THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GEORGE ALEXANDER TO UCHE 

 
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 POEMS BY MAUDE E. HINE.
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAUDE EGERTON HINE. 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED. 
 
 1885.
 
 CHISWICK- press: — C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO.,TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
 
 
 GRATEFULLY AND REVERENTLY 
 TO MY MASTER, 
 
 DR. G. G. ZERFFI. 
 
 ^f
 
 CONTENTS. 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. The Daisy and the Fern i 
 
 II. Nature's Care 3 
 
 III. The Flowers' Election 4 
 
 IV. The Cathedral in the Wood 6 
 
 V. Ivanhoe 8 
 
 VI. Music 10 
 
 VII. The Wreck of the " Favourite " .... 11 
 
 VIII. Elfland 13 
 
 IX. Spring 15 
 
 X. The Rainbow 16 
 
 XI. The Frost-Elf and the Sun 17 
 
 XII. The Song of the Wind 19 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 A Dawn 21 
 
 The Conscience Whisper ; or, the Sunbeam ... 23 
 
 Right and Wrong 25 
 
 A Requiem 26 
 
 To my Valentine 28
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In the Factory 29 
 
 Looking Back 31 
 
 "Jo" 33 
 
 The Hermit's Story 37 
 
 Elsa 40 
 
 The Death of the Knight 42 
 
 " To his Dead Mistress " 47 
 
 A Thought in Winter 49 
 
 "Niobe" 51 
 
 A Song of Spring 53 
 
 Eternal Strife 54 
 
 Fate and the Monarch 59 
 
 A Summer Night 60 
 
 A Young Poet 62 
 
 Healed by Music 63 
 
 The Kingdom of the Child 65 
 
 The Loj'al Lady 67 
 
 The Open Lists 78 
 
 Morning 83
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 00 K kindly on the first few pages here, 
 For flowers are they, though weed-like oft 
 and wild : 
 
 In her eighth summer, did they first appear 
 In the thought-garden of a little child 
 Your pardon then for faults that many are 
 In ditties, sung so very long ago 
 By one to whom the whole of Hfe looked fair, 
 Who only thought as little children do 
 That are so very free of worldly sin and woe. 
 
 What think you of the ditties later sung ? 
 
 Is it a wiser, sweeter voice that sings ? 
 
 " Alack ! •' you say, " the singer still is young. 
 
 Nor hath she wholly put off childish things ! 
 
 Shall such a one as this, a puny child 
 
 Strive foolishly to fill a giant's place ? " 
 
 Not so I to hope so much were wrong and wild ; 
 
 But what I know, I'll tell in life's short space 
 
 As best I can, and leave the rest to God's dear grace.
 
 Introdtcction. 
 
 And, not so old am I, but time there is 
 In the long future, that I yet may claim 
 Your hearing, for far worthier songs I wis, 
 With deeper earnest fraught, and nobler aim. 
 And God me helping, through their riper grace, 
 The heart-beats of that child of yesterday 
 Who sang about the daisies, ye shall trace. 
 So of your courtesy, fair friends, I pray 
 You hold me in kind memory until that day.
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 THE DAISY AND THE FERN. 
 
 HE day was hot, the sun shone out 
 And burned the little flowers, 
 Who earthward drooped their weary heads 
 And longed for cooling showers. 
 
 One little daisy, hot and tired 
 And scorching in the sun. 
 Had altered much, for fair was she 
 When the morning had begun. 
 
 " Come, put yourself beneath my shade ! " 
 A graceful fern thus spake ; 
 " For if you stay out there, dear flower, 
 You'll shrivel np and bake." 
 
 So daisy leaned towards the fern 
 And hid beneath her shade, 
 And on the fern's cool mossy root 
 Her burning petals laid. 
 B
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 No sunlight fell on her, but, oh ! 
 The poor fern had it all ; 
 She drooped down low, and lower still, 
 Who once was straight and tall. 
 
 " Daisy," she said, " I'm dying fast, 
 My life is near its end, 
 My time with you is almost past, 
 So farewell, little friend." 
 
 Then daisy wept, her tears ran down 
 Upon the poor fern's root ; 
 A thrill of fast returning life 
 Through the languid fern did shoot ! 
 
 Full soon she grew quite fresh again, 
 No longer did she burn ; 
 For little daisy's tears of love 
 Had saved the dying fern.
 
 NATURE'S CARE. 
 
 II. 
 
 NATURE'S CARE. 
 
 RE Nature seeks to take her rest, 
 She points the sun towards the West, 
 And shows the weary bird its nest, 
 That they may sleep. 
 
 She bids the flower with leaves unrolled 
 Its dainty petals closely fold, 
 That, sheltered from the night-wind cold, 
 It safely sleep. 
 
 She croons a soothing lullaby 
 In the breeze that whispers by ; 
 And with that dreaming wailing cry 
 Sends all to sleep. 
 
 And when we well this earth have trod. 
 Nature gives our souls to God, 
 And lays us gently 'neath the sod, 
 Awhile to sleep.
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 III. 
 THE FLOWERS' ELECTION. 
 
 N election is now being held, 
 For the flowers are all mad for a queen ; 
 ^ The "speeching" and voting go on, 
 And cause a most terrible scene. 
 
 One tulip, a smart little flirt, 
 Screams loudly and long for the rose ; 
 But a wee giddy columbine bud 
 Does flippantly interpose. 
 
 ' Nextly, a cauliflower speaks, 
 For his cousin the cabbage he votes ; 
 At which e'en a butterfly grins 
 As onwards he lazily floats. 
 
 A full-blown and strong-minded flower 
 
 Votes loud for republic — and peace ! 
 
 Or else for a strawberry plant, 
 
 Who's her grandmother's brother's aunt's niece.
 
 THE FLOWERS' ELECTION. 
 
 Next marigold speaks to the crowd^ 
 Who is known to be forward and pert, 
 But a nettle makes stinging remarks 
 Till the speaker declares himself hurt ! 
 
 And then to rampage they begin ; 
 Sweet William is scragging a rose ; 
 Sweet-pea in a neighbourly way 
 Is pulling young marigold's nose ! 
 
 Such a noise and confusion ensues 
 That a snail faints away on the wall ; 
 And never as yet have I heard 
 What the end of it was, after all !
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 IV. 
 THE CATHEDRAL IN THE WOOD. 
 
 ' NCE was I walking on a heath, 
 At idle dreaming pace, 
 And came upon a shady wood, 
 A very silent place. 
 
 High fir-trees twined their mighty arms 
 In arches overhead ; 
 And cool and soft was that sweet moss 
 That on the ground was spread. 
 
 The nightingale's pure notes were psalms ; 
 
 And, as I listened there, 
 
 And heard the whisper of the wind, 
 
 I fancied it was prayer. 
 
 A feeling as of utter peace 
 Came stealing o'er my soul. 
 That kissed my every grief away, 
 And every wound made whole.
 
 THE CATHEDRAL IN THE WOOD. 
 
 And now when sorrow comes to me 
 I wish that I were there, 
 To feel again that strange relief 
 In God's own House of Prayer.
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 IVANHOE. 
 
 FTER the tasks of the day are done, 
 Away to some chamber all alone 
 I creep, and there in armchair curled. 
 Forget the humdrum every-day world, 
 
 And take from the shelf one .well-loved book, 
 Which, though it has rather a tattered look, 
 Is yet very precious, for you nmst know 
 It is my favourite, " Ivanhoe." 
 
 My lessons and work must take their chance 
 When once I get into my world of romance, 
 Forgetting there is such a time as " Now," 
 Only dream.ing of wonderful " Long Ago." 
 
 First, great King Richard comes riding by 
 
 And thrills my heart with his battle-cry ; 
 
 And close to his side is Ivanhoe, 
 
 With knights and esquires of the tiine " long ago."
 
 IVANHOE. c 
 
 Again the tinkling of bells I hear, 
 
 As Wamba the fool cracks his jokes in my ear ; 
 
 And Rebecca the Jewess I see arise, 
 
 With her coal-black hair and her love-lorn eyes. 
 
 I see the knight with his lance in rest, 
 And the foam that is white on his horse's breast ; 
 The combatants' war-cries, the blows on the helm 
 Came echoing back from that " long ago " realm. 
 
 And although I have read it nigh twenty times, 
 Still fresh are its characters, doings, and rhymes, 
 And I dream in my sleep of the time " long ago,'' 
 And bless the great author of " Ivanhoe ! "
 
 lO 
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 1 
 
 VI. 
 MUSIC. 
 
 T begins like the leaves of an opening bud, 
 And grows to a widespread flower ; 
 Then tenderly trembles, as hangs on a leaf 
 A raindrop, after a shower. 
 
 Then wildly it soars in the flight of the lark, 
 Till the notes are heard from afar ; 
 And in maddening sweetness it rushes and swells, 
 Then drops as a falling star. 
 
 It gently droops as a fading flower. 
 Or the dying glow in the West ; 
 Then falls away with the peaceful cry 
 Of a heart that has found a rest.
 
