LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA/ POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS. POEMS -AND- TRANSLAT ONS -BY. MARY MORGAN, (GOWAN LEA.) " Das ewig Eine Lebt mir in Leben, sieht in meinem Sehen. Aichts ist denn Gott; und Gott ist nichts denn Leben. Gar Klar die Hulle sick vor dir erhebet. Dein Ich ist sie ; es sterbe, was vernitchtbar ; Und fort an lebt nur Gott in deinem Streben. Durchschaue, was diess Streben uberlebet : Da wird die Iliille dir als Hulle sitchbar, Und unverschleirt siehst du gottlich Leben." Fichtc J. THEO. ROBINSON, PUBLISHER. 1887 Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada by Mary Morgan, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture, in the year 1887. 4 4 !^}2!0, lillle keo^e, (100. serjd. Irjee Oj00a passaqe, , specially, lei Inis Jae liny r s/ 7 * J w pray ere, ll)err) all itjal Irjee u$ill reaa p ijear : ?e irjou arl w rjelp 10 call, ee 10 correcl irj <3r}jy 11 " all. OlD-pOElYIE. 769 TABLE OF CONTENTS. PART THE FIRST. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Pa^e n To the New Year .... .1 Evening Hymn ...... 2 On seeing a Procession of Nuns ... 3 To Nature ....... 4 Friendship ..... 4 The Poet's Hour .... 5 With a Bunch of Wild Roses . 6 On the Beach 7 Tears 7 Sing on, Sweet Bird .... 8 One Seeing One Asleep ..... 9 Reflections ....... 10 In Apprehension, so like a God ! . . 11 An Autumn Song . . . . . .12 The Afterglow 13 To Mother Nature ... 14 The World's Teachers ... 15 Dreams . . . . . . . .16 The Message . . . . . . .17 The New Year ... 18 I had a Little Flower 19 Sum mum Bonum ...... 20 Charity 20 On Seeing a Child fall Asleep .... 21 The Present and the Future . , . .22 Spring Song 23 VIII Page To the Gowan e\ Lines addressed to .... The Gardener's Soliloquy . A Dream of Childhood At Even-tide Hymn . In Memoriam .... Happy, Happy Flowers Summer, Winter, Spring Night . Doubt Not . Sea Weeds ... .... Questionings Wee Willie . Hymn. (By my Father) . 48 PART THE SECOND. SONNETS. To the New Year Ah, Rose so Sweet Morning .... The Poet . Friendship . George Eliot . . r>(i To the Arts . 57 Time . Ideals .... Friendship . Thought .... 61 Read at the Golden Wedding of E. N. 62 Silence .... 63 Hope ... 64 Destiny IX Page On the Death of Carlyle . . 66 Written whilst studying Spinoza's " Ethics ' : 67 Founded on a Persian Legend .... 68 Life's Purpose 69 Music! , 70 The Poet's Dream 71 The Ideal .... 72 Oblivion ........ 73 To " Our Club" .... 74 The Wanderer's Dream 75 The First Snow 76 Our Guiding Star ..... .77 So Sad, So Strange . ... 78 PART THE THIRD. Meditations from "Dream-Grotto" . . 81 PART THE FOURTH. TRANSLATIONS. Poet and Reader : . . 95 Barcarolle ........ 96 The Letter 98 The Serenade ....... 98 Could I but go 99 My Picture This , .101 Thamire to the Roses 101 Poetry . . . . . .102 On the Death of a Child 102 Say, Sweet Little Bird 103 Thou and I 104 Heart of Mine 105 Ideals . . . . . . . . .106 By the Shore 106 VIII Page To the Gowan C\ Lines addressed to .... The Gardener's Soliloquy . A Dream of Childhood 27 At Even-tide Hymn In Mernoriam .... Happy, Happy Flowers Summer, Winter, Spring Night . Doubt Not . Sea Weeds . Questionings Wee Willie . Hymn. (By my Father) . 48 PART THE SECOND. SONNETS. Pa S e To the New Year Ah, Rose so Sweet Morning .... The Poet . Friendship . George Eliot . . r>(; To the Arts . , 57 Time .... Ideals .... Friendship . Thought .... 61 Read at the Golden Wedding of E. N. 62 Silence .... 63 Hope ... 64 Destiny IX Page On the Death of Carlyle . . 66 Written whilst studying Spinoza's " Ethics >: 67 Founded on a Persian Legend ... 68 Life's Purpose 69 Music 1 . . , 70 The Poet's Dream 71 The Ideal 72 Oblivion ........ 73 To " Our Club" . . 74 The Wanderer's Dream 75 The First Snow 76 Our Guiding Star ..... 77 So Sad, So Strange ...... 78 PART THE THIRD. Meditations from "Dream-Grotto" ... 81 PART THE FOURTH. TRANSLATIONS. Poet and Reader : . 95 Barcarolle ........ 96 The Letter 98 The Serenade ....... 98 Could I but go 99 My Picture This , .101 Thamire to the Roses . . . . . .101 Poetry . . . . . .102 On the Death of a Child 102 Say, Sweet Little Bird 103 Thou and I 104 Heart of Mine 105 Ideals . . . . . . . . .106 By the Shore 106 X Page To the Wind . . . .107 Resignation ....... 108 The Wakened Rose 109 April 110 Good-night . . . . . . . .111 Thou Everywhere 112 Spring Song .... . 114 The Cot ... ... 114 A Poem, Thou . .... 115 The Castle by the Sea . . . . .110 Priere . . . . . . . . .118 My Heart, I wish to ask Thee . . . .119 Chains . . . . . . . .120 To-morrow . . . . . . . .121 Sonnet by Michael Angelo . . . .122 PART THE FIFTH. TRANSLATIONS. German Love ....... 127 Without a Mother 168 The Death of Raphael . . . . 172 ADDITIONAL POEMS. Song : Tender little Rose-bud ! . . . .179 Hyrrn ! Reason, Wonder, Doubt ! . . 180 Song: Forget-me-not and Clover .... 181 The Comrades . . . 182 Star to Star, &c. . . ... 184 SONNETS. Mysterious Life ! . . . . . . 18(J Still, still thy Waters now . ... 187 Poor, little Bird . .... 188 Swift Roll the Waters 189 Wait, trusting Heart ! 190 XI Page Those poor, dumb brutes . . .191 With Hopefulness Man tills .... 192 The Young Moon rises . . . .193 Prize Thou the Kingdom . .194 Good-Night! , .195- POEMS. TO THE NEW YEAR. Hark ! is't thy step, New Year ? With sure but stealthy pace thou aye dost come ; And in thy train are gladdening gifts for some ; O haste thee, glad New Year ! Too swift thy step, New Year ! The past had gathered friends from many lands, And thou dost come to part their clasped hands : Alas, so soon, New Year ! ' O haste ! ' * Delay ! ' New Year ; Two prayers together rising up to Heaven : The answer trust ; for is it not God-given ? Meet bravely the New Year ! Bid welcome the New Year ! O clear-voiced Truth, lead in the coming morn ; And gentle Charity, our lives adorn : Hope lives in the New Year ! POEMS. EVENING HYMN. (For Music.) I bow my weary head, And fold my hands in prayer, And trust the God of all, Whose love is everywhere. This day with all its pain, I lay down at His feet ; To-morrow strength will come, To-morrow's care to meet. Adieu ye vain regrets ! And dark despair, adieu ! Howe'er I may have erred, I did the best I knew. My heart is full of hope, And fearless is it, too ; Not calmer is yon star That shines in heaven's blue. POEMS. He gave to me my soul, And knows it's inmost need ; / cannot grasp His plan ; To trust Him is my creed. I bow my weary head, And fold my hands in prayer, And trust the God of all, Whose love is everywhere. (On seeing a procession of Nuns going into t/ie Chapel?) The shades of night were falling round, A holy silence filled the air, The convent bell had ceased to sound, It was the hour of prayer. The Sisters to the Chapel went, And knelt upon the altar stair With faces bowed and penitent ; Laid they life's burden there ? To pray ! Their's seemed an easy task I O Thou ! Thy child forgive : Alas, / know not what to ask, Thou knowest what to give ! POEMS. TO NATURE. Nature, I would be thy child, Sit and worship at thy feet ; Read the truth upon thy face, Wait upon thine accent sweet : I would put my hand in thine, Bow my head upon thy knee, Live upon thy love alone, Fearless, trusting all to thee. FRIENDSHIP. When friend to friend hath spoken the farewell, And trembled at the thought that ne'er again Perchance they two shall meet, the rnagic spell Of sacred friendship, is it rent in twain? From shore to shore the waves of ocean roll, From East to West the lonely breezes blow, And shall not soul commune with kindred soul In mutual sympathetic ebb and flow ? POEMS. THE POETS' HOUR. See where the twilight draweth nigh, Enswathing in the fold Of her capacious mantle grey, The woodland, stream, and wold I Still deeper grows the silence, while, In tenderest embrace, She clasps the Bluebell, and enveils The Daisy's modest face. With mystic rite of unseen hands She weaves her secret spell ; Dull earth obscured, alone awhile With Fancy now we dwell, And tread her airy halls of light, Taste her ideal bliss ; Behold on high a cloudless sky The Poet's hour is this ! POEMS. WITH A BUNCH OF WILD ROSES. Ah, deem not that this simple little flower Unfolded all its tender bloom in vain ; Did it not glorify a summer hour, And leave a sweetness in the summer rain ? Then sigh not for its transitoriness, Or let this thought be joined to every sigh, That a frail blossom's passing loveliness Is lovelier for the thought that it must die 1 A human life is like a precious flower. One cannot truly live and be in vain : A soul of beauty nature's grandest dower Must leave a glory on the world's wide plain. And e'en as zephyrs waft from shore to shore The fragrant essence of the flowery lea ; So heaven-born Truth is floating evermore, From age to age of our humanity, POEMS. ON THE BEACH. So thick the mist is hanging round, Vast ocean is not seen; But we may hear his rolling wave, And mark where he hath been. The veil is rent ! a gleam of light ! The forest lands appear ! Again the brooding vapors dip ; Earth looks more hopeless, drear. As mist upon the mountain side, Or as the tidal flow; So Doubt within the human breast Riseth and falleth low. TEARS. Back, back persisting tears ! Why will ye flow ? Back to the founts where ye have lain so long ! I will not have ye cloud this summer hour, I will not have ye tremble through my song. The tears made answer dropping slowly down : " Think not that we are born of grief alone : The joy of nature moves us as its woe ; 1 Tis joy to-day that trembles in thy tone." 8 POEMS. SING ON, SWEET BIRD. (For Music.) Sing on, sweet bird, I prythee sing ; It joys my heart to hear ; Art thou so gladsome every day No clouds in all thy year ? Oft as I watch thee fly aloft As seeking heaven's high dome, I envy thee thy upward flight, From this my earth-bound home. Hast thou no fear ? Hast thou no care ? O teach me all thy art, To live and sing, and, singing, soar, Heavenward with lightsome heart. What though the skies be dark betimes,. The sun must shine again ; O might I tune my notes from thine As if they knew no pain ! But yet if sorrow will have voice, Will follow my refrain, Know, 'tis that Nature leaves no choice, Sad memory leads the strain. POEMS. ON SEEING ONE ASLEEP. Sleep on ! thy busy brain may rest awhile. Far-reaching mind, unconscious of thyself Thy subtle genius soundly dost thou sleep Nor knowest aught of any presence near ! Yet is there one to guard thee tenderly, And lay a placid hand upon thy brow, Repelling all intrusion with a glance And up-raised finger, as to say, " He sleeps 1 " Ah ! in our waking moments do we think How much of latent power exists in us How many faculties are yet asleep, Unconscious of themselves, or of the past, Or future, or the Spirit of the worlds The Being that can still the noisy day, And beckon silently unto the night To come and give earth's weary children sleep. 10 POEMS. REFLECTIONS. A placid water 'tween the willow trees Has made a mirror wherein we behold A perfect image of the beauteous earth, Now flushing 'neath the sunset's parting glow. There are the water-lilies yellow, white ; The fleecy clouds which move in silence by ; The long lithe grasses sleeping on the wave, Or lisping a low greeting to the wind ; While solitary, and with kingly grace, An aged elm o'erlooks the quiet scene. There is a mirror clearer than the stream ; A light conpared to which yon orb is pale ; A beauty fairer than the lily's bloom. Awaking it to seek the life divine, A spiritual ray illumes the soul, Whose image is upon the ages cast, And brightens with the steady flow of years. O Time ! stupendous mirror of the race ! Revealer of the beautiful and true ! In thee how clear th' eternal glory shines ! POEMS. 1 1 "In apprehension, so like a God !" Hamlet, Take the mouldering dust, Wake it into life, Matter is but servant of the mind. Touch the silent keys : Genius can evoke Music wherein gods commune with men. Read the soul of man, And the farthest star : Truth is one, and is forever true. Think the wildest thought, Hope the utmost hope, Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled. Wonder not at deed, Wonder more at thought, Wonder at the hope that feeds itself. Genius is divine, Genius is the true : Man becomes that which he worships, God ! 