UMIVER IIBRARY IDE i!A STRAWBERRY HILL ^ n if 1 1) r r ^3 o cm s . /#^^/ ^: d^^:^^^^-^ '^'-^'f^' STRAWBERRY HILL: /'/*-a:^ 5flnti otfjcr pocm^. BY COLBURN MAYNE, LONDON ; (for the author,) JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 and 75, PICCADH.LY 1868. ■^'i & ^ LONDON- PRINTED BY RANKEN AND CO., DRURY HOUSE, ST. M.\RT-1,E-STBAND. DEDICATION. TO FRANCES, COUNTESS WALDEGRA^^. Tex years ago will reach the time I saw beneath the surly skies Of dim November ghastly rise The walls that won my rhyme. Stained o'er by years' and ruin's traces, I saw gleam through the anti(|uc grove The home that won so much of love And eighteenth century praises. How sad that wi'eckcd and wasted whim Of him, the witty and the wise, Who bade the Gothic galleries rise For Thames to fondlv limn ! Tl DEDICATION. What loving labour's skill he brought, What treasures fetched from famous lands, What thought of brain and toil of hands Went to the work he wrought ! There lived he happy 'neath its roof, And gladly worked from year to year ; How proud when from its press appear, Tlie printer saw his proof. Beneath the roof where now reposes Their pictiured grace that grows not old, ( )ncc swept the gracious garments' fold Of Eeynolds' three rich roses. And mirth and wit and beauty's rays, And Selwyn's jest and Wortley's punning. Buzzed round the steps of each fair Grunning In those AValpolian days. How sad could prophet ray have shone. And flashed the future on his mind. And shown him scattered all he shrined, 'Ere sixty years were gone ! DEDICA TION. Aud yet 'twere worth the bitter sting Such flash had sent to heart and l)raiij. Had it revealed the future's gain From future loss to spring. What rapture then his heart might swell, To see the renovated fane — See Strawberry's turrets rise again, And "bear away the bell." 0, Lady, blest be thou, whose thought . ]S'ot lightly, noblest task conceiving, With genial taste thy work achieving, Hast to perfection brought The halls whose famous Gothic screen Gleams brightly as of yore it gleamed, When Walpole in his study dreamed Otranto's wondrous scene. There, 'midst thy statesmen, wits, and sages. Move thou orbed round with all their tame. And worthier poets send thy name To live through coming ages. Vll PREFACE. Should any one, having glanced at my volume, ask me, " Do you imagine that there is a place for this on the shelf that holds the works of such poets as Ten- nyson, Browning, Arnold, Morris, and Swinburne '?" 1 would at once answer, "Ko." But then, such question would presume some com- petition between my book and the writings of these men, and this would be indeed to mistake my aim, which was simply to tell, as well as I could, the tale of a place which, standing near my own birthplace, and surrounded by the scenes I have loved from child- hood, has ever been regarded by me with a yet deeper and tenderer interest than that which it must possess for every lover of the literature of the last century. It seemed to me that the tale of " Strawberry Hill," often already told in prose, might be yet better told in verse, and that the verse best adapted to such a tale X PREFACE. would be that which, avoiding all approach to passion (ir profundity, should aim at being merely a lengthened form of the ters de societe. To preserve this from unnecessary tedium, a fre- quent change of metre and — as often as possible — of subject, seemed requisite, and this — how far suc- cessfully, others must judge — I have endeavoured to introduce. Around the central subject of my rhyme I have sought to group my favourites — the men and women of the days of Sir Joshua Reynolds ; the men and women who have been looking down on us from his canvas for the past two years at the jS'ational Portrait Exhi- bition — Sir llobcrt Walpole and his beautiful bride ; their son Horace, the Lord of Strawberry ; Horace's three fair nieces, the offspring of the romantic love of Edward Walpole and Mary Clements, one of whom, having married the Earl of Waldegrave, became the mother of those thi-ee still more renowned beauties, Horatia, Maria, and Laura "Waldegrave, whose por- traits, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, long familiar to sonie in the gallery at Strawberry Hill, were, last year, PREFACE. xi exhibited to the public at the JSTational Exhibition. These, -with their fair contemporaries, the (runnings and Lady Mary Wortlcy Montague, and others just glanced at, floated before my vision, and seemed to allure me to endeavour to fasten tliem on my page. Conscious as I am how blurred are the outlines and misty the lights of my portraits, I yet hope that some may glance, not altogether unfavourably, at this attempt to represent a few of the brilliant figures of the last century as they may have peopled the rooms and enlivened the lawns of " Strawberry Hill." "With regard to the minor pieces in this volume, they are dear to me because they mirror much of a time that, till I had written all but the last of them, T knew not was so soon to pass from me. Almost perfect happiness is in tliis world so rare, that, perhaps, they will please by their picture of a life that seemed nearly to touch upon it, while to me tliey will ever bo the record of the days " So fair, so fresh, the days that are no more."' Clevkl.vnd Squaue, May, 1868. CONTENTS. STEAWBEKRY HILL. r.vciF. Canto I. — Sir Robert Walpole : — I. The Wedding I II. Houghton Hall 3 III. The Statesman 6 Canto II. -Horace Walpole: — I. The Thames... 9 II. The Friends 1] III. At Court 13 Canto III.— Houghton Hall: — 35 Horace Walpole to George Montague 43 Canto IV. — Strawberry Hill 51 Edward Walpole and Mary Clements 5(J A Day at Strawberry Hill (1755) 61 The Three Sisters C)7 A Message 74 Notes to "Strawberry Hill" 78 XIV CONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. PAGE The Sailing of the " Golden Fleece :" — A Letter from tlie Tropics ... ... 88 Answer to Letter from the Tropics ... ... ... 93 The Blackbird's Song 96 Impromptu 98 To Miss Helen Faucit 99 The Kingdom of Powdered Hair 103 Austrian Lays : — Marie Antoinette at her Trial IOC An Incident of 1859 109 " Poor Max. !" 113 Garibaldi AN Lays: — Mentaua ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 114 Is it over.' 118 The Pontiff's Prayer 120 English Lays: — Harrow-on-the-Hill 124 The Great Seal of England :— I. The Keepers of the Seal 127 iL The Seal 133 Hyde Park in May 138 Tjhe Last Words OF Marshal Saxe 146 The Faun in the Capitol 148 Graves at Florence 151 A Wedding, April, 1867 153 Claudine 155 Lines in Cemeteries : — Composed in the Glasgow Cemetery ... 160 In a Military Cemetery ... ... ... ... ... 164 A Picture. Narcissus to Lucile 1G6 A Ee\'erie. Lucile to Narcissus 168 The Felon's Bride 171 A Fancy, &c 172 The Sisters 173 CONTENTS. XV The White Caps The Two Ceciles :— I. The Meeting II- The Marriage Song Cousin Clare; or, My Brother's Wife From a Club-Koom Window On Kissing the Queen's Hand Library Lai's : — Eveuiiig Dreams ... Campden House A London Lyric The " Story without au Eud " The Tales of the East The Waver ley Novels The Olden Days Lays of the Home Affections : — To Mrs. Fletcher, of Killoughtcr ... Mary's Turkey Birthday Stanzas. To T. C. M. ... Memories of Childhood. To T. C. M. In Memory of M. S. F PAGE . 175 177 . 185 186 . 188 197 . 201 203 . 207 215 . 224 227 . 232 241 . 242 245 . 249 254 . 2.50 STRAWBERRY HILL CANTO I. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. THE "RTIDDING. July's last eve, and AVilliam king, The century scarce eight months begun. And all men wondering would it bring Vast changes e'er the year were nm ; A quiet Norfolk village, where, The toils and heat of labour o'er, The men in little knots repair To argue round the ale-house door. Such is the time, and such the scene On wliich I bid the curtain rise ; The old oak-tree — ^the village green — The sailLag clouds of summer skies. B STRAWBERRY HILL. Some gossippcd of tlic failing strength Of that great man who ruled the realm, And others, " Well, 'tis time at length That English hands should take the helm ; The Princess, bless her ! she, you know, Was bom amongst us, English bred, To me 'twill be no day of woe That sets the crown upon her head ; The Dutchman may be called away, Whene'er God sees it to be best, Though, while he lives, I, too, will say, ' God save King William' with the rest." "Well, neighbour, well, sure, you forget Our king's great soul — his glorious deeds — One in a million, he who set Us free from all their foreign creeds. Who fought King Lewis and the French ;" — But, hark ! the bells ring sudden out. And gossips on the ale-house bench Break off to sec what 'tis about ; And soon the rumour rose and spread, And buzzed from cottage-door to door. That yestermorn " Young Squire " "was wed, That eve his bride he homeward bore. And now the carriage comes in sight, Afar the scarlet jackets gleam. Snowed on the breast with favours white, That badges of his conquest seem — STRAIVBERRV HILL. That good old custom, English quite, Wliich sets such value on the prize. That he who wins it thinks it right To trophy it before all eyes. So thus, in light of summer day. Young "Walpole brought his Catherine home, And Houghton Hall before them lay. Instead of Paris or of Eome. II. HOIJGHTOX H.VLL. How fair old Houghton looked that eve ! How rich the acres spread around ! How glad the home that soon must grieve The loss of one — one ever found, In those old days of honest worth, A piece of Nature's darling plan, Her highest standard for the earth, k. simple sterling Englishman, Who now stood forth to welcome there, AVith all a father's hearty pride. The son to Houghton's acres heir, The bridegroom with his blushing bride ; And there the servants ranged and ranked, And there the tenants trooping all. With roses and with ribands pranked. Shout "Welcome home to Houghton Hall I" B 2 STRAIFBERRV HILL. A moment turned the bride's sweet face In thanks upon the cheering crowd, The evening gained a gentler grace, The joy-bells rang more sweet and loud As, led across the threshold, she Was clasped once more to his strong breast. And felt, half pained, the kisses he Upon her lips in welcome pressed. Ah, happy days at Houghton Hall, Ah, honeymoon of perfect bliss ! How oft, when famous, he'll recall, And deem no year so dear as this ; Though on its close swift shadow came, Dark falling where the old man slept, "Vriio, hall and boroughs, wealth and name. His father's trust had safely kept For him, who, kneeling by his grave, Felt buried in it lay the flowers Of those young years he freely gave, With their first-fruit of college hours — That spring of life, whose flushing flame Through all youth's pulses swiftly shoots. And helps the blood in boyhood's frame To ripen manhood's gi'acious fruits — Those student days, whose golden cup O'erflows with the old classic wine, "Whose youth is free with gods to sup And drink, rose-crowned, with the divine STRAn'BERRV HILL. Old thinkers, whose sweet Latin hiys Sound echoing from the vales utUr With chime of Cytherea's praise, Or hymn to the young Julian star — The days when St. John came to spend "With him his idle hours of college, And friend, unjcalous, brought to friend ■ The genial help of diverse knowledge ;— From these, and all that they foretold Of student honours, student fame — The future's brilliant chart unrolled And glittering proudly with his name — Turning, while now his sight could hail The goal in view, he left the race, Came home to quaff the Norfolk ale. And hunt the deer in Houghton Chace. And now these roses softly fall, And whitely o'er his father's sleep, While he, the whitest rose of all. An unstained heart may blameless keep ; Though even, now he longs in truth To wear again, as he has worn. And blend with his gay rose of youth. The laurels duty had forsworn. Now springs again his college dream, As in his breast ambition woke, And burned to take up Sidney's theme, And speak the words that Sidney spoke. STRAWBERRY HILL. m, THE STATESMAJT. Beauteous as, seen thi'ough some grey arch Of Ponte Yeccliio, tlie skies, And sunlit flash of Arno's march Look in the lover's lingeriag eyes, So, from the strong stem life that now O'erbends our hero's stirring years, As soft the landscape's tender glow That sleeps round Houghton Hall appears But, as the hurrying steps of men, And life's loud chorus swelling roimd. Impel the loiterer on again To reach the goal where he is bound ; So "VYalpole dare not linger now Upon the thi-eshold of his fame. Lest laurels wither on his brow. Lest dimmed the radiance of his name ; And steadily, from year to year. With stronger lustre seemed to wax The star of him men named the peer Of Compton, Stanhope, Halifax ; But nobler friendship he won then In his whose friendship honour gave ; The handsomest of handsome men. And of brave soldiers the most brave ; And though, great Churchill, in this age Of petty motives, pettier men, STRAIVBERRY HILL. They -write thy life, but blot the page With slanders on thy name, — what then ? That name shall still tlu'oughout all stoiy Be held the greatest England had, And they ^\\\o strive to mar its glory Scarce wicked deemed, but simply mad ; Twin stars, henceforth, of field and State, They waxed and waned henceforth together, Shone brightest through the clouds of hate. And steadiest in the roughest weather. And we, who safely dwell to-day Within our Avisely tempered land, "Where, on each open ordered way. Walk Law and Freedom hand in hand — Shall we forget to whom we owe More than to Fox our happy times. Leave Marlborough's memory to the foe To blacken in sarcastic rhymes? " Marlbrook se va t'en gueiTe," they sing ; Has England learnt no nobler lay. No mighty anthem burst to fling Rich music o'er his glorious clay ? 0, rise, some poet's heart of fire — Eise to the grandeur of the theme, With his great name enchant thy lyre. And waken fools from their sick dream — The hope of Laudian days restored With hocussed chalice, mimicked rite. 8 STRAWBERRY HILL. The play at priestcraft men abhoiTed, Who lived in dawn of Freedom's light — Do ye, who praise the Stuart cause, And slander England's noblest king, Who prate of James's tolerant laws, And back your "good old times" would bring. Forget such hope, now but a dream ; Then woke a flame, well fed by Eome, Till France saw Marlborough's sword gleam, And Walpole stamped it out at home ? When St. John — all their youthful days Of student friendship long outgrown — When Harley subtly sought to raise The banished race to England's throne, Came Marlborough with his glittering fame. Came Walpole with his zeal unfeigned, The nation's heart caught up theii' flame, And Guelphic George in England reigned. STRAIVBERRV HILL. CANTO II. HORACE WALPOLE. I. THE THAMES. ROYAL Thames, whose windings flow Tlu'ough many a landscape world rcncsiiTied, ^\Tiat beauties has the earth to show Like those with which thy banks are crowned? Wind on by Godstow's ivied wall — "Wind on by Rosamunda's bower, From ISTuneham's chestnuts o'er thee fall Their waxen blooms in summer's shower ; By many a mill, and bridge, and farm, Glide thou, reflecting each fair scene ; Dash o'er each weir thy mimic chai-m Of falls that ape a threatening mien. Then soft the Berkshire meadows lave, And Cuyp-likc glass in every fold, The cattle stooping o'er thy wave, The summer sunset's lingering gold ; lO STRAU-BERRV HILL. But pause awhile, still loitering where Thy curves are wooed by Datchet meads, 'Mid pastures sweetening all the air With clover, where the brown bee feeds, Fo]' here thy cunning coils are caught, 'Midst islets fi-inged on every side By trees that bend as though they sought To chain thy half-reluctant tide ; And here, amidst the landscape, rises The long-drawn screen of Windsor's keep ; And here, a link 'twixt Cam and Isis, Old Eton's Gothic cloisters sleep. A century and a half have fled, Nor altered one of these fair scenes. Though all who gazed on them are dead. The kings and princes, lords and queens, Since side by side, in Eton fields, Two, deep in youth's delicious themes, Walked, sharing all that boyhood yields Of eager hopes and ardent di'eams ; There, pacing by Thames' flowered sides, They paint all life one gay romance, While Hope holds up the future's slides Rose-coloured to their eager glance ; And they believe that friendship still Will follow them through all their days, And Love a golden cup will fill. And still deserve her poet's praise. I STRAWBERRY HILL. II ri. THE FEIEXDS. The boy's first friendship formed at school, First, purest love we feel in Kfe, Could all be measured by its rule ; How free our after years from strife, Something there seems almost di\-ine. In the pure bond such young lives linking. 0, well wiitcs one, " Such is life's wine, And woman's love is but dnun-tli'inking."*' Such love was thcli^s, who bent away From cricket, football, boat, and barge, 'Midst some Arcadian scene to stray, On some Arcadian theme enlarge, To sketch a futui-e, wherein they Should soar above their youthful band. And Hash the names of Thomas Gray And Horace WaJ-pole tlirough the land. Perchance on some mild eve in May, When garden-thickets gave their scent Of lilac and of hawthorn spray. With the rich meadow-perfumes blent, They may have paused beside some stream, Whose little cui'rent' stole away Its waters tlirough the woods to dream, In haunts where footsteps seldom stray, * Lord Lytton. 12 STRAWBERRY HILL. And gazing on the silver flow, One may have wished his life conld be Calm as the stream, and, wishing so, Have claimed his comrade's sympathy; While he, whose fancies spread their wings, And fly to London's brilliant scene. Half gay, half serious, turns and sings The thoughts whose language may have been- Give me Life not smooth and placid As that calmly-cui-ving stream, Nor for me existence as it Reads in yoiu' idyllic theme. Be the Thames the chosen river On the chart you trace for me, With its emblems of endeavour, With its voice of -sictory. Grand, majestic, solemn sweeping On its ever- varied march ; Now in Slimmer meadows' keeping, Now rolled 'neath dark city arch ; Now the swan's soft sailing glassing, Now the mirror of that fleet, Whoso loud thunder heard in passing, Banded Europe fears to meet. STRAWBERRY HILL. Give me life that mirrors as it Palace, prison, foi-t and fleet, Church, and mill, and farm-house placid. Arching bridg-e, and thi'onging street. From its birthplace gladly springing. Sings it like a child along, Meets a myriad streamlets, bringing Their sweet chorus to its song. Then in currents deeper, wider, Gaining manhood's strength and voice. Gallops, like a gallant rider. To the lady of his choice. So the river to the ocean, Eiver wave to ocean tide, Ever springs with glad emotion, As the bridegroom to the bride. in. AT C0X7ET. So may have sung — while blent the words With hum of bee and blackbird's strain, With song of stream and lowing herds — His prophecy not all in vain, 13 H STRAWBERRY HILL. The lad who, leaving Eton, went Through every scene of that Court life, Where dwelt, as in their element, The statesman, Walpole, and his wife — Where round him glittered the hright rays Of wits and statesmen, beaux and belles. The Herveys, Swifts, and Popes, and Gays, The Bellendens and yoimg Lepels — Here Cowper's brilliant Frenchman came, Here reigned the royal Caroline ; Here she shone out in sudden fame, Who once had sold her locks to dine. Witliin her magic cii'cle drawn Come haK the sages, all the wits. And Swift is decent as in lawn. And Pope in playful humour hits That handsome Hervey, whom in time He will defame in vilest verse. In that detested, loathsome rhyme, Wliose memory is its author's curse. Here Chesterfield attained that grace. Which gave its stamp to haK the age ; Here star-like shone that lovely face, "WTiicli every passion seemed to cage ; \\Tiosc loveliness failed to disarm His satire, or save from his aim, Who in his vile attempt to harm, For ever sullied his own fame. STKAIP'BERRV HILL. 15 S(jon that small room where these repaired, O'ertopt the fame of that Greek mount, Whose goddesses the wits declared Would he to-day of small account. jVext those three Maries, whose fair faces All lights and shades of beauty dapple, Till none dare say which of these graces DeseiTcs the English shepherd's apple ; And 'mid this laughing motley crew. This ail' of satii'e and lampoon. The Eton stripling's boyhood grew, And hastened towards his manhood's ncjon- That brilliant noon which colour took From many a sweet surrounding grace, The wit of Court, the college book. The softness of a mother's face, Tliat ceased to smile just as his part In life the boy should take with men, And left that death- chill on his heart 1^0 sun in life could warm again ; But over many a grave the May Will steal with gentle, gradual tread, And moss, and blossom, and flowery spray Will brighten earliest round the dead ; And sun of May through painted pane Will find out where each tomb reposes, Its sculptured snow carnation stain, And flush its lilies into roses. l6 STRAIVBERRV HILL. So, o'er those graves within the heart, That fondest memories closely fold, Life's May will blossom, and fair Art Shed beauty with her magic gold ; And thus his youth broke into bloom, Thick as the May-tide's regal show. When all the orchard-buds o'erfoam The bending branches with their snow. As spring-sap thrills those orchard trees. So thi-ills the blood throughout his veins. Desires aroused Life's zither seize, And smite it into nobler strains, Wed to a song of ampler range. While his heart hangs upon the chords. And youth's impetuous wish for change Finds shaping in these wailing words — Yet a moment I am weary, let my swimming brain find rest. Let my fevered heart throb lower in my vext and harassed breast. I am bound to Life's conventions, as the mill-horse to the mill. Tracking weaiy circles round it, circle after circle still. All the way is trod down dusty, gone its verdure and its flowers. STJ^A n-BERRV HILL. 1 7 0, 1 cannot rest for thinking of the bright iintrammelk'd hours That fly before me in the future, up a loug and sliining track, Lit with sheen of snowy pinions, and wliite garments floating back ; And my heart strains ever after on the path that they have gone, Like the yearning in the coverts of a young deserted fawn, Whose eyes are straining sadly with their soft, pathetic speech. Seeking vainly for his mother, bounding far beyond his reach. So my heart strains to the futiu'c, to the hours that it stores. To the fair and foreign countries, to the briglit and distant shores. All the world that lies around me seems a disenchanted scene, Scarce believing now is left mc in the brightness that has been. Eton play-fields, ye were merry ; Eton friends, yc once were dear ; c l8 - STRAWBERRY HILL. But a numbness takes my heart-strings, and all life seems dull and drear. As a fairy banished for an a}on from the flower- brimming wood, Creeps to die within its thickets, finds a brick-field where it stood ; So to me those Eton meadows seem but fields for common uses, And from friends that would throng round me I turn off with sick excuses. All the meadow -blossoms faded, all the schoolboy friendships cold. Ah ! the world's dust thickens round me, and my heart is faint and old ! College cloisters lose their channing, college wit has lost its skill. For my life is out of tuning, and all things seem sad and ill. All the wit has fled from satire, and it only keeps its sting ; Pointless are the poisoned arrows that the wittiest writers fling. Spreads the brilliant lore of scholars in long rows from shelf to shelf ; .? TRA IVBER R \ ' II I L L. 1 9 I turn from all that it can teacli to the reading of myself ; Broocling ever o'er that study, till my heart grows faint and sick — Till my brain grows dull and giddy, till the air grows close and thick. Oh, let me 'scape the present, whose stern moments are my jailers ; Set my thoughts adrift, and follow them, the future's daring sailors. Let them hear me over oceans, that divide the sad to- day From the future's bright to-morrow, from tlie traveller's golden way. Let me fly this nan'ow island, all its life of Court and town ; Through the future's free savannahs let me hunt adventures down. ■ ' Let me climb the Alpine mountains, let me breast their snowy heights ; Barriers rising to divide me from fair Italy's delights. 0, Italia, fair Italia, cherished land of proud renown, Haste the vision's bright fulfilment of each old historic town. c 2 20 STRAWBERRY HILL. Let me gi'eet thy beauteous Milan, let me walk by Arno's side, Let me see the Lily City glass herself within its tide. Let me glide through Yenice alleys, let me see Rialto rise. Let my spirit sob and shudder 'neath the darksome Bridge of Sighs. Lo, the wide Campagna's desert ! — lo, the golden dream of years ! Points the driver — shouts exulting — San Pietro's dome appears ! Such my spirit's weaiy waiting for the glad and golden time. That will answer to the visions I but conjure up in rhyme. Such shaping into moiu'nful rhymes Of the heart's yearnings and its sighs, Is but the mask youth wears at times, But happiness in sorrow's guise. Yet all in youth's fair fallow hours Have breathed or felt that plaintive strain. Though mantled to the lips in flowers That fading, never bloom agaiu ; STRA WBERR Y HILL. 2 I And all like him have longed to fly- To the world's scenes of old renown, See glaw beneath their golden sky Italia' s classic tower and town — Have longed to read the Mantiian's verse, Beneath the shade of Mantuan beech, And hear old Ovid love rehearse, Where lingers phrase of Latin speech. At length life strikes that hour for him. He sets his willing sails, And following only Fancy's whim. Strikes out with favouring gales. And to the youth thus flushed with joy, A friend his classics lent. And, wise with years, as to a boy, These kindly verses sent — Take, my boy, these royal thinkers, Go with them 'neath haunted sky ; Drink, as suits all eager drinkers. Of the old divinity. You are flushed with bloom of youth, A\niile my bloom has faded long ; Kot for me, but you, in sooth. Should be classic poet's song. Take my Yirgil, I have read him On his native Mantuan ground, 2 2 STRAWBERRY HILL. HoAV his hero's wanderings led hira Half the ancient world around ; But I turned in days of summer To the poet's pastoral rhyme, Broken through with hrown bees' mui-mur, As they feasted on the thyme. Ah 1 the purple on the cover Of my Homer's lost its hue ; It has gone all Europe over "With me, as it may with you ; And my life has faded faster. Since I read those wondrous themes — Since thy purple, my master. Matched the purple of my dreams. Ah, my poet boy ! thou bringest Thoughts and di-eams long fled from me, To these golden rhymes thou stringest All thy soul's glad melody; Gazing on thy glowing present, I would quit the paths of men, TJnregretting, for that pleasant Lost land of my youth again. But, as that knows no returning. To thy youth I give its dower ; Take, my boy, from classic urning, Treasures for each glowing hour. ST/^A U'BERR V HILL. 23 Take my Yirgil — take my Homer, Freely read the ancient verse ; Gladly to each reverent comer, The old talcs they -svill rehearse. You will see the white vests gleaming Tlu-oiigh the olive-garden's shade ; You will sleep with Muses, di'caming In the Muses' haunted glade. The old sages will instruct you In their philosophic lore, And their master-minds conduct you Over realms they've trod before. But for me such di'eams are over, All my classic wanderings past ; Like Ulysses, the spent rover Eests within his home at last ; And the strains that sound the sweetest. Come in phrase of English speech ; And the poets now the meetest, In the English accents teach. I resign my Homer to you. But for that the closer clasp Wild Will. Shakspeare, happy, so you Will not force him from my gi-asp. I am not so held in haven That I may not go with him. 2 4 STI^A IVBERR V HILL. By tlie silrcr urns of Avon, By tlie haunted river's brim. I am able yet to wander , With, my Pope by Thames's side, And to watch its currents yonder Under the live arches glide. These are peaceful pleasures, matcliing With the autumn of my days, With the eye grown dull with watching, "With the Kp that's slow to praise. Let your ardent youth be fed on Nectar, by the ancients given ; Let your burning thoughts be sped on - Grecian wings to Greece's heaven. These that make with youth glad blending. Match but ill with riper age — That has long since reached the ending Of young Life's ecstatic page. And when life is ebbing faster, And the evening shadows close, When for me nor pleasant pasture, ISTor the garden's summer rose ; But, instead, the safest corner Of the parlour-fire holds me, Till e'en Pope may be a scomer Of the quiet life that folds me ; — STRA WBERR Y HILL. 2 5 Then my Milton safe will bring me On tlie holy path he went, And liis one tiaie God will sing me With no triple \dsions blent ; When my eyes are closing slowly On the lovely scenes of earth, He will give me visions holy Of a far exceeding worth. So your classic authors hold them, With their roses crown your youth, In your rapturous visions fold them, Let their table grow to truth ; But for me life's sober ending Claims a higher, holier theme, Needs a hope of nobler tending Than the pagan poet's dream. In later years, when all that time Of joyous voyaging had fled, With books returning rhyme for rhyme. His heart thus sorrowed for one dead. Take your books — the classic volumes — I have tried them all — The sweet rhymers who have answered To my spii'it's call. 2 6 STJ:A U'BERR \ • HILL. Once I lisiDed their magic numbers In my father's car ; Wliispcr now or speak them loudly, He will never hear. Since I've read for Memory's sake All the books he taught me, I have quaffed the poet's wine By Bacchantes brought me. Homer's golden lines have floated Down the antique page. With their grand spondaic echo Of that grander age. I have wandered down the ages With your wise Ulysses, Yearning ever