 THE WRECK OF THE ''FAVOURITES ii 
 
 VII. 
 THE WRECK OF THE "FAVOURITE." 
 
 Ranging merrily over the waves, 
 Spreading her sails to the breeze, 
 As the sun came up in the early morn, 
 The " Favourite " skimmed o'er the seas. 
 There were two good fishers within the boat, 
 And each one sang with a merry note. 
 
 Their hearts were light and their nets were strong, 
 
 And the sun shone out on high. 
 
 While sea-gulls flapped their silver wings. 
 
 And the lark sang in the sky. 
 
 The " Favourite " was soon far out on the sea. 
 
 And no little boat sped faster than she. 
 
 But soon it changed, the sky grew dark. 
 And threatening clouds arose ; 
 And children thought of their fathers at sea. 
 Saying, " Hark ! how the cruel wind blows !" 
 They were anxious at sea, at home still more. 
 And longing eyes looked forth from the shore.
 
 12 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 The sun was sinking into the sea, 
 
 And in came the fisher-boats ; 
 
 The nightingale in the far-off wood 
 
 Was singing her farewell notes, 
 
 When, alas ! on a rock on the beach were cast 
 
 A tattered sail and a broken mast ! 
 
 They told a tale, and a woeful tale. 
 
 For the fishers ne'er came home, 
 
 Though the children lingered upon the beach 
 
 And thought that they still would come. 
 
 There were too more bodies 'neath the waves' wild 
 
 beat. 
 And two more souls at the Judgment Sekt.
 
 ELFLAND. 13 
 
 A viii. 
 
 ELFLAND. 
 
 ]UST between Nowhere and Somewhere 
 else, 
 Higher than bird can fly, 
 Somewhere exceedingly near the moon 
 (And some say twice as high), 
 There is the home of the dear little elves, 
 Who live in a place as sweet as themselves. 
 
 Some are employed in mending the moon 
 
 With odd chips off some star ; 
 
 Others in catching runaway clouds 
 
 Floating away too far. 
 
 And when the time comes for the sun to rise 
 
 They push him up into the Eastern skies. 
 
 Some there are polishing dewdrops bright, 
 
 Some teaching birds to sing, 
 
 And others who help the fledgeling small 
 
 To use his tiny wing ; 
 
 And some little mischievous elves there are 
 
 Who chase through the sky each shooting star.
 
 14 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 Sliding down moonbeams at dead of night, 
 
 Silently one by one, 
 
 They do their good little deeds on earth ; 
 
 But when they see the sun. 
 
 Their magic is over, and they must fly 
 
 Up his first beam, to their home in the sky. 
 
 When good little children are fast asleep. 
 
 By elf-wings their dreams are fanned 
 
 Through the myriad twinklings of diamond stars 
 
 Up into Fairyland ; 
 
 And the cloud will soon pass from the naughty 
 
 child's face 
 If you tell him a tale of this Lilliput race ! 
 
 Oh, elves ! if indeed you exist. 
 
 Come down from your land of day. 
 
 Come down to this place where all is work, 
 
 And hardly any play ! 
 
 Oh, elves ! when I hear of your land of mirth, 
 
 I wish that your Elfland were here on earth !
 
 SPRING. 15 
 
 IX. 
 SPRING. 
 
 OW comes young Spring ; the buds upon 
 
 the trees 
 Burst forth, saluting Life, from their dark 
 
 homes, 
 And crocuses, unfolding, kiss the breeze 
 For very joy that merry Spring now comes. 
 And little violets, sleeping 'neath their leaves, 
 Open their eyes in time to greet their queen. 
 While ruddy Sol on Winter hotly breathes ; 
 The snow is melting, and no more is seen. 
 The little stream, once like a crystal sheet. 
 Runs burdened with the shrivelled leaves as boats, 
 And whilst he hurries with his fairy fleet. 
 Fills the glad air with little laughing notes. 
 And birds in their snug nests in chorus sing 
 And praise their God, who made the joyous Spring.
 
 i6 
 
 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 ; ODjOn His throne hath smiled, with a smile 
 That is set like a wreath on the brow of 
 the Heaven ; 
 Binding the Earth to the dome of the sky 
 As the sign of a Promise which He hath given. 
 
 See, how it climbeth up out of the cloud 
 
 Till it clothes with its beauty the heaven's vast 
 
 bosom ; 
 For the Pledge which our Father hath given to 
 
 Earth 
 Hath sunned all the flowers of the sky into blossom !
 
 THE FROST-ELF AND THE SUN. \^ 
 
 XI. 
 THE FROST-ELF AND THE SUN. 
 
 'HE sunlight was fading, the day was nigh 
 done, 
 And down from his throne stepped the 
 glorious sun ; 
 The chilly wind whistled and laughed in his glee 
 As he snapped off the firstling of flow'ret and tree. 
 
 The little frost-spirit came laughing with spite, 
 
 " What care I, what care I, old Sun, for your light ? " 
 
 And he froze the blithe stream and he nipped the 
 
 new leaf, 
 And the snow-drops who hung their pale faces in 
 
 grief 
 
 But lo ! in the morning, uprose Sol the Sun, 
 And smiled in the face of the day just begun. 
 He kissed the bright streamlet, which rippled again. 
 And the frost-elf might nip as he liked, but in 
 vain. 
 
 c
 
 i8 THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 The flowers smiled up to the warm rosy light, 
 And that little frost-spirit, he cried for sheer spite ; 
 For foolish he felt now his power was gone, 
 And weeping, he hid from the great smiling Sun !
 
 THE SONG OF THE WIND. 19 
 
 XII. 
 THE SONG OF THE WIND. 
 
 WHISPER amid the feathery grass, 
 And dimple the rivulet as I pass, 
 On the flower-starred field, on the sun-lit 
 hill, 
 Fetterless, joyful, I roam at my will. 
 
 And oft in a headlong hurrying chase, 
 
 I drive the clouds through the azure space ; 
 
 Then dropping, I laugh 'mid the gathered sheaves. 
 
 Or whirl in a dance with the fallen leaves. 
 
 O'er the hoary old ocean a master am I, 
 As I mockingly hurl his wild waves on high ; 
 And the floundering ships on the rocks I break, 
 Then turning, I laugh at the havoc I make ! 
 
 I howl 'mid the pine-trees in darkness of night, 
 And I bend them and break, in my tyrannous might 
 Through the smoke-begrimed city I rush on my way 
 Till again in the corn-fields and valleys I play.
 
 20 ■ THE THOUGHTS OF A CHILD. 
 
 Through the churchyard in silence I wond'ringly 
 
 pass, 
 And scarce care to linger, or play with the grass ; 
 But I droop, as I sobbingly hold in my breath, 
 And for once am subdued, in the presence of Death. 
 
 I tremblingly whisper around the old Church, 
 And wail in the ivy-leaves over the porch ; 
 Then entering softly, I hush to a sigh 
 For a Spirit is there, who is greater than I.
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 A DAWN. 
 
 LOOKED upon the grass at morn, 
 And spied the daisy, growing low. 
 Unfolding each dear bud of snow 
 To greet the fair day, newly born. 
 
 I saw a thing I loved full well, 
 A young laburnum brightly hung, 
 As if the sunbeams there had clung 
 By golden fingers, when they fell. 
 
 I spied the dew-drop on a blade, 
 A sunbeam smiling in its heart, 
 And watched the first glad lark depart 
 And soaring into Heaven fade. 
 
 I heard its ecstasy of song, 
 That fell upon my heart like dew, 
 That seemed to ring against the blue. 
 And lost itself the clouds among. 
 
 '£>•
 
 22 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 The earth and I were young and gay, 
 And I had yet to live and love ;— 
 Nor knew I that fair dawn might prove 
 The herald of a darker day.
 
 THE CONSCIENCE WHISPER. 
 
 THE CONSCIENCE WHISPER; OR, THE 
 
 SUNBEAM. 
 
 T came to a grand court-lady, 
 Who was robing herself for the ball ; 
 " What a nuisance ! " she said, " is the 
 sunshine, 
 I do not like it at all. 
 
 For it shows where your face is painted. 
 When by gaslight paint looks like your skin ! " 
 So the sunbeam fled from the lady, 
 For she would not take it in. 
 
 It entered a clergyman's study. 
 And it rested upon his pen. 
 " This sunbeam," he said, " is a worry ; 
 Why comes it into my den ? 
 
 " 'Tis a small mistake it rests on, 
 But if I should take it out, 
 It would contradict most flatly 
 What on Sunday I preached about !
 
 24 LATER POEMS. 
 
 " The people, — they know no better, 
 As I spoke it, must it remain ! " 
 So the sunbeam left the indifferent heart. 
 Where hope of entrance was vain. 
 
 It fled to the prisoners' dungeon. 
 And lay on the weary head ; 
 It showed up his grievous sin-stains, 
 And shame, that had long been dead 
 
 Woke up in his lonely bosom, 
 And he wept 'neath his load of sin : 
 So the hardened sinner was softened. 
 And took the sunbeam in.
 