12 POEMS. AN AUTUMN SONG. Cold blows the Autumn wind and drear, From out the lowering west ; Low wail the crimson leaves and sere As if they longed for rest. Upon my heart they seem to fall, And stay its joyful tone, Awaking there a plaintive call The echo of their own. O forest leaves, from yonder trees Borne upon languid wing, You hear not in the wandering breeze The whisper of the Spring. While far beyond the sky's dark cloud, I know the stars shine clear, And that beneath the Autumn shroud Awaits the future year. POEMS. THE AFTERGLOW. It is the afterglow. The dying sun Went down behind yon distant purple hill Where sleep the quiet dead, while breezes still A solemn requiem chant ere day be done. Full o'er the city yet, in beauty rare, Shine rosy beams that touch the countless spires, And play upon the rushing river there, Illume the leaden sky with crimson fires] More splendid far than when at noontide hour The sun was in the zenith of his power. O dead and gone is this the afterglow ! From hidden moss-grown graves behind yon hill A soft effulgence seemeth yet to flow A subtle tie that binds us closer still, And kindles in our spirits' clouded skies A fire of hope that never, never dies : Bright picture unto which souls trouble-tossed Have turned, in holy contemplation lost, Forgetting earth's wild turmoil, hate, and strife, To dream a dream of love's unending life. 14 POEMS. TO MOTHER NATURE. '* Oh, pray to Him ! " they say to me " Prayer is for all that live ! " Alas ! I know not what to ask : T/iou knowest what to give. The leaves bestrew my lonely path, I know not where I go ; But in yon dimly twinkling stars, And in this drifting snow, Is somewhat yet that speaks to me ; And Mother Nature's call Is aye the voice I love to hear, For She is all in all. POEMS. 15 THE WORLD'S TEACHERS. AN IMPROMPTU. In the dimly-lighted chamber Hung with crimson and with gold, See the radiant maidens sitting, Dreaming of the days of old. ' Yonder/ says one, glancing upward To the portraits on the wall, ' Yonder are the grand old masters Looking down upon us all : 1 Michael Angelo and Turner, Raphael and Socrates, Mozart, Byron, all the poets, O that ours were days like these I ' Might we but commune in spirit With the great heroic band ! Might their lofty genius lift us Into their ideal land ! * Ah ! the tapers flicker dimly, Light and life burn to decay, But the world of Art and Beauty Opens to an endless day.' 1 6 POEMS DREAMS. Fairy, flowery, fleeting dreams, Strange as moonlight's fitful gleams, Flitting over sorrow's night, Flooding it with sudden light ; Flowers of fancy ! could ye rest Constant in the human breast ! Wondrous, eery, wavering dreams, Weird as hazy moonlight streams, Hailing from we know not where, Falling softly into air, Wandering far through worlds above, Lost in clouds of light and love ! Weary, woful, wasting dreams, Pensive as pale moonlight beams, Anxious, through some bitter loss, Seeking shadows of the cross, Searching haunts of memory, Pondering life's mystery ! POEMS. 17 Calm and cold too chill for dreams ; Death o'er Life the end it seems ; Cheerless sky and rayless mind This, the all for human kind ? Moons shall rise and moons shall set, Worlds revolving, we shall yet Dream again, and, dreaming, soar, Wondering, dreaming, more and more t THE MESSAGE. (For Music.) Go little bird and tell my love from me, That I am lone without her and do mourn ;. Fly pretty bird across the summer sea, And whisper to her all I tell to thee. Nay, tell her not ! I would not that she grieve ; I know she will not linger long away ; Our troth is plighted ; she could not deceive ; So deep I love, I must in her believe. And love like ours is to my soul so dear, I fain would keep it there unshaped in word- Within my inmost heart, until she hear The burden from my lips, when she appear ! B 1 8 POEMS. THE NEW YEAR. " Rejoice ! it is the glad New Year, rejoice !" This was the greeting from a cheerful voice. The earth seemed newly decked in glistening white, And on my window-pane the morning light Shone through quaint landscapes ; for the frost and snow Had traced with artist hand o'er all below (And while the human world in slumber lay) Tli 3 fairest scenes, a wonderful array. Islv fancy, too, not idle, spread its wings, And, joyful as the lark that heavenward sings, Upon the canvas of the untold year Portrayed its every joy and hope and lear. That New Year's day, with all its hope sublime, Is garnered now into the lap of time ; The pictures on my window-pane are lost ; Ideals, too, have vanished like the frost. How shall I now rejoice in the New Year? Responsive in my soul, a voice spake clear : " Rejoice, rejoice, with every birth of morn ! For with each dawn a new new-year is born ; Though airy castles fall, yet build again : Far nobler flights the soul shall yet attain ; No losses can its majesty appall, For time shall be till it surmount them all ! " POEMS. 1 9 I HAD A LITTLE FLOWER. (TO MRS. R , IN MEMORY OF FLORA.) I had a little flower fair, so fair And every day it grew more purely white ; I loved my flower, and tended it with care, And kept it from the chilling frost of night ; And said within my heart : "Ah, tender flower, How shalt thou bear the stormy winter blast, For thou wast formed to grace the summer bower, And ah ! the summer is so nearly past ! " When autumn came, an angel stood beside My little flower, and marked it for his own ; I trembled for my darling and my pride, As sighed the desolating winter's moan. At last, one night when earth was cold and drear, The loving angel took my flower away, And placed it where no chilling wind nor sere, Could touch its tender blossom with decay. The summer bowers have grown less fair for me, But there's a deeper radiance in the skies ; My little flower now blooms eternally ; The angel guards it still in Paradise. 20 POEMS. SUMMUM BONUM. Inscribed to Felix Adler. To live in every thought A life so true and pure ; To do in every deed The noblest, and endure ; To hate with direst hate The wrong and sin we see ; The sinner to restore With gentlest charity ; This is the heavenly mind, Wherever it be found ; A soul at one with good, Knows only hallowed ground. CHARITY. Thou askest not to know the creed, The rank, or name is naught to thee, Where'er the human heart cries 'help ! ' Thy kingdom is, O Charity ' POEMS. 21 ON SEEING A CHILD FALL ASLEEP. The heavy eyelids slowly droop, The eyes grow less and less, ^ The last of languid glances flown, Has left but peacefulness. 'Twas like the twilight's mellow shades, That, quivering o'er the snow, Seemed lingering glimpses from the sun, And almost loathe to go. Ere long shalt thou refreshed awake, Nor ever know surprise, That weariness from thee took flight, In such a strange, sweet guise. As suddenly the Spring anew, Starts from beneath the ground, Once more with fresh life to pursue, Its never-ending round. 22 POEMS. THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE, Question : What shall the next step be ? Know'st thou, Futurity ? Bring answer swift to me ; Show me my destiny. Answer : What dost thou ask of me ? Show thee thy destiny ? No life, alas, can be Apart from mystery. I cannot reach to thee ; My power thou may'st defy; Thou bringest unto me That which in me doth lie ! POEMS. 23 SPRING SONG. I wandered in the well-known path, The sky was bright and blue, The trees were clad in freshest green, The sunlight streaming through. The nightingales were singing loud Their love-songs from the vale, The purling brooklet, as it flowed Seemed chanting a sweet tale. O whence this gladness in the air ? And wherefore do ye sing ? The little birds were answering me : " Rejoice, for it is spring ! ' Rejoice, for it is spring ! I cried ; Rejoice for all the year ! For winter too there is no death In Nature have no fear ! And joying thus for all the year, More joyful could I sing Than bird, or brooklet flowing by : " Rejoice, for it is spring ! ' 24 POEMS. TO THE GOWAN. [The English wild daisy is known in Scotland as the' Gowan." ] Little Gowan, Scotia's flower ! Whence hast thou that dreamful eye Looking up into the sky, Where the homeless clouds go by? Little Gowan, modest, shy. Little Gowan, poet's flower ! Once I took thee far away, Planted thee where flowers gay Smiled upon me all the day. Yet I chose thee from the rest (For old Scotland's sake the best), In my book thy blossom pressed. Little Gowan, poet's flower ! Couldst not thou thy hills resign? Every day I saw thee pine For thy country thine and mine. Wintry wind came driving past Gusts of snow, and in the blast Thou wert buried, rudely, fast. POEMS. 25 Little Gowan, Scotia's flower ! April sun has brought to light Crocuses and snowdrops white ; Where thy smiling face to-night ? Winds are wailing, sobbing low: " Out of reach of frost and snow Went the Gowan long ago ! " LINES ADDRESSED TO All silently the tear drops flow, And tremble on thy cheek ; As silent as the moonlight's fall Upon the quivering deep. On thy young life hath sorrow left Already her deep stain ? Above thee doth her spirit brood, Or flit to come again ? 26 POEMS, THE GARDENER'S SOLILOQUY. The last rays of the setting sun, Had fallen athwart the wold; The last leaves of the shivering trees, Fell crimson now and gold. The last wild flower had passed away, And left a cheerless vale ; While weirdly through the gloaming went The autumn wind's low wail. By came the gardener, old and gray, And looked with solemn eye ; Then spake in accents trembling, low : " There's little left to die ! " " When youth is gone, and eye is dim,. And memory fled for aye, The leaves of our humanity Thus flutter to decay." The old man paused, and gazed awhile Upon the sunset sky ; Then spake again his doleful strain : " There's little left to die ! " POEMS. 27 A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD. Little star so brightly shining- Through my window-pane to-night, Bringing down to earth a message, From that distant world of light. Would that I might read the record Which within thy beams doth lie, Learn the story of the dwellers In that distant azure sky. Sun and moon and stars are yonder, Death and life a dual play ; This, perchance, thy ghost that wanders Over space to earth to-day. Or doth further glory wait thee ? Shalt thou distant aeons see, Be the queen of night and beauty, When our earth no more shall be ? Grow until thou reach a splendour, Which the earth ha'h never seen? Be the dwelling of a nobler. Higher race than yet hath been ? 28 POEMS. Little star ! thy brightness dazzles Me with many a subtle ray ; Charms my willing fancy, leads it O'er thy airy path away. AT EVENTIDE. (SONG). O hush ! I hear the singing Of one to me so dear ; Soon as the twilight falleth. Her voice I seem to hear. She comes and sits beside me, And soothes me with her song; twilight shadows, linger ! I would the lay prolong. But ah ! the day is closing, The melody doth cease, And clouded is my spirit, Departed is my peace. 1 tarry for the morrow, To charm away my pain \ She cometh with the twilight, And 1 shall dream again. POEMS. 29 HYMN. ^ (For Music.) Be strong, O soul ! The morning breaketh fair ; All blue the sky no cloudlet anywhere ; Yet think, thy path is infinite and there Thou walkest all alone : O soul, be strong ! Be strong, O soul ! It is the full noon-day ; But thorns and briars haye sprung up on thy way Take heed unto thy steps, that so thou may Not faint nor fall : do thou beware, O soul ! Be strong, O soul ! The night comes on apace, The crescent moon hath hid her pensive face, Nor canst thou on the darkening heavens trace One lonely star : now, now be strong, O soul Be calm, O soul ! Dream not the night can last : If memory hath linked thee to the past, So, to the future, Hope hath bound thee fast : Be thou as calm as strong, O anxious soul ! 30 POEMS. IN MEMORIAM. (To MRS. E. M. T.) Mother : Take up thy harp, my child, and play to me Once more the old familiar melody, For as I hear the strain I feel that thou Art mine indeed, and read upon thy brow The sweet communion of our inmost thought. \j With thee alway beside me there is naught I cannot bear the envy or the blame Of multitudes, for thou art still the same, Through woe or weal. My daughter, can it be That thou dost feel all that I feel for thee ? Daughter : O mother, hearken while I touch the keys, And wake the gentle tones I know will please Thy tender heart ; and if a time shall come, When these frail strings for me must all be dumb, This melody will linger with thee yet, To whisper that thy child doth not forget, But that her spirit unto thine is near In sympathy with every smile and tear. O mother, I am always with thee why Should love like ours fear though the body die ! POEM?. 31 HAPPY, HAPPY FLOWERS. Happy, happy flowers ! So smiling and so peaceful do you seem, All bathed in sunlight and the crystal dew, You do not know how sad it is to dream. Happy, happy flowers ! Quaint Blue-bells, bluer than the summer sky, And nodding 'mong the gently-swaying grass, Whence are you can you tell and whence am I ? Happy, happy flowers ! For you there is no sob within the sea, You cannot hear the moaning of the wind j Eut ah ! it is far otherwise with me. Happy, happy flowers ! You never knew the storms on life's rousrh stream, O But yet, I would not choose your even way, Alas ! you know not what it is to dream ! 