : — I. The Choice 11. jEoIian Harp — " What is it that is gone ? " III. The Pilot's Pretty Daughter IV. To the Cicada V. The Cold Wedding .... VI. On a Forenoon of Spring . VII. The Three Flowers .... VIII. In the Dusk IX. St. Margaret's Eve .... X. An Autumn Evening XI. jEolian Harp — " O pale green Sea ! " XII. The Girl's Lamentation XIII. Wishinj: 141 144 146 151 153 156 157 16(1 161 165 160 171 176 CONTENTS. XIU Page XIV. The Sailor 178 XV. The Lullaby . 181 XVI. A Mountain Song 182 XVII. Morning Plunge 187 xvm. The Bird .... 189 XIX. A Boy-s Burial 191 XX. On the Sunny Shore 193 XXI. The Nobleman's Wedding 194 XXII. " Would I knew ! " . 197 xxiii. By the Morning Sea 199 XXIV. The Maids of Elfen-Mere . ■202 XXV. A Valentine 205 XXVI. Under the Grass 207 XXVII. Nanny's Sailor Lad . 210 XXVIII. Frost in the Holidays 213 XXIX. Death Deposed . 217 XXX. On the Twilight Pond 220 WOODCUTS. Designed by The Fairies Arthur Hughes Frontispiece Crossing the Stile ditto . Lady Alice ditto MiLLY ditto Under the Abbet-avall .... ditto The Boy's Grave ditto . The Maids of Elfen-Mere . B. G. Rossetti The Fireside Story . . . J. E. Millais Window Arthur Hughes Ornaments ditto 17 64 104 117 191 202 216 221 Engraved by Dalziel. ■I DAY AND NIGHT SONGS. |irst Smes. THE VALLEY STREAM. Steeam flowing swiftly, what music is tliine ! The hreezy rock-pass, and the storm-wooing pine. Have taught thee their murmurs, Their wild mountain murmiirs ; Subdued in thy liquid response to a sound Wliieh aids the repose of this pastoral ground ; Where our valley yet mingles an awe with the love It smiles to the sheltering bastions above ; — Thy cloud-haunted birthplace, Stream, flowing swiftly ! Encircle our meadows with bounty and grace ; Then move on thy journey with tranquiller pace, To find the gi-eat waters, The great ocean-waters, b2 4 THE VALLET STREAM. Blue, wonderful, boundloss to vision or thought ; — Thence, thence, might thy musical tidings he brought! One waft of the tones of the inlinitc sea! Our gain is hut songs of the moimtain from thee : Thy primitive issue, Thou Stream of oiir valley ! And have we divined what is thunder'd and hiss'd, Where the awful ledge glimmers through screens of grey mist, And raves forth its secrets, The heart of its secrets ? Or learn'd what is hid in thy whispering note, Mysteriously gathcr'd from fountains remote. Where the solitudes spread in the upper sunshine ? Stream flowing swiftly, what music is thine ? Far-wafted, prophetic ? Thou Stream of our valley ! II. E V E Y. Bud and leaflet, opening slowly, Woo'd with tears by winds of Spring, Now, of June persuaded wholly, Perfumes, flow'rs, and shadows bring. Evey, in the linden alley. All alone I met to-day, Tripping to the sunny valley Spread across with new-mown hay. Brown her soft cvirls, sunbeam-sainted, Golden m the wavering flush ; Darker brown her eyes are, painted Eye and fringe with one soft brush. EVET. Through the leaves a careless comer, Never nymph of fount or tree Could have press'd the lloor of summer With a lighter foot than she. Can this hroad hat, fastcn'd under With a hright blue ribbon's flow. Change my pet so much, I wonder, Of a month or two ago ? Half too changed to speak I thought her, Till the pictm'ed silence broke. Sweet and clear as dropping water. Into words she sung or spoke. Few her words ; yet, like a sister. Trustfully she look'd and smiled ; 'Twas but in my soul I kiss'd her As I used to kiss the child. EVET. Shadows, which are not of sadness, Touch her eyes, and brow above. As pale wild roses dream of redness, Dreams her innocent heart of love. III. WINDLASS SONG. Heayi; at the windlass ! — Heave 0, cheerly, men ! Heave all at once, with a will ! The tide's quickly making, Our cordage is creaking, The water has put on a frill, Heave ! Fare you well, sweethearts! — Heave O, cheerly, men ! Shore gambarado and sport ! The good ship all ready, Each dog-vane is steady. The wind blowing dead out of port. Heave ! WINDLASS SONG. 9 Once in blue water— Heave 0, cheerly, men! Blow it from north or from south ; She'll stand to it tightly, And curtsey politely, And carry a bone in her mouth, Heave ! Short cruise or long cruise — Heave 0, cheerly, men ! Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one. No latitude dreads he Of White, Black, or Eed Sea, Great ice-bergs, or tropical sun. Heave ! One other turn, and Heave 0, cheerly, men ! Heave, and good-bye to the shore ! Our money, how went it ? We shared it and spent it ; Next year we'll come back with some more, Heave ! IV. VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. MAETAN3fE, you pretty girl, Intent on silky labour, Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, Excuse a peeping neighbour ! Those eyes, for ever drooping, give The long brown lashes rarely ; But violets in the shadows Hve, — For once unveil them fiiirly. Hast thou not lent that flounce enough Of looks so long and earnest ? Lo, here's more " penetrable stuff'," To which thou never turnest. TESTS OF THE NEEDLE. 11 Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped ! How slender, and how nimble ! might I wind their skeins of thread, Or but pick up their thimble ! How blest the 3'outh whom love shall bring. And happy stars embolden, To change the dome into a ring, The silver into golden ! Who'U steal some morning to her side To take her finger's measure, "While Maryanne pretends to chide. And blushes deep with pleasure. Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown, Well conscious that it is hers ; Who'U glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors. 12 VENUS OP THE NEEDLE. Who'll taste those ripenings of the south, The fragrant and deUcious — Don't put the pins into your mouth, Maryanne, my precious ! I almost wish it were my trust To teach how shocking that is ; I wish I had not, as I must, To quit this temptmg lattice. Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe, Across a street so narrow ; A thread of silk to string his how, A needle for his arrow ! V. THE FISHEEMAN. BY GOETHE. The water gusli'd, the water swell'd ; A Fisherman thereby Sat gazing on the line he held, With tranquil heart and eye ; And as he look'd, and as he loU'd, The parting water sm-ged ; And, rusthng from the wave that roll'd, A Woman's form emerged. She sung to him, she spake to him : " Why lure my brood away, By human skill, and human fraud. Up to the burning day ? 14 THE FISHEBMAN. Oh, happy live tlio little fish ! So happy — mightst thou know, This moment 'twere thine only wish To come to us below. " Finds not the Sun a resting-place ; The j\Ioon, within the mere ? Uplifts not each a radiant face, Grown doubly bright and clcai' ? Persuade thee not these heav'ns so deep ? This moist, embracing blue ? Thy features, lo ! that swim and sleep In soft eternal dew ?" The water gush'd, the water swell'd, It kiss'd his naked feet ; Deep longing all his heart impell'd, As when our love we meet. She spake to him, she sung to him ; No help could come between ; Half drew she him, half sank he in, And never more was seen. VI. ^OLIAN HAEP. What saith the river to the rushes grey, Kushes sadly bending, River slowly wending ? Who can tell the whisper'd things they say? Youth, and prime, and life, and time, For ever, ever fled away ! Drop your wither'd garlands in the stream, Low autumnal branches, Eound the skifi* that launches Wavering downward through the lands of dream. Ever, ever fled away ! This the burden, this the theme. IG ^OLIAIf HAEP. ^\^lat saitli the river to the rushes grey, Rushes sadly bending, River slowly wending ? It is near the closing of the day. Near the night. Life and light For ever, ever fled away ! Draw him tidcward down ; but not in haste. Mouldering daylight lingers ; Night with her cold fingers Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste. Ever, ever fled away ! Vainly cherish' d ! vainly chased ! What saith the river to the rushes grey, Rushes sadly bending, River slowly wending ? Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay, Up the cave moans the wave, For ever, ever, ever fled away ! V^: i-r-Qr-t^'l YII. OH! WERE MY LOYE. On ! were my Love a country lass, That I might see her every day ; And sit with her on hedgerow srrass Beneath a bough of May ; And find her cattle when astray, Or help to drive them to the field, And linger on our homeward way, And woo her lips to yield A twilight kiss before we parted, Full of love, yet easy -hearted. Oh ! were my Love a cottage maid, To spin through many a winter night. Where ingle-corner lends its shade From fir-wood blazing bright. IS on! wr.in: my lote. Beside her wheel what clear delight To watch the blushes go and come "With tender words, that took no fright Beneath the friendly hum ; Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling, At a fireside legend's telling. Oh ! were my Love a peasant girl, ■ That never saw the wicked town ; Was never dight with silk or pearl, But graced a homely gown. How less than weak were fashion's frown To vex our unambitious lot ; How rich were love and peace to crown Our green secluded cot ; AVhere Age would come serene and shining. Like an autumn day's declining ! VIII. THE FAIEIES. A KUESEET SONG. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Grreen jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather ! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam ; c2 20 THE FAIRIES. Some in the reutls Of the bhick mountain-hike, With frogs for their wutch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits ; He is now so old and grej' He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses ; Or going up with music On cold starry nights. To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long ; When she eame down again Her friends were all gone. THE PAIRIES. 21 They toak her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves, "Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hill-side. Through the mosses bare. They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and thei'e. Is an}^ man so daring To dig one up in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy g-len. We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men : TllK FAIRIES. "Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! IX. THE EUIXED CHAPEL. By the shore, a plot of ground CUps a ruin'd chapel round, Buttress'd with a grassy mound ; ^Vhere Day and Night and Day go by, And bring no touch of human sound. Washing of the lonely seas. Shaking of the guardian trees, Piping of the salted breeze ; Day and Night and Day go by To the endless tune of these. 24 Tin: KnxF.n rn.vPEL. Or when, as winds and waters keep A liush more dead than any sleep, Still morns to stiller evenings creep, And Day and Night and Day go by ; Here the silence is most deep. The empty ruins, lapsed again Into Nature's wide domain, Sow themselves with seed and grain As Day and Night and Day go by ; And hoard June's sun and April's rain. Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; And now the graves are also dead ; And suckers from the ash-tree spread, "While Day and Xiglit and Day go by ; And stars move calmly overhead. A DUE AM. I HEAED the dogs howl in the moonlight night, And I went to the window to see the sight ; All the dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On they pass'd, and on they pass'd; "Townsfellows all from first to last ; Born in the moonlight of the lane, And quench' d in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd At soldiers once — but now more staid ; Those were the strangest sight to me Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea. "^G A BUEAM. Straight ami liaiKlsome folk ; bent and weak too ; And some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to ; Some but a da^- in their eliurehyard bed ; And some tliat T liad not known were dead. A long, long crowd — wlicre each seem'd lonely. And yet of them all there was one, one only, That rais'd a head, or look'd my way ; And she seem'd to linger, but might not stay. How long since I saw that i'air pale face ! All, mother dear, miglit I onl}' place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest ! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from sliade to shade Young and old, women and men ; ^lany long-forgot, but remember'd then. A DEEA3I. 27 And first there came a bitter laughter : And a sound of tears a moment after ; And then a music so lofty and gay. That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if I may. XT. "LEVA VI OCULOS." I CRIED to God, in trouble for my sin ; To the Great God who dwelleth in the deeps. The deeps return not any voice or sign. But with my soul I know thee, Great God ; The soul thou givest knoweth thee. Great Ggd ; Aiul with my soul 1 sorrow for my sin. Full sure I am tliore is no joy in sin, Joy-scented Peace is trampled under foot, Like a white growing blossom into mud. Sin is establish'd subtly in the heart As a disease ; like a magician foul Ruleth the better thoughts against their will. 29 Only tlie rays of Grod can cure the heart, Purge it of evil : there's no other way Except to tui'u with the whole heart to God. In heavenly sunlight live no shades of fear ; The soul there, busy or at rest, hath peace ; And music iloweth from the vai'ious world. The Lord is great and good, and is our God. There needeth not a word hut only these ; Om* God is good, our God is great. 