Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 http://archive.org/details/dramasinminiaturOObliniala DRAMAS IN MINIATURE " The perfume of the breath of May Had passed into her soul." A 25- Dramas in Miniature MATHILDE BLIND WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY FORD MADOX BROWN Honfcon CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1891 CONTENTS. DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. PAGE The Russian Student's Tale .. .. .. 3 The Mystic's Vision .. .. .. .. 12 The Message .. .. .. .. -.17 A Mother's Dream .. .. .. .. 32 A Carnival Episode .. .. .. ..50 The Battle of Flowers . . . . . . 60 The Song of the Willi .. .. .. ..71 Scherzo .. .. .. .. .. 83 LYRICS. Love's Somnambulist .. .. .. .. 91 A Meeting . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Your Face .. .. .. .. .. 94. Only a Smile .. .. .. .. • • 95 Sometimes I wonder .. .. .. .. 97 Many will love you .. .. .. 99 vi CONTENTS. PAGE A Dream .. . . . . .. .. . . ioo Rose d'Amour .. .. .. .. .. 101 Sonnet .. .. .. .. .. .. 102 A Parting .. .. .. .. .. 103 My Lady .. .. .. .. . . ..104 On a Viola l'Amoke .. .. .. .. 106 A Child's Fancy .. .. .. .. .. 108 Lassitude .. .. .. .. .. no Seeking .. .. .. .. .. ..112 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. THE RUSSIAN STUDENTS TALE. THE midnight sun with phantom glare Shone on the soundless thoroughfare Whose shuttered houses, closed and still, Seemed bodies without heart or will ; Yea, all the stony city lay Impassive in that phantom day, As amid livid wastes of sand The sphinxes of the desert stand. ***** And we, we two, turned night to day, As, whistling many a student's lay, We sped along each ghostly street, With girls whose lightly tripping feet DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Well matched our longer, stronger stride, In hurrying to the water-side. We took a boat ; each seized an oar, And put his will into each stroke, Until on either hand the shore Slipped backwards, as our voices woke Far echoes, mingling like a dream With swirl and tumult of the stream. On — on — away, beneath the ray Of midnight in the mask of day ; By great wharves where the masts at peace Look like the ocean's barren trees ; Past palaces and glimmering towers, And gardens fairy-like with flowers, And parks of twilight green and closes, The very Paradise of roses. The waters flow ; on, on we row, Now laughing loud, now whispering low ; And through the splendour of the white Electrically glowing night, THE RUSSIAN STUDENTS TALE. 5 Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell, Tumultuously there loudly rose Above the Neva's surge and swell, With amorous ecstasies and throes, And lyric spasms of wildest wail, The love-song of a nightingale. ***** I see her still beside me. Yea, As if it were but yesterday, I see her — see her as she smiled ; Her face that of a little child For innocent sweetness undefiled ; And that pathetic flower-like blue Of eyes which, as they looked at you, Seemed yet to stab your bosom through. I rowed, she steered ; oars dipped and flashed, The broadening river roared and splashed, So that we hardly seemed to hear Our comrades' voices, though so near ; Their faces seeming far away, DRAMAS IN MINI A TURE. As still beneath that phantom day I looked at her, she smiled at me ! And then we landed — I and she. * * * * * There's an old Cafe in the wood ; A students' haunt on summer eves, Round which responsive poplar leaves Quiver to each aeolian mood Like some wild harp a poet smites On visionary summer nights. I ordered supper, took a room Green-curtained by the tremulous gloom Of those fraternal poplar trees Shaking together in the breeze ; My pulse, too, like a poplar tree, Shook wildly as she smiled at me. Eye in eye, and hand in hand, Awake amid the slumberous land, I told her all my love that night — How I had loved her at first sight ; THE RUSSIAN STUDENTS TALE. How I was hers, and seemed to be Her own to all eternity. And through the splendour of the white Electrically glowing night, Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell, Tumultuously there loudly rose Above the Neva's surge and swell, With amorous ecstasies and throes, And lyric spasms of wildest wail, The love-song of a nightingale. ***** I see her still beside me. Yea, As if it were but yesterday, I hear her tell with cheek aflame Her ineradicable shame — So sweet a flower in such vile hands ! Oh, loved and lost beyond recall ! Like one who hardly understands, I heard the story of her fall. The odious barter of her youth, DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Of beauty, innocence, and truth, Of all that honest women hold Most sacred — for the sake of gold. A weary seampstress, half a child, Left unprotected in the street, Where, when so hungry, you would meet All sorts of tempters that beguiled. Oh, infamous and senseless clods, Basely to taint so pure a heart, And make a maid fit for the gods A creature of the common mart ! She spoke quite simply of things vile — Of devils with an angel's face ; It seemed the sunshine of her smile Must purify the foulest place. She told me all — she would be true — Told me of things too sad, too bad ; And, looking in her eyes' clear blue My passion nearly drove me mad ! I tried to speak, but tried in vain ; THE RUSSIAN STUDENTS TALE. A sob rose to my throat as dry- As ashes — for between us twain A murdered virgin seemed to lie. And through the splendour of the white Electrically glowing night, Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell, Tumultuously there loudly rose Above the Neva's surge and swell, With amorous ecstasies and throes, And lyric spasms of wildest wail, The love-song of a nightingale. ***** Poor craven creature ! What was I, To sit in judgment on her life, Who dared not make this child my wife, And lift her up to love's own sky? This poor lost child we all — yes, all — Had helped to hurry to her fall, Making a social leper of God's creature consecrate to love. DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. I looked at her — she smiled no more ; She understood it all before A syllable had passed my lips ; And like a horrible eclipse, Which blots the sunlight from the skies, A blankness overspread her eyes — The blankness as of one who dies. I knew how much she loved me — knew How pure and passionately true Her love for me, which made her tell What scorched her like the flames of hell. And I, I loved her too, so much, So dearly, that I dared not touch Her lips that had been kissed in sin ; But with a reverential thrill I took her work-worn hand and thin, And kissed her fingers, showing still Where needle-pricks had marred the skin. And, ere I knew, a hot tear fell, Scalding the place which I had kissed, THE RUSSIAN STUDENTS TALE. n As between clenching teeth I hissed Our irretrievable farewell. And through the smouldering glow of night, Mixed with the shining morning light Wind-wafted from some perfumed dell, Above the Neva's surge and swell, With lyric spasms, as from a throat Which dying breathes a faltering note, There faded o'er the silent vale The last sob of a nightingale. 12 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. THE MYSTICS VISION. Ah ! I shall kill myself with dreams ! These dreams that softly lap me round Through trance-like hours, in which, meseems, That I am swallowed up and drowned ; Drowned in your love which flows o'er me As o'er the seaweed flows the sea. II. In watches of the middle night, 'Twixt vesper and 'twixt matin bell, With rigid arms and straining sight, I wait within my narrow cell ; With muttered prayers, suspended will, I wait your advent — statue-still. THE MYSTICS VISION. 13 III. Across the Convent garden walls The wind blows from the silver seas ; Black shadow of the cypress falls Between the moon-meshed olive trees ; Sleep-walking from their golden bowers, Flit disembodied orange flowers. IV. And in God's consecrated- house, All motionless from head to feet, My heart awaits her heavenly Spouse, As white I lie on my white sheet ; With body lulled and soul awake, I watch in anguish for your sake. V. And suddenly, across the gloom, The naked moonlight sharply swings ; H DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. A Presence stirs within the room, A breath of flowers and hovering wings Your Presence without form and void, Beyond all earthly joys enjoyed. VI. My heart is hushed, my tongue is mute, My life is centred in your will ; You play upon me like a lute Which answers to its master's skill, Till passionately vibrating, Each nerve becomes a throbbing string. VII. Oh, incommunicably sweet ! No longer aching and apart, As rain upon the tender wheat, You pour upon my thirsty heart ; As scent is bound up in the rose, Your love within my bosom glows. THE MYSTIC'S VISION. 15 VIII. Unseen, untouched, unheard, unknown, You take possession of your bride ; I lose myself to live alone In you, who once were crucified For me, that now would die in you, As in the sun a drop of dew. IX. Fish may not perish in the deep, Nor sparrows fall through yielding air, Pure gold in hottest flame will keep ; How should I fail and falter where You are, O Lord, in whose control For ever lies my living soul ? x. Ay, break through every wall of sense, And pierce my flesh as nails did pierce i6 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Your bleeding limbs in anguish tense, And torture me with bliss so fierce, That self dies out, as die it must, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. XI. Thus let me die, so loved and lost, Annihilated in my dreams ! Nor force me, an unwilling ghost, To face the loud day's brutal beams ; The noisy world's inanities, All vanity of vanities. '7 THE MESSAGE. FROM side to side the sufferer tossed With quick impatient sighs ; Her face was bitten as by frost, The look as of one hunted crossed The fever of her eyes. All seared she seemed with life and woe, Yet scarcely could have told More than a score of springs or so ; Her hair had girlhood's morning glow, And yet her mouth looked old. Not long for her the sun would rise, Nor that young slip of moon, C 1 3 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Wading through London's smoky skies, Would dwindling meet those dwindling eyes, Ere May was merged in June. May was it somewhere ? Who, alas ! Could fancy it was May ? For here, instead of meadow grass, You saw, through naked panes of glass, Bare walls of whitish gray. Instead of songs, where in the quick Leaves hide the blackbirds' nests, You heard the moaning of the sick, And tortured breathings harsh and thick Drawn from their labouring chests. She muttered, " What's the odds to me ? " With an old cynic's sneer ; And looking up, cried mockingly, " I hate you, nurse ! Why, can't you see You'll make no convert here?" THE MESSAGE. 