32 POEMS. SUMMER, WINTER, SPRING. Swallow, swallow, soaring fir, As if seeking yonder star ; Singing joyfully thy song, All those golden clouds among ; Rising swift from earth to sky, Back again to earth to fly ! Swallow, ever on the wing, Now no more we hear thee sing ; Birds and flowers all, all are gone ; Winter finds me here alone : " O that I like thee had wings ! " Thus forever my heart sings. No more snow, but gentle rain : " Swallow, art thou here again ? One day shall I too find wings ! " Thus forever my heart sings " And beyond that starry sky, Shall I ever upward fly ; Far beyond or land or sea, Where in dreams I've followed thee ; Far beyond the snow or rain, Never to touch earth again ! " POEMS 33 NIGHT. A REVEKY. The shades of night have fallen now, But clear and full shines out the moon, And by its side there gleams a star, Which, were I asked to give a name, I'd call fair Hope. Calm summer eve ! The trees would seem to hold their breath, Or softly sing their songs of peace. O Nature ! grand in all thy moods, And answering to our human need : Ofttimes so dark and wild thou art, As if rude tempests shook thy frame ; Anon quite clear and calm again, And stepping softly as a child ! Unfathomed are the minds of men, Unspeakable their feelings deep ; We can but search and dimly know, As if we peered through pale moonlight ; We darkly see, or not at all, Like helpless children, crying, " where ? " 34 POEMS. DOUBT NOT. Repel dark doubt, Dismiss dread care, Ah ! wherefore should we fear, When God is love, And merciful, And ever near ? The humblest life That breathes on earth, Lives through His law divine ; Let us not dream His power can fail, His wise design. No atom's lost, But ever change Has worked throughout all time ; No end there seems Our brightest dreams And most sublime POEMS. 35 Can not discern The Source of all, Nor grasp His mighty plan ; Each blade of grass Receives His care Then, fear not, man ! No rankling doubt The spirit life Will ever bloom in higher forms So we may live With present faith, Above life's storms. And hopeful hearts More hopeful grow, Though what shall be is dim ; They look above, And see His love, And trust in Him. 36 POEMS SEA WEEDS. (For Music.) Alone with the sea Is there never a voice To return my heart's deep sigh ! Alone with the sea And the moon and the stars That illumine yon lowering sky ! Alone with the sea Can no one tell What the secret of her unrest 1 Alone with the sea I could throw myself And weep on her heaving breast 1. Alone with the sea I seem to hear In her moan my soul's own lay, Like the cry of a child That has lost it's home And asks but to know the way ! 2 The tempest went from the ocean cave, And passed along the white sand ; A gentle breeze awoke in the south, POEMS. 37 And hastened across the land ; And kissed the tear from the restless wave And the sigh from the sounding deep, And soothed with the softest lullaby The ocean at last to sleep. The stars are bright in the sky to-night, And the moon looks over the sea ; But deeply impressed within my lone breast, Is a vision more lovely to me. I hear the lave of the rippling wave, And a whisper from every tree ; But over my soul doth a music roll, That is sweeter than all to me. On the mountain low lie the clouds like snow, And a silence comes over the lea ; But a holier calm like some heavenly balm, Is falling to-night upon me. How beautiful now is the heaven's pure brow, And the glory on land and sea ; But the moonlight stream of my fancy's dream, Is dearer than all to me ! 38 POEMS. QUESTIONINGS. It haunts me everywhere I go, By night or day, in joy or woe ; One great desire the thirst to know. To what end is my work to-day ? Or is it work, or is it play ? In vain I ask. What can I say ? Whereunto shall I set my aim ? I have not any wish for fame : What profit is there in a name ? Sometimes methinks it cruel seems, That Nature sendeth us no gleams- Or only something vague as dreams Of what the future hath in store, Of what life is at root and core ; And sadder evil I deplore, POEMS. 39 That men unfettered dare not speak, From their new fount of thought, but seek To hide fresh truth from week to week ; Or wrestle with a ruthless fate, Becoming martyrs soon or late : Can faith not live on faith and wait ? Not idly wait ; but, without fear, Heroically making clear Their trust in good like Heaven-taught seer. Is Nature slow? We cannot prove Her works, alas ! but only move Within one little narrow groove. We see the grass grow in the field ; The tree its lovely harvest yield ; But think ! what kingdoms lie concealed ! The rushing torrent, roaring wind, Are not more busy in their kind, Than is the silent, brooding mind. 40 POEMS Self-poised, mysterious mind surveys Material worlds, and counts their ways, But of its own thought-life, the maze, It only knows it knows not, sighs To feel assured that when it dies It only changes and will rise, And reassert its life, and power, As stars return at midnight hour, Or daisies come again to flower. The germ of faith is in the soul ; Howe'er it be, we trust the Whole, Nor fear, whatever be the goal. The power of one true master mind, The power of many such combined, Has it been can it be defined ? Man sends his thought from him afar, Seas, mountains, fail its course to bar, Shall he not speak from star to star ? POEMS. 4 1 What mystery escapes his lore, That he may not one day explore, While Doubt leads on from more to more ? Thou blessing Doubt, I welcome thee ; Sure symbol of activity : We needs must question e'er we see. 'Tis doubt that teacheth us to wait, That saves us from a hateful hate, And opens to us Reason's Gate. 42 POEMS. WEE WILLY. A TRUE STORY. As night comes creeping over day, Elastic fancy soars away, To take a glance through childhood's years, All filled, as now, with joys and tears ; That "long ago," in fitful gleams, Comes back to me like vivid dreams. The modest village church is there, With well worn, ivy-mantled stair ; The spire that served to point the way For many a traveller by day, While superstition feared to mark Its close proximity, if dark ; For thereabouts, the people said, Wandered the spirits of the dead. The village school-house I recall More vividly, methinks, than all : Of thirty pupils there was one- POEMS. 43 A bright-eyed boy, brimful of fun A little boy, self-willed and strong, And restless as the day was long. What did he care for reprimand ? None did he fear in all the land ; Untamed as any forest bird, He cculd not brook a wrathful word. " Rebellious one ! " the master thought , " His rebel spirit shall be taught : To him I'll show myself severe- He shall obey or not be here ! " This was the way a war began Between the pupil and the man ; From bad to worse the battle grew, Nor man nor boy knew what to do. Yet tender-hearted was the child, With some quite tractable and mild. I oft recall his large eyes yet,- The forehead white, with veins so blue, 44 POEMS. A thoughtful face, wherein there met Both intellect and goodness too. O that the master could have seen What that young nature might have been- Have known that, if strong will was there, It needed all the greater care Have looked upon that will with pride, Not striven to break it, but to guide ! " So good ! " is sometimes said of one Who lacks capacity for fun ; " So bad ! " is oft applied to him Who sees some sport in every whim : Vocabulary misapplied The bad is oft the good belied ! The river from the highest source Will onward roll with mighty force ; Untroubled, its swift waters clear Will bear us blessings every year ; But rudely check its chosen path (No surer way to rouse its wrath), POEMS. 45 'Twill sweep with devastating train O'er all the smiling fertile plain. One morn wee Willie's vacant place Reminded me of his wan face The eve before. The weeks flew by He did not come I wondered why. A hasty messenger one day Came seeking one called " little May," And told how darling Willy sent Entreating that before he went Away, his playmate would but come. Away ! " he meant to his long home ! < .- With throbbing heart I quickly flew To where he lay, but hardly knew The wasted form and weakened voice. Afraid to make the slightest noise, In silence by his couch I stood, While he in melancholy mood, Drew down my face near to his own, 46 POEMS. * And whispered tremblingly and low, " Dear little May ! Oh, must I go ? " The voice was but the faintest tone ; But still the restlessness was there, Impulsive tenderness, most rare And then there came a single moan The eyes shone with angelic glow. Naught could I speak; my heart was full " This, sturdy Willy of the school ! " All blinding came the bitter tears, No time to calm his anxious fears. My poor wee Willy, pale and meek ! I made a pillow for his cheek Against my own. and, as he smiled, I kissed his brow, so white, so rnild. Some moments passed a change appeared The change I waited for, yet feared : The little sufferer had fled I held not Willy he was dead ! POEMS. 47 The earthly body that he wore Was buried 'neath a willow tree, And as I wept in sadness sore The willow seemed to weep with me. Upon the little lonely grave The branches would so gently wave, And if a bird came nigh to sing. Its note had aye a mournful ring. The school-house children went that way, Eut softly trod, or stopped their play. Ofttimes, amid their sportive noise, I listened for wee Willy's voice (So hard is it to realize In childhood, how a playmate dies !) And if his tones I might not hear, I still would dream his spirit near, And smile to think, not far away, He must be waiting " little May." 48 POEMS. HYMN. (By my Father. Keprinted from "Hymns and Anthems.") Mysterious soul ! thou wondrous power, Not compassed by the passing hour ; But boundless, unconfmed and free; This earth is not a home for thee. No orb's thy home ; thou soar's t away Beyond light's farthest piercing ray; On through the boundless realms of space^ Immensity's thy dwelling-place ! Mysterious soul ! Thy course sublime Not fettered is by years of time ; Nor past nor future limits thee Thou livest in eternity ! Thou need'st no passport for the tomb, No light to guide thee through its gloom ; For thou art life and light combined A ray of the Eternal mind ! PART THE SECOND, SONNETS. 51 TO THE NEW YEAR. The wonder-land is nigh, though undescried, And worlds shall enter with the early dawn ; One moment, ere night's curtain be withdrawn, We pause to mark th' advancing human tide, Which comes with steady flow; in joy and pride, Its burden bearing from the ages gone ; Already building countless hopes upon That land it deems more fair than all beside. Dark voiceless region, dreary, calm, and cold, Awaiting still man's advent on thy shore ; Thou giv'st him nought but what he brings to thee : His faith and love go with him evermore But yonder is the morn ! upon the wold, The New Year, smiling, steps from the " To Be ! ' 52 SONNETS. AH, ROSE SO SWEET ! Ah, Rose so sweet ! the sweetest of all flowers j No sister hast thou to compare with thee ; Rich, poor, and wise and simple, watch to see Thy early bloom, thou queen of summer bowers ! ' Hush ! ' spake a pleading voice, ' no blossom towers Supreme o'er all her sisters of the lea ; Associate are flowers by you and me With Time and Place, from these derive their [powers. The yellow Broom that decks my native shore And fragrant Heather on the mountain's brow, Forever must my truest favourites stand ; To me they're linked with all poetic lore, And memory dwells with pride upon them now,- Loved emblems of a wild, romantic land ! ' SONNETS. 