 RIGHT AND WRONG. 25 
 
 
 RIGHT AND WRONG. 
 (a story of all time.) 
 
 HE Knight goes forth to the field of fight 
 To crush a hideous wrong ; 
 S^ With heart thrice strong with the sense 
 of right 
 
 He leads the armed throng. 
 
 ***** 
 The fight is fought, the right has won ! 
 But the leader, where is he ? 
 Who strove so long, and fought so hard, 
 To set the wronged ones free ! 
 
 They're rejoicing at the conquest, 
 But he lies upon the sod, 
 Forgot by those he righted. 
 With his face upturn'd to God !
 
 26 LATER POEMS. 
 
 a ts* 
 
 A REQUIEM. 
 
 E has lived his life and is sleeping ; 
 Let him rest, on his Father's breast ; 
 For Death hath banished the bitter past, 
 Hath healed the wounded soul at last, 
 And hath laid him in God's good keeping. 
 
 Let him rest. 
 
 He hath gone to the King of high Heaven 
 
 Nor vveepeth, but quiet sleepeth ; 
 
 Into that harbour driven 
 
 As a ship by a tempest of grief, 
 
 He hath found there the needful relief 
 
 That a well pleased Father hath given. 
 
 Let him rest. 
 
 For once that great heart was aching, 
 
 Though no word of complaint was heard, 
 
 But silently, self-forsaking, 
 
 He friended the world in its joyless parts. 
 
 Showing nought, as he bound the bleeding hearts. 
 
 Of the grief that his own was breaking. 
 
 Let him rest.
 
 A REQUIEM. 27 
 
 Till thou, dear Christ, didst relieve him 
 Whose own life with sorrow was rife ! 
 No more can the old pain grieve him, 
 For hushed is his strong heart's aching 
 In a sleep that heralds glad waking ; 
 Lord God, of Thy mercy receive him ! 
 
 Let him rest.
 
 28 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 TO MY VALENTINE. 
 
 WILD rose dewy in the morn 
 Is a thing of tender grace, 
 But it would droop and die before 
 The sweetness of thy face. 
 
 The shining of a golden sun 
 Is wonderful to see, 
 But I can scarce be dazzled, since 
 Mine eyes have gazed on thee. 
 
 Most tender flowers do deck the earth. 
 And silver stars above ; 
 I see they're fair, — but not so rare 
 As the Lady o' my Love !
 
 IN THE FACTORY. 29 
 
 IN THE FACTORY. 
 
 [This poem was suggested by a notice which appeared 
 in one of the papers a few years ago, the gist of which 
 was, that in consequence of the great demand for foreign 
 materials, the Bradford looms'were standing still and the 
 people starving.] 
 
 HERE is quiet in the place, and the silent 
 looms 
 Stand useless and grim intheempty rooms ; 
 But the hush of the quiet with trouble is rife 
 For the people who wearily wait without ; 
 Their rest means starving, their work means life. 
 
 Their faces are hopeless, their clothing is torn, 
 And the heart of the bravest is bruised and forlorn. 
 For these hundreds here starve by one foolish whim, 
 For Fashion and Folly of Riches born 
 Have crushed the people, and made them mourn ! 
 
 They pray in their need for the smallest task. 
 And see — at the answer to what they ask, 
 The desperate tears will gain their way, 
 Though never a sob may be heard aloud ! 
 Then they push back through the silent crowd.
 
 30 LATER POEMS. 
 
 There is quiet in the place, and the silent looms 
 
 Stand useless and grim in the empty rooms ; 
 
 And the people without may wait and starve, 
 
 Their hearts may weary, their hearts may ache 
 
 Their hearts may niadden until they break ! 
 
 For Fashion has willed it shall be so, 
 
 And Fashion rules fools, and fools abound 
 
 On too many breadths of English ground ! 
 
 Let them look to the horror that they have wrought, 
 
 The sin and the heart-ache, by lack of thought, 
 
 And then just for once let Fashion go, 
 
 For Fashion weighs lighter than human woe ; 
 
 — O shame ! to be told of a civilized age 
 
 Counted as Christian, counted as sage. 
 
 That it left the toilers that clothe the land 
 
 To read their doom from a fashion-page !
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 ^i 
 
 /C 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 ET me gently raise the curtain, 
 Gazing for a little space 
 On the jTolden time of childhood, 
 
 Sacred in its tender grace. 
 
 Lo ! a field first-daisy dotted 
 In the freshness of the spring 
 And a child a-laughing, singing, 
 All for joy of everything. 
 
 Such a time for sweet believing, 
 Such a time for lovely faith, 
 When the pure young heart unfearing 
 Saw its God, beyond its Death ! 
 
 Then, to me, was every rainbow 
 Arching up the dome above. 
 Half a mystic ring of beauty 
 Wedding Earth to God's great love.
 
 32 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Heart, scarce lower than an angel, 
 Thou wert higher than a man, 
 While thy happy stream of childhood 
 'Neath the sun of Truth still ran ! 
 
 'iX* ^U ^U ft^ ^J^ 
 
 *1* ^* ^^ ^^ ^^ 
 
 There, — then gently drop the curtain 
 I have seen enough to know 
 What a grace I fell away from 
 In the time 'twixt then and now ! 
 
 Reproach hath never gazed before 
 With such sweet sternness on my face, 
 It shall not have come for nothing. 
 If Thou help me, God of grace !
 
 'JO. 
 
 «J0." 
 
 'VE played the poor orphan, I've buUied 
 and whined 
 In the cold, and the wind, and the wet ; 
 An' I've lied like a nigger this whole blessed day, 
 An' I ain't earnt a 'alfpenny yet ! 
 
 First a clergyman comes, and I says to myself, 
 " Here's a customer, sure, as '11 pay " — 
 He was thinking of next Sunday's sermon, I s'pose, 
 For he chivied me out of his way. 
 
 Then comes a fine lady as carried a dawg 
 As was petted and fed like a saint ; 
 (Ah — there's many a man as is left for to starve 
 An' there's many a dawg as ain't ! ) 
 
 An' I sez to the lady, I sez, sez I, 
 All a shiverin' and chatterin' with cold, 
 " My father's jist dead, an' mother is leP 
 With but me, an' a gal two years old." 
 
 D
 
 34 LATER POEMS. 
 
 (For yer see it comes easy to lie in that way, 
 When you've learnt it ever since yer was young) 
 But the lady passed by, with her fat Httle dawg, 
 An' her foot-boy, he put out his tongue. 
 
 So yer see, I felt hopeless ; so hungry and queer 
 An' tremblin', I 'ardly could stand, 
 An' it seemed as my broom 'ad grew 'eavier much, 
 An' was gettin' too big for my 'and ; 
 
 When I see a old lady, as looked wery good, 
 An' could pity a bit of a chap 
 As was 'ungry and little and dirty and poor, 
 An' would give me a penny, mayhap. 
 
 \ But she gave me two tracts, about brimstone and that, 
 An' one were called " Sinner, do Right ! " 
 But they made my heart 'eavier much than before. 
 An' my stomach they lef jist as light. 
 
 Ah me — I was wretched and wished I was dead, 
 An' wished I was dead in the cold ! 
 An' if you'll beheve me (for 1 can tell a truth) 
 Down I goes in the mud, and I 'owled. 
 
 An' I 'owled and I 'owled till I fell fast asleep, 
 
 An' nobody noticed — not one, 
 
 'Cep the pleeceman, who stirred up my bones with 
 
 his boot, 
 An' angrily chivied me on.
 
 ''70." 35 
 
 Blunderin' and stumblin' I crawls on again, 
 In the face of the wind and the sleet, 
 Till more dead than alive, into someone I walks, 
 An' fell in a 'eap at his feet. 
 
 'Twas a navvy : he hoisted me up in his arms, 
 As kind as a hangel could be, 
 An' out comes my story without any lies, 
 For I were too wretched yer see ! 
 
 "Oh, give me some bread, sir ! Oh ! give me some 
 
 bread, 
 For I know I shall die if yer don't, 
 An' I give you my word that I'm not lying now, 
 An' if you will hear me, I won't. 
 
 I stands at my crossin' from mornin' till night, 
 An' I begs of the coves as go by ; 
 An' I lies, sir, I lies like the devil hisself. 
 If not, they won't listen, that's why. 
 
 You say I'm a wery small chap to be here ? 
 Ay, — I've never a friend 'cept my broom. 
 For I've no pertikler parents, sir. 
 Nor yet no pertikler 'ome." 
 
 Then he carries me straight to a 'orspital place, 
 (An' that's where I'm stayin' jist now ; ) 
 Which is jist like a palace, so warm and so rich. 
 And away from the dirt and the row.
 
 36 LATER POEMS. 
 
 An' a young doctor comes to me every day, 
 As gentle as ever I see, 
 
 An' sometimes the navvy, he comes with him too, 
 A-bringin' a present for me. 
 