for his homestead, And his wife's caresses. With your ^schylus I've wandered From the piirple vine. Where old Bacchus fii'st possessed him With the juice divine. I have joined in dance of Hellas, And the Dorian chonis ; While loud the people's plaudits rose. And the god fell o'er us. STRAWBERRY HILL. 27 Sweet as from the clmrch bells sprinkled Corae the Christmas chimes ; Soft as golden dews have fallen, Virgil's li(j^uid rhymes. Yet from tlieso my spirits waudri', Sad, and faint, and worn, Knowing that to such rich nurture They were never born. Once I worshipped the old ^Titers, Now my pale lips falter ; 0, for some kind hand to lead me To a milder altar ! I am sick with gazing ever On Jove's blinding splendour ; Let my drooping eyelids open On a light more tender. Lead me to the English meadows, Near the water's fall, "Wliere the summer calm is broken By the cuckoo's call. Milky hawthorn, pni-ple lilac, Give them to my hand ; Let me scent the dear narcissus Of my English land. 2 8 STRA U'BERR ] ' MIL L . Let me hear the oxen lowina; o In our Englisli fields ; Dearer this than all the music Classic poet yields. This is sweet to all my senses — Sweet the summer breeze, Fetching music from the summits Of the old elm-trees. Sweet to me the oxen lowing, And the brown bees' hum — Sweet the summer breezes blowing As they go and come. Over Hybla's fragrant blossoms Bees no longer fly ; Psestum's roses all have faded "With an age gone by. Virgil's lilies send a perfume Very faint and dead ; Floating withered down the current Of the ^ons fled. But the roses smell as sweetly From yon wayside hedge. And the mignonette is fragrant On my window's ledge. STRAWBERRY HILL. 29 Ah ! but even as I praise them, All their perfume goes ; And tliis English rosebud seemeth Dead as Psestuni's rose. Why is tliis, my English blossoms, That ye lose your charm, Wliile my spirits sink as sudden As an unnci'\'ed arm ? Ah ! for this that never landscape, Fed by English skies — Never blossom kept its beauty Long in lovely eyes — Eyes that vainly look around them For a dead one's gaze ; Lips that vainly seek his echoes Of their ardent praise. This was in later years his lay. Who then with youth's impetuous joy Leapt lightly o'er each lovely way That marks thy mountains, fair Savoy ; And, as he rose, beneath him lay A house and vine, not famous yet, Nor pilgrim trod the shaded way That led to Rousseau's " Lcs Channettes," O ^ TKA IVBERK \ ' HILL. To where, 'neath sliade the wabiuts wove, Dwelt, heedless of all others, they Who knew no rale of life hut love — De Warcns, Eoiisseau, young Anet. "VVarens, how strange that life of thine, TVTiose verse to pagan tunes was set, "Where still the Lampsacene found shrine, And hymns arose to Yenus yet ; And yet, where goodness kept the flame Of Chi'istian charity alive, Within a heart, where thronging came All vii'tues save the one to thrive. And thou, dear youth, the young Anet, A\Tiom Nature seemed to mark for fame. What lovely idylls ever stray, And breathe their sweetness round thy name ! The very' soul of goodness dwelt Within thy young but pensive heart. For thee a Milton might have felt The love that woke the poet's art ; O'er thee, as o'er his Lycidas, His reddest roses might have strewed. And sent thy name to visit us. Linked to his verses' sweetest mood. Yet scarce a lovelier idyll he Could waft upon the summer air. Than Eousscau wove, young Claude round thee, In those transparent pages, where STJ^A IVBERR ] " HILL. The walnut-trees still seem to wave, The three fond friends to live once more, And Anet climb -vrhcrc Jura gave To the young peasant all his lore. Within their little ciixde locked — Their wishes, cares, their hearts were one, Their lives at worldly maxims mocked, And what each wished by all was done. Perchance the century's swing has brought A wiser rule — a better age. And we prefer the lessons taught In Cresswell's court to Eousseau's page. I dare not judge, but still sometimes To me our social air grows thick, Though even then 'tis but in rliymes I care to own, my heart is sick Of all Convention's shaven lawns, Her velvet ways and close-clipt hedges — Her sceneiy, where no morning dawns. All gas-lit seen from opera ledges — Her stage performance, all whose men Speak cut and dry their studied speech; And few will dare, scarce one in ten. To move but as their leaders teach ; And then to me the air l)l(jws fresh From far Savoy and Les Charmettes ; I sigh to rend oiu' social mesh. And go 'midst peasants and forget 3 2 STJi:A ll'BERR V HILL. The laws that chain our lives, and fetter Each bright emotion of the sonl, And think I should be wiser — ^better, My life more lovely, on the whole. Savoy ! — what breeze of youth that word Blows with a laugh right in my face From the bright days, when o'er thy sward I leapt with all a stripling's grace. Shall I e'er see thy plains again, And brown my cheek in autumn's bask. And hear the blithesome vintage-strain Rise round the merry autunm task — Shall I e'er see thy red must foam And seethe around thy peasants' limbs, And hear, in many a cottage home, The children chant the vintage hymns — Shall I e'er see one kind old man, Who, standing at the fann-yard gate. Scarce paused the wanderer's face to scan. E'er spread the napkin, laid the plate For simple feast of chestnuts boiled. And wine, whose grapes grew on the slope ; But to the traveller who had toiled, Three hours up hill a kaiser's tope ; Shall I hear his shrewd speech, and wise, Aim those swift shafts of native wit. And mark each aiTow as it flies, Strike home on sturdy wing, and hit ? STRAWBERRV HILL. Zi " Why, sir, he sold us just like sheep, Though we, right willing to be sold, Went gladly from his sordid keep To France's rich imperial fold." Thus a few words, and shi'ewd compress'd, The story of King Victor's sale, And the Savoyard but express'd All Europe's reading of the tale. Shall I with Rousseau's volumes track Each road he has made haunted clay, Ajid echo his life's anthem back, " Fair Freedom does whole worlds outweigh ?" And so, perchance, my hero thought The Horace of the Georgian age ; Such echoes still to us are brought From many a brilliant witty page. " Trust me," he wiites, " that if I fall From greatness, grandeur, or from ease, I shall not grieve, long sick of all The frigid pomps that worldlings please. For me fair freedom and the choice Of friends, not Fashion's dolls, but men, Whose heart I hear speak in their voice, And answer with my heart again." So wrote he in that anxious hour, Wlicn foes assailed his father's name. When waned the glorious statesman's power. And dulled the star of his great fame ; D 34 STRAWBERRY HILL. But grandly rose that brave old man, And with a bridegroom's gallant boast, Glanced scorn from eyes that in their scan, Like lightnings scathed the opposing host ; Then calmly turning from the rout Of those who shouted for his fall, The haven of his youth sought out, The glades and groves of Houghton Hall. S TRA II 'BERK ] " HIL L . 03 CANTO III. HOUGHTON HALL. " Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure ill exchanged for power — Seen him, uncumbered with the venal tribe. Smile without art, and win without a bribe." POTB. " These were the lively eyes and rosy hue Of Robin's face, when Robin first I knew ; The gay companion and the favourite guest. Loved without awe, and without views caressed. His cheerful smile and honest, open look Added new graces to the truths he spoke ; Then every man found something to commend. The pleasant neighbour and the worthy friend." Lady Mary "Wortley Montagui; I. But Houghton stood anotlier fhuc From the young bridegroom's happy home, Reared high its state o'er Norfolk phtin, And stored the arts of Greece and Rome, ']\Iidst thicker groves and ampler seas Of verdure, whose soft- wooded swell n 2 3 6 STRA WBERR Y HILL. Sui'gecl on its ocean-tide of trees, That with the champaign rose and fell- Eose the new hall and reared its crest, And flowered into perfect form, The haven where his bark found rest And shelter from the threatened storm. Old I^orfolk "Walpoles each would gaze "With wonder, could their eyes behold The pomp, the splendoiu-s that now blaze Wliere their j)lain manor stood of old, For Italy was sacked to send Her marbles to the stately walls. And Persia's looms their colours blend, Wliere the mute footstep sinking falls ; Aroimd the gardens spread their state. And seemed a theft from Eastern tales, Of splendoiu's that on caliphs wait. And scents that spice the Orient gales ; Vithin the priceless canvas told Its gorgeous tale of wealth and taste, And Titian's pui-ple. Guide's gold. And Rubens' wanton roses' waste Were flung imperially around Upon Carrara's snowy flcld. Till many a rood of marble gi'ound Those gorgeous coloiu-s had concealed ; And Vandyke lent his stately grace. And Kneller gave liis firm repose. STKAIFBEJ^KV HILL. 37 And Snydcrs from each market-place Purloined the choicest fruit that grows ; Here Bedford and here Chandos sent Some gem, their glorious gallei-ics' pride — Here pearl of Portland's softly blent Its lustre by Maratti's side ; And Florence, from her princes' wreck, Stript many a wall of richest worth ; And beauty came at AValpole's beck From many a rood of Eoman earth, And all that art and wealth could give, The brighter glowed beneath his eyes ; And all these glories seemed to live, As sentient he was there to prize. The great, good man of ample heart, The sweetest temper of his age ; No ari'ow rankled there to smart, ISTor wrong was treasured to eni'age. The beauty and the grace that shone Hound Walpole in his bridal prime. To his last years by him were worn, Though shadowed not effaced by time ; And to this world of living art — This glow, this glory, and perfume, Comes Horace, bringing brain and heart, All vivid Avith his travels' bloom ; There revels he 'mid all that flush Of beauty, time had touched to mellow, 38 STRAWBERRY HILL. While down Life's stream, with brilliant rush, Fly years none others ever fellow ; When, boyhood's doubts and fears dispelled, The warmer snn of manhood rises. And misty clouds the dawning held, Are changed to Phoebus' golden friezes ; There met the brilliant thi'ong at night, Where Houghton's lord was Liber's priest. And rolling hoiu's of loud delight. Hailed Bacchus guardian of the feast; Scarce blither on Sicilian sod. Around his chariot swelled the song, Than those they chanted to the god When Walpolc led the strain along, When ciystal cups were biimming bright. And beaded with the ciimson wine, And laughter led the hours of night. In riot to Aurora's shiiue ; But haiTiiless riot, such as might Win pnidence to a passing smile ; Not that fierce flame athwart the niil His boyhood's steps so oft had trod. Where near his grave his peasants toil, Or resting, rest beneath its sod — "Where he had seen his father laid — Where he had brought his happy bride — Where waved the trees their fiiendly shade O'er the wide acres long his pride. There came in after years that son, Who most upheld his father's fame, Though in a gentler field he won The blazon that surrounds his name — STRAWBEKRV HILL. 43 There Horace stood in bitter grief Beside his house's splendid wreck, And saw the springtide bring its leaf, Neglected glade and grove to deck — There poured his soul its sorrow forth, Lamenting over Houghton's fall, Eecalling sadly all the worth Of him who reared the stately hall. HORACE WALPOLE TO GEOEGE MONTAGUE. Oh ! my friend of school and college, let me pour my grief before you. From my childhood's silent chambers, take my aching heart's lament ; It, maybe, in some future hour, should a grief like mine come o'er you, I shall send you back the solace you will joy to feel you sent. For, my friend, my heart is lonely, wan, and drooping unto madness. And a waste is all around me in my childhood's happy home, 44 STRAWBERRY HILL. And a faintness falls upon me as I taste the springtide's sadness, In the happy glades and gardens where my boyhood used to roam. For the springtide bringeth pleasure to the happy heart of childhood, Beating gladly as it greeteth the first primrose in the grass ; And the village maid bound homeward, as she trippeth tlu'ough the wildwood, Loves the lengthening eves around her on the lone- ways she must pass. And the spring moon peereth softly thi-ough the orchard's crimson blossoms, Where the stealing steps of lovers meet around the trysting tree ; And the luring light discloses not the deep abyss's chasms, And his manly form before her, she would risk them, could she see. For the maid's heart mclteth softly at such meeting in the gloaming. And her spirit sinkcth helpless 'neath her lover's bounding arm ; STRAWBEKKV HILL. 45 She will willing risk the future — all the grief and wrong swift coming, And will yield another victim to a lover's luring charm. AVhen the spring has turned its blossoms to the ripe and golden apples, Languid stepping, wan and weary, she will seek again that tree, When September's sun in setting all the hill with shadow dapples. Plucking autumn's fruit of sorrow from her spiing- tide's bud of glee. Still, to bud, and bii'd, and insect, and to loving youth and maiden. Comes the spring to wake to gladness all the pulses of their life. Bird and insect chirp their carol, buds the heavy hedgerows laden, And to Will, and Susan courting, all the earth's with rapture rife. But to me the springtide's coming brings no freshness on its breezes, And I wish its blossoms falling were to fall above my grave ; 46 STRAJVBERRV HILL. Better I were lying silent, than to hear yori bell, that freezes All my life-blood, knelling solemn over her I could not save. V/here yon turret cuts the elm-trees, there my mother, softly sleeping, Cannot hear mc rave and call upon her cherished name in vain — Cannot hear the downward faUing of my tears, like raindrops weeping — Cannot breathe a word of solace to my heart's un- dying pain. There my father slumbers soundly after all his life's long fever, 'Scaped from enemies that hated, and from folse friends that betrayed ; Freed at last from foe and traitor, from the spy and the deceiver, In the soil that knew his childhood are his glorious relics laid. And what now for me remaineth, now my sun of life goes downward, But to say farewell for ever to the scenes of such deep sorrow, STKAJrB£i:Ki- HILL. 47 And the wreck of Ilougliton quitting', swift to bend my passage town-vrard ; There to seek, if not a happy, yet a briglitei'-coloured morrow. I will seek for some forgetting 'midst tlic busy life of London, Far from Houghton's graves and ruins, I will oil Life's chariot wheels ; Down the brilliant social groovings, from the dawn until the sun-down I will chase the siren Pleasure, as she rings her merry peals. ^\■herc the lamps are shining brightly, and the curtains hide the dawning — Where the dice are loudly rattled, and the wine flows in the cup — Where the hours, gaily gliding from the midnight to the morning, See the gamblers madly gamble, and the painted women sup. There some pleasures still await me — there some solace shall console — There the darkness of my anguish may in diiuk dissolve away — 48 STRAWBERRY HILL. There my misery may be melted, Kke the pearl within the bowl, And my sorrows, with my guineas, be dissolved in reckless play. Nay, what madness working in my brain impels such fevered longing ; Help me, friend, to lay the spirit, like a demon that arises — Help me banish these fierce fancies, now around me thickly thi-onging — Help me, Heaven, standing lonely, to do battle with this crisis. '1 'Tis through such throes that most must pass, • Some happy ones to that repose, Which, facing calmly Memory's glass, j Sees SoiTow bloom to Victory's rose, ; Of conquests won, of duty done — Of vices vanquished, lusts down-trod. Made stepping-stones, on wliich the man Mounts o'er his passions to his God ; "While some, for heaven's choice less framed, Por the world's use more fit, perchance, Creep from the warfare, somewhat maimed. And fling away the shattered lance Of high resolve, that bore no deed Like those who sprang at mom to amis. STRAn-BERK\- HILL. 49 For Carthage's dear sake to bleed, And fall at eve 'ueath Capua's cliarnis ; So fails the heart in duty's cause, When sorrows tbaw their dark array ; Should pleasure only give it laws. Its forces break and melt away ; Then must we rank with those who turn From that tough light our hero's name, Content to see a classic uni, Or Gothic archway shrine his fame — • Content to feel that he, at least, If not a saint, was no great sinner ; Just one of those to grace a feast. And be the hero of a dinner — Just one to chain us by his wit, With charming ease become our debtor ; Then deem us paid, himself well quit By sending us a graceful letter^ No ; in Fame's Libro d'Oro we For Walpole claim a higher place,. Though its first pages sacred be To those who ran the martyr's race j Yet his not last in that array Of men who worked the world some good,. And, 'midst their epoch's coarser clay. Lived as their finer natures should. 5° STRAIVBERRY HILL. Henceforth, we track him through those years On which a happier era dawns, And, faintly outlined, Strawberry rears Her turrets 'midst the Twickenham lawns. STKA li-BEKR J ' HILL. C^ i Cx\NTO IV. STRAWBERRY HILL. ' Some talk of Gunnersbury, For Sioii some declare, Aiid some say that with Chiswick House No \'illa can compare ; But all the beaux of Middlesex, "Who know the country well, Say that Strawberry HiU, that Strawberry Doth bear away the bell. " Though Surrey boast its Oatlands, And Claremont keeps so jim. And though they talk of Southcotes, 'Tis but a dainty whim ! For ask the gallant Bristow, Who does in taste excel. If Strawberry Hill, if Strawberry Don't bear away the bell." Earl op Batu. Al.\s ! as I approach the theme I'd fain my rhyme should nobly grace, I feel 'twas hut an idle dream That I could fitly paint the place ; E 2 STRAU-BERRV HILL. The subject tempts, and I draw near, Then shiver on its very edge, As a child pauses, dumb Avith fear, Upon the hind's last shelving ledge, While on his gaze an ocean swells. And threatening billows forward throws ; Or, like the diver Bro^vning tells, A beggar plunged, an emperor rose ; But could I hope such happy leap. Despite the raging ocean's whirl, Proud would I feel to dare the deep. But prouder still to pluck the pearl — That pearl, the theme that I would grace, However poorly, with my vex^se ; To fit it for its destined place Amid the thousand gems of hers— Of her, the (pieen whom Strawberry throues- Amid its gardens, lawns, and meads. Which Thames, with silver girdle zones. Where charm to sister charm succeeds. To Richmond summer comes, as queen To sister queen with regal air, And finds her throned, and with the mien Of one who has the right to wear The stately grace of queenly birth, " Bom in the purple " flower crowned, Anointed beauty of the eai'th, STRAWBERRY HILL. 53 And througli the ages, world renowned — Our English Imogen, to whom All other creatures give their best, The grace of grace, the bloom of bloom, Are hers Earth's darling long confest ; There April steps knee-deep in floAvers — There comes the May, a gorgeous giver — There June sees, tkrough long golden hou]-s, Her sunshine on the happy river ; From day to day, and week to week. The summer ocean richer sprays Foams roses, fit for Beauty's cheek. And flowers all the wooded ways ; Its billows surge mile after mile. Mile after mile in lavish sweep, And grandly lift afar the pile Of lordly Windsor's tower and keep ; To them fair Surrey freely sends Her pastures gold, her gardens' bloom ; Where all the flushing landscape blends Its glowing thi'eads on Flora's loom ; There sweeps bright Ceres' golden tide In richer floods than Neptime owns. And breaks in rapture on the side Of the soft height that Richmond thrones, And leaps o'er all the hills' ascent. And tosses up that glorious park. With crimson mist of May besprent, 54 -y TRA IFBERR V HILL. And cliestnuts lighting all the dark Kecesses of their glooming boughs, With twice ten thousand tapers' blaze, And glades a sheet of hawthorn. snows. Far flashing through the summer's haze. Where all this lavish ocean's swell Pinds foim and grace in gardens trim. Rise, Strawberry, rise, and bear the bell — The world's unrivalled Gothic whim. What haimted airs around thee blow. Fair Strawberry, from the ancient years- What roses of old legends grow, Thick clustered, as the traveller nears Thy front, for as he steps they spring. Making the place an Arthur land, Enwrought with idylls of a king, And tales of his romantic band ; For here a king has left his fame. The monarch of twelve acres' tract — King Horace was our monarch's name, And Strawberry his title backed ; Then Twickenham rose thy meads to note, Then thy fair banks in favour grew, And on thy river barge and boat The fail", the wise, the witty di^ew. The castle of thy monarch rose, As from some Gothic faii'y's hand, STRAlVBERRy' HILL. Till ovpi' Thames its shadow throws The loveliest villa in the land ; There reigned King Horace in his state, While round him clustered, one by one, Fair mansions of the rich and great, All turning to their central sun ; There Pope his rival villa plants. And pours his suit in "Wortley's ear. While she laughs louder than he rants, And stabs him with a bitter jeer ; There Gay, protected by his Duchess, Dares to encounter ** Lockett's " son, And writes immortal fables, such as Beat all that La Fontaine has done — There stately, 'midst its elm-tree walks, A gun-shot off, stands famous Ham — There Thames, when " Piyor's Kitty" talks. Grows classic as another Cam — There Clive, stage laiu'els well resigned, Lives happier !midst her laurel groves, While, near her, Horace joys to find The friend of early days and loves. For Howard here had pitched her tent. Ruling her little circle still. And all Horatio's subjects bent Before the Queen of Marble Hill — Here reigned those two old friends and true. Recalling many a scandal past. 55 56 STRAJVBERRV HILL. Exchanging cancans, hillets-doux, iy'Aj, jilcasant, witty to tlie last ; This was a pleasant life, at least, The sternest moralist must o-s\ti him, Happy amid that landscape's feast, And where such willing suhjects throne him ; Still something seem to lack his walls, And incomplete his home reposes. Till three fail' faces light his halls, And three bright rosebuds bloom to roses ; Strange story linked to these bright girls, That old romance which all have read, O'er which have di'ooped the maiden's curls — O'er which the maiden's heart has bled. EDWAED WAXPOLE AXD MART CLEMEXTS. How sweet the tales of love they wove, "Where rank unequal was no bar, Where she bent o'er her knight to love, And he looked up as to a star — The grand old times when hardihood, The lion heart, the handsome face Softened the damsel's sternest mood, And won her to a willing grace. STKAll'BERRV I/ILL. 57 Then, regal in lior queenly state, The lady I'aised liim to lier side, Hencelbrtli to Avalk with her elate. Proud bridegToom of a peerless bride. Far other i? this tale of mine ; Here all the pride of rank is his, His mien to her is all divine. She has her love and only this. He looks the June's imperious lord, She seems the May-tide's gentle queen ; Her realm a strip of village sward. His on 01ymj)us should have been. She loves him as the rose the June, And turns to sun her in his eyes, I'nwitting that she lo^•es too soon. And too intensely for disguise. Laid at his feet is all her pride. Her woman's erown is in the dust; She scarce dare ask to be his bride, She only feels that love she must. He ardent pleads, she strives to speak, Her hand is raised to hide the glow That mantles through it o'er her cheek, As rose's red on rose's snow. eg STRAIVBERRV HILL. Gently lie i)lucked that village rose, And bore it to his stately home ; His tenderest care henceforth she knows, And never asks from it to roam. And yet, perchance, some grief there preyed Upon her loving woman's heart — Perchance upon her sphit weighed A sorrow, though unowned its smart. For she ne'er won the sweetest word From manly lips in woman's ears ; "My own" oft whispered, still unheard, "My wife " thiwigh all those patient years. Sadly her eyes strained towards the time, But never came that honeymoon ; So ruffled ran her girlhood's rhyme, So jangled all her life's sad tune. Then three fair gii'ls around her bloomed, And ripened into richest grace ; She felt she had theu' beauty doomed. And saw her sin in each fair face. And when the son, who should have been His father's heir, his mother's joy, Was bom, she looked with anguish keen On him, her lovely landless boy. STJ^A lyBERR V NIL L. 59 Swiftly she faded from the earth, | Poor victim to the worhl's wise laws, x That wage their war with woman's worth, | And ever crush a woman's cause. ^ Who o'er the wild scarce trodden paths Of some deserted garden goes, Oft finds amidst the matted swathes, And lost to view the faii-est rose. So grew neglected from their birth, Those thi-ee who should by right of grace Have regnant reigned o'er that proud earth, Where Beauty holds her, chosen place; But exiles they from that charm' d ground, Trod by a few fair favoured feet — Legitimacy sternly frowned, Though o^vning notliing half so sweet ; Perchance, for that her jealous ban Lay heavier over each fair head, And hoped to interdict the man Who thought outside her pale to wed. AVhat ! wed a girl whose only charms Were in her temper, heart, and face ; Fashion her cohorts called to arms, Decorum blushed at the disgrace ; Stitf Etiquette in fright half rose, Infringing on her own stern laws, That one might sit until she froze. But never start, whate'er the cause. 6o STRAlVBERRi' HILL. Sad had it been for these sweet helots, Had woineu only had their way, For where, alas ! such bitter zealots As these fair bits of fashion's clay ? But man, more generous, threw his shield Chivalric o'er each lovely form; And Strawberry gave a sunny field And shelter from the world's loud storm. Henceforth the Gothic halls grew bright ^Tien these "slight slips of giidhood" went And flushed each chamber with the light Of theii' young spirits' glad content. And soon the rosebuds that one twined With whiter fingers round her brow, For statelier fillet were resigned, When pearls and ermine wreathed its snow ; A little while the pearls fell down, For croix patte and flower-de-luce, As standing near his brother's throne, Duke Uloucester crowned the fair recluse. Bright ^^'aldegrave, how thy lovely face. From Reynolds' canvas shineth yet, How Ramsay's pencil loved to trace The features none who see forget ! Of those who rose to such fair state, And shine across a hundred years, Bright stars that none to-day can mate, Sisters whom none but sister peers. STRAIVSERRV HILL. 6 I A DAY AT STKAWBERRY HILL. {Time about 1755.) The day lialf spent to those poor wights, Who rise with rise of sun, To Strawberry's Lord and his gay cli(iue, Seems only now begun. The beauties still their gossip hold, While frothing from the mill. The ciiocolate brims those dainty cups. Where Watteau's groups live still. The tender Sevres' glowing tints, And Rose dii Barri/s flush, Melt round the rose of each fair hand, Blush wedded unto blush. The simple morning garb folds round Each slender sister grace, Unpowdered flows the golden hair, TJnpatched the dimpled face. It is the fairest hour of all, Their own especial one ; Riot the roses in the morn. Look lilies to the sun. 52 STRAJVBERRV HILL. "What Trhiter lily can lie see Rise on its slender stem ; What red do any roses own That is not matched in them ? "What silver cliime of bells can peal, So sweet as their sweet laughter ; That running round might fetch a soul Prom every beam and rafter ? At times its meny notes ring out, Like joy-bells to his heart ; Then swifter runs his gliding pen. And brighter glows his art, A\1io, sitting in his study's calm, His pleasant labour plies, ^\Tiile clocks chime on, and morn to noon, And noon to even flies, From the stained window o'er his head, A ray of topaz streams ; And as he writes, the richer ray Of Fancy's topaz gleams. The crimson roses' glutting glow Eains redly from the pane ; Eomance's rose springs redder far, That blooms from heart and brain. STRAWBERRY HILL. 6 happy toil of lettered ease, In study's cloister still ; O happy author, who may write Or pause at Fancy's will ! Who sees the visions of his brain. Thick flowering o'er his page. And from the present wanders free, Tlu-oiigh all the Gothic age. "V^Hiere old Otranto's helmet dim, "Waves dreamily its phime ; And all in vague mysterious haze, Drifts dark through Gothic gloom. And thus for him his fancies weave A curtain's purple fold. That fences round his small demesne. From the world's outer cold. The day glides on ; each sister now Puts on her charms' whole armour ; The patch and powder contrast give, Nor touch of red will harm her. And now from closet comes the Lord Of Strawberry's demesne ; And boat and barge and coach bring down Half London's courtly train. J 64 STRAIVBERRV HILL. Brilliant the groups that cluster now Upon the close-cut sward ; St. James's sends its brightest belles, And Twickenham sends her bard. Here Selwyn walks like life in death, With face of livid hue ; Here Riot sees her favourite child In March not yet "old U." Here Lady Suffolk grown a prude, And pattern for the age, On Clive and Pritchard looks askance. Half dubious of the stage. And now there buzzes from the throng A murmui*, half applause, As, -with his courtly air, the host Leads in the lovely cause. 'Tis Gunning's self, half arch, half shy. Half come in mascpierade, So quaint, so charming, is the garb She calls to fashion's aid. 