'Tis well. All things are ever God's ; the shows of things Are of men's fantasy, and warp'd with sin ; God, and the things of God, immutable. O great good God, my pray'r is to neglect The shows of fantasy, and turn myself To thy unfenced, unbounded warmth and light ! Then were all shows of things a part of truth : Then were my soul, if busy or at rest, Residing in the house of perfect peace ! XII. CROSS-EXAMINATION. Wn.vT knowest thou of this eternal code 'i As much as God intended to disphiy. Wilt thou affirm thou knowest aught of God ? Nor save his works, that creature ever may. Is not thy life at times a weary load ? Wliieh aimless on my back he would not lay. Is it all good thy conscience doth forebode ? The deepest thought dotli least my soul affray. When liatli a glimpse of Ileav'n been ever sliow'd ? Whilst walking straight, I never miss its ray. Why should such destiny to thee be owed ? Easy alike to him are yea and nay. CEOSS-EiA.MIXATIO^'. 31 Why shoulclst tliou reach it by so mean a road ? Ask that of him who set us in the way. Art thou more living than a finch or toad ? Is soul sheer waste, if we be such as they ? Thou never wilt prevail to loose the node. If so, 'twere loss of labour to essay. Nor to uproot these doubts so thickly sow'd. Xor thou these deeplier-rooted hopes to slay. XIII. THE curiDS. I. Ix a grove I saw one day A flight of Cupids all at play, Flitting l)ird-liko through tlie air, Or alighting here and there, Making every bough rejoice With a most celestial voice, Or amongst tlie blossoms found ]iolling on the swarded ground. Some there were with wings of blue, Other some, of rosy hue, Here, one plumed with purest white, There, as dyed in golden light ; THE CUPIDS. 33 Crimson some, and some I saw- Colour' d like a gay macaw. Many were the Queen of Beauty's — Many bound to other duties. II. A band of fowlers next I spied, Spreading nets on every side, Watching long, by skill or hap Fleeting Cupids to entrap. But if one at length was ta'en. After mickle time and pain. Whether golden one or blue, Piebald, or of rosy hue, When they put him in their cage He grew meagre as with age, Plumage rumpled, colour coarse. Voice unfrequent, sad, and hoarse J And little pleasm-e had they in him Who had spent the day to win him. D XIV. LOVELY MARY D0XNP:LLY. {To an Irish Tune.) On, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! If fifty gii'ls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will. Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock. How clear they are, how dark they arc ! and they give me many a shock. Ived rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. LOYELT MAET DONNELLY. 35 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth Hke a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine ; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and but she was gay ! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. "Wlien she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete. The music nearly kiU'd itself to listen to her feet ; The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But bless' d himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised, d2 3G LOVELY MART DOXyKLLT. And everniDrc I'm wliistling or lilting wluit you sung, Your .smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands. And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town ; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. ir some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. might we live together in a lofty palace hall. Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only Avail ! LOVELY MART DONKELLT. 37 lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place wovdd fit your face, and I am poor and low ; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! XV. SONNET. I^r A SPEIXO OEOVE. Heee the white-ray'd anemone is born, Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup ; And primrose in its purfled green swathed up, Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn, Grrey ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn. Here, too, the darting linnet has her nest In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn. Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast, Piping from some near bough. O simple .song! cistern deep of that harmonious rillet, And tliesc fair juicy stems that climb and throng The vernal world, and unexhausted seas Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it, Jilach and all tliese, — and more, and more than these ! XVI. SEKENADE. Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, The while we dare to call thee dear, So may thy dreams be good, although The loving power thou canst not know ! As music parts the silence, lo ! Through heav'n. the stars begin to peep, To comfort us that darkling pine Because those fairer lights of thine Have set into the Sea of Sleep. Yet closed still thine eyelids keep ; And may our voices through the sphere Of Dreamland all as softly rise As through these shadowy rural dells, Where bashful Echo sleeping dwells, 40 SEREKADE. And touch thy spirit to as soft replies. And peace from gentle guardian skies, Till watches of the dark he worn, Surround thy hed, — and joyous morn Makes all the chamber rosy bright ! Good-night ! — From far-off fields is borne The drowsy Echo's faint " Good-night,"— Good-night ! Good-night ! XVII. THE DIRTY OLD MAN A LAY OF LEADEKHALL. !>' a dii-ty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbours declared, His house never once had been clean'd or repair'd. 'Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat : The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain ; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass. And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. 42 TUE DIRTY OLD MAX. On the ricketty signboard no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell ; But for house and lor man a ni.'W title took growth, Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave its name to them both. "Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. Old curtains — half cobwebs — hung grimly aloof; 'Twas a Spiders' El^'sium from cellar to roof. There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Mm Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ; "With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face. For the Du-ty Old Man thinks the dirt no di.sgrace. From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; The dirt is pervading, unlading, exceeding, — Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. THE DIETT OLD ilAlf. 43 Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, Have entered his shop — less to buy than to stare ; And have afterwards said, though the du't was so frightful. The Du'ty Man's manners were truly delightful. But they pried not upstairs, through the dirt and the gloom, Nor peep'd at the door of the wonderful room That gossips made much of, in accents subdued. But whose inside no mortal might boast to have view'd. That room — forty years since, folk settled and deck'd it. The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected. The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. 44 THE DIRTY OLD MAK. With solid and dainty the tahle is drest, The \vine beams its briglitest, the flowers bloom their best ; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. Full fortv years since, turn'd the key in that door. 'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go ; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row ; But the limcheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse Whose descendants have long left the Du-ty Old House. Cup and platter are mask'd in thick layers of dust ; The ilowcrs I'aU'n to powder, the wine swath'd in crust ; A nosegay was laid before one special chaii*, And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 45 The old man has play'd out his parts in the scene. Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or han To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man. [A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall-street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] XVIII. THE BrvIGllT LITTLE GIliL. {To an Irish Tune.) Her blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, Her lips have made smiling more f\iir ; On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle, But thousands of curls in her hair. She's little, — ^j'ou don't wish her taller ; Just half through the teens is her age ; And baby or lady to call her, Were something to puzzle a sage ! Her walk is far better than dancing ; She speaks as another might sing ; And all bv an innocent chancinsr, Like lambkins and birds in the spring. THE HEIGHT LITTLE GIEL. 47 Unskill'd in the airs of the city, She's perfect in natural grace ; She's gentle, and truthful, and witty. And ne'er spends a thought on her face. Her face, with the fine glow that's in it, As fresh as an apple-tree hloom — And O ! when she comes, in a minute. Like simbeams she brightens the room. As taking in mind as iu feature, How many will sigh for her sake ! — I wonder, the sweet little creature, "NMiat sort of a wife she wovdd make. XIX. THE WAYSIDE WELL. THOU pretty Wayside Well, Wreath'd about with roses ! Wliere, beguiled with soothing spell, Weary foot reposes. With a welcome fresh and green Wave thy border grasses, By the dusty traveller seen, Sighing as he passes. Cup of no Circean blisi'. Charity of summer, Making happy with a kiss Every meanest comer ! THE WAYSIDE WELL. 49 Morning, too, and eventide, Without stint or measure, Cottage households near and wide Share thy liquid treasure. Fair the greeting face ascends, Like a naiad daughter, When the peasant lassie bends To thy trembling water. When a laddie brings her pail Down the twilight meadow. Tender falls the whisper'd tale. Soft the double shadow ! Clear as childhood in thy look, Nature seems to pet thee ; Fierce July that drains the brook Hath no power to fret thee. E 50 THE WAYSIDE WELL. Shelter'd cool and free from smirch In tliy cavck't shady, O'er thee in a silver birch Stoops a forest lady. To thy glass the Star of Eve Shyly dares to bend her ; Matron Moon thy depths receive. Globed in mellow splendour. Bounteous Spring ! for ever own Undisturb'd thy station ; Not to thirsty lips alone Serving mild donation. Never come the newt or frog, Pebble thrown in malice, Mud or wither'd leaves, to clog Or defile thy chalice. THE "WAYSIDE WELL. 51 Heaven be still witliin thy ken, Through the veil thou wearest, — Glimpsing clearest, as with men, When the boughs are barest ! E 2 XX. THE LOVEll AND BIRDS. Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love. Some spake, methought, >vith pity, some as if in jest. To every word Of every bird I llsten'd, and replied as it behove, Scream'd Chaffinch, " Sweet, sweet, sweet ! O bring my pretty love to meet me here !" "Chaffinch," (^uoth I, "be dumb awhile, in fear Thv darling prove no better than a cheat ; And never come, or lly when wintry days appear." Yet from a twig With voice so big, The Httle fowl his utterance did repeat. THE LOVEE AND BIEDS. 53 Then I, " the man forlorn Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft." "And what'll lie do ? what'll he do !" scoff'd Tlie Blackbird, standing m an ancient thorn, Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft, With cackling laugh : Whom I, being half Em'aged, call'd after, giving back his scorn. Worse mock'd the Thrush, "Die! die! could he do it ? could he do it ? Xay ! Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!" (went his lay) " Take heed ! take heed!" then, "Wliy? why? whyF why ? why ? See — eenow! see — eenow!" (hedrawl'd) "Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away !" Thrush, be still ! Or, at thy will, Seek some less sad interpreter than I ! 54t THE loveh and birds. "Air, air! blue air ami white! Whither 1 flee, whither, whither, wliithcr I flee!" (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) " Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright, Whither I see, whither 1 see ! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!" Gay Lark, I said, The song that's bred In happy nest may well to heav'n make flight. " There's something, something sad, I half remember" — piped a broken strain. Well sung, sweet Eobin ! llobin sung again, '■ Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily ! be we glad !" Which moved, 1 wist nut why, me nielaneholy mad. Till now, grown meek, With w'ctted cheek, Most comforting and gentle thoughts 1 had. XXL THE MILKMAID. (To the tune of " It was an old Beggarman") O, WHEEE are you going so early ? lie said ; Good luck go with 3"ou, my pretty maid ; To teU you my mind I'm half afraid, But I wish I were your sweetheart. When the morning sun is shining low, And the cocks in every farmyard crow, I'll carry your pail, O'er hill and dale, And I'll go with you a-milking. I'm going a-milking, sir, says she. Through the dew, and across the lea ; You ne'er would even yourself to me, Or take me for your sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. 56 THE MILKMAID. Now give me your milking stool awhile, To carry it down to yonder stile ; I'm wishing every step a mile, And myself your only sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. 