^jn|H THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FRAGMENTS OF COLOURED GLASS <^ U> . '^^ /^^:^^^/i^C^ J.u.y^Xs'^/f^^. FRAGMENTS OF COLOURED GLASS POEMS AND BALLADS HISTORICAL, RELIGIOUS, AUSTRALIAN AND MISCELLANEO US BY ALPHOXSUS W. WEBSTER Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity. Shelley (Adonais). LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., Publlshers i8 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.G. pf: u To MY Friend ERNEST CECIL LATTER BAILLIE I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS BOOK. CONTENTS. \.— HISTORICAL BALLADS AND POEMS. Tasso — dying, The Return of Camoens, Edgar Allan Poe, Firdausi, Chastelard, . The Retirement of Rossini, The Death Trance of Chopin Chopin's Funeral March, St Jerome in the Catacombs, The Death of St Augustine, Bishop of Hipp The Martyrdom of St Eulalia, St Francis Xavier, A Love Story of the Middle Ages, Nitocris, ..... Queen Scotia, .... Soreze (The Last Days of Pere Lacordaire), Confucius in his Last Days, o, fAGK I 6 12 i6 20 25 29 33 35 40 42. 47 50 55 59 62 65 II.— RELIGIOUS POEMS. Dirge for a Church Caretaker, A Passing Acquaintance, Meditation in a Church, The Mystical Ladder, . Corpus Christi, From the World to the Cloister, The Scriptorium, Dream Tokens, , A Vision of Good Mothers, . 69 71 74 77 81 83 86 89 93 CONTENTS. III.— AUSTRALIAN POEMS. An Antarctic Idyll, PAGE 98 A Dream in Australia, lOI At the Sign of the Captain Cool<, .... 104 A Reunion, ......... 106 Verses written in the Sydney Botanical Gardens, 108 The Stockrider, 109 The Fairy of the Creek, 112 Bondi, ......... "3 Suspension of Payment, "5 Love among the Vines, ...... 117 Sunset by Port Jackson, ...... 118 A Sunshiny Morning in Australia (Early May), . 120 A Moonlight Night in Australia (Late April), 122 A Storm, ......... 124 The Gold Seeker (Sonnet), . 125 Southern Industry (do.), . 125 Southern Pleasures (do.), 126 Emigration, 126 Late May in Australia (Sonnet), 127 In War and Peace, 128 The Strawberry Grower, 132 Colin Finnic and his Friends, 137 Midlothian far South, . 146 Ranclift'e, .... 150 The Irish Australienne, 151 The Food of Love (A Poem of a Southern Balcony), . 153 ^lanly Beach, 155 The Game of Whist, . 157 Abstraction (Sonnet), . 159 The Old Postmaster, . 159 Finis (Sonnet), 162 The New Postmistress, 163 Crossing the Heads, 167 Clearing the Heads, 170 TWO ODES. Scorn not the Least (Read at the Inaugural Meeting of The Botany Literary Society), . . . . 174 The Circular Quay — Sydney, . . . . . 177 CONTENTS. XI TRAVEL PICTURES AND OTHER SONNETS. Port Jackson, Sydney Ladies, . The Indian Ocean, Rest in the Present, The S.-E. Trades, Ceylon, The Lake of Colombo, Sunday at Sea, Looking Back, Suez, . The Suez Canal, Port Said, . In the Mediterranean, A Neapolitan Singer (i), A Neapolitan Singer (ii), Pompeii, Averted, The Ormuz in Dock, . James Cook, Verses written upon the Shore of Orders from Home, In Dock at Last, La Perouse, After It All (Sonnet), . Botany Bay, PAGE iSi 1 82 182 183 183 184 1S5 1S5 186 186 187 187 188 188 189 189 190 190 191 202 204 209 213 217 l\\— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. . Two in Heaven, ......... 218 One of the Fairies, ........ 222 A Tribute, 227 In the New Babylon, 231 Derelict, 234 The Flower Missioner, 237 • A Skating Party at the Hall, 240 Those Yellow Sands, 243 The Fight for the Standard. 245 For Love and Glory, ........ 248 In Enfield Churchyard, ....... 252 A Broken Key, 253 XU CONTENTS. I'AGE The Mill, 254 A Drinking Party, 256 My Fisherman, ......... 257 In the Valley, 258 The Aged Ferryman, ........ 260 Moored in the River Colne — Winter (Sonnets), . . . 262 Captain Ham, a Colne-Side Village Hero, .... 263 Benares, .......... 265 A Rose Garden (.Sonnet) 26S The .Studio, ......... 268 The Old Piano, 270 The Streets of Gold, 271 Where? 272 Shakespeare Applied, ........ 273 %• FRAGMENTS OF COLOURED GLASS \.— HISTORICAL BALLADS AND POEMS. TASSO— DYING. In a pile sombre-hued and majestic did the Monks of Onofrio dwell, Remote from the World they were happy, no earthliness lured ihem to hell ; The music which swells thro' a palace they heard not, but birds in the trees ; At morn and at eve their devotions were wafted to God on the breeze : Their footsteps a lofty wall bounded, but inside that wall might be seen Paths frmged with most beautiful flowers, smooth lawns of luxuriant green ; Without, raged the heart's human passions, lust of Power, of Fortune — of Sin, But peaceful and holy communion filled the minds of the good men within. He was dying — Italia's great Poet — so he came 'midst the Holy to die ; Life was but a spark in his bosom, the Grave's dreary portals were nigh ; A 2 TASSO — DYING. Solemn monks filled the humble apartment the walls of the monastery closed, They knelt with a cross at his bedside, and prayed as he fitfully dozed : 'Twas a hush, as if Angels were bending o'er the features so pallid and still. Save a sigh, or a pulse's short beating, or the sound of some tinkling rill : He awakes ! his expressive eyes open ; their brightness they somewhat regain : And, list to the words he is speaking, ere he passes for ever from Pain. — ' Magnificent Court of Ferrara, where my life's pleasant morning was spent, 'Tis thou art the first of my visions, 'tis thou doth my memory frequent, With thy gardens of fruits and of flowers which laden the airs with perfume, Thy numberless princely apartments, thy maids in their beauty and bloom ; Thy fountains that laugh in the sunshine, thy groves of the myrtle and vine Where lovers would sigh to each other, and students would read and recline ; Thou return'st with the balm of the springtide to a heart once the joyous and gay But which Time has brought down to its Winter, and which soon will have crumbled away. ' Lucrezia, a Bird of this Paradise, exceedingly fair to the eye, Caused my bosom a scarce-perceived flutter, soon des- tined to dwindle and die : Leonora, her sister, I noticed, and Love took its root in my soul, I had always a sunbeam before me, tho' the Sun had been long at his goal : Once a ruby Lucrezia gave me, which I, since in poverty, sold; TASSO — DYING. 3 Leonora, an emerald precious, on my dying hand still it behold : I was but a courtier humble ; I dared not my passion re- veal; Yet the glance of an eye has a power its object is certain to feel, ' I loved her at morn, as she wandered 'midst blossoms the gloaming had pearled, 'Neath trees in the noontide I loved her, when clouds off the azure were furled, At eve, as she stept on the terrace, the nightingales' sing- ing to hear. At night, 'mid the dance and the music, at midnight's calm hour of fear ; For in dreams I a Paradise peopled to make her its beautiful Queen ; She was Mine, but alas ! in my dreamings, she'll be Mine in a Heavenly Scene When the factions of earth will be levelled ; sweet time, it too slowly comes near : Leonora, thou Light of my Dwelling, thou Star of a glorious Sphere ! ' The Sea now before me is spreading, overlooking its ripples I write ; Cornelia, my sister, is nursing her infant, — a holy delight ; I note how the blue main is darkened by the breeze that blows variably strong, I note a white speck in the distance, that slowly seems carried along, I hear the most musical murmur, as wavelets fall soft on the strand, I feel the fresh breath of the Ocean both lighten my soul, and expand ; But anon is that soul again clouded, like the darkened expanse of the main, The One I most cherish is absent, I never may see her again. 4 TASSO — DYING. ' But the bitterest, sweetest, of musings, that Balcony where we two met : — My heart with its gladness is leaping, my cheeks burning teardrops have wet ! She told me words wise, full of comfort, her hand gently pressed I, and long ; Around us the roses were sleeping, the brooklet was purling its song : In a room close behind were assembled the learned, the witty, the wise. My friendship was all in her centred, my World might be seen m her eyes ! Twas the last time We Two w^re together, I 'prisoned, and she on her bier : Leonora, thou Light of my Dwelling, thou Star of a glorious Sphere ! ' iVh, the darkness and dread of that dungeon ; ah, the horrible clinking of chains ; Ah, the creep of the pestilent vermin ; its horror my memory retains ! 'Twas beneath the dim light of a grating, I studied and wrote all the day. And at right, in the blackness and silence, I knelt on the cold stones to pray ! I oft heaved a prayer for my lady, perchance she the same did for me ? I had thoughts (very rare) she was happy, that she was so I prayed she might be ; But a mist would come over my mind, concealing the stars of its night. And I guessed that the soul of my lady had taken for ever its flight. ' At length I was freed from my bondage ; a poor man went tottering forth Nipt up, as a beautilul blossom exposed to the winds of the North : No longer 1 turned to Ferrara ; I heard Leonora was dead; TASSO — DYING. 5 'Twas Mantua received the poor poet, and honoured his silvery head. But woes did not then have an ending ; why longer past sorrows deplore ? Except that their frequent recital adds joy to the Heavenly Shore ? I came — when I knew I was dying — to Onofrio's sancti- fied gate Made so by the feet of the Holy — this morn who sang Mass for my state. ' I thank God for His Infinite Mercy I've had strength my burthen to bear, I hope to partake of His Glory, those Mansions prepared for us There : They now wish to crown me with laurels, as Petrarch before, and they've sent That I, in the Capitol's precincts, may be crowned ere my strength is spent. Rome's citizens, much I acknowledge thy favour, but O, 'tis too late ! — There's a Crown, in the Country Celestial, for which I have long had to wait ; Each Saint's head with radiance is circled when he wakes from his bed 'neath the sod, And I long for the Fadeless Adornments awaiting the Children of God ! ' The Voice has grown mute that was speaking; and pillowed on Cinzio's fond breast Is the head, now no longer containing a brain which never at rest. The cord has been severed for ever. Bells toll in the chapel close by. And beams of the noontide come to him like beautiful maidens, and shy. Where now is his soul? It is useless such questions to ask : we but know That blossoms which fade in the winter, again in the summertime blow. THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. And the Bell in the turret is tolling, in accents sweet, measured, and slow : But, O Bell, thou sound'st sad in the moonlight for a Great Spirit, finished with woe. THE RETURN OF CAMOENS And I am here, Don Miguel, from my travels returned at last, My rovings o'er, on Lisboa's shore, and the Voyage of Life nigh past. I come not loaded with bags of gold, or clad in apparel gay, But bearing this Scroll which contains my Soul, as the World will know one day ; And there will come a time, my friend, when the gems of the East and West Will have value less in their full excess, than words in this parchment pressed. How is it none came to meet me when I landed, few days ago ? The love of man falls like darkness on walls when there is no afterglow : I told my slave in his Javan swamp, that, soon as my ship was seen On Tagus's tide, how many wide-eyed would over the ramparts lean, And crowd to the shore, evincing with laughter, and talk, and tears, They marked well the day I sailed in from the grey of the hidden and vanished years. But never a one, Don Miguel, did manifest love or hate, In silence I steered where nothing appeared, and O, I felt desolate ! THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. 7 There were lights in the many crowded streets, and music thro' casements streamed, The \A' orld went on Hke a King from the Throne o'er which rays of an Empire beamed ; ]!ut the toil-worn stranger was heeded not ; and yet, in the years gone by. Was none more loved, none less reproved, O friend of my youth, than I. For were we not boys together, in revel and boyish glee? And while on land thy thoughts did stand, mine winged o'er the mighty sea ; And were we not youths together, in Coimbra's grey old halls ? Where monks erudite took constant delight in teaching us from their stalls, In teaching us lore, Don Miguel, 'tis well for a youth to learn ; Thou knowest the bowers of choicest flowers are set off by banks of fern. And in the monastic garden we strolled thro' the morn and eve. And when Luna was high in the star-gemmed sky ; and what did our musings weave ? But prowess at coming theses, and crowns in the realms of Mind, And height in each place of fame and grace, but naught of life's bitter rind ; And useless it is to say we ne'er had thoughts of a maiden's charms, Or a lady's footfall in the monkish hall caused the guardian Saints alarms. But when from the shades monastic we passed, O we then embarked On the golden tides, where whoso glides hath knightly scenes remarked ; 8 THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. Slashed velvet my costly raiment, and plumes in my hat, and bright My rapier's gleam, as stars on a stream of a fair and frosty night ; I bore in my person, Miguel, the stamp of the great and proud ; I recline here now, grey hairs on my brow, and meanest of all the crowd. But then (to pursue my story) I scoffed at no mean estate, I knew none to scoff as my hat I would doff to the regal and the great ; I thought there was no one above me, and Dukes bent on me their smiles, And highest born dames encircled with flames my heart, and O, friend, their wiles Burnt my life to a cinder, calcined my prospects ; yet in the harm Was the zenith of bliss, and a poisoned kiss, and a ruin-working charm. But the Lady Catherine was of all the dames that then I met The wished-for prize, and in her eyes I would all else forget ; How shall I friend, describe her ? description were too weak ; Her bosom's snow, her cheek's pink glow, and then, how she could speak ! The planets in their courses sing not so sweet a song, And the Seraphim, tho' bright, would dim, if seated by her long. O Love, O Love, who falls before thy darts is in sad case ! Beyond the tears of the pitying Spheres, and past Our Lady's Grace ; Go, cast a lily in Etna's flames, will it not be consumed ? And note a bark in a whirlpool dark, by ne'er a ray illumed. THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. 9 And note a dove 'neath a serpent's spell, or a traveller in the snow Seduced by sleep, and then go weep for the hapless lover's woe ! Caste, scourge of all the Indies, the enlightened Chris- tians' taunt, (But 'tis in this they are amiss, too ready with their vaunt), Caste with an iron sceptre, rules Europe at this hour, And shall thro' time while we stoop to crime by the worship of pomp and power. The Lady Catherine was high above me, in the sense Of sensual men, but in her ken, I was her Providence. She loved me, and I her : the Fates were spiteful to us twain ; They gave us not a weary spot we should perforce re- main A time within, then be released ; O, no, they did decree A death of dole for her, my soul, and a long sad life for me ; A life in noisome prisons spent, in torrid climes afar, On turbulent waves, in jungles, caves, where the claws and venom are ! In the train of Albuquerque I sailed ; and never Time Has shown a fleet in all complete as ours, nor feats sublime As ours, the Poet's measure has ever given the World, As when our sails sang in the gales, 'neath the gorgeous East unfurled ; As when we burst the darkness of ignorance and doubt, And on brave keels heard the merry peals of Orient towers ring out. O, what so grand, Don Miguel, as the great work we achieved ? Think of the Souls in endless doles, of Faith's strong light bereaved ! lO THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. Think of the many countries, more vast than twenty Spains, Cities of gold, where, in purple fold, Sultans hold'despots' reins ! Think of the dark blue skies, my friend, and bowers of fair Cathay, Of summits in cloud, as Dido, proud, and snow-capt Himalay ! I did — nor now deny it — find solace for a time, In the divers things which roused my strings and woke my fount of rhyme ; In eyes as black as sloes, and strong with latent glances, hid Like knives in a sash, methinks could crash straight thro' a coffin lid : I trode the Rajah's palace ; and whisper, by the shrine Of Buddh was I found, do not confound my soul, but be benign. In skirmishes with pirates, when on their wooden sails Our arrows rang, and when we sprang on blood-dyed decks, when bales Of merchandise we inboard swung, and stowed for trans- port, when We dived for pearls to gem the girls of Lisbon, and as men We drank to absent beauties, tears in my eyes did shine, And those I shed were for the dead, the Lady Catherine. When o'er the lamplit billows of Ganges I reclined, My Lady hight as Luna bright, was in my constant mind : When within Persian Gardens — the Garden of my Soul — The tulip's cup did bear me up to her heavenly Golden Goal : When on canals in China — at home in Porcelain Towers — I heaved a prayer for a Lady Fair, Queen Flower of all the flowers. THE RETURN OF CAMOENS. II When upon days auspicious to some — to most, I wis, And the harem's door was ope'd, no more I craved a stolen kiss : When on the Banks of Tigris the lotus flowers I bound, I only sighed for the dame bright-eyed with fadeless amaranth crowned : And when I lost in prisons — in wars — in wrecks— my store Of Gold, I vowed I cannot be bowed by loss, since my light is o'er. And yet, on the shores of Java, I told a faithful slave : — ' Glad tidings will greet my wished retreat to Lisbon, where the brave Are crowned with victors laurels ; crowds will my passage bar, And trumpets blare, and torches flare, and triumph roll her car, And banquets will be spread, good slave ; ' and yet, when here we stood, We found no room, save this attic's gloom, no feast, ay worse, no food. And at this very moment, while we are sitting here. He begs abroad from lady and lord the sustenance, I fear May be denied, unless my friend will give us from his wealth ; If not, and we die, there's one, that is I, will pass to Being's health ; For sickness within, the same without, are all that now I boast, I care not how soon Death gives his boon, and I steer to a brighter coast. ' No money ? no golden pieces ? ' none, Senhor, but this small scroll W^herein are shrined my Essence of Mind, and Attar of Rose of Soul : 12 EDGAR ALLAN POE. You think it not worth a coin ? Beheve me, the time is nigh When a flashing jewel in the worn-out fuel of Empire, it shall supply. But if of my scroll too sceptic, assist me, for Days of Old, When in Coimbra's Halls the monks from their stalls our fresh young lives controlled. EDGAR ALLAN POE. Give Majesty if but for once, O Muse, to my poor lyre ! I hymn a Poet, round whose life the Fiends relentless hung, But who has now his place amid the dear and deathless quire, The ever fair and young ! Of Edgar Poe it may be said, his instincts were too fine. His sensibilities too keen ; and that, from earliest years. He needed all the love and care a mother doth enshrine ; Products of Thought and Tears. But Death his Mother stole away, and Fate denied the child A competence whereon to rest, and independent strive ; Adoptive parents' loving lacks the soothing touch, and mild, Tho' Luxury survive. Petted and pampered to the full ; shown off like furni- ture. With nought of love that makes the cot excel the palace blaze ; O this is not the rein to curb impetuous souls, be sure, Or set him right who strays ! EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 3 And Edgar Poe grew up a child of Passion, I opine, Object for Pity, not for Blame, for who did love or guide ? From early years sent from a port of anchorage benign Upon a treacherous tide. But as he grew in years, methinks his passions were erased. His nobler self did reassert ; and then misfortune pressed, And poverty with lavish hand how many things effaced That might have brought him rest ? Henceforth, no galley slave could pull a more distressing oar, No negro smart beneath a lash more constantly applied, No bark belated drive upon a reef, whose horrid roar Told a more adverse tide. I've noted Rembrandt's canvas oft, in shadow he excels. In deepest shade, revels in gloom and Tartarean night ; But then, 'tis wonderful to note how magically tells Each bar, each point of light. The Fordhar\ home of Poe stands out a palm tree in the waste ; O, is it not a great relief to watch the Poet there. With lovely fragile wife, and each and appurtenance of taste In which Wealth had no share ? At least, not Wealth that filled the walls wherein a child he dwelt. But what is precious far beyond Golconda's teeming mine ; And who is there has made a Home, and has not deeply felt There lies the Wealth divine ? 14 EDGAR ALLAN POE. And who is there has made a Home, nor in a woman's voice, A woman's touch, a woman's smile, a woman's silence, known That wife is of all words on earth the sweetest, and most choice. Approached by One alone ? He had to delve his brains for gold, that swift for others grew An ever-widening heap ; and then, what little help he had! The so-called educated class to him a grasping crew, Unchivalrous and bad. In sombre dens he daily wrought, and far into the night His pallid lamp was seen to shine upon his pallid brow ; He had to beg bread from the base ; but never from the Right He swerved, as I avow. In days when work was at his hand, he knew not how to shirk. He knew not how to shroud his sense in alcohol ab- horred ; But with the Soul of Truth he wrought, and consecrated, Work ; A fact I've underscored. But O, in pitiful dismay he oft to Fordham came, Where sate his wife, Virginia fair, whom Death should summon soon, He dried his frore locks in the warmth of Hymen's per- fumed flame. And basked in Love's high noon. He found there singing birds, and trees, and books, and blossoms rare, His humble parlour walls gave back the poet's magic page! EDGAR ALLAN TOE. 1 5 And if his life was chiefly dull, it once was debonair, Pain did not always rage. It makes me sad to ever leave this too short breathing- space : How soon his sweet wife lay struck down by fell Con- sumption's dart ! And then, sharp Poverty was first in the unhallowed race Of fiends who ate his heart. O could it be that there reclined beneath a counterpane A lady, e'en a poet's wife, in direst straits for food ? And that Relief should come so as to madden his wrought brain That had too much withstood ? It may be said — and marvel not — that when his lady died. And nerves o'erstrung had robbed the bard of every power to strive, He did unloose his helm, he did ignore a proper pride ; But Christ his soul did shrive. And be it also said by me who have a great respect For Woman, and who sees her hand for good move everywhere. That she did strive his manhood merged to raise, aye resurrect ; But he was past her care. She spared no pains ; but 'twas beyond the touch of mortal power For Love, to raise the fallen God upon his pedestal. But power for Hate, in after time, to crush and to devour, Has strongest been of all ! But I am most content to stand, and look into my heart, What portion have I in the cold, detracting man's behest? Poe's Fame is one of those Fixed Stars which nevermore depart. And He is now at rest. 1 6 FIRDAUSI. FIRDAUSI. I. In the grounds of the Ruler of Tus the young days of Hassan were passed ; He opened his soul to the perfumes, that otherwise dwindle so fast : And the poems he scattered abroad, were born of that flowery land Where roses and tulips commingle, and lawns of bright verdure expand. When the fountains were fighting the sun, the dames of the Harem would call To their silken apartments young Hassan; and there, where a curtain did fall, He would tell them strange stories of times gone into the Kingdom of Shades, Times, when no thick curtain was wanted to fall between poets and maids : They would laugh at his wonderful songs ; the ebony slaves looked askance If an eye where the passions burned latent between the drawn curtains dare glance : Those ebony slaves, with their blades, missed not of his poems a word ; The cheeks matching rose-leaves they guarded, and bosoms as white as a curd. II. Now Mahmud, the Sultan, had read the doings of Poets of yore. And the book of their works, Bastan Nameh, he conned with much diligence o'er : ' And shall not my reign also send a ray o'er the ocean of Time ? ' Crept into his mind, as he pondered the works that he felt were sublime : Then a mandate he sent thro' the land, those persons to bring to his side FIRDAUSI. 17 Who were thought to possess the least talent in what to the bulk is denied : At length there were six who received commission to write of the Past — Its wonderful monarchs and battles, in poetry destined to last : But Hassan was never content to calmly see others compose ; For the honour he also competed, and soon to high eminence rose. The Sultan dismissed all the rest; from Hassan he altered his name To the Shedder of Beauty, Firdausi — such he is in the Temple of Fame. 1 1 1. But woes were to come on the Bard, in the Nature of Man is no change : The King by deceit was surrounded, nigh the Monarch presuming to range ; A Favourite went to the Throne, and whispered Firdausi taught wrong. His life was a system of falsehood, and heresy lurked in his song. Then Mahmud was greatly incensed : — ' 'Neath elephants he shall be placed ! ' But the voice of the Poet waxed wrathful ; escaped he, tho' somewhat disgraced. And then, after thirty long years, the work he had taken in hand Was finished, a wonder to millions ; so musical, lofty and grand. ' Sixty thousand gold pieces Til give,' the King said, ' they are justly his due ! ' The Favourite, still in ascendant, of the work held a different view : The same pieces, in number, he sent, but they were of silver, behold ! And the Poet would not keep one coin, nor life into slavery sold. B iS FIRDAUSI. IV. When the elephants came to the door of the bath where Firdausi was known A slave with the money alighted, and entered the build- ing alone : But when to the i)oet he gave the bags, what a wrath he beheld From him who was usually pleasant, in courtesy never excelled ! He deigned not a word to explain, but divided the treasure in three. To the vendor of ices he handed a third, as a requisite fee; ^Vhat was over, he parcelled between the slave who stood wondering by. And the bath's ever-generous keeper, who often his wants would supply ; The many who lounged round about, said, ' The Poet is mad, to be sure ! ' But Firdausi said : ' After my labours, such treatment I will not endure ! ' And when the King heard of his act, he also had some- what to tell : 'This beggarly Poet, once Hassan, insults a great monarch; 'tis well.' From the Court and the country in haste the Poet of Kings disappeared, Until by the River Euphrates he saw how his blossoms were sered ; He thought as the river crept slow, his life to the stream was opposed. That it raced like a turbulent river in gorges of granite enclosed ! The caravans came to Bagdad, and loaded with linen and spice, In mosques were assembled the merchants who followed the Prophet's advice ; FIRDAUSI. 19 From Bagdad he passed to Herat, where valle3's re- splendent are seen, — The city for weavers of carpets, the cornfields where children may glean. The rivers where fishes abound, and dart in and out of the reeds, The gardens with networks of sunbeams, where happy the butterfly feeds ; And he died, quite unknown, 'mid those sweets, fond Azrael came to his side ; I doubt not he knew what to answer, when his Faith as a Moslem was tried. V I. But the Favourite fell in disgrace : O ! the danger of soaring too high ! Beware ; there are lightnings and whirlwinds, as well as calm depths, in the sky : The Sultan said unto his slaves, and also to persons of rank, — - ' Methinks that the man I have trusted has made of his talent a blank. While the poet Fve sent from my Court, the Glory and Light of my Age, Demands an extreme restitution.' He wept between sorrow and rage. ' Go tell him (if him ye can find) a courtyard for him is prepared. Soft arms and large eyes shall await him who long in the distance has fared ; His wives shall be powdered with pearls, his books shall be sprinkled with gold. His walls shall be ivory precious, his bath shall be per- fumed and cold, His robe shall be woven in gems, his barb shall be fiery and fleet, He shall rest in a Valley of Fragrance : I'm anxious my Poet to greet ! ' 20 CHASTELARD. V I I. A Present of Value Remote, comes late, for the Spirit is fled; The richly-caparisoned chieftains bring wealth to a Poet that's dead. And the eyes of his sister flash fire, as back her dark tresses she flings, And she says : ' Ye can ask Sultan Mahmud what need we have further of Kings ? ' CHASTELARD. Awake! my Muse, why slumber? Sleep does but blunt the wit, As rust doth cause the sheeny light from knightly gear to flit: And if thou lookest for a theme, thou need'st not wander far From that rich field for Poet's lore, when carolled Chastel- ard; Gay Chastelard, within whose veins the blood of Bayard ran ; Better for him had he been less a poet, more a man. For O, the magic numbers that o'er his lyre were flung First turned the ear of dames in France, the beautiful, the young ; Couched were his verses graceful in language of fair France, And eke he would as Petrarch write, and further South advance ; How many ladies he made sigh, and did their lives bestar With brilliant lights, but ah ! too brief : this poet Chastel- ard. CHASTELARD. 2 1 A Queen did hap to listen his amatory strains, They carried her poetic soul across Elysian plains ; The Queen who wore a triple crown, and in her 'scutcheon placed The arms of Countries three (what boots it two were soon effaced ?) A Lady more than lovely, in mind and body rare ; O'er the dark sea to Scotland's realm she Chastelard did bear. He marked her look of pallor as France astern did fade, Perchance some opiate in his verse to ease her pangs conveyed ; He sighed with his young mistress beneath the skies of dole. Yet ever as the World grew dark, more splendid was his Soul; So that the Queen would hawking leave, and cease o'er chess to bend, If only to bask in his song, and with his flights ascend. The gorgeous pomp of Empire, the weight and wealth of State, Seem mantled in a glamour, behind a hingeless gate Between them, and the World at large ; and yet are hearts the same. And Queens can love, and Queens can weep, be touched by praise and blame. The village maidens of Fair France, and e'en her ladies high. And Mary Stuart, dallied prone beneath Love's smile or sigh. Can'st thou, my Muse, not see them within that sumptuous pile? Queen Mary and her Maries four, gay Chastelard the while Pouring upon their senses the strains he well could sing, Ay, call them sprays of perfume from the Heliconian spring : 2 2 CHASTELARD. And can'st thou not see also her smile of pleasure sweet ? Ah, 'tis a lady's smile can make the Poet's Heaven complete. Beware, thou Bard ! the Sirens have lured men to their doom ! The groves of Fame wave kindly, but ah ! too near a tomb. Thy Guardian Angel waiteth, thou gallant Chastelard, He urges thee, recross the sea, and journey distant far ; Leave Love and Ladies ; don the spurs, and toss the bridle rein ; Who loveth Queens perchance must bare his bosom unto pain. His Guardian Angel leads him from Scotland's realm afar, And once more 'mid the vines of France is gallant Chastelard : But there too sad he pineth, and ever in his dreams The image of his Mistress comes, till life with anguish teems : Till he a dark and desperate path to follow will essay, And press another's suit in Love, and perish in the fray. Again his lyre is sounding for Mary Stuart/s bliss ; Again the Maries four are nigh ; but now the serpent hiss Of jealousy is in his ears, and in his heart its fangs : — Why should I serve the Duke Danville, intensify my pangs ? Dissimulation then doth urge : ' Pretend his suit to press. And try that so thyself may'st move the heart of the Princess.' And now his strains with ardour incomparable glow, And crimson spreads across the cheek and brow of stain- less snow ; But ladies flush in anger— in height of wounded pride !— Perchance the Queen will cause the Bard to quit for aye her side ? CHASTELARD. 23 But no; it is not so, she loves his verse, and nothing more : How oft hath Bards this mirage lured — drawn to this empty shore ! Now brace thy nerves to enter a sad and dark domain ; The winds of winter are abroad, snow upon hill and plain ; The cattle from the Highlands wend, and gulls the waves forsake, And icicles each casement bar, and ice is all the lake ; But in the palace, logs ablaze, and arras thickly hung. While ruby wine in goblets brimmed, make love's light strains be sung. The Queen that morn was sitting beside her tambour frame. And councillors and nobles grave to solemn audience came ; The Queen at eve was resting, her Maids of Honour by. And who is this doth so declaim, and then so sad doth sigh? The Queen at night was kneeling in prayer before a shrine, And who is this doth secret gaze upon a scene divine ? The Queen at night was doffing her rich robes and her crown Before she laid herself, well tired, upon the spotless down. When who is this approacheth her queenly soul to vex ? And what are these excuses, and narratives complex ? She bids thee go, rash Poet, nor the offence repeat ! It had been well if she had been more dignified, less sweet. Two days of winter travel ! — these snows should make thee cool ; See, birds have gasped their feeble breath upon the iron pool ! 24 CHASTELARD. But no ; the cold but feedeth the inward burning fire ; 'Tis well, thou sayst, the heat within, when cold without is dire ? It may be so, but then thy heart doth set thy house ablaze ! O foolish man ! thyself to wreck ; thy heritage to raze ! At morn the Queen was wending with all her gallant train. They heeded not the icy blasts, nor black clouds banked amain ; Their laughter rang out cheerily, their chargers' hoofs replied With music in the frozen crust, around them far and wide: At night the Queen was praying as she was wont to pray, When who is this a second time her chamber doth essay ? Ah Poet, now is ended thy bright and brief career ! Now Murray comes with all his guard, with bowman, halberdier ; Now torches thro' the corridors, and round the mansion flare. Now ladies scream and weep in fits, and reigneth now despair : Thou henceforth in a dungeon must pass the little time Left thee to shrive thy soul : then meet the consequence of crime. At morn the Bard was musing on France, each pleas- aunce blest ; But always ere the noon had passed, he was a monarch's guest. Albeit thick bars served to mar his body's wished escape. That he unto a cottage roof his prisoned feet might shape ; And on a day not far to dawn, he by the headsman kneels ; A mask his brave and comely face from peering eye con- ceals. THE RETIREMENT OF ROSSINI. 25 A Priest is there to comfort his exit to the dread Unfathomable bourne ; but then, he not a prayer hath said ! But he has ta'en the volume of Ronsard, his delight, And read that Poet's Hymn on Death: then with de- portment bright, A parting word he saith : ' Farewell, my constant heart's Adored, Princess most sweet, yet most unkind ! ' — So past to his reward. THE RETIREMENT OF ROSSINI. 