'Tis Psyche's self in Gunning's guise, For hovering o'er her head Is Psyche's brilliant butterfly, Its joyous pinions spread. STRAWBERRV HILL. 65 And lappets crossed bcneatli tlic cliiii, And ribbons pink and green, And thousand coquetries of art Proclaim licr Eeauty's (p.iccu. Gaily tliey sr-atter o'er the grounds, Search all witliin their reach ; xVnd here they praise a tulip-bed, And there they pluck a peach. Kow Pope's last verses slyly quote, Kow wail Clarissa's woes, Now Lady Hervey's house discuss. And Avhat her birth-day clothes. Now lifts the moon her pearly globe Tiu-ough evening's purple haze ; The river tempts to Twickenham Ait, And Hesper lends his blaze'. > The parties formed with laughter all In boat and barge embark ; Some vote for Ham's sequestered groves, And some for Eichmond Park. Thus ran the tliree fair AYalpoles' days, "With none to chide or carp, \Yith beauty for life's glittering woof, And happiness its warp. 66 STKA WBER R V MIL L . Away they glide, those glittering years, Till each fair sister made a wife, And ranked amid her father's peers, Sheds grace npon the matron's life. Perchance to-day some poet's heart. He gazing, aches with sudden pain Before a pictnrc, forming part Of the rich bloom of Eeynolds' reign ; A sweet fair face, an English face, "With pensive eyes — soft homes of love. And that mild, tender woman's grace That notliing emblems like the dove. This is Maria, she who wed Beneath the shadow of the throne, Though here for crown around her head, Shines aureole of love alone ; And near her hangs the rarest gem, Of all Sir Joshua's diamond mine, AVhere, in the grace bequeathed to them, Maria's matchless daughters shine. And gazing on these portraits now. This world of ouis seems cold and bare ; Faint on the century's shadowed brow, Shine stars we deem the brightest there. STRA WBERR V HIL L. 67 THE THEEE SISTEIiS. Old house ! how often throTigh thy rooms Have swept those beauteous three, Who glow on Itcyuolds' canvas yet lu all that witchery. Of lugh-brcd mien, and arch sweet smile, AYhich steal the heart away ; E'er 'gainst the magic of the smile, It has found time to pray. beauteous sisters, painted there. With all the artist's grace ■n'- Well — well it is there comes not life To warm each lovely face. For e'en in gazing on them now. The gazer's heart will ache ; He looks and longs that they may li\e, And he die for their sake. And have thy walls indeed looked on Those lovely sisters three? Old house, whose front from out thy grove, jSTow looketh forth on me. r 2 68 STRA IVBERR V HILL. And hast thou seen them full of life, Come gliding- in at mom, : While as they passed a richer day, j A fuller sun seemed born? Hast seen the peach-bloom ripen fast, On each transparent cheek ; AVax richer tints from day to day. Then fade from week to week ? Ah ! was it so ? Ah, then, old house, I may not en^-y thee; I may not wish all thou hast seen, Tliat I, too, were to see. Tor from the canvas ever beams The same bewitching smile; The years glide on, but they with them JS'or iade nor ag-e the while. *o^ One ever o'er the tambour-frame. The same slight figure bends ; And on each softly-rounded cheek, "White rose "n'ith crimson blends. They take the same sweet counsel still, O'er that old walnut-table ; Eepeat the same light gossip, tell Who's wed, and who in sable. SrKAiyBERRV HILL. 69 The old-world gxace and old-world garb Each graceful figure fold ; 'Tis only on the canvas that The fashion grows not old, I see them stiU, old house, as thou Hast seen them years ago, When through thy perfumed chambers swept Their garments' gracious flow. Then keep thy stories of the past, Of beauty that is fled ; Of belle and beau, and courtier, now Long numbered with the dead. •■o I do not wish to read the tale Thou hoardest on thy gloom ; Of rose of beauty fading fast, And sinking to the tomb. ^fci I turn from all thou canst unfold, To praise the artist's skill, Upon whose canvas lives for me Each blooming beauty still. 0, artist of the tender soul, And of the courtly hand, Who painted well for many a year The loveliest of the land. 70 sr/;:A ivberrv hill. There never sat before thy brush, Three of more perfect gi'ace ; As rosebud matched Avith rosebud seems, So is each beauteous face. Hang ever 'neath that ancient roof, Smile ever on its gloom ; Smile ever on its chambers sweet, With rose-leaves past their bloom. The same sweet faces that have smiled At Lady Mary's -wit, In days when Walpole gossiped of The rising star of Pitt. Methinks I see through mist of years, Those faultless features take A terror from the volume first Read for the author's sake. But as the story deepened, still Read on vrith pale affright, That sent the helmet's shivering plume, Through all their di'eams that night. Quaint house, I could for ever dream On all thy antique lore ; But stream and time alike glide by, As I rest on the oar. 5 TKA II 'BEKR \ ' HILL. 7 I Farewell awhile the olden (Ircam, Farewell the good old days ! And let me think the present holds Some virtne and some praise. I pause while yet the golden sands liun sparkling from the glass ; "While yet the chime of merry hours, Scarce minds men how they pass. While yet the sun is in the sky, The dew upon the flower ; And still it is life's carnival, And still its noontide hour. \\laile yet that galaxy of gems. Shines in the epochs setting. And none thinks time ciin dim its light, And none tbeams of forgetting. While Gunning's star is in its prime. And AYortley's not yet paling ; And courtiers' eyes the rising orb Of young Prince George are hailing. This was a time of ampler range, Of livelier tone and colour ; Of shape and fashion nobler far, Of wit and humour fuller Than these dull days on which our lot (Or do we merit better?) 72 STRAJVBERRV HILL. Has fallen, catching sparks of -wit From some "Walpolian letter. He wrote reflecting on its page, The hours' light life around him, And who his morning visitors, And where the evening found him. We warm us in these rays of wit. That from that era shine ; AVe read those letters o'er and o'er, And deem them half divine. We ponder o'er their brilliant tales, He-coin their witty stories, And strutting in their brilliant plumes, To-day's poor jackdaw glories. And thus I seek to steal a spark Of those blight times transmitting. To catch a gleam of Reynolds' age, Eich days and colours flitting. The impress of a bygone day. By Beauty's tone pervaded ; To fasten on my i^age, e'er yet Its memory all has faded. For still there live, 'midst us to-day, A few—- a favoured few — Who saw the last bright sunset ray. That age in setting threw. Still Guizot lives, and Houghton Avrites, To tell us of the two STRAJri^/CJ^KV HILL. 73 Fair sisters, who in their young prime Burke, Hastings, Walpole knew. Some dozen more, perchance, recall The tones of Mary Eerry ; The accents that waged witty war With Charlie Fox and Sherry. Ask these if with her faded not All save what memories shrine Of the old days, whose cup was brimmed With wit pure as its wine. Ask these if aught we boast to-day Can mirror back the grace Of the bright girls whose beauty's dawn Sir Joshua loved to trace. The famous clubs are silent now. Fled is their brilliant era. And Selwyn's ghost might wander through Them all and never hear a Bon-mot worth his while repeating, A cancan or a story Like those that rattled through the room AVlicn White's was in its glory. The diners-out a dismal set, Now Moore, Smith, Hook arc dead, Talk feeble scandal round the boards, Whence port and plate have fled. And sipping Chateau Margaux^ prate, Amid the Iruit and flowers, 74 STRAIVBERKV HILL. The wretched slang, replacing now The wit of those dead hours. The women, where the peach-like bloom, And where the high-bred grace ; The softness of the melting eye, The faultlcssness of face All fled ? Kay, scarcely so, Avhile yet Fair Strawberiy's turrets rise. And Waldegrave gathers 'neath her roof The witty and the wise. To that charmed focus still the rays Of choicest minds converge ; And wit reviving lives by Thames, While London sings its dirge. A MESSAGE. ^Yho may I dare to hope from time Will snatch one idle hour To search if, haply, any flower Bloom 'mid these weeds of rhyme ? Not she to whom I vow my lay — Engirt with queenly state. On whom a hundred poets wait, She has no time to stay. STRAWBERRY HILL. 75 A thousand claims around her press, A thousand voices call, Were she to pause or list to all "V\Tio crave her smile to bless The glad triumphant marcli, I wccn, Of her life's brilliant pageant "Would cease, and ball-rooms lack the radiant Appearing of their queen. Xot kindred vrho stand near in blood. Or one or two of these ; For e'en true poets fail to please All of their cousinhood. True poets e'en lack their reward — They are the first to sneer. 'Tis rarely author's lot to hear One gentle, kindly word From those from whom in ardent youth He thought to catch a ray Of light, or hear a kind voice say, " This is well done, in sooth." But coldest critic's coldest mood "Will give more generous meed, Xor ever make the young heart bleed As those placed near in blood. ■J 6 STRAWBERRY HILL. From strangers can I hope to gain A gentle thought or smile, That may in failure's hour beguile My heart of haK its pain ? Nay, they can walk in garden ways, And gather from the boughs Down-drooping blossoms rich as those From Tennysonian sprays. Then who will care to stretch a hand To gather these pale flowers. That budded in the winter hours. And from a sterile land ? Yes, one I know, one student friend, Who, 'midst his college lore. Will lovingly read o'er and o'er Tlie pages that I send. Oft, wliile I wrote, I saw the halls Eun grey round the quadi-angle. And flowers, in every nook and angle. Burn redly on the walls ; Saw the rich creeper's scarlet flames And bright geranium's blaze Light the grey walls with ruddy rays. And fire the window-frames. STRAWBERRY HILL. 7 7 From one of wliicli I oft, with him, Have watched the evening's close, When the June twilight's sweet repose Stole round the cloisters dim. And he, I know, from out my Look Will see old faces spring. Recalling how the hours took wing- In that dim college nook ; And, for their sake and mine, will prize The volume I now send, — A happy book, that goes, dear friend, To meet thy sunny eyes, — The eyes that mine so oft have met With loyal love and truth, That, though I live ten lives, in sooth, I never shall forget. 7 8 STJ^A IVBERR J ' HILL. NOTES TO "STRAWBERRY HILL." Page 1, line 1. '■^July's last eve, and William king, The century scarce eight montlis begun.''' Robert (afterwards Sir Robert) Wali^ole was married to Catherine, daughter of John Sliorter, Esq., of Bybrook, in Kent, on the 30th of July, 1700. They spent their honeymoon at Houghton Hall, which I suppose them to i-each the following evening. Page -I, line 16, " Who Imll and boroughs, wealth and name." Robert VValpole succeeded not only to the family property, but tlie family boroughs, and sat in the second short Parliament, which was called at the conclusion of the reigu of William III. Page 4, line 19. '• Of those young years he freely gave. With their first fruit of college hours.''' Robert Walpole had been distinguished at Cambridge ; but on the death of his two elder brothers resigned his scholarship, and threw aside sundry attempts at literary composition, and accompanied his father to Houghton, to go through what the old gentleman thought the proper career to render the youngster competent to succeed him with credit in the important position of a Norfolk squire." — Eliot Warburton's Memoirs of Horace Walpole, vol. i. STRAWBERRY HILL. 79 Page 6, line 19. " The star of him men named the peer Of Compton, Stanhope, llul'ifux" III the first Parliameut of Queen Anne, he became known to Spencer Compton, afterwards Earl of Wilmington ; James, after- wards Earl Stanhope, the Earl of Sunderland, and Lord Halifax. Even the Lord Treasurer, Godolphin, looked upon him as worthy of attention, and introduced him to the great man of his age, the famous Duke of Marlborough. — Memoirs of H. Walpole, vol. i. Page 7, line 2(3. " And loaken fools from their sick dreamt It has become a kind of fashion of late years with a certain set of religionists, to speak with contempt of that great movement in the public mind which counteracted the insidious efforts of James II. to throw religious freedom back a couple of centuries. — Ibid. Page 8, line 15. " Came Marlhorov(jh with his glitteriMj fame — ■ Came Walpole with his zeal unfeiffmd." Undeterred by the fate of his friend, or the punishment he had already suffered, Walpole continued his opposition with increasing zeal, particulai'ly insisting on the importance of the Protestant succession, and exposing the intrigues of the Pretender and his adherents. Page 10, line 18. " Two, deep in youth's delicious themes." Among tlie numerous associates of his own age and rank, with whom he was most familiar, he distinguished three with a fervency of regard unusual even among schoolboys. The first and dearest of these juvenile friends was Tliomas Gray. — Ibid. Page 14, line 14. " Come ha f the sa^es, all the wits, And Swift is decent as in lazon." In Mrs. Howard's circle. Pope became playful, and Swift decent. — Ibid. So STRAWBERRY HILL, Page 15, line 2. " O'ertopt the fame of that Greek mount." The names of the three Maries, Bellenden, Lepel, and Wortley Montague, were as famous in their day as those of the rival deities who competed on Mount Ida for the golden apple. — Memoirs of II. Walpole. Page 15, line 16. " 77(6 softness of a mdher'' s Jace, That ceased to smile just as his part." Lady Walpole died in August, 1737, at the veiy time when the sou> to whom she had been so admirable a mother, promised by his talents and disi)osition to prove a source of the deepest gratification to her maternal heart. In another year he would have completed the course of study which was to fit him for obtaining a place in society such as should satisfy her hopes and ambition. But it was not to be. Tlie fond mother sunk at the very threshold of her aspirations for her favourite child, and the sweet sympathies of her nature never more soothed and gladdened the heart of her son. — Jb!d. Page 15, line 19. " A7id left that death-chill on his heart No sun in life coidd ivarm again." This was a heavy blow to the young student ; an irreparable loss. All his affections were centred upon his mother. She was the sun of his domestic system ; and, her light quenched, all to him was darkness. — Ibid. Page 29, line 21. " And, as he rose, heneat/i him lay A house and vine, not famous yet." It was in 1736 that Rousseau and Madame de "Warens took pos- session of " Les Charmettes," and in 1739 that Horace Walpole and Gray were travelling through Savoy ; so that they may have beheld from the heights above the house where dwelt this singular pair. In fact, however, Claude Anet died previously to Madame de Warens moving to Les Charmettes ; but this anachronism may, I hope, meet with pardon. STRAIVBERRY HILL. 8 1 Page 30, line 13. " And thou, dear youth, the young Anet, Whom Nature seemed to mark for fame.''' Claude Anet was a peasant of Montra, whom Madame de Warens had taken into her service. There is but little said of Lim in Rousseau's Memoirs ; but that little is so well said, that I cau hardly fancy any one reading the description and not feeling its charm. It is the portrait of a young, simple, fervent nature entirely unspoiled by the world, with something of the true Arcadian flavour, and of an intellect which, had his life been spared, must have led him to distinction. " He became a real botanist," says Rousseau, " and, had he not died young, he had been famed in this science as much as he deserved to be as an honest man." Page 31, line 5. " Within this little circle locked. Their icishes, cares, their hearts were one.'' " Thus was established among us three a society without, perhaps, an example on earth. All our wishes, our cares, our hearts were one. None of them passed beyond this litfle circle. That which prevented constraint among us was our extreme reciprocal confidence, and that which prevented dulness was our being always employed." — Memoirs of J. J. Rousseau. Page 33, line 1. " Why, sir, he sold mjust like sheep." This and the three following lines are almost verbatim the observation made to the author by the Savoyard farmer, whose homely fare and mother wit he has sought to depict. Page 34, line 2. " j4wcZ with a hridegroom' s gallant boast." Sir Roberts position was one of great danger; though, as his son said, " He boasted like a bridegroom." — Eliot Warburton's Memoirs. G 82 STRAWBERRY HILL. Page 56, line 15. Edward Walpole. Sir Eobert Walpole's second son, Edward, whose appearance was so much in his favour, that the Italian ladies gave him the name of " the handsome Englishman." Page 56, line 15. Mary Clements. When passing through the shop (over which he lodged), one of the apprentices frequently attracted Walpole's notice- She was a beautiful young woman, of the name of Mary Clements. Mr. Walpole soon contrived to have frequent interviews with her, and gave her many little presents, but not so secretly as to escape the notice of her mistress, who sent for her father to take her away from temptation into the country. Together they lectured her upon the impropriety of receiving attentions from a gentleman, and endea- voured to convince her how much more it would be to her advantage to be the wife of a respectable tradesman. These representations appeared to produce due effect, and the girl left the room apparently to prepare for lier departure, but to them she never returned. On leaving the room, where she had been forced to listen to their remonstrances, she had rushed to the apartment of "the handsome Englishman," and wlien he received her with open arms, she vowed that she would never leave him, nor did she. Mr. Wal- pole was devoted to her, befriended all her family, and treated her with respect and consideration, though he never married her. — Ibid. Page 57, line 1. " Then regal in her queenly state, The lady raised him to her side.''' From the universal recognition of the dignity of woman, and of their moral superiority over their knights, was devised another rule, by which the homage of a knight of inferior, and even very inferior rank to her own, was quite allowable to a lady of high birth. But the chivalrous code denied her the homage of a baron of higher degree, for fear she might be less exacting and imperious with one whose rank imposed some consideration. — History of Chivalry. STRA WBERR J ' HILL. ?)-^ Page 58, line 17. " Then three Jair girls around her hloovied." These were three girls, who, as they grew up towards woman- hood, threatened to eclipse the renown of the beautiful Gunnings. —Memoirs of Horace WaJpole. Page 58, line 21. " And when the son ivho shoidd have been.'''' The fourth child was a boy, and shortly after liis birth, poor erring devoted Mary Clements died. Deep was the grief of the father of her children, and he mourned her loss as a fond husband mourns the deprivation of the best of wives. — Ibid. Page 60, line 15. " For statelier Jillet toere resigned.'''' Maria Walpole married first, James, 3rd Earl of Waldegrave, and secondly, H.E.H. William Henry, Duke of Gloucester. Her sister, Laura, married the Hon. and Rev. Frederick Keppel, son of the Earl of Albemarle, and afterwards Bishop of Exeter. Charlotte Walpole married Lord Huntingtower, eldest sou of Lionel, 3rd Earl of Dysart These were the three daughters of poor Mary Clements, the tailor's apprentice. Page GO, line 21. " Bright J\^aldegrai'e, how thy lovely face From Reynolds'' canvas smileih ytt!'" The portraits of Laura and Charlotte were painted together by Ramsay. Maria was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The reader must not confound the thx-ee daughters of Edward Walpole and Mary Clements with the three beauties of a later generation, the Ladies Waldegrave, who were the daughters of Maria Walpole by her first marriage with Lord Waldegrave, and of course the grand- daughters of Mai-y Clements. Page 63, line 9. " Where old Otranto's helmet dim.'" The " Castle of Otrauto " was not published till 17C4, so that I must here again plead guilty to a. I trust, harmless anachronism. g2 84 STRA WBERR Y HILL. Page 64, line 21. " TiS Psyche's self in Gunning's guise." Yesterday, after chapel, the duchess brought home Lady Coveutry to feast me, and a feast she was ! She is a fine figure, and vastly handsome. Her dress was a sort of black silli sack, made for a large hoop, which she wore without any, and it trailed a yard on the ground. She had on a cobweb laced handkerchief, a pink satin long cloak, lined with ennine mixed with squirrel skin. On her liead a French cap, that just covered the top of her head of blond, and stood in the form of a butterfly^ with the wings not quite extended, frilled soi't of lappets, crossed under her chin, and tied with pink and green ribbon, a head-dress that would have charmed a shepherd ! — Autobiography of Mrs. Delany, vol. iii. p. 300. Page 67, line 1. The three sisters. The ladies Laura, Horatia, and Charlotte Waldegrave, daughters of James and Maria, Earl and Countess Waldegrave, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and now the property of Frances, Countess of Waldegrave. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE SAILING OF THE ''GOLDEN FLEECE," With the 7^fd {Perthshire) Regiment on Board, from Queenstowti, November 2ith, 1866. Thoij noble ship ! no theme more meet for poet's verse to-day — Ride o'er the seas in triumph, ride on thy gallant way ; Ride on, thou classic vessel, with thy proud and golden name, For England trusts to thee, to-day, the guardians of her fame ; And with that glorious freightage, with the jewels of her pride. Oh ! ride thee on, triumphant, o'er the tempest and tlie tide. See! see! them thronging on thy decks; see each young soldier's brow Grow sadder as he gazes on the land receding now. Oh ! tears are rushing blindly into each young wai'rior's eyes, 86 THE SAILIXG OF THE '^GOLDEN FLEECE." Till the heart bursts all its barriers, and they flow without disguise. Weep, noble ones — weep freely ; is there one in your proud band That would not weep to part from Old England's cherished land? And there arc some whose hearts are rushing wildly back, to-day, To Scotland's dear and noble land, to her heather and her brae ; And dim, thro' tears, on memory now, her purple mountains rise. The bonny Highland heather, and the glorious Scottish skies ; \\\\\ deeper cause for manly tears than native braes or heather Is the snapping of the links that have bound fond lives together — Is the thinking of some sister fair, of a comrade, or a brother. Of the sinking of a father's heart, of the anguish of a mother — Very sacred is your weeping, and great England deemeth now Such sons the proudest jewels she could wear upon her brow ; THE SAILIXG OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECE." Sj And, watching fondly o'er you, such tears as these she'll hold Dearer still than all her greatness, richer far than all her gold. But not alone from noble hearts and gallant youths like these Steals the mufded note of anguish on the chill jS^ovem- bcr breeze ; There are rougher natures breaking down beneath the touch of grief, There are hearts still strangers to the tears that bring their own relief ; To them nor hope nor memory brings a softening of their woe — They hut suffer, and arc heart-sick, and that is all they know. With pallid cheek, and teeth set finn, they stand therc^ still and mute, And some will deem them stolid, with the nature of the brute. But God, it may be, looking down on those poor soldiers, knows A grief to him as sacred as the others' softer woes. Howe'er that be, oh! may He bless and guide ye on your way — Farewell ! mine own heart sinketh low to see ye sail to-day ; 88 THE SAILING OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECE." Like you, my heart is rushing back to other times and skies ; Like you, I see them dimly, for the hot tears in mine eyes — There, there, I can but bk\ss you, and your captain, and your ship, As her sails swell to the breezes, and her timbers gladly dip "Within the waves that bear her far and farther on her track, Till the English shores have faded from the eyes still gazing back. Fai'ewell ! God guide her safely over all her destined way, Who has our England's jewels in her keeping placed to-day. A LETTER FROM THE TROPICS. Far from foggy skies of England, far from England's cold and gloom, I^ow my spirits rise elastic, now my heart to beat has room. All things are changed around me, all things are bright and fair, Oh, the radiant tropic climate ; oh, the blessed light and air ! THE SAILING OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECEr 89 What has England ever given that I should care to part ? Scarce a hand I cared for grasping, scarce a warm or loving heart. All my nature has been stifled by her raw and murky weather, Where two golden days of summer scarce were seen to glow together. Who would breathe the fog of England, who would gaze on her grey sky, Who could bask away existence where these summer islands lie ? Well the Golden Fleece has speeded, happy those whom she has brought, Happy I on whom her voyage such a glowing change has wrought ; Wish me joy, dear friends in England, wish me joy that I am here, Wliere my heart has oped to rapture in the happy hemisphere. Last night I lay upon the deck, I saw the Southern moon arise Round her golden globe triumphant — mock the moon of English skies ; I saw the purple pavement break in flames around the ship. And spray in golden sparkles round her timbers' rushing dip. 90 THE SAILING OF THE " GOLDEN FLEECE:' How balmy was the midniglit air, tliat kissed my grateful brow ; How strange to think of England plunged in her midwinter, now Of snow, perchance, in London's streets, and ice upon her river. Of bm-ly forms in great coats wrapt, or ragged forms that shiver At each keen blast that di-ives along, and bites the thin clad frame Of women struck by "Winter's hand, who perish in their shame, Where, huddled 'ncath some bridge's arch, they strove to fan life's flame. How strange to feel that such things were, while all around me here Glowed the summer of the world in the tropics' hemisphere ! See the ship sails swiftly onward, through the sunlit straits of Sunda ; See each islet streak the ocean, each an ocean's Rosa Munda ; Ocean's roses are these islets, Venus' baskets heaped with flowers. Gulden gleam the insects glancing, rain the leaves in roseate showers ; THE SAILING OF THE ''GOLDEN FLEECED 9 1 Flash Kke jewels pinions spreading of the topaz-painted bii-ds, All the languid air is murm'rous with the music of strange words. Oh, the beauteous bay of Angor! oh, the joyous sights and sounds! Say what more than di-eam of Eden, now my wondering gaze astounds ; Shafts of cocoa trees run lightly down the aisles of tropic land, Hanging stately with their columns dark the pillared palm-trees stand. Swift we left the ship, and landing trod these islands all enchanted, Gorgeous freightage of rich flowers down the laden- branches slanted. Fruits that sell for gold in England lay neglected on the earth, Golden grain o'er all the yalleys laughed to scorn the dread of dearth ; Golden globes of pines broke laughing through their leaves of emerald hue. Banyans, mangoes, plantains, tamarinds in their lush profusion grew. Strung to music fled the hours, lapsing ran their golden sands, Swiftly ran the sparkling moments, softly sliding from the hands 92 THE SAILING OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECED Life's reins lay idle on th.e necks of Life's reposing steeds, While the charioteer lay dreaming 'midst the Aspho- delian meads ; All around me broke and murmured rushing currents of the life The Arabian tales have painted with the Eastern magic rife. All the Orient shed around me with its van-coloured Hghts, Seemed a di'eam remembered in a dream of the bright Arabian Nights ; When the perfumed air of even stole from all the gardens round, Methought I was at Bagdad, in the caliph's haunted ground. Jfow the moon of Java rising shines amid her purple skies, Jfow the tliicket's lamps are lighted tangled swarms of flashing flies; I^ow the music shivers sweetly 'midst the murmur of the leaves. Who remembers earth hath sorrows, who in grief or loss believes ? Eveiy earthly care forgotten, every sorrow flies the world, THE SAILING OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECE." 93 Ou tlie fragrant smoke that rising from each, cigai'ctte is curled ; There we linger sipping Mocha, drawn from berries of the South, All Ai-abia in its perfume stealing sweetly o'er the mouth. Happy comrades, silent smoke we, while sweet haunted dreams arise, Of the perfumed lips of woman, of her darkly-gleaming eyes; Happy comrades, could we ever glide thus softly down life's stream; Happy comrades, could the future light all life with such a dream ! ANSWEE TO LETTEK FKOM THE TKOPICS. I have read your glowing letter, I have pondered o'er its words, Visioncd all your tropic islands. With their topaz-painted birds. Half I wished to sec the vision With my grosser mortal sight, Judge myself from seeing living 'Midst your Edens of delight. 94 THE SAILING OF THE "GOLDEN FLEECE." But for me the skies of England, And for me the English weather, And the days that, ever changing. Scarce repeated come together. O'er youi- groves of mangoes shining, Let youi" Eastern moon arise ; But for ever and for ever Shine o'er me from England's skies ; And for ever and for ever, Or while on earth I dwell, 'Gainst the cliffs of England let me Hear the English billows swell. Break for me the grander ocean, Surge round me for evermore ; 'Gainst the lintels of my dwelling Let loud London's ocean roar. Set for me the sun of summer. Rise for me the summer moon ; Shine for me the lamps of London, Thro' the merry month of June ; Roar the knockers thi-o' the May-tide, Leap from door to door the thunder. Let waxen lights shine overhead. And happy hearts beat under ; THE SAILIKC OF THE "COLDEX FLEECE." 