 An' they look, and they whisper, the ntirses an' all, 
 
 An' one told me (my ! didn't she cry ? ) 
 
 That I'm going to Heaven ; — ain't it almost too 
 
 grand 
 For a pore little shaver like I ?
 
 THE HERMITS STORY. 
 
 X 
 
 THE HERMIT'S STORY. 
 
 HERE are some men born with a godly- 
 heart, 
 H Who from their birth to death do work 
 no sin, 
 Who fear their God, nor from His word depart, 
 Nor love the world, nor that which is therein. 
 
 And yet I hold it nobler far than this 
 
 When men, who once have wrought most grievous 
 
 wrong, 
 Conquer their hearts by prayer, and earnest thought 
 Turn unto Christ, and in His love are strong. 
 
 For to be good where no temptations are 
 Is nought, but when a creature hath to rise 
 Out of a lower self, and cast afar 
 The snaky sin, — God knows the sacrifice !
 
 38 LATER POEMS. 
 
 And I was once a baron of the land 
 
 (A lone and aged hermit now am I), 
 
 My soul was fierce, and bloody was my hand, 
 
 Shut were mine ears to poverty's sad cry. 
 
 Many have trembled when they heard my name, 
 For I made laws to suit my every mood ; 
 I ne'er forgave, but sought to write my fame 
 Upon the great world-history, in blood. 
 
 Now once in fight, a sorry hurt had I 
 Ay, — nigh I fainted for such loss of blood, 
 And much afraid, I fast away did hie 
 To seek the hermit in the little wood. 
 
 And in the wood I heard the Vesper bell 
 That silver-sounding, tinkled through the air, 
 Calling on all the weary folk to kneel, 
 And tell to God the tale of that day's care. 
 
 Then I all faint and weakened by my wound. 
 Hearing that bell did feel most strangely sad ; 
 And surely there was magic in the sound. 
 For it did bring the deeds that were so bad 
 
 'o 
 
 Which I have done to many an helpless soul, 
 Across the sight of my mind's inward eye : 
 I tried to think they had not been so foul. 
 And yet the horrid truth might not pass by.
 
 THE HERMITS STORY. 39 
 
 My heart was bursting with the ugly thought 
 Of all my sinning, that was black as Hell ; — 
 " Oh turn, redeem the error thou hast wrought ! " 
 Rang out the sweet-voiced little vesper bell. 
 
 And lo ! there came a feeling as of tears, 
 Across the aching of my heart that stole ; 
 And I, — all burdened with the sins of years — 
 Cried up to Christ, from out my bitter soul. 
 
 Cried up to Christ, and told Him all my sin, 
 Cried up in fierce repentant words and wild, 
 And prayed that I a new life might begin, 
 An earnest man, and yet at heart a child. 
 
 For something out of heaven brake the bands 
 
 That bound my heart, as knelt I on the sod, 
 
 And heavenly tears rained down on blood-stained 
 
 hands 
 And made my high heart kneel before its God. 
 
 Now any man who longeth after Light, 
 Let him but cry one true repentant word, 
 Put out one feeble hand toward the Right, 
 And be he worst, yet shall his cry be heard. 
 
 For the first sigh that leaves the burdened breast 
 Over a life of godlessness and wrong. 
 Is held by our dear Christ to be more blest 
 Than all the music of an angel's song.
 
 40 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 ELSA. 
 
 SOUL in Heaven looked down to Earth, 
 And sighed, " So long have I waited here ! 
 Hast forgot me, Elsa, amidst the mirth 
 And joy and strife 
 
 Of an earthly life? 
 There is no Heaven without thee, dear ! 
 
 Elsa, Elsa ! " 
 
 The mother looked from the cottage door, 
 And gazed with fear down the long dark lane : 
 " Hast lost thyself, daughter, upon the moor ? 
 My old heart fears, 
 
 For no star peers 
 Through the night that is raving in wind and rain. 
 
 Elsa! Elsa!" 
 
 The sad old eyes will gaze in vain 
 
 For many an hour of night and day 
 
 Till they dim with a weight of age and pain.
 
 ELS A. 
 
 41 
 
 For the old heart aches, — 
 But the young heart breaks, 
 And is fain to go home on that other way ! 
 
 Elsa! Elsa!
 
 42 LATER POEMS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE KNIGHT. 
 
 [HE priest prayed loud by the bed-side, 
 Though the sick man heeded him not ; 
 While the doctor smoothed the pillow, 
 And cooled the head that was hot. 
 
 And all around stood the servants, 
 Close-pressing to see the sight ; 
 To see what the man would look like 
 Who must die, in that very night. 
 
 He lay and laughed in their faces. 
 Nor would own to the ghastly pain 
 And cried wild words, for the fever 
 Was high in the sick man's brain. 
 
 " Leave me alone. Sir doctor. 
 For thine own sake vex me no more, 
 For not with old woman's physic 
 Will I lengthen my life one hour !
 
 THE DEATH OF THE KNIGHT. 43 
 
 You worry me, priest, with your Latin, 
 And as for the folk on high, 
 I beheve that they understand it 
 No better than you or I ! 
 
 For neither by prayer nor physic 
 Can I ever again be whole. 
 For wine and women and warfare 
 Have ruined me, body and soul ! 
 
 Though I cannot die in battle, 
 As a soldier should love to do. 
 In spite of the priests and doctors, 
 I'll die like a man, I vow ! 
 
 Ho ! fetch me my knightly armour, 
 That as I have lived I may die, 
 And I'll strive, tho' the breath be my latest, 
 To shout my old battle-cr}^ ! " 
 
 So they huddled him into his armour, 
 And he lay in that grim mock state ; 
 But the weak old hands in the gauntlets 
 Could not lift their own poor weight. 
 
 So he lay and rambled in talking 
 Of deeds he had done of old 
 And love and fighting, and drinking 
 Were the themes of the tales he told.
 
 44 LATER POEMS. 
 
 And ever anon delirious »> 
 He moaned in his mortal pain, 
 And cried wild words, for the fever 
 Was high in the sick man's brain. 
 
 " Mother of God ! this is awful ! " 
 Cried the pale-faced, trembling priest : 
 " Is there nought we can do to save him. 
 Or to soften his heart at least ? 
 
 " He cannot live for much longer, 
 But he must not die in this state, 
 Or Saint Peter and all the angels 
 Will thrust him back from the Gate ! " 
 
 As he spoke, the door came open, 
 And the sun broke in on the gloom ; 
 And with the air and the sunshine 
 A child came into the room. 
 
 She was but a poor little slave-child, 
 And yet she was strangely fair, 
 Who had wandered into the chamber, 
 Not knowing that death was there. 
 
 He saw the fair little maiden : 
 
 The watchers noticed a change 
 
 Pass over his high harsh features, 
 
 While his eyes grew saddened and strange.
 
 THE DEATH OF THE KNIGHT. 45 
 
 And he spoke with his gaze upon her 
 In a voice that was no more wild 
 But troubled, and sorely regretful, 
 " My God ! I forgot the child ! 
 
 I must then have long been dreaming, 
 For I thought that ten years ago 
 I laid you beside your mother 
 In a grave that was hid in snow ; 
 
 And I thought that a long mound lay 
 By a mound that was very small, 
 And that there I buried my heart : 
 But 'twas but a dream after all ! " 
 
 (For so he spoke, in his madness 
 
 Of his httle dead child and wife, 
 
 And thought that this child was his darling 
 
 He once loved better than life.) 
 
 The wondering child came nearer, 
 And the priest raised her up to him, 
 She kissed the lips that were dying. 
 Till his eyes with the tears grew dim. 
 
 And he said, " God bless the maiden. 
 In her womanhood by-and-by ; " 
 And he groaned, " God save the maiden 
 From such men in the world as I !
 
 46 LATER POEMS. 
 
 If I could but live and protect her ! — 
 Quick ! doctor, and bring me your stuff ! 
 If you save my life, I'll promise 
 That you shall have gold enough 
 
 To build a palace ! — Now, saintling, 
 Quick ! chatter your saintliest prayers, 
 And to your chapel I promise 
 A " frightened, the little one stares 
 
 To see the grey head fall forward, 
 And they lift her down from the bed. 
 And quietly draw the curtain, 
 For the grim old spirit has fled. 
 
 Alone in the gloomy chamber 
 
 Lay the unloved body there ; 
 
 For soon they left him, each hast'ning 
 
 To be first to bow to his heir.
 
 "r<9 HIS DEAD MISTRESS" 47 
 
 "TO HIS DEAD MISTRESS." 
 
 ET me just think my thoughts a little 
 space, 
 Once let me kiss that young, pathetic 
 face, 
 That, doubly armed, I from your presence pass 
 To meet the world ; and by my life to prove 
 Yoicr life was not in vain, oh, dear dead love. 
 
 If there be aught of any worth in me, 
 I owe it to your trustful sympathy 
 For you believed in me, so made me strive 
 To live that life you thought I used to live. 
 Oh, your fine faith in me was like a hand 
 Flower seeking, in a waste and barren land : 
 For when you wept, beneath that gracious rain 
 And the sweet sunning of your tender smile, 
 My heart that had lain winter-bound awhile 
 Put forth the leaves of love and life again. 
 