0, here's the stile in-undcr the tree, And there's the path in the grass for me. And I thank you kindly, sir, says she, And wish you a better sweetheart. When the morning sun, «fcc. Now give me your milking-pail, says he. And while we're going across the lea, Pray reckon your master's cows to me, Although I'm not 3'our sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. Two of them red, and two of them white, Two of them yellow and silky bright. She told him her master's cows aright. Though he was not her sweetheart. When the morning sim, &c. THE MILKMAID. She sat and milk'd in the morning sun, And when her milking was over and done, She found him waiting, all as one As if he were her sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. He freely offer'dhis heart and hand ; Now she has a farm at her command. And cows of her own to graze the land ; Success to all true sweethearts ! When the morning sun is shining low, And the cocks in every farmyard crow, I'll carry your pail O'er hill and dale. And I'll go with you a-milking. 57 XXII. THE LIGHTHOUSE. The plunging storm ilics fierce against the pane, And thrills our cottage with redoubled shocks ; The chimney mutters and the rafters strain ; Without, the breakers roar along the rocks. See, from our fire and taper-lighted room, How savage, pitiless, and uncontroll'd The grim horizon shows its tossing gloom Of waves from imknown angry gulphs uproU'd ; Where, underneath that black portentous lid, Along pale space between the night and sea (jleams awful ; while in deepest darkness hid All other things in our despair agree. THE LiaHTHOUSE. -jO But lo ! what star amid tlie thickest dark A soft and unexpected dawn has made ? welcome Lighthouse, thj unruffled spark, Piercmg the turmoil and the deathly shade ! By such a glimpse o'er the distracted wave Full many a soul to-night is re-possest Of courage and of order, strong to save ; And like effect it works within my hreast. Three faithful men have set themselves to stand Ao-amst all storms that from the sky can blow, Where peril must expect no aiding hand. And tedium no relief may hope to know. Nor shout they, passing brothers to inform What weariness they feel, or what affright ; But tranquilly in solitude and storm Abide from month to month, and show their hght. XXIII. THE TOUCHSTONE. A Man there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand ; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote The fair to foul, the foul to f\iu" ; Purple nor ermine did he spare, Nor scorn the dusty coat. Of luir-loom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods. And even statues of the Gods Cruml)lcd hencath its touch. THE TOUCHSTONE. 61 Then angrily the people cried, " The loss outweighs the profit far ; Our goods suffice us as they are ; We will not have them tried." And since they could not so avail To check his unrelenting quest, They seized him, saying — " Let him test How real is our jail !" But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, Its doings could not be o'erturn'd, Its undoings restored. And when, to stop all futui'e harm, They strew'd its ashes on the breeze ; They little guess'd each grain of these Conyey'd the perfect charm. XXIV. iEOLIAN HARP. Is it all in vain ? Strangely throbbing pain, Trembling joy of memory ! Bygone things, how shadowy Within then* graves they lie! Shall I sit then by their graves, Listening to the melancholy waves ? I would fain. But even these in vapours die: For nothing may remain. One survivor in a boat On the wide dim deep afloat, When the sunken ship is gone, Lit by late stars before the dawn. ^OLIAN HAKP. 63 The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars are dumb. The ship is sunk full many a year. Dream no more of loss or gain : A ship was never here. A dawn will never, never come. — Is it all in vain ? XXV LADY ALICE. I. Now what cloth Lady AHce so late on the turret stair, AVithout alamp to hght her, hut the diamond in her hair- When every arcliing passage overflows with shallow gloom, And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room ? She tremhles at her footsteps, although they fall so light; Through the turret loopholes she sees the wild mid- night; Broken vapours streaming across the stormy sky ; r)own the empty corridors the hlast doth moan and cry. She steals along a gallery ; she pauses hy a door ; And fast her tears are di-opping down upon the oaken floor; iTtimwimraimwm^iviWflOVfi LADY ALICE. 65 And thrice she seems returning — but thrice she turns again : — Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old father's brain ! Oh, well it were that never shouldst thou waken from thy sleep ! For wherefore should they waken, who waken but to weep ? No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace a vigil keep, But Woe, — a lion that awaits thy rousing for its leap. II. An afternoon of April, no sun appears on high. But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky : And through the castle-gateway, left empty and forlorn, Alonsr the leafless avenue an honour'd bier is borne. *o They stop. The long line closes up like some gigantic worm ; A shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost-like form, 00 LADY ALICE. Which gazes fixedly ; nor moves, nor utters any sound ; Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks down upon the ground. And though her clothes are ragged, and thougli her feet are bare, And though all wild and tangled falls her heavy silk- brown hair ; Though from her eyes the brightness, from her chcck.s the bloom is fled, They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the dead. With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they lay, Wlicre all things stand unalter'd since the night slio fled away : But who — but who shall bring to life her father from the clay ? ]5ut who shall give her back again her heart of a former day? XXVI. THEEANIA. Unkkown Belov'd One ! to the mellow season Branches in the lawn make droopmg bow'rs ; Vase and plot burn scarlet, gold, and azure ; Honeysuckles wind the tall grey turret, And pale passion-flow'rs. Come thou, come thou to my lonely thought, Unknown Belov'd One. Now, at evening twilight, dusky dew down-wavers. Soft stars crown the grove-encircled hill ; Breathe the new-mown meadows, broad and misty ; Through the heavy grass the rail is talking ; All beside is still. Trace with me the wandering avenue, Unknown Belov'd One. r 2 C8 TIIEEANIA. In the mystic realm, and in the time of visions, I thy lover have no need to woo ; There I hold thy hand in mine, thou dearest. And thy soul in mine, and feel its throbbing. Tender, deep, and true : Then my tears are love, and thine are love, Unknown Belov'd One ! Is thy voice a wavelet on the listening darkness ? Are thine eyes unfolding from their veil ? Wilt thou come before the signs of winter — Days that shred the bough with tremblmg fingers, Nights that weep and wail ? Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death, Unknown Belov'd One ? XXVII. WAYCONNELL TOWEE. The tangling wealth by June amass'd, Left rock and ruin vaguely seen ; Thick ivy-cables held them fast, Light boughs descended, floating green. Slow tvim'd the stair, a breathless height, And, far above, it set me free. When all the golden fan of light Was closing down into the sea. A window half-way up the wall It led to ; and so high was that, The tallest trees were not so taU That they could reach to where I sat. 70 WAYCO'NELL TOWEB. Aloft within the moulder'd tower, Dark ivy fringed its round of sky, Where slowly, in the deepening hour, The first faint stars unvcil'd on high. The rustling of the foliage dim, The murmur of the cool grey tide, With tears that trembled on the brim. An echo sad to these I sigh'd. Sea, thy ripple's mournful tune ! — The cloud along the sunset sleeps ; The phantom of the golden moon Is kindled in thy quivering deeps, Oh, mournfully ! — and I to fill, Fix'd in a ruin-window strange. Some countless period, watching still A moon, a sea, that never change ! WATCONNELL TOWEE. 71 The guided orb is mounting slow ; The duteous wave is ebbing fast ; And now, as from the niche I go, A shadow joins the shadowy past. Farewell ! dim ruins ; tower and life ; Sadly enrich the distant view ! And welcome, scenes of toil and strife ; To-morrow's sun arises new. XXVIII. THE WITCII-BRIDE. A FAIR witch crept to a young man's side, And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride. But a Shape came in at the dead of night, And fill'd the room with snowy light. And he saw how in his arms there lay A thing more friglitt'ul than moutli may say. And he rose in haste, and follow 'd the Shape Till morning crown'd an eastern cape. And he girded himself and follow'd still, When sunset sainted the western hill. But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side. Weary day ! — the foul Witch-Bride. XXIX. SPRING IS COME. Ye coax the timid verdure Along tlie hills of Spring, Blue skies and gentle breezes, And soft clouds wandering ! The quu*e of birds on budding spray, Loud larks in ether sing ; A fresher pulse, a wider day, Give joy to everything. The gay translucent morning Lies ghttering on the sea, The noonday sprinkles shadows Athwart the daisied lea ; 71 SPIIINO IS COME. The round Sun's sinking scarlet rim In vapour liideth he, The darkling hours are cool and dim, As vernal night should bo. Our Earth has not grown aged. With all her countless years ; She works, and never wearies, Is glad, and nothing fears : The glow of air, broad land and wave, In season re-appears ; And shall, when slumber m the grave These human smiles and tears. Oh, rich in songs and colours. Thou joy-reviving Spring ! Some hopes are chill'd with winter Wliose term thou canst not bring. Some voices answer not thy call When sky and woodland ring, Some faces come not back at all With primrose-blossoming. SPRING IS COME. 75 The distant-flying swallow, The upward-yearning seed, Find nature's promise faithful, Attain their humble meed. Great Parent ! thou hast also forni'd These hearts which throb and bleed ; With love, truth, hope, their life hast warm'd, And what is best, decreed. XXX. THE MESSENGEK. A MESSENGER, that stood beside my bed, In words of clear and cruel import said, (And yet methought the tone was less unkind,) " I bring thee pain of body and of mind." " Each gift of each must pay a toll to me ; Nor flight, nor force, nor suit can set thee free ; Until my brother come, I say not when : Affliction is my name, unloved of men." I swoon'd, then bursting up in talk deranged, Shatter'd to tears ; while he stood by imchanged. I held my peace, my heart with courage burn'd. And to his cold touch one faint sigh return'd. THE MESSENGEE. 77 Undreamt-of wings he lifted, " For a while " I vanish. Never be afraid to smile Lest I waylay thee : curse me not ; nay, love ; That I may bring thee tidings from above." And often since, by day or night, descends The face obdurate ; now almost a friend's. ! quite to Faith ; but Frailty's lips not dare The word. To both this angel taught a pray 'r. " Lord God, thy servant, wounded and bereft, Feels thee upon his right hand and his left : Hath joy in grief, and stiU by losing gains ; — All this is gone, yet all myself remains !" XXXI. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast "Wails in the key -hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes, It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory, when distant lies Poor Ivirth, where we were wont to live and grieve. THE MUSIC-MASTEE. |l mt Btaq, THE MUSIC-MASTER. ^ fobt «tffVg. PART I. I. Music and Love ! — If lovers hear me sing, I will for them essay the simple tale, To hold some fair young listeners in a ring With echoes gather'd from an Irish vale, Where still, methinks, abide my golden years, Though I not with them, — far discern'd through tears. II. When evening fell upon the village street And brother fields, reposing hand in hand, Unlike where flaring cities scorn to meet The kiss of dusk that quiets all the land, 'Twas pleasant laziness to loiter by Houses and cottages, a friendly spy. G 82 Tlli: MUSIC-MASTEB. in. And hear the frequent fiddle that would glide Through jovial mazes of a jig or reel, Or sink from sob to sob with plaintive slide, Or mount the steps of swift exulting zeal ; For our old village was with music fill'd Like any grove where thrushes wont to build. IV. Mixt with the roar of bellows and of flame, Perhaps the reed-voice of a clarionet From forge's open ruddy shutter came ; Or round some hearth were silent people set, "Where the low flute, with plaintive quivering, ran on Through "Colleen Dhas" or " Hawk of Ballyshannon." V. Or pictured on those bygone, shadowy nights I see a group of girls at needlework, Placed round a candle throwing soft half-lights On the contrasted faces, and the dark THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 83 And fair-haii-'d heads, a bunch of human flow 'rs ; And many a ditty cheers th' industrious hours. VI. Pianoforte's sound from curtain'd pane Would join the lofty to the lowly roof In the sweet links of one harmonious chain ; And often down the street some Glee's old woof, "Hope of my heart"— " Ye Shepherds"— " Lightly tread," Would mesh my steps or wrap me in my bed. VII. The most delicious chance, if we should hear, Pour'd from om- climbing glen's enfoliaged rocks, At dusk some solitar}^ bugle, clear, Eemote, and melancholy; echo mocks The strain dehghted, wafting it afar Up to the threshold of the evening star. VIII. And Grerald was our music-master's name ; Young Gerald White ; whose mother, not long wed, g2 84 THE MUSIC-MASTER, Only to make him ours by birthright came. Her Requiescat I have often read, Where thickest ivy hangs its ancient pall Over the dumb and desolate abbey wall. IX. The father found a music-pupil rare, More ready still to learn than he to teach ; His art no longer was his only care, But now young Gerald with it, each for each ; And with a secret and assiduous joy Tlie grave musician taught his happy boy. X. The boy's whole thought to Music lean'd and sway'd ; He heard a minor in the wind at night, And many a tune the village noises play'd ; The thunder roar'd like bands before the might Of marching armies ; in deep summer calm The falling brooklet would intone a psalm. THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. 