95 "Wave the branches of the elm-trees, Droop the boughs with 3Iay-bloom luclcu, Wed the lilac with the chestnut, And the cavalier with maiden. When through Hyde Park alleys riding. Swarms the glittering cavalcade, What to me your tropic islands, Or your dark-eyed Eastern maid ? And when change and quiet seeking From loud London's foam and hurry. Give me Malvern's linking mountains, Or the autumn lanes of Surrey. Are youi tropic blossoms lovely As the bloom of Malvern vale, *' Summer snow of apple blossoms" Shedding fragrance on the gale ? Blows the tropic air as freshly. Bringing life to heart and cheek. As the balmy breeze that meets me From each glorious Malvern peak ? Or from Surrey land enchanted, Of the poet and the muse, From the groves of happy Twickenham Or of Ditton let me choose. g6 THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG. So the land that I was born in, And the land I love the best, May for ever be my dwelling Be the soil where I shall rest ! Tlius I answer to your praises, Praising England evennore, Over every tropic island, Over eveiy Eastern shore. THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG. I WANDEiffiD abroad that morning. For my spirits were restless and sad, With a sense of a something scorning The sober life I had had ; And the springtide was bright around me, And the orchards were all a foam ; But the beauty that once had bound me Seemed as dead as my life at home. "With scornful eyes I went gazing On the wealth of the landscape round ; Nothing I saw won my praising. There was something I had not found. THE DLACKDIRr/S SOXC. 97 For somctliing my heart was yearning, For something my spirit was faint, There was something I longed to be learning — I never was meant for a saint. The blackbird conld teach me that lesson 'Midst the blanch of the white apple sprays, In the flush and the thrill of that season, In the joy of those young April days. He singeth aloud, but not lonely, He singeth of love to his mate, He singeth of love, of love only, He singeth, and I hear my fate ; For, swift she is coming, she's coming Where the meadow-path runs to the stile. And the blackbird my story is summing, As he telleth his own the while. Oh, love, I remember that morning ; Oh, love, shall you ever forget. In the light and the flash of its dawning In the meadows, how you and I met ? How you taught me the lesson I wanted. But first we passed into the wood, Where the sunbeams' gold fingers were slanted To point where the summer-house stood. H 98 IMPROMPTU. Since that lesson's grown perfect by practice, You taught me of wooing and winning, You taught me too well, that the fact is — On you he the sin of my sinning ; On you be the sin of my sinning, Whose looks lured and led me along ; Tho', as all things must have a beginning. Let us both blame that wicked bird's song. IMPllOMPTU, On seeing the Trees of Onslow Square covered with Blossoms in March. I SAW pink blossoms flushing bloom, Pale March to May seek to beguile, While, over Onslow Square, the gloom Of Winter caught the spring-tide's smile. And strangers passing may have deemed It was the climate or the air ; But I knew why those blossoms bloomed, For Faucit's glance had fallen there. TO MISS HELEN FA UCIT. 99 TO MISS HELEN FAIJCIT. December IWt, 1866. A PILGRIM once again I come To that cnclianted shrine, Which hohls to-night all that my life Has held as most divine. lling, magic bell, and cnrtain rise, give her to these eyes ! Though seen a thousand times, she still Would bring a s^svcet surprise. My heart would hear her from my grave — Would hear her and rejoice — Would hear her step, and beat again To music of her voice. But to live and hear her speak — To live and see her face — To live and watch her move to-night, Orbed with divinest grace — Is life, with cup so brimming full, A thoxisand common years Could not contain its sum of bliss, Or value its sweet tears. n 2 lOO TO MISS HELEN FAUCIT. But list ! what music steals on niglit, Enchanting all the earth ? Xay, music was not born till now, And in those words has birth. 'Tis Juliet ; but such Juliet scarce E'en Shakspeare's self hath wi'ought, He shadowed but the ^-ision's half, The other Eaucit brouu'ht. '»■■ She rises on the night as rose, In the old pagan dream, The Hash of snow on golden sands, Erora ocean's spray the gleam. Of Aphrodite's wreathing anns Upon the moonlit shore ; The vision ages consecrate In pagan poet's lore. So rises Juliet on the wave Of Shakspeare's golden verse ; A woman flushed with Romeo's love, A child still to her nurse. tSo, bathed in moonlight, steals she forth To wrap the soul in bliss, And almost make us wish the stage AVould yield no scene but this. TO MISS HELEN I- A VCIT. 1 O I Till, 'mid the thick of leafy woods, From tree to tree there runs The Kosalind, who dwells for aye 'Neath Ardcn's summer suns. What breezes ever blow afresh From Arden's haunted green ! In Memory's glades how often I Shall meet again that scene ! The cowslips fleck the grassy banks. The hunter winds his horn, The wild deer flies away afar, The ground is left forlorn ; Till, steals there in, with archest grace. That bright and genial boy. To mock us with idyllic life We never may enjoy ; For forests that Ave roam will ne'er Be green as Arden's wood ; The oak and elm-tree stand not now As they in Arden stood. The huntsmen ne'er again will come To dine as they dined there ; The green leaves shelter not such men, Tlic wood yields not such fare. T o 2 TO MISS HE LEX EA UCl T. The T^itty words and wise that fell From Touchstone's Jacques' lips, Xo more will wing them 'mid the glades, Where modern traveller dips. And Rosalind, she never lived But in one golden ch'cam, AMiere forest life was glorified With forest tree and stream. Kot so ; she lives again to-night, She moves heforc me now, And Arden's tui-f is 'neath her feet, Its sun is on her brow. And though the di-eam -will fade anon, Yet life is not all bare. While London holds one magic home, And while is worshipp'd there Our English Helen, fairer far Than she the Greek ideal. Though haloed whitcly through the glare Of torches hymeneal, That lighted to her bridal bed, Then wrapt the world in flames, As Greek fought Trojan, claiming back His queen of Grecian dames. THE KINGDOM OF POWDERED HAIR. IO3 Oh, fairest flower of all the earth ! Oh, violet of the world ! Let me rest here, near thy sweet grace, Still be my tent unfurled. Kay, it is o'er, the curtain falls. The sun sets from my breast. And life moves on, and I near thee Can never have my rest. Once more within the street I stand, Tliy light is now afar ; Life closes round me cold and drear, With its ignoble jar. THE KINGDOM OP POWDERED HAIR. There's a kingdom unsung in the poet's verse, You may search and not find it there ; But the poets were fools who no mention made Of the kingdom of powdered hair. Once its realms were ruled by the queens of the earth. Look on Reynolds' canvas, and there See the stately forms of the beautiful dames In that kingdom of powdered hair. I04 THE KINGDOM OF POWDERED HAIR. See the statesman and hero born to command, By the right of that royal air, Of the princely men whom Sir Joshua limned In his kingdom of powdered hair. There are Gainsborough's ladies in loveliest guise, ,A-nd, looking around, tell me where Are the women now found to compare with those In the kingdom of powdered haii" ? Those beauties are faded — those heroes are dead. And the grace and the grandeur there Have fled, like a dream, with the actors who lived In the kingdom of powdered hair, Eut a memory lives of that haunted past In the precincts of charmed May Fair, In whose underground regions you still may find Thrives a kingdom of powdered hair. Aud beyond it, still stretching away to the north — Ay, e'en northward of Cavendish Square, O'er the acres gxecn of the Regent's Park, Spreads the kingdom of powdered hair. From the farthermost west of Tyburnian homes, To the Bond Street side of May Fail-, You may track its dominion, nor reach the end Of the kingdom of powdered hair. THE K IXC DOM OF POWDERED HAIR. I 05 Majestic this realm is of scarlet and gold, xVnd of lords and their ladies fair, Who are waited upon by the glorified men Of this kingdom of powdered hair. Of stature the tallest, of stateliest mien, Each Narcissus seems fully aware That he is the man to bo held sam pareil In the kingdom of powdered hair. You may talk of the cows in fair Devon's fields ; But the calves beyond all compare Are those of the Johnnies, ccs enfants gates, Of the kingdom of powdered hair. Whene'er in my rambles I chance to espy Their forms loimgiug in street or sr^uare, I fancy Adonis reviving, yet lives In the kingdom of powdered hair. And when they leap up on the carriage-board swift, A sight in the summer-tide rare, I fancy them love-birds enchanted to men. In the kingdom of powdered hair. 0, woe for the day when reform shall encroach On the precincts of dear May Fair, And shall sweep to the limbo of hoop and of patch My pet kingdom of powdered hair ! I O 6 A us TR IAN LA\ '5. V AUSTRIAN LAYS. MAMA AJSTTOnSTETTE AT HEK TEIAL. " Stand forth, thou widow Capet, now, and hear thy doom declared ! Stand forth, thou Messalina ! thou shalt least of all be spared ! No wretch so steeped in guilt as thou, debaucher of thy child, No harlot of the lowest lot with crime like thine defiled. Stand forth!" they shout; she hears their yell, she stands within their lair, A hundi-ed faces press around, ablaze with hellish glare, A hundred wolfish hearts athirst to slake their ravening hate With blood of that lone woman, who comes forth to hear her fate. She standeth forth with stately step, and with a regal mien, As though that day of all her days had made her most a queen ; The aureole of martyrdom seems to quiver round her brow, MARIE AXrOIXETTE AT HER TRIAL. I 07 And Austria's daughter, France's queen, slie stands before them now ; The Hapsburg blood will dye no more the pallor of her cheek. But all its currents at her heart — she is no longer weak. Yet who can tell wliat visions now that haughty woman sees Of Trianon and Fontainebleau, and the gorgeous Tuileries, Of days when she was fairest of the fair that met her glance, The Dauphin's bride, the future queen of his resplen- dent Fran(_'e ; Of farther days, and more remote, -\A'lien young, and gay, and wild. Within Vienna's pleasant walls she dwelt a happy child ; Of her wooing and her wedding, and her bridegroom's careless mien, That flowered into love at last, the truest earth has seen; Of the crowds that thronged around her, of the love she won from men. Of the sudden change that followed, and the clouds that gathered then. Of Biihmer's diamond necklace, and Dc Eohau's cruel cheat, 1 oS MARIE ANTOINETTE AT HER TRIAL. Aud the fatal mazes woven round by De La Motte's deceit ; Of the plots that blasted all her bliss, of the thunder- l>olt that fell, Of the deep, relentless surging of the mob in endless swell That broke upon her palace walls, and swept her state away. And left the stricken woman they have doomed to death to-day ? It may be so that all the past thus rushed upon her then, That the joybclls of her happy youth were ringing o'er _ again, AYhcn the tocsin of her doom was heard amid exulting cries, As the city's shout of gladness was flung up■\^'ard to the skies. Oh ! fallen city, thus to shout at her majestic woe — Oh ! tiger hearts, no shame to feel, no pity now to show. Oh I cowards, base and cruel, with no touch of man- hood's grace — She who was late the brilliant queen of France's fickle race. It matters not ; with fearless heart she stands, and tran Il6 MENTAKA. What had Venice of slavery like hers, 'Neath the Kaiser's beneficent rule ? As well match the wretch in the dungeon With the disciplined lad in the school. AYhat had Florence or Parma to chafe at — Nay, rather, what did they not lose ? Yet they banished their archduke and duchess. That they might with one Italy choose. And what is the Pope more than Kaiser ? Why, when archdukes resign, should he reign- Why sit ever, like some Pate opposing " Non possumus," dungeon, and chain? Xay ; and fierce burnt the flame at their hearts. Why waste we fair time in the asking ? Let the war-flame be lighted, that soon Will see Italy in its rays basking. (), onwards for Italy, brothers, Gaiibahli himself leads the van — Garibaldi ! the word was as magic, Tlie battle seemed won to each man. And onwards they rushed, with hearts flaming, To find hearts in slavery dead. To strike for the caitiffs, who folded Their arms while these struggled and bled. MENTA.XA. 117 To flud tliat tlicii' sovereign had lured tlieiu To betray in that hoiu- of danger, And that, masked by the forces of Eome, Stood the terrible strength of the stranger. Well, it is over, and requiems sung In the chapels of London and Home, O'er the men who fell fighting in slavery's cause, Against all we most cherish at home. And shall we sing over these wild Garibaldiaus No requiem straight from the heart ? Though others disown them, yet shall we not own them, As brothers in whom we've some part ? Let us blame them for folly and rashness in hoping To carry a desperate cause ; When succeeding, we know how our country liad led oflP The chorus of freemen's applause. Yet, at least, be we thankful, as deeper and darker Falls the curse of the pontiff o'er Rome, That such heroes once freed us, and freed us for ever From pontiff and priestctaft at home. llS IS IT OVER^ IS IT OTEK ? Is it over ? — ^nay, nay, 'tis not over, Though, the priest sit triumphant awhile ; Thoiigh tp'anny''s miklew may moulder Eoman earth for a seventy mile. Yet, brothers, be sure 'tis not over ; And the land where our heroes have stood Sliall blossom and ripen to harvest, Made richer by patriots' blood, Wliere they stood with the Zouaves before them, And .the might of fair France masked beliind, Be sui-e we shall come to raise o'er them Glad shouts of Italians combined. Be sure that Montana shall echo From fortress to fortress our guns, And Monte Uotondo's loud volleys h>hall welcome her conquering sons. But oh, our brothers, the Romans, Shall your heads not then droop and sink down, AMio heard of dui- fighting, and stood "With arms folded and calm in your town ? Who stood your oppressors to welcome, And, dressing with flowers yoiu' chains, Received youi* Zouaves fresh from slaughter Of brothers with flattering strains ? IS IT OVER ? IK; Alas ! what for Freedom can fit yc, "What re-gild your degenerate name ; What efface the black memory clinging, Of that day dark with dye of your shame ? Ye knew we were coming to save you, Ye knew we bore Liberty's letters, Credentials of Italy eager to free you Prom weight of long centuries' fetters. Nay, s" im bums too -fierce to reproach yc ; But oh, our brothers, the brave. Did ye shed your young blood, at'e ye lying beneath us, For sake of the caitiff and slave? How despised of the Tuscan henceforth ye shall be, Still slaves to your slavery cleaving, "While Italy sighs as she clusters the leaves In her garlaud of Liberty's weaving — The laurel leaves, bearing, in letters of gold, The names of each fair sister city ; So while Italy sings 'neath her garland of green, Let Rome have our dirge for a ditty. But Ave shall avenge you, our brothers, the brave, We shall trophy the field of your slaughter ; We shall write your dear names on St. Angelo's fort, When victory Eomo's pardon has bought her. I20 THE PONTIFF'S PR AVER. THE POXTITt's PEATEK, Tho pontiff's hands on the altar are laid, and his eyes are raised to heaven ; " Exsurge Domine," listening then, if an answer from France were given. For from heaven I think, were an answer sent, it would be in the crash of the thunder, And the lightning's flash on the mitred head of the hypocrite kneeling under. The meek high priest with the saintly smile, so hard to distinguish from smirk — The meek high priest, who the Zouaves has sent to do his merciless work. And they arc smiting, and striking, and shooting, and stabbing, and slaying, And he, at the altar kneeling, to God as to devils is praying. As a Jew might have prayed to his God in the mist of the ages past, Prays the \ie\xv of Christ in a Christian fane, and to this it has come at last. That the vicar of Christ prays ignoring Christ's teach- ing, and name, and behest. Prays for cursing and smiting from heaven as a heathen or Jew at the best. THE PONTIFF'S PR AVER. 12 1 Could he glance in a vision down vistas that slope to a far-lying past ; Could he see in a garden's deep thickets the form of a Sufferer cast ; I Could the voice of that Sufferer resounding roll down the long corridor's length, From century leading to century, in deep echoes still gathering strength ; Could he pray then with hands on the altar, could he pray with those sounds in his ears, With their closes of silence unbroken, save by fall of the Sufferer's tears ? Could he pass in a trance from the present, o'erscaling the barriers of time ; Could the centuries wheeling them backwards bid the hours of old again chime ; — He would see his meek Master still praying, tlio' angels, if summoned, would aid him ; " Thy will, oh, my Father, be done !" in the sight of the men who betrayed him. But no ; every word of the SaWour, His gesture, and accents, and speech, Are lost in the volleying chassepots, are drowned in the tramp and the screech. 122 THE PONTIFF'S PRAYER. Where thick in the smoke and confusion, commingled in fight and in slaughter, The sons of our Italy fall, for the cause of our Italy's daughter, Shot thro' by the troops of the pontifP, blasphemer of Christ at Christ's altar ; Still the brave Garibaldian columns stand firmly toge- ther, nor falter. Badly trained, badly anned, young in years, mere boys, some who fell fighting there, Still the day will be theirs, for the Zouaves are breaking their ranks in despair. But surging, and swaying, and breaking 'neath the red Garibaldians' advance, Lo! denser and darker beliind them, thick array of the soldiers of France, And thundering volleys of chassepots, with the pope's prayers, are mounting on high ; And shot down, and slaughtered, and trampled, the brave Garibaldians lie. And the caitiffs of Rome are applauding as their con- querors sweep thro' her streets. But cursing and hate in their hearts, as their last hope of Liberty fleets ; THE ro STIFF'S PRAYER. I 23 For tlicy know they arc false to their brothers, their brothers who died in their youth, And bright hopes and high visions, died fighting for freedom, and country, and trutli. And the pope he is singing Te Deums, and the priests their thanksgivings are chanting. As fast sinks the sun and the shadows of night o'er the town still the pontiff's are slanting ; And with it sinks still swifter downwards the sun of a fond hope arisen. That Romans, like other Italians, might rise and come out of their prison.** * In this and the preceding lay I Lave endeavoured to give expression to tbo sentiments a Garibaldian may be well supposed to have entertained at the elose of the disastrcius campaign of last autumn, but I wish to guard against the possible conclusion that these sentiments are in every respect identical with my own. The first lay of the three sufficientlj' conveys my own feeling on the subject. 124 HARROIF-ON- THE-HIL L . EXGLISH LAYS. HiJEEOW-ON-THE-HILL . The day was fading swiftly along the bright Durance, The brilliant day of Montpelier, the day of southern France ; And the friend I loved lay dying, and, save that I stood near. There was none to bend above him — there was none to shed a tear. And his thoughts were rushing homewards, and he feebly, faintly said, "Oh! friend who loved me living, forsake me not when dead ; Oh, lay me not to rest in a strange and foreign grave. But bear me where the English elm may o'er my tomb- stone wave — The English elm I see it on a spot remembered still, In the old churchyard of Harrow — of Harrow-on-the- Hill. " Last night I di'eamt I saw it, the well-remembered place, Each field that lay in distance, each hedgerow I could trace ; HA RRO n '-ON- TIIE-HILL. 125 0:u'e more a boy, I wandered tlu-ougli the sheltered lanes around, "Where the yellow leaves of autumn were falling to the ground ; And the fragrance and the stillness, and the sadness on the air, Made a weight upon my spirit that was more than I could bear ; And I felt a sudden longing to leave this wondrous earth, Too weary far to listen to its voices and its mirth. I longed to lay my limbs at rest, and be for ever still In the old churchyard of Harrow — of Ilarrow-on-the- HiU. * ' And, Arthur, you have loved me since the day that first we met, Too long a love, too dear an one for either to forget ; I know you'll often think of me, and life will be more drear "When you go forth without the friend of many a happy year. So look me truly in the eyes, and hold, liold firm my hand. And promise you will bear me to my own loved Engli.sh land — 126 HARRO\V-OX-THE-HILL. The laud where you and I as lads have often walked together In the summer, and the autumn, and the hearty winter weather ; And clasp my hand more firmly, and vow more tnily still, That I shall rest at Harrow — at Harrow-on-the-Hill. " There, 'a lady living lonely, will weep for many a day Wlien they tell her, when they tell her, Ai-thui-, I am passed away ; She wept wild tears of grief one morning long ago. And I turned away the svvifter that I might not see her woe. Oh ! my mother, had I stayed with thee witliin that peaceful home, But who can check the young heart when it bids the young man roam ? And I think she will forgive me when you go to her and say, ' Though his youth was very wayward, and he wandered far away. Yet in dying, to his friend, it was his last and only will. To rest near you at Harrow — at Harrow-on-thc-HilL' " THE GREAT SEAL OF EXGLAXD. I 2 -J THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND. Tart I. — T/ic Kcepeis of the Seal. give me now a subject fit for rapturous strain of verse, Some glorious deed of warrior or of statesman to rehearse ; Tiiauks, Liliau, tliauks ; and Alice, too, 'tis a glorious list you give Of the great old Dead of England, of their words that biu'n and live ; And the very page seems purple, as I read the names you write, And the flame of England's glories seems to touch it with its light ; And the pearls of stately memories, and the diamonds of her fame, Cluster circKng thick and glorious round each old historic name ; But a sudden subject strikes me, and I throw your themes aside. And my bosom glows with rapture, and my heart beats high with pride. As eight dead centuries start to life, and eacli its tale reveals Of England's great Lord Keepers — the Lord Keepers of her Seals. 128 THE GREAT SEAL OF EXGLAND. How gloriously their ranks Hve out, as through, the mist of ages Leaps the light of England's story on the long line of her Sages, Who shaped their era's fashion, stamping clean and without flaw, On the passions seething round them the strong seal of English law. As from chain of Alpine mountains peak after pL'ak receding. Cut clear against the sky will rise the last peak as the leading, Yet one mil catch a richer light upon its snow- wreathed head, And one will tell more whitely out against the evening red ; So 'midst this com-tly conclave with proud faces strongly cast On the rich horizon glowing with the memories of the past, Some, 'gainst the splendour of their time, will rise with nobler name, With a whiter ^^eatli of moral worth, or a fuller flush of fame. As where through Time's long -vistas sinks the sunlight sadly down. O'er the battle-field of Hastings, where the !N"orman won his crown ; THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLASD. 129 O'er the plain strewn ^\-itli tlie dying 'gainst tlie red orb sinking low, ^Vbiter gallops tlirougli the distance the white steed his Normans know, As the gallant Keeper Odo, with his baton borne in hand. Leads the van of Jforman conquest leaping o'er the Saxon land; Or where — Time's chariot chiming down the gliding groove of years — Comes again the trumpets' revel — rush of battle — clang of spears, Where we still from Shakespeare's clarion catch the cheer of Harry's call. Our valiant Monmouth Harry, over Harry Hotspur's tall ; There wise in council as in war rides 'midst the ringing peals. The brave Lord Keeper Gascoignc — the Lord Keeper of the Seals. And names more glorious yet stand out upon our history's page. Through the darkness brighter flashing on the forehead of the age ; And the silent air is stirring with sweet murmurs as of song, And the fervent words of poets, wed to music, float along ; K 130 THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND. Tlicre are Hatton's name, and Verulam's, and lie wlio went before, l^till clinging to his youth's false creed, misguided saintly More; And as the changing shadows diift across their age's dial, We hear one chant in Chelsea church, and touch his silver viol, We hear the other's golden speech roll music on the air, Aiid read the sole page in the world that with Shake- speare's can compare. And round that rich roll-call of Fame what sadder memories wait < )t' the high in human nature, of the dark in human fate, What thought of those who laboured long, who toiled out life in -sain, To trembling hand and shattered nerve, and dark dis- tempered brain ! (), well sang one her lovely lay, whose glance surveying met The dark and solemn buildings round the Temple's fountain set — " AVhat struggles, what hope, what despair may have been Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green !" And there are those who bounded on, who touched the golden goal. While radiant yet around their brows shone Youth's bright aureole, THE GREAT SEAL OF EXCLAND. 131 Who mounted to the Marble Chair, who snatched the Crimson Purse, And lived to find that brilliant prize to them life's heaviest cui'se. Such the glittering thread of gladness — such the dark tlu'ead Fortune steals. In the "web she weaves the Keepers — the Lord Keepers of the Seals. And pondering thus their story o'er, we find the past has led To the deep abyss that severs still the living from the dead, "VNTiile standing on a neck of earth, enough for his light weight. One old man's hands are stretching to the hands he grasped so late — One link still left in that old man to join us to the past, To the giant forms of story amidst whom his youth was cast ; And, bent with him o'er Time's abyss, we fancy we can hear The surge and sweep of many a speech, long faded from the ear — Hear the silver tone of Brougham — see the flush to check has flown. And the listener's eye is kindling as he claims it for his own, k2 132 THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND. As tlie years yield up their echoes of his old familiar art, Of that facile voice's charming, winding round his hearer's heart ; Catch the sound of Eldon's weeping through the silence of the Court, Hear the clarion ring of Erskine, as he answers back in sport ; Listen, hushed for Lyndhui'st's accents, that none hearing could forget — Accents lingering, in their beauty, round the Senate chambers yet ; Start to see the angiy eye-balls flash their lightnings from the chaii-, As the thunder-bursts of Thurlow sweep the tempest- laden air ; Thus bending o'er Time's dark abyss, to Fancy's ear arise The mingled voices of the men long vanished from our eyes ; And thus and thus the centuries run, and each its tale reveals Of England's great Lord Keepers — the Lord Keepers of her Seals. THE GREAT SEAL OF EXCLAXD. Part II.— The Sad. ^ii Kor less than of the Keepers of the Seal itself my lay— The great Broad Seal of England — Victoria's Seal to- day ; But e'er from graver's subtle hand had the ductile gem received, In the lines of truth and beauty, the fair face no loss then grieved — Tlie Queen's face, that smiled in gladness as she met her subjects' face — The girl's face, that hid its roses blushing 'neath the bridal lace — The wife's face, that looked in rapture, as the crown of all her pride Was the husband guarding ever, loving ever, at her side, Ere hers, how many features had across that signet played, As the course of centuries graved it with the monarchs they had made ; Since the saintly Edward's image rose to vision on its sealing. All the kingly race of England — all her royal line revealing ; It has seen the star rise redly, it has seen it darkly set, 134 THE GREAT SEAL OF EXGLAND. With the fortunes waxing, waning of each proud Plau- ta genet ; (Jf the great and gallant Edward, dear to Froissart's splendid pen — Of the gentle, lamb-like Edward, done to death by savage men — Of the proud and princely Edward, shining forth from every page — Of the gi-and chivalric story of that grand, chivalric age — It has caught the red rose colour, it has borne the stainless white Of the rival roses mingled after Bosworth's brilliant fight- It has imaged noble Richmond, the first Tudor England knew, And the handsome bluff eighth Harry, with his eye of meriy blue ; It has borne the stamp of Mary, and her butcher lord of Spain, Our flawless Seal of England, save for their ignoble stain — And hers, the monarch of all monarchs that have ever reigned on earth, Great lioness of England, never man excelled in worth ; She who di-ew her father's sword, she who sware her father's oath, THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND. \ y^ Royal Henry's virgin dauglitcr, royal England's spot- less troth — She whom half of royal Europe, vainly wooing, wislicd to wed ; But her heart was wed to England, "I am England's bride," she said ; And Old England's heart still holds her proudest name of all her story. Silver star of Tudor, blazoned on her purple field of Like the lily, lone and stately, towered high that virgin head. Regnant rose that royal spirit, yet her woman's heart had bled When the love of Leicester touched her in the blossom of her youth. And the love of Essex wooed her with false mien of manly truth ; Till the recreant and the braggart stung her royal heart to madness, And o'er her dark delirium fell Death's purple pall in sadness ; And when her seal of fifty years broke 'neath the craftsman's blow, How many a gallant English heart sank stricken then and low ; How many an eye grew dim with tears, when it could no longer trace 136 THE GREAT SEAL OF EXGLAXD. The old familiar features of Queen Bess's cherished face. Then flitting o'er its surface passed each prince of Stuart line, With the proud majestic presence of the lords of right di\'ine, The sixth Scotch James, and proud false Charles, and Charles's graceless sons. Dark shadows swiftly di'ifting as the tale of history runs ; Till borne on tide of Fortune rose the wished-for wave at last. Hurrah ! hun-ah ! the Nassau flag meets Devon's friendly blast ; And the Seal that James, in flying, had for ever thought to hide. Rose for England's great law-saver — rose for "William and his bride ; And the strong cut face of Nassau, and the beauteous Stuart Mary, Lent a legend more romantic than all tale of knight and faiiy. Graved a story dear to-day to every English heart and home. Dearer thinking of those slaughtered by the Zouave force of Rome ; And their faces fading from it rose the comely face of Anne — THE GREAT SEAL OF EXGLAKD. 