 Now that you've left me, bitter thoughts, alas ! 
 Rise and reproach me with the man I was 
 Ere that you came, and brake my iron bands,
 
 48 LATER POEMS. 
 
 And said those things, that hke fine fairy hands 
 Pass'd o'er my heart-strings untouched through long 
 
 years 
 Until they thrilled and trembled into tears. 
 
 And oft when my old grief awoke in me, 
 You made your music speak your sympathy. 
 And wrapped my soul within a dainty dream 
 With notes that touched about an under-theme 
 Like pearls strung loosely on a golden thread, 
 Or dew-drops, diamonding a gossamer ; 
 Then, when the music made a wind-like stir 
 And rose sweet-passionate, with wings wide-spread. 
 And cried that pathos, glimmh'ing through the whole, 
 I knew it for the life-blood of your soul 
 That flooded all the tender veins of sound, 
 That wept for me, and sought to heal my wound. 
 
 % if. -if. •)(. * 
 
 I may not die as yet ; nor will I shirk 
 
 The life that lies before, of care and work. 
 
 You were an angel always, I, the chief 
 
 Of sinners ; you are lying there at rest 
 
 With fair hands folded saintly on your breast ; 
 
 Your dead lips saying, " Love, cast off thy grief," 
 
 And as I press them soft and silently, 
 
 I make a life-long vow, dear love, to be 
 
 That better Self, that you awoke in me.
 
 A THOUGHT IN WINTER. 49 
 
 A THOUGHT IN WINTER. 
 
 (written to my father, CHRISTMAS, 1 884 ) 
 
 HE snow lies where there once were sum- 
 mer flowers, 
 There shines no sun to glad these winter 
 hours ; 
 But though the beauty of the world hath fled, 
 'Tis only sleeping for a while, not dead. 
 For the bosom of the mighty Earth is rife 
 With the power of a throbbing under-life. 
 Which at the summons of the spring-tide shoners 
 Will upward push, and pierce and spring to flowers. 
 All patiently we bear the wind, the rain. 
 Knowing our tender flowers will bloom again. 
 
 This is a truth by silent Nature taught, 
 
 With which the sunrise, flowers, all things are 
 
 fraught. 
 For since the world of herbs and beasts began 
 To bear on it the thinking creature, Man, 
 Hope has lain nestling in the human heart 
 
 E
 
 50 LATER POEMS. 
 
 To rise with grief, and play a healing part. 
 Thus year by year, the loved of every land 
 Are beckoned by that pitiless dim hand 
 That draws them helpless, very far away, 
 Where infinite white Silence holds her sway, 
 And there they sleep ; what's after none may know, 
 But all can hope ; though stricken in his woe, 
 If man will list to Nature, Hope is there — 
 Is in the sunrise, in the spring-tide air, 
 Is crying silently, yet everywhere, 
 " Hope on, a little while, poor child of pain, 
 Thy long-lost flowers shall live for thee again."
 
 " NIOBE." 51 
 
 NIOBE." 
 
 ET all the world come learn of me 
 
 The stony, silent " Niobe" j 
 
 For though I have no power of speech. 
 Yet the great lesson I would teach 
 Is here in stone, and stands sublime 
 In grief, a warning for all time. 
 Oh, for one moment, look and wait, 
 And learn ere that it be too late ! 
 
 1 cast my pride against the face 
 Of the all-powerful gods ; — alas f 
 The poor proud mother that I was \ 
 The gods in silent anger burned. 
 And over-night my fate they turned, 
 And came and smote with blasting breath 
 All these my darlings unto death ; 
 And left me with my heart a-break, 
 With dreadful tears upon my cheek.
 
 52 LATER POEMS. 
 
 In golden Athens there was one 
 Who wrought great beauties out of stone. 
 He loved his beauteous countr}' well, 
 And just before great Athens fell, 
 When all that once was high and fair 
 Was sinking, fading, — in despair ; 
 He, of his grief, created me 
 And gave the name of Niobe. 
 Though, while his heart in silence bled, 
 " This is poor stricken Greece," he said, 
 " These are her children, falling, dead ! " 
 
 Come, all ; though far as South from North 
 
 The lesson that I shadow forth 
 
 A thousand travelling miles is worth : 
 
 I stand so patiently, — a sign, 
 
 And yearn to save you, children mine ! 
 
 Oh, Nations hear ! — and mark ye well 
 
 What once I was, and how I fell !
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 53 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 T is the time of all things gay and green, 
 A-down the sun-rays slips a showerct 
 clear, 
 
 And twigs and stalks and most bare things are seen 
 To bud beneath the young sun o' the year. 
 
 And on the hill a light wind is at play, 
 Kissing the young-eyed daisies here and there ; 
 And far above the dear Earth in her May 
 A raptured bird thrills the ecstatic air.
 
 54 LATER POEMS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ETERNAL STRIFE. 
 
 AM called Darkness ; through all time I 
 
 strive 
 With Light ; my murky reign is short, for 
 
 his 
 Encroacheth on the first and latter hour 
 Of it, — so if I loathe the Light 'tis not 
 A thing for wonder ! 
 
 In the little space 
 Of four-and-twenty hours, I wrestle twice 
 With this great power beloved of all the world ; 
 And aft a little space I shroud his face, 
 But all too soon he rises masterful. 
 This war we waged since Chaos moved in twain, 
 And so must do, for ever and for ever. 
 Unto all peoples we have been a trope 
 Of good and bad, of God and Devildom, 
 And countless names are given unto us 
 By different tongues : a little matter, that, 
 For our great struggle is the only source
 
 ETERNAL STRIFE. 55 
 
 Of man's untutored guessings, wonder-bred 
 
 That grow to myth, and crystalHze in creed. 
 
 Eternally, am I the one condemned 
 
 To bear the names of Typhon, Ahriman, 
 
 Satan, and more of import vile as these. 
 
 Then where's the cause for marvel if I crave 
 
 To overthrow my foe, so that he rise 
 
 No more, to bless the waiting eyes of men .'' 
 
 Then might I wrap for ever in my shroud 
 
 The puny things that loved and worshipped him 
 
 And hated me ! — This have I striven to do 
 
 Aeon on aeon, age fast following age, 
 
 And this the way I try it ; — 
 
 When the flowers 
 Out-wearied with the glare and heat of day 
 Put up their petals prayer-wise, for the cool 
 And hush of night, forth from the depth I creep 
 Vastily up the dome, until I meet 
 The eye of day, the Light, and him forthwith 
 Almightily I face, not caring now 
 How he may glow and stare ; his doom is come. 
 And so I lay the burden of my weight 
 On the broad shoulders of the setting sun, 
 And down the dome I slowly thrust him forth 
 And leave him in the depths unknown of men. 
 Him, safe in thrall, I can begin my reign 
 (Nathless the clouds are still hot-flushed with him, 
 Which soon I chill,) and all the world is mine ! 
 Nought care I for the moon and stars, — pale things
 
 55 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Light, and yet powerless to thwart my power 
 For often I contrive to draw a vast 
 Cloud-curtain right across their staring eyes, 
 And so begin my revel unespied. — 
 Behold my worshippers ! A merry train 
 That creep from holes and nooks, the bat-like things 
 That hide by day. — See there the shade-like Dream 
 With streaming hair, and loud and ghastly laugh 
 And eyes unholy that have gazed on Hell ! 
 Haste, hurry on, sweep on, the hours are few. 
 Go, fright the children, haunt the sick at heart, 
 And point the way to madness ! — All is well, 
 Fear not, oh trembling Murder, I will shroud 
 The thing thou bearest in thy stained right hand. 
 Go on, the knife is sharp and I am here — 
 Go on ! 
 
 Hail ! Lust, and work thine horrid will. 
 No man may see thee and I tell no tale ! — 
 — Ah ! shivering suicide, truly thou art wise 
 To choose this time, for see how inky black 
 My mantle, and how deep the river runs ! 
 On, on, one leap, — and then thy hopeless eyes 
 Will close for ever on this useless world. 
 Get on, the crowd of you, and do your work 
 Stealthily silent, swift as all sin should ; 
 And make the dark air thicker and more thick 
 With the incense of your hideous sacrifice, 
 The silent smoke of your iniquities. 
 That it may rise and stifle the pure stars
 
 I 
 
 ETERNAL STRIFE. 57 
 
 And make the moon reel sickened in their midst ! 
 Do that I bid ye, Shades, and Deathly Sins, 
 And hurry, hurry, hurry, lest the Light 
 Ye love not, find ye out ! 
 