85 XI. The Chapel organ-loft, his father's seat, "Was to the child his earthly paradise; And that celestial one that used to greet His infant di-eams, could take no other guise Than visions of green curtains and gold pipes. And angels of vv^hom quire-girls were the types. XII. Their fresh young voices from the congregation, Train' d and combined by simple rules of chant, And lifted on the harmonious modulation Koll'd from the lofty organ, ministrant To sacred triumph, well might bring a thought Of angels there, — perhaps themselves it brought. XIII. Poor girls the most were : this one had her nest, A mountain mavis, in the craggy furze ; Another in close lane must toil and rest. And never cage-bird's song more fine than hers, 86 THE MU81C-MA8TEE. Humming at work all through the busy week, Set free in Sabbath chorus, proud and meek. XIV. And when young Gerald miglit adventure forth Tlirough Music-land, — where hope and memory kiss And singing fly beyond the bourne of earth, And the whole spirit full of aching bliss Would follow as the parting shrouds reveal Glimpses ineffable, but soon conceal, — XT. "While all the hills, mayhap, and distant plain, Village and brook were shaded, fold on fold, With the slow dusk, and on the purpling pane Soft twilight barr'd with crimson and with gold Lent to that simple little house of prayer A richly solemn, a cathedral air ; XVI. His symphonies to suit the dying close Suffused it with a voice that could not ask THE MUSIC-MASTEB. 87 In vain for tears ; not ask in vain from those Who in the dew fulfill'd their pious task, Kneeling with rosaries beside a grave ; To whom a heavenly comforting it gave. XTII. Thus village years went by. Day after day Flow'd, as a stream unvext with storms or floods Flows by some islet with a hawthorn grey ; "Where circling seasons bring a share of buds, Xests, blossoms, ruddy fruit, and, in their turn, Of withering leaves and frosty twigs forlorn. XVIII. So went the years, that never may abide ; Boyhood to manhood, manly prime to age, Ceaselessly gliding on, as still they glide ; — Until the father yields for heritage (Joyful, yet with a sigh) the master's place To Gerald — who could higher fortune grace. 88 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. XIX. But the shy youth has yet his hours of leisure : And now, the Spring upon the emerald hills Dancing witli flying clouds, how keen his pleasure, Plunged in deep glens or tracking upland rills. Till lessening light reeal him from his roaming To breathe his gather'd secrets to the gloaming. XX. Spring was around liim, and within him too. Delightful season ! — life without a spur Bounds gaily forward, and the heart is new As the green wand fresh budded on a fir ; And Nature, into jocund chorus waking, Tempts every young voice to her merry-making. XXI. Gerald, high echoing this delightful Sjjring, Pour'd from his finger-tips electric power In audible creations swift of wing. Till sunshine glimpsing through an April shower, THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 89 And clouds, and delicate glories, and the bound Of lucid sky came melting into sound. XXII. Our ear receives in common with our eye One Beauty, flowing through a different gate, With melody its form, and harmony Its hue ; one mystic Beauty is the mate Of Spirit indivisible, one love Her look, her voice, her memory do move. XXIII. Yet sometimes in his plaj'ing came a tone Not learn'd of sun or shadow, wind or brook. But thoughts so much his own he dared not own, Nor, prizing much, appraise them ; dared not look In fear to lose an image undefined That brighten'd every vista of his mind. XXIV. Two pupils dwelt upon the river-side, At Cloonamore, a cottage near the rush 90 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. Of narrow'd waters breaking from a wide And pond-like smootliness, brimming green and flush Dark groves ; and here for Gerald, truth to say, His weekly task was more than holiday. XXV. A quiet home it was ; compact and neat As a wren's nest. A gentle woman's choice Had built and beautified the green retreat ; But in her labours might she not rejoice, Being sumnion'd to a stiller })lace of rest ; And spent her last breath in a dear behest. XXVT. That was for her two daughters : she had wed A plain, rough husband, though a kind and true ; And "Dearest Bernard," from her dying bed She whisper'd, " Promise me you'll try to do For Ann and Milly what was at my heart, If God had spared me to perform my part." THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. 91 XXVII. As well as no abundant purse allow 'd, Or as the neighbouring village could supply, The father kept his promise, and was proud To see the girls grow up beneath his eye Two ladies in their culture and their mien ; Though not the less there lay a gulf between. XXVIII. A spirit unrefined the elder had, An envious eye, a tongue of petty scorn. That women these may own — how true ! how sad ! And these, though Ann had been a countess born, Had mark'd her meaner to the dullest sight Than stands a yellow lily with a white. XXIX. White lily,— Milly, — darling little girl ! I think I see as once I saw her stand ; Her soft hair waving in a single curl Behind her ear ; a kid licking her hand ; 02 THE MUSIC-MASTER. Her fair young face with lu-alth and racing warm, And loose frock blown about her slender form. XXX. The dizzy lark, a dot on the white cloud, That sprinkles music o'er the vernal breeze, Was not more gay than Milly's joyous mood ; The silent lark that starry twilight sees Cradled among the braird in closest bower, Not more quiescent than her tranquil hour. XXXI. Her mind was open, as a flowery cup That gathers richness from the sun and dew, To knowledge, and as easily drew up The wholesome sap of life ; unwatch'd it grew, A lovely blossom in a shady place ; And like her mind, so was her innocent face. XXXII. At all times fair, it never look'd so fair As when the holy glow of harmonies THE MUSIC-MA STEE. 93 Lighted it through ; her spirit as it were An azure heav'n outshining at her eyes ; With Grerald's tenor while the fountain sprung Of her contralto, fresh and pure and young. XXXIII. In years a child when lessons thus began, Child is she still, yet nearly woman grown ; For childhood stays with woman more than man, In voice and cheek and mouth, nor these alone ; And up the sky with no intense reveahng May the great dawn of womanhood come stealing. XXXIV. Now must the moon of childhood's trembling white Paint in the promise of her flushing heaven ; Looks are turn'd eastward, where new orient light Suffuses all the air with subtle leaven ; And shadowy mountain-paths begin to show Their unsuspected windings 'mid the glow. 04 THE MUSIC-MASTEE. XXXV, Her silky locks have ripen'd into brown, Her soft blue eyes grown deeper and more shv, And ligbtly on her lifted head the crown Of queenly maidenhood sits meek and high ; Her frank soul lives in her ingenuous voice, Most purely timed to sorrow or rejoice. XXXVI. ' Within the Chapel on a Sunday morn She bows her mild head near the altar-rail. And raises up that mild lull voice unworn Into the singing ; — should a Sunday fail. There's one would often mark her empty seat, I'here's one would find their anthem incomplete. XXXVIl. Few her companions are, and few her books ; And in a ruin'd convent's circling shade, The loveliest of tranquil river-nooks. Where trailing birch, fit bow'r for gentle maid, THE ilUSIC-MASTEB. 95 And feather'd fir-tree half shut out the stream, She often sits alone to read or di-eam. xxxnii. Sometimes through leafy lattice she espies A flitting figure on the other shore ; But ever past th' enchanted precinct hies That wanderer, and where the rapids roar Through verdured crags, shelters his beating heart, Foolishly bent to seek, yet stay apart. XXX IT. Then Milly can resume her reverie, About a real friend, that she could love ; But finds her broken thought is apt to flee To what seem other musings : slowly move The days, and counted days move ever slowest : Milly ! how long ere thy own heart thou knowest ? XL. Sooner than Gerald his. His path-side birds Are scarcely more unconscious or more shrinking. 96 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. Yet would he tell his love in simple words Did love stand clearly in his simple thinking : High the discovery, and too high for one Who counts his life as though not yet begun. XLI. For all the rest seem sage and busy men ; And he alone despised, and justly too. Or borne with merely ; — could he venture then To deem this rich inheritance his due ? Slowly the Ihic and tender soul discerns Its rareness, and its lofty station learns. XLII. And now, 'tis on a royal eventide When the ripe month sets glowing earth and air. And Summer by a stream or thicket-side Twists amber honeysuckles in her hair, — Gerald and Milly meet by trembhng chance, And step for step are moving, in a trance. THE MUSIC-MASTEK, 97 XLIII. Their pathway foliage-curtain'd and moss-grown ; — Behind the trees the white flood flashing swift, Through many moist and ferny rocks flung down, Roars steadily, where sunhghts play and shifb. How oft they stop, how long, they nothing know, Nor how the pulses of the evening go. XLIV. Their talk ? — the dappled hyacinthine glade Lit up in points of blue, — how soft and treble The kine's deep lowing is by distance made, — The quail's " twit-wit-wit," like a hopping pebble Thrown along ice, — the dragonflies, the birds, The rustling twig, — all noticed in few words. XLV. A level pond, inlaid with lucid shadows Of groves and crannied cliffs and evening sky, And rural domes of hay, where the green meadows Slope to embrace its margin peacefully, H 98 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. The slumb'ring river to the rapid draws ; And here, vipou a grassy jut, they pause. XLVI. How shy a strength is Love's, that so much fears Its darling secret to itself to own ! Their rapt, illimitable mood appears A beauteous miracle for each alone ; Exalted high above all range of hope By the pure soul's eternity of scope. XLVII. Yet in both hearts a prophecy is breathed Of how this evening's phantom may arise, In richer hues than ever sunlight wreathed On hill or wood or wave : in brimming eyes The glowing landscape melts away from each ; And full their bosoms swell, too full for speech. XLVIII. Is it a dream ? The countless happy stars Stand silently into the deepening blue ; THE MUSIC-MASTER. 