137 Of the good queen, fairly fasliioued on the good old English plan, Somewhat stubborn, somewhat wanting in that finer tact and grace, Loved through length and breadth of England on a dearer, fairer face ; But a woman still true-hearted, of the English blood and name, Heiress of the God-anointed Stuarts, and of Hyde's historic fame. And thus and thus the story runs, face after face is graved Of the kings whom England honoured, of the prince who England saved ; And the four queens regnant long discrowned, and the one who rules to-day, Round whom her nobles cluster, and for whom her people pray, Hoping still to see her breaking from the vigil of her sadness, And with her subjects sharing as in son'ow so in gladness. 138 HYDE r.ARK IN MAY. HYDE PAEK IIN" MAT. Now blooms the lilac, and on leafy tlirones, 'Midst green savannahs rise the chestnut cones ; The milky hawthorn strews her summer snow, And gold sierras of laburnum glow ; Now Bond Street bobbies boldly dash athwart The ranks of carriages they keep apart ; Heroic plunge they 'midst the lock of wheels, 'Midst that same lock the thief unnoted steals. Now fill the benches Marshall's doors provide "With the matched footmen, each a household's pride; Now like a pear- tree after April's showers, Burst Brandon's windows into sudden flowers ; And Foster, Eagle each with rival bloom, Paints the rich spray, and tints the snowy plume ; Now drapes Elise her casements "with that lace. Whose price is fabulous as Lady 's face. Nor Howell rusts the lustre of thy name, Kesplendent now with half a century's fame. While Hancock, Boore, and Mortimer display A Pajah's fortune on each glittering tray. Now blaze the ball-iooms with their contrast keen To conjure memories of a different scene. As some young bride with dazzled eyes recalls Her evenings pent within the vicarage walls ; Or Doctor's daughter from her village borne. Looks back on visions she has leamt to scorn, HYDE PARK IN MAY. I 39 Of rooms some twelve feet wide by twenty long, Crammed with tlicir third-rate dull provincial throng. Their few dim lights that show you but the gloom, But hint at objects that they can't illume ; A spinster aunt to play quadrilles all night, Whose heart is heavy, and whose hand not light. Such is the vision the young wife recalls At memory's shaping of her girlhood's balls; How different this from London's glad midnight, When roars the knocker, shines the resplendent light. When gorgeous liveries blaze around the hall. And beaiity, music, perfume every sense enthral, As Fashion calls her titled crowds to meet In Carlton Grardens or in Curzon Street. Here borne on crescent wave of Folly's tide, The village maiden shines the titled bride. And but looks back to bless her stars, she sold Her virgin beauty for her bridegroom's gold. Thus pass in London gilded hours of night, Nor morning ones less radiant take their flight ; Where fresh as roses May-fair maidens ride Through Nature's carnival — the fair May-tide, Down that famed Row where soon as comes the May, Comes England's beauty in its proud array, Witli ring and chime of that bright cavalcade Of steed and groom, and cavalier and maid. There he who loves his race to criticize, Or views the world with jealous jaundiced eyes, 140 HYDE PARK IN MAY. May find rich gxist to feed his cyiiic mill, And mangle reputations at his will. To my mild mood, the figures come and go Like some vast gay but harmless puppet-show; There A y passes with that air serene Of calm assurance on his thoughtful mien, Too grave, too earnest for his years, in sooth, That should flush o'er with all the glow of youth ; Who learn to love him first learn to esteem. And forced by him to be the thing you'd seem. His lofty nature sways you to despise All fawning arts, all artful courtesies ; Yet still you miss a something of that art Which ere you know it steals away your heart ; And while confessing A is wise and good, You feel you scarcely love him as you should ; Wliile his most fervent followers own that still Their hearts are less led captive than their will. How different he from D , who passes now Smooth-tongued, cold-hearted, with a white bland brow ; You know, sans chute, the very man I mean, Accomplished actor in life's eveiy scene. Who'll crush your heart out with his sweetest smile, Whispering some well-turned compliment the while ; Yet flattered, honoured goes his prosperous life. Bland husband to an acquiescent wife. HYDE PARK AV MAY. 14I Indulgent father to a faultless child, To studious servants softly phrased and mild, Blessed with obedient servants, children, wife. He well may play his good safe part in life ; But thwarted, crossed by friend, or wife betrayed, D is the stuff from which a Borgia's made ; And once, indeed, to him there nearly came The hour- to turn his frosty soul to flame ; Dishonour threatened, foe on foe assailed ; But matched 'gainst all his matchless will prevailed, The slander silenced, put his foes to flight. And wrapped his secret in profoundest night. See next, with buoyant step and laughing mien, Gay, easy Myrtle shoot across the scene ; But no ; 'tis but my memoiy sees him smile, Or lounging, look across the Lady's Mile ; Whose favouring glance a brighter blush awoke, While hearts beat quicker if but Myrtle spoke. How in those days I envied him his life, A bachelor, who might select his wife From out the fairest of the fair May Fair, And need but choose to find acceptance there ; But he, perchance, knew female arts too well To yield his heart to any May Fair spell, And so grew old, unloving and unwed. Till his glad spirits, grace, and wit had fled. What now are all advantages of youth. But withered roses o'er a grave, in sooth '? 142 HYDE PARK IK MAV. AVlio Myrtle sees to-day lean on the rail, Sees how time takes the wind from manhood's sail. "VSTiat this bright Myrtle, this the Row's Le Beau, With di'css so careless, and with step so slow — This Myrtle, who, with ann leaned on a friend, Slow traverses the Mile from end to end. And seems to see, with sad and restless stare. Ghosts of dead fancies, vanished faces fair ? Strong contrast he to him who makes his boast, The radest muscle of that gallant host ; And breaks, each winter, some three hours ere nine, Not ice of ceremony, but of Serpentine ; There lounges C , whose mind's with memories writ Of Gore-house suppers, and of D'Orsay's wit — Days that the lovely Margaret held di^-ine, Wlicn Wellington brought incense to her shrine, When Landor, Lyndhiu'st, Lytton spread her fame. And the world crowding to her footstool came, Passed swift — how swift the brilliance of her reign ; And now, by hastening ciuTonts of the Seine, Beneath St. Gemiain, shadowed by its gloom, Chambourcy whitely rears the lonely tomb, Within whose chamber, folded side by side, Sleep woman's loveliness and manhood's pride. How one year's lapse on Lady has told ; Last year her ringlets black as midnight rolled, And now riui rippling in a flood of gold. HYDE PARK IN MA V I-k5 How young, Low radiant, and laow liappy she, • Whose last stake played has won the wished-for j'^r/o-. Alas ! when such th(3 lesson she can teach, Vain are all sermons that the preachers preach. There, through all seasons, di-ives that portly dame. For years companioned by the withered frame, "WTiich, though it semblance of her husband bore. Some swore a mummy stuffed ten years or more ; Now gone the mummy, smiliug in its stead, The young Adonis she has lately wed. There, blending with the throng as it drifts by, Prince Arthur, jovial Cambridge meet the eye — There swift the steed bears by the boundary rails Bright Lady Mary, with her heart in Wales. In yon proud beauty's half- averted face, The artless girl's of former days I trace ; One season flashed she on the town's charmed eyes, Eut London ball-rooms captured not the prize ; 'Twas Solent saw the wooing, saw the earl Ten pearls exchanging for one priceless pearl ; Knowing that of his lineage none had set On fairer brow the W n coronet. What marvel is the scent lost to the pack. And orthodoxy's hounds thrown off the track. That they sweep not upon us when so near, And yet in quiet walks Colenso here ? I strain my ear if o'er the general hum I catch their cry, and watch to see them come — T44 HYDE PARK IN MAY. Watch, to see C — p — u follow as they run ; Bishop hunt bishop must he glorious fun. But, 0, how swiftly o'er the mind will pass, Swift as the shadows o'er yon sunny grass. The thoughts of those fair forms that come not now To add their charm to that unrivalled show ; "Why name them ? Some — one chief of all Will start to memory ere her name can fall ; E'en those who but her pictiired face have seen. Will conjiire up the grace of Clementine. Some, too, still live, but I'unning off the line, No more in alleys of Hyde Park shall shine — Or shine, henceforth, but 'midst those Imid stars — Those fierce, red planets, whose hot lustre mars The milder radiance of our stainless dames, As the rouged cheek each paler cheek outflames. Thus lingering, musing o'er that glittering sight. Thoughts, sad and mirthful, took alternate flight ; But shall I own that in my mind and heart, Not mirth, but sorrow, held the larger part, And, owned I pulpit, I could make stern speech From the sad sermon Row and drive can preach ; So much that's worthless, both in maid and man, In raddled roue, hackneyed harridan — In false, fair faces with their heartless smile. Is seen from end to end of that short mile. But there behold a sight to stir the heart, The two great chieftains not ten yards apart, HYDE PARK IN MA Y. 145 G and D , each with courteous brow, From which is smoothed all opposition now ; The great ^Tiig party's great Whig leader seems As one who to the future looks and dreams, That, when the heat and fiuy of the fray Die oif, there yet will rise an ampler day ; His cheek is pale and worn, his mouth is stem, A leader who has seen the tide of victory turn — Has seen low cunning, petty arts prevail. And meets his rival fanned by victory's gale, Yet in defeat's dark hotu" seems nobler far Than he on whom sliines Fortune's fairest star ; From whose sly smile and lurking lids there start — You almost hear the hiss, and see the dart — The scorpion venom and the poisoned stiug Of the swift satire none like him can fling; Now on his lips, as hovering seems the lance He fein would hurl, he meets his rival's glance ; That o'er the present seeks the future years, Where the rich guerdon of his hopes appears — Where the long struggle in the glorious cause Of Freedom conquers 'midst a world's applause ; Say then, whose follower, if your choice were free, The Victor's or the Vanqixished's would you be ; But now the sun sinks down, the crowd breaks up, May Fair must dine, and Islington must sup. The dapper clerks, who strut their little hour. Seek their cleaned gloves, and choose their ball-rooin flower ; I, 146 THE LAST WORDS OF MARSHAL SAXE. The debutante take counsel with, her maid, To be in this or that rich lace arrayed ; And all departing, divers ways must go. While night and silence hold the empty Row. THE LAST WOEDS OF MARSHAL SAXE. What lias my Kfe been but a dream ? Though beautiful, 'twas short ; Dreamed out between the sword's red gleam And revel of the Court. So let it be — I would not change That life of sun and storm. That biuTiing blood, whose fever's range Kept all my passions warm, For any even-tempered frame, Or calmly -pulsing blood ; Aline was a Man's life, all that came Of pleasure was its food. Of wine and women, war and sport, I had and drank my fill ; I drained my cup of joys right off, And ne'er a di'op did spill. My fierce fast span of fifty years Was worth a dozen lives ; I shall not now shod any tears For any sin it hives. THE LAST WORDS OF MARSHAL SAXE- 147 ^\'liat ! weep that I have tasted all The world could give of bliss ? Fed lust, and found it never pall, And now lament for this ? What should a man do but live thus ? Why waste a single day Of all the days the gods give us To fight, and sweat, and slay? And then to fling the red sword down, And 'midst the cannon's pause, Snatch all the joys oui'life can crown. And laugh at monkish laws. I tell you such a life is worth Ten hundi'cd such as those With wliich faint wretches turn the earth Into a monkish close. White Virtue's lily never had For me a single chann ; Give me Lust's roses all unclad. And red as wine and warm. So spake stout Konigsmark, and died— Blame him all yc who can ; But own those words of power and pride Came from an honest man. And though since first suns set and rose'. And moons did wane and wax, l2 148 THE FAUN IN THE CAPITOL. Few wilder words have dropt thau those Which fell from Marshal Saxe! Yet own him one who in our days "Would have done nobler work ; A man who for no mortal's praise Would any duty sliirk. Own, too, each age and clime will chalk Their difference on the man ; Making one century's Konigsmark Another's Wellington. THE FAUN IN THE CAPITOL. What glad and jocund thing is this That greets my vision now ? What grace is in those pliant limbs, What sweetness on that brow ! What rose could ope with sweeter breath, O'er blown by the warm south ; Than the sweet rose's fi-agrant bud, Of thy half-smiling mouth ? I long to fold thee in my arms. And bid thy face to rest For evermore, with that arch smile, Upon my yearning breast. THE FAUN IN THE CAPITOL. 149 Wliat art thou standing thus amidst The shapes of god and man Quaint reminiscence in thy form Of the ^vood's rustic Pan ? All the sweet dreams of pagan lore Seem lurking In thy mien ; Sly hints, half-guesses, subtle charms Of essence epicene Breathe from thy gracious form and face, Where the soft marble's yellow ; Glows 'midst the glorious forms around, In beauty without fellow. All odours from the fresh spring woods Of thyme, and moss, and flower, Seem blown around thee by the gTace Of Nature's woodland dower. Play but a note on thy sweet pipe, And from their mossy cover The hare will start — the rabbit leap — The greyhound jump them over. The squirrel stand with beechen mast Untasted midst her paws ; And all wild things come from their cells, Drawn by instinctive laws. The spring sap in the thrilling pines, "Will stir through all their branches ; 150 THE FAUN IN THE CAPITOL. The wild deer pause in sight of bolt The following huntsman launches. The stately stags will leaping press In wild crowds through the thickety O'er paling, fence, and rustic rail, Through every gate and wicket. When all things love thee, why not I ? Shall a cold creed forbid That love should draw from thy fair forni The mystic s.weetness hid? No ; hear me now, dear Faun, forswear — And prick thy furry ear — The chill cold faith of modem days^ The faith and creed austere. Who would not change oiu' dead church creeds. Her bishops and her priests. For the glad ranks of Grecian gods. And the glad Grecian feasts? "Who would not live with thee, dear youth. And watch the gentle sti-iie Within thy form that ever stirs . Of thy sweet twofold life ? A\Tiere blends the animal with man. The sweet wild woodland grace Of nature, with the dearer dawn Of manhood in thv face. CRA VES A T FLORE. \CE. I 5 I Then take me from tliis world grown old, And from these days of ours, To wild and wood and breezy wold, And Faun-like forest hours. GRAVES AT FLOREKCE. Florence, fair Florence, thee I envy not, Nor grudge one chann of thine ; Of all fair Europe fairest spot Of earth, and most diA'ine. Keep, keep thy fair Baptistery, and all Thy rich emblazoned streets ; Each palace with its storied wall. That old tradition greets. Thine old dim Duomo, on whose muffling gloom Break Edens of deep red ; From those rich windows, on whose bloom Colour and light are wed. Thy Tribune, where Love's fevered pilgrims come To worship at the shrine Of her whom e'en our Christendom Acknowledges divine. Keep all thy marble gems — thy sculptured wealth Of god and goddess keep ; T 5 2 GKA p-ES A T FLORENCE. And him round whom we come iu stealth On his most heanteous sleep. Whose grace so charms, it may not anger us, Locked in such soft repose Of limbs with beauty languorous, Of lips sweet as the rose. Keep these and thy fair Campanile's grace, Too fair for other earth ; 1^0 other skies should see its face Than those of Giotto's birth. Thy classic Arno and its beauteous bridge, Linking thy quays along ; Fiesole and all the purple ridge That won our Milton's song. Keep all to grace thy purple state, fair queen, All art and splendour keep — All but one acre of thy green, Where English singers sleep. Where lordly Laudor's honoured head lies low, And lion-heart is still ; Nor music from his lips doth flow, The poet's heart to fill. AVhere gentle Browning never more her lute Shall tune to that grand theme ; "Wliose thunder pealing, woke ranks mute From their inglorious dream. A WEDDING. 153 Till the long streets lived out line after line, And, marching hand in hand, The Tuscans fanned the flame divine Of freedom through their land. Freedom's true knights these noble Tuscans were. And worthy of her song ; Wliosc metred march so stirred them there, Thrilling their ranks along. But now she sleeps her last and songless sleep, With Tuscan earth above ; And Florence doth her relics keep, \¥ho, living, won her love. And these two graves I grudge to thee, queen, Of all thy state ; but these Few feet of earth that should have been O'erwatched by English trees. A WEDDIXG. April, 1867. I SAW her in the old church kneel. Upon that first spring mom ; The April came to give her smiles, The sunlight to adorn. 154 ^ WEDDING. First morn that winter's lingering car Eolled off on sluggish wheels, And bade fair April's earliest smile Melt March's icy seals. She knelt, and through the painted pane The sun stole on the fold. And wimple of her radiant hair, The gift of gold to gold. There rosebud charm of childhood came With girlhood's opening grace. As, glimmering up the old church aisle, Eight maidens took their place. There Helen and her sister Maud, Scarce sharing twenty years, Hid, blushing, 'midst the ripe rose ranks Of girls amid their peers. There Marion knelt, and Margaret, And radiant Gwendolyne, And Lady Alice, and the rose Of all the eight — Claudine. Eut fairer still, queen-rose of all, Was she who softly spoke The words that seemed to gently twine 'Midst his as vine round oak. His manly accents rose in strength Fi'om the stout Scottish heart. CLAUDINE. 155 And e'er they died, the rhythmic flow Of hers took up their part. Like river in full-volumed strength, He poured his hearty speech ; Like lill that runneth through the reeds, In haste that stream to reach, She seemed to haste to melt her life In his for evermore, So swiftly chimed her answering vow To every vow he swore. The Scottish Doiic gave its verve In him in each stout word ; The Southern Saxon's sweeter note In each response was heard. So go they forth, and in a world "Where half is epicene, May he of manhood be the lord. And she of woman queen ! CLAUDIXE. Look up, and let me see the peace Of eyes serene, 'Neath hair drawn back in nut-brown fleece From brow, Claudine. 156 CLAUDINE. What far-famed faces long ago Have I thus seen, Full front me with such brow of snow From frames, Claudine. The painters of proud periods past Have matched your mien, And many a canvas caught you fair And fast, Claudine. Bright snowy brow, bright lifted up, White gloss and sheen ; And lips that might be angels' cup, To sip, Claudine. So tenderly all woman's wiles Seem mixed therein. As though all epochs lent their smiles To bless Claudine. The heavens' child to them you were. One hard to wean ; They loved and would have kept you there, Their own Claudine. But God took pity on the earth, So poor and mean ; And sent it pattern of fresh worth. In thee, Claudine. CLAUDINE. 157 As eartli's new Eve He thee hath sent, Since Adam's sin ; ■ In every age with woman's, blent Thy soul, Claudine, It shone in beauty, love, and truth, By Boaz seen ; And made the beauteous gleaner, Ruth, His bride, Claudine. It dwelt in Jephtha's daughter, when, With brow serene. She bent to death as thou again Would' st do, Claudine. Thou would'st resign thy life e'en now, Of seventeen. To help thy father keep such vow As his, Claudine. This was in Israel, but in Greece Was sister seen To dig a grave, then go in peace To hers, Claudine. In Aulis, when all wind had ceased, Fair Iphigene Came meekly to the votive priest To die, Claudine. 158 CLAUDIXE. A strong man doubting seems to fear The sword's point keen, His wife beholding, sheds no tear, Nor shi'inks, Claudine. But falling on the point, she cried, \Vith smiling mien, *' Pa3tus, it hurts not," thus Arria died A Greek Claudine. To live again and bless the earth In every scene, "Where legend blows of woman's worth And love, Claudine. In every countiy knighthood's lance Has made thee queen ; And Spain, and Italy, and France, Have their Claudine. But most our England, where, in times Swept from us clean, You ruled the poets' hearts and rhymes For good, Claudine. Whose verse raised not as one has now, Hymn to Faustine ; But miiTored Unas pure as snow, Or thou, Claudine. CLAUDIXE. Or meek Griseldas, or the grace Of Imogen, That dawns to-day from Faiicit's face And thine, Chiudine. Or Lear's Cordelia, or the spring's Bright Rosaline, Whose laugh still Arden over rings With mirth, Clandiuc. Or the bluff king's bright second wife, Fair young Boleyne, 'V\1iose slender neck, marred by the knife, Matched thine, Claudine. Or Dudley's Jane set in her hair, Poor ten days' queen, A crown, not that she was to wear For aye, Claudine. All these were shrines and temples made To set therein That spirit wliich to-day is laid On thee, Claudine. On this sweet time of gracious houi's. And hearts wherein Christ lives, this Christian time of ours. Smiles sweet Claudine, "59 l6o LINES IN CEMETERIES. If one should kneel and worship you, He would not sin, But be God's own more truly through Such love, Claudine. And should' st thou love him back again, Thy love I ween. Would crown a slave the king of men, Thy slave, Claudine."^" LINES IN CEMETEEIES. COMPOSED IN THE GLASGOW CEMETEET. How different from the huiTying tread Where other bridges are, The silent steps that cross thy bridge And stream, Molendinar ! * In these lines to " Claudine," the imitation of Mr. Swinburne's fine poem " Faustine " is obvious and intentional, my object being, while 1 employ the same metre, and in some instances even the same phrases, to teach a lesson the very opposite of that taught in " Faustine." I may add that Claudine is really the name of the young lady whose peculiar beauty, so pervaded with reminiscence of old pictures, especially the pictures of Sir Joshua Reynolds, sug- gested to me this imitation or reversal of Mr. Swinburne's poem. L!XES IN CEIilETERIES. i6l Their arches join with happy link The shores with labour rife ; From this sad shore of Lethe falls Each wave of human life. There men are rushing on in haste To meet their fellow-men ; Here mourners leave the one pale form They ne'er shall meet again. How oft in other lands I've seen, In many a wistful di-eam, The vision of that single arch Which spans thy sullen stream ; From terrace height to terrace height, Have seen each funeral street Run down, till gravestones on the hill The valley gravestones meet ; And thinking on the hallowed earth, That lies so thickly here, The Scottish faith more holy seemed, The Scottish land more dear. And now, when seven years have fled, I gaze on them again. The pillared paths upon the hill, The river, and the glen. Here merchant, actor, preacher lie, AVhere all may safely sleep ; M l52 LIXES IN CEMETERIES. O'er all the blue arch bends alike, Alike the earth will keep. The living city widens on, Afar its mansions spread, So, silently from year to year. This city of the dead. The merchant city leaning down, Seems still, with kindly care. From many a tkronging street to Avatch And guard the sleepers there. And so, I greet thee once again, Though seven years have fled Since last I crossed thy solemn bridge, To niuse upon thy dead. 1 scarcely note their loss, and yet What happy days they close ! What other seven years to me Shall bring the bliss of those ? The faii-est, richest ones of all Man's threescore years and ten, The music of their meny march Life will not play again. Life's music never more for me Such jocund notes will sound ; Henceforth, with less of drum and ti-ump I pass less sunlit ground. LINES IN CEMETERIES. 16^ Adventure scarce will have the charm It had in those bright years ; Eomance wiU. hardly win from me The same deKcious tears. Fled are those swift alternate moods That cross life's April morn ; The diamond moments of delight, From dismal moments born. More calm, more even beats my pulse, That scarce again will bound With rapture at some snowdrop seen, The first above the ground. The yellow cowslip on the lawn, And many a daffodil Will dance as gaily in the breeze, And fringe the babbling rill ; And they to me will tell more plain Than any preacher's lore — Ay, plainer than the tombstones here,— My April days are o'er. It is not that I love them less. Or that they are less bright ; But, springing side by side with them. Sad memories dim my sight. I cannot grasp them as I did. The future all unknown ; ii 2 J 64 LINES IN CEMETERIES. And Innocence and Hope with me False prophets that have flown. Ah 1 how these thoughts come thronging now, As here I rest awhile, And think this day, on life's short chart Has marked another mile. My birthday ! graves around me lie, And many a grave beside, Of hopes long buried in my heart, Dead love and perished pride. Oh ! wheels of hope long, long run do-mi, Oil ! springs of love now dried ; What should I wish for but a grave 'Midst those I stand beside ? IN A MILIT.UIY CEMETEET. I wandered out beyond the town. And then a sudden turn Led me to where the ground was marked With many a funeral urn. A crowded graveyard, where no grave Swelled a few years ago ; Yet now the tombstones flag it o'er. And line it row by row. LINES IN CEMETERIES. 165 I paused not by the sculptured urns, That stood in separate pride, But passed to where the humbler dead Were lying side by side. The dull grey walls ran coldly round, The dull, grey church at hand ; A dreary stillness lay o'er all That sad and silent land, Where lay the hearts that once had beat So loud with life and lust ; The wild, brave hearts, that moulder now So calmly in the dust. Oh ! bravi! ones who have breasted round Our land from every foe ; Cold are the limbs the scarlet once Wrapped Avith its martial glow. How reckless were your manly lives. Earth's prodigals ye were ; Wild spendthrifts of youth, health, and strength, God bless ye lying there ! God look with love where, in their shrouds, Mere boys have gone to sleep ; Oh ! tightening heartstrings, would that ye Would loose and let me weep ! I turned away, my heart was sick — Too sick for sob or tear ; I 66 A PICTURE: Oh ! youthful heart, oh ! youthful hope, Lying so silent here — (^h ! valiant men, oh ! gallant race, That buckler us from ill, God guard ye in your careless lives, God save ye lying still I > A PICTURE. ITAEOISStrS TO LrCILF. The spring gives way — the lid flies back- And once again I gaze Gn that dear face, so wildly loved In those long-perished days Of youth and hope, whose purple flush O'er every prospect lay, Showed all life's roses, but concealed The dreary after way. Dear face, how much of joy comes back. As dimly through my tears, I gaze on thee and summon up The tale of those wild years. NAKC/SSl'S TO LUCU.E. 167 My fair Lucilc, -svhom first I met ^Vithin tlie Tuscan land, There first gazed on thy gentle eyes, And clasped thy loving hand. Thy face smiles on me from the past, With mild and tender grace ; God ! what would I give once more To see that worshipt face? It may be that I wronged thee, love, In hot and sudden haste, And crushed a heart that held till then For me Love's white rose chaste. But even wort thou false, as I, Half maddened, then believed, 1 would the past could be again, And I again deceived. O ! could I clasp thee now as then, Though guilt be in thy heart, It should beat still on mine, Lucile, Beat nevermore to part. I would heap all thy faults on mine, And bear the double share ; For, ! thy sins were easier borne Than this, my lone despair. 1 68 A REVERIE: 4- I A EEYERIE. LUCILE TO 2fAKCISSUS. When over the ridge of the Pitti roofs, The rose lights arc swooning to white, And the evening grey takes a sterner hue, Ere it melt in the purple of night ; How lonely I sit in my chamber then. As the twilight gathers around ; And the dim damp mist of the dying day Stealeth swift from the dark'niag ground. How lonely recalling the dead hours, when All my world lay withia its walls ; Lie silent, my heart, why that bitter cry ? He is far from thy passionate calls. Kay, ciy not ; nay, cry not, he cannot hear. Miles and rivers between us lying ; And my ears vainly strain through the hush of night For a whisper of his replying. Now my pulse beats faint, and my heart sinks low, For the hour comes swiftly along. When the sound of his step came as music to me, And the sound of his voice as a song. I will cheat myself of my anguish awhile, I will wliisper he's neai', he's near ; LUC ILK TO NARCISSUS. 