'Midst the dirt and the squalor of London, upwelleth twelve times in the year A Fountain, all virtues possessing ; 'tis fragrant, and healthful, and clear ; The wastes of my life have been watered and cooled in this fountain, which springs From the works of a mighty Composer, who was nurtured 'neath Music's wings. Let me dwell for a space on a temple that is packed by a concourse still ; The acolytes clad in white raiment their stalls at the Altar fill, In a gallery, hid from the people, sit the singers, and those that play ; But 'ere they begin must have finished the Function that ends the day. And first are the sweet psalms chanted, the while in my seat I lean. Then a Priest, in a costly vestment, takes the Sacrament from its screen ; Dim viewed thro' the wreaths of incense, while heads are bowed low in prayer. With the Host he gives Benediction to the hundreds of pained hearts there ; 26 THE RETIREMENT OF ROSSINI. Then the Body of Christ returns he to the pyx, and the concourse seem Like a meadow the dew refreshes, that was burned in the sun's strong beam ; And then, when the Altar tapers are quenched, from the organ pours That work by the great Rossini, which the lover of song adores. O the Singers can I describe them? one borrows the skylark's song, One draws from the resonant ocean its melodies deep and strong ; Can I, in an adequate fashion, the orchestra's talent praise ? Ask the painter to give you on canvas the Truth of Sol's golden rays : There is not a sigh, nor a murmur, tho' maybe a thrill is felt. The censer's Arabian odours around pictures and columns melt ; And I think on the woes cf the Virgin, and my troubles grow thereby less. And I think of the Dying Saviour, till my meanness can I express ? What is Life ? in a word, a thing passing ; and the music has now an end : Down the aisle with the crowd I am carried, with slow steps to the street descend ; But while the damp dreary streets threading, now lost in a dismal place, Now full in the light of a tavern, I journey in thought thro' space, And dwell on the life of Rossini — how he wandered from town to town. And was courted by each grand City, even Paris sought his renown, Was drawn to the tender passion that is cradled in woman's eyes. THE RETIREMENT OF ROSSIXl. 27 And was drawn to a stronger Passion that is cradled in Paradise. I think how the nun at midnight has wept o'er his angel strains She heard in the dim-lit chapel, where their echo as yet remains ; I think how the huntsman whistles his airs on the mountain-steep, And they blend with the roar of the torrent, and bells of the Alpine sheep ; I think how in gilded theatres the lady her fan lets fall, For Pesaro's Swan has bound her, and keepeth her in his thrall ; I think how the sailor at night-time, at sea, from his home exiled, Hums those songs in his dreary watches, and becometh once more a Child. It is said that the Swan sings sweetest when it steereth itself to die, Tho' it leaves for all time the river it loves, and the azure sky; But Pesaro's Swan sang never a fragment of song so late, Arrived at his zenith of glory, he chose at that spot to wait ; He sang in the earlier reaches, where the mystical forests waved. He sang in the widening river, which the mansions of nobles laved. But when he was nearing the Ocean, his music had silent grown. For he chose on those regions to enter both silently, and alone. To be plain : ere a grey hair warned him, he retired to his mansion fair, He had earned all the reputation he needed — had some to spare ; 28 THE RETIREMENT OF ROSSINI. ^Vith his wife, and his friends artistic, and everything wealth can give, He waited for God to call ; and here he had learned to live; He had friends, and true friends, in plenty ; he had Dante, whose page sublime Is immortal : he'd Art and Nature, and he dwelt in a sunny clime ! What Wisdom ! could men only gain it, and the Ruins of Nations read ! Rome rested not in her requirements, and her blossom is gone to seed. Be hushed, while of death I tell. The composer was called at last : To the place of those waiting he floated ; when his Soul heard a thunder blast, And came to man's temporal prison of Angels a shining band, Who chanted : ' Rossini, we'll lead thee right into the Sinless Land. Thou needest no Fire to cleanse thee, thou art meet for the Perfect Throng, For thus saith the Queen of the Country, the Virgin thou hast loved long; ' And he noticed those Angels carried all trumpets, and reeds, and strings. And they glittered like light-smitten crystals, past man's imaginings. When they came to the Pearly Gate, the Portal so bright and wide. Those angels discoursed the rare music Rossini did erst provide For his brethren on earth ; and the Portal swung back of its own accord, And he, heralded by his own Music, drew nigh to his waiting Lord. This is all I can tell, for my vision is blinded as 'twere with snow. THE DEATH TRANCE OF CHOPIN. 29 And the verdict pronounced by the Saviour I guess at, but do not know. But if Harmony clothe thy spirit, and lead thee when life is spent, Like Rossini thou too mayst meet Angels, and follow the way he went. THE DEATH TRANCE OF CHOPIN. Long watched by fair women who dreaded to feel that their care was in vain, Chopin wasted ; each day he grew weaker, with body too frail for his brain. The sorrow that rankled his bosom was Exile from Poland, the same As tortures the true Irish Peasant in the backwoods far West. Who can blame ? But beyond what a boor or a peasant doth yearn for, Chopin ever tried ; Success in the struggle for Beauty on this side the tomb is denied. So Chopin wasted daily : not honour or wealth could add length to his days, Heart solicitude aided as Httle to that end, as did gold and bays. Yet the ladies of Poland would cheer him : and persons of intellect pressed For a seat in his beautiful chamber, while he was to Music addressed : Heinrich Heine, George Sand, Victor Hugo, were amidst the high-born Polish dames. 'Tis evening; no light but proceedeth from two wax tapers' feeble flames : 30 THE DEATH TRANCE OF CHOPIN. The artist, before his piano, shows bright in the pre- valent gloom, O'er the white keys his white fingers wander, else silence is fining the room : What dreams doth he give to his hearers ? Things fair, altho' dashed with blight ; The pictures look out from their panels upon Morn in the arms of Night. And Chopin waned apace. O who passes, and sees the Rose droop its head. Nor tarries its petals to moisten, tho' aware it must soon be dead ? Who watches a bather, surrounded on a rock by the greedy sea. And tho' seeing he shortly must perish, makes no effort to set him free? The friends of Chopin could not vanquish the Enemy stalking nigh. But they thwarted his constant endeavours, with his victim did southward fly ; The Isle of Majorca has gardens and groves where the orange burns. Sounds and scents from a thousand sources, which the Dying Man quickly learns. Yet he waned like the Eastern spices the wind carries out from land, O, he paled like the Moon when upriseth the Sun from his chamber grand, And he faded as fades an Echo in the fastnesses of the hills, Death absorbed him without more effort than strong Ocean the tiny Rills ; He died not 'mid groves of the orange, but in Paris where he abode, Delphine and Louise by his bedside saw the traveller on his road ; And when he was partly unconscious, Delphine caught he wish expressed : THE DEATH TRANCE OF CHOl'IX. 31 She should sing who had hitherto hstened : she should bless who had been so blessed. While he hung by a thread to life, and the chasm un- pictured yawned, Then doubtless the best of his visions on his intellect freshly dawned ? I know not. This only I know : that when Song to me ministers A flood of divinest sunlight flows thro' forests of sombre firs : My thoughts take a wondrous journey : 'Tis Ceylon in the ancient time, The yellow-robed mendicants mutter the Way to the Path sublime, The moon's light and a thousand odours, are recom- pense from the heat, And I list to the Buddhists who tell me Nirvana is bliss complete. When I pass from the hut open-sided, I enter on forest scenes, "Where creepers depend from branches, and verdure the daylight screens : I walk amid darting squirrels, and glitter of bee-like birds, A river gleams brighter than brilliants, sounds sweeter than childhood's words : But the forest is gone : I have entered midst lanterns and happy crowds, The Moon is abroad, and she shines as she never knew mists or clouds ; Her beams in a mirror reflected, the maid on her breast has placed As a type of the heart unpolluted, in her bosom securely cased. Chopin died Hearing Music. The soldier has deemed it a pride to fall Pierced with wounds, in the death-strewn fortress, or close by its blackened wall ; 32 THE DEATH TRANCE OF CHOPIN. What death is more sweet for the sailor, than lashed to the tossing spar? Or rent when the powder kindles, and his vessel is blown afar ? Would you render Death sweet to the Lover ? Let him die 'neath his lady's glance ; Let the artist be true to his mission, heeding little tho' Death advance ; For Chopin, a Composer, 'twas well he attentive to song should soar, The Musician should die Hearing Music, the Composer can wish no more. This leads me to state what you've heeded and pondered in seasons calm : There comes to each Good Man when dying a sweet and a tender psalm : — Tho' we fail from fatigue in a desert, or from sleep in an icy zone, Tho' our spirit goes forth in a City where we're living or dead, unknown, Tho' we're grey from age, sickness, or sorrow, or have sojourned few years on earth, Be assured we shall hear Loving INIusic from over the pain and dearth ; Good actions, good thoughts, good endeavours, require no Delphine to sing, God has gathered and turned ' them to Music, to be heard when the Soul takes wing. ' O my God ! ' gasped the dying Composer, who touched earth for a moment's space, * O how beautiful ! ' — with this expression he ended his mortal race. Delphine and Louise drowned in anguish, did you never in after years Guess what Chopin had really intended when his death murmur reached your ears ? When enchanted we stroll thro' a garden, not in flowers alone we rejoice Chopin's funeral march. 33 If an exquisite girl'midst the roses should be stooj)ing to take her choice ; When enraptured we view from a summit roUing plains in the rising day, Are those plains of themselves to enthrall us, if the Sun is more grand than they ? CHOPIN'S FUNERAL MARCH. Our battered bark was off the Fastnet rolling, The net was shot, mast lowered, and astern A small square mizzen-sail the mass controlling Kept head to wind the craft. Then did I learn What horrors are for fishermen in store Of strife and darkness, leagues and leagues from shore. The hours wore on, nor food nor rest were taken. And could the petrel sleep in such a surge ? The starlight had the boiling tide forsaken, The elements to one point did converge And that. Destruction. Ere the dawn arose Our tattered net made manifest our foes. A scanty haul of mackerel was shining In the uncertain lantern light, and this The wages of our toil ; yet small repining Seized on these darers of the dark abyss ; And many days to come I watched the net Patched by brown hands, and things in order set. The Dawn still tarried, tho' the gale subsided. And we essayed the ponderous mast to raise; But 'twas no rippling sea o'er which we glided ; We staggered landward, till tlie leaden haze The rosy beams of Sol did permeate, And O, a lovely land did us await ! c 34 Chopin's funeral march. I had been sleeping, but came up the ladder And stood beside the helmsman, who in speech Which was a watch ago a trifle sadder, Said, ' Yon's another land within our reach ! And soon the hardships of the night-time o'er, We shall drop anchor in thy Bay, Glandore.' This reminiscence was to me presented When hearing Chopin's Funeral March one night ; A Prince's death its telling tones augmented, A vast crowd thronged the hall : Nor was it slight The feeling of regret that one, the hope Of all, should find Death mar his horoscope. The first chords of that March, and lo ! were falling In inky volume, tears, hot, salt as brine. Black hangings made cathedral aisles appalhng, And trembling fingers quenched the taper's shine ; And sombre plumes, and offices intoned With bated breath, showed Death, the mighty, throned. The first chords of that March, and lo ! were crowding The bitter things of life, that culminate In deathly-pale farewells to friends, and shrouding Of the one lonely Soul behind the Gate, The creaking of those hinges, and a voice Saying, ' Ye too shall enter, at my choice.' Then came a sudden change ; and lo ! expanding The fair Elysian meadows met my view, The ship was launched, that had of late been stranding. The bird was freed, that late did durance rue, The chrysalis was turned a butterfly, And flew o'er flowers beneath a fadeless sky. I did not weep until the blest transition. The kind Christ's Hand upon my heart at last ; The perfume, and the music, and the vision, The meetings ! O, why should not tears flow fast? The Night of Toil and Heaviness, and then Anchored, the calm Bay, and the Golden Glen. ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. 35 ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. When not a cloud is visible upon Italia's skies, And Rome beholds the sunlight clear in her proud ladies' eyes, When flowers are round each column wreathed and sprinkled on the flags. Or act the part of costly gems for poverty's dull rags, — Say what doth this fine youth within the corridors death ? When all is fair and bright above, why wanders he beneath ? A student garb he wears, and on his brow no line is seen, Say, hath his foot lost all its spring, and hath his heart no queen? Where is the book of verses that sets the Passions forth ? These cells are dark as midnight, and chilly as the north, What Uttle light there is reveals the Christians' faith and hope ; Is it for such that student youths were ever wont to grope ? And yet, when hearts are bounding, and all is gay in Rome, Jerome has left the humming street, and sparkling azure dome ; Not that his heart is wholly set upon eternal things, A prescient glow of fervour hath but tinged its golden strings ; And as he reads, with smiling lip, words hewn into the stone, He knows not of a Presence there, he thinks he is alone. In sooth it is an Angel, his Guardian Angel, there, Whose sight can pierce the Future, kept from us by God's care ; And as the youth he watches, 'tis all revealed to him, — The struggle and the triumph, the brilliant with the dim ; 36 ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. Cannot imagination do somewhat for us now, To show that Angel's mind, these gleams God did to him allow ? O Antioch magnificent, fourth City of the World, A dream of lovely marbles by costly gems impearled. Walled in from fierce invaders, and further strong with shrines, Your colonnaded streets how grand extended in long lines ! Christian, the name so dear, within your walls was first applied To faithful men, who followed Christ, on Calvary crucified. Not Antioch's shaded places doth Jerome linger in, He yearns not after woman's charms, or learning's pleas- ant din ; Chalcis, the desert solitude, more nearly meets his taste, (The fruits of piety are wont to flourish in the waste) There, free from most temptations, upon the burning plains He listens the Interior Voice that governs, and sustains. A change comes o'er the scene. A blush lights up the Angel's face ; He gazes on a glorious view, a picture full of grace ; — The city built by Constantino, spread on the seven hills. And seated by the Bosphorus. the glowing canvas fills, — Not as it later was, and is, with domes and minarets, With veiled ladies, turbaned men, whom no one e'er forgets. No, then the Cross was high upreared, the sign of Vic- tory By which the fervid Leader swore to make the whole world free ; Now, the blest Eastern sunshine, the fruitful Orient, Are bathed in poison, so that peace away from them is sent ; ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. 2>1 Then, Jesus was acknowledged, and Christian prelates stood, And Christian priests, like Jerome, learned, and true, and good. But back again to Rome ! and there the youth is well engaged By Damasus, the holy Pope, whom care hath somewhat aged. The City hath not altered much, 'tis gay and glad, and still Refinements of the world grow up, and Life with errors fill, And still a few fair Ladies, whom History loves to keep, Devote their lives to noble work, and sow, in Heaven to reap. The brightest of them Paula, of proud patrician kin. She could not bear the Roman glare of luxury and sin, Too many silks and costly gems are given, aids to vice, Her riches go to aid His cause, who looks from Paradise ; And in her splendid mansion, where devotees find room, The Angel sees our glorious saint watch each unfolding bloom. But stay we not in Rome. Across the billows we must fleet Where Alexander's City wets in crystal her white feet ; Exceeding in her splendour the beauteous Antioch, She sits upon a strip of land, before a dazzling rock ; There Jerome forms a wish to find the desert's holy band Who call forth streams of living worth from Egypt's arid sand. And having met those Fathers, to Bethlehem he goes, Where erst was born the Star of Morn, the fragrant, mystic Rose ; He treads the Holy Places with many precious tears. And there a convent for his sons our saint devoted rears : 38 ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. O, who can tell the excellence of all that there befel ? The victories there 8;ained for God, the heavy loss of Hell? At night a Jew is wont to teach our Saint the Hebrew tongue, (At daytime he dare not be seen the Christian dogs among). And Jerome masters every point, he carries every fort, No difficulties daunt him, he makes them into sport ; His cell is known the country round, the world found, I should say. That simple cell of Bethlehem, small, bare, and chill, and grey. And noble Roman ladies come there to hear him read, Crossed also from the jewelled realm, urged by a purer creed ; The fountains of the courtyards, the colonnaded squares, The forums, and the theatres, baths, temples, thorough- fares, — All was of no avail to them, forsaking all, they found More recompense in one small room, one square of stony ground. That Cell of Jerome's ! reader, regard it, it is great ! _ The Angel saw it, and grew pale ; O, at its portal wait ; Laborious hours therein were spent, translating verse by verse The Bible, that great Book of Books, which Satan makes a curse ; O noble work, O lifetime's Crown ! O Saint to earth descend ; O soul, soar upward to the stars, some light in Heaven to lend ! Who comes with flowing tresses, high breast, and queenly gaze? A daughter of the Fabii, who caused the world amaze : To see the form majestic that Fabiola wears ST JEROME IN THE CATACOMBS. 39 Would scarce believe her humble suit, her penitence, her prayers ; Ah, erring dame ! thou art for Rome, 'tis Jerome warns thee back ! (The listening Angel smiles, he knows Light's place of birth is black). Who clamours at the gateway this sorrowful, dark eve ? ^^'hat, Citizen! are ye from Rome? why is it that ye grieve ? O, woman, with an infant strapped tightly to your breast, Say we ye are of noble blood, then wherefore thus distressed ? What! Alaric has entered Rome? What! stripped and driven far? Jerome will aid you to his all, nor question whose ye are. O Saint, the Angel sees you in body grow more weak, And settle on your cell's damp floor, scarce fit a word to speak ; A rope suspended from the roof you grasp at intervals When the slow bell is ringing upon the convent walls ; He sees you further gasp for breath, as he a movement makes ; He sees you sleep on earth what time your soul in Heaven awakes. 'Tis evening. On the terraces flooded with crimson beams A youth appears ; his cheeks seemed bathed in dissolu- tion's streams : But soon the glow of health renews, and laughter fills his heart, Breaks from his lips, and in his eyes like rivulets doth start : A student he, and he narrates about each catacomb. While slaves take round the purple wines to student youths of Rome. Later, a Voice is sent him. ' Say, Jerome, whose art thou? 40 THE DEATH OF ST AUGUSTINE. Not Mine, but Cicero's, I think. O, change ; and alter now ! ' The voice that came to Constantine, the same Augustine heard, And comes to All : for which reply should never be deferred. Jerome awoke, and turned to God. His noble life out- rolled. Read by an Angel in the tombs, as has been briefly told. THE DEATH OF ST AUGUSTINE, Bishop of Hippo. Along the shore the moonlit waves were sighing And savage beasts were roaring for their prey. When in a chamber small a Saint was dying. Passing from Earth away ; The walls with penitential psalms were pasted, The tearful lamp lights wasted. The jaded watchers gall and wormwood tasted, O, who more sad than they ? Bare was the cell, and narrow was the pallet. And dim the light, by which the mourners saw (Or thought they saw) Death with his upraised mallet Waiting to strike the Law : They saw the fountain of their light decaying, They saw the rent oak swaying. They saw the pleasant landscape disarraying, Beauty and bloom withdraw. Physicians, priests, and friends, all broken-hearted. Virgins, deficient in the smiles of yore. And matrons, from whose eyes the sorrow started To plash upon the floor : THE DEATH OF ST AUGUSTINE. 4 1 The only one that seemed not sad and tearful Was he, who on the fearful And dizzy summit stood, and he was cheerful Knowing that strife was o'er. Perchance in those soft times when pain subsided. The days of boyhood he did once recall, When he upon the broad way went, misguided. And thought that Earth held all ? And saw his mother's smooth cheeks scored with weeping Thro' the long night, not sleeping, But aye her widowed couch in moisture steeping. Or kneeling nigh the wall ? Perchance he saw the deep blue billows curling. And oarsmen sweeping steadily the main. And snowy sails their wealth of white unfurling Over the watery plain ? And then the City where his mother found him With doctors grave around him. And then the Temple where her vigils crowned him And led him home again ? Perchance he saw the Garden where he listened And heard sweet voices warn him from his ways, Where with Celestial Wisdom he was christened, Girded with God-like rays ? Perchance he saw another Garden, spreading Beneath the moon's pale shedding, Where he with her went spiritually treading Past smitings and decays ? But now his meditations were more holy ; He looked above and saw the Angel bands. And heard his Saviour name him sweetly, slowly, As meet for Angel Lands ; He saw the Virgin prominently seated ; He heard 'mid strains repeated, ' Servant, well done ! thy labours are completed, Step on these golden strands ! ' 42 THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. As life within his holy bosom quivered, And struggling flames did with the moonbeams blend, A youth from sickness then the Saint delivered ; This was the Bishop's end : The sire had heard in dreams a clear voice telling — * Seek thou Augustine's dwelling ! His is the Virtue every Art excelling ; Thither, O quickly wend ! ' Along the shore the moonlit waves were rolling, On Afric's sands the caravans were still. Huge lions stopped their roar, to hear the tolling That boomed o'er dale and hill ; Lights flared across the casements in commotion. Monks knelt them in devotion, And midst a movement in the sky's calm ocean, The very stars did thrill. THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. The crowds who have come to the Forum this day of exceptional cold Are a medley, some sad, others happy, in poor or luxurious fold ; There are nobles and knights, little caring how blood of plebeians is spilt ; And slaves, whose fierce eyes tell the story of their wrongs, and patrician guilt : But who chiefly have caused the excitement are a small knot of Christians, their chains, Their frost-bitten limbs, scanty garments, their evident physical pains. Draw never a tear from the eyes that are fixed past the tribune, and gaze Upon Christ in the Heavenly Country, and on Saints in the Godhead's Rays. THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. 43 Persecution, most ardently sought for, nnd ardently put into force Has favoured the Christians this winter ; the cries of the pagans are hoarse ; Diocletian has ministers willing, has not Dacianus in- tent To search out each pass in the mountains, and caverns the Christians frequent ? But one who to-day is before him was never brought there by his band. Well known is the pallid young maiden, for is she not high in the land ? None nobler in point of position — so whisper the crowds who look on, — Rough men, knowing nothing of value when place, beauty, and gold have gone. Ay, is not the maiden Eulalia, of whom it has lately been said She talks of the Nazarene's doctrines, to them her com- panions has led ? A Child ! men remarked in high station, of her influence spake with scorn ; Not so, thought the wolf Dacianus ; good friends did the mother warn. The Virgin of Christ to the country was carried with anxious speed. Yet she's here, in this Forum, expected by none who of her take heed ; Escaped from her place of seclusion, the journey has made her pale. Not the crowds, not the judge, not the Forum, could cause her strong heart to quail. She fronts Dacianus's minion, there's fire in her dulled dark eye. The draught is let into the embers, as she saith — ' I come freely nigh To your person this day ; and I warn you, tho' chains may the body bind, 44 THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. No fetter is dragged thro' your prison having strength to control the Mind : Tho' tigers be frenzied with hunger, till appeased by the flesh of men, The life that seems gone is not ended, but passed from the bloodstained den ; And after your utmost exertions, you're baffled, and even more, For torments men mete shall be meted to themselves, when their reign is o'er ! ' A moment of fiery resentment ; the Judge lays his wrath aside : He — ' Why you are here is your matter, would I scour the country wide. Think you, for a Child unimportant ? Yet, as you are here, and speak To injure Religion and Justice, I must notice a voice so weak : But I charge you with earnest entreaty, let the marbles reflect your smile When you chat in your bath of the races, or let music your hours beguile, Or stitch into canvas such roses and lilies, with coloured skeins. As not Proserpine's self could gather while she wandered on Enna's plains. * Your birth can such influence give you, that slaves and dependents haste To serve you, soon knights will beseech you the honey of love to taste ; You are young, a mere Child of twelve summers, and guess not what maidens feel When dawning love crimsons the fountain Oblivion erst did seal ; You are wealthy, and O, if privation you knew for a week, at most. You'd set store by gold, 'tis the beggar must follow a rock-bound coast, THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. 45 But the rich make the voyage of Hfe 'neath skies that are breathing balm, Their wind and their tide are propitious, and their ocean is always calm.' He ceases. The maid has him heeded, for she answers with emphasis : ' For Christ 1 will live, and Hereafter His Bosom shall be my bliss, I will publish abroad the Tidings of His Sacrifice made for Sin, What care I for Earth's poor positions ? 'Tis the Martyr's proud meed I'd win ! ' Cries the Judge : ' Ho, attendants ! bring forward the pincers, the knives, and fire ! ' He turns to the Virgin Eulalia ; ' what only of you I require, (Keep the torture before you) is this : on our Altar some incense throw : ' She screams, ' 1 defy Dacianus ! ' He answers : ' To Death you go ! ' Her sides are by steel hooks furrowed ; she thinks of the nail and the spear Erst used at the dread Crucifixion, upon Calvary's sum- mit drear ; A torch is applied to her bosom ; she thinks of the Saviour's Heart, Now burning with Pity for all men ; — her sufferings fall apart : She sees thro' a mist many people from Merida's crowded squares. And thinks of the soldiers who lotted His Garments, and of the cares That filling His Heart for His Mother, found vent when He her bequeathed To John, that mild dove and strong eagle ! To Mary her prayer is breathed. But when to her hair flames are spreading, and speedily crown her brow. 46 THE MARTYRDOM OF ST EULALIA. Her thoughts for a moment are scattered : but is she forsaken now ? Believe it impossible : Jesus did never His Martyrs forsake ; The Christians who see her enveloped with flame, into hymns awake ; They see her already in Glory, the Crown that her Judge will give Illumines her brow, but the Vision alas, it is fugitive !— Flames flicker, then fail ; she has fallen ; that blackened heap cannot rise ; But a Dove from her mouth has just started, and is wing- ing tow'rds the skies. Dacianus, Judge, Slaves of the Empire, I follow you not from this scene ; Good folk round the Archway of Trajan, what fruit you to-day could glean ! I notice the dark is approaching, but surely a premature dark ? A cloud of smoke covers the heavens — no camp do my eyes remark : Of smoke ? nay, of snow and tempest ! the Forum is covered deep, A pall of the costliest ermine seems spread o'er that blackened heap : Dacianus, I leave you with anguish — man wealthy and hard, and proud, The down and the silk piled above you are mean by her snowy shroud. Leocadia, a Virgin in prison, the victim of pagan hate Hears (maybe an Angel has told her ?) of Eulalia's altered state, She prays the Lord may remove her to the side of her Martyred Friend, Her wish God deems meet to be answered, for her He doth therefore send. O wondrous, to know these young maidens, mere Child- ren, by Special Grace ST FRANCIS XAVIER. 47 Should be props of the Church's great structure, be granted such honoured place. O wondrous, to think from that Forum a river should come to sight. One destined to nourish ripe verdure, and cover the land with light ! ST FRANCIS XAVIER. At Pampeluna had at length arrived a toilworn pair, Whose mien and converse did their work of righteousness declare, The one was Francis Xavier, bent on serving God afar. And one Don Pedro, placed by birth, above earth's noise and jar : The towers of Xavier have appeared, so splendid to behold, With battlements and outworks impregnable and bold ; 'Tis meet Don Pedro should admire, and speak his thoughts to him Who walked beside, the coming Lord of the Castle fair and grim. And saith Don Pedro : 'Well it seems to even there be born 'Midst sounds of lutes, and clang of arms, and windings of the horn ; Ambassador am I from one who stands the first on earth, Yet were I more in men's esteem if having your great birth ; ' But as his friend spoke, Francis seemed lifted from himself, What thoughts had he of lineage high or life's unseemly pelf? ^ 48 ST FRANCIS XAVIER. Months past had tended those in pain and poverty, who He In hospice sad, sponged from men's thoughts, and wealth's unpitying eye. And now Don Francis revelled in vast barbaric scenes ; To Jesuit zeal no show of earth 'twixt Duty intervenes; The glitt'ring main had passed in thought, and travelled paynim strands. Was lifting to the dark young brow regenerating hands, Had Lisbon's far-famed City, and Tagus, left behind. Had braved the alternations of billow and of wind. Had trode with scorn on fortunes that travellers amass, Had passed the jungle, and the mount, the desert and morass ! Ignatius was his master ; no Monarch clad in gold. But one who held a Sceptre pure and pleasing to behold Beyond that held by princes ; and from his lips had passed Words bidding Francis sail away and seek the Indies vast. O wealth of gems and corals ! O costly stuffs in bales ! O airs perfumed with spices to speed the snowy sails ! O sailors, soldiers, merchants, to traffic in the East ! What are ye to the Wealth of Souls ? The True Religion's priest? ' Wilt thou not turn, my brother ? ' Don Pedro said ; ' Methinks A man, albeit a priest, should not discard domestic links ; Thy friends have donned their velvet, and cast their swords aside, The lutes are strung, the sweet bells rung, the portals opened wide ! ' But as he spoke, Don Francis was set on Malabar, And not the prating of his friend could such sweet visions mar : Then silence fell betwixt them, till a mile or so had sped, They came abreast of the lordly towers dark in the evening red. ST FRANCIS XAVIER. 49 ' Wilt thou not turn, my brother ? ' 'twas so the question chimed Like a luckless bell 'thwart a fervent prayer, ill-boding and ill-timed : ' Thy sisters ply their needles in fading ruby light, Wilt thou not claim their tapestries to cheer thy zealous flight ? ' But Francis then was busy with trinkets, beads, and shells, Or tinkling on the Cochin strand his magical Mass Bells : Don Pedro sighed : They forward fared ; and silence fell between : The stars waxed bright, thro' the deep'ning night was scarce the castle seen. * Wilt thou not turn, my brother ? ' But as our Saviour scorned The offers of the Tempter, so Francis Xavier mourned His kindly friend's persistence, that friend who, uncon- trolled, Went on to urge more reasons, waxed eloquent, and bold. ' Thy parents wait, Don Francis, they know thou'rt East- ward bound, O, they would weep upon thy face, and clasp thy neck around : Thou wilt not see them after the anchor is atrip ; Thoughts of a mother's parting kiss cling sweetly to a ship.' And then the Saint made answer : ' Don Pedro, never- more Can I see my loving parents, I cherish at the core ! — As one who from a mountain sees earth beneath his feet. Above, the Spirit's proper goal ; and thinketh it unmeet To turn, but with vocation continues to press up. Such is my course ; to keep it I quaff a bitter cup. But O, but O, Don Pedro, past yonder azure dome Is my lordly tower, my place of power, my love, and lasting Home ! ' D 50 A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Alfonso of Castile sate steeped in thought ; And 'twas not clamour in his splendid court, Nor murmurs of a populace oppressed, Entered his brain like an unwelcome guest : He had a son, brave, valiant, and tall, Beloved by warrior and seneschal, The cynosure of ladies' liquid eyes, The brightest glory of his father's skies ; Then wherefore should the monarch look so worn If thinking of a worthy eldest born ? It is not anger that alone brings cloud Across the brow : this monarch great and proud Had scanned the ranks of beauty in Castile, But never did full satisfaction feel, Could not declare with openness : ' Yon maid, May, a fit gem, be in my crown inlaid.' Then, to the Past he wandered, when, a lad Himself had travelled Eastward, to Bagdad, South to Granada, Northward into France, And did in many climes his quest advance, Beloved by Princes. Like a song erased From parchment, that the careful knife has grazed Thro' newer writing re-appears the old, Alfonso did each early friend behold. And soon he wiped the brow that Sorrow had made cold. ' La Marche ! ' he murmured, ' long we've been apart Yet still thy memory brightens in my heart ! And tho' thou dwellest in the Northern mists Amid gigantic summits, no one lists To trouble, yet from out thy castle stern I doubt not that thou also dost return To wander the sweet meadows of the Past : I have a thought. La Marche, that settles fast From being volatile — of Ermengarde ! Whose beauties space and danger ne'er retard ; They're wafted by the winds, as is the spice A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 5 1 From shores Arabian — scents of Paradise : It must be that my heir, Prince Ferdinand, Shall wear the blossom of your rugged land.' Whereat the King uprose with brighter gaze As when strong sunshine has dispelled the haze ; It took but little time his son to call, And a choice council, to his presence hall ; No cause there seemed why any should object, Tho' scarce a man his happiness had wrecked By urging one, if found. Then said the King To Osma's Bishop, ' Thou my message wing And bear it into Denmark. Well I know On whom commands important to bestow : Seek thou La Marche, Father in God, and take With thee whome'er thou wilt ; my wishes break With grace and dignity, as well beseems. And gain the sire's consent, and gild the maiden's dreams ! ' The Bishop was a man of mien austere. Yet innocence had nought in him to fear. Upholding Kings, himself by God upheld, 'Twas known that he in all good parts excelled, He bowed acknowledgment, and left the Board, Addressing courteously each worthy Lord ; But to no arsenal or fort he went. Nor yet in palaces his moments spent, Likewise no cottage bosomed in a vale Allured his steps : where men with prayer are pale, Where silence tingles, and the incense cleaves Like orisons, to the protected eaves. He had a mind to stop : the massive door That opes less kindly to an Emperor Than to a beggar, with a blessing passed ; When Brother Dominic had humbly cast At feet episcopal his wasted frame. The Bishop said : ' Thou art the one I name To be my chaplain thro' a State affair That will demand much prudence, and much care ; 52 A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I've no desire to raise a mighty train, A gorgeous retinue, from ample Spain, But yet one fitting ; we must shortly press Across the Pyrenees, our bourne no less Than distant Denmark.' Dominic prepared With silent haste, and for the North they fared. Hardships and toils the party daily met Ere their few tents in Gallia were set. It may be that in Heavenly Archives What seemed most barren portions of our lives At time of growth, yet may more fairly show Than what were thought must with glad fruitage glow. There was a pestilence that time in France Of Heresy, a Fiend with poisoned lance Sapping the life the Church had reared to place In mansions incorruptible ; the face First of persuasion, then of stern reproof The Bishop showed, nor journeyed he aloof But with his Chaplain held the conference And preached the Word, to thin the vapours dense, Obscuring, making void, the soul's clear sight. They smoothed the wrinkles from the page of light. They pulled the weeds choking the gardens rare. Set needful thorns of penitence and prayer ; Then made another start for Denmark's realm. Leaving deep dints on Satan's shield and helm. In time they found them 'neath the bastions grim Of the great Earl. Full to its granite brim The glassy moat, wherein inverted, stood The stony terror of the warlike brood ! They wound the horn, and down the drawbridge came, The huge portcullis lifted with acclaim, They crossed the yard ; were ushered soon before The Northern Earl, whose smile beamed more and more. At length he rose, and with a voice that shook The arras to each armour-covered nook. Said : ' Worthy Father in my God, go hence, Tell King Alfonso that there is no fence A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 53 Of wattle, placed 'twixt him and Ermengarde ; Let him send here, his wish shall not be marred, His train shall entertainment find, and bear To Spain my daughter, child of all my care.' He then continued in a softer tone : ' My wife, the Countess, fills a better Throne, I fondly hope, than that she garnished here ; My only child, since her demise more dear. Thou askest for the valiant Ferdinand, Well, she must give her heart, I give her hand ; And tho' right lonely in this fortress strong Without her pretty chat, and birdlike song ; Without her art in tapestry, to fill My gloomy chambers with delicious skill ; Without her hand to cakes and wine prepare ; Without an Angel at the time of prayer ; I yet shall have the thought of her, arrayed In wealth Castilian, 'neath the orange shade, Shall know her 'midst the matchless knights of Spain, My abnegation, therefore, not quite vain.' So went the Bishop southward ; but the Earl Would first the Banner of his Pomp unfurl : The dais was served, the floors with carpets spread, For henchmen piled were venison and white bread. For Earls and Bishops peacocks smoked, and cakes, Ale flowed in torrents for the henchmen's sakes, While Earls and Bishops quaffed the Cyprus fine, Nor was there lacking any sumptuous wine ; Ladies with creams and jellies were regaled ; The ladder of Perfection had seemed scaled ; Mellifluous strains wandered 'midst roses rare. Amber, and white, and damask, past compare : Nor was it dreamed, beneath the Castle's stair, The wretched prisoners ate their mouldy straw. And in far dungeons were worse signs of awe. But Ermengarde ! she was the major tone In all the symphony, the rose most blown 54 A LOVE STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Of all the roses, and exempt was she From drawbacks that in songs and roses be ; Only, 'twas thought she looked a trifle pale, As if moon-swathed, and fanned by evening's gale. The journey South was compassed with such speed The God's bright Messenger did ne'er exceed : The Pyrenees did scatter at their charge As wind, when a strong eagle's set at large. Alfonso of Castile sate wreathed with smiles. And Denmark distant seemed a few short miles : ' Right Reverend Bishop, my best thanks accept, Sure in Love's Courts you must be an adept ! — But Osma's Bishop took this banter ill. Was there a youth that in Madrid was still ? Nor ran like quicksilver from camp to camp. Nor thrilled at clang of arms and war steed's champ, At silken tents on sumpter asses borne. At knightly shields blazoned in hues of morn ? Was there a maid not sad, than whom before Spread wide a leaden sea without a shore ? And thousands watched the Bishop and the Friar, With retinue of count, and knight, and squire. Depart as gorgeous as a cloud of sand Athwart the sunshine, and with sound as grand As breakers roaring o'er a rocky bar : And 'twas for love they went, and not for war. 