53 MORNING. The dawn had barely woke ; the mooii afar A silver crescent on the lonely sky Forsaken was by her vast company ; But one alone remained the morning star. From out the east arose a crimson glow That, falling softly on the lake, awoke Not e'en the earliest singing-bird, nor broke The deep tranquillity of Time's dull flow. Most solemn hush ! " Is this the death of Night ? ' I said within my heart ; " In Autumn-time The woods grow crimson weeping summer's flight, While earth droops wearily and sighs forlorn." With wand-like touch, a flood of light sublime Dissolved the spell, and hailed the birth of Morn ! 54 SONNETS. THE POET. The Summer-bloom has left the garden now ; And day has disappeared in night's dark cloud; The trees, so late with fruit and blossom proud, Before approaching Winter weep and bow. Lo, how the fc poet walks with pensive brow Adown the forest, where the wind moans loud Among the withered leaves, which make a shroud For the dull earth, now naked in each bough ! How runs the lonely wanderer's silent muse ? Does Nature's gloomy mantle rest on him? With sadness is his inspiration fraught? Not so ! his mind some gladness can infuse Into each hour, however dark or dim : The Poet's is th' ideal world of thought. SONNETS. 5 5 FRIENDSHIP. One questions eagerly, " Can friendship die ? " Another, as with warning, answers low : " The fickle winds of fortune ever blow, Full often severing the olden tie." Mark how the soul of aspiration high Outstrips the lesser soul of progress slow ; And say if time be not a ruthless foe Whom only rarest friendship can defy. Unconsciously, perchance, may feeling wane; The turning-point will oft elude the mind, Which some day wonders how the coldness grew. Behold yon rainbow through the glistening rain ! Canst thou the limit of one colour find ? Yet does the violet shade into the blue." 56 SONNETS. GEORGE ELIOT. As when the siren voices held in thrall, In days of old, the wanderers by sea, Enchanting them with wondrous melody, So did thy spirit to our spirits call, And keep them spell-bound in new realms of thought And even as the song, divinely sweet, With undertone of sadness still is fraught, So, in thy voice did joy with woe compete. Thyself, a shining light, thou knew'st the shade ; But, from the silence of the soul's recess, The lamp of thy great genius shone afar : The weary worker in his loneliness Descried the ray, and dreamed it could not fade. To him thou art as an immortal star ! SONNETS. 57 (WRITTEN ON RETURNING FROM VISITING SOME HOMES OF THE POOR, OCTOBER 2, 1887. TO THE ARTS. Hail Music ! Waft me now upon thy wing Beyond these vapours of the murky night ; Bear me afar to regions fair and bright, Where with one grand accord the angels sing ! Thou whisperest of an ideal spring Where Poesy and all the Arts delight In honouring each ; where the inspired sight Sees beauty underlying everything. Ye white-robed seraphs Music, Poesy Descend amid earth's poverty and pain ! Make sufferers forget their misery, And evil-doers vow to sin no more ; Say unto each : " My brother, try again ! I would unlock for thee thy prison door." 58 SONNETS. TIME. I heard a. strange voice calling unto me ; Did it not fall from yon etherial air, So wonderfully pure its tone and rare ; Or was it breathed across the lonely sea? Again the same voice sounded full and free :- " Time am I called ; behold me everywhere; For destiny hath given to my care The Past, the Present, and the great To Be. Go up unto the hill-top. I will show Myself to thee when busy day is done, And twilight shadows gather thick below ; For only to the great Infinite One Am I made visible in noon's pure glow : Man seeth me but in the setting sun." SONNETS. 59 IDEALS. Not for the deed that's done is this our praise ; Not to the word that's written bow we down ; . Tis something greater far that we would crown : The highest work a higher thought can raise. When life is painted in some noble phase, And skilful art has merited renown, The artist to himself will sadly own How feebly he his soul's clear thought conveys. The picture's but a symbol from his hand, And symbolizes to his mind alone The fullness of his fancy's brightest gleam : Admiring crowds will gaze an endless band, And deem they follow out each thought and tone ; But hardly one will catch the artist's dream. 60 SONNETS. FRIENDSHIP. O Friendship ! Do they deem thee but a name ! Who calls thee so hath never seen thy face, Nor known the secret of thy winning grace The love that cannot speak where it must blame. Yet thou hast not been all unknown to fame : Among the records of the past we trace The story of Orestes, who for space Of years, 'mid trials sore, did never shame The trust of Pylades his chosen friend. Youth, fame, and love, behold ! how, without end, The throng still hurries on its anxious way ! There is but one of calm, unclouded brow, Whose beauteous crown shines with divinest ray. While Peace stands by sweet Friendship, it is thou! SONNETS. 6 1 THOUGHT. Serene is yon deep blue expanse above Bright symbol of the tranquil human mind The hurricane \\ell passed j now calm, resigned, And shining with the universal love. Low down upon that placid brow of heaven, A floating cloud, as if it sought a star, By music-loving summer winds up-driven, Appears a white-winged thought blown from afar. Transcendent thought ! with thee in gloomy fears, We mourning sink into the vale of tears, Forsaking not the sorrow of thy night ; Or joyful follow in thy glorious lead, To wander with thee through the starry mead, Companions of thy glory, of thy light. 6> SONNETS. SONNET. READ AT THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF E. N. A word went forth upon the morning wind, Melodious falling on the dewy air, As pure as early snow-drop, and as fair A benediction to our human kind. Deep-sounding through the ages still we find Its wondrous consolation everywhere A subtle charm for sorrow or dull care : By which the darkest clouds are silver-lined ! Thrice blessed be the zephyr that has brought Such tidings from the far-off secret realm A message linking earth to heaven above. Our life-ship cannot wreck with this sweet thought This gleaming talisman upon its helm, When sweet and low the morning wind says Love. SONNETS. 63 SILENCE. In silence do ye gather, shades of night ! The sun in peaceful glory passed away ; As quietly arises the new day ; And gently fall the rays of the moon's light. How doth the sparkling eye with glances bright Make revelation more than tongue can say The inmost secrets of the heart betray ! No speech is needed for the soul's insight. To thought, O silence, thou'rt a very sun ; Without thee, genius withers and grows pale, And fails to charm u-i with his fairest flower : High-born art thou ; even the great gods hail Communion with thee consecrate thy hour. In silence nature's grandest work is done ! 64 SONNETS. HOPE. Tis she that walks before us day by day Who wooed us in our early infancy, In shining robes as fair, as fair could be, Enchanting us with an harmonious lay. When later on we saw the alluring fay. Her voice resounded, if less merrily, With sweeter far and truer melody, While no less beautiful was her array. HOPE leadeth still ; her path and ours are one ; No nearer her we come, no farther go ; Old age is fain to grasp her pure, white hand ; For dimming eyes gaze wistfully but lo ! Just as our earthly pilgrimage is done, Her shadow falls upon the unknown land. SONNETS 65 DESTINY. In starry beauty falls the crystal flake, As if it caught from heaven's bright host the form, And, helplessly, upon the winter storm Is earthward swept a brief abode to make. O soul of heaven-born beauty ! out of space And time, thou, too, dost drift unto the earth Awhile to dwell ; and, fading, leave no trace, Unknowing aught or of thy end or birth. Thy friends forsaking though a chosen band ; Alone departing and perchance for aye ; Ah, ruthless fate ! What is thy stern command That henceforth each pursue a separate way ? Or do the paths divide but to unite ? E'en as the darkness alternates with light. E 66 SONNETS. ON THE DEATH OF CARLYLE. Dumb stands the world beside a new-made tomb ; Unuttered even is the burial prayer ; Yet not unhallowed is the silent air ; A grief too deep for tears or prayers ; a gloom World-wide ; for earth has seen her richest bloom Decay and pass into the vague ' somewhere ' That unknown sphere from which no traveller e'er Returned to tell humanity his doom. O mighty heart ! like to the changing sea To fury lashed, and back with sudden awe Subsiding (as if Eolus set free The tempests, and, relenting, called them home), To thee as once upon the Mount a law Of Truth was given from yon celestial dome. SONNETS. 67 [WRITTEN WHILST STUDYING SPINOZA'S "ETHICS."] From out the misty night of long-ago, A star arose upon the human sky, Unheralded by voice of prophecy, And passed away. And there was none to know. But Time is just. The Present looks, and lo ! Through the new power of its discerning eye, It sees a fuller day about us lie ; The influence of that light's diviner glow. May not the mind, illumined by that gleam, Its wealth of gifts behold in clear array, Tracing their promise for the years afar ? Awake humanity ! No longer dream ! Lose not the revelation of to-day ! Spinoza was that new-light-giving star. "68 SONNETS. [FOUNDED ON A PERSIAN LEGEND.] The child asks, " Is it true? " The story's old, Of a brave youth who all on good intent Alone about the world unwearied went For love of human kind, nor sought for gold. His face was beautiful with thought ; his hold Of life but frail, as if he had been meant For gentle ways, and could not have been sent To battle with a world that bought and sold. A wistful, far-off look grew in his eyes As if they said to all, " Goodnight, farewell ! ' Farewell it was. In groves of paradise A radiant maiden meets him. " Who art thou ? " He asks, " For none so fair on earth did dwell." " I am thy deeds" she says, " that greet thee now / SONNETS. 69 LIFE'S PURPOSE. " Life's purpose is accomplished ! " exclaimed one, As, with a sigh, that was not all of pain Nor yet of pleasure all, he turned again, Repeating, " What I aimed to do is done ! " Then came another voice : " Your course is run 1 The longed-for goal no sooner we attain, Than we descry that fairer heights remain, And find at last our work is but begun. "The call becomes, ' So much remains to do ! ' Our feet have travelled but a little way, And we have lagged perhaps, and blundered too, And wish we could forget thankful that day Is still before us that the flush of red Is not the evening glow, but dawn instead !" 70 SONNETS. " O Music ! Art thouthe evening breeze of this life, or the morning air of the future one ? " Whence comes that melody ? I sunward glance And see the hills in gold and amethyst, While off the earth there rolls a heavy mist : With fixed gaze I stand as in a trance. The glory deepens on the purple hills ; The young moon looks down from her sea of blue ;.. Anon the melody comes clear and true, And mingles with the voices of the rills. Breathless, I watch the dying of the day - } With hushed soul hearken to the heavenly sound ; My heart is fluttering as if it would say, " O music, who hath thee, a heaven hath found." Thou wakest in me some strange memory, Thou wanderer from that shore Eternity. SONNETS. 7 I THE POET'S DREAM. Slight not the poet's thought. Like purest gem, He sees the truth shine deep in ocean's cave, And fain would reach to it if he might save The pearl, to place it in earth's diadem. Slight not the poet's thought. From lofty sphere, The voice of love is calling unto him A message from celestial seraphim, And fain is he that all the world should hear. Slight not the poet's thought. He dreamed a dream Upon a cloud he sat, and saw below Earth's chaos ; and he cried, " Can sorrow cease ? Hast thou, O heaven, no healing to bestow ? ' An angel form appeared from a sunbeam, Saying, " Lo ! Hope is here ; Hope giveth peace ' 72 SONNETS THE IDEAL. " What now is thine ideal ? " asks a friend, As with an earnest glance he turns to me ; " Each one hath his own vision ; let us see Wherein these differ, and whereto they tend. Think of the world that is ; of what ' might be ' ; Of what was loveliest to you long ago The shattered ideals place them in a row Beginning with the years of infancy." I strove then to call up the vanished past A swift-drawn mental picture of the whole Tracing each aim unto the present hour ; But words were halting, and I could at last But say : " O sky-ward looking, fleet-winged soul ! Earth hath no name for thine ideal flower." SONNETS. 