 Now do I wield 
 The mighty sceptre that I love so well, 
 Now reign indeed, — now am I — 
 
 Hark, oh hark ! 
 What noise is that ?— It is the mighty bell 
 Clanging the hour that brings me banishment 
 With such harsh sounding, that my whole heart 
 
 shakes 
 And startled silence, like a nested bird, 
 Flutters afar, waiting until it cease 
 To settle cloudlike, in her accustomed haunt. 
 Alas ! the hours have slidden silently 
 Into the Past, and now th' unwelcome time 
 Draws nigh, when I must slink from off my throne 
 And leave it to my rival ; so, dethroned 
 I, though a King, must wander for a while 
 And lurk in dens and caves, as beggars do, 
 In vain I clutch my sceptre, black gives place 
 To grey, for I am paling fast,— yet cling 
 Half desperate to my quickly waning power 
 Until, oh Shame I a thin white mist I lie 
 Upon the ground, and then I know my doom 
 Is sealed ; for lo ! a sound is in the air 
 A bird has twittered ; oh, I know his song 
 (Oh, hated sound, oh, hated, hated, sound !)
 
 5S 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 He sang it when the first great Light was born 
 And Time was yet in puny infancy ; 
 Then one by one the sleeping birds awake, 
 And rouse the flowers for that they sing so loud 
 Their triumph song, "The King, the King, will 
 
 come ! " 
 And Herald Breeze comes laden with the tale 
 To wake the Court of Nature, that the whole 
 Shall bow before and greet the King that comes. 
 I faint, but clinging yet, lie low amid 
 The myriad murmurs of a waking world. 
 " The King, the King is coming ! " ah, too well 
 I know the words for truth ; beaten again, 
 And so, alas ! for ever and for ever ! — 
 The King is mounting to his throne, his foot 
 Is nigh the summit of the hill, and I 
 Must once more see his triumph, and then fade 
 To nothingness, crushed, baffled : — 'Tis the same, 
 The same cruel triumph of unnumbered aeons. 
 For see, at last the god-like morn stands high 
 On yonder hill : I meet my master's eye, 
 And then dissolve in tears upon the grass. 
 Tears of defeat, for lo ! I am no more. 
 Save as a thought within the minds of men 
 Of something loveless, that of late has been, 
 An enemy that yet must come again 
 When a few sunlit hours have winged their flight. 
 To steal the crown from off the brow of day.
 
 FATE AND THE MONARCH. 59 
 
 FATE AND THE MONARCH. 
 
 ]0T this, not this, but these !" I cried. 
 In my despot pride ; 
 " Tell me, how shall this thing be so 
 If I, the king of the land, say ' No ! ' 
 Rather I'd give my kingdom's treasure 
 Than this small thing, that I love 'yond measure ! " 
 (So I cried, as the shade came creeping.) 
 
 " Not these, not these, but this ! "' cried Fate, 
 
 And passed my gate ; 
 Left me my treasures,— the courtier crowd 
 That stifled me with its flattery loud, 
 Left me my crushing jewelled crown. 
 Left all these things, yet left me alone. 
 For she swept me by and becked on Death, 
 
 With its blasting breath ; 
 And sought and found the poor pale thing 
 I loved, I loved ! — then with wide-spread wing, 
 Left me, the great king, weeping.
 
 6o 
 
 LATER POEMS, 
 
 A 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 HE garden is silent and stilly 
 'Neath the languorous night at its noon, 
 And a raptured and tremulous lily- 
 Is breathing its scent to the moon. 
 
 And poppy, the silver-leaved sleeper, 
 Is silently thrilling with bliss, 
 And the blush of her petals burns deeper 
 At the dew-drop's most delicate kiss. 
 
 On the deep-breathing breast of the river 
 The lilies all languidly lie. 
 And ever they dreamily shiver 
 As the ghost of a breeze goeth by. 
 
 The rose drooping low in her beauty, 
 Is white as the mantle of Death, 
 And the breeze to her charms doeth duty. 
 And draws in his worshipping breath.
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 6i 
 
 'Mid the scent of its own heavy blossom 
 The tree doth deliciously dream, 
 Soft-shedding its flowers on the bosom 
 Of the lazily murmuring stream. 
 
 The stars a sweet music are making, 
 But their voices are veiled in the height, 
 And only a heart-throb is breaking 
 The passionate hush of the night.
 
 62 LATER POEMS. 
 
 A YOUNG POET. 
 
 H I LES yet in youthful insolence I dreamed 
 With spring-tide vigour in my brain and 
 blood, 
 
 I dared to hope, to stand where they have stood 
 Who sun-like, high, have universal beamed ; 
 And saw far-off the day when all men should 
 Own me as one of that giant brotherhood, 
 Or even greater ! — 'Lack that so it seemed ! 
 For still, high, holy, there the mountains are 
 Up by the Thunder-home and mystic Star 
 With cloud-veiled brows ; — and I am at their feet 
 Plucking the valley-flowers, as is meet 
 For one that was so hoping and so young. 
 Who knew it not, but could not play the part 
 Of the great dead ; — oh, hush, poor poet-heart, 
 Or thou wilt break, ere half thy songs be sung !
 
 HEALED BY MUSIC. 
 
 63 
 
 HEALED BY MUSIC. 
 
 LOOK on a night that's mad in wind and 
 
 rain 
 From eyes and heart half bUnd and dumb 
 with pain : — 
 Will never the day, and the hope of youth, and the 
 
 good of it, come again ? 
 Oh, heavy life, that I must live thee thorough ! 
 Could I but lay thee sleeping, thou and sorrow, 
 Until the breaking of the final morrow. 
 
 »•- -'- u- «> »'> 
 
 *f '\- 'P -T* T* 
 
 Hush ! there is music. 
 " Grieve no more, grieve no more 
 Drink of this Lethe stream. 
 Close thy tired eyes and dream, 
 Over-worn soul ! 
 
 Hush for av/hile, for Music is awake, 
 
 Her mist-like robing trails along the night ; 
 
 Tut by thought-darkness, and for thine own sake
 
 64 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Catch by the garment of this unseen Light, 
 And in it, fold on fold, do thou enwrap thee, 
 And let the great all-healing mother, lap thee ; 
 To whom sick Failure raises eyes from earth 
 And traces hope in her ; and foolish Mirth 
 A-toying with her flowers, for one short while 
 Lists to her, saddening, and forgets to smile. 
 Sin loathes itself, and weeps, when Music sings, 
 Music, whose vasty quivering spirit-wings 
 Brush off the dust of life, and from the sod 
 Sweeping aside the earth-cloud, thick and foul, 
 Wake the Divine within the world-cramped soul 
 And bear it up to boundlessness, and God ! " 
 
 Now is it over, and the sounds have flown 
 
 Where stars and birds alone could trace their flight. 
 
 But in my heart they leave a gracious token ; 
 
 The chain is broken 
 That bound me down with sorrow's selfish might, 
 And I and young-eyed Hope are all alone ; 
 Eased is my heart of doubts, and carking fears 
 Eased are my burning eyes, for lo ! I prayed 
 Whiles yet the blessed Music with me stayed, 
 God heard and sent a rain of quiet tears.
 
 THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD. 65 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD. 
 
 HIS happy thing, this tiny one, 
 Too young to know what wealth is his, 
 Doth a most mighty kingdom own, 
 And mother-love that kingdom is. 
 
 Across his childhood's golden day 
 There stealeth ne'er a little cloud 
 But it is quickly sunned away 
 By the kind eyes of motherhood. 
 
 But one I know, a little child 
 (And 'tis a very piteous thing,) 
 For though so dear and undefiled, 
 The babe is but a crownless king ! 
 
 He striveth by their names to call 
 The faces that he oft hath seen, 
 Yet one name saith he not at all, 
 Nor can he guess what it may mean, 
 F
 
 66 LATER POEMS. 
 
 For, from a mother's tender smile, 
 A piteous exile he ! — alas, 
 Her hands are folded for a while 
 Beneath the daisies in the grass. 
 
 But still the mother-heart doth beat 
 In watchful love the stars behind ; 
 So bide awhile, then go, my sweet, 
 Thy kingdom in God's own to find.
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 67 
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 
 
 I. 
 
 N royal wrath the King is forth 
 To meet the traitor, who far up north 
 Has risen in force with a savage band 
 Who ravage the country far and wide ; 
 And the King has called on his loyal and true, 
 Bidding them strive, whate'er betide, 
 To do the greatest that man may do. 
 With wile of brain and with strength of hand 
 To hurl the rebels out of the land. 
 
 The lady's heart with fear is cold. 
 
 She has three young sons who are strong and bold, 
 
 And one little maid with a golden head. 
 
 Full well she knoweth, the brave young three 
 
 Will be mad to follow their warrior- King 
 
 Forth to the field where the fight will be 
 
 To do such deeds as the jongleurs sing. 
 
 " Only my little maid May," she said, 
 
 Will be left to me when my boys be dead.
 
 68 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Away ye tears that stain my face, 
 
 Selfish is love that would bring disgrace ; 
 
 In the unknown future is hid the thing 
 
 That shall bring them glory, or bring them Death. 
 
 And I would to God, that I now might learn 
 
 Whether the shroud or victor-wreath 
 
 Will be the meed that their valour earn, — 
 
 But weep I will not, — but rather sing 
 
 Full glad to obey the call of my King. 
 