19 And then she shook her fist at Heaven, And broke into a laugh ! Yes, though her sins were seven times seven, Let others pray to be forgiven — She scorned such canting chaff. Oh, it was dreadful, sir ! Far worse In one so young and fair ; Sometimes she'd scoff and swear and curse ; Call me bad names, and vow each nurse A fool for being there. And then she'd fall back on her bed, And many a weary hour Would lie as rigid as one dead ; Her white throat with the golden head Like some torn lily flower. We could do nothing, one and all How much we might beseech ; 20 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Her girlish blood had turned to gall : Far lower than her body's fall Her soul had sunk from reach. Her soul had sunk into a slough Of evil past repair. The world had been against her ; now Nothing in heaven or earth should bow Her stubborn knees in prayer. Yet I felt sorry all the same, And sometimes, when she slept, With head and hands as hot as flame, I watched beside her, half in shame, Smoothed her bright hair and wept. To die like this — 'twas awful, sir ! To know I prayed in vain ; And hear her mock me, and aver That if her life came back to her She'd live her life again. THE MESSAGE. 2 Was she a wicked girl ? What then ? She didn't care a pin ! She was not worse than all those men Who looked so shocked in public, when They made and shared her sin. " Shut up, nurse, do ! Your sermons pall ; Why can't you let me be ? Instead of worrying o'er my fall, I wish, just wish, you sisters all Turned to the likes of me." I shuddered ! I could bear no more, And left her to her fate ; She was too cankered at the core ; Her heart was like a bolted door, Where Love had knocked too late. I left her in her savage spleen, And hoarsely heard her shout, 22 DRAMAS IN MINI A TURE. " What does the cursed sunlight mean By shining in upon this scene ? Oh, shut the sunlight out ! " Sighing, I went my round once more, Full heavy for her sin ; Just as Big Ben was striking four, The sun streamed through the open door, As a young girl came in. She held a basket full of flowers — Cowslip and columbine ; A lilac bunch from rustic bowers, Strong-scented after morning showers, Smelt like some cordial wine. There, too, peeped Robin-in-the-hedge, There daisies pearled with dew, Wild parsley from the meadow's edge, Sweet-william and the purple vetch, And hyacinth's heavenly blue. THE MESSAGE. 23 But best of all the spring's array, Green boughs of milk-white thorn ; Their petals on each perfumed spray- Looked like the wedding gift of May . On nature's marriage morn. And she who bore those gifts of grace To our poor patients there, Passed like a sunbeam through the place : Dull eyes grew brighter for her face, Angelically fair. She went the round with elf-like tread, And with kind words of cheer, Soothing as balm of Gilead, Laid wild flowers on each patient's bed, And made the flowers more dear. At last she came where Nellie Dean Still moaned and tossed about — 24 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. " What does the cursed sunlight mean By shining in upon this scene ? Will no one shut it out ? " And then she swore with rage and pain, And moaning tried to rise ; It seemed her ugly words must stain The child who stood with heart astrain, And large blue listening eyes. Her fair face did not blush or bleach, She did not shrink away ; Alas! she was beyond the reach Of sweet or bitter human speech — Deaf as the flowers of May. Only her listening eyes could hear That hardening in despair, Which made that other girl, so near In age to her, a thing to fear Like fever-tainted air. THE MESSAGE. 25 She took green boughs of milk-white thorn And laid them on the sheet, Whispering appealingly, " Don't scorn My flowers ! I think, when one's forlorn, They're like a message, Sweet." How heavenly fresh those blossoms smelt, Like showers on thirsty ground ! The sick girl frowned as if repelled, And with hot hands began to pelt And fling them all around. But then some influence seemed to stay Her hands with calm control ; Her stormy passion cleared away, The perfume of the breath of May Had passed into her soul. A nerve of memory had been thrilled, And, pushing back her hair, 26 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. She stretched out hungry arms half filled With flower and leaf, and panting shrilled, " Where are you, mother, where ? " And then her eyes shone darkly bright Through childhood in a mist, As if she suddenly caught sight Of some one hidden in the light And waited to be kissed. " Oh, mother dear ! " we heard her moan, " Have you not gone away ? I dreamed, dear mother, you had gone, And left me in the world alone, In the wild world astray. " It was a dream ; I'm home again ! I hear the ivy-leaves Tap-tapping on the leaded pane ! Oh, listen ! how the laughing rain Runs from our cottage eaves ! THE MESSAGE. 27 " How very sweet the things do smell ! How bright our pewter shines ! I am at home ; I feel so well : I think I hear the evening bell Above our nodding pines. " The firelight glows upon the brick, And pales the rising moon ; And when your needles flash and click, My heart, my heart, that felt so sick, Throbs like a hive in June. " If only father would not stay And gossip o'er his brew ; Then, reeling homewards, lose his way, Come staggering in at break of day And beat you black and blue ! " Yet he can be as good as gold, When mindful of the farm, 28 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. He tills the field and tends the fold : But never fear ; when I'm grown old I'll keep him out of harm. " And then we'll be as happy here As kings upon their throne ! I dreamed you'd left me, mother dear ; That you lay dead this many a year Beneath the churchyard stone. " Mother, I sought you far and wide, And ever in my dream, Just out of reach you seemed to hide ; I ran along the streets and cried, ' Where are you, mother, where ? ' " Through never-ending streets in fear I ran and ran forlorn ; And through the twilight yellow-drear I saw blurred masks of loafers leer, And point at me in scorn. THE MESSAGE. v 9 " How tired, how deadly tired, I got ; I ached through all my bones ! The lamplight grew one quivering blot, And like one rooted to the spot, I dropped upon the stones. " A hard bed make the stones and cold, The mist a wet, wet sheet ; And in the mud, like molten gold, The snaky lamplight blinking rolled Like guineas at my feet. " Surely there were no mothers when A voice hissed in my ear, ' A sovereign ! Quick ! Come on ! ' — and then A knowing leer ! There were but men, And not a creature near. " I went — I could not help it. Oh, I didn't want to die ! 30 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. With now a kiss and now a blow, Strange men would come, strange men would go ; I didn't care — not I. " Sometimes my life was like a tale Read in a story-book ; Our blazing nights turned daylight pale, Champagne would fizz like ginger-ale, Red wine flow like a brook. " Then like a vane my dream would veer : I walked the street again ; And through the twilight yellow-drear Blurred clouds of faces seemed to peer, And drift across the rain." She started with a piercing scream And wildly rolling eye : " Ah me ! it was no evil dream To pass with the first market-team — That thing of shame am I. THE MESSAGE. 31 " Where were you that you could not come ? Were you so far above — Far as the moon above a slum ? Yet, mother, you were all the sum I had of human love. " Ah yes ! you've sent this branch of May, A fair light from the past. The town is dark — I went astray. Forgive me, mother ! Lead the way ; I'm going home at last." In eager haste she tried to rise, And struggled up in bed, With luminous, transfigured eyes, As if they glassed the opening skies, Fell back, sir, and was dead. 32 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. A MOTHERS DREAM. i. The snow was falling thick and fast On Christmas Eve ; Across the heath the distant blast Wailed wildly like a soul in grief, A waste soul or a windy leaf Whirled round and round without reprieve, And lost at last. II. Lisa woke shivering from her sleep At break of day, And felt her flesh begin to creep. A MOTHER'S DREAM. 33 " My child, my child ! " she cried ; " now may Our blessed Lord, whose hand doth stay The wild-fowl on their trackless way, Thee guard and keep." ill. " Dreams ! dreams ! " she to herself did say, And shook with fright. " I saw her plainly where I lay Fly past me like a flash of light ; Fly out into the wintry night, Out in the snow as snowy white, Far, far away. IV. " Her cage hung empty just above Your chair, ma mie ; Empty as is my heart of love D 34 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Since you, my child, dwell far from me — Dwell in the convent over sea ; All of you left to love Marie, Your darling dove." Hark to that fond, familiar coo ! Oh, joy untold ! It falls upon her heart like dew. There safely perching as of old, The dove is calling through the cold And ghastly dawn o'er wood and wold, " Coo-whoo ! Coo-whoo ! " VI. The snow fell softly, flake by flake, This Christmas Day, And whitened every bush and brake ; A MOTHER'S DREAM. 35 And o'er the hills so ashen gray The wind was wailing far away, Was wailing like a child astray Whose heart must break. VII. "I miss my child," she wailed ; " I miss Her everywhere ! That's why I have such dreams as this. I miss her step upon the stair, I miss her laughter in the air, I miss her bonnie face and hair, And oh — her kiss ! - VIII. " Christmas ! Last Christmas, oh how fleet, With lark-like trill, She danced about on fairy feet ! 36 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Her eyes clear as a mountain rill, Where the blue sky is lingering still ; Her rosebud lips the dove would bill For something sweet. IX. " My dove ! my dear ! my undefiled ! Oh, heavy doom ! My life has left me with the child. She was a sunbeam in my room, She was a rainbow on the gloom, She was the wild rose on a tomb Where weeds run wild. x. " And yet — 'tis better thus ! Tis best, They tell me so. Yes, though my heart is like a nest, A MOTHER'S DREAM. 