'Twas little recked by the Castilian King That Love — a cube of red glass, glittering Whene'er a sunbeam doth upon it play. Absorbs the hght, and yields a crimson ray ; But grows opaque the moment you intrude By it, another glass that's different hued. It scarce occurred to his perception dull We may not two crops at the same time cull ; Saddest of all, it ne'er to him occurred That Love ne'er tarries for a parent's word. NITOCRIS. 55 The Lady Ermengarde was ill at ease ; Henceforth she donned the saddest draperies, She took no more a free domestic part, Fell back on Nature, quite despising Art, From morn till eve, and thro' the eerie night, She scared the sentinels, in ghostly white Suddenly flitting ; and she'd ofttimes seek The battlements, if but with one to speak. And ask : ' Think you is far the Iberian train That hath set out for here from distant Spain ? ' And daily thinner and more frail she grew, As is by noon a trembling drop of dew. Or as a sun-kist icicle ; and ere Had gained the castle's moat that army fair. She lay a corse. Again the Bishop's horn Into each dismal dark recess was borne : Down to the courtyard crept a haggard man Who asked ; ' AVhen fire has done the worst it can, Burnt up the lily, from its ashes drear Can'st thou recast the blossom fresh and clear And fragrant ? Can'st, Lord Bishop ? ' Quoth he, ' No, Son of the Church, thou knowest it is so.' ' Then,' said the Earl, ' dim yonder corslets bright, Furl up your banners, march less gaily dight. With arms reversed, with silence, and with prayer ; Return to Spain, Return ! — I have the Dead to care.' NITOCRIS. I SING the Revenge that a woman feels Who winces 'neath wrong she cannot forgive The Father of History's page reveals How only for this did Nitocris live : 56 NITOCRIS. When the news of her brother's death was brought, And she found by a murderer's hand he died, Methinks- she was never a whit distraught, Abated no tittle of high-born pride ; For her visage, tho' free as the ocean space Where nothing but blandishments show for miles, Did, like that bad ocean, disguise all trace Of danger, beneath its smiles. She sate on the throne in her brother's stead. No stranger to homage that queens exact ; By pastures of kindness her people led. But spake not a word of the cataract ; At length 'twas the cry that her love was small, The monarch her brother was quite forgot. When tears were scarce dry on his sable pall. The echo of wailing in hall and grot : But ah, when we think we have read a heart, There is not a letter remains to learn. The truth is, we reck not the smallest part, And wrongly the whole discern ! 'Neath the waters of Nile she a Garden made : Her coffers were drained, and her strength was spent, A murmur grew common in every grade Of disapprobation and discontent ! Said most of her people : ' She builds beneath The waves of our river so broad and strong A palace, wherein she her brow will wreath, A garden, her subjects will never throng. But they were mistaken in all their fears : The palace and garden beneath the wave Was theirs (so she promised) thro' coming years. And their murmurs she quite forgave. To mark the event of this mighty work, A banquet she held in her nether halls ; No shade in that palace of day dare lurk, A million of lamps starred its marble walls : NITOCRIS. 57 But out in the garden 'twas not all day : — Soft mosses in shadow did love invite, And a musical river did wend its way Past bowers for lovers, and banks of light : The boatmen, who drifted adown the stream That is by Egyptians so much revered, Did not for a moment of splendour dream Over which they their galleys steered. Nitocris she sate in her broad saloons. The halls she had built neath the Nile's strong tide, And fragrance was scattered from fair festoons. And thousands were gathered her throne beside, And light on the tables was shedding soft. And music was pulsing to hearts that beat, And smoke of the viands was borne aloft. Till lost in the river that journeyed fleet : As viands were vanquished, so more appeared, Like armies a monarch can reinforce, They smiled who were sad, and were brave who feared ; And the Nile ran its wonted course. No shudder was seen o'er a brow to creep As a coffin brought up the banquet's close. Some looked, and to Bacchus more true would keep, And others disposed them awhile to doze ; Some reached for the dice, or the board of chess, Some sought the musicians who played so well, And lovers the brows of their dames would dress With garlands of rose and of asphodel ; By lamps varied coloured in almond groves Fond lovers in pairs to the music trode, Or peeled luscious peaches in cool alcoves ; While the River above them flowed. ' But where is Nitocris ? ' the guests exclaim ; ' As soon as the banquet was o'er she fled ! And why burn the lamps with uneasy flame ? How pale seems the maiden once rosy red 1 58 NITOCRIS. Why rocks the frail shallop for fairies built ? And curls up so quickly the lotus flower ? O, would that the blood of our hearts were spilt Ere we had beheld this distressing hour ! ' The floods of the River with downward rush Bring darkness and death to the shrieking crowd Walls crumble and grind, people groan and crush ; And the lizard for once is proud. Nitocris escaped to the shores of Nile ; The moonlight lay peaceful on cornfields green ; She thought of her childhood, and ceased to smile When seeing how wicked she since had been ; She thought of the Blood of the murdered King, And Revenge was as sweet as honeycomb ; She knew the reward that her deed would bring, What pity for her in a single home ? She moved from the spot, as the dawn's thin streak Gave warning of day to the drowsy earth. And lions having wandered their food to seek, Slunk away to their cavern's dearth. A Chamber of Ashes for her was left ; (The fruit of Revenge is a Dead Sea fruit) : Fire smouldering low, spread from cleft to cleft. Till they glowed hke eyes of a hungry brute : As ever the column of smoke upreared, Nitocris would call from her bath of pain ' I come to thee, Ceres ! — ' when day appeared Her spirit was ferried o'er death's dark main. And many have sate upon Egypt's throne Since Nitocris ! The page of the Chronicler May be searched day and night, ere a one be known Who is able to equal her. QUEEN SCOTIA. 59 QUEEN SCOTIA. In the mountains romantic of Kerry, is sleeping A Queen, counted great in the ages long past, A forest of larches fond watch o'er her keeping, She rests where a stream thro' a glen travels fast. The angler his line thro' the clear water guiding By shallows and pools where the grey trout is hiding. And banks where 'mid bluebells the fairies are biding, His gaze o'er a shapeless stone boulder has cast. 'Neath that boulder she lies. From the steeps o'er her frowning. To Northward, the Shannon doth gorgeously glide ; And Eastward, famed lakes lofty summits are crowning ; And Southward's a plain sparsely peopled, and wide ; And Westward, the mighty Atlantic is gleaming, — On summer noons rapt in an innocent dreaming, More often in fury, the gulls by her screaming. Beating wings thro' the foam of her anger and pride. On the summit 'tis chill, for the winds are unbroken. On the sides of the steep flourish heather and gorse. But Peace, the mild-eyed, in the deep glen has spoken, And sounds come there husht, and winds weakened in force : A meet place to bury the war-wearied stranger ; The Queen who met death on the pathway of danger ; Her two sons (who each was a prince, and a ranger) All rest where the stream runs its musical course. And ever that river is tumbling and foaming. Except where 'tis sleeping in shallow or shade ; The larches are mournful, when rain causes gloaming, Birds tuneful, when light sets on fire the cascade : But nothing else mars the deep calm of the valley ; Aloft, is the spot where the thunderbolts rally. Alow, is the glen where the kind fairies dally. And light to their trysting the youth, and the maid. 6o QUEEN SCOTIA. But little is known of the Queen. O'er the billow Her childhood was spent, in a sunnier clime ; The blossoms of Spain were her necklace and pillow, The blue skies of Spain were her lessons sublime ; A dark southern youth was her loved lord and master. Her children grew stalwart, ambition beat faster. So gnawed at her heart in the end it did blast her. And brought her to exile, and poet's sad rhyme. ' I cannot delay in these valleys of pleasure ! ' She often observed to her monarch and lord, ' Beyond the sea limits are glory and treasure, My sons and myself you will surely afford ? And while we the billows of ocean are breasting, You can in your country be ruling or resting ; O, let me no longer this boon be requesting ! ' — She went to gain glory and wealth by her sword. Much hardship she brooked, many countries received her. Not seldom the dints on her shield told a tale, And haply dark thoughts of her lone husband grieved her; But still the ambition of old would prevail : At length was her fleet by the rugged shores steering That well guard the west of the good land of Erin ; The breakers at night on the cliffs they were fearing, Each bay was intricate, and savage each gale. Perchance they were simply and helplessly driven To the beautiful Bay that leads up to Tralee, Crews broken with fever, planks started, ropes riven. Oars shattered by sweep of the white raging sea ; Or maybe they deemed it an opening splendid ; Queen Scotia landed, well armed and attended ; Derrymore, ne'er again at your rocky base wended The fleet that passed up with such sorrow or glee. Howbeit, we know when arrived they did battle. And Erin's sons fought as such only can fight ; QUEEN SCOTIA. 6i Was it thunder thro' mountains did rumble and rattle ? Ah no, it was War : — on the shore was a sight — For Scotia, her sons, and her crews, were all lying In gore, their flag down, erst so jauntily flying ; The curlews and gulls their fond offices plying, _ And screaming a dirge thro' the murky sad night. But the brave sons of Erin the next morning found her, A beautiful woman, who valiantly fell. Her flag was beneath her, her sons were around her ; ' She's meet,' said the victors, ' among us to dwell : ' Not long 'mid the scenes of the battle they tarried, But her and her sons to a deep glen they carried : Thus Erin, who oft has the hostile stroke parried. Another grand tale gave her Minstrels to tell. Queen Scotia has slept while the Glory ascended Of Erin — in times of her Kings and her Saints ; She sleeps now her beacon seems blackened and ended ; Who once heard the triumphs, now hears the com- plaints : But e'en as the tide from the shore has receded And turns in its time, so, the moment 'tis needed. The Life that seemed gone, forward moves, not un- heeded. And vigour again the Historian paints. Queen Scotia has slept in the deep glen for ages ; Her husband sleeps sound in the hot southern ray ; On graves of both, haply, the young girl engages Herself to her lover, ' for ever and aye.' Queen Scotia is waiting her dark cell to lighten. When Glory the horrors of Death's sleep shall brighten : Her bard, whom Woe long has endeavoured to frighten, Waits also, and looks for the Breaking of Day. 62 SOREZE. SOREZE. (The Last Days of Pere Lacordaire). Peace ! Long o'er rugged ways I've chafed 'neath cruel delays, Stood in the smiting sun to wipe my brow ; I have a calmer theme, A sweet and happy dream, I fain would sing, will my kind Muse allow. 'Tis of Pere Lacordaire : You know that Angels bear Sublime, soul-stirring trumpets ; I am bold To say, that in this man, White-robed Dominican, Is one of the bright instruments they hold. But not of his career. When speaking loud and clear To countless thousands, thronging aisle and nave. Crowds list'ning on all shores. In camps and corridors, From Life's mistaken blooms, to Death's dark grave- No : I will put aside His days of splendid pride. And steer my bark into a still retreat, Close on the further brink, (Better for that I think) Cool and aroma-flooded, from the heat. 'Twas to Sorbze he came; A house that well could claim Allegiance with the Past, when Faith was sound ; There monks wrote, copied, prayed. And sorrow's pangs allayed In bygone centuries ; 'twas Holy Ground. There wayward Youth had cast Off Vanity ; the last Sad wrecks of sin were garnished bright for God ; SOREZE. 63 And in this holy place, So redolent of Grace, The great French Preacher's thoughtful footsteps trod. Yet he no anchorite ; The World he would not slight, That he felt born to help with hands and brain ; So he around him drew Youths, and young men, who grew To him, as to a comet is its train. Methinks he oft would pore On days that Avent before, When he, Resistance quelling, God-like rose ; And the vext sea grew calm, Sang its most lowly psalm ; And his harsh strife was rounded to repose. And to engage his thoughts, Boys, flushed, and rapt in sports So healthful, when is sterner duty done, Approached him with desires And projects ; Angel quires To him scarce dearer. How he loved each son ! To one, a youth, whose heart He drew, he did impart Some lessons, sentiments, I'd interweave Into my barren scroll. And sing no song to roll In organ billows, but as groves at eve. ' Dear youth ' (he said) ' perchance 'Tis ours to miss the glance Of recognition — soon to separate ; But in the Aftertime When all is more sublime. We shall be aye together, fixed elate : ' Then wilt thou beauteous be, And I from blemish free ; I am now old, as thou wilt likely grow, 64 SOREZE, But wrinkled age conceals What Aftertime reveals Of full Perfection, of the Angel's glow. ' I often am again Where blue skies had no stain, And airs were crisp health-giving, by thy side, Bellevue and Meadon woods Were thronged by welcome broods Of thoughts, Love filled them like a rising tide. ' And in our Better Sphere So distant — and so near — We shall again, Beloved, reunite ; We here call roses fair, ^ They are not fit to wear, We call snow white, and yet it is not white. * As fleets of ships, before They leave the linking shore To bound and bend them o'er the sea's vast space, A rendezvous declare, So is our meeting There, Where Light is shed from the dear Saviour's Face. ' It is a great mistake Out of which we must wake. Friendship's fruition to suppose is here ; We only here Prepare, We prelude, — find the stair, — And grope thro' fog banks to the daylight clear. ' I do with thou agree In loving mount and sea, And forest, so mysterious and so deep ; — The sea, God's Heart, as wide. The mount, His Truth and Pride, The forest, His Resource. Such Lessons keep. ' But child, as we grow old The Love of Nature, cold And grey becomes ; and further yet we peer, CONFUCIUS IN HIS LAST DAYS. 65 Albeit with weakly eyes, We find in earthly skies Too little, and we sigh when smiles the year. ' Souls as we older grow Are all we care to know. Nature is full of Glory when we're young, But when we're old, we tread Apart from blessings shed Upon our fresher minds, from earth not sprung. ' Belovbd, this is Truth ! The spirit is aye Youth, And Harmony, and Presence ; and at Death The Body's winter opes. The Soul's long summer slopes, 'Tis then we breathe our true Ecstatic breath.' Thus spake he in the days Of Autumn, at Soreze, There was a din outside his casement bright Of boys, in boyish games ; He had worked thro' their aims, And sate, and thought of Christ, Whom now he sees in Light. CONFUCIUS IN HIS LAST DAYS. W^HAT man is there can gauge Success by what the Present hints ? The Story of the Chinese Sage a wholesome lesson teaches : There is as much in his strange hfe as many a writer prints, Or as a Bishop preaches. E 66 CONFUCIUS IN HIS LAST DAYS. He parcelled out his days in squares, knew he at last 'stood firm,' Performed his acts by rule of thumb, not given to poetising : 'Twas Common Sense that followed all his troubled life's full term, Seldom to Fancy rising. He went to many Dukes, and once controlled the stores of grain, A Public Servant, finding out the drawbacks so dis- tressing, The constant wear and tear, the harsh, unsatisfying strain. The simulated Blessing. Advice he proffered at the Court ; in Diplomatic use Well versed, he did regard himself, by us he is not doubted ; But some declared his forte was vague, and rising to abuse. His urged pretensions scouted. He vowed he knew a certain thing, they said he did mistake His knowledge, and they credit gave for lore he loathed repeating ; And thus from year to year his heart was doomed to chafe and ache, And Life was quickly fleeting. He had no liking to retire and leave to them the field. But had he done so, no great void had wanted a suc- cessor, Since there is always for the breach an arm the sword to wield Of saint or of transgressor. We pass, and very soon has lapsed the hubbub that arose. The statesman, warrior, poet, leaves a gap not long in filling ; CONFUCIUS IN HIS LAST DAYS. 67 And other statesmen, warriors, bards, around the stand- ards close, Able as well as willing. But if Confucius had retired, and others filled his place, A soul hke his perchance had drooped ; his gaze no longer rested Upon the literatures of old, that Time does not efface ; As ages have attested : — And if Confucius had retired, and left the public strife. The state would have been served as well, and flourished in the present. But Chinese Literature had lost a full third of its life, Its wisdom rare and pleasant. 'Tis well he kept the Field, and fought in thickest of the fray; To woman for the greater part a dim unconcious stranger ; Tho' upon Music's downy breast a clinging child he lay In times of woe and danger. He stood with Courage on his right, and Music on his left. And Circumspection at his back, and aye before him standing The Ancient Dynasties' Ideals of Life, of dross bereft. In purest truth expanding. And when the World was very harsh, and very cold and dull. He crossed the Temple's court, and spent some time in genuflecting, His hands were for the altar meet, was there a bloom to cull He kept no priest expecting. We may be certain he revered his ancestors each hour, And wrote on tablets their full names in line of all men's vision ; 68 CONFUCIUS IN HIS LAST DAYS. An agbd person was to him an instrument of power, No object for derision. Living a long and solid life, he came at last to die, His weeping followers around ; they took not long in naming : The prescient Sage regarded Death with an unflinching eye, The Monitor yet blaming : And turning to those nearest him said, ' Death I do not fear. But for my doctrines, which contain such excellence and beauty, I've poured them in unfruitful ground, and this makes Death's appear A dark and dismal duty ! — ' If I had Time, disciples true, I'd right the Government, And prove my System the one path to take men's steps from sorrow, But I must die ! ' — and here the grief of the great Sage found vent, ' What of the hazy morrow ? ' And what will future Ages think of me, the man who spun, And had not after years of toil a thing to show for spinning ? And now must lapse in Darkness works of truth I have begun, O, why was the beginning ? ' He did not see — that dying Sage — the millions who should rise And hold his Doctrines, and upon them base each defi- nition Of Life and Conduct : and he closed in Death his tearful eyes. The Slave of Marred Ambition. DIRGE FOR A CHURCH CARETAKER. 69 n.— RELIGIOUS POEMS. DIRGE FOR A CHURCH CARETAKER. When the Bride all bright and splendid Is by pressing crowds commended, Kneels before the shining Altar ; And the Priest, with bell and psalter. Incense sweet as prayers repeated Where the fullest bliss is meted, Joins, and makes One out of Twain, She will be missed, and questioned for, in vain. When the Mother proud, is bringing To the font her babe, and flinging Comfits in a manner reckless Are the friends ; the garments speckless Will not have one keen-eyed critic, With a genius analytic. And the ring of light will not Reveal one form, tho' absent, ne'er forgot. When the Church is draped and sable Teaching life is most unstable, And before the Altar burning Are few tapers ; from which turning Is beheld a coffin, resting On a catafalque, attesting To the sombre draperies ; One Mourner will be missed, and many sighs. When the contrite youth or maiden. By their weight of sin o'erladen. Ring the bell for the Confessor, One, who pitied the transgressor, Will not proffer her assistance Gliding from the mystic distance. To entreat the Rector's grace, Or show the penitent the kneeling place. 70 DIRGE FOR A CHURCH CARETAKER. When the scoffing crowd and spiteful Use a tone of discourse frightful, And their modes of baseness vary Where is writ up ' Non Spittare,' And act worse than any savage Bent on heresy and ravage, One uplifted finger, ne'er Will warn those impious folk, or say * Beware ! ' When the Church is quite deserted, But one praying broken-hearted. And the lights but faintly glimmer Making life more sad and dimmer, Who will weep with the spent weeper ? As she did, who now, a sleeper Does not creep from shrine to shrine. And heal sad hearts with pityings divine ? When the Church is packed and blazing. Decorations — lights — amazing. And the music is soul-lifting, She among the poorest shifting With her beads and book attentive. To a pious thought incentive, Will not any more be found ; Cecilia taught her, and hath now her crowned. When again that Church I enter Dear to my heart's inmost centre. And the Priests I love will cheer me, Strains I cherish will come near me, When I kneel where faith sustains me. And the World so little pains me, I shall look around, nor find One female friend, a constant friend, and kind. I know not where she is lying, I knew nothing of her dying ; But across the sea 'twas spoken That her cord to life was broken. A PASSING ACQUAINTANCE. 7 1 And across the sea repeated My true woe of heart has fleeted : Poor and old, yet dear to me ; Dying afar — yet what are leagues of sea ? She loved Christ, and she loved Mary, She of Sin was ever wary, One bead from her chaplet, surely Kept, would make me live more purely ; And in Heaven, if There I meet her. As an Angel I shall greet her, Splendid beyond Earth's control, Blooming in all the excellence of Soul ! Saint, Farewell ! but not for ever ; Bodies part, Souls cannot sever ; For the Great, a Panegyric, And a strain of song Homeric ; For the Small, a humble ditty. Full of Love, and Trust, and Pity ; Pray for both their Souls release From Cleansing Fires 1 O, may they Rest in Peace ! A PASSING ACQUAINTANCE. An afternoon in my past life (A longer life than years attest) Recurs to me, as being rife With a pecuUar interest, Which works the more thro' strife. Strife, I repeat. Year follows year And I seem no whit nearer peace ; 72 A PASSING ACQUAINTANCE. And 'tis my sorrows have, I fear, Caused my devotion to increase : Pure Love God holds more dear. It was in such dejected mood I sought my church that afternoon. Whose walls have often seen me brood. When life was sadly out of tune : My soul there gained her food. A noble London Church, but such As would in Italy uprise. With decorations not a touch Could heighten. And the poor were wise, They sought its precincts much : For in it there were nooks to weep, Shrines far removed from vulgar gaze, Corners retired, and shadows deep ; The air had just a faint sweet haze ; I with the rest would creep And contemplate the Sacred Heart As in the Saviour's Breast 'tis seen ; Flames fierce from its abysses start. From thorny wreath it hath no screen. Its flesh is rent apart. 'Twas thus I did myself acquaint With Brother John the Sacristan, His visage pale as face of Saint ; Darns in his cassock you might scan : His speech low, his smile faint. I found him quite unlettered, still In doctrine reaching the sublime, A phrase from him has made me thrill ; He talked, and took small heed of time, I listened with good will. A PASSING ACQUAINTANCE. 73 But on that afternoon : almost I had passed o'er what I'd repeat, — As storm-tossed bird to shelt'ring coast, I wended to my loved retreat And kneeled before the Host. And shortly I became aware Of a grand coffin, raised on high, While some attendants, rapt in prayer, Looked to the tapers' prompt supply ; I rose, and stept with care, And came upon Miss Mack, a dame In years, who dusted out the pews ; Love-crossed ; and who it was to blame, I never learned ; but oft she'd choose My sympathy to claim. And right beneath the organ stairs She has gone thro' Byronic verse, Narrated her old love affairs. Sighed o'er a destiny perverse, Ended, of course, with prayers. To her I then myself addressed : Who is before the Altar laid ? Her face a world of thought expressed : ' A Duchess,' said she, half afraid, ' A Duchess there doth rest ! ' The Lady's name I never asked. Enough her Rank so high had been, But my imagination tasked To trace her thro' a life-long scene Of Splendour, now unmasked. A palace hall, a garden bower, A yacht, and equipage to suit. Attendant ladies of fine dower, Outside obsequiousness to boot ; A round of light and power. 74 MEDITATION IN A CHURCH. I marked it all, surveyor-wise, When up to me came Brother John, Said : ' Yonder cofifin's weight and size Baffle my efforts, and upon A pew to-night it lies.' And I considered myself bid To help him move its size and weight : No peep beneath the fastened lid ; Ay, that no place to seek for state ; Night fell, and all was hid. The Sacristan his trestles bare Into an upper gallery Where rummage piled but met the stare. From whence you could the apses spy, St Peter's Glory share. And undertakers took away Next morn, that sombre bulk — Her Grace. How little worth is clay as clay ! Years cannot from my mind efface How in my arms she lay ! MEDITATION IN A CHURCH. 'Tis sweet upon some melting day in June, From off the dusty highway to retire. And rest in herbage by a murmuring stream ; Or on a winter day to seek a fire, Turn from the fog without, to peaceful dream, Helped by the kettle's tune. And after poring over yellow leaves In dismal counting-house or study dim, The intellectual draught of brighter brim The son of labour gratefully receives. MEDITATION IN A CHURCH. 75 I find a fit comparison in these, To what the wayfarer of tender mind Feels as he passes in the crowded street, And glad, a Church's door doth open find. And entering those portals, takes a seat. Awhile he little sees ; A few weak lights of mystery ; and then, Long rows of sombre pews ; then thro' the dark Emerge faint pictures ; lastly, he doth mark Silent as stone, a few rapt brethren. This is a pleasure Time to me has brought ; Gold he has taken, ay, and worldly place, But given more than he has ta'en away ; Now, if I be perplexed, or in sad case, Upon His Altar God doth for me stay : Nor is He vainly sought. What care I for the coldness of the mart ? Earth's shutting doors, dim stars, and darkening sun ? Unto a Church I with my sorrow run. And pour it forth betimes to Christ's warm Heart. And yet methinks I might do more than this : Leave everything to God, my sorrow's dress Cast at the threshold of His House of Prayer, In choicer robes my want to Him express. Let Meditation calmly stifle care ; Such is the Way to Bliss. Retire, proud World ! your glory is all dross. Curls up like parchment in the heavenly flames ; A greater King than earth can show me, claims Allegiance. If Earth fails me where's my loss ? This Church is very still. Now God should speak And does. O Pyx, my reverent eyes I turn Tow'rds you, for in your walls my Saviour waits ! My heart doth to His Heart responsive yearn : Ah, me ! He's throned beyond the Heavenly Gates And in that chamber weak ! 76 MEDITATION IN A CHURCH. Lowest, and O Highest ! these two words A Saint was used to breathe out evermore, Who now is learning on the heavenly shore The melodies created from such chords. The Church recedes ! I see the Holy Child Laid by the Virgin Mother on the wood Of Bethlehem's Manger : then I see Him grow In wisdom and in stature, pure and good Learning from her glad lips. And now I know Each scene, I am beguiled As 'twere, with Music, Painting, Poetry, All Art, more excellent than is attained By any artist here ; the shores I've gained Of Meditation's clear, vast, glorious sea. Who sits upon the Oriental Well ? Palm-shaded, formed of rude, unfashioned stones ; What woman this that o'er the desert treads ? He speaks of Living Streams in undertones, With breathless longing she takes up the threads Of all that He doth tell. Who kneeleth in this Garden past the Brook? See, He is bathed in sweat and blood commingled ! Who dieth on a Cross ? was one ere singled To meet, unmoved, the Saviour's dying look ? 1 see Augustine, greatest of the great. Climb on downtrodden sins to daylight clear ; Seraphic Francis craves a robe in death ; Liguori, writing doth to me appear, With cold block to his brow : with gentle breath Francis of Sales doth hate And clamour, silence. Dominic, alone, At dead of night, scourges his flesh most pure ; And Antoninus every ill doth cure, And serving God, doth reign. All these I've known. The wicked gaze on Agnes is put out — Material blindness upon mental lowers ; THE MYSTICAL LADDER. ^^ The Faith of Barbara from her dungeon drear Covers the sandy waste with perfumed flowers ; Eulaha's blood streams forth divinely clear On ice that's strewn about The Forum's ring : Frances of Chantal, o'er Her prostrate child will step, when Duty calls ; Teresa, Catherine, pass this Church's walls They bring me sweetness I have known of yore. And, as I leave the Church, I hear a peal Of most unearthly music ; Angel wings Encircle me, and lovingly they lean Their heads above me, and the fairest sings : — ' Go forth ! where thou art going. Saints have been ; Love God, and He will seal And keep thee to His Service. Go and fight ; Think not of Rest, and God will send thee Rest ; Strive to be Blest, for God would have thee Blest ; Doubt brings dismay, but Faith shall lead to light.' THE MYSTICAL LADDER. (A Poem of the Forty Hours' Prayer.) I. A WALK through a cold dark evening Comes back to me as I write ; For it led to a Temple stately. And a mission service bright. I remember the simple story The mission preacher gave ; Like fire upon ice it acied ; My soul it helped to save. 78 THE MYSTICAL LADDER. Not half so severe the penance The Church in our age bestows, As she dealt in the earlier ages To her weak ones, and her foes. A record that sin made hideous A woman with tears displayed. Seeking help from a holy Bishop Who would not refuse her aid. ' For the rest of thy days,' he ordered, ' Remain in a silent cell. That hath to the church a grating ; Tis there I would have ye dwell : ' No more of the World's temptations. No more of its tinsel gleam. Shut out from all else, thy Saviour Shall henceforth fill thy dream ! ' ' Most gladly I take the penance ! ' The sin-stained woman cried ; ' But tell me a prayer, thou Bishop, To speak while there I bide ! ' My lips in the poisoned waters Of worldly discourse, have been ; The Name of my Lord is surely Too fair for the unclean ! ' And again did the Bishop answer : — ' Behold here a flower to cull : — O thou, Who hast me created Be to me merciful ! ' II. Long years in her cell she tarried. Yet to her they were not long ; And the prayer by the Bishop spoken Was ever on her tongue. THE MYSTICAL LADDER. 