169 I will watch the hands as they creep o'er the clock, To the moment that brought him here. If now I should hear his step on the stairs, If now hear his knock at the door, How my life would leap into fairy land, Where my fancies have run before ! ! my king and my idol, my heart's own love, Are these fancies idle and vain ; Shall my heart leap up at thy knock no more With a joy that is sharper than pain ? Shall the violet breath from thy presence blown, Stream no more on my chamber's air; Nor the night blaze out with a sudden light, As it feels thou hast entered there ? It may be that never again I shall hear jS'earing sound of thy welcome tread ; It may be my heart shall spring up no more 'Twixt to-day and the day I am dead. It may be that long, long years are to pass, That my youth shall be turned to age. Ere my eyes shall meet thine, that have gazed so oft With mine on the poet's page. Ah ! the tender light of those eyes last night Was dimmed 'neath the mist of thy tears. And thy cheek to a paler marble turned As I whispered these sudden fears. lyo LUCILE TO NARCISSUS. And your kisses dwell where you rained them yet, Through the rain of your passionate tears ; And I love thee, I love thee, my own dear love, With the strength of a thousand years. With the strength of a thousand years that has bloomed Like the wondrous plant in a night, All my life has blossomed to love for thee, My love and my idol, my light ! I named thee Narcissus in fancy's freak, And the frolic of those glad hours, When we stood by the stream in the sweet spring- time. In the time of Narcissus flowers. Narcissus ! and still I whisper the name, And it? sound has a magical tone, And falls like a kiss from my murmuring lips. Narcissus, Narcissus, mine own ! Tliou wilt come to me, love, from thy Northern clime. With the spring's white Narcissus flowers ; And the snowier love of thy stainless heart Shall be mine through all future hours. I will cherish the hope with a rapture, pressed To the heart that is thine alone ; I shall see thee return in the sweet spring-time. Narcissus, Narcissus, mine own ! y THE FELON'S BRIDE. 171 THE FELON'S BRIDE. I SAW him steal from the gambling- rooms, Weary, and worn, and pale. With a story writ on his marble face, — Was it only a gambler's tale ? ! more, 'twas the tale of a life begun In glory, and pride, and fame, And then cut short by one maddened act, And stained with a felon's shame. In the flush of his spring, in the dawn of his youth, A lad of but eighteen years, He had blotted liis name and erased it for aye From the list of his social peers. One effort was made by his father's pride To save him the last disgrace Of the punishment due to his guilty deed. And from taking the convict's place. And then he was banned from that father's house, And barred from the English land — An exile, an outcast, as much as he'd been . Sent to herd with the convict band. 'Twas then that we met in those German rooms, That all known I still called him friend ; For the mystic light of his eyes drew mine. And my soul seemed with his to blend 5^ 172 A FANCY. And I raised him up from his dark despair, And I poured in his soul new life ; And at last when I saw that he dared not speak, I told him I'd be his wife. Yes ! I know all I lost when I shared his lot, Halls and parks in fair English counties ; All the state and pride of an English wife, Her duties, and pleasures, and bounties. But what are these when weighed in the scale "With the love that my life has blest, Xsidi my husband's smile that lights up for me Our happier home in the "West — AVhere my Gilbert's name is a tower of strength. And I think with a passionate pride Of the noble nature I saved from despair By becoming the felon's bride? A EAjS^CY. On receiving a White Hose in a Letter. Dear love, the fair white rose you send Once reddened on your cheek. Till tears washed all its bloom away. And blanched its ciimson streak. THE SISTERS. But, ah ! to me 'tis dearer far, A sweeter, lovelier thing, Than Flora's reddest roses are When summer kisses spring. And but one blossom I could prize, And hold more dear than this ; give it to my eager eyes, And to my ardent kiss. My Marguerite,* thou still art queen Of all the flowers on earth, None other equals thee, I ween, No rose has half thy worth. 173 THE SISTERS. I KNEW that her brow was nobler, And purer and fairer than mine ; But in brilliant ball-rooms where cavaliers gathered, I was ever the first to shine. I was ever the first to be chosen As a partner for the dance ; And oft I have glanced at her sitting With a heartless scorn in my glance. * The French daisy. 174 THE SISTERS. But an hour struck when the triumphs Of the ball-room world grew dim ; And I would have died to win what she won, And to be loved by him. And even then was the victory mine, For I stole his heart away ; And my bridesmaid's hand was cold, and her cheek Was white on my wedding-day. But my triumph passed, for he woke from his dream, To loathe me, and sicken and die, And to meet her and love her in heaven abo^■e, As they love in eternity. So we each had a kingdom on earth below, Each was given a realm of her own ; And to her was the priceless crown of love, And to me was the Beauty's throne. But my kingdom has long in the dust been laid. While her reign has commenced above ; And to me is the gnawing of ceaseless regret, And to her the undying love ; And to me was the wife's proud lot on earth, And to her was the maiden's given ; Now mine is for ever the lonely lot, And she is his bride in heaven. THE irjIITE CAPS. THE WHITE CAPS. Ix Upsala, pleasant city, Of the Scauclinavian land, Ever gay with song and ditty Of its jovial student band; Not the Bonn boys loudly singing Praises of theii" rushing Rhine, Nor the Foxes' chorus ringing, Wild o'er after-dinner wine, Sound more blithely through the night-time Than these White Caps' serenades Sung at midnight — that's the right time, To the fail- Upsalan maids. Met a troop of meriy White Caps In this rare old Swedish city, Cracking joke and jest — mayhaps More lighthearted words than witty. Came, then, towards them, churchwai'ds going, An Upsalan maiden gracious. Stepping lightly, scarcely throwing Glance upon these youths audacious. White Cap — rather Mad Cap, was he, Who looked round, and laughing said — " Cei-tes that fair maid will kiss me, Certes that fail- maid I'll wed." 175 iy6 THE WHITE CAPS. He, a poor Upsala student, She a maid of high degree ; Hear his comrades check him prudent, But one laughs — "I wager free " Ten score of dollars thou wilt falter At the thought of love and her, When I name the stately daughter Of XJpsala's governor." Ten score dollars, they would free him Ever more from debt and danger. Let his widowed mother see him Great and famous — stcpt the strangcr- Stept this Wliite Cap, gaily forward, And straightway accosting said — "I am the poor student, Aiwid, If thou wilt, my fortune's made. " Shouldst thou now, a moment casting Pride of rank and place aside, Kiss me, thou wilt give me lasting Fortune, honour, fame, and pride." Paused the maiden, timid glancing At the handsome glowing face, Then her own to his advancing, Kissed him with a queenly grace — Kissed him as she might a brother ; But the moment his lips pressed hers, THE TWO CECILES. Ill Feelings rose he could not smother, And her glowing cheek contest hei s. " I will love that student ever," She unceasing henceforth said — ' ' I will marry never, never, Should I not that student wed." Then the maiden's father had him To the castle brought at last, In the council-chamber bade him Tell the tale of what had past. Then the father's heai-t appraised him Worthy of his daughter's hand ; And his wager won has raised him 'Midst the noblest of the land. THE TAVO CECILES. 1. — Tlie Meeting. Let me still recall that meeting, At a Lyon's table-d'hote ; How my eyes ran ever greeting The fair vision — dishes fleeting From the soup to the compotes. N lyg '^^E. TWO CECILES. Fair among the foreign faces, With its flow of golden curls, Often still my fancy raises 'Midst some thi-ong in festive places, Pace and form like that bright girl's. Bnt one glance, and she bad caught me, Chained me, held me hound to her ; Vainly active waiters brought me Plats, the Lyon's carte had taught me, Did to English tastes defer. I could feast but on her beauty. From the first dish to the last ; Vainly waiters did their duty, Potage, poisson, legumes, roti. Were but glanced at, and then past. Through the coiuses gazing on her, I could but her graces note ; How the subtle light o'ershonc her. Of the gold hair left to wander Eippling round her slender throat ; How the room seemed to remind her, With a girl's fresh glad surprise, That the scenes of home behind her. She at last had lived to find her 'jSTeath a foreign city's skies. THE TWO CECILES. Sach her timid sweet eoufusion, Such her bright instinctive grace, That I half think some delusion, Some fair spirit-world illusion Brought before me that fair face, With the gold curls wandering round it. Falling in a bright confusion, As some ribbon that had bound it. Fluttering downwards half unwound it From her hair's unchecked profusion. Somewhat careless, too, the wrapping Of the snowy muslin's shade. And some clasp or button snapping. Lent new grace in the mishapping. To the arm it half betrayed. All was graceful, soft, and artless In her girlish, gentle guise ; E'en the stoic — cynic — heartless, "Well I know him, near me startles. Lest he melt 'neath those sweet eyes. All my heart in worship rose, Melted and then madly burned ; That of all the speechless vows My fond gazing must disclose, I might have but one returned. 179 ]8o THE TWO CECILES. Well, her father sitting next her, With Time's frost upon his head, Whose cold bearing doubtless vex'd her, Whose cold glance must have perplex'd her. Through the sunny life she led, I^ever noticed my eyes gazing. On his dinner deep intent ; Seldom his proiid eyelids raising, Frigidly each dish appraising, As the courses came and went. When they rose, the dinner ending, I rose swiftly with them, too. Some hope with my madness blending, To arrest her footsteps tending Where my steps might not pursue. Soft her snowy muslin's flowing, Sweeps the ground in graceful folds, Glides she onwards rapid going. When some nail from boards upgrowing Takes her dress and tightly holds. While her footsteps still advancing. Call me Goth or call me Vandal ; Fixed my eyes to their entrancing. On the fair foot forward glancing. Thin kid shoe and classic sandal. THE Tiro CECILES. l8l I p'n-ang forward to unloose licr, Swift the robe from nail unbound ; Then, not wishing to confuse her, As I drew back sad to lose her, Saw her kerchief on the ground. She had passed with footstep fleeter, When the slight delay was o'er, I must keep it till I meet her, And with this excuse to greet her, Will the handkerchief restore. To my Kps I fondly pressed it, Sweeter far than rose's scent; Tenderly my mouth carest it. In my prayers ten times I blest it. For the hopes that from it went. And to-day my desk o'erhauling, With an eager rapid search, if I could find for some one calling Some old letter — my eyes falling. Met again that treasured kerchief. Lifting from my desk's recess, I that relic gently feel; To my lips again I press, The six letters I still bless, The six letters of " Cecile." 1 82 THE TWO CECILES. And the kerchief still there lying, Tells the tale that I would tell ; June-tides and Decembers dying, May-tides, winters coming, flying. How that meeting ne'er befel. For that eve, not faded quite, With the mail a letter brought me ; Told me travelling day and night. On my backward, homeward flight. To reach him who dying sought me. I might yet his roof-tree gaining, To my father's heart still press me ; (xreet his eyes still fondly straining, Hear the old man's accents waning, Strengthen still that they might bless me. Sought I then those bright eyes glancing, Searching Europe vainly o'er, For the blissful moment's chancing, "When with happy steps advancing, I that kerchief might restore. But in vara sought late and early. For the chance that might reveal ; By the autumn's vine-clad Lurlei, Through Norwegian landscapes surly, The fair form of niv Cecile. THE TWO CECILES. Five years fleeting in that seareli, if Time to me would yet reveal Her to whom belonged the kerchief, Her whom still I fondly worship, My life's loved and lost Cecile. My old hall and chace foregoing. Wandering stiU afar from home, Went I one spring mom, o'erflowing With (he wealth of violets growing, To see Keats' grave near Rome. Cast beneath a white cross risinsr, Near that grave a figure knelt ; Ere it rose at the apprising. Of my sudden steps surprising. All the truth my instinct felt. I felt all at one swift glancing, Ere the old man had withdrawn him ; And my heart's wild tumult dancing, Drew me on like one advancing 'Gainst the fates that vainly warn him. In the March sun brightly streaming. Read the words its rays reveal ; There upon the white cross gleaming, Read the end of my life's di-eaming, " Sacred to our dear Cecile." 183 1.34 ' THE TWO CECILES. Seen an hour, loved for ever, I was but a boy in years ; But no lapse of years could sever, And from my heart will fade never, The one image it enspheres. Seen and loved, and unpossessed, Still her vision haunting ; All the lips that mine have blest, All the hands my hands have prest, Still leave something wanting. Beauteous vision, since I met her, All my May of life has fled ; Still my heart cannot forget her, Still my fancies fondly set her Where her fate has never led. Five-and-twenty years have blossomed, Faded, died, and gone since then; And were all my care and cross summed, All my life's mishap and loss summed. They indeed would wear my pen. I was then a lad of twenty, Rich and free to choose a wife ; .Maidens I might wed in plenty. All passed over questioned " meant he To prefer a single life." THE TWO CECILRS. 185 All their arts were vain to lure me, For my heart was true as steel ; But one image could allure me, One of matchless grace and purity, The bright image of Ceeile. Ah ! my friend, how I still love her, Let my life's long story tell; How that earth of Rome doth cover All my dream of love close over, Where my heart shall ever dwell. Take the story as I write it, From this German town's hotel ; For I think as I indite it, One friend, though he ne'er can right it, Will its jiathos feel full well. 2. — The Marriage. A month since, my friend, in writing My life's story sadly summing ; When that tale in grief inditing, Of my early love's swift blighting. Little knew I what was coming. How that eve my chair in taking, ' At the Munich table-d'hote, Sudden from the past awaking. Like a sun from dark clouds breaking, Gold hair rippling round her throat, 1 86 SONG. Sat in youth and beauty beaming, Sat in gentle girlisb guise ; Such as first upon me gleaming, Shot tlu'ough all my life one di'eaming, Cecile met my youthful eyes. Surely, surely. Heaven sent her, Surely, surely, angels brought her — Her in whom my life doth centre, She who with her mother's blent her Own bright beauty — Cecile's daughter. I, though twenty years her elder, Still have won that fi'esh young heart. And my age has not repelled her, And this mora my arms have held her, Folded close no more to part. Por this morn beneath the altar. She with gentle grace did kneel ; And in saying o'er Love's psalter. Scarcely once her lips did falter. Till she rose my wife, Cecile. SO^G. No more, no more shall thy kisses rain Like the rose-rain fast and sweet ; Would God they had kissed my life away. Would God I lay dead at thy feet ! so.vG. 1 8 7 I sliould not have lived to part with, thee thus, I should not have seen the day "WTien the silence of death would be better far Than thy footsteps passing away. And oh that my sun of life could set With yon sun now Ioav in the west, With the last light faded from my life. With the last hope dead in my breast ; Would God that the thread of my life might break, Ere the break of another day ! And oh that I might fall dead, my love, When thy footsteps have passed away ! For I have loved in my light, light youth, And have listened, ah, wcll-a-day, To the echoes of many a pleasant step, As they passed from my life away ; But oh how feeble such old loves seem. How light in the scales they weigh. With the love that has followed thee night by night, As thy footsteps faded away ! And now we must part when the whole, whole world, Aud my heart and my soul are in thee ; Oh that I had died in my childhood's years. Ere I knew what such love could be ; Now, when all's over, and said and done, What remains to my dying day. But the sound in my ears, like the clay on the dead. Of thy footsteps passing away ? I 88 COUSIN CLARE; OR, COrSIX CLARE ; OR, MY BROTHER'S WIFE. How like this Christmas Eve to one long gone, Whose torches, now tlii'ough mists of ten dead years, I still see shining as they shone that night, When she from falling snow and outward gloom, Slid swiftly into ruddy rays, that shot Glad welcome from the huge yule log, whose heart Had hoarded the fierce flame close to its core, Till smote by Roger's sturdy arm, it si^rang From every vein and crimsoned all the hall. And rained its redness on the close-clad form Of her who hastened swiftly in, as though Behind her lay a world all gloom and chill ; Before her, light, and love, and friends, 'Twas thus That Christmas Eve came Cousin Clare to us — To the old Grange and us came Cousin Clare — The dear old Grange where I and Arthur lived, With none to check us or control our will ; For he who might have done so, more a boy In heart than we, lived out his liberal life In letting all around him have their way ; But, most of all, his boys, to whom he felt Xo love could make amends for loss of hers Who died in giving me and Arthur bii'th, For we were twins, though I, the elder bom, AVas heir to the fair fertile acres farmed For some six miles around our ancient hall ; And being twins, men marvelled much that we MV BROTHER'S WIFE. 1 89 WiTG shaped and fashioned on such different plan ; I'ur, save that both were dark in hair and eyes, And held some trick or gesture of our race In common, as the slight soft slur which some Called silver-toned in sliding o'er an R, We differed else as they of different blood, For Arthur bore two inches over me. And far outspanned me in his breadth of chest ; The rose of richer manhood flushed his cheek, A fuller flame of life fed all his frame. And beauty, made more beautiful by these, Gave all its gloss and glory to his youth. He would have been the warrior, I the clerk In olden times — I had the clerk's pale cheek And student nature, loving rather lore Of book and ancient manuscript than all The riot pasturing round my brother's life ; No question which the nobler, he or I ; As well compare King Arthur with poor Pope, The pearl of paladins with peevish Pope ; Or Paris, leaping to his Helen's bed, With Chatterton on his lone pallet laid ; Or sweep and swing of coronation pomp. With the dead pauper's pinched funereal train ; Or the earth-echoing cheer at Lucknow heard, With the child's piping on a thin-tongued reed ; Or anything that's grand, and glad, and glorious. With anything that's wan, and worn, and weak. 190 COUSiy CLARE; OR, As Arthur's lusty life and lordly laugh, With Leonard's listless pace and languid mien ; But differing thus in two things we agreed, Each held his brother to his heart of hearts, And each was loyal knight to Cousin Clare. How glad the old Grange grew once she had come, How all its chambers seemed to own a spell — The subtle spell of gentle girlhood's grace Shed from the roses of her fifteen years ! Three years had come and died, and still with us Lived Cousin Clare, and now the blushing bud Of giiihood's opening bloom had filled and rounded To the rich orb that rings a warmer charm. When a swift change crept o'er her summer life ; Like a light shadow on a sunlit lake, A shadow seemed to tremble o'er her face. Then melt in smiles to waver back again. Came faltering tones instead of frank clear words, And drooping eyes in place of clear frank looks ; Half feared I to interpret what my heart Yet whispered might be stored of bliss for me. That I loved Clare I felt full well ; that she Could love or think of me, I had not di'eamt Till now, when those down-di-ooping lids told more Than speech, and sudden blush than words told more. now my life seemed caught up from the earth ; And, lifted on a thousand fluttering wings Of fresh-fledged hopes, delicious days danced on, MV BROTHER'S JVIFE. I91 "While breeze from fairyland blew on my brow, And I could catch the cheer of Elfin horns ; While rose my heart full strung to love's glad song, And all the present chimed with tones of love, And all the future wore love's golden glow. But still I hived my rapture, fearing yet To speak, lest words sliould break the fairy spell. And I should sec dissolve and melt away This glittering fabric of a lover's dream. 0, fools, who trifle thus with time and chance, And let the moments nought can e'er reclaim Lapse by, who see the tide that rises once For every man full in, and feel the breeze Blow fresh, yet slumber on the shores of life. Then wake to find that they are left forlorn Upon a barren land, while far and faint From o'er the distant ocean comes the cheer Of comrades sailing on to happy isles ! Wliile lingering thus one summer morn I heard My brother say — " Come, Leonard, come and walk Across the park with me, and hear a secret I shall tell the fii'st to you." He jocund Took my ann, and we went into sun-shine Of the rich Jime-tide, and June was golden In my heart that mom, nor wrapt the landscape In a warmer di'owse of summer peace, nor drew The swarming bees in thicker clusters roimd The lime-tree blossoms, than this June of life 1 92 COUSIN CLARE ; OR, Enwrapt me in its fervent folds, and nursed A swarm of happy thoughts that clustered still Round the rich central fancy of my heart. Then Arthur spoke, and woke me from my dream, Half laughing- — laughter leaping 'neath his tones — Laughter on whose light silver flood his words Flowed down like ingots from his heart's rich gold, But fell on mine with weight of iron hars : — " Leonard, you know, at least, I think have guessc>d, I long have loved our cousin, and this morn I asked her would she marry me ?" "And she ?" " Of course said, 'yes,' or else I would not thus Have brought you out to hear. Well, wish me joy ; Or, think you, Clare has thrown herself away ? 1 own I am not worthy of her ; you,. Dear Leonard — you, whose mind can mate with hers, Mcthinks were fitter far for Cousin Clare Than is the graceless madcap who has won her ; But you care not for woman's love. To you A musty book is prize more valued far Than ' the white wonder of a Juliet's hand.' " So careless bantered he, while I — well, I, Struck cold as though December's frost had ta'en All summer from my days, made answer thus : — " 0, surely you are worthy of her love — Of any woman's love — were it alone For your fair inches and your great wide chest, Your strength, your daring, and your handsome face ; MV BKOr/lER'S WIFE. 193 'Tis men like you alone arc made to •win A lady's love ; and, for my part, I think Those women right who choose a man by inches ; Kot for his mental height, those right w^ho weigh Him in the scales as worth so many stone, Made a few ounces more or less by weight Of brain." Thus far I spoke in bitter scorn ; Then sudden changing, cried — '* God bless you both, Dear Arthur, you and Cousin Clare, for she Kot worthier is than you ; worthy of her. True knight, and brave as Arthur was of old, So is this Arthur whom I brother call ; Yes, you are worthy of a lady's love ; But not alone for your fair stature's height, Nor great wide chest, but for your heart as wide, Where she who dwells, dwells ia a golden house." So pelted him with words of praise that he. Confused and blushing, might not look on me. And they were wed — were wed and gone, thank God \ And I might nurse my grief, the saddest heir To riches all the country round. Two years Crept on. From ^Irthiu' I had often had Bright, cheerful letters ; he and Clare were still Glad wanderers over Europe, seeing all The glories of the old Italian towns ; And I— my father in his grave — still dwelt Alone, and nursed my hidden grief the more ; 194 COUSIN CLARE; OR, And as the 'plaining plover wheeleth round, Where, 'midst the rushes, lies her wounded mate, All heedless of the hovering hawk above, So wheeled I round the haunts of Cousin Clare, While o'er me flapped Despair expectant wings, Waiting to glut its beak within my heart, And the two years gone by, as twenty seemed. So ploughed they furrows on my cheek and brow ; Faded was now my feeble flower of youth. And all life looked one dull December day ; When, lo ! the storm broke suddenly. One mom A servant entering with a thin, clasped volume In his hand, told me that workmen makuig Some repairs, had, in the room where Clare had slept. Displaced an escritoire, and niched behiud it Lay this volume, which he straightway brought to me. It was in manuscript, the wiiting Clare's ; And there, 'midst tendrils of the sweet girl hand. Were set the rubies of her matchless mind In diary kept till near her wedding-day ; And still the writing lured me on and on. And, half unconscious that I read, I read, TiU from one page the truth like lightning leaped. And scorcht me where I stood. N'ow all was known — All what ? — that Clare had loved me all along ; And here the whole sad tale of wretchedness. JIfy BROTHER'S WIFE. I 95 How slie had feared her love was half betrayed To one indifferent, and so, to shield her pride, And 'scape a Hfe grown misery, life beneath The roof with one she loved, who guessed her love. And scorned it, she had shelter sought within The only haven near — my brother's heart : — " "With Arthur, I shall go afar from home — Afar from all that links my life to Leonard's ; 'Neath Arthur's smile hope shall revive again, And gratitude may ripeu into love. Then let this page be now the silent tomb Of all a girl's wild hopes, lie there dead flowers Of a love whose blossoms bloomed iu vain for him." God, and was this true ? and were we all Alike undone by one sick dreamer's fault, Who dug the grave of others' happiness While thinking he had hollowed but his own ? Scarce, with the volume, staggering to my desk. Had I there locked it safe from prying eyes. Ere all surged round me, and I lay as dead. And slowly from that fever woke to find A sweet, pale face, but sad, bent over me. And see a shape in widow's garb glide past. While as from mists of morning smiles the sun. So gradual through the mist of illness gi-ew Distinct upon my gaze the face of Cousin Clare ; Then sudden knew I Arthui' dead, as sudden All was blank again. • 2 196 COUSIN CLARE; OR, MY BROTHER^S WIFE. Yes, you giiess shrewdly ; But little now remains. Some three years gone Since Clare and I, in English laws despite, And the loud censure of our English world, Were wed in Germany, where now we dwell, My English acres for a German's farm llight well exchanged, since here we happy dwell, ':Midst those wide German hearts and ampler minds, ' That only laugh to learn our island han 'Gainst mamage with a hrother's wife. " Some piece Of priestcraft wedged so tight within your Church, To drag it out might pull the fabric down." While we, still closer drawn by that old tie, Seem still to cherish Axthui-'s memory more— ' My own dead brother, who had happy died. Watched o'er by tender looks of gratitude, Which ever he mistook for those of love, And love's best counterfeits and nearer love From such a heart as Clare's than would be those Of others, had they coined their life to love. So ends my tale ; let those condemn who list, So Cousin Clare and I live happy still. FROM A CLUB-ROOM \V IX DO IV. FROM A CLUB-ROOM WII^DOW. Vaiuous landscapes, glowing prospects In my wanderings I have seen ; Wild Killarney's pm-ple mountains, Windermere in summer sheen, jS"iederwald's romantic temple. And the Wyndcliff's lovelier view, Eberstein, near Baden-Baden, Rich in Autumn's golden hue. Edinburgh, Paris, Milan, Each has showed her rival charms ; Florence half a captive held me. In her soft seductive arms ; But I judge, in sober choosing, Not a landscape can compete With that from the C. S. window. Pall Mall and St. James's Street. But, if sitting in this window, I should ask you what you sec, Ten to one, a moment glancing. You would careless answer me — •* Sloppy street and winter's sky. Rain, confound it, pouring yet. Muddy men and draggled women. All December's dirt and wet. 197 iq8 from a club-room window. " Horrid climate this to lire in ; Y>Tiy, last year, I can remember How the Pincian seemed like June-tide To the last day of December ; And in Paris often sitting (Ah ! you catch me tripping there) I forgot that yon were with me In that winter weather rare. " When the icy winds seemed snipping With old Hiems' sharpest shears, On the Boulevarts Italiens, Little pieces off onr ears ; Still no weather half so bad is — Just look down that dismal street— As our London weather, blank it, With its fog, and rain, and sleet." Yes, I look ; but, to my vision, There is neither rain nor sleet. But a glorious vista stretching Down thy hill, St. James's Street — Down thy hill and round the angle, Turning sharp to proud Pall Mall, Just in front of that Quadrangle, Where the Court oificials dwell. " Match mc, prospect in the wide world, With the prospect now before me. FROM A CLUB-ROOM WINDOW. 