37 Whence all the little birds did go — An empty nest that's full of snow — Let me take all the wail and woe, So she be blest XI. " Let me take all the sin and shame, And weep for two, That she may bear no breath of blame. ' Sin — sin ! ' they say ; what sin had you, Pure as the dawn upon the dew? Child — robbed of a child's rightful due, Her father's name. XII. " I gave her life to live forlorn ! Oh, let that day Be darkness wherein I was born ! 38 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Let not God light it, let no ray Shine on it ; let it turn away Its face, because my sin must weigh Her down with shame. XIII. " I ? I ? Was I the sinner ? I, Not he, they say, Who told me, looking eye in eye, We'd wed far North where grand and gray His fair ancestral castle lay, Amid the woods of Darnaway — And told a lie. XIV. " But I was young ; and in my youth I simply thought That English gentlemen spoke truth, A MOTHER'S DREAM. 39 Even. to a Norman maid, who wrought The blush-rose shells the tide had brought To fairy toys which children bought Before my booth. XV. " ' Those fairy fingers/ he would say, ' With shell-pink nails, Shall shame the pearls of Darnaway ! ' And in his yacht with swelling sails We flew before the favouring gales, Where leagues on leagues his woods and vales Stretched dim and gray. XVI. " Grim rose his castle o'er the wood ; Its hoary halls Frowned o'er the Findhorn's roaring flood ; 40 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Where, winged with spray and water-galls, The headlong torrent leaps and falls In thunder through its tunnelled walls, Streaked as with blood." XVII. It all came back in one wild flash Of cruel light, And memory smote her like a lash : — The foolish trust, the fond delight, The helpless rage, the fevered flight, The feet that dragged on through the night, The torrent's splash. XVIII. The long, long sickness bred of lies And lost belief; The short, sharp pangs and shuddering sighs ; A MOTHER'S DREAM. 41 The new-born babe, that in her grief Bore her wrecked spirit such relief As the dove-carried olive-leaf To Noah's eyes. XIX. It all came back, and lit her soul With lurid flame ; How she — she — she — from whom he stole Her virgin love and honest name — Must, for the ailing child's sake, tame Her pride, and take — oh, shame of shame ! — His lordship's dole. XX. Like one whom grief hath driven wild, She cried again, " My snowdrop shall not be defiled, 42 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Nor catch the faintest soil or stain, Reared in the shadow of my pain ! How should a guilty mother train A guiltless child ? XXI. " You shall be spotless, you ! " said she, " Whate'er my woe ; Even as the snow on yonder lea. You shall be spotless ! " Faint and low, The wind in dying seemed to blow, To breathe across the hills of snow, "Marie! Marie!" XXII. A voice was calling far away, O'er fields and fords, Across the Channel veiled and gray ; A MOTHER'S DREAM. 43 A voice was calling without words, Touching her nature's deepest chords ; Drawing her, drawing her as with cords — She might not stay. XXIII. Uprose the sun and still and round, Shorn of his heat, Glared bloodshot o'er the frosty ground, As down the shuttered village street Fast, fast walked Lisa, and her feet Left black tracks in earth's winding-sheet And made no sound. XXIV. Then on, on, by the iron way — With whistling scream — Piercing hard rocks like potter's clay, 4* DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. She flashed as in a shifting dream Through flying town, o'er flowing stream, Borne on by mighty wings of steam, Away, away. XXV. A sound of wind, and in the air The sea-gull's screech, And waves lap-lapping everywhere ; A rush of ropes and volleyed speech, And white cliffs sinking out of reach, Then rising on the rival beach, Boulogne-sur-Mer. XXVI. Above the ramparts on the hill, Whence like a chart It saw the low land spreading chill, A MOTHER'S DREAM. 45 Within its cloistered walls apart The Convent of the Sacred Heart Rose o'er the noise of street and mart, Serenely still. XXVII. Above the unquiet sea it rose, A quiet nest, Severed from earthly wants and woes. There might the weary find his rest ; There might the pilgrim cease his quest ; There might the soul with guilt oppressed Implore repose. XXVIII. The day was done, the sun dropped low Behind the mill That swung within its blood-red glow ; 46 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. And up the street and up the hill Lisa walked fast and faster still, Her sable shadow lengthening chill Across the snow. XXIX. Hark ! heavenly clear, with holy swell, She hears elate The greeting of the vesper bell, And, knocking at the convent gate, Sighs, " Here she prays God early and late ; Walled in from love, walled in from hate ; All's well ! All's well ! " XXX. A sweat broke from her every pore, And yet she smiled, As, stumbling through the clanging door, A MOTHER'S DREAM. 47 She faced a nun of aspect mild. Like some starved wolfs her eyes gleamed wild : " My child ! " she gasped ; " I want my child." And nothing more. XXXI. The nun looked at her, shocked to see The violent sway Of love's unbridled agony ; And calmly queried on the way, " Your child, Madame ? What child, I pray ? " Still, still the mother could but say, " Marie ! Marie ! " XXXII. The nun in silence bowed her head, And then aloud, " Christ Jesus knows our needs," she said. 48 DRAMAS IN MINI A TURE. " Madame, far from the sinful crowd, The maiden to the Lord you vowed ; There is no safeguard like a shroud — Your child is dead. XXXIII. " Upon the night Christ saw the light She passed away, As snow will when the sun shines bright. We heard her moaning where she lay, 1 Come, mother, come, while yet you may ; ' Then like a dove, at break of day, Her soul took flight." XXXIV. As from a blow the mother fell, No moan made she ; They bore her to the little cell : A MOTHER'S DREAM. 49 There in her coffin lay Marie, Spotless as snow upon the lea, Beautiful exceedingly : All's well ! All's well ! 5o DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. A CARNIVAL EPISODE. NICE, '87. We two there together alone in the night, Where its shadow unconsciously bound us ; My beautiful lady all shrouded in white, She and I looking down from the balcony's height On the maskers below in the flickering light, As they revelled and rioted round us. II. Such a rush, such a rage, and a rapture of life Such shouts of delight and of laughter, A CARNIVAL EPISODE. 51 On the quays that I watched with the General's wife ; Such a merry-go-reeling of figures was rife, Turning round to the tune of gay fiddle and fife, As if never a morning came after. III. The houses had emptied themselves in the streets, Where the maskers bombarded each other With a shower of confetti and hailstorm of sweets Till the pavements were turning the colour of sheets ; Where a prince will crack jokes with a pauper he meets, For the time like a man and a brother. IV. The Carnival frolic was now at its height ; The whole population in motion 52 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Stood watching the swift constellations of light That crackling flashed up on their arrowy flight, Then spreading their fairy-like fires on the night, Fell in luminous rain on the ocean. v. And now and again the quick dazzle would flare, Glowing red on black masks and white dresses. We two there together drew back from the glare ; Drew in to the room, and her hood unaware Fell back from the plaits of her opulent hair, That uncoiled the brown snakes of its tresses. VI. How fatally fair was my lady, my queen, As that wild light fell round her in flashes ; How fatally fair with that mutinous mien, And those velvety hands all alive with the sheen Of her rings, and her eyes that were narrowed between Heavy lids darkly laced with long lashes ! A CARNIVAL EPISODE. 53 VII. Almost I hated her beauty ! The air I was breathing seemed steeped in her presence. How maddening that waltz was ! Ah, how came I there Alone with that woman so fatally fair, With the scent of her garments, the smell of her hair, Passing into my blood like an essence ? VIII. Her eyes seemed to pluck at the roots of my heart, And to put all my blood in a fever ; My soul was on fire, my veins seemed to start, To hold her, to fold her but once to my heart, I'd have willingly bared my broad chest to the dart, And been killed, ay, and damned too for ever. 54 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. IX. I forgot, I forgot ! — oh, disloyal, abhorred, With the spell of her eyes on my eyes — That her husband, the man of all men I adored, Might be fighting for us at the point of the sword ; Might be killing or killed by an African horde, Afar beneath African skies. x. I forgot — nay, I cared not ! What cared I to-night For aught but my lady, my love, As she toyed with her mask in the flickering light, Then suddenly dropped it, perchance, at the sight Of my passion now reaching its uttermost height, As a tide with the full moon above ! XL Yet I knew, though I loved her so madly, I knew She was only just playing her game. A CARNIVAL EPISODE. 55 She would toy with my heart all the Carnival through ; She would turn to a traitor a man who was true ; She would drain him of love and then break him in two, And wash her white hands of his shame. XII. Yet beware, O my beautiful lady, beware ! You must cure me of love or else kill. That fire burns longest that's slowest to flare : My love is a force that will force you to care ; Nay, I'll strangle us both in the ropes of your hair Should you dream you can drop me at will. XIII. And then — how I know not — delirious delight ! Her lips were pressed close upon mine ; 56 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. My arms clung about her as when in affright Wrecked men cling to spars in a tempest at night ; So madly I clung to her, crushed her with might To my heart which her heart made divine. XIV. Oh, merciful Heavens ! What drove us apart With a shudder of sundering lives ? Oh, was it the throb of my passionate heart That made the doors tremble, the windows to start ; Or was it my lady just playing her part, Most indignant, most outraged of wives ? XV. She was white as the chalk in the streets — was she fain To turn on me now with a sneer ? A CARNIVAL EPISODE. 