79 She said it in fearful midnights When graves in the cloisters yawn, And turning towards her grating, Repeated the prayer at dawn. At Mass, and at Benediction, Naught else was she wont to say ; She found in those words the leaven Making pure her heart each day. Her crimes as they rose before her The rays of her peace might dull ; She said : ' Thou Who me createdst. To me be Merciful ! ' I I L One night as the Bishop waited To see the same silver moon. That circled the great Augustine, And that Monica did festoon. Yea more, the same moon that hearkened Blood-red to our Saviour's cry, As He knelt in the Blood-bathed Garden Ere He went for us to die ; — As the Bishop looked for its rising Over convent roof and spire, He noticed one cell, surrounded With supernatural fire. And later, he saw the Angels Sway soft in their gleaming wings The sinner he had directed By prayer, to the peerless springs. Light acting on cut glass glitters In colours most rich and pure. But the Angels were far more gorgeous Than aught we can think, be sure. 8o THE MYSTICAL LADDER. They carried the woman saintly Past worlds, till they faded quite, And the Bishop, absorbed, was gazing Thro' the usual starlit night. One prayer with great love repeated, One flower we scarce would cull Drew God : Thou Who me createdst O, be thou Merciful ! IV. When the preacher had done his sermon The candles were lit, and then A service took place, meet solace For the world's tired denizen : And Christ on a people kneeling Was pleased for a space to smile, O, would It had lasted ever ! Not only a little while. Thro' the bells, thro' the hymns, thro' the smoke- wreaths What is it that I did say ? So much to the pained heart rises When we begin to pray. God knoweth our need ; and, therefore, The prayer that the Bishop spake Perchance may be far more useful Than prayers that with care we make. 'Twas all that I said : sufficient It was for her sinful soul, Enough for her burning ardour As the love-flames burst control. Returning that winter evening. In the cold dark streets alone, The story of that poor woman Seemed sweeter than I had known. CORPUS CHRIST!. 8 1 Returning that winter evening, My lamp was no longer dull. O, Thou, Who hast us created To us be Merciful ! CORPUS CHRISTI. Chapels aye present attraction, Not diminished, when they rise Humble, far from men and action, And the City's smoky skies. I once found a chapel, crowning A slight eminence, it stood Where dark, stunted verdure, frowning. Put the landscape in a sombre mood. But upon one morn, when smiling Was the sky, and soft the wind, Nature's aspect more beguiling Seemed — or brighter was my mind ; Pools the cloudless blue reflected, Bushes did not sadly sigh, Sand banks were not so dejected As they oft had seemed in days gone by. And T found that morn a number Pressing thro' the chapel's door ; Some, mayhap, had clipped their slumber Since a dusty Inok they wore : But within the sacred building White-robed children met my gaze There no marble, there no gilding, But the acme of all fair displays F 82 CORPUS CHRISTI. Lovely blooms the Altar crowded, Floral bands and banners showed, And a haze of incense shrouded Filmed, the beauty that else glowed : O, the blue and gauzy vesture Of the maidens garlanded ! O, the free and happy gesture Of each censer-swinging youth in red ! And the candles they were lighted, And the holy priest began Prayers, which each vain thought affrighted, Putting Satan under ban ; And the children sang out clearly As they yet again shall sing When no Kyrie sounds, but merely Glorias thro' the eternal rafters ring. I had sate in buildings splendid. Heard the orchestra and quire. Seen the Bishop full attended In his stately rich attire ; But I never felt more solemn. Yet more glad and satisfied. Than where was no nave or column. Or one semblance of religious pride. And I thought of St Teresa To whom did the Saviour speak, (Just thro' her love's throe, to ease her) ' Thou shalt Angel converse seek : ' And that marvel of Siena, She who built an inward shrine, Christ knew her soul's soaring tenor, Said, ' Think of Me, I'll think for Catherine.' And I had a further vision, Of good St Elizabeth ; — Ah, 'twould draw the world's derision That a Queen should spend her breath, FROM THE WORLD TO THE CLOISTER. 83 Gold and patience, all to carry From her palace, bread to feed Starving folk : she did not tarry And found loaves were changed to flowers indeed. Then we bore in long procession Our dear Lord the Church around. Kneeling in our slow progression On the rugged, sandy ground : Banners in the sunlight waving. Tapers flaring in the noon, Ah, 'tis all a sweet engraving On my mental tablets, and a boon ! 'g And amid the hymns ascending To the other throne in bliss. What, thought I, are Nations, wending From, and to, a great Abyss ? What are Families ? 'Tis certain They Processions only are ; Exiles, who, when lifts the curtain. Stand in the Day, and do not need the Star. FROM THE WORLD TO THE CLOISTER. I THOUGHT of my true maiden in the night ; How she is now a Convent's central light, Tho' novice is she not, neither a nun ; But while we're waiting to adjust the bands Of Hymen, she doth find a mellower sun Where a French Convent stands. She finds the World a good one, in its way ; But yet acceptable the pearly grey 84 FROM THE WORLD TO THE CLOISTER. That veils the Hfe conventual, for a space ; So at this sweet Spring season of the year She adds her virtues to a holy place. Tho' this would shock her ear ; Because, she is too humble and devout To let Conceit stalk garishly about : And in the Convent where she doth retire. The children whom the nuns teach, find her so ; If she were less, she'd less attract my lyre Which doth now throb and glow. For all its shining and its burning mood The melodies it utters are not good, Nor of that excellence I would attain : And O, I think of all this in the night. When Slumber will not nestle in my brain. And ease is broken quite. Ay, then I turn to that French Convent's shade, I see her petite form illume the glade, Her pensive face excel the lily fair ; Her presence is than hyacinths more sweet ; Her voice sounds like a seraph's in the air, From some far golden street. Contrasting her life with my own, how wide Severed we seem ; yet she's to be my bride When Fate permits the bli>s we both await ; She is well versed in pious usages ; While Commerce strive I to manipulate ; And part us many seas. She helps to dress the children in white veils. And purest flowers, ere they approach the rails Of the High Altar ; and she hears them sing The litany and anthem ; and she reads Her Bossuet and Mis-al, and doth cling With rapture to her beads. FROM THE WORLD TO THE CLOISTER. 85 Of all things sacred she is drinking deep : — The vast cathedral, where the mighty sleep, With pointed Gothic arch and mullion grand, And columns, where the carven flowers wreathe : Before old pictures rapt I see her stand. And scarcely seems to breathe. And the old abbe when he comes to say Mass in the early dewy morn, ere day Impress with dull mortality the earth, He, turning, spreads his palms, and says to her ' Oremus,' and do thoughts then spring to birth Of me, her wanderer ? Methinks that she doth unlock chalices And broider vestments, and is most at ease To strike the gong or swing the thurible, Or light the candles, or arrange the blooms ; Tho' she is not for any cloistral cell, But Wedded Love's warm rooms. ' Suppose ' (and 'tis the Tempter who now speaks) ' This life in cloisters lure whom thy soul seeks And take her from thee, evermore to keep ? ' O, then I feel a coldness at my heart, As if a snake had coiled round it in sleep And waked it with a start. O, maiden mine, no nights or mornings pass That I do not in orisons thee class ; Then may I be participant in thine ? And have a recollection in thy prayer. To reach me o'er these barren leagues of brine, My first and only fair ? 86 THE SCRIPTORIUM. THE SCRIPTORIUM. When Faith's lamp was burning brighter Than it doth in later times, Flourished then a patient Writer 'Neath the monastery chimes ; Pale he was, and given to learning. And he traced, day after day, Words with truth and beauty burning, Scrolls whose substance cannot know decay. Said King Solomon : ' Of making Books is not an end.' This thought Caused his heart its share of aching, For he saw it all was fraught With the vanity rank spreading O'er the earth, a verdure vile ; And it needs a wary treading Thro' the lush grass of the tropic isle. But the Writer I am singing Launched no new lore on the world. He conserved what first was springing, He the ancient truths unfurled, So that all could join in gladness At the banquet sweet and pure, And dispel the weight of sadness With the writings destined to endure. He had not the wild ambition Throbbing in the poet's brain ; But he had as blest a mission, And he is the Age's gain ; For without that learned Writer, All the Classics were submerged ; Our inheritance were slighter, 'Twas his prism Classic rays converged. THE SCRIPTORIUM. 87 But than Classics valued greater Are the Scripture mines of gold ; Men of these times late, and later, Ay, till earth is more than old, Will not find aught prized and peerless As the Bible : let us praise Him, the monk, whose study cheerless Witnessed work that benefits all days. In that Cell the hours were fleeting And the tonsured head bent low, What tho' sunshine was entreating He would not to greet it go, What tho' frost was by him standing In a mist, he would not move. But the Copy was expanding That the Coming Ages should a])prove. O, he sometimes heard the singing Of the happy child without. And he sometimes heard the springing And the nesting swallows' rout. And he took but little heeding ; But the Angelus was rung, Then his prayer was deej) exceeding, And the Name of Jesus on his tongue. O, he never smelled the roses In the garden at his feet, And he seldom trode the closes, And was ne'er seen in the street ; And the Year awoke in anger. Coming round to sprightly glee, Lapsing to a dreamful languor To end with snowy mead and leafless tree. But he found no satisfaction In aught that to earth pertains, Yet his life was one of action, And its substance yet remains : 88 THE SCRIPTORIUM. In the ruins bones are bleaching, And the grey owl and the bat Flit above them : yet the teaching There, sounds like some grand Magnificat. On this stone slab he the Writer Heard the words, which were his guide ; On these flags that pale inditer Kneeled, the Altar rails beside ; In yon cell, so gauntly gaping. He pursued his blessed task, Till it saw his Soul escaping. Henceforth in God's glorious Light to bask. O, methinks there passed around him All the pageantry of life ; Monastery buildings found him A wall's thickness from the strife ; On yon plain the knight in armour Spurred his charger to the fray, In that grove he wooed his charmer, In the ruby light of fading day. Knights and ladies are forgotten. Nothing from their hand remains ; Pride of Life is long proved rotten. But Humility sustains : And the Angels of his working, And the margins pranked with skill, Flowers amid the letters lurking. These are cherished when the hand is still. Still, ah, very still. A letter From my lady is to hand, She who keeps my heart in fetter Tied in true love's blessed band ; And a Convent her encloses ; And she writes me : ' Time goes by In the placing Saints and Posies On a Missal's margin : slow am I, DREAM TOKENS. 89 ' And of fifty pages, only Nine are, as I write, complete.' O, my dearest, I am lonely, O myself that I might seat By your side, and watch the madder. The ultramarine, and gold, Laid on by those fingers ; sadder Falls the night, my love, upon my wold. Whoso has that charmed Missal Will find Grace in plenty given. And the Gospel and Epistle Be like peace upon the shriven ; The Memento, the Secreta, E'en the Blessed Words of Dread, Will be more sublime, and sweeter, In pages of that wondrous Missal read. For whom is the Missal painted ? Is it for yourself ? Perchance For some nun, who will be sainted ? O, my love ! my maid in France ! Intersperse the text with breathings. Like the old-time monks, of prayer ; Place his name 'mid flowery wreathings, Who looks, o'er leagues of dark sea, to Nevers ! DREAM TOKENS. I FOUND him sweet and winning past expression, And innocent, the child of whom I write, To aid him in his earthly lore's progression I stayed, one Sabbath night : 90 DREAM TOKENS. The Church his guileless spirit had in training ; It was not then remaining For me, to urge those truths, which need explaining By priestly lips, aright. I learned, throughout the week the Christian Brothers Admitted him an inmate of their throng ; That the holy Nuns had been to him as mothers All his life — which was not long : I watched his face — it had a Seraph's glamour The dullest to enamour ; I heard his voice, amid the City's clamour, A tender trill of song. His mother set my anxious mind inquiring : Ah, she was young, and some had thought her fair, But seldom light her dull brown eyes was firing, And on her brow was care ; She was a victim to incessant toiUng, In a machine-room moiling, For those whose dainty hands in labour soiling Are known not anywhere. And while the leathern straps were swiftly passing O'er wheels revolving, with their use agleam, Her child was with the Brothers good, amassing Lore's best and richest cream ; The two at night to their poor home returning. The scant wage of her earning Laid out in food and rent, and in some learning, And other wants that teem. She told me that the boy was good exceeding. But too religious ; if she had her way He should for boyish sports have keener heeding ; He now ignored such play. And in his slumber she would hear him sighing For God, his soul applying To things above, she waked him, prayer denying Lest health should go astray. DREAM TOKENS. 9 1 I ventured on a question. Was the father In distant lands, or on the troublous wave ? Or dead ? But then I saw that she would rather Me her the answer save. But later, she revealed to me the story ; 'Twas dark, and even gory ; Yet — let it pass ; it is the Christian's glory To gentle be, and suave. I taught the child the elements of knowledge ; He used his dimpled hands to count, with care ; I led him to the tall porch of the college And pointed to the stair : His face was flushed as lovely as the Morning When she steps forth adorning The dew-pearled meads, and gives the shadows warning, Saying to them, Beware. Dear Child, what will your Life be? Let me question And take a Dreamer's glance at your career, In pure, blue, liquid eyes, I find suggestion That God will keep you near His Sacred Presence ; and your Sphere of Action The Church, which hath attraction For many, but the good gain satisfaction In so sublime a Sphere. I see you now in cloisters dim delaying, Beneath your feet the Brothers who have died, Your Office with a holy unction saying, None visible beside : The chill blasts sweep the cold grey stones, and teach you How soon Death's hand may reach you, And in their mournful cadences beseech you To take the Saints for guide. I see you in the thronged cathedral standing ; The tapers shine, a galaxy of stars, The clouds of fragrant incense are expanding E'en thro' the grating's bars ; 92 DREAM TOKENS. You preach to thousands there the truths late taught you, In cold grey cloisters brought you, And to such heat sublime are worked and wrought you, Wield words like scimitars. Methinks you will be One with all things holy ; With blessed pictures of Madonnas mild. With blessed statues that are noticed slowly. To far dim shrines exiled ; With blessed lamps burning before the Altar, With blessed bells and psalter, With blessed railings where the timid falter, Or weep, with weakness wild. Methinks your proper dress will be the cassock So simple, yet sublime, in its plain fold ; I see you kneel at times upon a hassock Braided with gleaming gold, And lightly lift to princes your biretta. Yet loving Silence better, Where wisdom and where piety, the fetter Apply, a saving hold. Methinks I hear you urge each true devotion That breathes of Christ, or whispers of the Saints, That you know where to stimulate emotion Or silence sore complaints : And what if I should one day come, and kneeling Beside you, low appealing. Unlock the fiood-gates of remorse and feeling, A soul whom sin attaints ? And what if I should see you consecrating The Sacred Bread, and hear your Mass progress ? Ah, what if I should be of many, waiting The Angelic Happiness ? I hear the organ in the far loft mingle With angel choirs, a single Enraptured moment mine, my blood doth tingle, I feel you as you Bless ! A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. 93 Where have I gone ? To what excesses drifted ? Yet is there Truth perchance in what I've penned ; At times, and much of late, I find me lifted, Alas, I first descend ! I found him sweet and charming past my telling, With a lone mother dwelling ; We passed a Sunday night o'er sums and spelling, Myself, and little friend. A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. More barren thought might be Than what is lavished on the Matron's page ; We find how they from woe the whole earth free. And primal strife assuage. The Moon climbs up the sky ; And stars the deep blue with their brilliance stud ; With Luna at the full I've scarce to try And spread the Inland Flood — With Ostia at the mouth Of Tiber. When to Ostia I press Monica, splendour of the Ancient's South, My musings deigns to bless. Augustine's Mother, hail ! Art thou not she who wept and prayed for years. And found thy vigils at the last avail ? God changed to pearls thy tears. Art thou not she who stood On Afric's shore, and watched his less'ning sail, Then in a galley kept his neighbourhood. To follow did not fail ? — 94 A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. And she, who duly sighed When he, arising to more worldly height, Did seem of Truth more hopelessly denied ? Thy vigils brought him light. And thou at last didst sit Above that wave at Ostia ! — the hand Of death upon thy heart. O season fit To speak of Glory's Land. No more of porticoes, No more of meadows underneath whose planes Students would suffer philosophic throes, And list the poet's strains ; But regions that surpass Imperial palaces, and realms of pride, Where Crowns are cast into a sea like glass And streets are gold well tried. Such didst thou picture. Rare And excellent, o'er Ostia reclined, A golden Glory playing round thy hair And earth a speck behind. O, Southern Moon ! my choice Is thee to watch from teeming fuchsia beds. While myriad insects on the plains rejoice And a starred Heaven spreads. How many moonhght scenes Can I, and do I, frequently recall ; But that made blest by Monica hath means To cast in shade them all. II. The Parramatta's stream Is glassy, and reflects the stainless blue ; Upon her bosom I've been wont to dream And to the Past I grew. A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. 95 I wearied of the shores, Ridges monotonous of gum trees grey, Or scrub luxuriant wove ; no floral stores The sameness did away. My best and sweetest thought Has been, that in this land the Mother dear Beyond all others, is both known and sought, With fealty sincere. Corne, O thou Ancient Times, That, after all, seem not so very dim And distant, fitting art thou for my rhymes The Bible Years I hymn ! When Mary, Mother mild, Brought forth her Babe, it in a manger laid, That Babe thro' Whom the world is reconciled. Whose Mother was a Maid. Who doth not love to trace The humble Inn, at Bethlehem retired ? And while I love the Infant's magic face. The Mother hath me fired. Wondrous, and blent with pain. To recollect that pair so calm, so blest ; And then to reach to Calvary, where the twain Were fearfully distrest. O, Nazareth ! what lyre Hath strength or sweetness ! O, the Hidden Years When thou with Jesus didst alone retire ; The very name endears. Earth hath not any space, Life any scope, w^hen 'tis our aim to think, Draw, and assimilate, the Hidden Grace ; We sip but at the brink. g6 A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. When, Mary, thou couldst say, ' Do whatsoe'er He wills,' it must have been Outcome of special insight from the Ray Flooding thy Sou serene. O, Mother, inch by inch We scan the record of thy Holy Life, Word after word we ponder, but we flinch At Calvary's awful strife. Yet there wast thou bequeathed, Thy Son, the Saviour, witli His Dying Breath Spake to St John. Thou art with Glory wreathed, Mary of Nazareth. And at some Future nigh. We of the South will Guido emulate, And all the pious painters ; ne'er shall die Our love, but wax more great III. Having now winged my flight To distant climes in ages long passed by, My dreams come like the boomerang, and alight My English home anigh. Tis true, I pen these lines Not in my home, but am more distant far Than Greece or Palestine. But thought entwines Where my dear parents are. A tendril of that tree So loved, so sheltering, of London growth And thirteen thousand milts of heaving sea Cannot make weak my troth. Australia 'neath my tread. And strange Antipodean stars on high, But home is England ; bnrn I was, and bred. Beneath her well-loved sky. A VISION OF GOOD MOTHERS. 97 Nearer she always seems, When I recall the weary leagues of foam ; The Centre, and Circumference of dreams, ]\Iy love, and aye my home. So as I said, return From travels in far lands, my weary thoughts ; I feel my old affections press and yearn To the well-known resorts. Where my dear ^Mother strives 'Gainst many ills ; prudent she is, and pure, The best of Mothers, and the first of Wives, Her Virtues must endure. Ah me, what bitter tears Her pale thin features constantly have scored. How she has felt the weight of woe for years ! But kept her virtue's hoard. While our hot sun sharp sets, And locusts sing our vespers, she's constrained To cower o'er embers ; winter moans and frets. Earth is with ice insrrained. '&' May God then with her be ! Her long devotion must on her recur. Love is not lessened by long leagues of sea ; Time makes not Love to stir, Unless it is to leap Towards the Loved. Dear jNIother, let me place Thee on the Roll jNIajestic ; proud to keep Thy Love, thy Worth to trace. 9 8 AN ANTARCTIC IDYLL. \\\.— AUSTRALIAN POEMS. AN ANTARCTIC IDYLL. O, Albatross, smoothly sailing When Fiends of the Tempest rave ; Thy rest and thy calm unfailing When Elements wild behave : O, Albatross ! could'st thou teach me To combat Life's stormy stress, If thou could'st, what balm would reach me Now that winds of misfortune bleach me, Robbing Life of its loveliness ! O, Albatross, little caring Tho' spray make the south wind thick, How few are there meet for sharing Thy joys, of thy comrades, quick To steer for the dark expanses Where Leuwin doth watchings keep O'er a scene showing few fair glances, Yet is brimful of wild romances Of the bush, and dreary deep ! O, Albatross, I was never Aweary to watch thy flight, And stood when the Day did sever His hold on the skirts of Night ; — Around me the sunset flashing, And throbbing as 'twere a thing Death-struck : then the inky splashing Of billows beneath me dashing ; Weird music I heard them sing. '&• O, Albatross, soon were scudding The cloud-racks athwart the stars, O' AN ANTARCTIC IDYLL. 99 My vessel's wide decks were flooding, She seemed thrashed as by iron bars ; And soon as the crowd deserted Thou wert all that to me remained ; And then, I was heavy hearted, For thou, like the rest, departed. And vainly my eyes I strained. O, Albatross, I have questions To ask thee. Thy life is strange : Of Love canst thou find suggestions As thou o'er the waves dost range ? Thy days cannot know Love's Blessing On the billows thy young ones lie, The sea tides around them pressing, Inured to the wind's caressing And the Tempest's weird lullaby. O, Albatross, is"t not tiring This life that I see thee lead ? O'er waters to skies aspiring, 'Neath skies that these Avaters heed ; A plaything for sky and water. And Fiends of the middle air ? And yet, tho' they shriek of slaughter, Thou'rt placid as Neptune's daughter, And of Amphitrite fair. O, Albatross, thy replying Comes borne to me even now : — ' My young have the softest lying. As the babes of a Queen, I vow ; And life on the strong winds swooping Hath charms that ye cannot guess ; Didst notice my pinions drooping ? Didst notice me weary stooping ? Is my life than the Eagle's less? ' The Eagle she perches grandly On her summits of granite strong. lOO AN ANTARCTIC IDVLL. The lightnings salute her blandly, The pines sing to her a song ; And I rest on summits shifting, The Tritons I hear them sing, — " A hfe of an endless drifting ! — A life of a brave uplifting I — A flight on a moveless wing ! " ' I've halls that are past your peering Far under each briny crest ; I've music beyond your hearing, And a rest 'neath the sea's unrest ; I've blooms that your earth-taught tending Will ne'er, tho' you strive, excel ; O, think of my seaflovvers blending ! O, think of my gems unending ! My coral, and moss-paved dell ! ' I've some of your spoils, my boaster I When vessels are cast away, The Indiaman brave — the coaster. The War-ship, are all my prey.' O, Albatross (here my yearning O'ercomes me), I ask no more, Thy book is too sad for learning. Thy words with such truths are burning, I go back where I spoke before. O, Albatross, — thus I pray thee — O teach me that calm in strife By which the Storm Fiends obey thee ; The Secret thou hast of Life. And Albatross, what of dying ? — Thou dost not for ever swoop ; The Breezes must hear thy sighing, Know of Death at thy vitals plying, Thy vanquishing vans to droop. And the Albatross saith — ' The distance To South'ard, where ice walls shine A DREAM IN AUSTRALIA. lOI Is my rest, -when the rare existence Of life on the ocean brine Is over. Is it not splendid Those ramparts so brave and bright To receive me, when Life is ended ? ' Thus she screamed as the Night descended On the Great Australian Bight. A DREAM IN AUSTRALIA. And can you tell me, friend (said I), if things are much the same In the sweet old-time village, which doth allegiance claim ? I often in my quiet hours revert to those sweet times When my best music was sent forth from its grey tower's chimes. The Friend who waited at my side but slowly acquiesced : ' The Village has not altered much since you were there a guest.' And tell me (I continued) if, when the lilacs bloom, And primroses the grassy banks with pale gold light illume. Children within the wooded ways pursue their cheery way. Pleased that the Spring has come again, are, as the Season, gay ? You tell me Yes, that children yet search for the rathe? rare flowers ' As I, w'hen music lured me on, and laughter winged the Hours ? And tell me if, in Summertime beneath the meadow trees I02 A DREAM IN AUSTRALIA. The haymakers at noontide rest, to eat their bread and cheese ? How many were the romps around the fragrant ricks new mown, And all the dusty road at night was from the tumbrils strown ; Do children yet beneath the moon atop the hayload ride As I, when life stretched fair, if vague, pleasant on every side? And tell me if, in Autumn, when, on each spreading mead The gossamer is wafted slow, and ripeness reigns indeed. Do little folks with crooked sticks, and cans of shining tin. Seek blackberries along each hedge, till night is closing in? There was no fruit so good to me, as that my toil could find Tiptoe amid the brambles sharp, or some deep ditch behind. Does yet the River, clear and calm, flow past the bridge and mill, Laving the graveyard, where repose so many — ever still ? Does yet the Church amid the tombs engender all things good, With silvern bells, and organ tones, to suit the pious mood? Do yokels gather round its porch ? Do smock-clad cotters still Trudge feebly 'neath the weight of years, their ancient seats to fill ? The Vicarage — has it been changed? I recollect its drive, Its ornamental lakes, its firs ; I do not have to strive A DREAM IN AUSTRALIA. 10 o And memory force ; the peony flowers, the quince trees by the lake, The rhododendrons and sweetbriars do not my dream forsake ; I know the Vicar plump and kind, with Latin learned, and Greek, Is not now in his study dim : I know where him to seek. Kind friend, who shedd'st o'er lonely hours an odour and a balm, Re-touch for me the Cottage Life, so comfortable, calm, Show me the red-tiled floor, the panes of diamond shape, the wide And hospitable ingle seats, the bright log blaze beside ; The dresser with its fair array of delf, to me more rare Than plate — however costly — that the mansion's board doth bear. There was a house I often passed ; as 'neath it I would creep With dawdling pace, and sidelong look, how would my young heart leap A certain Amy if by chance I might a moment see ; If she was not, a darkness fell on house and lawn, and tree ; If she was there, a light divine steeped all, most common things : Ah, then Love blew all dross away with constant win- nowings. How came you here, dear Friend ? Was it by Egypt's plains of sand ? Ceylon's enchanting groves of palm, and Leuwin dark and grand ? Or was it by the square white homes of Cape Town, where the wind Is full of jasmine fragrance ? How came you ? Stranger kind. And then I realise the fact, my Stranger kind and grave Is but displaying gems and flowers that glitter 'neath the wave. I04 AT THE SIGN OF THE CAPTAIN COOK. AT THE SIGN OF THE CAPTAIN COOK. When Bards so many and so great Have lent themselves to tavern praise, I, surely, from my low estate, A like acknowledgment may raise ? For I the worse had ended days But for my cheery fireside nook. Chat, and tobacco's fragrant haze, Within The Captain Cook. I do admit the public bar Had superfluity of noise, The flow of ale too ample far, Surfeit in all things, good destroys ; But in the private parlour, joys Awaited those on pleasure bent, The mind kept in its proper poise For thought, or merriment. There buxom Rose with smiling face Served up the meal in splendid style ; The genial hostess filled the place With music, certain to beguile ; And Fred and George were wont to wile An hour or so each night away At cribbage, nor did they defile The Board with wanton play. I kept myself to literature Until the cards were put aside, And then some pleasant chat was sure To circulate, tho' neither tried To seem with cleverness allied. It was spontaneous all that came. Good humoured, each the other plied, Nor was a moment tame. AT THE SIGN OF THE CAPTAIN COOK. 105 One evening Fred, a man not prone To chat with strangers, somewhat shy And self-contained, did blushing own The Muse he had essayed to try, But had now ceased, he knew not why, A weighty epic to complete. The ^\'orld perchance been slow to spy His worth, and cold to greet. .Ah, friend, it is no noble part To shirk the fight, and fly the field, What man can do with dauntless heart Hath been from age to age revealed ; The Spartan mother gave the shield Unto her son, for battle bound, — ' With it, or on it ! ' Thus she steeled Her boy, in each case, crowned. And George, who in athletic sports Had earned a record, told of sights Seen in the half-wild back resorts, Of aboriginal delights : Upon his pipe-clayed body, writes The agile black, his challenge true ; Then the corroboree excites, And shows what he can do. Ah, little 'tis in him to show- To gain the stronger whites' applause; But when his striped form in the glow Dances, and gins with rhythmic pause Are cognisant of music's laws, It might take Culture many pains To show the like, so scant of flaws, With all her weight of brains. In the old land I had my inn ; Now marbled, gilded, mirrored, grand, Where barmaids' smiles response could win And wine was nectar from her hand ; I06 A REUNION. A hostel now, remotely planned, Where lifted arm could touch the beams, And volumes one could understand E'en in the wainscot's seams. I see not from The Captain Cook A constant tide of beings pass, Nor is there England in the look Of yon waste sand, and verdure sparse ; But in the bright ale's beaded glass, And in the gleaming tankard's foam, In cheery lad, and comely lass, There is the look of Home. A REUNION. The interval seems slender Since thou, an infant tender, Wert shielded from the icy blast beneath a London roof. And I, a youth, beholding Thy many charms unfolding, Was yet unconscious thou in time shouldst put my heart to proof. Thou didst not with us tarry, Thy elders did thee carry To warmer shores, 'neath southern skies, in that fair land to grow ; Yet art thou of my nation, And in this contemplation I only sigh for Sydney's loss, and thee a Cockney know. Yet London ne'er was printed On thy young heart, that minted And worked so beautifully bright, Australia truly claims ; A REUNION. ' 107 Thou art a Southern maiden, With Southern Graces laden, And Woonie surely is among the South's delicious names ? The years like waves rolled o'er us Singing their varied chorus, To me not all unblent with grief, to thee a happy strain, And then, I saw thee bounding Like a young roe, astounding. And 'mid the evergreens and flowers I met thee once again. A helpless infant peering On life, to no point veering, But passive trusting to the love so prodigal and sweet ; — The snow from black skies falling. The winds of winter calling. And belts of yellow fog that stopped the traffic of the street: A blooming girl, light tripping. No grief her joyance clipping. With rosy lips and cheeks, and eyes that spoke the in- ward cheer. And backward streaming tresses, This in a clime that blesses. And sights, and sounds, and scents, to tell that Summer crowned the yenr ! Ah, Woonie, when we lighted Those fireworks, much excited. And coloured stars of earthly make shamed all the starry skies, I held the candle badly. It quivered, for half sadly I thought, that hearts will too take fire if caught by ladies' eyes ! O, there was mirth and laughter ; And at the supper after. With sugar cakes we carried on a conversation rare ; And then Good-Byes were spoken. And Love's light dream was broken By the too sudden rush of wheels, and the rude tram-car's glare. I08 VERSES WRITTEN IN SYDNEY BOTANICAL GARDENS. VERSES WRITTEN IN THE SYDNEY BOTANICAL GARDENS. The weight of Beauty on my spirit lingers So that the things I would I cannot say ; And truly light should issue from the fingers These blest allurements fitly to portray. When first I moored at yonder quay, a chillness Was at my heart, Love's warmth could not remove ; But in the evening hour's delicious stillness I came, the medicine of the plants to prove. Potent they are, the Exile and the Lover, The sorrowful, the innocent, to please ; And how much more our feelings they discover When holding compact with blue skies and seas ! I often turn my footsteps to this Garden Eden itself was surely not more fair ; The ills that life has done to me, I pardon When I its graces and its comforts share. Choose thou not times too splendid, too unclouded, But when the loving play of light is seen. When in a heavy gloom the grove is shrouded, Till gold along its pillars flows serene : When on the harbour the yacht's canvas faintly Shadows the wave, until the clouds pass by, Then, like a disembodied spirit saintly She dashes her pure white against the sky. I know a spot retired, secure and shady, A seat and fountain near ; it seems to me The very place to woo a winsome lady From envy's gibes and vile detraction, free. THE STOCKRIDER. I09 Upon these slopes what lore each blossom teaches ? Some tell of China's lantern-lighted groves, Some of the prairies' starred and mighty reaches, Some of the harem's fragrant, cool alcoves ; — Others, of English homes, where peace is brooding In wide majestic meadows, and the stream Opens the day, and is the day concluding With those sweet strains that fill the Exile's dream. IN'Iake it at eve thy visit to this garden ; At Morn, soon as the crimson vesture shines Upon Day's shoulders, men wax harsh and harden, And love with business awkwardly combines : So come at Eve, and note the day declining From gold to crimson, and from that to green. Until the JNIoon in regal brilliance shining In her own manner dominates the scene. The waters then with tenderness are chiming With bells and clocks in the great City nigh ; The oarsmen's strokes to meditation timing : O, the expanse of star-inwoven sky ! Flowers at that time have thoughts of deepest meaning Their sweetest fragrance then to Heaven ascends : O, much they gather in that mystic gleaning, Who seek the Flowers, and make of them their Friends. THE STOCKRIDER. ' Bah ! your life in crowded cities Would not be the life for me, IIO THE STOCKRIDER. For the winds' and waters' ditties Better with my thoughts agree : And how hear them to content In your barrack houses pent ? ' No : I love to slowly travel, Riding round my cattle herd, Wading thro' the creek's soft gravel, Crossing plains ; tho' scarce a word Comes from man the calm to break Till our evening meal we take. ' Then, our bush fire brightly burning, And our canvas house pegged tight. Carefully the damper turning. How has passed the welcome night ! Tea's choice flavour is not found Till the Billy goes around. ' Haste we never, southward wending, Bound for Sydney ; months ahead We our oxen shall be sending From our care. Their docile tread Absent, we in haste go forth To our pastures in the North. ' You have no idea how pleasant Is the outdoor work ; how strong Muscles grow ; how ever present The good life of toil and song : And the fishing line and gun, Are the makers of our fun.' So he spoke. I scanned the speaker Bronzed, well set, illiterate. But the man, methought, were weaker Nourished in another state. Weaker body, weaker mind, Brought from Nature to mankind. THE STOCKRIDER. Ill Soundly clad, beside me sitting AA'ith his well-enjoyed cigar ; Day along the west was flitting. 