1 99 "Where tte glittering vista gleameth AVitli an age of English story." Ah ! I hear your laughter ringing At the wild demand I make — Laugh ye fresh from Highland heather, Moor and forest, hill and lake. Laugh, I love to hear the laughter, Child of harmless fun and mirth ; Not the changeling satire fathered, To -which scoff has given birth ; Send your arrows ringing round me, I will be yoiu' willing target ; Let you call me wild, eccentric. So your vision will enlarge it. So that from this club-room window You may see, as I see clear. Form and fashion ever changing "With the change of time and year ; But your banter rises louder. And one wiser than his fellows Jeers, " "We fancy Tinibs has told us, Sala, too, all you would tell us." "What you kindly fix a limit. You will stop at six-score years ; Thanks, 'tis true a longer record Gave its vision to our fears ; 200 FR03I A CLUB-ROOM IV/XDOIK Ghosts tremendous seemed arising From the medieval tomb, When the Palace was a " spital," And the Park all marsh and gloom. Fancy had, like Campbell's sunset, Leanit experience' mystic lore, And your wondroiis legends coming, Cast their shadows on before. But you'll kimlly spare us dating, But from the Hogarthian era, Kinder still if you will take up The old tale a little nearer. Just suppose we say from Brummell, Part from " Duncombe's Life "just out. Tell us in your mcagi'e verses Things that we know all about. Come, old fellow, now be candid. Don't you think we've heard enough Of Pall Mall's " sweet shady side," "Oui- fat friend," and " all that stuff? " Joked at thus, I look around me, Check my Pegasus in canter, And dismount a little wiser For that sudden douche of banter. But, dear readers, weigh your losses, Weigh them well, and duly greet ; ON KISS/XG THE QUEEN S HAND. 201 You have lost — why, all my verses — Verses on St. James's Street. Pleasant 'tis from club-room window To look out, and who can doubt it ? Dream the olden time is with you, So you do not rhyme about it. But if verses flow upon you, Take this short advice and sweet ; Choose some ground less often trodden. Than that of St. James's Street. ON KISSIXG THE QIJEE]S^'S HAND. Small marvel that my heart beat (j^uick, When first I took thy hand, And kissed it, bending low before Our Lady of the Land. Queen of the English land art thou, A glorious realm, in sooth. First leader in the glorious march Of freedom and of truth. For this my head in reverence bent, For this my knee was bowed ; For this none brought thee truer heart In all that loyal crowd. For not to me did it seem aught That thou wert ruler o'er 2 02 ON A'/SSnVG THE QUEEN'S HAND. The dim barbaric pomp of lands Beyond our English shore. I heard, nor deemed it much to hear, That never sun goes down. But ere its last rays fade from one, It gilds another town Of that vast realm that calls thee Queen ; But I knelt not for this, Xor took thy hand and freely gave A subject's loyal kiss. With reverent love my lips I pressed Upon that gentle hand, Because it held the sceptre of My own dear English land. And for that noble German's sake, " Mine own ideal knight," My heart's true king now gone for aye, From mine and England's sight. Thou uncrowned King, more royal thou, By right of simple worth. Than if, perchance, a triple crown Had come to thee by birth. Sleep soundly in thy knightly grave, Oiu' loss is but thy gain ; Oh ! mind of worth, oh ! heart of gold, Oh I wise and thoughtful brain. LIBRARY LAVS. 20J LIBRARY LAYS. EVENING DEEAMS. I SIT in my study at eventide, While the shadows aronnd me close, And the flickering flame, from side to side. With a ceaseless motion goes — With a ceaseless motion touches the walls, And their secrets flash to light For a moment, then swiftly a shadow falls, And snatches them into the night. I sit and I look through the eventide At the vision of seven bright years, Whose fruit is around mc on every side. As my glance through the dim light peers ; There my jnctures hang on the study walls, That were hare when first I came ; There a sudden blaze on the landscape falls, And strikes on the golden frame Of my favourite Cuyp with his glassy stream, And his cattle wading knee-deep In water so tranquil, it seems but a dream Of cows that have fallen asleep ; And I know where the shadows so thickly fall. Were the light to suddenly flow, What a lustre would break from the oaken wall. What a golden colour would glow ! 2 04 LIBRA R ] • LA VS. There the picture hangs that I hold most divine, But the painter diviner still, E'en in Raphael's home I have turned from his shrine, To worship Sir Joshua's skill; To me it seems his is the kingliest hand That on canvas has ever imprest The image of all that an age and a land Have held loveliest, bravest, and best — A land that still gauges her artists by him, His pictures of others the gauge, An age that was born for the painter to limn. As' the painter was born for the age ; Xot lily that looks into lily's grace. Nor roses that bloom on one tree, Nor pansies that lurk 'neath the hood with twin face, Are so mated and matched as he, With that era borne on a thousand years, That a thousand will scarcely efface, Where Beauty met Beauty as peer meets his peers. And grace held the mirror to grace ; Each beauty he stole on his canvas lives still. With the charm he alone could bestow. Though fifty have risen to boast of their skill. Twice ten thousand their trumpets to blow. Yet, though cli(]^ue and though coterie clustered around Their Sherwin, their Cosway, their Lawrence, As critics to-day Gribson's Yenus have found To rival the Yenus of Florence : EVENING DREAIilS. 205 Still, lord of tlie realm of fair women lie rules, With, a rule of most absolute sway, Humanity's artist, supreme o'er all schools, For ever sublime as to-day. Thus I muse and I dream with the picture before me, Till suddenly ceasing to glimmer, Swift the firelight falls, and a shadow steals o'er me. My vision grows dimmer and dimmer ; Then brightens where fancy has led me away From the four study walls that had bound me, To where I walk freely in light of midday, "With Sir Joshua's ladies around me. To where, in the drowse of the noontide sun, As it sleeps on the grand old walk,* The swarm of the Georgian Court has begun To tattle the old world talk ; There is " Hervey the handsome," a bachelor yet. Making straight for Miss Mary Lepcl, Watched by Bath and by Chesterfield, who can forget Their joint lines on the " Beau and the Belle ?" And as Hervey glides up with his butterfly air, And that grace none could ever excel, Mark the flutter that stirs all the fans of the fair, When he settles on Molly Lepel ; See Pope, who regards him from eyelids aslant, Mark the spite in that venomous eye, For the birth of his hideous and scandalous taunt On " Lord Fanny" you there may descry, * In Kensington Gardens. 2o6 LIBRARY LAYS. And tliere " Lady Mary," who gives sting for sting, Is aiming her visage and wit, With each sentence some arrow she sets on the Aving, And triumphs to see it has hit ; Poor Miss Howe is the target she aimed at just now, And the whisper and titter go round, .'Midst the flutter of fan and the arching of brow, That young Lowther has poached on that ground ; And thus, amid scandal, and gossip, and hints. The chat rises louder and louder, While the air takes a gleam from the silks' tulip tints. And a perfume from Marechale powder. So moved they then beneath the trees That skirt that glorious walk. Which now another century sees. And hears a different talk ; Where those gay groups once patterned all The ground with rich mosaic, Now sober Cits' grave footsteps fall. In measures most prosaic. Where hoop and fan, and patch and hood. Each latest cancan heard ; Where Fashion brought her freshest mood, And Wit his wittiest word. Now nursemaids wheeling forth their charge, Perambulate together ; On sordid household themes enlarge, Board wages, and the weather. CAMPDEN HOUSE. 2 0^ And still the old clm-trces look down, — As tliey looked long ago, On courtly groups of George's town, "Wit, statesmen, belles, and beaux — And often I, wlien through the wood, My homeward way I'm tracing. Will linger long in thoughtful mood, Beneath their shadows pacing. Recalling how that morn I went, By tracts of well-known land, Where, — house and grounds in ruin blent, — -Old Campden used to stand. CAMPDEJT nOTJSE. I wander 'neath thy ancient walls, And past their flanking tower ; While memory one by one recalls Each pleasant day and hour. That now have dropt within the crypt Of past and vanished pleasures — The golden days and hours slipt Beyond all mortal measures. 0, dark safe crypt, that keeps the hours Which never have a fellow — 0, golden days of happy youth, No age will ever mellow ! 2o8 LIBRARY LAVS. Ye went with me, when first I went, A stranger down those ways That led to Campden House, and lent The mansion to my gaze. When passing through its ancient gates, That oped their sculptured screen, And led to where the winding way Was ovalled round the green, I stood before thee with no dream. How often I should stand, Until few spots on earth could seem Familiar as thy land, I met thy master's face, nor thought How often I should meet The friendly looks it ever brought, The kindly words to greet The stranger in a stranger land, Where the old roof uprears Of Campden House, of Campden House, And its tlu'ee hundred years. And then the days that came and went. And brought me early — late. At noon or eve, still where the walk Would lead to Campden Gate, To where, beyond the pillared porch, Carved with an artist's pride, CAMPDEN HOUSE. 209 With state of old Jacobian days, The hall would open wide, And lead me ou to those dear rooms, Beneath whose old oak beams, Some score of friends would battle o'er A score of madcap schemes. While play or concert some would vote. Some begged a fancy ball ; Till host and hostess, smiling, asked How they could humour all ? And jesting thus, the light would fade From all thine antique bowers, Their oriel windows helping on The gloom of evening hours. And then the lights would leaping flash From twenty score of tapers ; And fire and candle do their best To drive away the vapours. Each lustre then would grow a heap Of molten gold and rubies, Which, flashing splendour tlu'ough tlie rooms. Might brighten even boobies, Were boobies ever on the list. Of Campden House set down, By him who feasted many a year The wittiest of the town. ;IO LIBRARY LAVS. 0, festal eves at Campden House, Wlien gathered round its board ; 'Mid jests the viands went their round, 'Mid jests the wine was poui'ed. O, festal nights, when, greenroom thronged, And actors in their places, The curtain of thy play-house rose To sea of friendly faces ! Which of us thought, when last we saw, Beneath thy roof, friend. That curtain fall, it should no more In Campden House ascend — That we no more to Campden House Should come in merry guise, That Campden House would never see Another summer's skies ? What memories of three hundi'cd years Went glimmering past thy doors, Since first King Jamie's dames and peers Trod down thy fresh-laid floors, To when King Charles's cavaliers. To make thy rafters ring, A jovial crew, one June-tide eve, Come riding round their king ! Who sups to-night at Campden House, With Campden' s new-made lord — CAMPDEN HOUSE. 2 I I A roystering lot, who drink and sing, And swear with one accord ? Mayhap they diink and sing the more, And swear with louder laughters, To chase the stem Cromwellian hymns StiU clinging round the rafters. Their jingling sabres die away, Their plumes shall wave no more ; King Charles is buried twenty years, King James's I'eigu is o'er ; And Nassau "William on the throne. Rules country, town, and port ; Plants tiilip-bulbs at Kensington, And lays out Hampton Court, While grown to more majestic state Than architect did plan. Old Campden House becomes the Court Of Stuart Princess Anne. And all was life and mirth within Its formal gardens, when Duke Grloucester, from the tower's tall height, Reviewed his little men. But fifty years of change stole on, 'Neath academic rule. Saw home of peer and princess now, Become a boarding-school. p 2 212 LIBRARY LAVS. Where rosebud forms of sliglit young girls, For sixty years' succession, Danced liglitly o'er the oaken floors, In girlhood's gay procession. Thus year came treading after year, And change came fast and faster ; Till saw the house its latest change, And owned its latest master. On Campden House three hiindred years Wrought memories rich and rare; One mirk March morn — two hours' fierce flames Left ruin brooding there. Thus I dieam and I muse, while the dim moments pass, Of that quiet and mystical time ; When fancies flow swift as the sands from the glass. And thoughts take the measure of rhyme. And then pale ghosts of plan on plan, Rise up without their acts ; The boy's resolves cry to the man, And fancies call to facts. Bright purposes yet unfulfilled, Eich mines still unexplored ; Boy's heart that Time has somewhat chilled, Youth's glittering fairy hoard ; And ardent dreams of something great And daring to be done ; CAMPDEN HOUSE. 213 The working early, working lute, For fame I never won. These \dsions trooping round my chair, Like royal llichard's ghosts ; Will rise when least expected there, To plague me with their hosts Of old-forgotten plans and wishes I buried, God knows when ; But Memory, sometimes too officious, Will dig them up again. Such mood is rare, for where I'm host. Content sits as a guest. Whose favourite motto I love most, " All happens for the best." And all is for the best, my friend, 'Tis thus we sing together; Man's good is still God's destined end, Then welcome any weather. From heaven's foui* quarters let there go, Each season's changing winds ; And storms of rude discussion blow The dust off Tory minds. Let Bright's reformers arm-in-arm, Go walk in dusty legions ; And Fenians try their every charm To fire those fierce Milesians. For winds and strife alike die off, Around our little chamber ; 214 LIBRARY LAVS. Whicli warmer seems for cold and sough, And rain of di-ear December. And happy spite of all Time thieves, And life lets slip away, I homeward trudge on these raw eves, And bless the lucky day That gave tliis pleasant niche of home, Sliut in from all their strife ; Tliis nook, where faint the voices come. Of London's loud-tongued life. Till all my heart to bursting swells. And breaking out at length. My old, old song, 'mid Christmas bells, I sing with all my strength. A LONDOIf LYKIC. Live, London, live, imperial town. Thy royal robes spread round. And sweep them far on every side, O'er many a mile of ground. Grow on for ever — grow in worth. And wealth, and power, and pride. Thou stateliest city of the earth, Stretch still on every side. Throw out new limbs in lusty strength, ]3ut keep thine ancient heart. A LONDON LYKIC. 215 Tliat throbs beyond loud Temple Bar, Where thou, old City, art. The centuries driving on in haste Smote fire to thy bones ; The fierce old years have struck a soul Into thy solemn stones. House whispers house throughout the night. Each hath its secret story, They breathe a legend each to each. And all grow grey and hoary. The Roman gave thee strength and state, The Saxon mirth and cheer, The Norman all the glittering piide Of prelate, prince, and peer. The mediaeval years have left, At every turn and angle, Their old monastic memories. In cloister or quadrangle. To poets' eyes in place of crowds That press round Newgate felons, Goes the Boy Bishop to St. Paul's, The nun to grave St. Helen's. Far on he looks ; and, lo! he sees The Tower and its stout warders. With fair round faces full and fat From many Christmas larders. 2i6 LIBRARY LAVS. Oh, live tlirough many a Christmas yet, And fatter grow and fatter, That merry boys may still in jest Make query — " Who's yonr hatter?" But looking on ye close, we see How change comes fleet and fleeter; The glittering garb of bluff King Hal, Has left the bluff beef-eater. Thus still the present strips away Each slired of old illusion, And only fairy glamour now Can yield such sweet delusion As stole on me that summer eve, When sitting after dinner, I hoard them shout along Cornhill, And name the Ascot winner. I'd rambled long that day among A hundred city streets, Snatching such legends as who roams The City ever meets. A hundred such blew in my face, From eveiy coign and angle ; And swarmed and buzzed within my brain, Till all seemed in a tangle. At last I paused, swung back the doors Of S 's dining-rooms. A LONDON LYRIC. 217 Sat down to dine on soup and fish, Broiled cliicken and mushrooms. And soup and fish, and chicken done, Proof given I could dine — I, lingering long, quaffed many a glass Of old Burgundian wine — That generous wine, whose nature seems Of rare old poi't to dream. And that great tipple put aside, Ranks first in my esteem. Then looking out upon Comhill, And all its noise and bustle, I read the Standard'' s stale remarks On Derby and on Bussell ; On Hyde Park riots, where we gave The roughs enough of rope ; On Gladstone, Bright, and S. G. 0., King Victor and the Pope. And reading thus, my second flask Still held a good third part ; When that old wine of Burgundy, Seemed stirring all my heart. 'Tis generous wine and sound my host, And strikes a noble heat ; I fill and fill again, nor note Now how the moments fleet; 2l8 LIBRARY LAVS. For suddenly a change stole o'er The eve, the place, the wine ; The room grew quaint, and old, and shrunk, The drinking gi-ew divine. For guests were there with sturdy voice. And loud side-shaking laughters. That echoed round the tavern walls, And rolled amid the rafters. Two hundi-ed years and more slid back. Two hundi-ed stirring years ; And Beaumont and Ben Jonson drank With Fletcher and his peers. Cornhill for me revived that eve, And wore her ancient glories ; Her famous topers woke once more. To wine and witty stories. Let there be poets still who may With me invoke the fairy, ^Vhose magic wand turns Burgundy Or Claret to Canary — The faiiy Fancy, she who rings Those after-dinner glasses, That send us dreaming back to days Of Shakespeare's lads and lasses. For with each added glass I di-ained, • The years ran swifter back ; A LONDON LYRIC. 219 The wine late to Canary turned, Was turned again to Sack. To Sack, indeed, or Malvoisey, I hardly could tell which ; Somewhat confused my palate grew. But owned the flavour rich. And places changed as swift as wine. Prom Cornhill to Eastcheap ; I did not walk as other men. But went with sudden leap. I left Ben Jonson drinking still. And farther up the ages, I heard with Falstaff, " Hal," and Toiiis, And such Shakesperian sages. St. Clement's chimes ring out their tune, When swift the scenery changes ; And down the table rows of chairs Stand out in formal ranges. The room another shape assumes, Another dross the men. That fairy hand has plucked me back A hundred years again. That burly form in big arm-chair, Who looks a club-room king — An orb whom satellites surround In reverential ring. 2 20 LIBRARY LAYS. 'Tis Sam, not Ben, who reignetli now, In Hanoverian days ; The one big moutli that soundeih still The Stuart monarch's praise. The strong form rolls, the voice is raised Loud over other men ; And still he argues on, although None argues back again. But on my ears his loud-pitched thunder Rolls faint and far away ; And the next speech that smites my ear, I hear the waiter say — " Beg pardon, sir, 'tis time to close." I start and gaze around, Rise up, and while I stare about, My hat and cane are found. The bill is paid, the waiter feed, And I am in the street. And pushing on by Ludgate Hill, And down the thriving Fleet. The visions I have dreamed depart, My heart no longer burns ; My sight to common shops and streets With clearer optics turns. But still I sing tlu'ough Ludgate Hill, Beat on, old heart, for ever, A LONDON L YRIC. 2 2 I And send thy life through all the streets That border ou the river — That hang upon old Thames's tide, And line liis banks afar, With all the leagues that run to east And west of Temple Bar — Send thy best blood through tlioin, stout heart. Beat 'ueath a million suus, And write for cities yet unborn The valiant talc that runs Through every vein of thy rich life, And flushes all thy story — The grand old tale how. Duty led Our English sons to glory. Eing out from thy fair steeple still, The sweet old bells of Bow, And with their chimes made sweeter yet. May their old legend grow ! So when thy thousands meet to shout Around each new Lord Mayor, Our children's children's eyes may still See Whittiugton sit there. Send still thy roaring ocean down The tide of Charing Cross, And let its currents, surging round The Abbey lintels, toss, 222 LIBRARY LAVS. "While cauaoii's roar, and belfry's rock, And kerchiefs' foam on high, And waving hats, and loud huzzas Proclaim the Queen is nigh. wondrous city ! — wondrous land ! To whicli we owe our birth ; None ever rose so queenlike on The old Homeric earth. Old Greece's purple skies ne'er shone TJpon a clime like ours ; Hymettus stored not herbs so sweet As arc our English flowers. The Grecian valleys feed not sheep With wool so closely ciu-led ; The Grecian steeds were not like ours. The racers of the world. Bright Athens once unrivalled wore Her boasted violet crown ; As village unto city is. So was she to our town. Vienna, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Each city merits praise ; Give London seven wondering years, Give them their fair nine days. I vow that such allotment meets Each city's merits duly ; A LONDON LYRIC. 22[ But should you plead for more, then take Nine days in June or July. Thus rhyming in my study close, I strung the careless lines together, The while beyond my window I'ose The sob and sough of winter weather ; The while from storms that swept each street (Like birds blown inwards to their cage) My fancies flying homewards fleet, Sought refuge from the winter's rage With fire stirred bright, and lighted gas, I by the contrast bade defiance To all the night could bring to pass, With storm, and rain, in joint alliance ; And as I snugly glanced about, And di-ew me nearer to the fender. The blaze from fire and gus streamed out, And lent my little room a splendour. Shone ancient lustre of the oak. Fell crimson curtains fold on fold. Bright vistas down the mirrors broke, And fires bui-nt bright within the gold, And from the floor to ceiling rose, In stately piling, shelf on shelf, Behind the glass, in long-drawn rows, The books that are my second self. 224 LIBRARY LAYS. THE "STOllY WITHOUT AN END." Far adowH the vista leading To the dim and distant years, I can see a child still reading, In earshot of comrades' cheers. They are 'neath the window playing, He is hid 'neath curtain's shade; With a mystic comrade straying Through the darkling woodland glade. Brothers, sisters, earnest seeking, Loudly call, " What, are you lost ?" He replies not to their speaking, He is deaf as any post. He is deaf to all their pleading. And will sit till shadows blending ; Take him to the lamplight reading Still that— Story without Ending Of the child with his dark blue eyes, Bluer from the violet's gaze ; Deeper from the message sent them, On the starlight's slender rays. Full of love and secrets told him, By the purple dragonfly ; In the hour when caves enfold him. And the busy spiders ply All their skill in curtain-weaving. Drawing close a friendly shade THE STORY WITHOUT AN END. Round tlic little wanderer leaving Sudden darkness of the glade, Where his eager footsteps led him From his little hut astray ; Learning all the mysteries taught him By the water on his way. Till from every corner fading, Swift and swifter went the light ; And the wind with its ujibraiding, Eose upon the lonely night. Then we two sought shelter gladly, In the cavern's safe recess ; For to us all sounded sadly, In the wooded wilderness. And the fireflies trooping round us, Light with tapers all the cave ; And the harebells blitliely sound us, Sending forth theii- sweetest stave. Thus by night in caverns resting. And by day in gardens roving. Shared I ever in his questing. Loved the insects of his lovina-. And my childliood crowned witli roses, And the myrtle's fragrant blending, Seems to glow a bright oasis. That, alas ! has had an endinij-. 225 Q 2 26 LIBRARY LAVS. And, indeed, I hear wise voices. Utter sage their prophecy O'er the childhood that rejoices In such stories' mystery. " Nay, we grudge you not your myrtle, Very soon you found the real ; Bitter blast and thunder's hurtle, Swept the lines of your ideal World of wandering and adventure. With the child beneath the night, And your after peradventure Paid the price of its delight." Was it so, indeed ? I thiak not. For my life has happy been. Sipping pleasures none said, " drink not," And delight has been its queen. Still that happy past has faded. And my childhood's world o'erthrowu ; I can sit no longer shaded By the curtain's fold alone. And thoiigh brilliant years I reckon, Marked by many a gay success, And I still see Fortune beckon Me along to happiness, I would still give without measure. Pleasures past and onwards tending, To take back my childhood's pleasure, In that Story without Ending. ■ THE TALES OF THE EAST. 227 O tales that keep close in your pages, The better halt' of all my days ; O tales that are my friends and sages, Dear tales I scarce may dare to praise. For -words that I can coin must be Such tame and feeble words to tell What dear and loving friends to me, Your legends loved so long and well. THE TALES OF THE EAST. When a child I was a traveller Into many distant lands, Went I wending Avith the pilgrims O'er the desert's dreary sands ; Saw the domes of Eastern cities 'Mid the stately palm-trees rise, Saw the myriad mosques of Bagdad Cut against the purple skies ; Yet my England, mother England, still I dwelt upon thy shore, Patient student 'neath the lamplight of the bright Arabian lore. Tales of wonder, tales of beauty, How my child heai-t's eager burning, Kept me captive to your pages, To the loss of deeper learning ! q2 2 28 LIBRARY LAYS. In the winter 'neatli tlie lamplight, In the summer on the sward, Kept me mom, and noon, and even, From all childhood's sport deban'ed. How could I who went with princes, where the wondi'ous genii were, Wake to join in moaner pastime such as other cliildren share ? Cease, my brothers, cease your calling, I am at the mystic cave AYith the wretch who hath forgotten The one word his life can save. Faint, my sisters, come your voices, As I tread the marble floors Of that palace by the lake's side, With its twice throe hundred doors. Hark, now, the earth is shaking, and the thunder peals around. As I sink with young Aladdin through the ya'wning of the ground. There I see the jewels glistening. Like rich fruits on every tree ; I am in the magic garden, All your voices lost on me. Topaz, diamond, sapphire, gleaming, With the ruby's red starlight, Shed their radiance through the alleys Of that garden of delight. THE TALES OF THE EAST. 2 2g I woxild di-eam away existence, on its banks and 'neath its trees, But Aladdin waves me onward, where tlie magic lamp he sees. See the palace swiftly rises, On the magic of its basements ; See the sunlight answered duly From its four-and-twenty casements. See the garden's. joyous treasures, Borne by slaves in swift succession ; See the streets of Canton filling "With the pomp of his procession. See the bride is borne in triumph To the palace of her lover, Hark ! the Afrite with his new lamps, Seeks the old lamp to discover. So in fancy went I travelling, out of call of comrades playing. Willing loser of their pastime, with the young Aladdin straying. Or on Autumn noontides lying, "With my book upon the sands, I di-eamed the sea was murmuring On the beach of other lands. Saw the rich Balsoran merchants Bring their bales to wait the breeze ; Saw the sloop of Sindbad sailing, In the smile of sunlit seas. 230 LIBRARY LAVS. Saw the treacherous island floating like a meadow on the deep; Saw the grooms of King Milirage, near the mare their vigils keep. Then I started fresh with Sindbad, From the rivers of Bagdad ; Never merchant on his voyage, More compliant partner had. With him I lingered sleeping, 'jS'eath the noontide shade of trees ; With him I woke deserted By the ship gone with the breeze. With him I climbed the palm-tree, And gazing far around Saw the roc's egg rising whitely, ■ Like a hillock from the groimd. Saw the swoop of snowy pinions, as they circled clear and clearer ; Saw the wondi'ous roc come sailing, sailing nearer still and nearer. (^h ! the night that I went roaming With Khosrouschah, the Sultan ; A\Tien the fallen night had shut well Each house with bar and bolt in. How we spied the lamplight gleaming Through a crevice in the door, And by words we caught made curious. Listening, lingering to catch more. THE TALES OF THE EAST. 23 1 How we laughed at those three sisters choosing husbands in their sport, One the butcher, one the baker, one the Lord of Persia's court ! See the doe is fleeting swiftly, Through the woodland's dim recesses ; See the monarch madly spurring On her track still eager presses. Xow the night has darkened round him. And the doe is far in flight, When the magic palace blazes. And the thickets gleam with light. Enters he 'mid perfumed odours, and the blaze of gold brocade ; There, 'mid sixty beauteous damsels, sits the bright enchanted maid. Tlirough the night in di-eams returning, . Came these wonders ever blending ; Lamps 'neath stately domes were burning, Smoke in monstroiis shapes ascending. Curtains waving back would show me Some bright vision at the casement ; Or the dark of woods bestow me Mansions lit from roof to basement. Caliphs, genii, and ghouls, \aziers, slaves, and Barmecide, Satisfied my sleep with visions, till I woke again to read. 2^2 LIBIiARV LAVS. Close the bright Arabian volumes, Turn to boyhood's dearer page ; To the young romantic heroes, Of that young romantic age. THE WAVEELEY N^OVELS. Ah ! but turning now to gaze me Where some forty volumes lie, Some swift memory seems to place me Where all changes suddenly ; Sweet my mother's voice sounds reading, While a child leans on her knee, At each pause attempted pleading, " More of that tale's mystery." 