57 All the blood in my body surged up to my brain, And my heart seemed half bursting with passion and pain, As I seized her slim hands — but I dropped them again ! Ah ! treason is mother to fear. XVI. Had it come upon us at that magical hour, The judgment of God the Most High ? The floor 'gan to heave and the ceiling to lower, The dead walls to start with malevolent power, Till your hair seemed to rise and your spirit to cower, As the very stones shook with a sigh. XVII. " With you in my arms let the world crack asunder ; Let us die, love, together ! " I cried. 58 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Then, then with a clatter and boom as of thunder, A beam crashed between us and drove us asunder, And all things rocked round us, above us and under, Like a boat that is rocked on a tide. xvur. She sprang like a greyhound — no greyhound more fleet— And ran down the staircase in motion ; And blindly I followed her into the street, All choked up with people in panic retreat From the houses that scattered their plaster like sleet On the crowd in bewildered commotion. XIX. Black masks and white dominoes, hale men and dying, Scared women that shook as with fever A CARNIVAL EPISODE. 59 Poor babes in their bedgowns all piteously crying, Tiles hurled from the housetops — all flying, all flying, As I, wild with passion, implored her with sighing To fly with me now and for ever. XX. " Go, go ! " and she waved me away as she spoke, Carried on by the crowd like a feather ; " You forget that it was but a Carnival joke. Now blest be the terrible earthquake that broke In between you and me, and has saved at a stroke Us two in the night there together." 6o DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. The battle raged, no blood was spilled, Though missiles flew in showers ; Hard though they hit, they never killed Or maimed the merry throwers : Or if they killed, those winged darts, They killed but unprotected hearts ; For flowers from flower-like hands can slay Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! II. Like humming-birds upon the breeze So swiftly shot the posies ; Glory of red anemones, Pink buds of curled-up roses, THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. 61 Lilacs and lilies of the vale ; Yea, every flower that scents the gale Yielded up incense to its day, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! III. How gallantly along the course, Stepping with conscious glances, Each flower-decked, gaily harnessed horse, In rank and file advances ! Even as green boughs and daisy-chains Enwreathe their bits and bridle-reins, Bright pleasure hides black grief away Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! IV. The people humming like a hive, Swarm closely pressed together, To watch high fashion's crowded drive With flirt of fan and feather ; 62 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. And nosegays thrown up high in air, Now hitting gray, now golden hair, Now deftly caught upon their way, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! V. And past the eager jostling crowd, Watching their guests from far lands, Gigs flash by in a violet cloud, And drags with rose-red garlands ; There meet crowned heads from many zones, And princes who have lost their thrones, With gifts from Ind and far Cathay, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! VI. Ah, who shall bear away the prize In this bewitching battle, Where shafts are hurled from brightest eyes, And Cupid's arrows rattle ; THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. 63 In that fair fight where flowers alone By fairer flowers are overthrown ? Who shall be victor in this fray ? Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! VII. And people bet with buzz of tongue As the gay pageant passes ; Now runs a murmur through the throng And stirs the thrilling masses. All heads are turned, all necks astrain, As through the thickening floral rain, " Look ! look ! She comes ! " you hear them say — Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! VIII. No turn-out in that festive throng Is half so bright and airy ; Your cream-white ponies prance along As if they drew a fairy ; 64 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. They step along with heads held high, And favours blue to match the sky : They know theirs is the winning way, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! IX. A queen in exile might you be, Or leader of the fashion ? Some Jenny Lind from over sea Melting all hearts with passion ? Some tragic Muse whose mighty spell Unlocks the gates of heaven and hell ? What sceptre is it that you sway ? Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! X. All by yourself in spotless white, You sit there in your glory ; Your black eyes scintillate with light — Eyes that may hide a story. THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. 65 In spotless white with ribbons blue, You look fresh from a bath of dew That sparkles in the rising day, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XI. Triumphant — without shame or fear — You air a thousand graces ; Though women turn when you appear With cold, averted faces ; Though men at sight of you will stop, As if they looked into a shop ; Shall both for this not doubly pay ? Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XII. And with a smile upon your lips, Perhaps a shade too rosy, You shake two dainty finger-tips And lightly fling a posy : F 66 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. So might a high-born dame perchance, In days of tourneys and romance, Have flung her glove into the fray, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XIII. As with that little careless sign You fling your bouquet lightly, Three graybeards, flushing as with wine, Lift hats and bow politely ; And one, the grandest of the three, Stoops low with stiff, rheumatic knee ; Out of the dust he picks your spray, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XIV. His coat is all ablaze with stars For deeds of martial daring ; His name, a watchword in the wars, Kept soldiers from despairing. THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. 67 Now see beside his orders rare Your mignonette and maidenhair ; With just a nod you turn away, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XV. You turn to meet the wintry face Of an old beggar-woman, Just there beyond the railed-in space, Brown, bony, hardly human ; Who in her tatters seems at least The skeleton of Egypt's feast ; A ghastly emblem of decay, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XVI. With palsied head and shaking hand, As if it were December, Grim by the barrier see her stand, Just mumbling a " Remember ! 68 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Remember in thy days of lust, That fairest flesh must come to dust ; Then have some pity while you may," Jeanne Ray! Jeanne Ray! XVII. Why do you shiver at her glance, As if the wind blew chilly ? Why does your rosy countenance Turn pale as any lily ? The sun is warm, the sky is bright, The sea dissolving into light Breaks into blossom-bells of spray ; Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XVIII. Ah, could some instinct in your breast Reveal that beggar's story, Would not your gay life lose its zest, Your empire lose its glory ? THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS. 69 Or would you only care to waste Life's bounty in yet hotter haste ? For is the world not beauty's prey ? Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XIX. Alighting at the beggar's feet, A bright Napoleon flashes ! Then gaily through the dust and heat Your light Victoria dashes. Again your face is rosy clear, As with a loud and ringing cheer They hail you winner of the day, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XX. And gloriously at set of sun, In triumph now departing, The golden prize your flowers have won Leaves rival bosoms smarting. 70 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. How many deem you half divine, Where amid bouquets you recline — Proud beauty in the devil's pay, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! XXI. Down, down beneath the rolling wheels, The flowers, so fresh this morning, Lie trampled under careless heels, Vile stuff for all men's scorning. The roses crushed, the lilies soiled, The violets of their sweets despoiled, In dusty heaps defile your way, Jeanne Ray ! Jeanne Ray ! 71 THE SONG OF THE WILLI. According to a widespread Hungarian superstition — showing the ingrained national passion for dancing — the Willi or Willis were the spirits of young affianced girls who, dying before marriage, could not rest in their graves. It was popularly believed that these phantoms would nightly haunt lonely heaths in the neighbour- hood of their native villages till the disconsolate lovers came as if drawn by a magnetic charm. On their appearance the Willi would dance with them without intermission till they dropped dead from exhaustion. I. The wild wind is whistling o'er moorland and heather, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather, Heigh-ho ! My bed is deep down in the brown sullen mould, My head is laid low on the clod ; So wormy the sheets, and the pillow so cold, Of clammy and moist clinging sod. 72 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. II. The lone livid moon rides alone high in heaven, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! The stars' cutting glitter their dull shrouds hath riven, Heigh-ho ! I rise and I glide out far into the night, A shadow so swift and so still ; Bleak, bleak is the moonshine all ghastly and white, The dank morass drinketh its fill. III. And down in yon valley in wan vapour shrinking, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! The bare moated town cowers fitfully blinking, Heigh-ho ! There, warm under shelter, the fire burning bright, My lover sleeps sound in his bed ; THE SONG OF THE WILLI. 73 But I flit alone in the pitiless night, Unpitied, unloved, and unwed. IV. And hast thou forgotten the deep troth we plighted ? Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! Too warm was thy love by cold death to be blighted, Heigh-ho ! My sweetheart ! and mind'st thou that this is the night, The night that we should have been wed ? And while I flit restless, a low wailing sprite, Ah, say, canst thou sleep in thy bed ? V. A week, but a week, and a wreath of gay flowers, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 74 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. I wore as I vied with the fleet-footed hours, Heigh-ho ! As I vied with the hours in dancing them down Till the stars reeled low in the sky, And sweet came thy whispers as rose-leaves when blown About in the breeze of July. VI. " Thou'rt light, O my chosen ; a bird is not lighter, O love, my love ! I'd dance into death with thee ; death would be brighter, My love ! " And they struck up a wild and a wonderful measure ; Quick, quick beat our hearts to the tune ; Quick, quick the feet flew in a frenzy of pleasure, To the sound of the fife and bassoon. THE SONG OF THE WILLI. 