'rhere was naught the eve to mar, People straggled o'er the park, Lamps soon glimmered thro' the dark. We to silence lapsed, I thinking, And he smoking, all the time ; But what visions was I drinking ? Ah, too many for my rhyme ; Dreams of forest and of plain. And they e'en recur again. I was with the Stockman wheelins: Round the herd, and with him stayed 'Neath his tent, when night was stealing Thro' the gum tree forest's shade : While the flannel flower and fern Were the books I had to learn. Sometimes, over rocks gigantic. Full of wonder, did I brood ; Then, where rivers had grown frantic Marvelling, my way pursued. Shadowed by the mountain range ; An existence rare and strange. There were days we stopped to listen At a settlers dwelling lone ; Thro' the gloom dark eyes would glisten, Coo-ee ! would to us be blown On the heavy dense night wind ; But who called, we'd seldom find. Now my Stockman is careering North to Queensland, speeding fast, Every night his true love nearing ; And he clasps her safe at last When he from his saddle springs, And the Station's welcome rings. 112 THE FAIRV OF THE CREEK. THE FAIRY OF THE CREEK. A SHV and pretty child she was When she in Dolby dwelt, To love or loathe had little cause, Nor strongly had she felt : Life an uninteresting thing ; Each day was much the same, — An air played on a minor string That could no raptures claim. Companions few were to her taste ; She an opossum trained, It was her playmate in the waste, Always with her remained. She wheeled it in a barrow small Beside the narrow Creek ; Seldom she'd hear a child's voice call, Perchance not thrice a week : But folks had noticed her, alone. Beneath the gum trees stray. Nor with a child was she once known To pass her time away. If asked, she'd tell with sparkling mien Her 'possum's downy fur, Thro' which a long black stripe was seen ; And how it grew to her. She told me that the country round Was weary bush and plain, A dearth of water oft was found. And oft they sighed for rain. She never penetrated once Unto the Condamine : BOND!. Tis possible she was a dunce ; So many did opine. But, after all, she knew the Creek, Its black and heavy soil. Had known its bursting waters break To mar her people's toil. And also she had stept across Its space in times of dread. I ask her if she feels its loss With Leichhardt round her spread ? But no ; she scarcely deigns to speak ; ^Vith wrath she turns to me ; — How can she longer love the Creek When she has seen the Sea ? "3 B O N D I. Where the deep violet of ocean mingles With what has semblance of milk waste and spreading, Producing blues in many variations, I came, the day I sate me down at Bondi. The silver sand in each direction gleaming. By stubborn scrub and gloomy gum surmounted : Yet have I looked on Nature in my rambles Less fair — how much less ! — than she is at Bondi. I lay upon the grassy slope, and rested ; I heard the sea singing its chant, that differs. And is not the same song to all who listen ; While the strong briny airs blew over Bondi : — H 1 1 4 BONDI. Breezes to some distasteful, as partaking The cold unyielding of the realms Antarctic ; But I, a Northern, shun airs enervating ; Life came to me upon that breeze at Bondi. A child as yet she is ; around her cluster Houses a few, substantial some, some meagre. But what she will develop in the future Is barely dreamt, a Queen may yet be Bondi. She may dispense her gifts of health and pleasure To Nations, and her deeds abroad be blazoned ; On her green slopes may spread the marble terrace : You tell me not what is in store for Bondi. You lack that knowledge, to the time allotted The three score years and ten have come, when twenty Did you foresee the growth of Australasia ? And part of Australasia is this Bondi. You did not so ; neither the daring sailor When past yon headland in his poor bark shaping, Thought of a Sydney that should crown Port Jackson : He could not be expected to know Bondi. Behold that gallant steamship the Heads nearing ! Part of her freight of useful things and precious. She has the latest books, most recent fashions, That shall be read and worn not far from Bondi. A hundred years ago the naked savage Looked with a stare inane upon that ocean, He had no thought, no wish, its waves to furrow ; Enough for him the scrub and caves at Bondi. His knowledge, how to slaughter the opossum. The kangaroo, and wallaby ; and waiting, His gin blew thro' her matted locks the embers, And wrought him a new boomerang at Bondi. SUSPENSION OF PAYMENT. 115 Life cannot now be held in her old channels, And other courses are her waters forming ; I hear her growing clear articulation As I can hear the Ocean speak at Bondi. I plainly see, 'neath Southern Constellations An Empire, ancient dynasties outvieing ; Another Rome, but, pray God, not so wicked ! Washed by the waves that sing to me at Bondi. O, vast responsibility is resting Upon men now. Ye have the Past for guidance ; Use that light well ! — So ends to-night my singing. Day leaves the West, and I the slopes of Bondi. SUSPENSION OF PAYMENT. They came both suddenly and unexpected Those Orders to Suspend ; Some to the Manager declared, dejected, ' We thought you were a Friend, And would have warned us.' Vainly he'd protest, ' I knew what you knew.' Added they, ' The Rest.' While two of the officials nailed the tidings On the new-painted door, The housekeeper waxed warm in her confidings ; Then wept she long and sore, ' Because,' she whined, ' I fear no future waits For me, but entrance at the dreaded gates.' The Manager, his face a perfect study So careworn had it grown, Tho' he was ofttimes bonhomie and ruddy, Said : ' I do so bemoan Il6 SUSPENSION OF PAYMENT. My kindly customers : and 'tis not well Should salaries prove inaccessible.' The day that passed is novel in my story, And may it not repeat ! It dragged, and was a scene of faces hoary With fright; the bosom-beat Of nervousness, or sorrow, could be heard Thro' each impassioned sentence, aye, and word. And what a crew they were ! the wealthy shabby, The feather-purse genteel ; While a young child with dirty face and flabby, And stockingless at heel, Said : ' Pa has sent me, Mister, for his Deeds ' : (A sample of some disregarded needs). Turning o'er ledger folios for the many Kept the accountant tied : Small manufacturers were worst of any In luck, for who supplied Employees' beer and victuals, rent and smiles That week-end ? sombre as Hell's sad defiles. It was a truly shocking scene presenting, With now and then a cause For mirth : 'Tis certain there was less commenting Outside the Social Laws Of Courtesy, than had been well excused ; But then the Bank was great to be abused. The stricken elephant, tho' blood be streaming From out his thousand veins. No object is of scorn, he sets us dreaming Of triumphs in vast plains And forests ; and leviathan concerns Provoke most pity when their fortune turns. Thro' all the dread uncertainty pervading, And the too certain ill ; LOVE AMONG THE VINES. II7 Tho' business paralysed induced a shading Of gloom, the Bank to fill ; Tellers were strengthened, for to their surprise, The public in the main were kind and wise. LOVE AMONG THE VINES. He went to purchase grapes — that was his story : His work was put aside, And he betook him to the vineyard's glory, Just then in all its pride. Before its gates, he noticed quinces mustered Golden amid their green. The peach trees' crinkly leaves were thickly clustered Close where the vines were seen. He sate him where a spreading Isabella Roofed o'er a seat retired, And in that place he was a transient dweller, He rested and admired. If The muscatels were greatly to his hkin^ So was his book of song. So was the waning sun thro' broad leaves striking The husk-strewn floor along : — 'O So was the conversation light and tripping Of workers at the Press, Where into tubs the dark red must was dripping, And idlers gained ingress. He thought of walks hard by, where willows drooping, Lent their peculiar charm. Where pepper trees their coral bunches grouping Did rivalry disarm ; IlS SUNSET BY PORT JACKSON, Where roses smiled beneath the fountains playing And lawns spread bright and free ; But yet he was within the vineyard staying And Day went down in glee : But while he lingered at the Western portals, The last piled grapes came in, Filmed with white bloom, the lovely, the Immortals Wear veils as fine and thin : And a tame magpie hopped in mimic anger Upon a kitten's breast ; And then night came, stars shone, a nameless languor Induced all things to rest. 'Twas at this juncture (I am told) a lady Glided amid the vines, That two were hid in perfumed spaces shady Queen Night to Love resigns, — That 'neath the Isabella tree were speeches And protestations fond, A maiden's doubts, unheard of the massed peaches That grew not far beyond ; But ah, those roguish grapes ! they heard, and told me Of conquests and escapes Fought out by two, who ne'er (nay, do not scold me). Went 'neath the vines for grapes. SUNSET BY PORT JACKSON. Where summer seas around the rocks were singing, And Beauty throned superb, made my heart beat, I sate, to watch the white-sailed yachts swift winging With love and music, to each charmed retreat. SUNSET BY PORT JACKSON. II9 Where gentle slopes whose verdure was the brightest, Where terraced walks, o'ertopped the smiling tide, I sauntered ; and my heart was not the lightest. Because I missed my treasure from my side. O, love ! so far apart, yet present ever ! Will Sydney gladden with her magic store Thy gentle heart ? Must it be my endeavour To anchor weigh, and Northward steer once more ? Which ? Ah, 'twere vain to guess, and sick with guessing I turned to watch the happy man and maid, And child with springy step the soft turf pressing, Now bathed in light, now in the sombre glade ,; — Now by the rippling waves, in silent wonder To see the warships anchored close to land, And hear the cannons' deep and fearful thunder ; What emblems these, of War and Peace, at hand ! Ah, if those guns were being fired in earnest No happy child would stand beside the flood ; O, Peace ! how blest the land to which thou turnest War could make dark with tears, and dread with blood ! But as I mused, more prodigal of glory, Burning with lambent gold, the W'est became ; And Day went like some sweet remembered story Which scarce the burst of Paradise shall tame. Swifdy, but full of Love, the Night descended, The sunset gun had boomed across the tide, And bugle sounds with drowsy Nature blended, And in the glow the evening star I spied. How is it at such times we hush our laughter ? Nor rudely speak, nor show of pleasure wear ? How is it, when we come to con them after, We find we passed those Holy Hours in prayer ? I20 A SUNSHINY MORNING IN AUSTRALIA. A SUNSHINY MORNING IN AUSTRALIA. (Early iMay.) 'Tis well to wake on such a morn as this ! For nothing seems amiss, Darkness is banished to his dread abyss, And young Day with a kiss Salutes the dew-pearled earth : a perfect bliss, Sum of all good that is. Yon azure sky ; Dante his towers of Dis Framed not 'neath such, I wis. It is not cold, nor chilly even, meet For a verandah's seat. Or stroll in park, or avenue, or street ; Later there will be heat : But thro' the Norfolk Island fig trees beat Feebly Sol's rays ; we greet With gratitude that spread of shadow ; fleet Noon passes there, and sweet. But speak not now of Noon, the Day is young And hath a golden tongue, Think'st thou thou knowest half what he has sung Celestial choirs among? His melodies from golden harps are flung ; The dull from him have wrung But scanty utterance, but I have hung Humbly to him, and clung. He tells me first of true Love's primal stage ; When two of budding age Feel hints of Love, but not its later rage. So awful to assuage : The stolen glance, the longing to engage ; Such always doth presage And is a preface to the wondrous page. Earning a kiss for wage. A SUNSHINY MORNING IN AUSTRALIA. 121 He tells me of the poet's earliest rhyme More tender than sublime, Not to live thro' the o'erbearing stream of Time. But not a brighter clime Ere cheers the Bard, than when he hails the chime Of poesy ; the lime Exhales such perfume : in his later prime Hate doth his flowers begrime. He tells me of Devotion's first behests, When with the white-robed guests Of Piety, the young Soul starts, and rests Where God His Saints invests With Consolations. — Of the bitter quests, That Path which Pain infests. Of bleeding feet and blood-bedabbled breasts ; To end in downy nests. O, what a sky ! O, let me take my fill ! The Sapphire matches ill Its tints ; Rome's regal Purple waiteth still To equal it : the frill Of silken lashes veils the eye, nor will j\Iy maid let young Day kill Outright, her bright eyes' beauty : Sing it shrill. Sweet Morn ! each herald bill ! ]Methinks not in the lapis lazuli Is there so pure a dye. And 'neath the Southern Cross, I ween, a sky Shows, nothing can outvie. O, yellow bird, thou knowest as well as I Folk do not well to sigh : And least, at Morn's most hallowed hour ; for why ? God is then chiefly nigh. T22 A MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN AUSTRALIA. A MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN AUSTRALIA. {Late April.) I LEAVE my room with richest perfume blest ; The lily is my guest, The dahlia confident is nobly dressed, And all must be impressed With my chrysanthemums ; for I'd attest Not in Apollo's vest Are films and flakes which can be judged the best. In grandeur happiest. I leave my room, the taper's weakly light. And lo, what meets my sight ? The sandy tracts and scrub in veils of white Are wondrously bedight, While upon high, smilingly bland and bright The Queen Moon rules the Night, And fleecy clouds, like armies pierced in fight. Her clemency invite. The Queen Moon with a mother's fondling smile O'er sea and strand and isle, O'er gum and pine tree forests, shines awhile ; Longer might she beguile My heart, and this drear landscape, nor exile Me from her peace, for vile The garish Day appears, and labour's file Is hard to reconcile. This Moon is just the very same as shines Upon my land's confines, Where every grace and harmony combines. Where my allegiance twines ; She findeth here more dull, prosaic lines. Nature's more rough designs, Think you, one dwells 'mid sand and scrub nor pines And in a far past mines ? A MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN AUSTRALIA. 1 23 Such as she finds, however, she doth make A fairer guise to take ; She makes Hke silver the most turbid lake, And bright the saddest brake : Like to some hearts that, wretched, bleed and ache Because joys them forsake, But beneath Love's mild radiance awake, And off their sadness shake. The Queen Moon rules the tides, and let me say The zephyrs her obey When they with balmy modulations sway ; How softly now they play ! Languor and restlessness are sent away And Love, a dreamy fay, Glides thro' a scene that's neither grey nor gay : Love is not best by Day. A Night like this is good for many things : It makes the poet's strings Euphonious ; like a woodland burn he sings : It preens Love's witching wings, The devotee to Heaven more closely clings, Tow'rds Home the absent springs, — The bridge of Hope across Desire he flings, His heart holds communings. On such a Night as this, one little cares To turn to earth's affairs ; The miser's greed, the prodigal's despairs. The libertine's sad snares ; But to Celestial Beauty, with her shares Being, and almost dares To force his spirit up God's Golden Stairs, And take Heaven unawares. 124 -^ STORM. A STORM. The pall of thunder hanging o'er the City Doth much depress the sense ; And lo, I hear a deep terrific ditty From thence. There is a sallow look about the water Which seems with ashes strewn ; Stars of white fire arise and hint of slaughter Unknown. While, on the grassy bank, unnatural greenness Doth the dazed eye engage : The earth, the sea, take leave of their sereneness With rage. While soon, a solid wall, the water tumbles . From the forbidding sky : The rising waves are taunts which terror humbles : They die. I watch the English Mail Boat slowly turning Her noble head up stream. Her strong propeller's blades the green tide churning To cream. While a barque, outward bound, is slowly lifting, A small tug doth her tow : Ah me ! what war to come, what strain and shifting ! What woe ! But she we hope will live, tho' storms assail her ; To-morrow brings an ending of the strife ; Zephyrs caress, after the Storm Fiends quail her ; A Type of Human Life. THE GOLD SEEKER. I 25 THE GOLD SEEKER. ' Why tarry here ? ' he asked. ' Not in the town Wilt thou find Gold.' And as we long conversed His mind in that one thought was deep immersed ; It was the thought that shrined his lifelong crown. The snowy mountains brimful of renown Became. Had any hinted Gold Accursed He would have scoffed : it was the Hope he nursed, To wash the ore, and have it melted down. So that hot evening sate he ; tall, thick-set, His checked shirt open at his brawny throat, His flimsy hat shielding the sun's fierce ray : But I was not a victim to his net, Altho' for Gold do I my life devote. I left him to his beer and wattle spray. SOUTHERN INDUSTRY. I SAID at Noon — the breakfast cleared away — To write I will address myself, my Will Like a Forlorn Hope urge against a hill Bristling with bayonets. I braved the fray. But, after dinner, senses were too grey, E'en the canary bird forbore to trill ; The hydrangea drooped, earth waxed more hot and still, And helpless fell I 'neath the Morphean sway. I said — tea being over — Now to write ! And spread my papers, and the lamp coaxed clear, But lo, the moon made the verandah white, The frogs and insects woke to fitting cheer ; I lit me a cigar, and passed the night In the cool breeze, nor did a pen go near. 126 SOUTHERN PLEASURES. SOUTHERN PLEASURES. Beneath the Southern Cross enjoyments teem, We could instruct the Old Land, I opine. Music and Art their witcheries combine, And shady Parks are ours wherein to dream. Spacious and blue the Parramatta's stream, The Harbour coves are nought if not divine, 'Twere well if we could life entire resign To them ; ' twould be all sugar and all cream. Fancy, ye quaking Northerners, our sails Slanting athwart the noble clipper's stem Until the ready hand the canvas brails ; And where rare plants the dark gum forests gem. Love, friendship, pleasure, tell each their own tales ; And stars weave Night a flashing diadem ! EMIGRATION. He was an old, old man, and sate apart And seemed a state of loneliness to keep. Until I did his fount of memory start. And launched his thoughts upon a charmed deep. He told me of his home beyond the brine. As dovecote blessed, and fragrant with woodbine. He told me of his farm's delightful space, His drove of kine, his barns of yellow corn, His haunts of boyhood which had their own grace, And turf bogs, coveted, altho' forlorn ; The buttermilk in plenty, and like cheer ; And so I asked him : Friend, what brought you here ? LATE MAY IN AUSTRALIA. 1 27 You had such comfort and such plenty there That much I doubt your gain when you did leave ; If I were in your place, I should not spare Remorseful tears. I wonder not you grieve. O, was it Gold with promises unmet Lured you from home, and made life chafe and fret ? Methinks you were seduced by no desire To see more than your neighbourhood at home ; The love of travel touched you not with fire. And sang in every spray wreath of the foam. He answered in few words — what need of more ? * The Childher ! it was thim I followed, Sorr ! ' LATE MAY IN AUSTRALIA. How fair the sky in the cold, frosty morn ! The sun how grateful long before the noon ! At night how clear the stars and bright the moon ! Ah, in such hours we sigh not we were born. These poplars threadbare have their garments worn, But fig trees show no change, and vines festoon. And the nasturtiums are a very boon. Nor doth one inch of garden look forlorn. At eve, 'neath the verandah, mignonette. And violet scents, impregnate the crisp air : What made the Roman matron rest resigned But violets, banked, around her villa fair ? While at the Forum stayed her lord, unkind. Careless that eyes with tears, and swords with blood, were wet. 128 IN WAR AND PEACE. IN WAR AND PEACE. A GREY noon with a hint of cold ; Winter was drawing nigh ; I sought the Park close by My dwelling, and did there behold The subject of my song, a wight Bronzed with the tropic suns, a veteran of fight. We chatted ; Shakespeare, the hard times. Being our casual talk, Tho' seemed he in a walk Of life unlike to mine. The chimes Of Sabbath bells our ears assailed, And Rest within our hearts a season sweet prevailed. But it was when I made it known That London was my home, That late I'd crossed the foam To sojourn in the Southern Zone, His interest seemed full awaked. And I drank in his words with thirst not quickly slaked. Ah, Bethnal Green my place of birth (He said) and there a child I grew ; my leanings wild Were blocked, when from its squalid dearth Weary, yet sweet, I did attain The post of Office Boy and drudge in Mincing Lane. For then beneath a master's gaze I found me, hour by hour, And yet I lost the flower Of innocence, in evil ways ; I drank the samples of his wines, And was at once discharged, earned what are termed 'hard lines.' IN WAR AND PEACE. 1 29 Loafing around the wharves and docks To find a job at times, To be near many crimes, The treadmill's creak, the prison's locks ; The best thing happened when I went The Tower Hamlets joined, Militia, 'twas my bent. I was a Soldier born, and soon The military life. Its movement, pride, and strife, Came to me as a blessed boon ; I 'listed in the Ninetieth Foot A Perthshire Regiment, Sir, a brawny, big recruit. To Dublin we were ordered, hence I went with blithesome heart, But longed a nobler part. — The clouds of powder, dun and dense. The crack of rifles, and the flash Of lurid fire, the charge, and Battle's thund'rous crash. Exchanged into the Sixty-Third, I found me on the brine ; That Suffolk Regiment, fine And dashing, as you've doubtless heard ; The Crimea's red campaign I knew. At Alma, Inkerman, I served, nor now it rue. The fighting starts. A minute's fire Puts you at ease, you dread Nothing, and firm your tread As on a Field Day ; you require No nerve power extra, and you see The foe go down in death like birds. 'Twas so with me. I never got a wound, but stood One morning in the trench. Ay, how the gore did drench The earth-works ! came a comrade good, Said : ' Sixty-Third, what cheer ? ' A shell Struck him upon the brow, at once in death he fell. I 130 IN WAR AND PEACE. Beneath a blanket I lay down With one, a comrade true, We slept ; and as with dew Or rain I thought me wet, I'd grown So cold, and waked, to find him dead By me, his blood and brains bespattering my head. But Asiatic fever found Me out : I was removed, And all the horrors proved Of dread Scutari, — well renowned : A Sultan's Palace once, the smiles Of ladies lit those halls which brightened at their wiles. Sultanas never saw me there : I lay upon a plank ; Life was a worse than blank ; Six weeks I lay, and scarcely dare To try to stand when I uprose. Deep sores were on my back which did not quickly close. Weak as I was, the Order came For me to re-embark. And Canada my mark, Not home, the war-spent soldiers' aim : So, on the Western Ocean tossed Behold me next, one of my gallant band not lost. Canadian Homestead life was sweet ; On more than one Grisette My heart was doubtless set ; My tales of prowess I'd repeat, Or skim in sleighs the gleaming ice. Fresh from the Orient suns, and forests breathing spictt My next remove was to return To England ; ten years spent In service, discontent Was it, that caused me then to yearn For other than a soldier's life ? I know not ; each career is with some drawoacKS fire IX WAR AXD PEACE. I3I Paid off at Chatham, Bethnal Green Saw me but welcomed not, I seemed as there forgot, And London was a dreary scene. I tramped its sad streets for a year, And then took ship for chmes that promised better cheer. In Northern Queensland I became A dweller, turned my hand To many things, and planned As many ; in the furnace flame Stood smelting copper ; minding sheep, Another means I tried to rouse my luck from sleep. I humped my way, and on my back Carried my swag, for then Scarce a white denizen Was glory on my lonely track ; "While in the dark dense scrub around The blacks with greedy gaze watched, but no opening found. And after all I'm sitting here This Blessed Sabbath Noon ; I love the Bells' sweet tune And good thoughts are to me most dear ; Verses of Scripture, Shakespeare's lore Recur, and O, I love to con them o'er and o'er. The Times are bad (he said) one day Last week, I nothing made ; His meerschaum pipe he laid In its plush case. He answered Nay AVhen I invited him to drink, I have not touched a drop this Twenty Years, I think. He added, 'tis my dinner hour ; Thank God, I am not left Of home or food bereft. Many I see in pomp and power And envy none, but pity feel For many, who have not, like me, a home and meal. 132 THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. Doubtless (I asked) 3'ou can rejoice In Wife's and Children's Glee ? He said : 'Twas not to be ; I ne'er was wed, and think his choice Who does, a wise one. Had I wed My days would doubtless have more profitably sped. THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. A Western Shire of my dear land Sweet England, long had been His Home ; 'twere hard to understand Why he had left that scene Of peace and beauty, to explore The welcome of a distant shore. He was not young, except in heart. His thin locks had turned grey ; And he was learned and could impart Such lore as dons essay In halls scholastic ; you might see He bore a Bachelor's degree. And on the surface it remains A mystery, his choice. To leave the hills and dales and plains Whose memory makes rejoice. And travel to the Southern Seas, The strange and dark Antipodes ! He had two sons. Of whom, Jack lay A cripple, scarce could stir From the cramped bunk the livelong day, If naught did else occur To rouse him, he'd the needle ply Could mend and make with practised eye. THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. 1 33 And useful objects would appear Productions of his toil, The shawl to shield from blasts severe, The hammock meant to foil Languors of tropic days and nights, And wool-work showing gorgeous sights. He was a patient, simple lad. Victim to pangs intense, Yet not a bitter thought he had : A happy influence Like the bright skeins he worked upon. His life a figured glory shone. Said he : ' When we to Renmark get Father and Bob will take The outdoor duties : I will set All fair within, and make A home, such as a woman's touch Excels in : thus I may do much.' Bob was a strapping, jocund youth, With naught in him of guile, Well locking, 'twas the Soul of Truth Beamed in his open smile ; I saw him little, for he moved Where his strong muscles might be proved. Yet ever and anon his face Would at the door be seen : ' How are you now, Jack ? ' If the case Looked bad, he'd lightly lean Across the bunk, to catch a hint. And hand the welcome bands of lint. Weeks sped ; thro' climes, past parallels. The stately steamship flew ; In calm and dreamy Southern spells Beat to true time her screw ; It struggled in the mounting brine, And did to \'ictorv incline : 134 THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. It drove us thro' the azure plains Of the charmed Inland Plood ; It mingled with the Storm Fiend's strains On waters tinged with blood ; It churned the waves of indigo That o'er the Indian Ocean flow. The father was my greatest friend, I revelled in his mind. He said : ' I've known my joy depend On what you small might find, — The Strawberry to cultivate, And bring it to its perfect state. ' I published a brochure wherein My secrets I disclosed ; ' He brought it me — its bulk too thin ; I 'neath the awning dozed ; The vessel rolled in easy mood, I found those pages mental food : As, in between my naps, I'd wake And do another dive In the cool fountain : then I'd take Me home ; to soon arrive Upon a Southern strand, afar From Home — such wretches travellers are. That book arranged the many sorts Of the delicious fruit ; It was excursive, went to sports Found in the Shires to suit ; And ended with instructions meet As how the Strawberry to eat. I almost smiled when thus I read : The sun was vertical, The deck was burning to the tread Did but a sunbeam fall ; O had I Strawberries, methought, I'd surely eat them as I ought ! THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. 135 But gently did my Friend explain : What yet to me was clear : ' It is an Art we must attain And step from tier to tier Of the ascent, and find at last Dante's White Rose — the Unsurpassed. • To revel in Rossini's waves Of melody, 'tis well If in the less euphonious caves The ear be made to dwell At first ; and it is well at first Of Strawberries to taste the worst. ' Before we gaze on Turner's art, Conception, colour, blest, 'Tis useful to have made a start Where mediocres rest : In Poetry I would require At first, a less than Dante's lyre.' We talked when in the early morn The diamond runnels rang From lengths of hose, and glee was borne From tars who blithely sang ; When the vast vessel glittered fair, A gem tossed from the Sea-God's lair. We talked throughout the drowsy noon, When awnings taut were stretched, And folks their hammocks vowed a boon. And a light novel fetched ; The juice of lemons drank, inhaled The cigarette, and were regaled. We talked, when o'er the dreamy Night The Moon, a shining pearl. Rained down her most bewitching light On the mid-sea's dark curl ; And Music and the Dance were rife. And Love held its great place in life. 1^6 THE STRAWBERRY GROWER. We chatted thro' the dreamy Night When ship Hghts had waxed dim, The Moon's Imperial Blossoms bright Wreathing the billow's rim, The engines pulsing, like a heart Working its true and lifelong part. He said at such times : ' Had I known You earlier ! but, nay ! — 'Tis late to dwell on, and bemoan What is now gone for aye : But I was used to take the prize For splendour of my Strawberries : — ' And in the Summer 'twas my bent Parties to give, wherein I made my guests with fruit content, And great applause would win : Some like with cream their fruit, not I ; It spoils their flavour — that is why. * My guests were of the Better Class, I mean, the Cultured Band, Artists and Poets ; when years pass And they the earthly land Have left, will yet remain on earth In Fame, which is a Second Birth. ' The English Country Life ! it seems In memory dew-veiled ; Its fields, its lanes, its gardens : dreams Have not its charms assailed With aught more lovely ; and my loss Is told in yonder Southern Cross ! ' The Home Life of my Land ! — 'tis passed, I cannot it regain.' He left me. An Antarctic blast Perchance had numbed his brain, Because from that time little more He spoke. We neared the Austral Shore. COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. 1 37 COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. Colin was a Hawker stout, Perfect champion to shout Songs, and snatches from the play, For the histrionic ray- Was the luminary chief Which afforded him relief. In the small room at the back Of his shop, you would not lack Warmth from a most tiny stove, And unnumbered cases strove To afford a pleasant seat, (Each endeavour incomplete). There at night a classic band Gathered round my friend, who planned Choice selections from the stage, And the comic paper's page. While the fragrant fumes would curl Like vast folds of melted pearl. Colin was indeed a lad Always fat, and never sad ; Singing 'mid the cocks and hens, And the back-yard denizens ; Singing in the stable clear, So his gallant steed would hear, And would whinny, as to say Shall we do a jaunt to-day ? O, believe me, he could eat ; Vegetables, bread and meat Disappeared as doth the dew When Apollo's eye looks thro' ; And I know, with much content. That he never hungry went : Drank he nothing that would harm, Or his mind of sense disarm, Song did to his brain supply That excitement, some would try From the fiery bowl to draw ; That bad beaker view with awe. 138 COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. Now, my friend ne'er called his wares, Commerce brought him slender cares, Haply, because he was known As an honest trader ; grown In the confidence of all, Housewives came to him ; forestall None could, tho' they tried their best To subvert his interest. Only as he jogged along Solaced by a snatch of song. Youths would thro" the gloaming cry ' What cheer ! Colin ? ' as they'd spy His wide lumb'ring cart, and horse Who ne'er on the Randwick course Ever could have made appear One quotation. Void of fear Or of fancy Jumbo ploughed Thro' the mire, not meek or proud, But phlegmatic, tough and dense With a grand indifference ; He could smartly trot at times. Speed was never of his crimes. Usually he droned and dozed While behind him Con reposed. There was yet a third, for whom Makes my Muse some ready room ; Wallace of no thorough breed But a kindly dog at need. His brown coat and snowy snout Known by all the dogs about, Who kenned better than to cross Swords, and register a losS ; Dark as pitch the night might be. Circumstances disagree, So that even canine friends. Whose fidelity transcends In the hour of trial, excused Might have been, had they refused Further venture : times like these Wallace more intent to please COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. 