73 OBLIVION. Oblivion come ! Of this rough pilgrimage I weary am, and gladly would resign The world, and all that I had called mine. Yet could I wish that there might come an age- An after-time when, from vacuity (E'en as refreshed we waken from a sleep), I, strengthened, might arise, and vigil keep Once more with suffering humanity. Of nature I can feel I am a part : Howe'er it be, we cannot separate, For we are surely one in mind and heart, And no wave comes nigh her but touches me. The hand invisible that guides our fate, Shall still attend my sleep in Lethe's sea. 74 SONNETS. TO "OUR CLUB." OCTOBER, 1887. The fire-lit room invites ; now is the hour ; Come friends, ye true and tried ones, gather round ! The gloaming gray glides in without a sound Gentle as starlight with a soothing power. For us the noisy crowd awhile be dumb ; And, following step by step our chosen theme, We'll build thought upon thought until our dream Become the foreglimpse of a world to come ! Philosophy be our elected queen : Submissive to her voice our voices be ; Let doubt be frank before her without fear : She cometh robed in soft humility ; Her glance is not less calm than it is keen, And nature's questions all to her are dear. SONNETS. 75 THE WANDERER'S DREAM. Ere came the first sound of the matin bells, The angel we name Death, stood by my side :- " Fear not, child, tremble not if nigh I glide- But hearken how the joyful chorus swells ! The acclamation from high heaven tells That paradise unto some souls hath wide Its portals oped. How long thou may'st abide On earth knows not the God that in thee dwells. But this, lone pilgrim, I would have thee know A message from th' Eternal Throne above Thy friend I am alway, and not thy foe ; On earth called Death, but in the heavens called Love. Long hast thou yearned to reach yon shining dome: Poor wanderer, take heart ! Behold thy home !" 76 SONNETS. THE FIRST SNOW. The harvest now is o'er ; the fields are bare ; And yonder is the ploughman on the hill ; The water freezes in the purling rill ; Bleak desolation meets me everywhere. Gray threatening sky a frosty atmosphere ; The haws o'er-ripe are falling from the trees ; A fairy snowilake floating on the breeze, Announces that the Winter-king is near. The withered leaves are moaning as I go, A requiem for the sweet season dead; Each little flower is hiding from the snow, And happy swallows, ye hath southward fled ! My spirit turns away : with other eyes, I still can see the genial summer skies. SONNETS. 77 OUR GUIDING STAR. INSCRIBED TO " CRITIC." Do we scan vainly this immense ' somewhere,' For hand to point the way that we should go, Or rule to guide us through this vale below, And listless sink at last in grim despair ? Ye constellations worlds so far and fair Beaming in seeming joy could ye but know The tragedy of life its deeps of woe In pity would ye leave your courses there ! Each for himself must find his own bright star ; Each must discover the straight, upward path ;. Each one attain the life of truest beauty : Haply we do not need to look afar ; One word describes it, and that each one hath : Whate'er we have not, we have all our Duty. 7 8 SONNETS. SO SAD, SO STRANGE, THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE ! " Aye, when the world seems all too drear and cold, And hopelessness stares me on every side, And melancholy only doth abide To wrap rne in her heavy ebon fold, .1 can retire disquietude untold And unto her my troubles all confide, With her in waking dream sit side by side, And shed my tears as I was wont of old. Her memory's a sanctuary now, Though long, long years have veiled her from my sight ; Almost I feel her hand upon my brow, And then the darkness is transformed to light ; But when I cry, " My mother, it is thou ! " The vision's gone : I sit alone with night. PART THE THIRD. POEM. 8 I MEDITATIONS FROM " DREAM-GROTTO." " And conscious life is King of Kings" I The quaintest grotto this ! a hermit cell ! The passer-by discerns not the retreat; No drop of rain to it can penetrate. Here needs no toll of bell t'announce the hour; The shadows write it on the smooth, green grass : And yonder, on the horizon, Hesperus Forgets not to proclaim the day is done. The season is portrayed upon the trees ; On golden boughs the summer sighs 'farewell.' A look of waiting falls upon the land As one may see the aged stand and gaze Knowing the great deliverer is nigh. Upon the shelving branches there are laid Companion books : darkness conceals them now (So little way the body's eye can see) ; Yet one may reach to them with eyes of faith, For soul subserves all earthly elements, And mounts on them the conscious King of Kings ! 82 POEM. II I watch the birds that hop about my feet Across the lengthening shadows on the lawn, And see them perch upon the slender twigs, And lightly sway themselves from tree to tree, Then soar into the peaceful blue of heaven, And send to earth a perfect flood of song. Oft will man envy these glad birds their wings, Forgetting his soul's pinions, that can take Him on from flower to flower and peak to peak And upward to that vast ethereal dome Beyond where bird can reach or wind may blow, And back and forth through all the centuries (From ages past to ages yet to be) Until, as free as lark in yon blue sky, He soars in the pure azure of his thought, And utters songs that lift the human world. POEM. 83 III Neath this hot sun, upon this summer day, Earth grows alive ; as if the glowing beams Had floated life down from yon fiery orb, Or summoned it from earth's deep sepulchre. When our too slothful minds shall feel the sun Of righteousness shine on them and grow warm With right's enthusiasm, then shall we Reflect that righteousness, and make the shade- The darkest hours of life shine beautiful With chastened light a moonlight of the mindi Thou moonlight of the mind ! In thy still air The busy, garish day doth vanish quite ; Celestial melodies entrance the soul, And thrill it with a joy not of the earth A rapture that doth hint of height on height A vast ' beyond ' an infinite foreground, Warmed by the rays of an undying sun. 84 POEM. IV Ah 1 whither, whither, whither do we go ? Full sweetly from the hawthorn hedge the lark Gave forth his plaintive note into the night A night that ever since hath darker been : The crescent moon withdrew her promised light, And not one little star remained in view. By heaven and earth forsook, I was alone. Beyond ! Beyond ! I think I hear ye say ; Or came the voice' across the moaning deep ? Beyond ! Ah, softly ponder beyond what ? What is ' beyond ' in Nature's unity ? So all alone ! such desolate despair ! A lone beginning to a lonelier end ! Each soul an isolated world : its life Cut off at last as one might pluck a flower. O mighty powers ye gods ! Are ye, too, lone ? Can ye feel pity ? Can ye read the thought Of beings far more lowly than yourselves ? Or, haply, do ye but make sport of them ? As men make sport with creatures less than they ? POEM. V Among the maples and low-sighing pines, Solemn I wander through the dusky gloom, And think upon the loved forms of the past. Where are they and how are they ? Where am I ? Are they but farther on the thorny road Which I am traversing? Do they await Those whom they held the dearest here on earth ? Shall fond companions ever meet again ? So much I've pondered thus in this dark wood, It now seems haunted by those spirit-friends. The yellow leaves are dropping from each bough Like symbols of our transitory life. All change ! But what a hope lies in the word ! When one is animated by the love of good, Change can be naught but progress evermore. Cherish this thought and hopelessness will die. 86 POEM. VI Great book of Nature ! In thee let us read, And in thee lose this loneliness of soul, Forgetting all for thine infinite truth As ills may sink in dark oblivion's sea, While fancy roves afar in waking dreams. Alone with Nature we are least alone. Doth she not speak to us in undertones Of murmuring water or of moaning wind, And in the silent longings of the soul ? Let us not fear our thoughts ; are they not Hers ?" She is the Author and our Mother, She. VII See there the yellow butterfly that flits From flower to flower with joy of its new life. If it could look down on that chrysalis That lowly tent wherein it used to dwell, And if its thought could wander farther back To where it crawled a worm upon the dust, How would it marvel at its painted wings, POEM. 87 And power to light upon the honied flower ! In all the fairy lore by fancy wove, There's nothing to be found so strange as this ; More wonderful is it to childlike mind, Than when the lovely Galatea breathed. Whereto doth first the power of memory come? Man knows not of a past ;but shall he know? The hour that passes, shall he know it gone ? Th' unknown hath it not room for all his hopes ? VIII The mansion is't the same I used to know ? The colours seem too gaudy no repose ; The walls oppress are prisonlike and cold : No more the old familiar voices sound ; The ivy's gone that twined about the tower ; The wall-flower and the periwinkle, dead ; E'en the old name will soon be quite forgot ! Forgot ! aye, everlastingly forgot ! Unwitting pause we on that ' ever-more.' Turn we the protean kaleidoscope, Each revolution showing something new ; 88 POEM. One picture may not come before us twice, Yet every image is therein contained ; Forms disappear is it forever-more? Howe'er it be, I hardly know this spot. The change, perhaps, is mostly in myself; I care not for the things I cared for once Or only care for them as relics old. These volumes speak of superstition's sway ; The portraits ancestors I never knew ; The quaint piano... 'tis a curious toy ; To wander here, is living 'mong the dead. Dead forms make the rich soil whence all life springs ; Our very hopes are nourished on decay. Life-kindling thought is bearing us afar ; Our aspirations burst their barriers (As surely as the lark breaks from her shell), Soon as the fair ideal is matured. Ye monuments of a dim past, farewell 1 Through custom are ye all endeared to me ; Yet have I left you and that former self Which once I was : we two are parted now ; Perforce each calls to each : farewell ! farewell ! TOEM . 89 IX Thou stately elm ! Thy beauty speaks to me ; In thy life I can feel a lively joy ; Yet thou hast not the smallest part in mine ! Oft have I lingered 'neath thy sheltering arms ; Oft here found refuge from the burning sun, And dreamed away the summer afternoon. Far stretch the years before thee ! Joyous groups Will come to seek thy shade and carve their names On thy great stem as I have done erewhile. Denied the power to think, thou art endowed With strength of earthly life ! while I, alas ! Endowed with thought, have shorter term to live. Red grows the sky with wealth of light suffused Deep-orange red, and threatening, though still ; O'er-hanging clouds look solid as the hills, And the low line of hills resembles clouds ; Night speedily her heavy mantle draws O'er sea and land ! 'tis blackness everywhere Except in the recesses of my soul : There light is burning : there my real life 90 POEM. A world of light though earth be wrapt in gloom- A world in which thou, elm-tree, hast no share. O soul ! the earth is but thy chrysalis ; Unhappy thou because thy tender wings May not at once take the ideal flight. Joy in thy growing pinions ! Even now They waft thee to that hidden world of thine, Remote from earthly strife, and toil and pain, Where like the acorn springing underground The spirit grows in its vast solitude, One day to rise to its ideal home. As water mounteth to its source's height,. So mounts the soul unto its highest thought. What is the spirit's source but the Supreme ! Then to the All Holy doth the soul aspire. Ponder this well, and death itself must die. X All, all is still ! The meadow, hill, and wood ; The cattle sleeping on the new-mown hay ; The water motionless upon the lake ; POEM. 91 The moon enthroned high on the midnight sky ; All, all, is rest, yet life and harmony. Why rest not I ? If I could only fold This restless brain, like petals of that flower ! If I could lay down me in shade retired, Where winds would lull me to a dreamless sleep, My brain commanding thus, " Go, take thy rest 1'* As we mount higher up the scale of life, The less of rest doth there appear to be ; For though great Nature seem awhile to pause, And silence fill the cavern of the night, And though the clouds lie mute like sleeping gods,, Life conscious is, and there's no rest at all. No rest at all or only perfect rest That grand repose where rest and work are one ! The rest, that is, when o'er earth's canopy The northern lights keep at their ceaseless play ; The rest that is, when hid from human eye The acorn prophesies the coming spring ; The rest that is, when wearied hands lie still While thought communeth with the One Supreme \ 9 2 POEM. All, all is still. The day is hid in night ; But soon the night will hide within the day ; And noiseless glides the chariot of the morn. All, all is still. This hour be consecrate. My spirit, onward ! self-controlled self-poised I Till this unceasing, everlasting change, Become to thee as to the Eternal rest I PART THE FOURTH. " There are so many tender and holy emotions flying about in our inward world, which, like angels, can never assume the body of an outward act, so many rich and lovely flowers spring up which bear no seed, that it is a happiness that poetry was invented, which receives into its limbus all these incorporeal spirits, and the perfume of all these flowers." JEAN PAUL RICHTER. TRANSLATIONS. 