'Tis of Halbert she is reading, And fair Maiy Avenel, And the ghostly white receding Of the Ladye at the well. Oh ! dear mother, years have vanished Since you read that tale to me ; But from memory never banished. Still returns its mystery. Dearest mother, all my boyhood Owed of tender love to thee. From the kiss pressed on the forehead, Of my helpless infancy. THE WAVER LEY NOVELS. 233 To tlie lesson subtly chosen, Less a task than a delight ; When the winter even closing, Brought the pleasant winter night. Then, by lamp and candle lighted. Sat we with the book before us, Had we seen, then, second-sighted. All the years that would pass o'er us '? Thou wert then a girl light-hearted, Younger then than I am now, Six-and-twcnty years have parted Us from youtli, and with their snow Have drifted swiftly o'er our journey, Changing youth, and face, and heart ; Neither now in life's gay tourney Could as then take jocund part ; And the volumes lie unaltered, , But were we to read again. Could we bear the voice that faltered O'er the old familiar strain ? Dear ones loved since then are sleeping Theii' last sleep beneath the moidd ; Year by year the years are sweeping Us the nearer to their fold ; Yet all rises clear before me, Eoom, and book, and candlelight, And your loving face bends o'er me As it were but yesternight. 2 34 LIBRARY LAVS. Six-and-tweuty years have clianged us, As they change all earthly things, Yet not once have they estranged us, Each to each as fondly clings As when both felt all the gladness That the May of lifetime brings To the heart, ere time and sadness Break the once elastic springs. Madi'e Mia, years in passing Tlu'ow their care and throw their shade, And the present's mu-ror glassing, Shows the havoc they have made ; Yet, indeed, to me in seeming You are scarcely older now Than when from my childhood's dreaming, I looked on your girlish brow. Youth has lingered so to gift thee With its beauty and its laughter, "\^''hile my years have travelled swiftly. Catching thine that they ran after. Till it seems to-day has brought us, Matched in equal age and heart, And whatever Time has wrought us, I have had the double part. Could I look on those romances, Eead in boyhood's merry time, And not cast these backward glances, And not seek to fix in rhyme THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. 235 Some faint record, some poor measure, Some fond image of the past, Tliat when I am dead may treasure Thy dear memory in it glassed ? But I pause on looking round me At the shelves book-laden rising, At the volumes that have bound me With their legends fond enticing, Lest I add one to their number, "While my heart its favourites sums ; For as memory wakes from slumber, Volume following volume comes ; All that cliildhood loves to live in, World of fairy tales enchanting, Legends of the Champions Seven, And the famous Bean-stalk's planting ; Novel after novel linking Time's long past unto the present, Mistress Aphra Bchn's strong dnnking To the modern taste unpleasant ; Edge worth's safe tea-table flavour — Tea that's strong and wholesome too ; Fielding with his racy savour Of the naughty things men do ; Richardson's immortal writings. They, at least, can never hurt you. Since they all are but incitings To the practice of pure virtue j 236 LIBRARY LAYS. Yet the other day perusing Pamela's instructive hitters, She seemed really introducing Certain somewhat ticklish matters ; But let who will gibing, jesting, Snatch from Pamela her bays, Matchless beyond all contesting Is divine Clarissa's praise, Finest type romance has given Of a fair and gracious woman, Till through suffering raised to heaven — Till by wrong made more than human ; There is Smollett's Humphrey Clinker — There is Bumey's Evelina — There, though writ by a wise thinker, Is a volume I would screen a Little in the corner, lurking Out of ken of eyes suspicious, Lest it tempt the evil smirking Of some saintly mouth malicious ; There the modern novels greet me. Of all shape, and form, and fashion, Ever puzzling as they meet me. Bought at random how to match in, — Not like the old novels ranging In trim line a hundred strong, A firm phalanx and unchanging, Set in brotherhood along ; — LIBRARY LAYS. 237 There arc Lytton's lordly volumes, Bathed in purple of his dreaming, E'en in glancing dowa their columns, Seem rich rubies redly gleaming. And the rubies and the jewels. And the crimson of his diction, Grarb in pomp like bright Ithuriels, The young heroes of his fiction — Garb in pomp the scholar's wooing Of majestic Madeline ; And Maltravers' wild pursuing Of one vision through all scene, Till at last, when day is setting — Summer's day, and day of life — He meets, claims the unforgetting. Long-lost Alice for his wife ; AVhile his women, who can match you, Lytton's pure and calm ideal? Like the snow-white classic statue, Flushing, warming to the real, Ranging 'gainst the crimson colour Of his warm, impassioned prose, Breathed upon by Yenus' scholar. Each fair form to woman glows. There the poets with their chimings Or of golden Greece or Rome, Or the sweet, familiar rhymings Of the English hearth and home. LIBRARY LAVS. Range from iEschylus and Homer — Range from ten times dearer Virgil, To young Swinburne, sweetest comer. In whose ears the murmurs surge still Of the foam round Ocean's daughters, Who young Hylas safely keep. Of the lap of Lesbian waters. Drifting dark o'er Sappho's sleep ; Him whom Juno must have cradled. Or fair Venus on Hount Ida, Scarce by Christians was he swaddled Ere the old gods swept aside a Corner of the curtains, hanging O'er the Pagan child's repose. And to Bacchante cymbals clanging. He to great Olympus rose ; Where but on Jove's mount, and with him, Learnt he those sonorous songs, Or where caught that classic rhythm, That to Greece by right belongs ? There are Taylor, Bailey, Browning, There, too, Browning's noble wife. All her Florence laTorels crowuing. Less than England's love her life — There is lone, love-laden Landon Singing sweet her Sapphic strains, Wliile the waves the solemn sand on Breaking, far on Afric's plains LIBRARY LAVS. 239 See the grave where she is sleeping, Far from all beloved ones lying — She who through her latest weeping, Listened still for their replying — There Keats, oh ! perfumes how divine, Of lilies and of heliotropes. And fragrant bowl of spiced wine, And saifron meads on sumiy slopes. And glimpse of maids on winter eve. Dim haloed in the moon's cold light, Listing to strains that lovers leave. Still stealing round the frost-bound uight ; And Tennyson with setting suns. That sink with lurid light o'er plains Of level Lincoln, while there runs A sough of sorrow through the strains, Like the low wind, that rising, sighs All night along those marshy miles. Till, with a clang, his music flies To lovers' laughs and ladies' smiles ; Ah ! thus still ye lure me onward. Volume after volume claiming. As my gaze runs upward, downward, I can scarcely cease from naming Dear companions of my childhood. Dearer friends of later years, Calmers of my stern or wild mood. Soothers of my saddest tears ; 240 LIBRARV LAVS. But as one wlio througli a garden Walketli, singing ever gay, Sudden pauses wliere the margin Shows a precipice that way, So to me the margin sloping From the present's happy scene, Scarce can yiekl me longer hoping Of repeating what has been ; "Who knows what the future brings me, Change of time, and change of weather, "VVTien the hearts, now linking with me, Shall have ceased to chime together — When the volumes that now bind me Can be hardly gazed upon, As the bitter tears will blind me. Thinking of the loved ones gone ; But if God shall will it e'en so, That such sorrow must be given, And His will should be to wean so All my thoughts from earth to heaven. Still, oh Father, through all sorrow. May I think of what has been, Through the dark of that to-morrow, Keeping still " my memory green I" THE OLDEN DAYS. THE OLDEX DAYS. " The spacious times of great Elizabeth." 'Tis by the present's purple light "We read all ancient story ; 'Tis from that light the olden days Take more than half their glory. 'Tis our romance which lights the torch, Whose blaze falls brightest there ; 'Tis we who blow the silver trump That echoes through that air. The men who lived within that past, Transfigured to our eyes, Could we show them our fancy's sketch. Would fail to recognise Our brilliant picture as the cold And barren life they led ; And they would point us backward still , And calling on the dead. Would say, <' Behold the golden age, Shines far behind us there ; There are the horns of fairy land, And there the haunted air ! " There are the heroes that you sing, The women that you praise ; That is the land of old renown, And those the famous days." ?4i Tknnyson. 242 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. So future ages, looking back Upon this age of ours, Will hear heroic trumpets blow, And see Arcadian bowers — Will speak of us as gxeat and good, Men of an ampler time. Whose names shall pass from age to age, Rolled on the poet's rhyme. LAYS OF THE HOME AEFECTIOIs^S. TO ME.S, PLETCHEE, OF KIXLOrGHTEE. The ceaseless sound of London life Pours in upon my car ; And yet 'tis not its revelry My spirit seems to hear. No — other memories stir within The heart's remotest cell ; The bell that rings from yon old church. Seems now no common bell.* Sweet snatches of old music come Upon each scattered chime, That tune themselves to hope and prayer, Meet music for the rhyme, * St. James's, Piccadilly. TO MRS. FLETCHER, OF KILLOUGHTER. 243 Whose words arc now too sudden snatched, For polish or for wit ; Those hurried prayers affection breathes, Fast coined and faster writ. But you will take with ample grace. The tribute of my verse ; And say, as once you sweetly said, " For better or for worse." It matters not that here a line Or syllabic may jar ; The value lies not in the words. But where the feelings arc. Aud now o'er thee the new year bends. With soft and smiling skies, And storms that sweep aside from arms Where gently cradled lies That nursling of a few short weeks. That claims so large a part — No less division than a third Share in a mother's heart. So happy are you smiling o'er The babe you closely press ; You think it matters little now, A good wish more or less. And yet good wishes ever wait Upon the opening year ; K 2 2 44 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. And so I venture timidly To breathe one in your ear. May never Graces famed of old, Be fairer than this child ; Nor sweeter face than hers have e'er From Eeynolds' canvas smiled. Kor e'en those sisters* whom I praised As passing all of grace ; That e'er before or since has charmed In English maiden's face, Glow from Sir Joshua's cunning hand More brightly than we'll see. In years to come, thou little one. Thy mother's face in thee, Who to the present age repeats The charms that painted well. The ivory we have treasured shows, Used in her-mother dwell. And be thou yet another link In that transmitted line Of loveliness, that still through all Thy mother's race shall shine. I would say more, but moments fly, And I would fain my lay * '• The Waldegrave Nieces," in the Strawberry Hill Collection. MAJ^V'S TURKEY. 245 Should greet thy mother as she wakes Upon her natal day. Then go, my verse, though faulty all, Though jangled out of tune ; Yet greet her kindly, and say soft, " He hopes an answer soon." MAKy's TCTIKEY. "Micliael's turkey — llichael's turkey." Last night we feasted well, I ween, The board was nobly spread, AVe brought good tempers free from spleen, And grace was duly said ; But soup and fish just tasted went (Our thoughts had gone before). When, lo ! we caught a savoury scent En avant through the door ; Then covers raised, the fumes began In odorous wreaths to spread, As ham of York at foot was seen, And turkey at the head ; The entrees handed round in vain, "We let them swiftly go, 'Twas very plain each other dish Was but sent up for show ; 246 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. We viewed them with the same disdain We might have viewed beef charqui, And with united onslaught rushed To feast on Mary's tiu-key. HoAv plump it looked, the cover raised, How tempting, rich, and brown ! Xow knife and fork in air are poised. And now fall swiftly down, A slice clean taken off the breast. Another and another. With savoury sausage by their side. And savoury sauce to smother ; What matter that the winds blow loud. The outside weather murky, While we sit at the lighted board. And feast on Mary's turkey ? Soup a la reine I cnxj not, IS'or Crecy, nor honne femme, Wliilc on my plate I lay a slice Of that crisp Yorkshire ham ; Let seasons change, and fashions too, But 'midst all change of weather. Let ham and turkey undivorced Be sausage-chained together. Another help I vow I'll have. Digestive organs work ye, O help me now in feeding thus On Mary's farm -yard turkey ! ^fARV•S TURKEY. 247 Let rrenehmen praise their sole Normande, And English haunch of venison, On neither dainty dish to-day Do I bestow a benison ; Nor sauce tomate, nor sauce Souhise, Where unsuspected lurk ye, Dear onion atoms can seduce My taste from Mary's turkey. () ri2 (Is veau to pot may go, And eke petits croustades, And mayonnaise and vol au vent, Supreme and marinade ; E'en native joints of noblest fame — Ay, e'en the great siiioin Wage battle with unequal force When ham and turkey join ; All honour to thy native farm, And younger brethren stalk ye. Till each full crop in size may cope With crop of this roast turkey ! E'en Chateaubriand's famous _y?/e^. Though served by Dudley's chef, Would not find us its victims silly, Would from our forks be safe ; For we who sneered at Jeames's offer Oipotage reine and hisque, To us Chevet, Potel might proffer Tout ce, qn^il y a, sans risque, 248 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. Of comestiUes as a gift, JS'or tempt us feasted sinners, Full-blown and reckless of the fate Of any future dinners. An Irish farm-yard fed this bird, Who, saved from feeding Fenians, In dear old London is served up. And robbed of breast and pinions. Take, take his honoured bones a-svay, Eut not to tomb or lun, For two good legs like his, I swear. Shall sei-ve another turn. 0, generous bird ! right nobly thou Hast feasted me to-day. And such good service I but ill "With meagre verse repay.. IS'o niggard thou, who dare say nay. May "wicked Fenians " dirk ye, A nobler bird was never stuffed Than Mary's farm-yard tui'key. And to the liberal hand that sent, "What thanks can I send back ? 0, may her fann-yard flourish still. And never turkeys lack — And may they strut and gobble still Tlirough many a coming year. And every now and then may one Display his plumage here ! BIR THDA V STA NZA S. 249 May peace and plenty round her reign, Nor Ecnians dare to lurk ye Within a hiindi-cd leagues of ■^■hcro Struts Mary's farm-yard turkey. BIRTHDAY STAXZAS. TO T. C. M. Kovemher -it/i, 1867. Now glancing at the Times, set forth Upon my hreakfast-tahle, I start to see Novemher four Beyond the reach of fahle. November four again, then let Again the song be sung ; Let household bells, and household glees, To welcome it give tongue. Since last I wrote, some bloom has left Alike the heart and cheek ; Perchance we now less gleeful feel, Perchance less gleeful speak. But yet this change, if change there be, Has scarcely come too soon ; Por then it was Life's April-time, And now it is Life's June. 250 LAIS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. But all Spring's sixnshine, all her tears, I never could compare To that repose of summer calm, W^uch golden June-tides wear. The crown serene of womanhood, And manhood's summer prime, Seem risen to a loftier height, And need a nobler rhyme Than any strain hoy-rhymers send, Or verses maidens bring, To deck with lays as light as it. The light capricious spring. And would that I might sing to-day, Some full and ample strain ; Some swelling stanza that should ring In echoes o'er again, To tell the high romantic tale, The years may well demand. Of wanderings far throiigh many a scene Of many a foreign land. Since last I sang, the Elbe has met Om- gaze of glad surprise ; And Dresden's galleries have unrolled Their treasures to our eyes. A country home I seem to see, 'Mid German pastures stand. BIR THDA Y S TA NZA S. 2 5 I Aroiind Bohemia's hills look on The Kaiser's Yateiiaml. There gracious Herr, and gracious Frau, For us spread plenteous cheer ; There flowed the famous Rhenish wine, And there the Bairisch beer. We've seen the midnight stars come out, O'er Berlin's level plain ; And greeted the glad harvest moon. At Frankfort-on-the-Maine — Have seen the sunset fade at eve Along the Leman lake ; And watched the conclaved Alps group round, Stern moiu-ners at his wake, At Florence stood by Arno's side. And marked the golden quiver Her thousand lamps sent down at night To light her radiant river, While Florence skies were powdered o'er With stars of that rich night. That clustered round the Apennines, And bathed each purple height Of that fail- city, Beauty's queen, Queen-rose of all the earth ; Though London be supreme o'er all, In majesty and worth. 252 LAi'S OF THE HO:\IE AFFECTIONS. At Rome, have wandered dismal through Her chamel-haimts of death, With listless step and sinking heart, Drank in her tainted breath; Then gladly saw 'neath moonlight rise Fair Milan's glorious shrine ; That wondrous di-eam of architect, Wrought into foiTQ divine. Then silently by night we stole. Upon a watery waste ; A dark strange figure at the stern, Drove on our barge in haste. We drifted on through some strange di-eam, Of cities of the dead ; Beneath us coiled the channels dark, Dark was the sky o'crhead. Dim funeral lights shone few and far. And from the water grew Dark labyrinths of streets, and lines Of houses stole to view. Such — as we stand, and backward gaze, Are scenes that thickly rise ; Bright as the colours of romance. And pleasant in our eyes. And proud Vienna's ancient walls. And Munich's stately street ; BIR THDA y STA NZA S. 253 And Stoltzenfcls and Eberstein, Again our vision meet. - Then nearer still our backward gaze Falls on familiar ways ; The pleasant summer paths where still, The English dweller strays. On Dover, Hastings, Devon's shores, On many a cliff and haven ; And where through Warwick's fertile woods, Winds on our Shakespeare's Avon. Until wo reach our London home, Wliere calmly now I sing ; Trusting such memories still for us The coming years may bring. But see, as still I wistful look, The evening shades fall round ; November's surly eve comes forth. And shrouds the dimming ground. Then let us rise, our survey o'er. And face the future time, Whose prophecy points still for us, To many a pleasant ciime. Let us rejoice, as is most right. In days of summer prime ; Its own peculiar beauty still, God gives to every time. 254 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. Then let us rise, and onward go, With hearts of bravest trust ; No standing still — when Time speeds on, Willing or not, we must. MEMOEIES OF CHILDHOOD. TO T. C. M. What shall I sing to thee, my sister dear, In that slow measure that thou lovest best ? Shall I go back, retracing year by year, And, i)ilgrim-like, at all old shrines take rest ? Methinks that journey were too slow and long, Even to suit a measure such as this ; But come with me, and we will walk, in song. Through scattered scenes of well-remembered bliss. The misty steam is mantling over all The dark green hedges with a ^-aporous breath. And the wild woodbines' yellow tmmpets fall, Heavy with dew, upon the grass beneath ; The fair field flowers swift are closing every eye, That starliko shone one little hour ago ; The stars themselves are weaving soft and sly Their golden fringe on evening's fui'below : With drooping necks and meek reclining heads. On dewy meads the wearied kine find rest, MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 255 Wliilc thi'ougli the darkling mist that evening slieds, The corn-crake crieth from her distant nest ; The latest cart-load staggers from the field, Fragrant with heap of freshly-tedded hay, Mingling with odours bean and clover yield, The parting incense of a summer day. Again an eve of still and soft repose, Where twilight broodcth o'er our cliildhood's world. The amber sunset ia the heaven glows. Her crimson banners has the west unfurled ; The water-hen skims swiftly o'er the pond. Whose sedgy banks are lined by water-flags, And stealing through the hush that reigns beyond, The river ripples over mimic crags. How dear to us were then the stream and bird ! How many an eve we lingered ou that ground, The running water thi'ough the silence heard. The sole sweet talker in the calm around ; Sometimes we sought, with venturous feet, to go O'er stepping-stones that bridged the deepening stream ; Ah ! time since then, swift as its waters flow, Has drifted by us, making all a di-eam. The dear old garden round our country home, The fields and paddocks spreading far around The wood's recesses, where we used to roam. And di-eam ourselves on some enchanter's ground — ?^6 LAVS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. All — all rise clearly on my memory now, And with them, througli quick tears there rises too The vision of our sister's sunny brow, Her bounding steps, and glancing eyes' bright blue- Her golden hair, now sullied in the grave — Her glad, fresh laughter that will ring no more — Her mirth, that to our sports new relish gave ; 'Tis hard to think all these for ever o'er — 'Tis hard to think that she so loved is gone — That she so young is sleeping in the dust — That we are now upon the earth so lone, So few to love us, few to love or trust. IN MEJrOET OP M. S. F. Lied Christmas Bay, 1867. Written January if/i, 1868, /ler Birthday. No more to thee the birthday lay — Ko more the words of praise ; Death, we feel thy victory O'er all our household ways. Fled is thy sting, indeed, for her, Eut oh, to us most keen, As we recall the happy past, And think what might have been. IN MEMOR y OF M. S. F. My owu bright sister ! how my heart Sinks low, and dull, and di'ear ; How more than twenty years of life Have died with the dead year. The jest, the mirth, that made me still A boy, in heart, at least. Struck dead for ever as they rose To greet the Christmas feast. I ne'er again shall speak the words I often spoke in glee ; All old familiar jests are lost lu bitter thoughts of thee. Our little baud is broken now, And by the gap we stand, And miss the dear familiar touch Of one dear sister's hand. I never thought that sorrow could O'ertake us in this guise. That thou wouldst be the first to pass For ever from our eyes. I never thought of death and thee — Thou hadst no part in death ; So happy went thy eager heart, So full of life thy breath. I fed the coming year with dreams — The light dreams of a boy, 257 258 LAKS OF THE HOME AFFECTIONS. Of ha^ipy meetings in thy home, And with a secret joy I thought how I would bring my verse, My task of the gone year, And read to thee my favourite lines — Lines thou Avilt never hear. Autl not a line 1 wrote hut still Thy smile shone bright along ; T heard thee read, in fancy, words Turned by thy voice to song. For many a month my heart was fed AVith thoughts of glad surprise, When sent a gift of coming spring My book should greet thine eyes, Where meanings should be clear to thee. By others only guessed, As here and there the verses glanced At some familiar jest. We had so many dear, our hearts Had twined for years together ; Alas ! for life's bright vanished days And for its April weather. We shared them both, we hardly knew A serious grief or care ; How many a ghost of pleasures rise, 111 wliieh we both had share ! i\ a;f.morv of m. s. f. 259 Jfow 1 have kissed thy lips in death, Beside thy grave have knelt ; O, can I e'er dream as I dreamt, Or feel as I have felt ? No ; dead with thee the eager scheme, The future's ardent plan ; Last year heheld a boy in heart, This sees a saddened man. And now my task has lost its chann, But since 'tis finished, take, Dear sister, to thy memory all I once wrote for thy sake. Upon thy tomb I lay the gift I meant to please thee living ; But oh how changed is the bright dream Once cherished of the giving ! RANKEN AND CO., PRINTERS, DEURY HOUSE, ST. MARY-LE-8TRAND, LONDON. KECENT POETRY. MR. SWINBURNE'S NEW POEM. This day, foolscap 8vo., toned paper, clotli, Price 3s. 6d., A SONG OF ITALY. BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. *«* The Athen^um remarks of this poem: " Seldom has such a chaut been heard bo full of glow, strength, and colour." MB. 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Convray, in the Broadway by Mr. Robert Buchanan, and in the Chbonicle by the editor of the selection announced above, as also by the recent publication of WTiitman's last poem, from advance sheets, in Tinsley's Magazine. London : JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75, Piccadilly. ii RECENT FOKTRY—coHtintied. CAROLS OF COCKAYNE ^ BY HENRY S. LEIGH. ( Vers de Socidte, and charming Verses descriptive of London life.) With numerous exquisite little designs by Alfred Concannen. In preparation, small 4to. elegant. Now ready, Price 3s. 6d. THE PROMETHEUS BOUND OF ^SCHYLUS. Translated in the Original 3Ietres hy C. B. Cayley, B.A. " This new translation will, we doubt not, be warmly weloomed as ably carrying out the object which the writer seeks to achieve — that of familiar- ising English readers, through the medivun of their own language, with the stately forms and the scientific principles of the Greek versification. 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"Here we have some very pretty and readable poetry— some of it so much above the average as to warrant expectations of something far better, and we shall look forward with, interest to the next volume from the same hand."— Globe. THE IDOLATRESS, AND OTHER POEMS. BY DR. WILLS, Author of " Dramatic Scenes," " The Disembodied," and of various Poetical Contributions to " Blackwood' s Slayazine." In crown 8vo., handsomely printed, Price 6s. An elegant little volume, boimd in blue and gold, carmine edges, Price 4s. 6d. LYRICS AND BUCOLICS. The Eclogues of Virgil, a Selection from the Odes of Horace, and the Legend of the Sibyll. Translated by Herbert Noyes, Esq. "Mr. Noyes' qualifications are of no mean order. In the first place, he has the essential one of thoroughly entering into and appreciating the true spirit of his master, and even where, as we have said, he exceeds what we conceive to be the limits of a translation, we attribute it rather to his being carried away by his own muse than to his misunderstanding his author's. And here we have a second and no less important qualification for success. Mr. Noyes has a genuine poetic vein of his own, and his lines Lave almost always the ring of true metal."— Standard, April 7th, 1868. "There is a certain freedom and swing in these translations, which not only more resembles the brisk spirit and ringing tone of the original, but is truly refreshing after tlie stiff rendering wliich bad been generally made of Horace's choicest composition. We become grateful for new renderings, which, whilst they retain as much of the spirit and force of tlie original as translations can, vehicle the old Koman thoughts through sweet measiires, and dainty rhythmic melodies."— London Review. By the same Author. Just out, in uniform binding, Price 9s. AN IDYLL OF THE WEALD. With other Lays and Legends, by Herbert Noyes, Esq. Nearly ready, a very handsome volume. FAIR ROSAMOND, AND OTHER POEMS. BY B. MONTGOMEEIE RANKING, E.SQ. London : JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75, Piccadilly. iv RECENT FO'E.T'RY—contimied. THE NEW POETICAL SATIRE. HORSE &- FOOT; OR, PILGRIMS TO PARNASSUS. " I'll not marcli througli Coventrj" with them, that's flat." Crown 8vo. Price os. 6d. "It is nnderstood in literary circles that a new poem of very considerable power, sharply criticising the peculiarities of modern verse, is about to be published. The author is spoken of as an Oxford graduate, and a man of mark amongst members of the University, who look forward to his book making some sensation in the reading world." — Standard. " VVhatev-T may be thought of tliis spirited satire of 841 lines, no one will accuse its writer of personality ; and however hard he may hit some of thti literati of the day, he appears to write in perfect good faith, and, m thus fra .kly avowing his own ci-itical convictions, to be influenced but by one thought— the healthy interests of English literature. Without ac- quain ance with those mentioned in his pages, ' or indeed with any one in the literaiy world,' Mi. Crawley writes 'independently,' and for thismoral courage we thank him." In 4to., exquisitely printed on ivory paper, elegant binding, Price 10s. Gd. PUCK ON PEGASUS. A New Edition, twice the size of the old one, with many New Poems, and Additional Illustrations by Sir Noel Paton, MiUais, Jolm Tenniel, Richard Doyle, M. 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The work forms a handsome square bvo.. and has been printed with beautiful floriated borders by VvTiittingham and V.'ilktns. The Carols embrace the joyous and festive sorigs of the olden time, as well as those sacred melodies which have maintained their popul arit y from a period long beforejthe Refoi-mation._ This day, fcap. 8vo., 7s. 6d. STRAWBERRY HILL; AND OTHER POEMS. By CoLHURN Mayne , Esq. Shortly, elegantly printed. THE VILLAGE ON THE FORTH; AND OTHER POEMS. By Philip Latimer. Eondon : JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75, Piccadilly. DATE DUE CAYUOND PMINTSO IN U.S.A.