 Then up the turret's winding stair 
 One came bounding, and entered there ; 
 With shining eyes and with heart aglow, 
 The eldest, the strongest of all the three. 
 Passionate pleads from his hot young heart 
 To join the fighting. One kiss gives she, 
 Smiles straight in his eyes as she bids him part ; 
 Bravely and cheerfully watches him go 
 To likely death from a dangerous foe. 
 
 The darkness fell, nor came the knight. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother, I fear the fight 
 
 Goes 'gainst the King, so 1 needs must go 
 
 To seek my brother and learn the truth ! " 
 
 So spake the second with eager breath. 
 
 With her brave bright smile she kissed the youth, 
 
 And bade him go forth to fame or death, 
 
 And stifled the tears that were fain to flow 
 
 At thought of that fair head lying low.
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 69 
 
 The stars gazed coldly on her bower, 
 
 And found her watching at midnight's hour. 
 
 Then came the youngest, and hotly cried, 
 
 " Oh, lady mother, I must begone ! 
 
 The King's cause loses, my brothers both stay ; 
 
 I cannot rest till the truth be known !" 
 
 She pressed him to hearty then turned away : 
 
 " Oh, dearer than all in this old world wide, 
 
 Oh, God, that no evil thing betide ! 
 
 " If all the mothers in the land 
 Obeyed as fully the royal command, 
 Our cause should prosper ; for one by one 
 I sent my strongest, fairest, and best, 
 Sent them away, with the smile on my face 
 While my heart was breaking in my breast ; 
 But Kingship's due and the pride of race 
 Shall dry my tears and shall hush my moan 
 If I and my May be left alone. 
 
 "If my three boys come not again, 
 If all my pleading of prayer be vain ; 
 If never I clasp them alive and fair 
 Who lay as babes on this loving breast. 
 Nor sun myself in their glad young eyes. 
 If never these weak old hands may rest 
 On the youthful strength that I fondly prize, 
 'Twill be a burden of great despair. 
 Full bitter, full heavy, for me to bear.
 
 70 LATER POEMS. 
 
 And yet, the blame I cast on none ; 
 To serve their lord are my heroes gone : 
 If they fall I will bow me and whisper low, 
 " This is the will of God and the King ! " 
 If ever May, child-like, should murmur in grief 
 " Hush ! " I will say to the fond young thing, 
 " Their death won glory, tho' life was brief ; 
 Their bodies were slain by their liege-lord's foe, 
 But the souls of the loyal to God shall go ! " 
 
 So when they sadly brought them home. 
 
 In terrible quiet she watched them come ; 
 
 Her eldest, so hopeful at break of day, 
 
 Was silent only for lack of breath, 
 
 On whose cold brow that she proudly had kissed 
 
 The red mark lay of the hand of Death. 
 
 Twixt the dead and live face there rose a mist. 
 
 But never a word they heard her say 
 
 As she turned and gazed where the second lay. 
 
 Oh, face death-white, oh, wound blood-red 
 
 Where out of his side his rash life iled ; 
 
 She tenderly kissed each wounded limb, 
 
 Then turned the cloth from the youngest's face. 
 
 Murmuring " Bravest ! in years but a child 
 
 A man for courage, a girl for grace ! " 
 
 And she stooped to look ; — but her gaze was wild 
 
 And sickening she shivered with eyes grown dim, 
 
 For the beauty is battered out of him.
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. Ji 
 
 II. 
 
 What stirs the dust on yonder road 
 That in the sunlight lies white and broad ? 
 It is the King with his brilliant train, 
 Who is coming to thank in his graceful way 
 The lady the mother, who brave and loyal 
 Hath lost so much on that hard-won day, 
 Hath done so much for the good cause royal, 
 And hath borne so meekly her silent pain, 
 Or her three heroes so cruelly slain. 
 
 " Ah, small indeed the thanks I need, 
 
 Since for thee, oh sire, did my dear ones bleed, 
 
 And if further within my power it lay 
 
 To please thee, to serve thee,— glad were I 
 
 To answer thy bidding ! " The King looked round 
 
 With quick-flushed cheek and an eager eye. 
 
 Half was he smiling, and half he frowned 
 
 As there, where the flowers in the field were gay 
 
 He spied the form of the maiden May. 
 
 The King is young, is flushed with wine. 
 And bold in the thought of right divine, 
 Said he, " By the words thou hast but now said 
 When thou off'redst service with all thy heart
 
 72 LATER POEMS. 
 
 If it lay within range of thy womanly power, 
 I claim thy dearest ! — Nay, do not start ; 
 For by Heaven I love yon virgin flower 
 Who in queenly satin should be arrayed. 
 I claim thy daughter, yon lovely maid ! " 
 
 The red blood dyed her white worn cheek, 
 For very wonder she scarce can speak ; 
 " Oh sire, how foolish my tongue hath been 
 That said such words ! Oh, for pity's sake 
 Forget that I spake them, and think on the shame 
 If thou to thy Court my maiden take 
 With her child-like ways and her humble name ; 
 For though sweet as sweetest the earth hath seen, 
 The child is too simple to be a Queen ! " 
 
 He bit his lips, then laughing low 
 
 " Nay, nay good lady, I meant not so ; 
 
 Many most beautiful dames there are 
 
 And none of them Queens, whom I love full well, 
 
 Who flirt their butterfly wings at my Court 
 
 And in the light of my loving dwell ! 
 
 For I count it my right and my royal sport 
 
 To seek the maids who are young and fair, 
 
 That each for a while my favour share ! " 
 
 Then pale as death, with painful breath 
 
 From the quick fierce beat of the heart beneath,
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 73 
 
 With eyes of terror and deep distrust 
 
 She looked at him, cried to him as he stood, 
 
 " Oh fallen, oh fallen from kinghood's height ! 
 
 False to the purity of thy blood ! 
 
 At last can I read thy words aright ; 
 
 As the manhood of men of lower dust 
 
 So stained is thy kinghood with brutal lust ! 
 
 "Oh go, — for ever leave this place, 
 
 Nor wreck its peace with such defep disgrace, 
 
 As thy trust's in Christ to be saved and shriven ! 
 
 Loyal to thy name have I ever been. 
 
 But look you, I think 1 could hate the king 
 
 (Not king, not king, but a man unclean) 
 
 Who found in his heart to do this thing ! 
 
 Nay, I could curse the God in Heaven 
 
 If this, my dearest, to sin were given ! " 
 
 The King threw back his haughty head 
 
 With eye of lightning, and cheek flame-red ; 
 
 " Wouldst preach to thy Sovereign ? Oh, simple 
 
 dame, 
 Thou art not versed in our Court-ways fine ; 
 Else were I vex'd with the words thou hast cried ! 
 I am a man (though my right is divine), 
 Have human needs that must be supplied. 
 So get me the girl, lest royal blame 
 Shall blight thy life with its lasting shame ! "
 
 74 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Then slowly went she up the stair ; 
 How wan her face, and how white her hair ! 
 She called the child from her flowers away, 
 Saying, " Come, speak with me, birdie mine ; — 
 Fifteen fair years of thy lifetime have sped. 
 The winters have left their snow-drift fine. 
 And the summers have left their roses red 
 In thy winsome face ; — thou hast found life gay 
 And wouldst wish to live for many a day ? " 
 
 " How strange thy question, mother dear. 
 There's that in thine eyes doth make me fear ! 
 In sooth I am gay, and could wish to live 
 While flowers have scent, and the birds still sing ! " 
 " But tell me, but tell me, my dearest, my love, 
 Couldst give thy life for thy country's King, 
 As thy brothers, who walk with God above ? " 
 " In that cause, mother, I well believe, 
 'Twere sweet, 'twere easy my life to give ! " 
 
 " Then, child, whose heart is pure as day, 
 
 For thine old mother kneel down and pray ; 
 
 Tell God thy mother will do the thing 
 
 That will turn the heart to a stone in her breast, 
 
 And pray the Angels to witness true 
 
 That I did the thing for it seemed the best. 
 
 Oh plead for pardon if wrong I do ! — 
 
 — How close to my side the child doth cling ; 
 
 Have I made thee weep, whom God made to sing?"
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 75 
 
 She strove to smile through her deathly pain. 
 
 But ever the tears ran down again ; 
 
 She turns from the face of the weeping child, 
 
 "Wearily bidding her " kneel and pray, 
 
 And cover thine eyes with their terrible stare 
 
 Of fear ; dost thou dread thy mother. May ? 
 
 Oh pray, child, pray ! " So she sobbed a prayer, 
 
 Helpless, and frightened, and undefiled 
 
 To Mary the Mother, the Virgin mild. 
 
 Close by her side the mother stood ; 
 Her heart is weeping great tears of blood, 
 She watched the maid, who doth piteous pray, 
 A moment that agony turns to years. 
 Then swift to her bosom she snatches the child, 
 Wetting her hair with a rain of tears, 
 Burning her brow with her kisses wild ! — 
 — Then stabbed to her heart the maiden lay, 
 No king can injure the little maid May. 
 