95 POET AND READER. (From the German of Stober.) Wouldest thou a poet be ? Calm be thought, as if for prayer ; That thy spirit reverently Enter beauty's temple fair. That thou see her features clear, All with pensiveness o'erlaid ; Till before thee she appear Fully, as of marble made. Wouldest thou a poem read ? Calm be thought, as if for prayer, That before thy soul may speed, Image of the poet, rare. That, through his own being, thou May'st descry his path with awe, And, through his pure vision, now See the ideal that he saw. 96 TRANSLATIONS OF POETRY. BARCAROLLE. (From the French qf Theophile Gautier.y Come, whither wilt thou sail ? My pretty maiden, tell ; For favouring is the gale, See'st thou the canvas swell ! The rudder is of gold, The sail a silken fold, And ivory the side j An orange is the freight, An angel's wing the gate, A seraph is the guide. Come, whither wilt thou sail ? My pretty maiden tell ; For favouring is the gale, See'st thou the canvas swell I TRANSLATIONS. The Baltic shall it be? Or coast of Normandy ? Or island of Java ? To Norway would you go ? And see the snow-flower blow? Or blossom d'Angsoka ? Come, whither wilt thou sail ? My pretty maiden, tell ; For favouring is the gale, See'st thou the canvas swell ! Conduct me, said the fair, To that inspiring air, Where love is love for aye. That land, my gentle child, Remote from this rude wild, Think you to reach to-day? 97 98 TRANSLATIONS. THE LETTER. (From the German of Heine.") The letter thou hast sent me, Shall not me anxious make j To say thou dost repent thee, Should not twelve pages take ! Twelve pages of close writing A manuscript to tell, That what thou art inditing Doth truly mean farewell ! THE SERENADE. (From the German of Uhland.) What doth from slumber waken me ? Sweet music do I hear; O mother, see ! who may it be So late at midnight drear ? TRANSLATIONS. 99 " I nothing hear, I nothing see, Ah 1 slumber on, my boy ! A serenade they sing to thee, To bring thee dreams of joy !" Not earthly music do I hear ; It brings both joy and light ; The angels call me soft and clear O mother dear, Good-night COULD I BUT GO ! (From the French of SullyPrudhomnte.) Could I but go to him and say : " She now is yours and, from this day, In my life hath not any part : Ungrateful she hath been of late But she is pale and delicate In pity take her to thy heart ! JOO TRANSLATIONS. Hear me then without jealousy, For the wing of her fantasy Hath all too surely passed me by : Of her disdain much could I tell But, where she loves, she loveth well ; Oh ! keep the tear-drop from her eye 1 If I could go to him and say : " Almost too sad her pensive way ; Offer to her some flower each morn The softest blue rather than rose ; These daily courtesies disclose Thy love a love she did not scorn." Then I could an assurance feel, That she is cherished for her weal Though not by me yet as I would Too cruel one ! forsaking me ; My torture thou shalt never see. I cannot go but if I could 1 TRANSLATIONS. 1 01 (From the German of -Tustinus Kerner.) My picture* this ? I cannot trace Herein the likeness to my face; Well-taken doth the coat appear ; The attitude, the stick is here ! THAMIRE TO THE ROSES. ^From the German of J. N. Gotz..) My beloved, when we parted, Vowed that ere your buds had blown He would come j but broken-hearted, Roses, see me still alone ! '*Cytherea's daughter, fairest Rosebud ! spare, ah spare me pain For his promise if thou carest, Close again, ah close again ! * On receiving a portrait of himself done by his sister. ** Cythere was a Greek name of Aphrodite or Venus. 102 TRANSLATIONS. POETRY. (From*the German qf Justinus Kerner.) Poetry is a deep pain, And it comes the real song, Only in dark sorrow's train, Gliding through the heart along. Greatest poems are, alas ! Speechless, like to greatest pain ; Through the broken heart they pass Mute, like shadows on the plain. ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. (UHLAND.) He came and went, and left small trace A flying guest to this strange land ; The ' Whence ?' and 'Where ?' we only know From out God's hand back to His hand. TRANSLATIONS. 103 OH SAY, SWEET LITTLE BIRD OF MINE. the German of ffebbel.) * O say, sweet little bird of mine, O say, what distant goal is thine ?" I cannot say, Yet must away, The path I surely can divine ! " O tell, sweet little bird, to me, What hope hath promised unto thee ?" Soft air to greet, With odour sweet, And a new Spring beyond the sea! " That country far, thou hast not seen ; Perchance it is not, nor hath been ? " All that you ask, Were a hard task, For me to answer you, I ween ! 104 TRANSLATIONS. The bird flew o'er the desert sand, No guide had it from human hand ; A day more fair, And balmy air, Have welcomed it in a far land. THOU AND I. (From the German of Hebbel.) We dream of one another, And from our dreams awake To live and love together, Each for the other's sake. Forth from my dream thou goest, As I go forth from thine j We die in self-forgetting Resigning ' mine ' and ' thine.' Upon a Lily tremble Two drops so pure and round ; They mingle, calmly flowing Together to the ground. TRANSLATIONS. 105 HEART OF MINE. (From Heine.) Heart of mine, thou longest ever, For the olden happy time, When the days were spent in pleasure, Simple, innocent, sublime I Now 'tis hurry never ceasing, Envy, poverty and woe : God is dead j confusion reigneth Everywhere on earth below. Darkness o'er the world is brooding, Rottenness is at the core : Were it not for thee, my darling, I would give the struggle o'er ! 06 TRANSLATIONS. IDEALS. {From the German of Seherer.) Comes a high-born thought this hour, Let it from you never, Till you have it in your power Ever and forever. If on duty's path you go, And a sorrow press you, Close with it as with a foe, Fight it till it bless you. BY THE SHORE. (From the German of R. Gottschalk.) What write the billows on the sand ?- They can but tell their bitter pain, That they but come to go again So short a sojourn on the land ! TRANSLATIONS. 107 I gaze upon the sea to-day. My sweetest joy and dearest hope, I've written on the sandy slope : The waves are washing it away. TO THE WIND. (From the German of Lenati.) I wandered to a foreign land, But ere I went I looked around ; Her lips moved, and I heard a sound, And then she waved her little hand. I know it was some loving word She sent to cheer me on my way ; But what it was I could not say ; The heartless wind alone had heard. That I must leave my only bliss, Was not enough, too cruel wind ! But thou must steal her message kind ! But thou must snatch her parting kiss ! IO8 TRANSLATIONS. RESIGNATION. (From the German of Fr. von Sallet.} Although they take from me my sight, They cannot thus obscure the sunj In dungeon though I lie to-night, Yet Freedom's battle shall be won. Although they bind my ready hand, Because it used the pen for sword, Nor pen nor sword shall fail the land, While live true hearts that fear the Lord. Although my voice be stifled quite, The breath omnipotent is here j Th' immortal tone the Infinite Shall fill a million voices clear. Think not the spring-time over yet With its abundant life and light, Because some evil hearts have met, To kill a Nightingale at night. TRANSLATIONS. THE WAKENED ROSE. (From the German of FT. von Ballet.) The Rose-bud dreamed of warm sunshine, Of rustling leaves and eglantine, Of the melodious waterfall, And of the nightingale's sweet call, Of how caressing zephyrs blow, And of the fragrant valleys low. The bud awoke a full-blown Rose, And through its tears a smile now glows, For it can hear and it can see The earth and air hold jubilee. Its dream is realized, and lo ! With joy, and trembling more and more, In its its surprise it whispers slow : I think I must have lived before ! 110 TRANSLATIONS. APRIL. (From the German of Geibel.) Thou balmy April evening, I love thy beauty rare ; The clouds obscure the heavens, A star shines here and there. The breath of love is filling The zephyrs as they blow ; The fragrance of the violet Is wafted from below. O for a strain of music To suit the pensive hour Some cadence low and tender To lell its soothing power ! TRANSLATIONS. GOOD-NIGHT. (From Theodor Earner.) Good-night ! Rest ye weary from your pain. Silently the day is dying, Ended now your care and sighing Till the morning break again. Good-night ! Rest awhile ! Let the weary eyelids close ! Over all a stillness falleth Hearken, 'tis the watchman calleth Night hath solace for our woes. Rest awhile ! Slumber now ! Dream a dream of happy meeting ! Thou who art by love forsaken, Shalt in fancy re-awaken To the dearly loved one's greeting. Slumber now ! 112 TRANSLATIONS. Good-night ! Slumber till the break of dawn ; Slumber till you hear the warning Whispered by the breath of morning. God is watching ; slumber on ! Good-night ! THOU EVERYWHERE. (From the German of Schultze.) When the evening glow is dying, Rise the moon and stars on high ; When the stars and moon are fading, Steps the sun into the sky. In the heavens' crimson glory, In the sun's illuming glance, In the moon and all the planets, See I but thy countenance. TRANSLATIONS. 113 Other forms may pass before me, None I seem to heed but thine, From afar I feel thy coming, As if thy thought called to mine. Yet when thou art by me sitting Then, indeed, I nothing see, For my eyes o'erflow with weeping, Joy and pain come over me. Ah, I wish not to forget thee, Cruel though the memory be, Ever art thou near my spirit, Though forever far from me. H 114 TRANSLATIONS. SPRING SONG. (From Heine.) Softly thro' my listening soul Sweetest chimes are sounding ; Little spring-song onward roll, Far and wide resounding. Pause not till thou reach the cot Where the Violet's springing ; Whisper to the Rose my heart Greets her in thy singing. THE COT. (From the German of Gleim.') A modest little cot have I, That just across the mead doth lie ; A little brooklet purleth near, Whose water floweth crystal clear. My little cot you scarce may see For yonder stately bending tree, Which seems to look with kindly care Upon the lonely dweller there. TRANSLATIONS. And now a little nightingale Is sweetly singing in the vale ; So clear his note that one must stay And hearken to him by the way. Thou little maid wiih soft brown hair,. "Who long hast been my joy and care > I go, the storm-wind bloweth free : Wilt thou not seek the cot with me ? A POEM, THOU. (From the German rf Feodor Loive.) A rare and quite mysterious book, Is thy dear face to me ; On whichsoever side I glance, A poem I can see. But when therein I fain would read,. And all my thoughts engage, The roguish look within thine eye, Will slyly turn the page. H6 TRANSLATIONS. THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. (From the German of Uhland.) Hast seen yon castle standing Beside the crystal sea, Around its tower commanding The white clouds wandering free Hast seen it downward bending To kiss the water clear, Its summit high ascending To touch the heavenly sphere ? "Ah yes, I know its seeming That castle by the sea The moon above it gleaming, The mist about the lea." Did breeze and crested billow Sound loudly forth and long, And from the festive chambers Came there a mirthful song ? TRANSLATIONS. I I " The wind and e'en the ocean But uttered plaintive sighs, A wail of deep emotion Called tears into my eyes." O did'st thou see the waving Of the monarch's crimson gown, The precious jewelled setting Of the fair queen's golden crown ; A maiden were they leading With rapture and with grace, Celestial glory beaming Upon her lovely face ? " The regal pair were sitting Without a chaplet rare, In mourning robes and fitting : The maiden was not there." TRANSLATIONS. PRIERE. (From tie French of Sully- J'rvdhomme.) Ah, if you knew how I deplore My solitude continually, Sometimes before my cottage door You would pass by. If you but knew the joy I took In meeting but your fleeting glance, Up to my window you would look As 'twere by chance. If you but knew what comfort sweet My heart has known when near you stood, You could not hesitate to meet- No sister would, If you but knew what I could tell My love, and if you knew the how, I almost think, perhaps, that well You'd enter now. TRANSLATIONS. 