1 39 Grew, and never once retired : In the trio aught required From each, each would give, a sight Yielding moralists delight. Look you ! there goes jolly Con, With fat Jumbo jogging on, Wallace bringing up the rear Outrider to the charioteer. Once in the week would Colin wend To Little Bay, and there attend The wants of those who were confined In hospital. His cart he lined With fruit such as the month produced, And if bananas, he was used To take such as in Fiji grow ; Which naught in flesh or flavour owe : At Christmas, delicacies rare, Peaches with slip stones, and so fair Their skins, that even sweet sixteen ^\"ith their complexion is not seen : And grapes in April, deeply blue Swathed in white bloom, and peeping thro'. F'^ancy such things to him who lies In pain : could treasure argosies Bring him a pleasure so intense So ravishing to sight and sense ? What peaches are in fevers fell Such are a spring's cold drops in Hell. Tobacco, too, of brands renowned, Matches and cigarettes, were found In boxes packed, and lollies sought By children, and for damsels bought. Loading the cart did not take long, And then, watched by a laughing throng, — Nellie, the wee and flaxen-haired, Annie, the dark, and sorely spared, Aurora, sparkling as the dawn. Stood as Con's big cart was withdrawn Into the roadway, and he climbed 140 COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. Upon the seat, and Jumbo primed By chaff and corn, to stir began, And Wallace, for a wonder, ran. Then fared the three for Little Bay, Across the Bush, six miles away, A Hundred Years since Captain Cook Landed at Botany. You look With disappointment and surprise, For naught substantial meets the eyes Unless vast quantities of sand Which rise like waves upon the land. The weatherboard small cottages Verandahs have, and trellises ; The post-office is weatherboard. The same material doth afford Walls to its lonely bank, and e'en The council chamber is not seen To be of better. The police, Important though they be, there cease To dwell in other than a cot. Which stands up square in its own plot. But Botany is full of trade : Across the landscape are displayed Shafts and long sheds, the which pertain To Tanners : Wool Washers are fain There to resort, and near the Bay The Boiling Down Mills an array Of buildings show. I must aver I should the place sans them prefer. Behold the road from Redfern gay With waggons wending to the Bay, Some piled with hides, and some with skins, The hourly tram its passage dins With scream and glare, from point to point. In Botany no streams anoint The eyes, red-hot with dust, as they In England, bless the traveller's way : But in the hollows of the sand Broad swamps and reedy lakelets stand. COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. I4I Where go in Summertime to drink Black snakes and adders to their brink : In Summertime flies as a pest Rival mosquitoes, so that rest Either by night or day is not : And yet is Botany a spot I look upon with much regard, She harboured for a year the Bard Who now declares her people kind, Of hospitable, frugal mind, Capacity for better things Than Trade, amid her cots upsprings ; The hibiscus in her gardens small Grows with a brilliant flower and tall, The parson's villa looks out blest Its walls with bright red blossoms drest ; In the banks paddock arums thrive, Geraniums with each other strive For place and presence to the light, O, they were very thick and bright. I can declare, October showed Oaks budding all along the road, Their tender shoots so sweetly seen In contrast to the evergreen. I know that in that place remote Some evening hours I did devote To converse sweet, and literature. The poet's peerless page and pure ; Held in her hall the brisk debate On Ethics, Commerce, Learning, State ; Knew myself free, my labour o'er, To pace that most historic shore Where landed Cook, intrepid man, Who now an Angel in the van Of Progress rises : Joseph Banks Found Floral specimens in ranks Profuse : and O, while there I mused, The Volume of the Past perused, And known by every honest wight Whose workday garments gave him right 142 COLIN FIXNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. To recognition, sighed and said : When I in days to come shall tread Far other scenes, perchance a plane More lofty, I may wish again To be among the toiling crowd Whose friendship made me blest, and proud. The bard for these strong reasons prays. Prosperity attend their days ! Along the road has Colin sped, And now a flock is round him spread, Wallace, well trained, does ne'er essay Among the timid sheep to stray, But scans the flock with sleepy eye And stands his master's cart close by ; The mounted shepherd with his dogs Now tjjrn the sheep, some still as logs Have to be lifted in the cart. Of each flock a conspicuous part ; The rest, an opening perceive. The metalled road in gallop leave. And enter on a paddock broad. With water, dark hued trees, and sward, To rest until their strength comes back, Then, once again, the tedious track : When in the paddock, they are slow Their temporary bliss to know, But one by one the noses pierce The cool stream, as the sun is fierce, Acceptable ; the one that owns The sable fleece, his piteous tones Blending with other wails of grief. Seems of the endless flock the chief. But Colin, Jumbo, Wallace, deign No searching glance, and soon they gain The tramway terminus, and hence A rugged road, a forest dense Of scrub and gum trees, until they Draw rein and stop at Little Bay. COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. 143 O I have viewed the Austral wild Enraptured, noted freestone piled In tempting masses, and inhaled The wattles' scent ; when last I scaled The rugged hills of La Perouse The Bush gave hints of joy profuse, A wealth of bloom to soon outburst : — The flannel flower, whose white star first INIust be adjudged, the Christmas bell Whose crimson glove doth much excel, Tipped with deep chrome ; e'en while I passed On mauves and reds my eyes I cast, And purchased from a lonely wight A basket, 'twas a wondrous sight, Of rushes made, and wired for strength And filled with blossoms the world's length Had not more sweetly furnished ; bright The blue gum reared its shaft of white In the prevailing dark ; what forms Fantastic, wrought perchance by storms Took vegetable life ! the trees Like witches at their sorceries, ^^'hile 'mid some most uncanny clump Of twisted branch and cloven stump, A small lagoon would smile in peace, A kind clause in the Devil's lease. Midwinter when I saw it last. When o'er those dear old downs I passed ; But in December, what would then Have ravished my jDoetic ken ? — The jewellery of insect life, Had made the scrub with beauty rife ; While butterflies of mauve and blue Had darted the dark foliage thro' : And did the night presage some rain. The frogs kept up their billowy strain Incessant, like the breaker's roar LTpon an open tropic shore, A long-drawn wash, a set retreat, Movements strong, steady, and complete. 144 COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. But when to Little Bay they came ! To hymn the subject verse is tame ; A tiny inlet of the sea, A chasm, where the blue brine free Revelled upon the stones and strand, And creamed around the loving land : Such harmony as did prevail Between the sea and land, no tale Of love, while bards have sung, has told : Such hate as when the tempest rolled No tragedy has yet expressed ; When I was there 'twas peace and rest : The dark blue ocean stretched afar, AVith not a strip of shore to mar Her freedom for a thousand miles, Dimpled she was and wreathed with smiles, A girl of the coquettish type ; The clear sky often by a stripe Was flecked, and then the steamship flew, I saw her decks, and e'en her crew, So close to where I stood she came, She passed ; — her memory grew tame, Until another would engross. The broad bright track of vision cross. You had not thought so sweet a flood E'er harboured lust of human blood, Or bare within its shining sphere The cruel shark, who would appear And wallow in the creaming tide. And o'er the chasms' green rocks glide, To hurry to the deeper main (Bullies are timid) was one fain With boat-hook to assail his haunt ; He did not answer to the taunt. Colin was a Hawker stout : Thus it was that I set out ; Let me bring to end my lay With the Sick at Little Bay. Pale were some, and ruddy some. COLIN FINNIE AND HIS FRIENDS. 1 45 Some were chatty, others glum ; Some were shabby, some genteel ; Some had never known a meal Till they came to Little Bay ; Few did local traits display ; From the East had some arrived. Others, Africa survived ; Some were of the sailor crowd, CHmbers of the yard and shroud : Most had waited Con a week. And within his cart would seek Means of solace for the hours Given o'er to III Health's powers. Some were there more sad than all, Lepers, doomed beyond recall ; O, a Bell of Jubilee Should sound o'er that sunny sea When Death these poor wretches takes. And Release upon them breaks. Too sad for my lightsome pen Talk of these afflicted men. Last, and not the least, Con served (Truly he a prize deserved). Were the nurses, trim and neat, Young, they made his bosom beat With delight and pride. Trade done Long since had gone down the sun, Colin, Jumbo, Wallace, hied Back to Botany, each tried And not wanting found, be sure ; Neither was an Epicure, So had each a good square meal ; While the viands did appeal To Con's stomach, at the door Came the trio, who before ^^^atched him leaving for the shore ; And Aurora (as you see She was eldest of the three) Claimed first privilege to speak, O her thrusts were seldom weak, K 146 MIDLOTHIAN FAR SOUTH. So it came, a rapier's flash, ' Con, which nurse is now your mash ? ' MIDLOTHIAN FAR SOUTH. Could it be called idleness That I made the night time less With the lovely Tailoress ? Idle I have been, I know, But that night of every night When did Beauty me delight, I basked in her glory bright. Time left riches in his flow. For one night, and one alone, I in Beauty's blaze was thrown, And I lay before her prone, Bound in her bewitching spell ; And I've thought the matter o'er ; No night since, and none before. Ere has brought me such bright lore, Or such wealth incredible. Of the kitchen first I'd speak : Cosy, small, not far to seek — One five minutes in a week All that it contained had shown \ Dirt was not seen anywhere ; In the firelight's pleasant flare, In the fragrance of its air, Was the bliss domestic known. Where the dresser stood, its height Did comparison invite MIDLOTHIAN FAR SOUTH. 1 47 With some great house, but not slight Was its gradient ; thus, I found Where the oven stood, my hand Touched the roof: I'd tip-toe stand Noting every beam expand. Yet that kitchen is renowned. Its renown Hes in the fact It held all that doth attract, Could I any more exact Now I am from it apart ? And she sate beside the range ; Nor in memory will change That encounter great and strange, Of the eyes and of the heart. Hood has of a Seamstress written In an attic feebly litten. And a woman sadly smitten Crooning o'er her sewing drear ; But my Seamstess was a maid Blithe and bonnie, and no aid Hath her dream-brought charms conveyed. E'en beyond a hemisphere. O, she was Midlothian born, Coming in her early morn To the land of gold and corn. Coal and wool, Australia named ; And she bore upon her face ]\Iuch of the Midlothian grace. And it was with me ' a case ' For her beauty me inflamed. In the way her brooch was pinned (For without the June blasts dinned. And it was a wintry wind). There was Scotland writ, I ween : O, her face was pale and fair. Not without its tinge of care, 148 MIDLOTHIAN FAR SOUTH. Which makes Beauty yet more rare ; And she stood up like a Queen. O, her hair was fine and soft Such as Zephyrs love to wafr, Dark of hue ; I find less oft Maids attract me who are blonde ; O, her eyes were also dark, Bright and quick, they drove their spark Like an arrow to its mark. Not aside, and not beyond. And the neighbours had their say : Said she had been sadly gay, Travelling a doubtful way, Her detractors tho', I doubt ; I would be afraid to peer At their own lives, much I fear Evil's grizzly shape might rear, And their ' virtues ' put to rout. True it was she trod the stage. And had laboured at the page Of the drama, did engage Upper boxes, stalls, and pit : True it was she did incline To the footlights' fatal shine. Which is, after all, divine. When one comes to think of it ! I can vouch we were demure, I did silently endure. Nought did even once allure From my lips a word of praise, But our eyes at times would meet Like two lovers in a street, A thing apart, sublimely sweet, With a pctichant for delays. MIDLOTHIAN FAR SOUTH. I49 I was still, as I have said, But her busy fingers sped ; On her lap I saw outspread A man's waistcoat, of the kind Not the highest swells affect, But whose lappels might get specked, Fail, and fall, and resurrect, Putting of my own in mind. If the wearer (ihus I thought) From those hazel eyes had caught But one glance, his life were fraught With things foreign to the mart. Such as purchases, and sales, Bills and cheques, with such regales Him of commerce, and he fails For the riches of the heart. May I never rule a line But that night was all divine ! And she did the braid entwine Round the cloth, with skill adroit. But my heart she was imprinting Without any show of stinting, And it was a sharp steel dinting ; She must know of the exploit. If I were to tell her this Would she take my words amiss ? True it is she gave the bliss, What that night did she receive, As, within the cosy kitchen She, my Tailoress, sate stitching, Fair, and faultless, and bewitching? 'Tis a subject I must leave. 15° RANCLIFFE. RANCLIFFE. The Muse to-night is sorely pained, It loves the place it soon must leave, Ah, me ! my sorrow is unfeigned And unto Sydney do I cleave ; In days to come, should Memory weave A garland of the bygone Hours, Sydney, a gem, will not deceive. But sparkle from amid the flowers. Of all the Southern Empress gave, Nothing doth wake affection more Than RancUffe ; green trees ever wave That noble, pleasant, house before : The Norfolk Island pine, its store.;; Of beauty blends with box-trees rare ; And it were well worth to explore Lawns sloping, velvet-smooth, and fair. Beneath verandahs I have sate My head uncovered in July, The blooms and grass to contemplate. And the deep amethystine sky ; Or in the drawing-room did espy Palms, portraits, blinds and rugs of price, Things that will catch the poet's eye Whose dreams have been of paradise. I've thought : how pleasant here to stay And turn the poet's page, the while. Or with a cigarette to play, Or with a pretty girl beguile The languid hours, in happy style ; Or chat of Station times and life ; Sorrow and trouble to exile, A stranger to the courts of strife. THE IRISH AUSTRALIENNE. 151 In Rancliffe's charmed circle dwell Kind hearts and penetrative minds, Nought blooms there but doth sweetly smell, The pilgrim there but pleasure finds ; And O, I love the very winds Have daUied round its walls revered ; And distance more securely binds The scene, from eyes, ah ! disappeared. But there are optics of the Soul Which distance can in nowise dim, And thought knows not of earth's control ; So that, when past the Ocean's rim Sydney and Rancliffe lie, and grim Are found our Northern skies ; ah, then, The sweet Past in my dream will swim, Be blest and present to my ken. THE IRISH AUSTRALIENNE. Thou surely art no stranger ! Tho' long I've been a ranger Since upon Erin's less'ning shores I fixed my tearful gaze, I have the recollection. Which sweetens introspection, Of all the maidenly rare charms thy character displays : — That brow, of wax the purest, Those eyes, to kill the surest. That open smile, elastic step, I knew in years past o'er ; In Blarney's groves of splendour They compassed my surrender, I doubt if I shall strive as well upon the Austral shore. Thou ne'er went o'er the Ocean ; To tell thee, I've a notion. 152 THE IRISH AUSTRALIENNE. Of glens where sportsmen go for snipe, and fishermen for trout, Where thick boughs are impending Over the streamlets wending, 'Midst banks of bluebells ; O, I'd love to guide thee there about : Of hills, gorse clad and yellow, 'Neath which the strong seas bellow, Upon whose wilds we started grouse, and where we wood- cock found, And where thy sister gaily Strikes dumb the stranger daily. Who thinks it is no human form that doth beside him bound. And what canst thou unravel Of thy colonial travel ? Canst thou not tell of Station life, its freedom, and its glee? Long rides thro' bush, night falling, And many a glad installing Among the gums, and pines, and figs, of chops and Billy tea ? The bluebell thee I've handed, The shamrock, and expanded My floral gifts (alas ! in thought) till they a garland show; Hand me thy blooms, excelling, Meet for the lordliest dwelling, The flannel flower's pale star, to cool the waratah's fierce glow. Sit we 'neath this verandah. And let our dreams meander Like crystal rills, to every nook of beauty and sur- prise ; Behold the sunset failing, The roseate glories paling, But brighter are the stars, the moon, and fairer are thine eyes ! THE FOOD OF LOVE. 1 53 With Courtship round us breathing Let us a band be wreathing, Thou canst unfold an Austral scroll, I can of Erin tell ; And, when Night slips Love's fetter. Our chat shall be e'en better, Thy Chaperone shall be the Moon, who does her watch- ing well. THE FOOD OF LOVE. (A Poem of a Southern Balcony.) Come to me as I muse, to sweeten my meditations. Just a few chords divine from a casement across the way ; And what has since been first of all my contemplations. Is, who and what it is can so divinely play ? No man can surely thrill my heart in equal measure, The Able Liszt himself could ne'er sway such a spell ? Ah, certain 'tis a Girl unlocks rich music's treasure, And lifts my tortured spirit out of hell ! Unseen, but not unknown, she is, as sad or listless I day by day recline 'neath the verandah's shade. And the optics of my soul are clear as crystals, mistless, Can pass thro' laths and bricks to contemplate the maid. O, when a man is sick, body or soul deep-laden. Music alone supplies the sovereign balm to cure ; Its greatest power is when its Agent is a maiden ; I've tested this so oft, and found it sure. ■-1 O, but I could not be a Teacher of Music, sitting In organ lofts, or else the dainty boudoir's space, My pupil a lady fair, the winged charms befitting. Or I might be too prone to gaze upon her face ! 154 THE FOOD OF LOVE. Teach Music to the maid herself sweet sounds embodied ! Teach Music to the maid, while Music to me spake, And showed how up to bliss I had too slowly plodded, Then taught me Love, and bade that Instinct wake ! But, as I said, I muse, while from the casement yonder Ripple and flow the strains that draw me with cords of gold : The Southern Morn breaks cool, as Apollo stood to ponder What steeds his chariot traces should that noontide hold; And as I said, I muse, thro' Noon, when the blind scarce quivers. Winds being put to sleep — the Zephyr's siesta time ; But 'tis at Night the cream of soul her song delivers ; Music and Night are the one pair sublime ! O, 'tis the Southern Night is Heaven, far as 'tis meted That heavenly things should be upon this nether sphere, It draws from the lily's chalice the perfume, not completed Until the moon and stars in unison appear ; It draws from the poet's soul the fine ethereal matter, (O paradox), it draws from Love its beatings wild ; It draws from Music sound impediments to scatter. And render earth by higher things beguiled ! That maiden's music comes thro' street sounds inter- vening, The cries of wares for sale, and breathings of the mart. The children's voicings rich with much of heavenly meaning, The press of feet which pass like armies, and depart ; The whirl of wheels upon the rugged stones that rattle, The slamming of street doors and chiming of church bells ; That maiden's music seems like flowers on a field of battle. Or on a shingly beach the fragile shells. MANLY BEACH. I 55 What I have said, and say, is this : when my Ufe is ended Or when I truly learn what living means : when I stray Thro' meadows that are Elysian, and the Soul attended, By other kindred Souls, basks in the Godhead's Ray ; If I should meet a face and mien that demand atten- tion, I then need never ask, ' To whom was this Soul erst lent ? ' Or, if I should, a Voice in tones of Pure Grace will mention The Street — The Balcony — my past Content ! MANLY BEACH. Methinks 'tis well to tarry here awhile. And watch the purple sea froth up the strand \ The sky hath its most placid, winning smile, And Noon hath made the else keen breezes bland. Rest we on grass that gently downward slopes. Beneath the shade of thickly-tasselled pines ; We may dismiss dark doubts, encourage hopes. And run our lives for once on easy lines. I note the pine tree branches broadly spread. The dull white sand around their roots scarce seen, Deep littered by the foliage bronze and dead. Cast off by lusty shoots of speckless green. We will not in the bush now penetrate. But rest content upon this silvern marge, While looking o'er us with a front sedate Is yon grand pile, where holy priests have charge. 156 MANLY BEACH. purple bay, O silver sand, green grass, stainless skies and balmy zephyrs blest ! Ye bring me what nought human can surpass, The greatest happiness, with perfect rest. 1 ofttimes yearn to cross that purple flood And not to slacken sail, or anchor drop. For there is love of travel in my blood, 1 cannot hke the sheep stay prone, and crop. But now I am content, nor let my dreams, Wishes, desires, to rudely forward press ; The harbour I late passed with wonder teems. And I to recent hours my thoughts address. For lo, I sate the world-famed quay beside. Blithe lovely sea-birds wheeled around my bark. And o'er the pale green water I espied Two hulls, one trim and white, one drear and dark ! The one a gallant steamship, from that land Thro' which the Rhine in storied splendour glides, Her freight was erst a hopeful honest band, O, she brought good across the ocean tides : The other was a hulk, around whose beams Worm-eaten, old, no light of glory played. But tears had watered them with bitter streams. And dank with sighs this lovely land she made : The Convict Barque ! O, relic with no worth Why cherish that which hate and sin hath banned ? The German Mail Boat but makes dread the dearth. She trades from Fatherland to Fatherland. Her prow has cleaved the waves that wash the base Of castles, which of ancient glory preach. And waves that hymn and guard a Coming Race : This was one thought I had on Manly Beach. THE GAME OF WHIST. 157 THE GAME OF WHIST. With curtains drawn, gas lit, fire burning brightly, We settled down to play : It was the one engrossing matter nightly : So Winter passed away. 'Twas well to hear the wind moan and sleet rattle Against the frosted pane ; To cross the road was like to fight a battle ; We would indoors remain. A register was kept to show the number Of games each side had won ; I ween that hours we stole apart from slumber, And nothing damped our fun. The cards had their own beauty, and the faces That o'er them bent, were fair, I've travelled far, sojourned in many places, Missing them is my care. What delicate white hands with art were spreading The cards ; what roguish eyes Behind each temporary fan were shedding Shafts, barbed mayhap with sighs : What dear old visages scanned trumps, gleaned aces, Or frowned in brief dismay ! What would I give to see again those faces, And one more rubber play ! It would occur, that some, unsympathetic, At the piano sate ; To cUmb a flight of stairs was too athletic, I at the cards would wait. La Traviata and II Trovatore, Melodious tho' they be. 158 THE GAME OF WHIST. Were shorn of half their pathos and their glory ; Whist was the thing for me. I've played this game in Summer by a casement Entwined with roses rare, Before a landscape that could draw amazement, It was so wondrous fair : The Moon high sailing, bathed the lawns and dingles In her effulgence blest ; And now, to me the hurrying river mingles With the dense wood's unrest. I still play Whist ; the Southern Cross bright burning And Cassiopeia's Chair, Orion and the Pleiades discerning, For I have wandered, where If not to Sydney ? and the insects humming, And frogs' sharp grating cry, Make night alive, until the morn is coming Blithe o'er the happy sky. And not the less I love the game that nightly In London's fog and rime Allured me so, what time the fire burned brightly, Snow muffled bells did chime. There is no game like Whist. Within the palace Cards hide the carpets' pile ; And in the bush they are, more free from malice, And the night watch beguile. By feeble light a reeling lamp is giving The sailor sorts his hand, Tho' on the deck a tempest ropes is riving Whist he can understand. The very name is magical, recaUing What many tender scenes ABSTRACTION. 1 59 Of music, moonlight, love, — ere life was palling And Rapture led the teens ! — When fairies had been known to haunt and linger Where maids were met and kissed, Until they saw uplift the warning finger Which both could guess meant, ' whist ! ' ABSTRACTION. He came across — a letter in his hand. From the small post-office of weatherboard. And like a miser o'er his golden hoard The cramped writ document for long he scanned. And then he sate, as in another land Of dream he wandered ; upon nought he pored, As marble, motionless ; nor did afford Speech. — I his attitude did understand. For was he not once more in the old home, Amid the trees and lanes and meads of yore, With the old mother ? who, to see him roam Shed bitter tears? — His thoughts were sweet — and sore : Then, after traversing the stubborn foam. He roused himself, and passed the open door. THE OLD POSTMASTER. The Village Postmaster, an ancient man, Beyond the common herd in many ways, l6o THE OLD POSTMASTER. Who, ever since our intimacy, stood And hailed me from his door whene'er I passed, Is now stretched prone and helpless on his bed And weaker grows each day, and soon will die. His seizure was of awful suddenness. Brought on by constant loitering outside His cottage during winter, for, he said, ' I cannot sit and look into the fire, Altho' I am past threescore years and ten, Being inured from childhood to fresh air.' This his rejoinder, when his anxious wife Would warn him of the perils of the cold. Thus, like a sailor on his quarter-deck. He paced the planked verandah, hours and hours, With little to engage his eyes, but sand In quantities prodigious, and a pine Or two, before a house of weatherboards ; With scarce a thing to do but twice a day To seal and unseal mail bags, and to stamp The handful to be locally sent round, Many addressed in Chinese characters. Equivalents in English placed beneath : And sometimes cauie, as to all Postmasters, The palpitating youth, and blushing maid. And careworn man of business, to return With smiles, or looks of disappointment sore. But little notice took he who might come, Altho' he must have sympathised with Love, Else how explain the varied store of verse Ranged in that ample library, his brain. So that the local school of Arts was shorn Of interest for him ? Love him had held. And all the village knew the Postmaster Before his seizure ; and to prove how soon Forgetfulness benumbs the heart ; when once His step was off his planked walk, interest Waned, and at last died out, and he was dead To all the World, while sinking, ere the breath Escaped from his worn body. THE OLD POSTMASTER. i6l 'Ah, 'tis cold! 'Tis Nova Zembia ! ' he was wont to say, And clap his hands, and ere I could reply He struck upon the fragrant paths of verse. Ballads plucked from the wayside, specimens From cultivated gardens not so oft Indulged in, and he took them, as a girl Will hand a buttonhole of violets To her admirer — and give them to me : It was an innate taste of his. I heard That he in very early youth found work Connected with a book store, which he left And to Australia came, where, seeking work And finding none for long, drifted at last Into a tan-yard, where a beamsman's task, Of stripping and preparing hides, was his ; But, spite of this most unpoetic work. His taste for rhymes continued, hardy growth ; And then (he found a ready listener), He opened out to me a vista yet More sacred, leading to the Spirit Land. He was a Medium, had long discoursed With the departed, held delicious talk. Discovered countries, knew of secrets deep, Cast plummet and found bottom never reached By those less versed in spirit lore, sailed heights No aeronaut can traverse. And indeed There was a distant aspect in his eyes. And aye his thoughts were ramblers. I once asked What good can come of all this Spirit Lore ? But he, not answering the question put. Propounded straight another. ' Say, what good Accrues from anything ? ' And now I mind How on one day particular his tongue Rattled away at poems ; not without The true art of the elocutionist. Nor nice taste critical, he did recite. Choosing the thrilling theme of Bunker's Hill. L l62 FINIS, And I beneath the fir trees stood spell-bound. My interest was not sustained ; ere long I nervous grew, knowing the bag he held Contained the Mail, we in the afternoon Sent into Sydney ; also well aware Of the authenticated fact, my friend Had more than once — in poesy absorbed, Or Spirit Mystery — securely sealed The bag when empty, on the counter left Its complement of letters. Loth was I For him to be with me, and be so rapt : I broke in, warning him, ' The Mail is due ! — The train comes round the corner as I speak,' But onward like a triumph went the verse Of Bunker's Hill ; again was I absorbed ; What with the stirring story, and the rhyme. What with the venerable friend who told Its stanzas with such mastery of art ; And lo the train was on us ere we knew ; The Battle finished, won ; the Mail near lost Because we not a second had to spare. And now he lies in yonder darkened room Clutching the sheets, thinking he hath the folds Of Mail Bags in his grasp, conscious enough In some points — to stand by the principle And see no parson, minister or priest, Saying he asks no spiritual help. Weaker he grows each day, and soon will die. FINIS. They all had with the Dead the graveyard sought ; I could not with them follow, being bound, To work for daily bread, unvaried round Of commerce, things for market and things bought. THE NEW POSTMISTRESS. 163 But in late afternoon, with sadness fraught, The house whence issued that sad train I found Not quite engrossed with the funereal mound, Many were in it glad, if some distraught. Death is a circumstance we strive to hide And to forget. The house where Death had dwelt Was redolent with Life. Young children ran Thro' chambers sad where late the corpse did bide, The contrast caused with tears my eyes to melt. A Song Bird sang of Life ; O hollow Life ; O Man ! THE NEW POSTMISTRESS. When our Postmaster died, you may suppose That many candidates at once arose To fill the office ; after some ado, And waiting, one was chose who had been thro' The business, while the old man was struck down. A woman with a moderate renown For courtesy and aptitude ; to me Ne'er less than kind and good was wont to be : For I was lonely situate, had need Of every little notice, word, and deed, To lighten up my solitude's sad case ; Therefore, most pleased was I that in his place She was preferred ; nor for myself alone I joyed ; she had a family, none grown To man's estate, altho' the eldest lad Was in a lawyer's office ; strong and glad He came each evening to his tea, a book Beneath his arm, at which, if you did look, It proved not of a legal texture dry, Romance or travel, to the which he'd fly, Ended the meal ; yet looked he to the Law 164 THE NEW POSTMISTRESS. As if at the long vista's end he saw Plainly the Judge's ermine : then a maid Came after him ; no floweret of the glade More lovely could appear — O, she was fair, With peerless freshness that young maidens wear, Dew of the morn, bloom of the peach, a charm That Time enhances not, but doth disarm, Mostly in black with snow-white pinafore She went to school, prosaic pathways wore Light from her smile, as streaming from her face Was naught if not a flood of love and grace : Brothers and sisters after her, did seek Her 'tendance ; of the Baby I must speak As, fat and rosy, when she did me spy, She toddled to my side with happy cry : If there be aught to make a poor man proud, It is not when the Great call from the crowd His sorrows for distinction, rather when A child sees him among the throngs of men. Singles him out, and running at his side Calls him by name, ay, here is cause for Pride. With this extensive family to keep, That the good mother held her office, deep Impressed me with delight ; I said as much ; Our hearts became by sympathy in touch. A widow she was not, 'twas known afar Her face was sweet and sad, no lucky star Shed influence when she was born, it said : At times it almost looked as she were dead, So drawn, with grey haze o'er the features cast, And when she roused herself and smiled at last The smile was forced, having the feebleness That things not given by Nature aye express. She always appeared tired ; observing this, I talking with a friend did say : 'Amiss Our Postmistress her duties seems to take ; Details perchance cause her to chafe and ache ? ' When he : ' Not so, I reckon ; it is said That to a drunken husband she is wed, THE NEW POSTMISTRESS. 165 A drag upon her life, a weary load, A thorn that constant doth her patience goad ; A journalist, a paper once he ran ; One who could execute as well as plan, Well versed in poUtics and literature An evil fell on him he could not cure ; — The thirst for alcohol, that, night and day. Saw his not slender fortune melt away, So that Prosperity went down apace. And Poverty led up the fiend Disgrace. The home of comfort as if thunderstruck Was blackened, fell to pieces ; in a ruck The car domestic was fast fixed, and tears Fell on his wife, an avalanche of years.' I found the Woman always sweet and calm, Her hfe went on a penitential psalm, There was a beauty in her I discerned Women in middle life possess, when turned From giggling girlhood to the graver stage That is not tender youth or failing age, But the true prime, the valuable of life ; It clothed her as a garment. What a wife And family, methought, to glad the heart, And cause each true endeavour fresh to start ! what a man (miscalled a Man) who fails To make his home a Paradise, nor scales The golden steps of Married Bliss, to creep Around their base, where Alces, a fell heap Jostle each other like a horrid brood. While o'er him shines the City pure and good ! 1 passed the Post-Office late every night, There alwa}s in its windows was a light, And posting there a letter, thro' the chink Of the box, I saw my friend ; she heard the clink, And quenched the light, but not before I scanned Her tear-wet face, the volume in her hand. I ate my breakfast at our best hotel. Later on Sundays, and remember well 1 66 THE NEW POSTMISTRESS. Those First Day mornings : — ere I put aside My cup and plate, the landlord, wary-eyed, Let in the thirsty, when the Sergeant trode With pompous step far down the dreamy road. That parlour was a study for the heart : Some on the sofa lounged, some did impart The idle gossip of the hour, while all Consumed Tooth's ale ; a not infrequent brawl Held the back-yard in uproar, lock and key Were brought ere midday into use ; not free The baby of the landlord was to wheel His go-cart round the lobby, an appeal The parent to its better sense would suit ; — 'To play on Sunday is just like a brute Religion lacking ! ' — and the hopeful knew What tuns of ale the house on Sunday drew ! The local butcher sate among the crowd, An alderman, stout, rubicund, and proud. But never overbearing ; did a bill Need backing, was a neighbour sad or ill, He was the man from whom relief was sought, The local battles with misfortune fought : Could I but like him well, and e'en admire ? I heard him tell the landlord, ' I require If I'm to be permitted here to stay. That you are careful, G. to keep away : ' (I recognised the name) the landlord, vexed, His brain of small capacity perplexed. Did introduce a striking personage. His were the features that did so engage Me in the toddling Baby ; and he lurched Sofa-ward under drink ; I then saw smirched His face was, and his linen was not clean, His clothes not brushed, dints in his hat were seen. He called for drink, and quickly was supplied ; Then fell back on the pillow, heavy eyed. His classic features sallow in the wealth Of auburn beard : how different slumbers health ! He slumbered long beside his pot of beer With stertorous breathing, and in posture queer : CROSSING THE HEADS. 1 67 Thro' the long idle gossip of the room, Thro' the upcurling fumes, and studied gloom, Thro' the mellifluous chiming of church bells, Thro' the consolatory Godly spells Of song and exhortation : thro' the scent Of Sunday dining, boding much content : The while his wife, domestic, all prepared To make the day one that could not be spared ; The while his children were so sweet and trim, The while Life's Goblet showed its brightest brim, He lay in dull Lethean garments rolled Nonentity his mate who him controlled, Useless aUve and yet unfit to die : His waking hour who has a mind to spy ? This is one phase of what so oft occurred, The life of the Postmistress hourly blurred : What wonder that it caused her heart to sink ? What wonder men so curse the Demon Drink ? CROSSING THE HEADS. When langour broods over the City And heat makes a victim of me, I go with like objects of pity To get a cool blow from the sea, And book me a passage to Manly from that house on the Circular Quay. Ere the Brighton casts off there is ample To keep me employed from the deck ; Yon hulk, the Success is a sample Of times now nigh gone to a speck Low down on the darkened horizon ; yet once 'twas her freight was the wreck : — 1 68 CROSSING THE HEADS. A' body of wretches ejected From what they regarded as Home ; And some of their acts, since inspected, Should never have caused them to roam Afar o'er the dark heaving billows, a prison ship breasting the foam. The bars o'er her stern windows stretching Hint ominous treatment wnthin, A state of despair that is fetching Up Hell with its horrible din, And details discovered by Dante of the punishments meted to Sin. Yon Heads that I soon shall be passing Ne'er saw a more terrible sight Than the long swell her dismal hull glassing In the angry red advent of night. Crammed full with the hearts that are broken, or ne'er again turn to the Right. 