 HI. 
 
 She leads him to the shaded room 
 Where pure as a star on midnight gloom 
 There shines the Death-fair face of the child. 
 Silent, she watches him gaze and start. 
 Then thrust forth a hand as he eagerly stands 
 To feel for faintest beat of the heart :
 
 76 LATER POEMS. 
 
 He cannot touch it ; her folded hands 
 Lie over her breast Hke a silver shield, 
 Still holding the daisies plucked in the field. 
 
 Then she, " I think 'twere well, my King, 
 That thou, the memory of this thing, 
 Should bear, whatever the date or clime ; 
 Perchance it may check thy strong young blood 
 To sometimes think what a mother hath done 
 For a cause she counted true and good, 
 To keep the King on his rightful throne ; 
 What a mother gave in a far back time 
 To save the King from a damning crime ! 
 
 " There — have I hurt thee ? While I speak 
 
 I see the pallor upon thy cheek ; 
 
 Thou turn St thy head ; doth it make thee wince, 
 
 This old, old woman, this dead young face ? 
 
 Then pardon, my liege, for the words I have said, 
 
 I am old and sad ; I crave thy grace. 
 
 And I pray thee leave me, me and my dead ; 
 
 For I can but mind, not that thou art my prince, 
 
 But that I was a mother a short while since ! " 
 
 As one that dreams he left the corse, 
 And left the castle and got to horse ; 
 And groaning, he spurred till the castle lay 
 In the distance hidden ; most sore distrest 
 The palace he reached, and in siren-white arms
 
 THE LOYAL LADY. 
 
 77 
 
 With tired head soft on a siren-breast, 
 His new-born conscience was lulled to rest, 
 And drowned in the wine of those madd'ning charms ! 
 — But the childless old woman, those miles away, 
 Craves God for his pardon by night and day.
 
 78 LATER POEMS. 
 
 THE OPEN LISTS. 
 
 E cannot be the men that used to be ! 
 The old romance has died so utterly 
 Its right and natural death ! " 'Tis thus 
 you say, 
 The brothers and the husbands of to-day. 
 " Where is the dragon, whom the errant knight 
 Went forth to meet alone, in fearful fight ? 
 And where the maiden, fairest far of all, 
 Who wept and wasted in that brutal thrall ? 
 
 " We live not now in cloudland, but on earth, 
 Content if after work we can have mirth ; 
 And if we like to jest with you and flirt, 
 Why need you think you spy the trail of dirt .'' 
 As for those legends. Science at her prime 
 Has driven out those dreams of olden time ; 
 Has swept away for ever the false mist, 
 And now we know such things do not exist ! "
 
 THE OPEN LISTS. 79 
 
 Oh men ! Romance is not yet dead, indeed 
 
 Though these things be the best you think you need ! 
 
 Were you not bhnded with your pleasant sin, 
 
 Could you but know that you are of a kin 
 
 With God (but that your lower self, the brute, 
 
 Is hushing ever, and will soon make mute 
 
 The soul ; a germ which were it brought to light 
 
 Of possibilities, quite infinite ! — ) 
 
 Could you but know and feel this truth, I say 
 
 Soon would you see, that here, in our own day, 
 
 A viler snake is growing evermore 
 
 Than ever fancy showed in tales of yore. 
 
 That in our midst a fairer maid is bound 
 
 In faster thrall, than in such tales is found ! 
 
 Your Science, with her lip superior curled, 
 Calls such, " the nursery songs, an infant world 
 Once loved ; but which its manhood's reason- 
 strength 
 Casts off, and knows the thing for myth at length ! " 
 True ! 'twas a trope, a symbol, in good sooth, 
 But then, it symbolized an utter truth. 
 For still the dragon rears its horrid head ! 
 'Tis not that opportunity has fled, 
 But, sirs, it is your chivalry that's dead ! 
 
 There is a maiden who was once to see 
 As bright as day ; her name is Purity. 
 Alas ! that one so saintly fair and fine
 
 8o LATER POEMS. 
 
 In loathly thrall should long be left to pine ! 
 
 Wrapped, stifled in the Dragon-coils of Lust, 
 
 While Chivalry lies dying in the dust, 
 
 She looks for some kind help from manhood's grace 
 
 While useless tears besmirch her angel-face, 
 
 And, all the while, you pleasure-loving men, 
 
 Shut her the surer in that noisome den, 
 
 Each sin of yours is as another chain 
 
 That binds her dear and tender limbs again ! 
 
 Open your eyes, oh brothers, look and see, 
 
 A chance lies here for truer chivalry 
 
 Than that of joust and old-time tournament ; 
 
 With heart on high and knightly deeds intent 
 
 In strong young -manhood's utmost strength, oh sirs, 
 
 Go forth to win the golden knightly spurs ; 
 
 Wake ! all of you, and brace your heart and hand, 
 
 The greatest and the least of all the land, 
 
 The simple fool, the pauper and the king, 
 
 The sage !— oh, wake, and forth to gain the thing ! 
 
 For 'tis not as of old ; the priceless prize 
 
 Is not for strongest, fairest, or most wise, 
 
 For, strange to say, that prize doth ofttime fit 
 
 The one of feeble strength and little wit ! 
 
 Then list awhile, while I those deeds recite 
 
 Which make of any man a gentle knight. 
 
 He must not fear to tread the pathway, trod 
 By all the lonely hero-hearts of God ;
 
 THE OPEN LISTS. 8i 
 
 He stands alone, though in the common crowd, 
 
 Heroic-meek before its mocking loud. 
 
 Yet shuns it not, but ever more is fain 
 
 To better it ; he looks from out the pain 
 
 Of human wants unsatisfied, — the jeers 
 
 Of wanton mirth, and through his silent tears 
 
 With sad, brave eyes turned God-ward, prayeth he 
 
 That faithful to his Lady, he may be ! 
 
 The name of womanhood to him is dear, 
 A shrine to bow before, to trust, revere ; 
 And by his simple faith's most tender grace 
 Unwittingly, he points its rightful place. 
 For by his courtesy, the very worst 
 Wakes to a knowledge of her sin accurst ; 
 And she that careless was, nor bad nor good. 
 Thus learns the power of worthy womanhood. 
 Where'er he pass, there higher thoughts will be. 
 If he be true to Lady Purity. 
 
 And such a one on the Last Day shall stand 
 Holding before him, high in his right hand. 
 His worn right hand, — his selfless, chast'ning sword 
 That ever 'gainst his lower self hath warred ; 
 That through the quivering flesh its keen point ran 
 And touched the hidden Godhood of the man, 
 That woke the hero-heart within his breast. 
 And nerved his arm for fight, nor let it rest 
 
 G
 
 82 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Despite the self-love and the fleshly pain, 
 Until the brute beneath his foot lay slain. 
 
 Ay, such a one as this shall surely rise, 
 
 Nor fear when God shall look into his eyes, 
 
 And through the eyes on to his pure heart's worth ; 
 
 Then while adown the steep fades little Earth 
 
 As 'fore the sunrise melts the dreaming mist, 
 
 In a great flood of glory high uprist 
 
 The King from out his hand shall take his sword, 
 
 And through the hush of mighty Cherubim 
 
 That throng to welcome, there shall ring the word 
 
 Of Deity, that bids him " Rise aright : 
 
 Eternally of Christ's great Order, Knight ! "
 
 MORNING. 83 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 HEN see, my rose I open unto thee 
 That all-impatient tappeth on the pane 
 To call me forth, who dreaming long have 
 lain 
 
 To look upon the world that waits for me ; 
 Where 'neath the sun-smile, on the lawn there be 
 A myriad morning-stars, full tenderly 
 Held in the tear-drops of a midnight rain. 
 
 Through wide-thrown lattice floods the morning air 
 Whose breath is laden with the scent of flowers 
 It hath caressed and wakened some three hours ; 
 It slippeth cooling fingers through my hair 
 While wafting to mine ear the rapture rare 
 Of the glad lark, that down the sunrise stair 
 Sheddeth on Silence notes in silver showers. 
 
 Oh, have I guessed it, why he sings so loud ? 
 It seems to me, one of the Cherubim 
 Hath told a golden secret unto him :
 
 84 LATER POEMS. 
 
 Hath taken him behind the veil of cloud 
 Where bide the freed of Earth, a spirit-crowd, 
 Whom we can only see within the shroud 
 Because our eyes with human tears are dim. 
 
 Oh, heart of mine, too long thou sleep'st in night ! 
 
 Awake, and open to God's world thy door, 
 
 The golden day, the life lies all before. 
 
 Go forth for God ! — First set thy wrong life right, 
 
 Then face the "prince of this world," in his might ; 
 
 Give thy whole strength to spread the dawning Light 
 
 Till, o'er the World-King's grave, God's Kingdom 
 
 bright 
 Cometh one day, to stand for evermore ! 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS : — C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANXERY LANE.
 
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