1 19 MY HEART, 1 WISH TO ASK THEE. (From the German oj Fr. Halm.) My heart, I wish to ask thee, What then is love, O say? " Two souls with one thought only, Two hearts tuned to one lay !" And say, whence cometh love then? " We know not of the where !" And say, how goeth love then ? "What goes was never there !" And tell me, what is pure love? " For self it hath no will !" And when is love the deepest ? " When it is calm and still !" And when is love the richest? " That is it when it gives !" " And O, how talketh love, then?" "It doth not talk it lives I" 120 TRANSLATIONS. CHAINS. (From the French of Sully- Prudhomme.) All have I wished to love, and now unhappy am, For of misfortunes I have multiplied the cause ; Innumerable ties have broken my sweet calm ; The world with all its objects are to me as laws. At once all things attract, and with an equal force ; 'I he truth with its own light ; th' unknown with luring tones ; A golden ray hath linked my heart unto its Source ; The stars with silken threads have bound me to their zones. Soft melody is flowing to me like a tide ; The odour of the rose awakens a new bliss ; And smiles can say to me, come hither and abide ! While on my lips there lives the freshness of a kiss- My life is hanging on such perishable thread ; To beings that I love I'm like a captive elf; The slightest breath of care that unto them is wed, Can rob me always of a portion of myself. TRANSLATIONS. I 2 I TO-MORROW. (From the French of Victor Hugo ) The future ours ? Ah, no ! It is the Gods' alone ! The hours are ringing low " Farewell " in every tone. The future ! Think ! Beware ! Our earthly treasures rare- Hard-won through toil and care - Our palaces and lands, Great victories, and all Possessions, large and small, But only to us fall, As birds light on the sands ! 122 TRANSLATIONS. [Translation.] A beauteous face illumed the way to Heaven : No more on earth is aught that can delight me ; To souls elect, uprising, I unite me A grace to mortal man but rarely given. So well the work accords with Him who made it, That unto Him it lifts me : my life's story Is formed of thought and deed to suit its glory : It did command me : I have but obeyed it. And if from these two eyes so brightly shining I turn not, but do recognize their fitness To guide me still upon the path supernal ; Enkindled at their fire, myself resigning, I shall reflect their lustre; and bear witness To joy, that reigneth in the Heavens, eternal. TRANSLATIONS. 323 ITALIAN SONNET. BY MICHAEL ANGELO. La forza d'un bel volto al ciel mi spiona (Ch' altro in terra non e che mi diletti), E vivo ascendo tra gli spiriti eletti ; Grazia ch'ad uom mortal raro si dona. Si ben col suo Fattorl'opra consuona Ch'a Lui mi levo per divin concetti ; E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti ; Ardendo, am ando per gentil persona. Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide ; E se nellume loro acceso io ardo, Nel nobil foco mio dolce riluce La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride. PART THE FIFTH. TRANSLATIONS. 127 GERMAN LOVE. Found among the papers of a stranger. Edited and accompanied with a preface by Max Midler. (Translated from the German)* I. PREFACE. has not some time in his life sat down to a writing table where but shortly before sat another, who nov rests in the grave ? Who has not opened the drawers that for long years concealed the secrets of a heart that now lies hidden away in the hal. lowed peace of the churchyard ? Here lie the letters which to him, the dear one, were so dear. Here are the pictures ! here the books, with marks on every page. Who can explain them ? Who can gather the scattered petals of a faded rose, and restore to them their first fragrance ! The flames, that among the Greeks received the bodies of the deceased, as well as such things as these had treasured, are still the safest receptacle for the relics of the departed. With the most delicate hesitation does the bereaved friend turn over the pages which no living eye hath seen, and, having convinced himself that they contain *Published by approval of Prof. Max Muller. 128 TRANSLATIONS. nothing intended for the public gaze, he throws them upon the glowing coals. They ignite, and are gone ! From such flames the following few pages have been saved. They were intended at first for friends only, but now they are permitted to wander away among strangers. How gladly would the editor have given more of those " recollections !" Unfortunately many of the pages were so far destroyed that it was found impossible to put them together again. MAX MULLER. OXFORD, January, 1866. FIRST RECOLLECTION. Childhood has its mysteries, but who can describe them ? We have all wandered through that silent won- der-land. We 4 have all once opened our eyes in happy be- wilderment, and the beautiful reality of life has dawned upon our souls. Who we were, or where we were, we knew not ; the whole world was ours, and we belonged to the whole world. Life was without beginning and without end without stagnation and without pain. Our hearts were glad as a spring sky, fresh as the scented violet, calm as a Sunday morning. TRANSLATIONS. 129 How is the peace of childhood disturbed? How is it that we are driven out of this untroubled existence to find ourselves suddenly alone and lonely, grappling with the problems of actual life ? Answer not with stern brow that " sin " is the cause ; say, rather, " We do not know j we can only submit." Is it sin for a plant to blossom, and bear fruit, and fade, and turn to dust ? Is it sin that changes the caterpillar to a cocoon, and the cocoon to a butterfly, and the butterfly to dust ? Is it sin for a child to grow to man- hood, and age, and turn to dust? What is "dust "? Choose to answer, " We do'not know ; we can only t submit." But ah ! how sweet it is to think back on the spring, time of life to remember ! In the hot summer, the sad autumn, the cold winter, there comes now and then a spring-like day, when the heart says, " I feel just as though it were spring !" To-day is such a one, and so I throw myself down on the soft moss in the fragrant wood, and stretch out my weary limbs, and look up through the green foliage to the infinite blue, and think " How did it all seem when I was a child ?" The beginning ! If only there were no beginning 1 For with the beginning remembrance suddenly stops. And if we meditate upon childhood, and before that, and before that again, the mystic beginning is ever receding 130 TRANSLATIONS. and receding; just as if a child sought to place its hand on the spot where the blue heaven rests on the brown earth, and runs and runs and grows weary, finding that the blue sky is just as far off as ever. Yet a beginning of some sort must have been. What,, then, do we all know about it ? Memory gives itself a shake, like a poodle that has just emerged from a pond. When it has time to get the water out of its eyes, it looks up with a sort of surprised air, as much as to say, " Here I am after all !" But I do believe I remember the first time I saw the stars. It may be that I had seen them often before, but there was one evening that something went on within me which made my little "I" more observant than usual. I was filled with fear somehow, and I sat in my mother's lap, and the cold made me shiver. My mother pointed to the bright stars, and I looked and wondered, and thought how shining and pretty she had made them ! All that first period seems filled with the loving face of my mother, the solemn glance of my father, a garden, a summer-house, soft, green grass, a curious old picture book, a venerable church from which came the sound of an organ whose tones made me feel, oh, so happy ! Then there comes a time when everything becomes more distinct. Not only are there mother and father,. TRANSLATIONS. 131 but sisters and brothers and friends and teachers, and a crowd of strangers. Oh, yes ! of these strangers how much is engraven upon my memory ! SECOND RECOLLECTION. Not far from our house stood a large building with many towers. The house had many windows, and these were hung with crimson silk and gold tassels. All round the court-yard stood linden trees, and the turf was strewed with their fragrant, white blossoms. Often I had looked in there, and in the evenings when the linden perfume was so sweet, and the windows lighted, and I saw forms moving here and there like shadows, and the music sounded, and carriages came driving along and ladies and gentlemen alighted aud hurried up the steps, I could not help asking myself " Why do you not go in too ?" One day my father took me by the hand, and said " Come, we will go to the palace. You must behave very nicely, and should the Princess speak to you, you must kiss her hand." I was about six years old, and rejoiced as one only can rejoice at that age. I had so often thought about the moving shadows that were visible in the evening when the rooms were lighted, and had heard so much said of the goodness of the 132 TRANSLATIONS. Prince and Princess how much they did for the poor and suffering, that it seemed to my childish fancy that I knew all about what went on at the castle, and I felt as intimately acquainted with the Prince and Princess as I did with my leaden soldiers. Yet my heart beat fast as I went up the steps with my father. Whilst he was telling me that I must say "Your Highness," to the Prince, and "Your Serene Highness" to the Princess the folding doors opened, and I saw a tall figure with clear, glancing eyes approaching. Then the beautiful lady smiled as she held out her hand to me. I could not longer restrain myself. Whilst my father stood at the door making a profound bow, I ran towards the lady, threw my arms round her neck, and hugged her as if she had been my mother. The Princess did not seem displeased, but stroked my hair and laughed. My father, however, drew me away, saying " that I had been very rude, and that he would never bring me there again." The blood flew to my cheeks, and I felt that my father did me an injustice. I looked round at the ladies and gentlemen assembled, expecting that they would take my part, but they were all laugh- ing. The tears filled my eyes, and I ran away out of the door, down the steps, past the long row of lindens, and at last reached my mother, and threw myself into her arms. TRANSLATIONS. 