'Tis pleasant to know that those portals Have seen many entrances glad, The splendid new ships crammed with mortals, — Tho' scarcely sufficiently sad For men 'neath the sentence of Adam, they seem in pure joy to be clad ; — As passing with music and singing The beautiful vessel glides by, Her bows to the buoyant brine springing. Her funnels so grand 'gainst the sky, Her awnings as snow newly fallen, or down which the white swans supply. But now there's a distant bell tingles, Our paddles awake into life, Each float with the crystal tide mingles, CROSSING THE HEADS. 1 69 And is with each wavelet at strife ; We turn by the mail-boat Arcadia, and drive thro' the tide like a knife. We pass the war-ships trim and splendid Aloored close to our Garden of Sweets, We note the spars cleanly extended, And watch the blithe tars' agile feats, And follow the flight of the sea fowl. O, who would now stay in the streets ? Each cove is fit haunt for the fairy. They hide in those bowers of green. To dance on yon sands are not chary When moonlight is flooding the scene. And loom thro' a haze of pure silver the sails that so gracefully lean. The sound of our paddle wheels plashing, The gurgle of waves at our stem. The sunshine in briUiance flashing. That bright work and brass doth begem. Make me joyous — the whole of my pity's for landsmen, bestowed upon them. I hear that above me is laughter, 'Tis surely not come from the skies ? Ah, no ! — but I've thought of it after How Angels might envy those eyes ; And I notice the deck is a-flutter with ribbons of various dyes. O, when a fair lady looks fairest Is when on a vessel she stands. Such rouge in thy casket thou bearest, O, Breeze of the Sea ! Search all lands, Such girls are ne'er found as are gathered where the sea round a white deck expands. lyo CLEARING THE HEADS. I've just made this sure from inspection : The Heads open out on the bow, And on the bright brine the reflection Of cloud, is hke pique on the brow Of one who says Don't ! — and next instant, reverses her frowns and her vow. We roll and we heave on the billow That sets in one swish from the Heads ; O, is there a cradle-rocked pillow More soothing ? And gingerly treads, Her white fingers grasping the stanchions, each girl, nor such coquetry dreads. We roll and we pitch, while is blowing A breeze that the dead could revive ; We roll and we pitch, while are flowing The currents of ocean, alive, Methinks, with the dolphins Arion to charm with his pipe did contrive. And when we slide into smooth water. We're loth with the billows to part. If Neptune should ask for a daughter I'll find him a score, for a start, To bound o'er the brilliant billows, and wed to the ocean their heart. CLEARING THE HEADS, My vessel sharply cuts the brine, And with a sudden turn, the Heads Are lost, nor can I more divine The Harbour, o'er which Memory sheds Such soft, sad light, that with me stays ; While Life shall last by me to dwell ; O, scene of many wondrous days ! — Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. CLEARING THE HEADS. I71 I know in part what lies before ; — Vast tracts of sea, and countries strange, The white chffs of my native shore \\'hich, while man changes, do not change : But part, and that the greater, looms In mist, I guess but cannot tell The shapes so hid, if gleams or glooms ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. At least I know what I have left : A place possessing much of peace, Reverse has tried, but not bereft Of calm and comfort. Where the fleece Of gold is gathered into bales, And rich mines send their wealth to swell The stream that flows in banker's scales ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. A populace upon whom weighs Misfortune, like a passing cloud, A darkness where the rainbow strays With span majestic, bright and proud ; A City of tall, graceful maids. As Greece of yore did ne'er excel, To make on hearts the direst raids ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. A City filled with noble piles Of smiling masonry, and streets Civilisation owns for miles. The outcome of her proudest feats ; And parks and gardens there abound Whose charms, — O, nothing can expel ! Which are, and justly, wide renowned ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. Astern, behind North Head, is hid Sweet Manly, where I would abide, Beneath the pines to close the lid And slumber by the singing tide ; 172 CLEARING THE HEADS. Upon the starboard bow, I note Thy steep slope, Bondi ; thou could'st tell What happy hours I'd there devote ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. The native names with music ring, Coogee, Woollahra, Booralee, — By such the withered race still cling To earth, till Time's o'erwhelming Sea Make end of all, the good and base, The black who squandered his long spell, And that white, God -enlightened Race ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. I know what I shall greatly miss ; — The absence of the demon Caste ; Mammon is lord of an abyss Of darkness, and I hold not fast By class distinctions ; happy hours 'Midst toilers I've been wont to dwell, Whose sinews have been golden dowers ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. I've learned of the unlettered class Their eagerness to mend the flaw Sustained thro' chance ; and when I pass To London, and my eyes deplore The evidence of woe and guilt In dens of squalor vast and fell, I'll blame the Builders for the Built : Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. O, Springs and Autumns, perfect, prime ! O Summer seasons, tho' were fierce Your rays, I've known the pleasant time In shade those arrows could not pierce : O, trellised vines ! geraniums rare Even in June ; the Christmas bell And flannel flower, are ye not fair ? Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. CLEARING THE HEADS. 1 73 Shall I not miss the clear blue skies That week by week are not obscured, Which make the saddest spirit rise ? And O, how Night my steps allured When Moonshine rained, a perfect flood Of splendour, o'er the sandy swell Whereon the scrub and gum trees stood ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. The upper reaches of the Thames Have often charmed, and may again, Kew, Kingston, Chiswick, these are names To draw me o'er the spreading main, But where the Parramatta glides The orange lightens up the dell. The waratah bright hues provides ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. How often will again appear The flocks, when not a sheep is nigh ! A rippling sea like sand, they'd near My house of weatherboards, and by Its gate they'd scamper, following Blind Destiny, the race pell-mell ; Man is as much a heedless thing ; Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. Alas ! each well-known spot recedes ! The pistons throb in steady time ; There's something at my bosom bleeds, Tho' true friends in the Northern clime Are waiting me, with welcomes kind ; Hail to my own land ! — yet a knell I hear, else am both deaf and blind. Sydney, accept my kind Farewell. 174 SCORN NOT THE LEAST. TWO ODES. SCORN NOT THE LEAST. {J?ead at the Inaugural Meeting of The Botany Literary Society.) Smile not at small beginnings, Slight odds have earned great winnings, The mistress whom we serve ranks high, and Culture is her name ; Means for the body's training In nowise are disdaining, But what we're here to claim Is, that advancement of the Mind is man's ennobling aim. The infant soft and tender The smallest chance can render Past any hope of tiding o'er the frosts of early spring, Whose hands so feebly reaching, In attitude beseeching, Are weak on aught to cling ; Yet, these small hands may curb the steed, and glory in the ring. List to the child's limp tattle ! Few understand its prattle. Perchance the mother is alone assured of sayings clear ; Yet, may that tongue roll numbers To rouse a nation's slumbers, Indulgent or severe, A Senate's pride, tho' there were days when no hint did appear. 'Mid fern and moss it bubbles, Then on the stones it troubles, The baby stream, and gathers strength for every mile it glides. SCORN NOT THE LEAST. I 75 Until its breast is bearing Vast ships, for ocean faring, It laughs along their sides. Proud as Zenobia goes to iiieet the swelling ocean tides. A park but lately planted Hath surely none enchanted ? — No boughs are there for birds to perch, and warble out their lays, No gay parterres, no spreading Green wealth of grass ; yet treading Its circuit in the days To come, are children's tripping feet and lovers' fond delays. The gates to greatness leading Seem seldom worth the heeding. Look at a plough ! — it in itself tells little of the plain Of rich gold, undulating, Breast high, 'tis chary stating Of barns of golden grain ; Yet thro' the medium of the plough we corn and bread obtain. Hast thought of ink ? black flowing, No splendour from it glowing, A juice of Tartarus it seems, and yet how doth it shine ! From its dark stream evolving Truths, complications solving; Ay, in the printed line Is oft the light subUme and sweet, decisive and divine. We stand on ground not gifted With charms, and if we sifted A ton of sand outside our doors, 'twould be a useless toil; If yonder scrub we wended. Its choicest blossoms blended. What were our gathered spoil ? Yet trode the British Pioneers this true historic soil. 176 SCORN NOT THE LEAST. Those Pioneers came meekly, Some had perchance thought weakly, Yet was their strength reserved in men who had advanced so far ; What was the gate's appearance To hands which cut a clearance Thro' every hideous bar ? They found the early outlook drear, but Empire was their Star. The Roman Arch of Glory Led to a tearful story, Altho' a Caesar's Legions filed 'neath it in glittering state ; The Caesar's reign is ended ; And mark the ruins splendid That speak Rome desolate ! Cook's sequel greater, tho' attained thro' a less gorgeous gate. And here we stand aspiring. Nought having, all desiring. And self-styled prophets shake their heads and prophesy we fail ; While others, nothing caring, Pass on with haughty bearing, Yet, we have hoisted sail, And while we hope for calm, will run in teeth of every gale. And if we fail ? supposing ! Before my poem closing I'll tell you that the Tuscan Bard, that Dante, found the stairs To Cleansing Fires, were broken, Could he have plainer spoken ? His thought dispels such cares. Our Failure yet will be a step to brighter thoroughfares. Botany, Sept. 6, 1892. THE CIRCULAR QUAY — SYDNEY. 177 THE CIRCULAR QUAY— SYDNEY. Few places so allure my ken ; Of London long a denizen I mingled with the throngs of men In Cheapside, Fleet Street and the Strand, And saw the titled dames alight Where Regent Street enchants the sight ; But now my pen essays to write The marvels of a Southern Land. In Sydney soon I found a place Historic, with a native grace, The records of the British Race In New South Wales, on it engraved : The march triumphal it has seen. In most important actions been Helper, spectator ; O, I ween That Quay is with Successes paved. There sleeps the water blue and clear, While on its lovely face appear Smiles, as a sleeping babe doth wear ; The sky benign has not a cloud ; And ships of splendid form and size God-like from out the wave arise, And magical they look to eyes That to see Beauty are allowed. Small puffing ferry boats dart by ; Men who to look important try. And feeble, make a froth, supply Such objects as these ferry boats : The mighty steamship leaves the quay And glides majestic to the sea, Noiseless, from foam and flurry free, No strife her exit hence denotes. u 178 THE CIRCULAR QUAY — SYDNEY. The flag Blue Peter at her fore, A square of darkness — meaning sore I read therein, a bitter lore, The agony of long good-byes ; But in its centre, light is found, The white square in its dark blue ground "Whispers, Sad heart, ye are not bound For ever to the House of Sighs. I viewed a towering liner leave ; Without pretence to strain or heave At noon she cast off, and did cleave With maiden tenderness, the tide, Her tapered masts, her ports agleam. Her black and shining plates did seem To me as lovely as a dream, Peerless she passed with proper pride. Watching the stately steamship go ^Vere eyes, some large with grief and woe, Keen interest did others show, And some few were indifferent : Howe'er to others it may look. That flag Blue Peter is a book More sad than lively ; to its nook The volume of Farewells present. And turn to see the ship come in With smiles and merriment and din. The tempest past, these toilers win A welcome spell of joy ashore ; Hope animates the youthful breast, A vista opens bright and blest, A Happy Life — man's constant quest — The finder being conqueror. Ah, millions this famed Quay have trod Fresh from fair England's fertile sod. And found less need to toil and plod In this great land whose name shall spread ; THE CIRCULAR QUAY SYDNEY. 179 More liberty, and better fare, An independence unknown, where Old ways engender old despair, And there is far less sunlight shed. Behold the bales of Wool up-piled, The warehouses that may be styled "Wonders ! — and here was erst a wild A single Century ago ! — This steep was bush and scrub set thick, The naked savage darted quick, And rubbed sparks from his tinder stick, His boomerang essayed to throw. Behold, across the smiling tide The sandstone hills on either side AVith trees and blooms, where are espied The villa and the house of state : Contentment is the word I read. The Love of God is here decreed, A Paradise is here indeed For Eden's closed and guarded gate. The Seagulls love this tide to skim, Por gorgeous vessels they've a whim. Have met them on the ocean rim. And know them moored beside the steep ; They flutter round each cove and bay In snowy wake of ships to play ; I've watched and loved them day by day. These vagrant Children of the Deep, Over the Quay the Zephyrs float, The breath of flowers to shed and boat They waft : our fairy garden note, Around the point it rises sweet ; And on the Quay the idle wait. And some stay there to contemplate, Be wooed by Beauty as a mate Who is more shadowy in the. street. l8o THE CIRCULAR QUAY — SYDNEY. I lounged on Sydney's famous Quay And did in long procession see The March of Labour, each degree A victory for arm and brain ; The bullock track, the house of boards, The aboriginal dark hordes. Triumph of ploughshares over swords ! The mill, the water dam, and wain : — The melting of the brutish clan Before the white and noble man, The walls of stone, the bridge's span, The church, the school, the gorgeous hall, The locomotive's passage fair, The townships rising everywhere, The gold, and corn, and coal to spare, England again, should England fall. I hear upon this Quay the voice Of Europe, lo ! her slaves rejoice ; To cross the ocean is their choice And land them on the Austral shore. And 'neath the Southern Cross to find A welcome warm, and true, and kind, A life in which a sutnmer wind Is given for that of Labrador. A Hundred Years ! — and in this time Learning has raised her Throne sublime, A people buoyant as their clime Appear in majesty arrayed ; — The wise professor tends the hall, The jewelled lady treads the ball, And the blue sky is over all. As Cook so recently surveyed. While Johnson at the ' Mitre ' dined. And genius in its attic pined, Cook braved the billows and the wind ; He found a great land past the Line, PORT JACKSON. l8l Where better instincts are to bloom, And there is to be less of gloom, A new Race, and a new perfume Of Virtue, and a Life Divine. New Female Charms — the Austral Belle Methinks her sisters doth excel, Having more grace : — I reckon well New Literature, and Sense of Art ; Not in a night to spring perchance, But without any doubt Advance. Who sees not hath a darkened glance Australia's great and future part. O, she will be at times depressed ; But rise a Phoenix, newly drest In Glory ; and with fervid zest I cried, ' 'Tis well that such should be ! ' More favoured bards may sing her praise. But never, till the end of days, A strain more heartfelt will they raise Than this ; from Sydney's Famous Quay. TRAVEL PICTURES AND OTHER SONNETS. PORT JACKSON. In early April, season of the year That seems to be so lovely in each clime, I sped along Port Jackson. 'Twas the time When Dian doth in queenly guise appear, And Sol sinks in his majesty severe Behind thick wooded summits. Moored sublime Fire islands stood in fire. The paddles' chime Effected a broad star path in our rear. 1 82 SYDNEY LADIES. There scarce was any speech, for of the crowd That hned the decks, was each in Beauty's thrall ; We sHpped past Ocean couriers, perfect, proud, And men-o'-war. With night's black curtain's fall We touched on Sydney, who hath been allowed Of Southern Cities first, Empress of All. SYDNEY LADIES. A WONDROUS thing it is to fix the gaze Upon our Stately City, Sydney named, Which Art and Nature equally have claimed, And then to recollect the savage maze Of tangled scrub in Cook's and Anson's days. With ladies who to look as hideous aimed As possible, untaught and unashamed. White grubs and 'possum flesh their only craze. We do without such cliarms, charms to our zone Transplanted have we from the Northern mists Not less angelic in our sunny sphere, They're Gloire de Dijon Roses that we own. Worth brilliants, rubies, pearls and amethysts, The gold we delve, the palaces we rear. THE INDIAN OCEAN. I LOVE thy vast and glorious expanse, Monotonous to him, who, day by day Beholds thy waste of waters stretch away. He finds in thee complete lack of romance ; REST IN THE PRESENT. 1 83 But thou art other to the thinking glance ; Thy long and gentle swell, thy blue and grey Of foam-capped sea, thy flying fish, the prey Of winged and finny creatures : and the chance Thou givest to the artist with thy fringes And waves of rising and of setting light ; With maize, and green, and pink. Dame Nature tinges The dome of Heaven ; in dark relief, a sight Of awe, dense cloud upon these hues impinges : But of thy Moon and Stars how can I write ? REST IN THE PRESENT. "I HAVE no mind to muse on what has been, Its triumphs or vexations to rehearse. Privation, Sorrow, Error, ay, and worse, With Love and Laughter and Success between, Shade, chief ingredient of the motley scene ; Nor have I mind to cast the Future, curse Or blessing tho' it bring me, or to nurse Anticipations sad and strange, I ween. Because, upon the cleanly deck I sit, The crystal air is bland, the sky is blue. And deeper blue the Sea which to me sings, The awning doth no undue rays admit, It hides the canvas pyramid from view : What reason to remove from Present Things ? THE S.-E. TRADES. We're loth to part with anything we prize, Sorry the pleasing tale has had an end. 184 CEYLON. And sad the last glass with a valued friend, Most sad the last look in remembered eyes ; O, I have recollections of clear skies, A sparkling sea, whose songs to love did tend, Sun pageants too divine to comprehend, A white deck rocking to blest lullabies. But I have left the greatest good unsaid : What of the breeze that o'er the quarter blew, Which made the sails draw deftly overhead. And gave to languid visages the hue Of health, and kept so steadily, we knew No altered brace, as day by day we sped ? CEYLON. I TRAVELLED the flat seaboard. Rolling strong As not to be deterred, the billows swept. Sadly, persistently, the grey skies wept ; Yet naught that is unlovely doth belong To Lanka's isle. Upon my brain now throng The lakes, the park lands : sated Beauty slept Among the palms and roses. But Time leapt With strides and bounds : He limps when Life goes wrong. Dear child, who gave me Roses, they are faded ! But not your smile, or plaintive pleading cry ; Kind Buddhist priest, in yellow robe, who aided My search for beauty, in my mental eye You stand ; a wreath of rare immortelles braided Your country. Flowers of amaranth do not die. THE LAKE OF COLOMBO. 1 85 THE LAKE OF COLOAIBO. What cool refreshing breezes o'er thee blow : The' near thee in the torrid sky upraised The palm tree's graceful crown my sight amazed ; The broad banana leaves did grandly show Near the dense bamboo, and the magic glow Of arches massed in blossoms, ne'er appraised. And scent of cinnamon the senses dazed ; All tropic sights, sounds, scents, were mine, I trow. O placid lake of waters sweet ! the home Of such refreshment, where the washermen And copper-coloured maidens made a foam To break thy calm, thou still art in my ken ; The verdant foliage, the cerulean dome, And crimson roads ; but, my unworthy pen ! SUNDAY AT SEA. Sunday, the first day of the week, a day When there is less of swabbing, decks present An aspect of enjoyment and content ; The ship's bell calls the cleanly crew to pray ; The card and cribbage board are put away ; Let folly that is spent, indeed be spent, Let no more of that coin base be lent ; The usury required turns most men grey. The First Day of the Week for searching gear And seeing all is ship-shape for the start. The weather may in store for us be queer, Sails may be split, and fastenings may part ; Sunday for love, — for lifting from this sphere That portion sensitive of man, the heart. t86 looking back. LOOKING BACK O, ON this morn when gratefully the breeze Tempers the tropic ardours, on this morn When I am being to Old England borne, I who have tasted the Antipodes, My heart yearns for that gem of Southern Seas, Port Jackson, which kind Nature doth adorn With Paradisal glories, seldom worn On earth, or only in minute degrees. The billows sing, the foam doth by us fly, The passengers converse, and I am lulled. My thoughts to Sydney's City quickly hie, I rest upon the memories I have culled ; Ahead, the shores of my dear country lie, But of the land I've left can dreams be dulled ? SUEZ. A PLACE for Suez in my memory be ! Her turquoise wave, her tabular brown hills, Her plains of desert where the lack of rills Seems nothing bad to camels. Sweet to me The blue Clematis clumps I late did see Lining the long canal, ^^'hat bliss instils Each green plantation now, the child's voice fills With sky-befitting innocence and glee. Against the solid blue, a naked black With fez of red, tall in a boat doth stand, He looks magnificent; were Turner back To fix on canvas such a sight, so grand ; And fleets of lovely ships are on the track Bound for the shores of some celestial land. THE SUEZ CANAL. 187 THE SUEZ CANAL. Mark thou it well, the Highway to the East Whence come tea, coffee, rice and indigo, Tobacco, jute and cotton, and we know Jewels and precious metals, not the least Of man's desires ; the merchant and the priest, The soldier and adventurer, all owe ^\'ealth, power, to what the Orient doth bestow, Her goods she showers forth, yet is increased. This channel leads to dames, the harem's pride, To turbaned sultans, stoics yellow-robed, To palace walls where luxury is spread ; O, interesting ditch ! thy light green tide, Thy brown sand banks, thy purple hills, if probed. Hold more Great Thoughts than in the books I've read. PORT SAID. A CLEAR, transparent sky, with just a cloud ; If that were not, less taking were the scene, The vault upon a bronze plain seems to lean, And tho' a sheet of dust the town doth shroud I'll walk amidst the novel Arab crowd. Sip coffee where rich music flows serene, Where ladies charm you with their languid mien Whose weakness hath a stoic indifference bowed. I could not long before this cafe sit And sip black coffee, tho' the azure main Smiles o'er the Place de Lesseps. Love'll admit Me to the Eldorado's shrines again, Where ladies like to gaudy insects flit. And are, like them, wasteful, and fair, and vain. l88 IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. Thou Hawk ! thou speculative bird, who fliest In wake of ships to find whereto they go ! Or is it Love magnetic works thee so That thy brown wings persistently thou pliest ? Port Said of rest as yet to thee is nighest : O, worse than the broad desert thou must know The barren sea, which now doth round thee flow, O, foolish bird ! thou answerest not, nor sighest. The flashing brine, the perfect sheen of sails, The buoyant breezes, lure thee, comes an hour When the warped heart turns to its home again And finds how difficult a task prevails ; Night, Ocean, Space, in plenitude of power. When thou shalt feel Remorse — and all in vain ! A NEAPOLITAN SINGER (i). A PANORAMA of all lovcly sights. Blue skies and seas, white, noble palaces, Hills villa-dotted, green with grass and trees, Vesuvius interweaving its delights With memories of horror. Honeyed nights Can give no dream like Naples, she doth please, Instruct and raise the heart from low degrees To plains divine which rest on love's fair heights. But what of her who played the mandolin ? A woman said she saw in her face Sin. I read there, if not Virtue, O then Power ; Methought, while leaning o'er the vessel's side She was the Moon, who regulates the tide. Or of Life's loathsome mass its saving dower. A NEAPOLITAN SINGER. 189 A NEAPOLITAN SINGER (ii). She stood up in a boat, a clumsy craft, With men uninteresting, and she sang ; Finished her song, quick to the side she sprang And held an old umbrella ; you had laughed To see her catch the coins from fore and aft Fell in its folds ; and when she smiled, a pang Went to my heart, and when she frowned, the clang Of dread despair I heard, and felt its shaft. I wondered to myself. Who are these men ? And what the life she leads ? and my conclusion Was not the happiest possible. — I vow The cave of Vice hath many a denizen Lovely enough to warrant the intrusion Of hearts. Would I were near that Singer now. POMPEII. Never while life shall last can I forget Those miles of ruins 'neath a cloudless sky. They were depressing, as the last sad sigh Which says. The sun of happiness has set. Sure, that Narcissus was but lately wet ? Sure, that luxurious bath not long is dry ? Such walls of brick I've day by day passed by And seen the smile, and heard the canzonet. Now I more fully realise the life — The sumptuous banquets, and the forum's gloom. The ladies' boudoirs with refinements rife, The studied horrors of the Christian's doom ; And then, 'mid streams of lava, the fierce strife When some few found relief, and all a tomb. 190 AVERTED. AVERTED. Ploughing to Westward of the Inland Main The billows frothed, and in the rising gale Were hints of the Atlantic's snow and hail, Dense fog and shaggy tempest. Came again A southern night, a girl, a silver rain Of melody, a face alternate pale And flushed, eyes that too plainly told a tale Of Love's unutterable peace — and pain. I see her stand beside me at the door. Beneath the shade of gum trees, near the Bay ; I feel my great perplexity return ; ' I must not love, since I am pledged before ! ' Alas ! next week she white and silent lay And now is tenanting her graveyard urn. THE ORMUZ IN DOCK. I SEE her, stately 'gainst the cold grey sky Of London, like a Queen in dishabille. Lovely, ay grand, tho' temporarily still, Her fittings moved, decks cumbered, yards awry, The artizan doth plate and timber try, Panel and engine ; stevedores their will Take in her gaping hold ; but soon the shrill Pipe of the Boatswain summons her to fly. Hail to the purple dome that overspreads The Southern Sea ! she's thinking, now she's docked, ' It's O for active service on the brine.' And only too long dalliance she dreads ; By ocean breezes fanned, on billows rocked, Her pleasure. Might I share her life divine ! JAMES COOK, 191 JAMES COOK. I. The humours of a Fishing Town Beside a beck, and sheltered well, Abutting on the Yorkshire Down, Of such I'd now begin to tell ; James Cook, whose fame doth History swell, Was nurtured in a like retreat, Learned there from sailors to excel In the aquatic feat. Methinks he'd no great love for books. Not born to delve in learning's mine ; Of Mary Walker's fearsome looks As, seated in the summer shine, Spinning the flax in faultless line, He knew, the porch her pet abode ; He in the kitchen, to define The bookman's weary road. Ah me, those sleepy afternoons ! Loud ticked the clock, the tabby purred, The roses swayed their fair festoons Languidly ; from the meads was heard The mirth of boy, and chirp of bird ; But James sate by the diamond pane. His playtime for awhile deferred, Yet did his task prove vain. How dusk the ample kitchen spread Compared to gorgeous light without ! Sand on its tiles had late been shed. The dresser's cleanliness to doubt Had been propriety to rout ; But droning went the spinning-wheel. And James looked very much a lout Nor Mary one to feel. 192 JAMES COOK. But last it did not. ISIarton's charms Were for the Staithes set aside ; James had no hankering for farms, Ne'er to the country lanes he hied ; The farm had been his father's pride, In ploughs and harrows he was skilled ; Thoughts of the Ocean James supplied, His roseate visions filled. The humours of a fishing town Were very germane to his choice, To watch the sails of varied brown. And list the Sea's mysterious voice. With nets and anchors to rejoice, And mark the ship grow on the stocks ; And O, he climbed with ease and noise The jetties and the rocks. To send his boy upon the Sea ^ Had entered not the father's mind, Sanderson's mixed store was to be His son's home ; so the sire inclined : And James for quite a year, we find Weighing out sugar, measuring Flannel and tape ; but he was blind Who reckoned he would cling. For, came a housewife for her cheese He knew not where to find the same ; His hair was blowing in the breeze, When beacon lights were all aflame ; And he had greatly been to blame If thieves had sacked his master's store : A bed beneath a counter tame He thought ; ' I'll see this o'er ! ' Friend Sanderson one certain morn Found his apprentice had decamped, Perchance he felt not so forlorn. His spirits not too sorely damped. JAMES COOK. 193 'Twas so ; James Cook the cliff had tramped, Dropped down on Whitby township gay, Where life could not be dull or cramped, Work could be had and pay. A great day in a Nation's life When Cook, a boy of thirteen years, Severed the hawser, and stood rife With hope and courage past his peers, And Death delayed for long his shears, And Life displayed a wondrous scroll ; The King of Undiscovered Spheres Felt on that morn his Soul. O, dreams the acorn as it swells Of size its fibres shall attain ? O, kens the stream that trickling wells What volumes it shall pour amain ? And thought James Cook, when he did gain The Whitby Wharves, he should achieve Such triumphs on the briny plain As we can scarce believe ? Methinks it was a morning fair ; In groups the resting fishers stood. Last night of toil they took their share Of danger and of hardihood : The shipwrights smote the bulging wood Of yon broad whaler ; and the town Was in its busiest, blithest mood. And sparkling up and down. The ' Raffled Anchor's ' landlord leaned Against his lintel, thinking deep ' Who is that lad ? but badly cleaned His person ; we a watch must keep.' Ah, honest son, he yet shall steep (Not to excess) in thy big butt ; But now he doth uncertain creep Finding most hearts are shut. N 194 JAMES COOK. Two quaker owners grave, sedate, Will take the lad in their employ, On the affrighted parents wait ; The Free Love now requires a boy And now he bubbles o'er with joy, His strong grip fastens to the brace, The bluff-bowed collier is his toy, The sea his dwelling-place. Upon the German Ocean cast, His cheek grows ruddy in the brine The gaskets are no longer fast. The topmasts to the waves incline, The tiller creaks, the white cUffs shine With verdant coronals astern ; The voyage opens fair and fine ; 'Tis well to live and learn : 'Tis well to live and learn, the wealth Of lore that sailors may attain, And feel the overflowing health, A sound frame and a thinking brain ; What tho' there hardships be, and pain ? What tho' ashore is greater ease ? For youths like James Cook hfe were vain If passed not on the seas. II. The Mile End Road ; it ne'er hath been The rich man's favourite resort, But sailor folk therein are seen Docked from the billows' playful sport. And Cook, a spell of leave too short, Once sojourned in that region meek, The hymeneal bliss to court, And tender joys to seek. He is not now the Collier's mate. But in the service of the King, JAiMES COOK. 195 For while the AVolf of War did wait Upon our British right to spring, He did what was the nobler thing, And for the Navy volunteered, Capacity and Will to bring, Die to his flag endeared. ■•& His purse is light for all his toil. He mixes seldom with the great, A seaman used to sweat and moil For all his uniform of state. Gold lace of splendid sheen and weight, On books of regal vessels borne ; Yet to live humbly is his fate, Too shadowy e'en for scorn. 