75 VII. On, on whirled the pairs on the swift music driven, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! Like gossamer vapours afloat in high heaven, Heigh-ho ! Like gossamer vapours, in silence they fled, With a shifting of face into face ; But fleeter than all the fleet dancers we sped In the rush of the rapturous race. VIII. How often turned Wanda, the slim, lily-throated, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! And gazed at us wistful as onward we floated, Heigh-ho! And Bilba, the swarthy, whose eyes had the trick Of a stag's, with a glitter of steel ; She lifted her lashes, so long and so thick, To stare at my true love and leal. 76 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. IX. But he, he saw none o' them, brown-faced or rosy, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! Tho' maidens bloomed bright like a fresh-gathered posy, Heigh-ho ! For his eyes that shone black as the sloes of the hedges, They shone like two stars over me ; And his breath, thrilling o'er me as wind over sedges, Stirred my hair till I tingled with glee. X. Now slow as two down-bosomed swans, we were sliding, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! O'er the low heaving swell of the silver sounds gliding, Heigh-ho ! THE SONG OF THE WILLI. 77 Now hollowly booming drums rumbled apace, Flashed sharp clatt'ring cymbals around, And swung like loose leaves in a stormy embrace We whirled in a tumult of sound. XL But pallid our cheeks grew, late flushing with pleasure, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! As slowly away swooned the languishing measure, Heigh-ho ! For shrill crew the cock as the sun 'gan to rise, And it rang from afar like a knell ; Our kisses grew bitter and sweet grew our sighs, As sadly we murmured, " Farewell ! " XII. High up in the chambers the maidens together, O love, my love ! 78 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Were piling bleached linen as white as swan's feather My love ! Were weaving and spinning and singing aloud, While broidering my bride-veil of lace ; But the three fatal sisters they wove me my shroud, And death kissed me cold on the face. XIII. The wild wind is whistling o'er moorland and heather, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! I rise from my bed, and my bed has no feather, Heigh-ho ! The snow driveth grisly and ghostly, and gleams In the glare of the moon's chilly glance ; What pale flitting phantoms aroused by her beams, Are circling in shadowy dance ! THE SONG OF THE WILLI. 79 XIV. Mayhap ye were maidens death plucked in your flower, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! As clustering you glowed in love's murmuring bower, Heigh-ho ! Who, delirious for life from the gloom of your graves, Are driven to wander with me, And you rise from your tombs like the white- crested waves From the depths of the dolorous sea. XV. Ah, maidens, pale maidens, o'er moorland and heather, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! The bridegroom is coming athwart the wild weather, Heigh-ho ! 80 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. Full shines the fair moon on his beautiful face, He walketh like one in a trance ; Nay, is running like one who is running a race Against death, with his dead bride to dance. XVI. At the sound of thy footfall my numb heart is shaken, O love, my love ! Once again all its pulses to new life awaken, My love ! It leaps like a stag that is borne as on wings To the brooks thawing thick through the noon, Like a lark from the glebe, like a lily that springs From its bier to the bosom of June. XVII. " I hold thee, I hold thee, I drink thy caresses, O love, my love ! " THE SONG OF THE WILLI. 8r Round thy face, round thy throat, I roll my dank tresses, My love ! " I hold thee, I hold thee ! Eight nights, wan and weeping," I wandered loud sobbing thy name ! " Thy lips are as cold as the snowdrift a-sweeping ; " But thy breath soon shall fan them to flame ! XVIII. Blow up for the dance now o'er moorland and heather! Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! Blow, blow you wild winds, while we two dance together, Heigh-ho ! Till the clouds dance above with tempestuous embraces Of maidenly moonbeams in flight ; In the silvery rear of whose fugitive traces Reel the stars through the revelling night ! G 82 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. XIX. " Cocks crow, and the breath on thy sweet lip is failing, O love, my love ! " Stars swoon, and the flame in thy dark eye is quailing, My love! " Oh, brighter the night than the fires of the day" When thine eyes shine as stars over me ! " Oh, sweeter thy grave than the soft breath of May ! " Then down, Love, to death, but with thee. 83 SCHERZO. Oh, beloved, come and bring All the flowery wealth of spring ! Though the leaf be in the sere, Icy winter creeping near ; Though the trees like mourners all Standing at a funeral, Black against the pallid air Toss their wild arms in despair, With their bald heads sadly bowed O'er dead summer in her shroud. Yea, though golden days be o'er, If you enter at my door, Spring, dear spring, will come once more. There will break upon the night 84 DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. That glad flash of dewy light Which, like young love in a pet, Once with sunny tears would wet Many a wild-wood violet ; And the hyacinth will arise In the April of your eyes. Blossoms of the apple tree ? Rarer blossoms bloom for me In the cunning white and red, Most felicitously wed, On your cheek. And then your brow — Can a snow-white cherry-bough Match its bland, unsullied hue, Where, like threads of silky blue, Little veins show here and there Through broad temples where your hair, Clustering, hangs a tender brown Softer than the fluffy down Which before the leaf in March Beards the lime tree and the larch ? SCHERZO. 85 Shall I grieve because the rose, The red rose, no longer blows, Since all roses you eclipse With the roses of your lips ? And what matter, O my sweet, Though the genial light and heat Have departed for a while ! Only let me see you smile, Let me see that dulcet curve Like a dimpling wavelet swerve Round the coral of your mouth, And the North will change to South : To the happy South, whose clear Light o'er-brimming atmosphere, Flowing in at every pore, Sets life glowing to the core. You are light and life in sooth, Fair as was that Grecian youth Who in her cold sphere above Drove poor Dian mad with love — 86 DRAMAS IN MI NT A TURE. When she saw him where he lay, White and golden like a spray Of tall jonquils whose intense Sweetness faints upon the sense ; When she saw him swathed in light, Couched on the aerial height Of hoar Latmos, hushed and warm ; While, to shield him from all harm, Like a woman's rounded arm, A fresh creeper wildly fair Twined around his throat and hair. And the goddess clean forgot Her fair fame without a blot, And untarnished reputation, Free from faintest imputation Of such frailties as the fair Dwellers in Elysian air Find recorded to their shame, Chronicled with date and name, In the annals of the skies. SCHERZO. 87 She forgot in her surprise, When her empyrean eyes Saw Endymion where he lay Slumbering, and she cast away Her immortal honour, clear As her own unclouded sphere, For the palpitating bliss Of a surreptitious kiss. Oh, beloved, come and bring All the flowery wealth of spring — All its blossoms, buds, and bells, And wind-coaxing violet smells — All its miracle of grace In the blossom of your face. LYRICS. 9i LOVES SOMNAMBULIST. LlKE some wild sleeper who alone at night Walks with unseeing eyes along a height, With death below and only stars above ; I, in broad daylight, walk as if in sleep, Along the edges of life's perilous steep, The lost somnambulist of love. I, in broad day, go walking in a dream, Led on in safety by the starry gleam Of thy blue eyes that hold my heart in thrall ; Let no one wake me rudely, lest one day, Startled to find how far I've gone astray, I dash my life out in my fall. 92 LYRICS. A MEETING. A TWILIGHT glow diffused on high Flushed all the autumn land beneath ; Like love that lights your azure eye, The pond's blue goblet on the heath Was brimful of the sky. We met by chance, and heaven's rich hue Leaped to your face in rosy flame ; Ah, is it possible you knew The wild delight that filled my frame As I caught sight of you ? A MEETING. 93 Ah, is it possible, my love, That your delight can equal mine ? Nay, then, the burning sky above Grows pale beside this bliss divine, And the deep glow thereof. 94 L YRICS. YOUR FACE. I TOOK your face into my dreams, It floated round me like a light ; Your beauty's consecrating beams Lay mirrored in my heart all night. As in a lonely mountain mere, Unvisited of any streams, Supremely bright and still and clear, The solitary moonlight gleams, Your face was shining in my dreams. 95 ONLY A SMILE. No butterfly whose frugal fare Is breath of heliotrope and clove, And other trifles light as air, Could live on less than doth my love. That childlike smile that comes and goes About your gracious lips and eyes, Hath all the sweetness of the rose, Which feeds the freckled butterflies. I feed my love on smiles, and yet Sometimes I ask, with tears of woe, How had it been if we had met, If you had met me long ago, L YRICS. Before the fast, defacing years Had made all ill that once was well ? Ah, then your smiling breeds such tears As Tantalus may weep in hell. 97 SOMETIMES I WONDER. Sometimes I wonder if you guess The deep impassioned tenderness Which overflows my heart ; The love I never dare confess ; Yet hard, yea, harder to repress Than tears too fain to start. Sometimes I ponder, O my sweet, The things I'll tell you when we meet ; But straightway at your sight My heart's blood oozes to my feet Like thawing waters in the heat, Confused with too much light. II 98 L YRICS. I hardly know, when you are near, If it is love, or joy, or fear Which fills my languid frame ; Enveloped in your atmosphere, My dark self seems to disappear, A moth entombed in flame. 