99 In slow procession all the molten bars Of cloud move down ; the air is dim with dew ; Eve scatters roses on the shroud of day ; The common world sinks far and far away. XLIX. With goodnight kiss the zephyr, half asleep, Sinks to its cradle in the dusk of trees. Where river-chimings tolling sweet and deep Make lullaby, and all field-seents that please The Summer's children float into the gloom Dream-interwoven in a viewless loom. L. Clothed with an earnest paleness, not a blush, And with th' angelic gravity of love, Each lover's face amid the twilight hush Is like a saint's whose thoughts are all above In perfect gratitude for heavenly boon ; And o'er them for a halo comes the moon. H 2 100 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. LI, Tims through the leaves and the dim dewy croft They Unger homeward. Flowers around their feet Bless tlu-ni, and in the firmament aloft Night's silent ardours. And an hour too licet, Though stretching years from all the life before, Conducts their footsteps to her cottage door. LTI. Thenceforth they meet more timidly ? — in truth, Some lovers might, but all are not the same ; In the clear ether of their .simple youth Steady and white ascends the sacred flame. They do not shrink hereafter ; rather seek More converse, but with graver voices speak. LIII. One theme at last preferred to every other. Joying to talk of that mysterious land Where each enshrines the image of a mother Best of all watchers in the guardian band ; THE MUSIC-MASTEE, 101 To highest, tenderest thought is freedom given Amid this unembarrass'd air of Heaven. LIV, For when a hymn has wing'd itself away On Palestrina's full-resounding chords, And at the trellis'd window loiter they, Deferring their goodnight with happy words, Almost they know, without a throb of fear, Of spirits in the twilight standing near. LT. And day by day and week by week pass by, And Love still poised upon a trembling plume Floats on the very verge of sovereignty, Where ev'n a look may call him to assume The rich apparel and the shining throne. And claim two loyal subjects for his own. LVI. Wondrous, that first, full, mutual look of love Coming ere either looker is aware ; 102 TUE MUSIC-MASTER. Unbounded trust, a tenderness above All tenderness ; mute music, speechless pray'r Life's mystery, reality, and might, Soft-swimming in a single ray of light ! LVII. O when .shall fly this talismanic gleam, Which melts like lightning every prison-bar, Which penetrates the mist with keener beam Thau Hows fi'om sun or moon or any star ? Love waits ; and like a pebble of the ground Th' imperial gem lies willing to be found. LVIII. One evening, Gerald came before his hour. Distrustful of the oft-consulted clock ; And waits, with no companion, till his flow'r — Keeping the time as one of Flora's ilock, Whose shepherdess, the Sunset Star, doth fold Each in its leaves — he may again behold. THE MUSIC-MA.STEB. 103 LIX. Nor thinks it long. Familiar all, and dear, A sanctity pervades the silent room. Autumnal is the season of the year ; A mystic softness and love-weighty gloom Gather with twilight. In a dream he lays His hand on the piano, dreaming plays. LX. Most faint and broken sounds at first are stealing Into the shadowy stillness ; wild and slow, Imperfect cadences of captive feeling. Gathering its strength, and yet afraid to know Its chance of freedom, — till on mnrmuring chords Th' unguarded thought strays forth in passionate words. LXI. Angel of Music ! when our finest speech Is aU too coarse to give the heart relief, The inmost fountains lie within thy reach. Soother of every joy and every grief; 101 THE MUSIC-MASTEH. And to the stumbling words thou lendest wings On which aloft th' enfranchised spirit springs. LXIT. Much love may in not many words be told ; And on the sudden love can speak the best. These mystical melodious buds unfold, On every petal showing clear imprest The name of Love. So Gerald sung and play'd Unconscious of himself, in twilight shade. LXIII. He has not overheard (0 might it be !) This stiiled sobbing at the open door, Where Milly stands arrested tremblingly By that which in an instant tells her more Than all the dumb months mused of; tells it plain To joy that cannot comprehend its gain. LXIV. One moment, and they shall be face to face, Free in the gift of this great confidence, THE MUSIC-MA STEE. 105 Wrapt in the throbbing calm of its embrace, No more to dismiite their spirits thence. The myrtle crown stoops close to either brow, — But ah ! what alien voice distracts them now ? LXV. Her sister comes. And Milly turns away ; Hurriedly beai'ing to some quiet spot Her tears and her full heart, longing to lay On a dim pillow cheeks so moist and hot. When midnight stars between her curtains gleam Fair Milly sleeps, and dreams a happy dream. LXVI. dream, poor child ! beneath the midnight stars ; O slumber through the kindling of the dawn ; The shadow's on its way ; the storm that mars The lily even now is hurrying on. All has been long fulfill'd ; yet I could weep At thought of thee so quietly asleep. lOG TUE MUSIC-MASTEB. LXVII, IJut Gerald, through the night serenely spread, Walks quickly home, intoxicate with bliss Not named and not examined ; overhead The clustering lights of worlds are full of this New element ; the soft wind's dusky wings Grow warmer on his cheek, with whisperings. LXVIII. And vet to-nijjht he has not seen his Love. His Love — in that one word all comfort dwells ; Reaching from earth to those clear flames above. And making common food of miracles. Kind pulsing Nature, touch of Deity, Sure thou art full of love, which lovers see ! LXIX. Most cruel Nature, so unmoved, so hard, The while thy children shake with joy or pain ! Thou wilt not forward Love, nor Death retard One finger-push, for mortal's dearest gain. THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. 107 Our Gerald, through the night serenely spread, Walks quickly home, and finds his father dead. LXX. Grod's awe must be where the last stroke comes down. Though but the ending of a weary strife, Though years on years weigh low the hoary crown, Or sickness tenant all the house of life ; Stupendous ever is the great event, The frozen form most strangely different ! LXXI. To Gerald follow'd many doleful days, Like wet clouds moving through a sullen sky. A vast unlook'd-for change the mind dismays. And smites its world with instability ; Rocks appear quaking, towers and treasures vain. Peace foolish, Joy disgusting, Hope insane. LXXII. For even Cloonamore, that image dear, Returns to Gerald's mind like its own ghost, 108 THE MUSIC-MA8TEK. In melancholy garments, dreneh'd and sere, Its joy, its colour, and its welcome lost. Wanting one token sure to lean upon, (How iilmost gain'd !) his happ}' dream is gone. LXXIII. Distracted purposes, a homeless band, Throng in his meditation — now he flies To rest his soul on Milly's cheek and hand, — Now he makes outcry on his fantasies For busy cheats : the lesson not yet learu'd How Life's true coast from vapour is discern'd. Lxxrv. Ah me ! 'tis like the tolling of a bull To hear it — " Past is past, and gone is gone ;" With looking back afar to see how well We could have 'scaped our losses, and have won High fortune. Ever greatest turns on least, Like Earth's own whirl to atom poles decreased. THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 109 LXXV. For in the gloomiest hour a letter came, Shot arrow-like across the Western sea, Praising the West ; its message was the same As many a time ere now had languidly Dropp'd at his feet, but this the rude gale bore To heart, — Grerald will quit our Irish shore. LXXYI. And quit his Love whom he completely loves ; Who loves him just as much ? Nay, downcast youth ! Nay, dear mild maiden ! — Sui'ely it behooves That somewhere in the day there should be ruth For innocent bhndness ? lead, oh, lead them now One step, but one ! — Their fates do not allow. LXXVII. The parting scene is brief and frosty dumb. The unhke sisters stand alike unmoved ; For MiUy's soul is wilder'd, weak, and numb, That reft away which seem'd so dearly proved. 110 THE MrsiC-MASTl'IJ. While thouglit and speech slic struggles to recover Her Iiand is prest — and he is gone for ever. LXXVITI. Time speeds : on an October afternoon Across the well-known view he looks his last ; The valley clothed with peace and fruitful boon, The chapel where such happy hours were pass'd, With rainbow-eolour'd foliage round its eaves, And windows all a-glitter through the leaves. LXXIX. The cottage-smokes, the river ;— gaze no more, Sad heart ! although thou canst not, wouldst not shun The vision future years will oft restore, Whereon the light of many a summer sun. The stars of many a winter night shall be Mingled in one strange sighing memory. END OF TABT 1. THE MUSIC-MASTER ^ 3obt ^lorg. PAET II. I. The shadow Death o'er Time's broad dial creeps With never-halting pace from mark to mark, Blotting the sunshine ; as it coldly sweeps, Each living symbol melts into the dark, And changes to the name of what it was ; — Shade-measured light, progression proved by loss. n. Blithe Spring expanding into Summer's cheer, Great Simimer ripening into Autumn's glow, The yellow Autumn and the wasted year, And hoary -headed Winter stooping slow Under the dark arch up again to Spring, Have five times compass' d their appointed ring. 112 THE MUSIC-MASTEE, 111. See once again our village ; with its street Dozing in dusty sunshine. All around Is silence ; save, for slumber not unmeet, Some spinning-wheel's continuous whirring sound From cottage door, wlierc, strctchM upon his side, The moveless dog is basking, drowsy-eyed. IV. Each hollyhock within each little wall Sleeps in the richness of its crusted blooms ; Up tlie hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl ; The heavy bee is humming into rooms Through open window, like a sturdy rover, Bringing with him wainn scents of thyme and clover. V. From little cottage-gardens you almost Smell the fruit ripening on the sultry air ; Opprest to silence, every bird is lost In eave and hedgerow j save that here and there THE MUSIC-MASTEB. 113 With twitter swift, the sole unquiet thing, Shoots the dark hghtning of a swallow's wing, VI. Yet in this hour of sunny peacefulness One is there whom its influence little calms, One who now leans in agony to press His throbbing forehead with his throbbing palms, Now paces quickly up and down within The narrow parlour of the village inn. YII. He thought he could have tranquilly beheld The scene again. He thought his faithful grief, Spread level in the soiJ, could not have swell' d To find once more a passionate rehef. Three years, they now seem hours, have sigh'd their breath Since when he heard the tidings of her death. nil. Last evening in the latest dusk he came, A holy pilgrim from a distant land ; I 114 THE MUSIC-MA6TEE. And objects of familiar face and name, As at the move of a miraculous wand, Bose round his steps ; his bed-room window show'd His small white birthplace just across the road. IX. Yet in that room he could not win repose ; The image of the past perplex'd his mind ; Often he sigh'd and tum'd, and sometimes rose To bathe his forehead in the cool night-wind. And vaguely watch the curtain broad and grey Lifting anew from the bright scene of day. X. When creeping sultiy hours from noontide go, He rounds the hawthorn hedge's wellknown turn, Melting in Midsummer its bloomy snow, And through the chapel gate. His heart forlorn Draws strength and comfort from the pitying shrine Whereat he bows with reverential sign. THE MUSIC-MASTER. 115 xr. Behind the chapel, down a sloping hill, Circling the ancient abbey's ivied walls The graveyard sleeps, A little gurgling rill Pour'd through a corner of the ruin, falls Into a dusky-water'd pond, and lags With lazy eddies 'mid its yellow flags. XII. Across this pool, the hoUow banks enfold An orchard overrun with rankest grass. And gnarl'd and mossy apple-trees, as old As th' oldest graves almost ; and thither pass The smooth-worn stepping-stones that give their aid To many a labourer and milking-maid. XIII. And not unfrequently to rustic bound On a more solemn errand, — when we see A suppliant in such universal grovmd. Let all be reverence and sympathy ; I 2 116 THE MUSIC-MASTER. Assured tlie life in every real pray'r Is that which makes our life of life to share. XIV. But resting in the sunshine very lone Is now each hammock green and wooden cross ; And save the rillet in its cup of stone That poppling falls, and whispers through the moss Down to the quiet pool, no sound is near To break the stilliness to Gerald's ear. IT. The writhen elder spreads its creamy bloom ; The thicket-tangling, teudcrest briar-rose Kisses to air its exquisite perfume In shy luxuriance ; leaning foxglove glows With elvish crimson ; — nor all vainly meet The eye which unobserved they seem to greet. XVI. Under the abbey wall he wends his way, Admitted through a portal arching deep, ^'•fift44=__-_ THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. 117 To where no roof excludes the common day ; Though some few tombstones in the shadows sleep Of hoar J fibres and a throng of leaves, Which venerable ivy slowly weaves. XVII. First hither comes, in piety of heart, Over his mother's, father's grave to bend, The faithful exile. Let us stand apart, While his sincere and humble pray'rs ascend, As such devout aspirings do, we trust, To Him who sow'd them in our breathing dust. XVIII. And veil our very thoughts lest they intrude (Oh, silent death ! oh, living pain full sore !) AVhere lies enwrapt in grassy solitude That gentle matron's grave, of Cloonamore, And on the stone these added words are seen — " Also, her daughter Milly, aged eighteen." 118 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. XIX. Profound the voiceless aching of the hreast, When weary life is like a grey dull eve Emptied of colour, withering and waste Around the prostrate soul, too weak to grieve — Stretch' d far below the tumult and strong cry Of passion — its lamenting but a sigh. XX. Griefs mystery desire not to disperse, Nor wish the secret of the world outspoken ; 'Tis not a toy, this vital Universe, That thus its inner caskets may be broken. Sorrow and pain, as well as hope and love, Stretch out of view into the heavens above. XXI. Yet, oh ! the cruel coldness of the grave. The keen remembrance of the happy past, The thoughts which are at once tyrant and slave, The sudden sense that drives the soul aghast, THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 119 The drowning horror, and the speechless strife, That fain would sink to death or rise to life ! xxir. As Grerald lifted up his pallid face, He grew aware that he was not alone. Amid the silence of the sacred place Another form was stooping o'er the stone ; A grey hair' d woman's. When she met his eyes She shriek'd aloud in her extreme surprise. XXIII. " The Holy Mother keep us day and night ! And who is this ? — Oh, Master Gerald, dear, I little thought to ever see this sight ! Warm to the King above I ofier here My praises for the answer he has sent To all my pray'rs ; for now I'll die content !" XXIT. Then, as if talking to herself, she said, " I nursed her when she was a little child. 