133 " Why may I not love people who look at me with such kindly eyes ?" I sobbed out. " You may love them, but you must not show it," said my mother, soothingly. " And why not show it is it wrong?" I went on. " No, no, my son ; you are right ; but when you are older you will understand that you cannot embrace everybody that looks kind and good." That was a sad day. My father came home and insisted that I had been naughty. In the evening I said my prayers to my mother and went to bed. But I could not sleep. The question " What are ' strangers ' that we dare not love them ?" kept me tearful that I could not sleep. Poor human heart ! Even thy spring-tide leaves get nipped by the rude elements. We are taught to stand, to walk, to speak and to read ; but nobody teaches us to love. Yet love, 'tis said, is the ground of our being. As the heavenly bodies attract each other, and are held in their places by the eternal law of gravity ; so do heavenly souls attract each other, and are held by the eternal law of love. A plant will not blossom without sun- shine, nor does the human plant thrive without love. And the love of the child is of that immeasurable kind that no plummet fathoms a love that knows nothing of 134 TRANSLATIONS. more or less, but that goes out to the object with the whole power of its being. How little, alas ! of this love remains ere we have completed the first half of life's circle I The child has learnt that there are * strangers,' and therefore ceases to be a child. The spring of love is hidden. We walk through the din of the streets with weary-like, expression, less faces. Hardly do we risk a greeting as we pass each other by, for we have experienced what it is to meet with no response, and the wounds are still tender. At length the petals of the soul's blossom are nearly all bruised or blighted ; in the inexhaustible well of love but a few drops remain with which to cool our tongues that we may not quite faint. These drops we still call love. But that is no longer the pure, full, glad love of the child. It is a love made up of anxiety and pain a love which quickly passes away, like rain upon hot sand. It is love which exacts, not love which gives love which asks, u Wilt thou be mine?" not love which says "I must be thine !" It is egotistical, despairing love. And that is the love of most youths. It blazes up and leaves nothing but smoke and ashes. Perhaps we have all once labored under the delusion that these poor rockets were rays of an eternal love ! When all about us becomes dark, and we feel alone; when all men go by us upon our right hand and upon our TRANSLATIONS. 135 "left, and none know us ; then there arises in our hearts a feeling we know not what to name it, for it is neither love nor friendship. One would like to call to each passer-by, " Do you not know me ?" At that moment a man feels that there is a tie of man to man that is closer than that of brother to brother, father to son, friend to -friend, and an old saying rises to our lips, " ' Strangers' are neighbors." Why, then, pass them coldly by ? Again our answer, " We do not know ; we must submit ." Two trains whiz past each other. A passenger on one exchanges a glance with a passenger on the other. " Oh, that we could have shaken hands !" is a feeling that rises in the soul of each. But each is driven in an -opposite direction, farther and farther apart. An old philosopher says, " I saw the debris of a ship- wreck floating on the sea. Only a few splinters met, and these held but a short time together. A storm arose and drove them east and west. The same thing is hap- pening among men. The great shipwreck itself nobody has seen !" THIRD RECOLLECTION. Clouds are of but short duration on the sky of child- hood ; a shower of tears, and they have disappeared. Very soon I was at the castle again. The Princess 136 TRANSLATIONS. gave me her hand, which I kissed, and then she brought in the young princes and princesses, and they and I played together as if we had been acquainted for years. These were happy days. When I returned from school for now I went to school I walked over to the castle. There, there was everything that the heart could desire. All that belonged to the young Princes belonged to me, or so I thought. I could take the playthings home, if I liked, and keep them j often I gave them away to poor children. I was a communist in the full sense of the word. It was a long time before I could understand the difference between meum et tuum the one seemed to me to shade into the other. At this period, when I went to the castle not only to play, but to learn French, another form rises in my memory the daughter of the Prince, the Countess Mary. Her mother had died at her birth, and the Prince had married again. When first I saw the Countess Mary I cannot exactly tell. Gradually she steps out of the darkness of early memory, until she stands before me like a moon that in the midst of a stormy night has sud- denly the veil of cloud drawn off her face. She was always languid and silent, and I had never seen her otherwise than stretched out upon the couch on which she was carried into the room by two servants. She lay in long, soft, white robes, her hands folded, here face pale TRANSLATIONS. 137 and calm and lovely. Often, as I looked at her, I became lost in thought, and asked myself if it were possible that she also could be a " stranger." Then she would lay her hand upon my head, and I felt that I could say nothing, but only gaze into her lustrous eyes. On days when she was stronger than usual she would sit up on her couch, and then it seemed as if the rosy hue of the sunrise overspread her countenance, and she talked with us, and amused us with delightful stories. I do not know how old she was. Though childlike in her help- lessness, her mind seemed matured in its earnestness and calmness. Why, with all her beauty and frailty, she had been sent upon this earth, when she might have rested so peacefully with the angels, and been borne along upon their white wings, I could not understand. How I wished that I could have borne part of her burden. I could have prayed from my innermost heart that she might have been relieved from her sufferings. One warm day in spring she was carried into our play- room. Perfectly white she looked, and her eyes more brilliant than ever. Sitting up on her couch, she called us round her. " To-day is my birthday," she began, " and I was baptized in spring. It is possible that I may soon be called away," she continued, looking smilingly at her father, " though I could wish to remain here. When I am gone I do not wish to be forgotten, and so I have 138 TRANSLATIONS. brought a ring for each of you." She then kissed her brothers and sisters, and gave to each of them a ring. One ring remained upon her finger. She lay back as if exhausted. My eyes met hers, and as the eyes of a child speak clearly, she must have read what was going on in me. I would much rather not have had the last ring, feeling that I was a " stranger," and could not be dear ',o her as her brothers and sisters. A pang shot suddenly through my breast, as if an adder had stung me, and I did not know how to conceal my agony. She laid her hand upon my head, and looked down into my eyes, so that I felt that I had not a thought that was not plain to her. Drawing the last ring from her finger, she gave it to me, saying, " That one I meant to take with me when I parted from you ; but it is better that you wear it. You have an impetuous and tender heart ; may it be guided, not hardened." She then gave me the ring, and kissed me as she had done her sisters and brothers. I cannot describe what I felt. I loved her as a boy may with a singleness of heart that is not often found in manhood. But I reflected that she belonged to the " strangers," to whom it was not permitted to show one's feelings. The earnest words she had spoken I did not fully compre- hend. I only knew that her soul stood very near to mine as near as two human souls could be. All bitter- ness had left me. I felt no more alone, no more excluded TRANSLATIONS. 139 from her circle. Then I thought it had been a sacrifice on her part to give me the ring, and I said with a trembling voice, ' Thou must keep the ring, if it be thy wish to give it to me ; for what is thine is mine." She looked at me with wonder. Then she took the ring, and put it on her finger, and kissed my forehead, saying in a low voice* " Thou dost not know what thou sayest. Learn to under- stand thyself, and thou shalt be happy, and make others happy.' ; FOURTH RECOLLECTION. Each life has its years during which one goes forward as on a level, monotonous road, almost unconsciously, or only with a sad consciousness of having got over some distance of having become older. So long as the river of life flows smoothly, it always seems the same water, and only the landscape appears to vary. But then come the cataracts of life. These take hold of the memory, and even when we have left them behind and are fast drawing to the silent ocean of eternity, we still hear in the distance their rush and tumble, and feel, somehow, that the strength that remains to us and impels us for- ward, has its source in these cataracts. School-time was past, and the early, merry days of university life were past, and many fair dreams of life were past. But one thing remained faith in God and 140 TRANSLATIONS. man. Life was quite other from what my little brain had fondly dreamed, but on that very account had it taken on a higher meaning. The presence of an in- comprehensible was the proof of a godly in the earthly. suspect her love, had opened her arms in compassion and taken the twins to herself. 172 TRANSLATIONS. THE DEATH OF RAFAEL. Translated from the German. Cardinal Bibieno describes to his niece Maria (the affianced bride of Hafael), in a letter, the death of the immortal master, as follows : " Out of a twofold night a darkened earth and a darkened soul I send to thee these lines. The wreath which our dear friend on that memorable evening handed to thee lies withered, like himself. It lies like a symbol of resignation at the foot of the crucifix, before which thou prayest daily. That painful presentiment of thine has been fulfilled. Rafael has left us. Thou, who wert appointed to be a true companion unto him, art now the bride of Heaven. Rafael is dead ! His burning soul consumed all that was mortal of him, leaving to us only that which is immortal. Good Friday was his birthday : it is also the day of his death. In the flower of life and in the midst of happiness to have been thus snatched away ! " When I think of all that he did in these seven and thirty years for the glory of the Church and of the nation, I am filled with devout reverence for the human soul. Look at the picture of the Madonna which he but recently painted for the monastery of the holy Sixtus in Piacenza ; look into the eyes, into the eyes of the TRANSLATIONS. 175 young Saviour. It was painted, like any other picture, by means of the hand and the brush ; but the sublimity of the heavens meets you in these eyes. He who had the power to paint them belonged no more to this earth. " My letter of yesterday informed you that for three days we feared the worst. Rafael himself was the most composed among us. He spoke of time and eternity with the utmost calm. Then, having tried to comfort, us, he made his will. As I walked this evening from his Holiness to Rafael's dwelling, a soft light and a sweet fragrance seemed to fill the air. The peace of God had fallen upon the solemn City of Rome ; and, as I entered the house, hope was renewed within me, and I felt strengthened. " In the sick chamber, I found Count Castiglione, the father's Antonio and Domenico, the painter Giulio, and others. Rafael's couch had been moved to the window, which stood wide open. Never before had Rafael appeared so beautiful. Could it have been the effect of the evening light, or was it his near victory over earth ? The skin was more transparent, the brown artist-eyes more brilliant than ever. He was holding some spring flowers, but laid them to one side when I handed to him thy wreath of roses. Then he raised the cross to his lips as he murmured, ' Maria.' Though his voice was clear, the words seemed breathed rather than spoken. I 174 TRANSLATIONS. communicated to him the message sent by his Holiness : ' Dear Rafael, let the sympathy of the highest as well as of the lowest be to thee a motive to linger longer among us.' He smiled mournfully. " Castiglione then spoke : ( Thou shalt, thou must live. Through that which thou hast done hast thou awakened in us the desire for that which thou canst accomplish. Thy favorite thought that ancient Rome with its palaces and marble temples, its triumphal arches and statues be reconstructed is not yet realized.' " l Yes, I wished it rebuilt/ answered he ; * and, if God had granted me longer life, my wish would have been realized.' " ' Do not speak,' said I, almost reproachfully, ' as if hope were vain.' " ' Father,' replied he, ' to leave this earth is not easy to me. Could I but describe to you the longing which takes hold of me as the daylight disappears ! My soul clings to yonder sunbeam which lingers upon the hill. How beautiful is the world ! How lovely is the human countenance ! Ah ! to take leave of all this without a hope of awaking on the morrow ! ' ' Beloved,' cried I, 'forget not that the Saviour died, that we are going from the darkness of earth to meet an eternal day.' ' How could I forget that ? ' said he \ ' but the earth is wonder- fully beautiful ! ' TRANSLATIONS. 175