99 MANY WILL LOVE YOU. MANY will love you ; you were made for love ; For the soft plumage of the unruffled dove Is not so soft as your caressing eyes. You will love many ; for the winds that veer Are not more prone to shift their compass, dear, Than your quick fancy flies. Many will love you ; but I may not, no ; Even though your smile sets all my life aglow, And at your fairness all my senses ache. You will love many ; but not me, my dear, Who have no gift to give you but a tear Sweet for your sweetness' sake. ioo LYRICS. A DREAM. Only a dream, a beautiful baseless dream ; Only a bright Flash from your eyes, a brief electrical gleam, Charged with delight. Only a waking, alone, in the moon's last gleam Fading from sight ; Only a flooding of tears that shudder and stream Fast through the night. lOI ROSE D AMOUR. I PLANTED a rose tree in my garden, In early days when the year was young ; I thought it would bear me roses, roses, While nights were dewy and days were long. It bore but once, and a white rose only — A lovely rose with petals of light ; Like the moon in heaven, supreme and lonely ; And the lightning struck it one summer night. io2 LYRICS. SONNET. EVEN as on some black background full of night, And hollow storm in cloudy disarray, The forceful brush of some great master may More brilliantly evoke a higher light ; So beautiful, so delicately white, So like a very metaphor of May, Your loveliness on my life's sombre gray In its perfection stands out doubly bright. And yet your beauty breeds a strange despair, And pang of yearning in the helpless heart, To shield you from time's fraying wear and tear That from yourself yourself would wrench apart ; How save you, fairest, but to set you where Mortality kills death in deathless art ? i°3 A PARTING. The year is on the wing, my love, With tearful days and nights ; The clouds are on the wing above With gathering swallow-flights. The year is on the wing, my sweet, And in the ghostly race, With patter of unnumbered feet, The dead leaves fly apace. The year is on the wing, and shakes The last rose from its tree ; And I, whose heart in parting breaks, Must bid adieu to thee. ioj. LYRICS. MY LADY. Like putting forth upon a sea On which the moonbeams shimmer, Where reefs and unknown perils be To wreck, yea, wreck one utterly, It were to love you, lady fair, In whose black braids of billowy hair The misty moonstones glimmer. Oh, misty moonstone-coloured eyes, Latticed behind long lashes, Within whose clouded orbs there lies, Like lightning in the sleeping skies, MY LADY. 105 A spark to kindle and ignite, And set a fire of love alight To burn one's heart to ashes. I will not put forth on this deep Of perilous emotion ; No, though your hands be soft as sleep, They shall not have my heart to keep, Nor draw it to your fatal sphere. Lady, you are as much to fear As is the fickle ocean. io6 LYRICS. ON A VIOLA DAMORE. CARVED WITH A CUPID'S HEAD, AND PLAYED ON FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER MORE THAN A CENTURY. What fairy music clear and light, Responsive to your fingers, Swells rippling on the summer night, And amorously lingers Upon the sense, as long ago In days of rouge and rococo ! A century of silence lay On strings that had not spoken Since powdered lords to ladies gay Gave, for a lover's token, ON A VIOLA D' A MORE. 107 Fans glowing fresh from Watteau's art, Well worth a marchioness's heart. Your dormant music tranced and bound Was like the Sleeping Beauty Prince Charming in the forest found, And kissed in loyal duty : And when she woke her eyes' blue fire Turned the dumb forest to a lyre. Thus Amor with the bandaged eyes, Fit symbol of hushed numbers, Most musically wakes and sighs After an age of slumbers : Beneath your magic bow's control The Viol has regained her soul. iu8 LYRICS. A CHILD'S FANCY. " HUSH, hush ! Speak softly, Mother dear, So that the daisies may not hear ; For when the stars begin to peep, The pretty daisies go to sleep. " See, Mother, round us on the lawn ; With soft white lashes closely drawn, They've shut their eyes so golden-gay, That looked up through the long, long day. " But now they're tired of all the fun — Of bees and birds, of wind and sun Playing their game at hide-and-seek ; — Then very softly let us speak." A CHILD'S FANCY. joq A myriad stars above the child Looked down from heaven and sweetly smiled ; But not a star in all the skies Beamed on him with his Mother's eyes. She stroked his curly chestnut head, And whispering very softly, said, " I'd quite forgotten they might hear ; Thank you for that reminder, dear." no LYRICS. LASSITUDE. I LAID me down beside the sea, Endless in blue monotony ; The clouds were anchored in the sky, Sometimes a sail went idling by. Upon the shingles on the beach Gray linen was spread out to bleach, And gently with a gentle swell The languid ripples rose and fell. A fisher-boy, in level line, Cast stone by stone into the brine : Methought I too might do as he, And cast my sorrows on the sea. LASSITUDE. in The old, old sorrows in a heap Dropped heavily into the deep ; But with its sorrow on that day My heart itself was cast away. ii2 LYRICS. SEEKING. In many a shape and fleeting apparition, Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes, Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision, Which beckoning flies. Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence, Which on the far horizon's utmost verge, Like some wild star in luminous evanescence, Shoots o'er the surge. Ever I seek Thy features ever flying, Which ne'er beheld I never can forget : Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying In souls that set. SEEKING. 113 Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error ; As when the moon behind earth's shadow slips, She wears a momentary mask of terror In brief eclipse. Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning ; Like altar-fire on some forgotten fane, My life flames up irrevocably burning, And burnt in vain. THE END. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. WORKS BY MATHILDE BLIND, poetry. THE PROPHECY OF SAINT ORAN, and other Poems. THE HEATHER ON FIRE. THE ASCENT OF MAN. ^rose Jptctton. TARANTELLA : A Romance. fttonograpfjs. GEORGE ELIOT. MADAME ROLAND OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. THE PROPHECY OF SAINT ORAN, "There is perhaps no phase of our history n ore capable of poetic treatment than the sainted lives of the Irish monks who first spread the Christian faith over the western shores of Scotland, and yet it would be difficult to point to a single representative poem having Saint Columba and the devoted band of his disciples for its heroes. An attempt at filling up this gap has recently been made by Miss Blind in a narrative poem devoted to the late of St. Oran, the friend and disciple of St. Columba. . . . Apart from the sonorous beauty of her lines, there is in her diction a straightforwardness and simplicity, and an entire absence of affectation and false sentiment, which, combined with considerable power of characterization, make her volume a remarkable contribution to English literature." — 'limes, September 26, 1881. " To disturb the motif of a legend is always a bold, and mostly a rash, pro- ceeding. . . . And yet so skilfully is the story handled that the main incidents of the legend do not lose, but gain by this disturbance of the motif, and the character of Oran, which with the old motif coix\t\ only have presented the single side of the religious enthusiast, becomes a character exhibiting that complexity which modern taste demands. . . . Directness of style and lucidity of narrative are the cha- racteristic excellences of the poem. '1 here are few contemporary poets who could have done so much dramitic business in so few lints. . . . In each of the sonnets there is a thought that is well expressed, and worth expressing." — Atheturum, July 30, 1881. " It is in the domain of character that the poem is distinguished by its highest excellence. There is an ideal statuesqueness embodied in the person of St. Columba such as is felt to possess a powerlul appeal to the imagination. The poem embraces many passions, of which the most tender and beautiful finds ex- pression in the exquisite creation of the radiant golden-haired girl for whose love St. Oran breaks his vow of chastity. Hut the really powerful contribution to our knowledge of character which this book contains is fittingly centred in St. Oran himself. A dramatic instinct of high order finds utterance in his struggles between opposing passions. Nor are the metrical excel ences of the poem less conspicuous. . . . If one were in need of some single phrase by which to denote the ultimate effect produced by this book, one might say that it seems the most mature of all recent first efforts, even of established rank." — Academy, July 16, 1881. " In the choice of a subject for her chief poem she has been singularly fortu- nate. . . . That a story such as this is full of poetical suggestiveness is obvious, and Miss Blind has proved herself equal to the occasion. She has avoided writing anything approaching to a ' tendency poem.' She metes out justice with an equal hand to all tier characters. The genuine enthusiasm and religious zeal of the monks are set lorth in language as inspired as is the final protest of St. Oran against their narrow fanaticism ; and one of the best \ assages in the book is indeed the Sermon in which St. Columba announces the Gospel of love and re- demption to the islanders." — Patl Mall Gazette, August 22, 1881. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 " ' The Prophecy of Saint Oran ' is skilfully told and vigorously written. In the description of nature an 1 scenery ; in the delineation of character ; and in the management of singularly difficult positions there is visible a firm and practised hand, a bold and unmistakable power. ' The Street Children's Dance ' not u t worthily ranks with so ne of the touching pieces of Hood, Mrs. Barrett Browning, and others." — British Mxil, September i, 18S1. " The only excuse for street music that can reasonably be considered va'id is the touching plea for piblic toleration which is embodied in Miss Mathilde Blind's poem, wherein thj spectacle of poor children dancing round an organ is as pathetically moralized and as tender and full of loving pity as Mrs. Browning s ' Cry of the Children.' " — Dxily Telegraph, September i, 1881. "The poem is rich in true description of sea and sky and mountain, and glows in sympathy with the deeper feelings which stir humanity. There has been published no poem of such creative suggest! veness as this for many a day, and we hope and believe that it is the precursor of other work by the same unfaltering hand This poem is a true work of art, complete and beautiful. There is in the volume other work which shows a master's touch. . . ." — Manchester Examiner and Times, July 1, 1882. " II y a la bien plus qu'une simple facilite de versification. Le recit du poeme d'ouverture est grand et fort, la maniere de raconter est pleine de poesie et o'eflet Depuis la mort de Mrs. Barrett Browning, nous n'avons point eu de poesie aussi hautement inspires qui ait jailli dune source feminine." — Le Livre, Paris, October 10, 1881. THE HEATHER ON FIRE: & £ale of t&e |^tgf)lanD Clearance*. " Miss Blind has produced one of the most noticeable and moving poems which recent years have added to our shelves. ... As a singer with a message her attempt is praiseworthy, and her performance is fairly self-consistent. It is eminently homogeneous ; the passion once felt, the inspiration once obeyed, the well-head pours forth its stream in a strong and uniform current, which knows no rause until its impulse ceases. . . . The story is pathetic at on'e in its sim- plicity and in its terror. . . . We congratulate the author upon her boldness in choosing a subject of our own time, fertile in what is pathetic, and free from any taint of the vulgar and conventional. Poetry of late years has tended too much towards motives of a merely fanciful and abstruse, sometimes a plainly artificial, character ; and we have had much of lyrical energy or attraction, with little of the real marrow of human life, the flesh and blood of man and woman. Positive subject-matter, the emotion which inheres in actual life, the very smile and the very tear and heart-pang, are, after all, precious to poetry, and we have them here. 'The Heather on Fire' may possibly prove to be something of a new departure, and one that was certainly not superfluous." — Atkenceum, July 17, 1886. "Miss Blind has chosen for her new poem one of those terrible H : ghland clearances which stain the history of Scotch landlordism. Though her tale is a fiction it is too well founded on fact. ... It may be said generally of the poem that the most difficult scenes are those in which Miss Blind succeeds best ; and on the whole we are inclined to think that its greatest and most surprising success is the picture of the poor old soldier Rory driven mad by the burning of his wife. In his frenzy he mixes up his old fatties with the French and the descent of the landlord's ejectors upon the village." — Academy, August 7, 1886. 4 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " In this versified tale of Highland clearances, Mathilde Blind has, with genuine poetic instinct, selected a family the fortunes of which form the burden of her story. . . . Literature and poetry are never seen at their best save in con- tact with actual life. ... 1 his little book abounds in vivid delineation of cha- racter, and is redolent with the noblest human sympathy." — Newcastle Daily Chronicle, June 3, 1886. " A subject which has painfully preoccupied public opinion is, in the poem entitled ' The Heather on Fire,' trea'ed with characteristic power by M ; ss Mathilde Blind. Irish evictions have offered so convenient a theme to party strife, that the sufferings of the unhappy Highland crofters have not always met with the com- passion they were so well calculated to inspire. In eloquent and forcible verse, Miss Blind tells the tale of their wrongs, their resistance to the hard fate imposed upon them, and describes the bitter grief with which ' Crowding on the decks with hungry eyes, Straining toward the coast that flies and flies,' those among them driven into exile look on the shores to which many bid an eternal farewell. Both as a narrative and descriptive poem 'The Heather on Fire' is equally remarkable." — Morning Post, July 30, 1886. "We are happy in being able to extend to the present poem a welcome equally sincere and equally hearty; for it is a poem that is rich not only in power and beauty but in that ' enthusiasm of humanity ' which stirs and moves us, and of which so much contemporary verse is almost painfully deficient. Miss Blind does not possess her theme ; she is posses.-ed by it, as was Mrs. Browning when she wrote ' Aurora Leigh.' . . . We can best describe the kind of her success by noting the lact that while engaged in the perusal of her book we do not say, ' What a fine poem !' but ' What a terrible story !' or, more probably still, say nothing at all, but read on and on under the spell of a great horror and an over- powering pity. Poetry of which this can be said needs no other recommendation, and, therefore, we need not unduly lengthen our review of ' The Heather on Fire.' " — Manchester Examiner and Times, September 1, 1886. " There are charming pictures of West Highland scenery, in Arran apparently, and of the surroundiugs and conditions of Highland cottar lile." — Scotsman, July 20, 1886. " In 'The Heather on Fire' she exhibits a clearness and beauty of diction, a rhythmical correctness, a grace and simplicity of style which mark her out as no slavish follower of any poetic ' school,' but an unaflected and truthful expression of her own feelings. . . . Wl atever the reader's opinion may be on the grievance which Miss Blind throws into such fierce light, he cannot fail to be pleased with her graceful tale, so gracefully and simply told." — Glasgow Herald, July 20, 1886. " Miss Mathilde Blind's poem is the tragic epic of the old evictions in the Highlands of Scotland. It is a strange fact that the general reader knows more about the siege of Troy, the Norman Conquest, and the Wars of the Roses, than about such matters in the very history of our own days as the depopulation of the Highlands of Scotland by the landlords. The old story conies to the front just now by reason of the crofter agitation. In the preface to her fine and touching epic, and in the notes at the end, Miss Blind passes in review some of the facts ot the eviction of the Glen Sannox people by the Duke of Hamilton in 1832, where, as she says, ' the progress ot civilization, which has redeemed many a wilderness and gladdened the solitary places of the world, has come with a curse to these Highland glens, and turned green pastures and golden harvest fields once more into a desert.' The 'Heather on Fire' is a poem in four cantos — or • Duans ' — compris ng about two hundred stanzas." — School Board Chronicle, July io, 1886. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 " It is written in a strain which must of necessity appeal to the sympathies of all grades of society, and at the same time it is eminently poetical, both in thought and rhythm." — Western Antiquary, August, 1886. "A book like this forms an admirable corrective to the harsh and cold-blooded theories of such landlords as the Duke of Argyle on the rights of his class."— Cambridge Independent Press, August, 1886. "There is a sonorous beauty, a classic dignity and depth of pathos throughout her four cantos, and a vivid and thrilling description is given of the industrious hamlets, the contented happy people, and the ruthless manner in which the evictions were effected by the stewards and ground-officers." — Elgin Courant, August, 1886. TARANTELLA: % Romance. " The author of this two-volumed romance is favourably known by other works, and by her appreciative ' Life of George Eliot.' The strange effects of the bite of a tarantula spider, so firmly believed in by the Italian peasantry, and the marvellous power of musical enthusiasm, supply the motive of the story ; and the characters are portrayed with great force, pathos, and a touch of homely humour." — Bookseller, Christmas, 1884. "Miss Blind maybe congratulated on 'Tarantella,' her first novel. In the ricit (as we have called it) of the music ; an, Emanuel Sturm, nearly all the interest of the book is concentrated. The violinist, poor and unknown, finds himself at Capri. Accident brings him, one evening, to a frightened group of women, one of whom has just been bitten by the tarantula, and, according to the popular superstition, he is implored to play, in otder to drive the poison out of her. He refuses at first, but afterwards consents, and, finding himself almost supernaturally in-pired, plays an improvised 'Tarantella' throughout a whole stormy night, finally curing the girl. The tune thus strangely hit on spreads, and ult.mately makes him famous, but the lo\e he has conceived for his Antonella brings him almost as much misery as his music brings him fame." — Pall Mall Gazette, February 5, 1885. " Admiration of the delicate sketching now in vogue should not blind us to the very opposite kind of charm of which ' Tarantella ' is full. Entirely poetical in conception (save that it is not written in metre), ' Tarantella' is more essent ally a poem than many a 1 arrative written in smooth and elegant verse. . . . ' Taran- tella' is indeed full of strange originality and scenic effects of uncommon powers. The dance among the ruins is not likely to be soon forgotten by the most un- imaginative of readers, and it is rarely, we think, that in an English novel the psychology of the poetic temperament has been touched by a hand so delicate and at the same time so strong." — Athenceum, January 17, 1885. " There is abundant imagination, and the language is generally fresh and vigorous. . . . The author finds many opportunities of introducing scenes from German life, which are evidei tly written with intimate knowledge. . . . This is distinctly a novel to lead." — Echo, June 16, 1886. " This powerful and pathetic tale has carried us more completely out of our- selves and along with it than any work of fiction we have read for many a day. . . . Her (Miss Blind's) word-pictures gluw with rich local colours; she is a complete mistress of the art of dramatic cause and effect. When once fairly under weigh, she never allows the interest to flag for a single moment. Thus it is only when we have laid down the final volume that we have time or inclination to 6 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. pause and recognize the care and art which have contributed to this triumphant res lit ; to turn back . . . and dwell on the author's extraordinary knowledge of the human heart— extraordinary alike for its depth and its range. As