120 TUE MUSIC-MASTEB. I smooth'd the pillow of her dying bed. And just the way that she had often smiled When sleeping in her cradle — that same look Was on her face with "the last kiss I took." " 'Twas in the days of March," she said again. " And so it is the sweetest blossom dies, The wrinkled leaf hangs on, though falling fain. I thought your hand would close my poor old eyes, And not that I'd be sitting in the sun Beside your grave, — the Lord's good will be done !" XXVI. Thus incoherently the woman spoke. With many interjections full of woe ; And wrapping herself up within her cloak Began to rock her body to and fro ; And moaning softly, scem'd to lose all sense Of outward life in memories so intense. THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. 121. XXVII. Till Gerald burst his silence and esclaim'd, With the most poignant earnestness of tone, " O nurse, I loved her ! — though I never named The name of love to her, or any one. 'Tis to her grave here " He could say no more, But these few words a load of meaning bore. XXVIII. Beside the tombstone mute they both remain'd. At last the woman rose, and coming near, Said with a tender voice that had regain'd A tremulous calm, " Then you must surely hear The whole from first to last, cusJila-ma-ehree ; For God has brought together you and me." XXIX. And there she told him all the moving tale. Broken with many tears and sobs and sighs ; How gentle Milly's health began to fail ; How a sad sweetness grew within her eyes, 122 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. And trembled on her mouth, so kind and meek, And flush'd across her pale and patient cheek. XXX. And how about this time her sister Ann "Entered Religion,"* and her father's thought Refused in Milly's face or voice to scan, Or once so lively step, the change that wrought ; Until a sad conviction flew at last. And with a barb into his bosom pass'd. XXXI. Then, with most anxious haste, her dear old nurse Was sent for to become her nurse again ; But still the pretty one grew worse and worse. For with a gradual lapsing, free of pain, And slow removes, that fond eyes would not see, Crept on the hopeful, hopeless malady. XXXII. Spring came, and brought no gift of life to her, Of all it lavish' d in the fields and woods. * Took conventual vows. THE MIJSIC-MASTEE. 123 Yet she was cheer' d when birds began to stir About the shrubbery, and the pale gold buds Burst on the willows, and with hearty toil The ploughing teams upturn'd the sluggish soil. XXXIIT. " 'Twas on a cold March evening, well I mind," The nurse went on, " we sat and watch'd together The long grey sky ; and then the sun behind The clouds shone down, though not Hke summer weather, On the hills far away. I can't tell why. But of a sudden I began to cry. XXXIV. " I dried my tears before I tin-n'd to her, But then I saw that her eyes too were wet. And pale her face, and calm without a stir ; AYhilst on the lighted hills her look was set. Where strange beyond the cold dark fields they lay, As if her thoughts, too, joumey'd far away. 124 THE MUSIC-MASTEB. XXXY. " After a while she ask'd me to unlock A drawer, and hring a little parcel out. I knew it was of it she wisli'd to talk, But long she held it in her hand in doubt ; And whilst she strove, there came a blush and spread Her face and neck with a too passing red. " At length she put her other hand in mine ; * Dear nurse,' she said, * I'm sure I need not ask Your promise to fulfil what I design To make my last request, and your last task. You knew young Master Gerald' (here her speech Grew plain) ' that used to come here once to teach ?' xxrvn. " I said I knew you well ; and she went on, — * Then listen : if you ever see him more, And he should speak of days are past and gone. And of his scholars and his friends before — THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 125 Should ask you questions — knowing what you've been To me, — Oh ! could I tell you what I mean !' XXXVIII. " But, sir, I understood her meaning well ; Not from her words so much as from her eyes. I saw it all ; my heart began to swell, I took her in my arms with many sighs And murmurs, and she lean'd upon my neck Till we both cried our fill without a check. XXXIX. " She saw I knew her mind, and bade me give Into your hand, if things should so befall, The parcel ; — else, as long as I should live, It was to be a secret kept from all. And say you never wrote, never return' d. When my last hour drew near, was to be bum'd. XL. " I promised to observe her wishes duly ; But said I hoped in God that she would still 12G THE MTJSIC-MASTEE. Live many years beyond myself. And truly While she was speaking, like a miracle Her countenance lost every sickly trace. Ah, dear ! 'twas setting hght was in her face. XLI. " She told me she was tired, and went to bed, And I sat watching by her until dark, And then I lit her lamp, and round her head Let down the curtains. 'Twas my glad remark How softly she was breathing, and my mind "Was full of hope and comfort, — we're so blind ! XLII. " The night wore on, and 1 had fall'n asleep, When about three o'clock I heard a noise And sprang up quickly. In the silence deep Was some one praying with a calm weak voice ; Her own voice, though not sounding just the same; And in the pray'r I surely heard your name. THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 127 XLIII. " Sweet Heaven ! we scarce had time to fetch the priest. How sadly through the shutters of that room Crept in the blessed daylight from the east To us that sat there weeping in the gloom ; And touch' d the close-shut eyes and peaceful brow, But brought no fear of her being restless now. XLIV. " The wake was quiet. Noiseless went the hours Where she was lying stretch' d so still and white ; And near the bed, a glass with some Sprmg flowers From her own little garden. Day and night I watch'd, until they took my lamb away, The child here by the mother's side to lay. XLT. " The holy angels make your bed, my dear ! But little call have we to pray for you : Pray you for him that's left behind you here, To have his heart consoled with heavenly dew ! 128 THE MUSIC-MA.STEE. And pray too for your poor old nurse, asthore ; Your own true mother scarce could love you more !" XLTI. Slow were their feet amongst the many graves, Over the stile and up the chapel walk, "Where stood the poplars with their timid leaves Hung motionless on every slender stalk. The air in one hot calm appear' d to lie, And thunder mutter' d in the heavy sky. XliVII. Along the street was heard the laughing sound Of boys at play, who knew no thought of death ; Deliberate-stepping cows, to milking bound. Lifted their heads and low'd with fragrant breath ; The women knitting at their thresholds cast A look upon our stranger as he pass'd. XLVIII. Scarce had the mourners time a roof to gain, When, with electric glare and thunder-crash, THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 129 Heavy and straight and fierce came down the rain, Soaking the white road with its sudden plash, Driving all folk within-doors at a race. And making every kennel gush apace, XLIX. The storm withdrew as quickly as it came, And through the broken clouds a briUiant ray Glow'd o'er the dripping earth in yeUow flame. And flush'd the village panes with parting day. Sudden and fuU that swimming lustre shone Into the room where Gerald sat alone. L. The door is lock'd, and on the table Hes The open parcel. Long he wanted strength To trust its secrets to his feverish eyes ; But now the message is convey'd at length ; — A note ; a case ; and folded with them there One finest ringlet of brown-auburn hair. 130 THE MUSIC-MASTEH. LI. Tlie case holds Milly's portrait — her reflection : Lips half apart as though about to speak ; The frank white brow, young eyes of grave affection, Even the pretty seam in the soft cheek : Swift image of a moment snatch' d from Time, Fix'd by a sunbeam in eternal prime. LII. The note ran thus, " Dear Gerald, near my death, I feel that like a Spirit's words are these. In which I say, that I have perfect faith In your true love for me, — as God, who sees The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign. LIII. " I do not think that he will take away. Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love ; Surely he sends its pure and blissful ray Down as a message from the world above. THE MUSIC-MASTEE. 131 Perhaps it is the full light drawing near Which makes the doubting Past at length grow clear. LIT. " We might have been so happy ! — But His will Said no, who orders all things for the best. may his power into your soul instil A peace Hke this of which I am possess'd ! And may he bless you, love, for evermore, And guide you safely to his Heavenly shore !" LT. Hard sits the downy pillow to a head Aching with memories : and Gerald sought The mournful paths where happy hom's had fled,- Pacing through silent labyrinths of thought. Yet sometimes, in his loneliness of grief, The richness of the loss came like relief. LVI. Minutely he recall' d, with tender pride. How one day — which is gone for evermore — k2 1,32 THE MUSIC-MASTER. Among his bunch of wild flowers left aside, He found a dark carnation, seen before In Milly's girdle, — but alas, too dull To read its crimson cypher in the full ! IVII. Slic smiled, the centre of a summer's eve : She sung with all her countenance a-glow In her own room, and he could half believe The voice did far-off in the darkness flow : He saw her stretch'd in a most silent place, With the calm light of prayer upon her face. LVIII. All this night long the watcr-di'ops he heard Vary their talk of chiming syllables, J)ripping into the butt ; and in the yard The ducks gabbling at daylight : till the spells Of misty sense recall' d a childish illness When the same noises broke the watching stillness. THE MUSIC-MASTEK. 133 LIX. Wellnigh he hoped that he had sadly dream' d, And all the interval was but a shade. But now the slow dawn through his window gleam' d, And whilst in dear oblivion he was laid, And Morning rose, parting the vapours dim, A happy heavenly vision eame to him. LX. Kind boons of comfort may in dream descend, Nor wholly vanish in the broad daylight. — When this owe little story hath an end, That flickers like a dream in woof of night, Its slender memory may perchance be wrought Among the tougher threads of waking thought ? LXI. Thus Gerald came and went. Till far away. His coming and his errand were not told. And years had left behind that sunny day, Ere some one from the New World to the Old 131 THE MUSIC-MASTEE. Brought news of him, in a great Southern town, Assiduous there, but seeking no renown. LXII. After another silent interval, The little daily lottery of the post Gave me a prize ; from one who at the call Of " westward ho !" had left our fair green coast, With comrades eager as himself to press Into the rough unharrow'd wilderness. LXIII. " Through these old forests (thus he wrote) we came One sundown to a clearing. Western light Burn'd in the pine-tops with a fading flame Over untrodden regions, and dusk night Out of the solemn woods appear'd to rise To some strange music, full of quivering sighs. LXIT. " Such must have been the atmosphere, we thought. The visionary light of ancient years, THE MrSIC-MASTEE. 135 \NTieii Red Man east or west encounter'd nous^ht Save bear and squirrel, with their wild compeers. But other life was now ; and soon we found The little citadel of this new ground. IXY. " The neat log-cabin from its wall of pines Look'd out upon a space of corn and grass Yet thick with stumps ; 'twas eaved with running vines, As though among the vanquish 'd woods to pass For something native. Drawing to its door. We question'd of the mystic sounds no more. Lxn. " They blended with the twilight and the trees, At hand, around, above, and far away, That first it was a voice as of the breeze Hymning its vespers in the forest grey ; But now we heard not airy strains alone, But human feeling throb in every tone. 13G THE MUSIC-MASTEE, LXVIT. " A swelling agony of tearful strife Being wearied out and husli'd, — from the profound Arose a music deep as love or life, That spread into a placid lake of sound, And took the infinite into its breast, With Earth and Heaven in one embrace at rest. XXVIII. " And then the flute-notes fail'd. Approaching slow. Whom found we seated in the threshold shade ? Gerald, — our Music-Master long ago In poor old Ireland ! much inquiry made Along our track for him had proved in vain ; And here at once we grasp'd his hand again ! LXIX. " And he received us with the warmth of heart Our brothers lose not under any sky. But what was strange, he did not stare or start As if astonish'd, when, so suddenly, THE MUSIC-MASTEB. 137 Long-miss'd familiar faces from the wood Emerged like ghosts, and at his elbow stood. LXX. " Twas like a man who joyfully was greeting (So thought I) some not unexpected friends. And yet he had not known our chance of meeting More than had we : but soon he made amends For lack of wonder, by the dextrous zeal That put before us no unwelcome meal. LXXI, " We gave him all our news, and in return He told us how he lived, — a lonely life ! Miles from a neighbour sow'd and reap'd his corn, And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife To cheer him in that solitary wild, But Gerald only shook his head and smiled. LXXII. " Next dawn, when each one of our little band Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name, — 138 THE MUSIC-MASTER. Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand 'Mid his enlarging bounds, — the moment came For farewell words. But long, behind our backs, We heard the echoes of his swinging axe." DAY AND NIGHT SONGS. ^m\\)i Btm, t>^> THE CHOICE. Now let me choose a native blossom, Ere I quit the sunny fields, Fittest for my Lucy's bosom, Hill, or brake, or meadow yields. Flag or Poppy I'll not gather, Briony or Pimpernel ; Scented Thyme or sprouting Heather, Though I like them both so well. Purpling Vetches, crimson Clover, Pea-bloom winglets, pied and faint. Bluebell, Windflow'r, pass them over ; Sober Mallow, Orchis quaint ; 142 THE CHOICE. Striped Convolvulus in htdijL'S, Columbine, and Mountain-Pink ; Lilies, floating seen through sedges, Violets nestling by the brink ; Creamy Elder, blue Germander, Betony that seeks the shade ; Nor where Honeysuckles wander, May that luscious balm persuade. Sad Forget -me-n of s a token Full of partings and mishaps ; Leave the Foxglove spire unbroken, Lest the fairies want for caps. Crimson Loose-strife, Crowfoot, Pansy, Golden Gorse, or golden Broom, Eyebright cannot fix my fancy, Nor the Meadowsweet's perfume. THE CHOICE, Azure, scarlet, pink, or pearly, Eustic friends in field or grove, — Each of yo\i I prize full dearly ; None of you is for my Love ! Wild-Eose ! delicately flushing All the border of the dale, — Art thou like a pale cheek blushing, Or a red cheek turning pale ? Is it sorrow ? Is it gladness ? Lover's hopes, or lover's fears ? Or a most delicious sadness. Mingled up of smiles and tears ? Come ! — no silky leaflet shaken — To a breast as pure and fair ; Come ! and thoughts more tender waken Than thy fragrant spirit there ! 143 II. ^OLIAN HARP. WnAT is it that is gone, we fancied ours ? O vvliat is lost that never may be told ? — We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve Until the perfect closing of the night. Listen to us, thou grey Autumnal Eve, Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds Are broken into melancholy gold ; The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light ; Because within thy deep thou hast the shrouds Of joy and great adventvire, waxing cold. Which once, or so it seem'd, were fuU of might. Some power it was, that lives not with us now, A thought we had, but could not, could not hold. ^OLIAN HASP. 145 sweetly, swiftly pass'd ! — air sings and murmurs ; Green leaves are gathering on the devvy bough : sadly, swiftly pass'd! — air sighs and mutters ; Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould. Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white. what is gone from us, we fancied ours ? III. THE PILOT'S PRETTY DAUGHTER. O'er western tides the fair Spring Day Was smiling back as it withdrew, And all the harbour, glittering gay, Return'd a blithe adieu ; Great clouds above the hills and sea Kept brilliant watch, and air was free Where last lark lirst-born star shall greet,— When, for the crowning vernal sweet, Among the slopes and crags I meet The Pilot's pretty Daughter. Round her gentle, happy face, Dimpled soft, and freshly fair. Danced with careless ocean grace Locks of auburn hair : THE pilot's peettt daitghteb. 147 As lightly blew the veering wind, They touch'd her cheeks, or waved behind, Unbound, unbraided, and unloop'd ; Or when to tie her shoe she stoop'd, Below her chin the half-curls di-oop'd, And veil'd the Pilot's Daughter. Rising, she toss'dthem gaily back, With gesture infantine and brief. To fall around as soft a neck As the wild-rose's leaf. Her Sunday frock of lilac shade (That choicest tint) was neatly naade, And not too lonsr to hide from view The stout but noway clumsy shoe, And stocking's smoothly-fitting blue. That graced the Pilot's Daughter. With look, half timid and half droll. And then with slightly downcast eyes. And blush that outward softly stole, — Unless it were the skies l2 148 THE pilot's pretty daughter. Whose sun-ray sliifted on her cheek, — She turn'tl when I began to speak ; But 'twas a bricrhtness all her own That in her firm light step was shown, And the clear cadence of her tone ; The Pilot's lovely Daughter! Were it my lot, (the sudden wish) — To hand a pilot's oar and sail, Or haul the dripi)ing moonlight mesh, Spangled with herring-scale ; By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be, And dawn-blow freshening the sea, With weary, cheery pull to shore, To gain my cottage-home once more, And clasp, before I reach the door, My love, the Pilot's Daughter ! This element beside my feet Allurtjs, a tepid wine of gold ; One touch, one taste, dispels the cheat, 'Tis salt and nii)ping cold : THE pilot's peettt datjghtee. 149 A fisher's hut, the scene perforce Of narrow thoughts and manners coarse, Coarse as the curtains that heseem With net-festoons the smoky beam, Would never lodge my favourite dream. E'en with my Pilot's Daughter. To the large riches of the earth. Endowing men in their own spite. The Poor, by privilege of birth, Stand in the closest right. Yet not alone the palm grows dull With clayey delve and watery pull : And this for me, — or hourly pain. But could I sink and call it gain ? Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain To wed a Pilot's Daughter. Lift lier, perhaps ? — but ah ! I said, Much ^\^ser leave such thoughts alone. So may thy beauty, simple maid. Be mine, yet all thy own. 150 THE pilot's rilETTT DAUOnXER. JoiiiM ill iny free contented love With companies of stars above ; Who from tlieir throne of airy steep Do kiss these ripples as they creep Across the boundless darkening deep, — Low vuiccful wave ! hush soon to sleep The gentle Pilot's Daughter ! IV. TO THE CICADA. Bt Meleagee. From the Greek Anthology. Cicada ! drunk with drops of dew, What musician equals you In the rural solitude ? On a perch amidst the wood, Scraping to your heart's desire Dusky sides with notchy feet, Shrilling, thrilHng, fast and sweet. Like the music of a lyre. Dear Cicada ! I entreat, Sing the Dryads something new ; So from thick-embower'd seat Pak himself may answer you, 152 TO THE CICADA. Till every inmost glade rejoices With your loud alternate voices ; And I listen, and forget All the thorns, the doubts and fears, Love in lover's heart may set ; Listen, and forget them all. And so, with music in mine ears, Where the plane-tree-shadows steep The ground with coldness, softly fall Into a noontide sleep. V. THE COLD WEDDIXa. But three days gone Her hand was won By suitor finely skill'd to woo ; And now come we In pomp to see The Church's ceremonials due. The Bride in white Is clad aright, Within her carriage closely hid ; No blush to veil — For too, too pale The cheek beneath each downcast lid. iji THE COLD AVEDDING. White favours rest On every breast ; And yet methinks we seem not gay. • The church is cold, The priest is old, — But who will give the bride away ? Now delvcr, stand, With spade in hand. All mutely to discharge thy trust : Priest's words sound forth ; They're—" Earth to earth, " Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The groom is Death ; He has no breath ; (The wedding peals, how slow they swing!) With icy grip He soon will clip Her fiiiEcer with a wormy ring. THE COLD "WEDDIXG. 155 A matcli most fair. This silent pair, Now to each other given for ever, Were lovers long, Were plighted strong In oaths and bonds that could not sever. Ere she was born That vow was sworn ; And we must lose into the ground Her face we knew : As thither you And I, and all, are swiftly bound. This Law of Laws That still withdraws Each mortal from all mortal ken — If 'twere not here ; Or we saw clear Instead of dim as now ; — what then ? This were not Earth, and we not Men. VI. ON A FORENOON OF SPRING. I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel The full deliciousness of this bright day, That's like a heart with nothing to conceal ; The young leaves scarcely trembling ; the blue-grey Rimming the cloudless ether far away ; Brairds, hedges, shadows ; mountains that reveal Soft sapphire ; this great floor of polish' d steel Spread out amidst the landmarks of the bay. I stoop in sunshine to our circling net From the black gunwale ; tend these milky kine Up their rough path ; sit by yon cottage-door Plying the diligent thread ; take wings and soar — hark, how with the season's laureate Joy culminates in song 1 If such a song were mine ! VII. THE THREE FLOWERS. A PiLGKiM light for travel bound Tript througli a gay parterre ; The cool fresh dew was on the ground, The lark's song in the air. One bud, where free of cloud or mist Heaven's colour did unfold, He claim'd with joy and fondly kiss'd, And next his heart wiU hold. How happy ! might the tender thing, The blue delightful blossom, Have kept the sweetness of its Spring, Nor wither' d in his bosom ! 158 THE TllKKK FLOWKUS. He strode along through cultured fields, By manly contest won, And hless'd the sylvan bow'r that shields From rage of noontide sun ; liut spied aluft a rich red bloom, And, good or evil hap, The slippeiy precipice he clomb To set it in his cap. Then forward, forward proudly Hies, Too swift and proud for heeding How leaf by leaf his vaunted prize May scatter in the speeding ! Across a moorland crept his way ; The heather far and near Steep' d in the solemn sinking day, And the sad waning year. His bent regard descries a flow'r, One little cup of snow, Whose mystic fragrance hath the pow'r To bring him kneeling low. THE THREE FLOWERS. 159 All on the ground lie dropt asleep ; The leaves made haste to hide him. Above unrolls the starry deep ; A white flower nods beside him. VIII. SONG, IN THE DUSK. ^VELCOME ! friendly stars, one by one, two by two ; And the voices of the waterfall are toning in the air ; "Whilst the wavy landscape-outlines are blurr'd with falling dew ; As my rapture is with sadness, because I may not share, And double it by sharing it with thee. ■ — Cloudy fire dies away on the sea. Now the calm shadowy earth she lies musing like a saint ; She is wearing for a halo the pure circlet of the moon ; From the mountain breathes the night-wind, steadily, though faint ; As I am softly breathing, " Ah ! might some heav'nlj' boon Bestow thee, my belov'd one, to my side !" — Like a full, happy heai-t flows the tide. IX. ST. MARGARET'S 'ETE. I BUELT my castle upon the sea-side, T/ie umves roll so gaily O, Half on the land and half in the tide, Love me true ! AVithin was silk, without was stone, The leaves roll so gaily 0, It lacks a queen, and that alone, Love me true ! The grey old harper sung to me, The leaves roll so gaily O, Beware of the damsel of the sea ! Love me true ! M 1G2 ST. Margaret's eve. Saint Margaret's Eve it did befal, The leaves roll so 'UESEET SO>'G. " BlEDiE, Birdie, will you pet ? Summer is far and far asvay yet. You'll have silken quilts and a velvet bed, And a piUow of satin for jour head!" " I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall ; No rain comes through, tho' I hear it fall ; The sun peeps gay at dawn of day. And I sing, and wing away, away !" " Birdie, Birdie, will you pet ? Diamond-stones and amber and jet We'll string on a necklace fair and fine, To please this pretty bird of mine !" 190 TUE BIRD. " thanks for diamonds, and tlianks for jet, But here is sonathing daintier yet, — A feather-necklace round and round, That I Avouldn't sell for a thousand pound !" " Birdie, Birdie, wont you pet ? We'll buy you a dish of silver fret, ■ A golden cup and an ivory seat, And carpets soft beneath your feet !" " Can running water be drunk from gold ? Can a silver dish the forest hold ? A rocking twig is the finest chair. And the softest paths lie through the air, — Goodbye, goodbye to my lady fair!" XIX. A BOY'S BUFJAL. Os a sunny Saturda}- evening They laid him in his grave, When the sycamore had not a shaking leaf, And the harbour not a wave. The sandhills lay in the yellow ray Eipe with the sadness of parting May ; Sad were the mountains blue and lone That keep the landscape as their own ; The rocky slope of the distant fell ; The river issuing from the dell ; — And when had ended the voice of pray 'r The Fall's deep bass was left on the air, Rolling down. li)2 A boy's nURlAL. Young he was and hojieful, And all, to die bo soon ! His new grave lies desei ted At the rising of the moon ; But when morn comes round, and the church bells sound, The little children may sit on the mound. And talk of him, and as they talk, Puff from the dandelion stalk Its feathery globe, that reckons best Their liglit-wing'd hours ; — while the town is at rest, And the stone-ch acker rattles here and there, And the glittering Fall makes a tune in the air, llolling dow n. XX. ox THE SUNXY SHOEE. Checquee'd with woven shadows as I lay Anaong the grass, bliiikhig the watery gleam ; I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay, Most idly floating in the noontide beam. Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream, Buoy'd like the young moon on a level stream Of greenish vapour at dechne of day. Swam airilv, — watchinfir the distant flocks Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep Touch'd the clear-trembUng cool with tiny shocks, Faint-cii'clmg ; till at last he di-opt asleep, Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks. XXI. THE NOBLEMAN'S WEDDING. ( To an old Irish Tune. ) Once I was guest at a Nobleman's wedding ; Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been kind ; And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the shedding ; Her former true lover still runs in her mind. Clothed like a minstrel, her former true lover Has taken his harp up, and tuned all the strings ; There among strangers, his grief to discover, A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings. " here is the token of gold that was broken ; Through seven long years it was kept for your sake ; You gave it to me as a true lover'.s token ; No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake." THE NOBLEMAN'' S WEDDI>'G. 195 She sat in her place by the head of the table, The words of his ditty she mark'd them right well ; To sit any longer this bride was not able, So down, in a faint, from the carved chair she fell. " one, one request, my lord, one and no other, this one request will you grant it to me ? To lie for this night in the arms of my mother, And ever, and ever, thereafter with thee." Her one one request it was granted her fairly ; Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed ; And the very next morning, early, early. They rose and they found this young bride was dead. The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he kiss'd her. He spoke loud and low, and listen' d full fain ; He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist her, But nothing could bring the lost breath back again. o2 1!)() THE nobleman's WEDDING. O carry her softly ! the grave is made ready ; At head and at foot plant a laurel-lmsh green ; For she was a young and a sweet noble lady, The fairest young bride that I ever have seen. XXTI. WOULD I KNEW! Plats a child in a garden fair Where the demigods are walking ; Playing unsuspected there As a bird within the air, Listens to their wondrous talking : " Would I knew — would I knew What it is they say and do!" Stands a youth at city-gate, Sees the knights go forth together, Parleying superb, elate, Pair by pair in princely state. Lance and shield and haughty feather : lOR WOULD I knew! " Would I knew — would T knew What it is they say and do !" Bends a man with trembling knees By a gulph of cloudy border ; Deaf, he hears no voice from these Winged shades he dimly sees Passing by in solemn order : " Would I knew — would I knew What it is they say and do !" XXIII. BY THE MORNING SEA. The wind shakes up the sleepy clouds To kiss the ruddied Morn, And from their awful misty shrouds The mountains are new-born : The Sea lies fresh with open eyes ; Night-fears and moaning dreams Brooding like clouds on nether skies, Have sunk below, and beams Dance on the floor like golden flies, Or strike with joyful gleams Some white-wing' d ship, a wandering star Of Ocean, piloting afar. liUO BY THE MORXIXG SEA. Ill Imikes, in woods, in cottage-eaves, The early birds ai-e rife. Quick voices thrill the sprinkled leaves In ecstasy of life ; And with the gratitude of flowers The morning's breath is sweet, And cool with dew, that freshly showers Round wild things' hasty feet. But the heavenly guests of quiet hours To inner skies retreat, From human thoughts of lower birth That stir upon the waking earth. Across a thousand leagues of land The mighty Sun looks free. And in tlicir fringe of ruck and sand A thousand leagues of sea. Lo ! I, in this majestic room, As real as the Sun, Inherit this day and its doom BY THE MOE>'INa SEA. 201 Eternally begun. A world of rnen the rajs illume, God's men, and I am one. But life that is not pure and bold Doth tarnish every morning's gold. XXIV. THE MAIDS OF ELFEN-MERE. 'TwAS when the spinning-room was here, There came Three Damsels clothed in white, With their spindles every night ; Two and one, and Three fair Maidens, Spinning to a pulsing cadence, Singing songs of Elfen-Mere ; Till the eleventh hour was toll'd, Then departed through the wold. Years ago, and years ago ; And the tall reeds sigh as the loind doth blow. THE MAIDS OF ELFEN-MEEE. 203 Three white LiHes, calm and clear, And they were loved by every one ; Most of all, the Pastor's Son, Listenmg to their gentle singing, Felt his heart go from him, clinging Round these Maids of Elfen-Mere ; Sued each night to make them stay, Sadden'd when they went away. Years ago, and years ago ; And the tall reeds sigh as the loind doth blow. Hands that shook with love and fear Dared put hack the village clock, — Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock, Flow'd the song with subtle rounding, Till the false " eleven" was sounding ; Then these Maids of Elfen-Mere Swiftly, softly, left the room, Like three doves on snowy plume. Years ago, and years ago ; And the tall reeds sigh, as the wind doth blow. 204 Tin: maids of elfex-mere. One that night who wander' d near Heard lamentiiigs by the shore, Saw at dawn three stains of gore In the waters fade and dwindle. Nevermore with song and spindle Saw we Maids of Elfen-Mere. The Pastor's Son did pine and die ; Because true love should never lie. Years ago, and years ago ; And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. XXV. A VALENTINE. Ladt fair, lady fair, Seated with the scornful, Though your beauty be so rare, I were but a bom fool Still to seek my pleasure there. To love your features and youi- hue, AH your glowing beauty, All in short that's good of you. Was and is my duty, As to love all beauty too. 20G A VALENTINE. J3ut now a fairer face I've got, A Picture's — and believe me, I never look'd to you for what A picture cannot give me : What you've more, improves you not. Your queenly lips can speak, and prove The means of your uncrowning ; Your brow can change, your eyes can move. Which grants you power of frowning ; Hers have Heav'n's one thought, of Love. So now I give good-bye, ma belle, And lose no great good by it ; You're fair, yet I can smile farewell, As you must shortly sigh it, To your bright, liglit outer shell ! XXVI. UNDEK THE GRASS. Wheee these green mounds o'erlook the mingling Erne And salt Atlantic, clay that walk'd as Man A thousand years ago, some Vikin stern, May rest, or chieftain high of nameless clan ; And when my dusty remnant shall return To the great passive World, and nothing can With eye, or lip, or finger, any more, lay it there too, by the river shore. The silver salmon shooting up the fall. Itself at once the arrow and the bow ; The shadow of the old quay's weedy wall Cast on the shining turbulence below ; The water-voice which ever seems to call Far off out of my childhood's long-ago ; 208 UNDEE THE GRASS. The gcntk' washing ol" tliu harhour wave ; Be these the sights and sounds around my grave. Soothed also with thy friendly beck, my town, And near the scjuare grey tower within wliosc shade Was many of my kin's last lying-down ; ^V^lilst, by the broad heavens changcfully array'd, Empurpling mountains its horizon crown ; And westward 'tween low hummocks is display'd In lightsome hours, the level pale blue sea, With sails upon it creeping silently : Or, other time, beyond that tawny sand, An ocean glooming underneath the shroud Drawn thick athwart it by tempestuous hand ; When like a mighty iirc the bur roars loud, As though the whole sea came to whelm the land, — The gull flies white against the stormy cloud. And in the weather-gleam the breakers mark A ghastly line upon the waters dark. UNDER THE GRASS. 209 A green unfading quilt above be spread, And freely round let all the breezes blow ; May children play beside the breathless bed, Holiday lasses by the cliff-edge go ; And manly games upon the sward be sped, And cheerful boats beneath the headland row ; And be the thought, if any rise, of me, What happy soul might wish that thought to be. XXVII. KAXXY'S SAILOR LAD. Now fare-you-well ! my bonny ship, Fur 1 am for the sliore. Tlie wave may flow, the breeze may blow. They'll carry me no more. And all as 1 came walkinsr And singing up the sand, I met a pretty maiden, I took her by the hand. But still she would not raise lier head, A word she would not speak. And tears were on her eyelids, Dripi)ing down her cheek. KATfNT's SAILOE LAD. Now grieve jon for your father ? Or husband might it be ? Or is it for a sweetheart That's roving on the sea ? It is not for my father, I have no husband dear, But oh ! I had a sailor lad And he is lost, I fear. Three long years I am grieving for his sake, And when the stormy wind blows loud, I lie all night awake. I caught her in my arms, And she lifted up her eyes, I kiss'd her ten times over In the midst of her surprise. p2 211 212 nanny's bailor lad. Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny, And speak again to me ; dry your tears, my darling, For I'll go no more to sea. 1 have a love, a true true love. And I have golden store, The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, They'll carry me no more ! XXVIII. • FEOST IN THE HOLIDAYS. The time of Frost is the time for me ! When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee, When the voice leaps out with a chiming soxmd, And the footstep rings on the musical ground ; When the earth is white, and the air is bright, And every breath is a new delight ! While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest. What a glorious sky ! — through the level west Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze, Which deepen'd up into purple greys. With stars aloft as the light decreas'd. Till the great moon rose in the rich blue east. 214 FROST IX THE HOLIDAYS. And Morning ! — each pane is a garden of frost, Of delicate flowering, as quickly lost ; For the stalks are fed by the moon's cold beams. And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams By Night's keen breath, and a glance of the Sun Like dreams will scatter them every one. Hurra ! the lake is a league of glass ! Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass. Off we shoot, and poise and wheel, And swiftly turn upon scoring heel ; And our flying sandals chirp and sing Like a flock of swallows upon the wing. Away from the crowd witli the wind we drift, No vessel's motion so smoothly swift ; Fainter and fainter the tumult grows, And the gradual stillness and wide repose Touch witli a hue more poft and grave The lapse of joy's declining wave. TEOST ly THE HOLIDAYS. 21.5 Here the ice is pure ; a glance ma}' sound Deep through the awful, dim profound, To the water dungeons where snake-weeds hide. Over which, as self-upborne, we glide, Like wizards on dark adventm-e bent, The masters of every element. Homeward now. The shimmering snow Kisses om* hot cheeks as we go ; Wavering down the feeble wind, Like a manifold Dream to a Poet's mind, Till the earth, and the trees, and the icy lakes, Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes. At home are we by the merry fire, Ranged in a ring to our heart's desire. And who is to tell some wondi'ous tale. Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale, Set chin on hands, make grave eyes stare, Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair ? i!l(> FBOST IN THE nOLIDATS. The one low voice goes wandering on In a mystic world, whither all are gone; The shadows dance ; little Caroline Has stolen her fingers up into mine. But the night outside is very chill, And the Frost liums loud at the window-sill. XXIX. DEATH DEPOSED. Death stately came to a young man, and said " If thou wert dead, What matter ?" The young man replied, " See my young bride, Whose life were all one blackness if I died. My land requires me ; and the world's self, too, Methinkfe, would miss some things that I can do." Then Death in scorn this only said, "Be dead." And so he was. And soon another's hand Made rich his land. 218 DEATH DEPOSED. The sun, too, of throe summers Imd the might To bleach the widow's hue, light and more light, Again to bridal white. And nothinir seem'd to miss beneath that sun His work undone. But Death soon met another man, whose eye Was Nature's spy ; Who said, " Forbear thy most triumphant scorn. The weakest born Of all tbe sons of men, is by his birth An heir of the Eternal Strength ; and Earth Feels and is moved by him in his place, And wears his trace. "Thou, — the mock Tyrant that men fear and hate, Grim fleshless Fate, Cold, dark, and wormy thing of loss and tears ! Not in the sepulchres DEATH DEPOSED, 219 Thou dwellest, but in my own crimson' d heart ; Where while it beats we call thee Life. Depart ! A name, a shadow, into any gulf, Out of this world, which is not thine, But mine : Or stay ! — because thou art Only Myself." XXX. ON THE TWILIGHT TOXD. A SHADOWY fringe the fir-trees make, \Vliere sunset light hath been ; The liquid thrills to one gold flake, And Hesperus is seen ; Our boat and we, not half awake, Go drifting down the pond, While slowly calls the Kail, "Crake-crake," From meadow-flats beyond. This happy, circling, bounded view Embraces us with home ; To far worlds kindling in the blue, Our upward thoughts may roam ; OS THE TWILIGHT POXD. 221 Wheuce, with the veil of scented dew That makes the earth so sweet, A touch of astral brightness too, A peace — which is complete. BAVILL AND KUWABUS, I'KIMUKS, CUANDOS STUEKT. UMVLRSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. REC'D URL-LO MAY 2 9 1967 OGioil983 .nil L'.t-:!7m ;;,'57(C'5124n4)-1 1 I 3 1158 00605 4059 LIBRARY FACILITY 7a 000 369 366 o *;* ^v t .. ^. ■^f^j