for the wit and humour with which the book is freely sprinkled, the poetic and artistic spirit which pervades it thoughout, they can only be appreciated on a second or a third perusal." — Life, December 25, 1884. " ' Tarantella ' is extremely clever, and the treatment of the weird subject she has chosen picturesque in the extreme. The local colouring i-; especially fine and her character studies extremely strong. Thrice welcome in its two-volume form, 'Tarantella ' is a book bound to make its mark." — Whitehall Review, December 11, 1884. "We have very ingenious resources in music and the bite of the tarantula, which alone mu^ic is said to heal. Notwithstanding the sense «f improbability, we follow • the strange fortunes of Antonella Countess Ogotshka, and her almost magical transformation with interest. Mina, the innocent girl, her friend, is well delineated, and Emanuel Sturm, the wonderful violinist and composer, for whose portrait Paganini has doubtless been available, is original, no less than his friend the painter." — British Quarterly, January, 1885. "'Tarantella' is a very c'ever story, with plenty of action and not without tragic incidents. The author has also plenty of humour, and there is at least as much light as shade in the book. Mina is not less delightful than the Countess isobjectimable, in spite of her beauty and her daring." — London Figaro, November 20, 1886. " We shall not spoil the story by hinting at its denouement. It is a deeply interesting one ; and the characters, three of them at least, are sufficiently original to give the author a high rank as a novelist. . . . The book abounds in striking and interesting pictures of Italian and German life and scenery." — Dublin Mail, November, 1886. " 'Tarantella' is, indeed, a novel unlike the common — full of power and imagi- nation and originality. ... It would be unjust to deny to this very remarkable book a large share of what the world calls genius." — Melbourne Argus, March 14, 1885. '" By her recent works, ' The Prophecy of Saint Oran ' and the ' Life of George Eliot,' Miss Blind brought herself before the public as a writer of considerable ability, and her latest novel will do much to increase her reputation. . . . ' Taran- tella' deserves to be classed among the best novels of the present day." — Scottish News, June 15, 1886. " There is an inherent charm about ' Tarantella ' which will be apparent to the re.ider from a perusal of the first chapter. This agreeable quality does not end there, however. The whole of the tale, which is divided into forty-six chapters, is permeated with features of an exceptional. y attractive description. Not the least noteworthy character of the story is its novelty. Most of tie incidents, which are carefully elaborated and tollow in logical sequence, are conspicuous for an airy freshness in nature and treatment. Every chapter has its specific purpose, there being a uniform overflow of idea and sentiment ; and each development of the pleasing romance opens to the mental vision of the thoughtful reader incidents of a more or less engrossing description. Continental scenes and customs are de- scribed with freeness and perspicuity, and the varied and eventful adventures of the principal characters — pleasingly typical, it may be mentioned, of the roman- ticism invariably associated with ' love's young dream, ' when, as in the present instance, there is a combination of youth and beauty — are recorded with a poetical fervour and gracefulne-s of diction which are certain to be generally admired."- - Western Daily Press, June 2, 1886. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 7 THE ASCENT OF MAN: " Miss Blind traces the ' Ascent of Man' through successive stages, until first love, and then sorrow — which is love under another guise — lead us to the highest conception of human life we can hope to reach. It is a brave, sad, glorious story, told with inimitable skill, and as only a poet who knows man's heart, with its hopes, doubts, fears, aspiraiions, could possibly tell it. . . . The other poems in the volume are as excellent in their kind as those which give a title to it. The only difference between them is that one series is rich with human experience, and with the results of knowledge and of high thinking, while the other is all aglow with the fresh delights of the out-door world. These delights find an almost perfect expression. ... A reviewer who is so fortunate as to light on a book like this, lays it down with regret, and fears that he has not said of it all that it deserves should be said. That is my feeling ; and, lest I should have omitted any note of praise that ought to be sounded, I should like to add, by way of suggestion to all lovers of poetry — and I hope they are still many — that here is truly a book that is worth the loving." — Academy, June 15, 1889. "The effort which Miss Blind has made is one deserving of high praise. From Chaos to Kosmos she hurries her reader along, breathless and perspiring perhaps, but never anxious to stop. We have known her book to be read on the Underground Railway, and the reader to be so absorbed in its contents as to be carried unawares several stations past his destination. . . . Miss Blind's gift of song is genuine, and her imagination powerful. . . . When all is said and done, ' The Ascent of Man ' remains a remarkable poem, and cannot fail to increase its author's reputation as a brilliant and original writer." — Athenceum, July 20, 1889. " There is a fine elevation of tone, and there is a splendid mastery of diction, well sustained from the beginning to the end. . . . The poems are unquestionably very beautiful." — Sclwol Board Chronicle, June 8, 1889. " Miss Blind has already a place of honour among poets, and this striking volume will make it sure. There is nothing weak or unreal about her verse, and there is much force of thought, sympathy for all, and burning scorn of luxurious vice."— Liverpool Mercury, June 19, 1889. " One of the advanced minds of the day is Mathilde Blind. I have at my side her latest book, ' The Ascent of Man.' The poems are all earnest and high pitched in tone — they are human. . . . Every line comes from a heart full of life's unutterable woes, of hope's faint, half-believing monitions." — Cheltenham Examiner, June 19, 1889. " To Miss Blind belongs the honour of having been the first to seriously render Charles Darwin and Herbert Spencer into verse on anything like a bold and comprehensive scale. ' The Ascent of Man ' is a really remarkable poem. Its main conception is even noble, its manner of execution is brilliant and vigorous, and it abounds in passages which prove Miss Blind to possess the true poetic faculty." — Wit and Wisdom, August 3, 1889. " In her last published volume of poems, ' The Ascent of Man,' Miss Blind has revealed qualities of imagination, enthusiasm, and strength, which place her high indeed among women writers of the day." — Echo, August 8, 1889. 8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "Miss Blind has already proved herself to be no ordinary writer of verse, and her new volume will add to her reputation. ' The Ascent of Man ' is a philosophical poem, challenging comparison by its subject with the great work of Lucretius, and inevitably suggesting some of the finest passages of Tennyson." — Manchester Exam : ner, May 18, 1889. " That Miss Blind's volume shows signs of poetic power no careful reader can for a moment doubt." — Literary World, June 14, 1889. " Miss Blind is an accomplished authoress, and a verse-maker of remarkable skill. There is plenty of suggestion, as well as a good deal of brilliant, forcible, and easy colouring, in ' The Ascent of Man.' " — Star, June 17, 1889. " This is a powerful but unequal poem : but the task set to herself by the author was such a mighty one, that, even had her success been far less than it is, she might well bs proud. . . . This volume will considerably enhance Miss Blind's reputation as a poetess." — Lady's Pictorial, June 28, 1885. "There are some fine passages, elevated in conception and felicitous in expres- sion. . . . The volume, as a whole, is a considerable advance on Miss Blind's previous poetic work, and should give much pleasure to all thoughtful and cultivated readers." — Globe, May 22, 1889. " The chief merit of this fine poem is that it treats from the transcendental point of view certain conceptions and theories of life which modern science has shown us under another aspect." — St. James's Gazette, June 19, 1889. " ' The Ascent of Man ' is a volume of verse which is marked by much grace of diction. In her ' Poems of the Open Air,' Miss Blind is specially successful. Though a thousand poets have taken us into the gardens and fields ere now, we gladly return to them with her." — British Weekly, July 12, 1889. " Her descriptions of the early struggles for existence are powerful and picturesque in a high degree." — Pall Mall Gazette. " Has merit of no common order, due, perhaps, as much to the author's wide human sympathy as to her poetical gifts." — Morning Post. "The doctrines and tendencies of present-day thought are endowed with fascinating poetic form in Miss Mathilde Blind's ' Ascent of Man.' . . . She encircles grave Science with an aureole, and illuminates his grey technical pages with rainbow tints and emblazoned designs." — Watts's Literary Guide. " This new volume is another testimony to the sterling character of Miss Blind's poetic talent. Technically the verse-workmanship is masterly : the verse is sonorous and well balanced, the diction simple and unaffected, and the style marked by the essential quality of distinction." — Women's Penny Paper. "'The Ascent of Man' opens with lines which, in their vigour and rhythmic sweep, recall the most resonant passages of Lucretius." — The Scottish Leader. [Sept., i8gi. & Hist ot Boolts PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, London, W. Sold by all Booksellers, or sent post-free for the published price by the Publishers. ABOUT.— THE FELLAH : An Egyptian Novel. By Edmond About. Translated by Sir Randal Roberts. Post 8v a, illustrated boards, 2s. ADAMS (W. DAVENPORT), WORKS BY. A DICTIONARY OP THE DRAMA. Being a comprehensive Guide to the Plays, Playwrights, Players, and Playhouses of the United Kingdom and America. Crown 8vo, half-bound. 12s. Gd. [Preparing. QUIPS AND Q U IDDITIES. Selected by W. D. Adams. Post 8vo. cloth limp, 2s. 6d. ADAMS (W. H. 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