'Tis true that he at times is called To be the guest of patrons grand, Truer, that worth has ne'er forestalled This greatest seaman of the land. For late he led the intrepid band Right round the world thro' seas unknown, His flag on new-found shores did stand, And gemmed the British Throne. This man — lieutenant at Mile End, Commander soon in the Gazette — Did erst his genius expend Charts of some Northern shores to get, And Labrador on parchment set : But chief of what his prowess claims Is that New Holland is a debt To him ; that from the Thames — From Deptford dockyard, he set out Bound for the distant Southern Seas, His vessel, the E>ideavo?er, stout. In Whitby built ; to warp or freeze. To drift in calm, or heel to breeze ; 196 JAMES COOK. And feel his way, and know each hour Disaster in its dark degrees Was ready to o'erpower. He tells his gentle wife these tales When they are by their hearth alone ; This tall, kind seaman bronzed by gales, And her o'er whom is beauty thrown Like to a mantle ; but 'tis known By each, home is a transient gleam ; And she will bitterly bemoan His new ship in the stream. They walked across the Essex Green When they were wedded years ago ; It was a lovely, peaceful scene. But circumstance a bar did throw, And he went forth where salt winds blow, To voyage beneath alien skies. Yet ever on his decks to owe Warmth from remembered eyes. He hath no faintest spice of fear, Else how had he gone thro' his task ? — Magellan's Straits of danger drear. Where famine wears not e'en a mask ; In feeble summer suns to bask Where Terra del Fuego lone Stretches, and naught the soul may ask Of desert, scrub and stone. The hungry, cruel, coral reef In Polynesian waters fair, With islands smiling over grief ; The cocoa palm trees graceful, rare. The broad banana leaves are there, And spices breathe from every pore ; And yet the ripped-up keel could bear To voyage nevermore. JAMES COOK. 197 It takes a person with a heart Of constancy, as vain to class Tahiti's maidens, void of art, With charms no other maids surpass ; His smitten sailors sighed, alas ! When weighing from those bowers of bliss, By such delights the Spaniard was Drawn into Sloth's abyss. The fever of Batavia's slime He braved, breathed from its verdure rank ; And scurvy woke the burial chime As one by one his best men sank, Until the roll was nigh a blank. Ah, me ! the desolation then ! His bad provisions he might thank For loss of many men. The dread Uncertainty was worst ; A lone ship, in a lonely track ; Upon new wonders they would burst. And long in sunshine, and in rack, With dread of savages' attack, He the great Austral shore surveyed : And how could he wish himself back With Glory to be made ? And how refuse again to cleave The billows of the charmed brine ? Tho' sad his loving wife to leave. The light he followed was divine ; For decorations ne'er to pine. The ribbon and the star were small. The Future should to him incline, And him a Hero call. The great intrepid sailor sate In his small cabin, night by night, The foremast sailor had his mate. Lonesome was his commander quite ; 19^ JAMES COOK. And wliile the stars shed down their light, He thought, ' Perchance I'll ne'er again Behold the sun the shades affright, Burst o'er this Unknown Main ! ' He sate him by the swinging lamp, The bulkhead shivered in the roll. He heard his first lieutenant's tramp. The seaman's song, the time bell's toll. The rudder's and the sail's control Vibrated thro' him : — 'twas a dream ; His wife sighed : ' James, sad is my soul, Thy new ship's in the stream ! ' 1 1 1. Upon Owyhee's fertile steep The British sailors and marines A well-earned spell of pleasure keep. Late from Alaska's cold ravines. Mountains of ice and Arctic scenes ; Here cool and crystal water drips Thro' ferns ; from heat the foliage screens Near shore are moored the ships. The lank jaws of the voyager Plump out, sustained by better fare. How many would their stay defer In this delightful, perfumed air ! The islanders observe their share Of obligation, to these whites. All things of value gladly spare, And even waive their rights. Now love and merriment wax rife, How charming is each Southern maid ! I ween the sweetheart and the wife This gentle savage puts in shade, JAMES COOK. 199 For love the sailor will invade, He finds a damsel on each strand, Tho' circumspect and true and staid When 'Liza is at hand. These dusky people are impressed With what will sadly prove is not The truth. James Cook they have addressed As Lono, who is ne'er forgot Since he bade farewell to the spot He favoured ; in a fit of spleen ^Murdered his wife, he cursed his lot, And fled his guilt's dark scene. He said, before he went away, ' Fear not, I shall in time return With dogs and swine, a fair array. Upon an isle, you may discern With tall trees of the wood you burn : ' And lo, that isle is now off shore ! And Lono treads the grass and fern, His favoured spot of yore. They honours pay to him divine ; The altar smokes, the priests intone, The damsel's full eyes sweeter shine, She stands in loveliness alone. Flowers in her tresses and her zone ; Branches and billows add their sound To welcome Lono to his own. With music rare, profound. But little heedeth Captain Cook Or any of his men, this most Direful mistake, and matters look Suspicious to the island host When one of Lono's friends the ghost Gives up, is laid beneath the sod. Since immortality should boast Even a minor god. 200 JAMES COOK. And next, there brews a sharp dispute About some trifling things misplaced ; The theory more ill doth suit; Quickly their fond hopes are effaced ; The very palings that encased His altar, Lono now demands For fuel ; ah, he is disgraced. In peril where he stands. So that, his anchor weighed, a glow Of satisfaction spreads afar. And gathers strength ; but fierce winds blow, Splinter his topmast ; 'tis a bar Of formidable weight ; the tar Steers once more for Owyhee's cove ; But now a hostile people are Ensconced in each thick grove. How tell the sanguinary fight ? — The boats half on the shelving beach, And half in water ; arrows' flight, And muskets brought at length to teach Submission. Black men yell and screech, Their hangers do our seamen ply. His boat James Cook essays to reach. Doth from a spear-thrust die ; — Rolls over in the limpid wave And is not heard again to speak ; The curdling brine his boat doth lave ; O, long and vainly shall men seek The Navigator's bones. A week Produces part of his remains, But o'er the trunk do parrots shriek, Owyhee it detains. A gloom is on the vessel's deck As heavy as an iceberg's crest. And long since, from the Yorkshire beck To Sydney, deep in beauty blest, JAMES COOK. 201 Have streamed of tears the tenderest, Have struggled many painful sighs : For Cook is one we all attest Supremely brave and wise. O, thou great Ocean, named of Peace, A mighty tribute didst exact ! We are entitled to release, Have ' paid our footing ' is a fact ; Of knowledge that the World has lacked Is, What of Cook in Owyhee ? And Gordon, when Khartoum was sacked On Afric's sandy sea ? And I have sailed Port Jackson's tide So vast, with endless coves and bays, The gum-clad eminence each side Conspicuous, and vivid rays On dimpling waves ; her charms displays Each tiny pleasure craft ; her guns The war-ship on her turrets sways, Guided by Britain's sons. And I in Botany have dwelt. Know well her sand, her scrub, her scent Of wattle, and have keenly felt The parting, when from her I went ; The ' Captain Cook ' I did frequent. At La Perouse plucked flannel flowers, And Christmas bells, and lay content Bosomed on happy Hours. In Hyde Park, Sydney, I have strayed. Where Cook with arm uplifted draws Attention in the dappled shade ; That statue won my heart's applause ; Over camellias did I pause Crimson and white, 'mid foliage dark, Blooming for him, who hath good cause The Austral coast to mark. 202 VERSES WRITTEN UPON THE VERSES WRITTEN UPON THE SHORE OF BOTANY BAY. Welcome, blue skies and balmy airs After the long protracted rain And cold ! So here, avaunt to cares ! A seaside reverie I'd fain Induce : — the man who spares An afternoon for quiet lore, And communings both good and sweet, Is wise. Who will not leave his store And ledger, only doth repeat A folly o'er and o'er. An ancient inn upon the strand. Fenced off by gum trees from the sea, A house where Time's artistic hand Hath tarried, this the spot for me These idlesse hours bland. To nestle in that parlour small, And mark the bright blue thro' the gloom, The dimpling waves, and hear their fall Rythmic, half cadence and half boom, This luxury I call. O, what can equal sunset gold ? The sand hills white, the paddocks green. The spreading plains of sky, all hold The rare solution, where 'tis seen The gain's a thousandfold. Ye birds that chirrup in the eaves, Methinks your daily task is done ! And now the Fort grows still ; Night leaves In La Perouse no sounding gun. No shot the billow cleaves. SHORE OF BOTANY BAY. 203 Only along the dusty road Strong waggon wheels, wool-weighted, fare ; And with their full and noisy load Of workfolk, rush with scream and glare The trams, and thought explode. But this a momentary cause Of trouble. Shut the poetry book : This is the Day's most telling Pause ; And shortly in this parlour nook Men chatter worse than daws. Of all Australia can produce Of soft or grand, sweet or sublime, Is Botany the most profuse In what can wake the Poet's rhyme Or stimulate his Muse. When Cook a hundred years ago Dropt anchor just abreast those trees, Ah, what a long and weary flow Of Time washed the Antipodes Ere rose God's morning glow ! 'O O' Cook's men were doubtless rough enough And ignorant, but in their traui Braving the Unknown Realm's rebuff Came the enlightened subtle brain : Still — honour muscles tough ; — Honour the scurvy-stricken crew Who in their cock boats braved the brine ; 'Twas British Heart did bear them thro', Not they to cavil or repine. Give Pioneers their due. Upon the dark, forbidding coast What contrasts Enghsh mem'ries met ! And damping their most willing boast, And making spray-dashed faces wet With tears : — they stood their post ! 204 ORDERS FROM HOME. And some on coral reefs were cast, Others in caves no man has trod, A few at home their eyes closed fast. But Home is anywhere with God, The first He, and the last. So to enforce what I have said Of Cook, and of his gallant band : — For me, I cannot count them dead ; My spirit grasps each shadowy hand Beneath yon gum trees spread. ORDERS FROM HOME. The Falmouth frigate, cast away Upon the Javan Shore, The story of a bygone day, Hath much to animate the lay And pierce the heart's deep core. Can we imagine half the pains The old-time sailors braved. When horror veiled unfurrowed mains. When storm and sickness were the chains Which drew to death unsaved ? The Falmouth was a noble craft As e'er from Spithead sailed. Be winds ahead, abeam, abaft. It seemed she at them only laughed, Tacked, scudded and prevailed. And thro' the dread Magellan Strait She flew with conquering keel. ORDERS FROM HOME. 205 On the Pacific burst elate Where fewer tempests agitate, And make the good ship reel. North-east she shaped her course, swung round Beside Tahiti's strand, Where joys abundantly were found, Where all in flowery wreaths were bound. Where smiles and airs were bland : Where cooling fruits brought health to veins Fevered with tropic ills ; Where music mingled sweetest strains. Where Love brought rapture to the swains Who sought the turf-banked rills. But such delights were not to last Beyond a trifling space ; And hark ! the canvas bends the mast ; Ah, how unkind thou perfumed blast ; Adieu, sweet land and race ! Weeks, weary weeks, of sky and sea, Of heaviness and sighs ; Baffled, becalmed, or ploughing free The Falmotith frigate, on her lee. Appears at length a prize. A treasure ship, deep lade with spoil Of the Pacific Isles ; Here wealth invites with little toil, Let landsmen 'neath the strong sun broil, Fortuna on us smiles. And so the clear air was obscured By clouds of smoke and fire, And birds to battle not inured Screamed, and the sharks some prey secured. The flow of blood was dire. 206 ORDERS FROM HOME. But in the end, the treasure barque Ignited, and blew up ; But not before her hold was stark And empty, and her cabins dark, Where flowed the sparkling cup. But to the Falmouth little worth Was all that treasure vast, For shortly, on a coast of dearth. She found an ending to her mirth, Her need of spar and mast. Stuck in the putrid mud, she lay In Javan waters dread, The savage natives eyed their prey, The Dutch possessors warned away, And execrations shed. What was it in their power to do So helpless, and alone ? Stand by the ship, tho' winds screamed thro' Her gaping timbers, sight to rue ! Death catalogued each bone. O, for Tahiti's perfumed airs, Banana forests, still ; But useless were their sighs and prayers, The savages beset with snares. The Dutchmen wished them ill : The mud was stinking at their ports, Their cannon choked with rust. Birds found upon their masts resorts. Reptiles seemed ignorant of forts, Deemed powder common dust. 'Twas while they were in this sad plight The Dolphin frigate came ; ORDERS FROM HOME. 207 O, then what hfting of their night ! Alas ! 'twas fleeting, as 'twas bright, Hope's vivifying flame : For Wallis, as it proved, disclaimed Permission help to give : ' Orders await ! — or be defamed ; Your sad condition shall be named At home ; so strive to live.' And then, the Dolphin bore away ; And still the Falmouth sank Into the mud, and day by day Her colours blended into grey. She rotted plank by plank. And month by month, and year by year, No Orders came from Home, Those captives strove to see and hear. But hearing dulled, and eyes were blear With gazing o'er the foam : And some went mad, and raved, and more Died slowly at their post, A few that struggled to the shore Were doomed to welter in their gore, So waned this gallant host. At Home, over a pinch of snuff. Or pint of vintage rare, My Lords awoke to treatment rough. Which might call out the World's rebuff. If it was their affair : And some tied loosely the peruke And let the silk hose crease. To hasten, and each friend rebuke Ah, it was an unlucky fluke That thundered of release : 2o8 ORDERS FROM HOME. The Falmouth best been left unclaimed, Been let to slip the mind. For now, each mighty Lord is blamed ; But only they our land have shamed As careless, and unkind. Did any of the Falmouth's crew Regain their Native Land ? Ah, yes, methinks there were a few ; But for the most, their ashes strew The Javan inarshes banned. They Waited Orders — and from Home ; From Home were Orders sent ; But farther than Pacific foam. Ay, farther than the starry dome Their spirits Homeward went. A buxom mother saw approach A wan and broken wight : She warned him, ' Jack, do not encroach, 'Tis vain love passages to broach. You're long dead in my sight.' And a pale woman sweetly smiled ' O, Jack ! I still am thine ! ' And while his narrative beguiled. And pained, she died — and earth was piled O'er Constancy divine. IN DOCK AT LAST. 209 IN DOCK AT LAST. [Captain Cartaret, who commanded the Swallow in Wallis's Expedition of 1766 to the South Seas, was left by that navigator in the Straits of Magellan, as he thought, purposely. He has arrived home, after a protracted voyage, in his small and crazy sloop, and still has his own ideas on the subject.] Yes, you may wonder how Tni here ! And to myself it is not clear ; Winds, ocean currents were my friends ; But Wallis was the truest churl That ever did his sails unfurl, And steer to the World's ends. He was the leader at the start ; I was his junior, had to smart And follow in a crazy hulk Rotten with thirty years of toil. Had everything ray chance to foil, Yet I no man to sulk. And so I struggled in his wake, His stronger vessel to o'ertake I crowded canvas till my deck Was channelled by the coursing waves, They lashed my bulwarks like their caves, They made me steer a wreck. It all was for the common cause ; To grumble I did never pause, Britain afloat should be supreme, Be canvas split, masts strained and sprung, Spray o'er the lower yards be flung, Water thro' cabins stream. I said this while ahead I saw The Dolphin's stern lights, to withdraw Their beams from us ere we had passed o 2IO IN DOCK AT LAST. Magellan's Straits ; but then I said : ' Wallis will stand us in good stead, His loyalty prove fast ! ' 'Tis nigh a year ago he dropped His anchor in the Downs ; what stopped The Swalioia, that she came so late ? Well, partly hardship, as I guess, And partly pluck, that still would press Right in the teeth of Fate. 'Twas in the region of Cape Horn We beat about from night to morn. From morn to night, and months dragged by, Forbidding was the skyey scene. The coast was horrible and lean. And Storms did us defy. Over our knightheads burst the seas. And sheathed our ropes the icy breeze ; We were as lone as lone could be Had we not seen from time to time The Dolphin's lights, blurred thro' the rime, They woke a spark of glee. They were to us almost the same As Harbour Lights, or that sweet flame Which plays within a lady's eyes ; We crowded sail, and drew astern, Were close, that fell eve we did learn How Wallis could surprise. How think you, in that region lone A comrade's heart should turn to stone And ice, nor have of Love one spark ? On that fell eve he showed a heel. Was deaf and blind to our appeal And vanished in tlie dark. IN DOCK AT LAST. 211 And next morn o'er the barren flood We peered with hot and angry blood, It seemed our wrath could melt the snow ; And some of us shed tears, — not I, Ne'er did we more the Dolphin spy, Our Leader, and our Foe. But on reflection, we felt piqued, Our crazy craft was old, and leaked, Our stores were meagre in extreme ; But with a heart for any case, We put upon our loss a face Lit by a hopeful gleam. We came to coral islands grand, Where verdure shaded the cool strand. And smihng damsels brought us shells And gems and blossoms ; in those seas Beneath the palm and tamarind trees We wooed the dusky belles. We came on hidden stores of gold. Bright ornaments, and vessels old Some bygone age had heaped and hid ; We steered thro' fleets of outrigged boats. We learned the parrots' calls and notes Embowering leaves amid. And some of us (I have my doubt) Declared they'd found the secret out Of Youth Perpetual ; but the day We came upon that mystic isle Within whose depths the fount does smile, A breeze curtailed our stay. They vowed they would to it return, But Scurvy racked ; I ne'er could learn To stave that horror off; the crew 2T2 IN DOCK AT LAST. Were all laid low, and many died ; Perpetual Youth ! — not on this side Of Heaven's impending blue. We found when on Batavia's shore The Dutch, a race bad to the core ; Did that surprise me in the least ? When my Commander was so foul With instincts of a Fiendish Ghoul, More brutal than a beast ! I may admit, where'er we steered From tempest, till the tempest cleared, From icebergs to the isles of spice. From dawn till dark ; from hope, till fear And hope again did hover near, We talked of that man's vice. The scurvy-stricken wight, whose bones Were piercing thro' his skin, in tones Gruff with Death's rattle, swore, and said : ' If I meet Wallis near the Face Of God, I'll name his fell disgrace J' He swore it, and was dead. And for myself — I lay a mass Afflicted, such you would not class A tenth rate, and I gasped, and cried : ' Wallis, revenge shall yet be mine. On Polar, or on Tropic brine, Or our own country side ! ' Our country side ! ah me, he's here ! Has been before me nigh a year ! And how I came I scarcely know ; The winds and tides have brought me home Tough by long contact with the foam, And the one grudge I owe. LA PEROUSE. 213 The Swallow, shall we tow her safe To dock, where she no more will chafe ? I'm tired of living like a dog ; Revenge must wait till I recruit ; Refreshed, I may be less a brute. Just pass across the grog. LA PEROUSE. I URGE no claim to Knowledge wide Of La Perouse ; that he was brave And voyaged o'er an unknown tide, Defiant both to wind and wave Is certain : but I have espied His monument : perchance his grave. It is not in me to forget The white and winding road, the trees Of gum and bark, by nature set A straggling forest, and to please The poet — flowers but rarely met So rare and rich in their degrees. I thought the day had turned to rain, But moisture held aloof: what wealth Of ferns was matted, it was plain That some were parched, and some in health. Some sighing moisture to obtain, Others to whom rills came in stealth. In fact I heard their gurgling flow freaking upon the bush's calm : The zephyrs that did by me go Were freighted with the wattles' balm ; Lent the lagoon its kindly glow As in the liturgy the psalm. 214 LA PEROUSE. August : the bush was bursting fair In beauty, amber, mauve and white. Showed in some glory everywhere, Later to captivate the sight : I have no epithets to spare- For bush scenes, they do «o dehght. The smooth and shining trunk, the bough Fantastic, the lush undergrowth. The sky as it had made a vow- To cloud but seldom, the breeze loth A winter semblance to allow ; To such scenes I have pledged my troth. And when I came upon a tent Raised in this primal forest fair, Its canvas precincts to frequent I wished, altlio' to take no share Essaying the sound rock to dent, That warlike works more strength might wear. I thought me fitting to explore The wonders of the sylvan glade, Or wend my slow steps to the shore And undiscovered coves invade. Trespass upon the natives' lore. Not yet in human books displayed. I stood upon a charming steep. It overhung a Bay so blue As indigo is not more deep In its delectable soft hue. The Court of Old Rome could not keep, In its famed purple, one so true. Frills of Elizabethan times Could not advance to such as formed Upon its edges : Southern climes, LA PEROUSE. 215 Or climes a torrid sun has warmed, Can show such : or a poet's rhymes Singing of oceans that have stormed. But o'er that Cove I stood to note No sign of tempest : waves rolled slow, With song sonorous ; far did float A distant steamer's smoke ; a row Of bush fires, one had cause to vote Pale pyramids of long ago. Upon the sand a dead shark lay, Recently cast up by the brine ; The sandy tract took every ray From chestnut, at the white foam's line, To silver, where the black snakes play. Their coils around the tree roots twine. I long remained there, having viewed The monument in name of France Raised to the man who erst pursued Science, did in Cook's track advance, With National desires imbued, And Gallic leaning to romance. I thought : When here came La Perouse, Where blooms in wealth, a forest grand. And savage monarchs pressed their dues Or warned the stranger from their land, Spread the same Bay whereon to cruise With tributary coves at hand. But then, no military road. No tents for quarrymen, no fort, No fishing boats ; and as the load His seamen carried, being short Of needful things, they but bestowed A glance upon this sweet resort. 2l6 LA PEROUSE. They did not see the column rear, Not being prophets, to their chief; But on the glassy Bay woke cheer, Thankful for respite and relief: Ere they weighed anchor, did appear Aught to declare. Your time is brief? I do not know ; for all I find (And that from words graved in the stone) Is — this wide harbour left behind Intelligence was henceforth done Of La Perouse ; — men should be blind To see him under moon or sun. In Seventeen Eighty-Three he left ; Upon the sandstone column this Is written : but no sounding cleft. No voice from out the deep abyss Tells aught beyond to hearts bereft, And France is doomed his fate to miss. Whether to savages a prey He fell, when on the hidden shoal His ship struck ; or he missed his way, And sank by some vast iron bark's bole ; Not generations of delay Have told, — the mystery is whole. His Spirit haunts this Southern Shore; The dark hills, and the snow-white strand Know it ; I trode the region o'er And felt it amid fern and sand ; Among the bush-tents' humble store The quarryman has seen it stand. I loitered in the tangled bush To pull the fairy maidenhair ; I listened awe-struck in the hush, AFTER IT ALL ! 2 I 7 A spirit sure was moving there ? It was a freed rill's sudden gush, Or reptile writhing to its lair. I sate the Southern Bay beside ; Fair Nature made me prone to muse ; I asked in vain the creaming tide (Which knows of many missing crews) ; The Ocean naught to me replied Concerning them, or La Perouse. AFTER IT ALL! We neared the Quay after our voyage long, Excitement in each breast bore sovereign sway, Baggage on decks and hatches choked the way. The passengers were grouped a varied throng. A man stood by me, as a miner strong. Not needy, so I judged him, grave and grey. Two papers to my view he did display. Both of which spoke to me with fluent tongue : A miner's and a shearer's ticket, stained And creased : he said, ' Ere they go overboard I thought to show them you.' (I saw the gleam Forsake his eyes.) I answered, 'You might hoard Many such scraps, nor want for room,' and pained, 'London' (quoth he) 'is here, — my past is all a dream ! ' ;i8 TWO IN HEAVEN. \Y.— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. TWO IN HEAVEN. I. A VISIT I'd paid to Gordon where he's raised in Trafalgar Square ; Tho' I'd stood in the heart of a City, my thoughts had not been there ; And yet, as I gazed, I grew conscious of many that nigh me pressed, Else I on my face had fallen, and my Hero aloud addressed. The sunset was grandly streaming, and flooding with crimson rays That Square, as I read the tickets friends had fastened to wreaths of Bays For the Statue of England's Noblest. Then I took a parting glance At the heavy-domed home of pictures, where Art doth her friends entrance. And 1 looked on the Church of St Martin, and the Statue of Havelock saw, (His, another brave heart), while the column to Nelson inspired with awe. Like a child I became, as I followed with my eyes the commanding tread Of a stalwart police-inspector, whose eye had the ' fixed points ' read : They paced in the angles, demurely, of the fountains and Nelson's pile. Then methought ' I have also a duty, to retrace my steps many a mile.' 1 1. It was dark when another Centre I had reached, there a tram to take TWO IN HEAVEN. 2ig For the home yet a few miles distant ; but with Night did the moon awake. In a street where the roar of traffic was heard, but no traffic seen, A paUid young woman approached me with a sad, excited mien ; She was clad not in rags and tatters, but velvet and fur she wore, And I noticed, as she drew nearer, a book in her hand she bore, — A note-book. I guessed in an instant what she'd say, and spoke out straight, 'No money have I to give you, I am poor, and I cannot wait.' ' Then you know all about it ? ' she answered ; ' About what ? ' I quick replied ; She looked at me full ; ' My Baby you're aware has lately died ? ' ' 'Tis the first I've heard of the matter, and I never saw you before ; ' Then she wept. ' In my room 'tis lying, it is dead, and my light is o'er ; To bury it I have nothing, my pride is not yet quite dead, That the Parish had found it burial I would not have it said. Then help me for God's sake ! ' she pleaded ; I thought of the weary way I'd have to walk home if a trifle to her thin hand I did pay, So I answered her, ' No ; ' O, often had I given a like reply, It had been with me better ! but Nature speaks the wrong word. She stood by. And seeing me waver : ' You're thinking I'm telling you false ? not so ! I'll take you, and show you the baby that soon from my sight must go.' Then horror quite made dizzy — as a skeleton in a cave ; Black foam-flecked rocks from a summit unexpectedly shown. She gave Not another word to my hearing ; a fog from the ground uprose. Blood-red grew the erst clear Crescent ; the blood in my heart had froze. 220 TWO IN HEAVEN. For a second we stood in silence ; no second like that I'd passed, As images thronged and crowded my brain, which nigh burst at last ; And I saw in a squalid lodging an infant that seemed asleep, But was locked in a fearful slumber, long, dreamless, pro- foundly deep. With only one snow-white blossom by the cold little visage placed, While a candle died down in its socket with flicker and dreary waste. And I heard the roar and the bustle of folly, and greed, and sin : For like Hell seems at night-time a City, strife without, and decay within. III. But musings came to my rescue on that dreary tramway-Hne, They soothed me like thoughts of Heaven, or some magical anodyne ; For I urged : When an infant's taken is it needful a tear to shed ? 'Tis no loss to the child, as it loses much pain, and gains bliss instead ! 'Tis so with the rich man's children, then surely with children born To the forest, the wild, and hovel ; to the sorrow, the sin, and scorn ? And I ween 'tis a lovely doctrine (I can scarce aver if 'tis sound), Which saith. Children are taught by Angels when weak for our clime they're found. The Child that is dead, I argued, has missed what ? — a life of crime Most likely ; 'tis certain a weary sad struggle from chime to chime. IV. While I mused, the poor mother was seeking in horrid and dismal lanes TWO IN HEAVEN. 22 1 The money to purchase sepulture for the babe who had done with pains. And to muse I continued : —And doubtless, methinks, on the Blessed Shore That child sees the gallant Gordon, whom I worship and quite adore : The man who was iron : the grandest : the chief in a hundred years : But who trode in a track of shadows, as men must when they have no peers : And as iron in the fort strikes terror, when it peeps from embrasures firm. So from iron come the dyes of beauty, which we purple and crimson term. Can I write in few words of Gordon ? a pyramid filled with print Describing his acts and virtues, would the life of the hero stint. Few or many words matter nothing. Why I write of him now ? you ask : Well, the incident I've narrated would have drawn his kindly task ; And it happened just when I'd left him, where in bronze he stands to view As he stood in the fated City, from friends, from succour, true ; — Tho' conscious of others' failure in keeping their word at home, Alas ! he was all unconscious of friends who too late should come. Had he been in my place I'm certain he'd have walked, sooner than have turned From the woman distressed and lonely, when her trouble he'd rightly learned. Why measure myself with a mountain ? No blesseder page in his life Can be found, than his home at Gravesend, when settled from battle strife ; The medals he'd gained in action he gave to our British poor: 22 2 ONE OF THE FAIRIES. He rescued poor lads from the mar.^hes, he, the light of a deathly moor. As he sate in that house at Gravesend, he marked on a map each ' King, ' (Kings were children his love had aided) : Sell your medal ! to Jesus cling ! View this hero in Crimean trenches — in China ; — he ne'er does fall : In Gravesend — by Nile's broad river — he's supremely great in all ! V. Yes (I thought on the tramcar metals) that babe, who to-night dead lies, Has Gordon beheld, my Hero, has looked in his kindly eyes. And I've seen him in bronze ; but I'll see him in Life, by God's saving Grace, When I've forded a few more rivers, and climbed from the mountain's base. Souls are precious to God. Tho' the infant on earth scarce had rags to wear. While the other donned martial trappings, both are now divinely fair. Two in Heaven ! two out of the Millions ! I thought, and am sure thought right : To be third to these two were I worthy in that Region of Love and Light ! ONE OF THE FAIRIES. A TIME there is v/hen endeth the turmoils of the day, The race for wealth, white heat of strife, and trouble of the fray ; ONE OF THE FAIRIES. 223 The tavern at the corner then begins its nightly cheer, Its lamps are lighted one by one, folks file in for their beer. And then a little maiden with a shining metal can Puts down her coin on the bar, and not a boy or man, Ay, not a girl or woman, but will nod the head, and say, 'That is the damsel who attracts such numbers to the Play ! ' She is the sweetest figure that ever caught my eye, The sweetest, and the neatest, and completest I could spy Of all the alley children, who, on certain hours defined, Leave the freshness of rathe flowers to sooth the weary mind. I notice how she's followed by a train of little girls ; Methinks the barmen find a vast attraction in her curls ; I know that some have asked a kiss, but this I do not know, That they obtained what they required : she soars above them so ! She's sprightly as a columbine who dances down the ranks. The corps de ballet^ and she's meet to sit on flowery banks ; Her cloak is of the newest cut, and buckled at the throat. Her hat, her boots, her tout ensemble, doth daintiness denote. The young swell when she's gone sighs deep, and seems as 'off' the bet. The billiard marker has no heart to ask him for his debt ; The brutal toper loses taste for pots of old and mild ; And Joy of Life seems at a lull for absence of a child. 1 1. I thought that she was something bewitching when she came Each evening to the tavern with gas and glass aflame, 2 24 ONE OF THE FAIRIES. But when at length I knew her upon the stage, O then I seemed to soar, and be no more of earth a denizen ! I saw her as a page at first, and Mary Stuart bent Her marble brow and dove-like eyes upon her with con- tent ; And then I saw her as a Fairy in the Pantomime Bespangled, and bedecked with wings, a sweet sight and sublime. A Fairy !— in that character at least she was ' at home,' To dance on the enamelled meads beneath the jewelled dome, To wave a wand, which, at its end was splendid with a star, And banish Evil from the realm, then mount her pearly car ! To comfort the sad maiden when Dawn was yet asleep, And bid her dry her bitter tears Love's golden crop to reap ; To lure the unsuspecting to revels in the ring Where weird lights burn 'mid forests black, and the fairy songsters sing. O, there was at the Pantomime of children such a throng As mostly to the higher walks of City life belong, With others from the country, old halls and abbeys grand ; They were the scions of the race who make or mar a land. Brought from their cosy chambers, their toys an endless store. With curtains for the downy cot, and thick rugs for the floor. With seat at the broad table, dessert before them spread, With entrance to the drawing-room ere they went up to bed; — ONE OF THE FAIRIES. 22$ A lounge, too, in the landau, a stroll thro' the bazaar, Where a box of soldiers was for Jack, for Emily a star, Which she had begged for, as, she said, ' I now shall have my way. And show nurse I am like that sweet bright Fairy at the play ! ' III. The street the Fairy lived in was such as Grief frequents. Of broken fortunes, broken lives, a street of tenements. Where, did a bird or flower appear, it lit up the forlorn, And yet looked strange, not ' native and to the manor born.' The populace that in it teemed lived the distressing life, A life of idleness enforced, of poverty and strife (Which always go together), their greatest pleasure seemed Adjournment to the corner ' pub,' that like a palace gleamed. At night time it was wonderful to see that dreary street. With dim lights at long intervals to make the dark complete ; And at its end a vision of glory, where uprose A tavern, crystal, gas and gold, a palace you'd suppose. There lay the one amusement of that most sorry throng, There was their forum for debate, their hall of lights for song; And there the Bobby had his work when midnight's chimes rang clear, And there the Fairy brought her can, — Heaven did to me appear ! I learned more of that little child than most could have attained ; And I will take you to her room, apartment drear and stained ; p 226 ONE OF THE FAIRIES. 'Twas far down in a basement, the rats there found a run, It was, besides, a laundry, and a kitchen, all in one. IV. It seems that she is sleeping, and dreaming, I opine, A stump of tallow dip is dulled, but still the embers shine : Depending from the ceiling are clothes that scarce appear As they have been well washed and wrung ; like dead leaves, looking sere. She lies upon a pallet, who erst did take her ease In silken hose, and sheeny skirts, upon the flowery leas. And in the cooling embers, before her senses slide To nullity, she is again the Pantomime's chief pride. The clothes that o'er her dangle, so sad and stark to sight. Are now the cavern's wondrous roof, where shines the stalactite ; Those embers are the sunset across its mouth that shines ; And in the drunken brawl upstairs she Jove's strong voice divines. She's Empress of the Footlights, the Electrician's pet, (I hope that Time a trick like his in her behalf may get And turn pure joys upon her, who now so weary seems ; But when we're tired do we not have full many pleasant dreams ?) She stands a foaming stream beside, a cataract sublime ; The waters flash, the forests nod, the orchestra keeps time ; She waves a wand, and lo ! appears a castle by a strand; And to the castle's ramparts comes the one knight of the land. He leans him o'er the ramparts, the moon shines tenderly, There is a wondrous line of light across the dark blue sea, And in that radiance is beheld a shell of rare device. Which opes, and lo ! our Fairy brings again her Paradise ! A TRIBUTE. 2 2' But Dreams will have Cessation, Realities must press ; The dull and dismal light of morn beholds her don her dress, Dainty attire ? not so, but torn beyond the aid of pins, And in her dishabille her work domestic she begins. The house is not yet stirring ; Drink never did conduce To make a person rise betimes, it is a drowsy juice : She sweeps the room, she tends the hearth, she washes up the delf. Then gathers what she can of food from the cupboard's meagre shelf. She runs in rags and tatters to a small shop o'er the way, ' An ounce of tea, penn'orth of milk, at least, ma'am, for to-day ! ' And then she sweeps the doorstep : and by this time arise Some of the neighbours, who begin to stare with all their eyes. ' There's Sally — or Selina — in curl papers ! — be quick ! ' She's beating mats with all her might against the dingy brick ; But I, when thus I saw her, said to myself with cheer : The splendour will this eve return, when she goes to fetch the beer ! A TRIBUTE. Maybe 'tis a turned-down chapter In my life ; if so, 'tis well : Passages I've known are apter Both to listen to, or tell : But my memory retentive Is those by-gone days to share, \\'hen Misfortune was inventive ; I lingered long in Canonbury Square. 2 28 A TRIBUTE. I may not again have reason To retouch that Chapter's page, But 'tis frequently in season That one episode to gauge ; Grey experience, not all painful, When I toned down bitter care, Being grateful, not disdainful, To take a seat in Canonbury Square. Was I then a needy writer ? Or a clerk in threadbare guise ? No ! methinks my chance was slighter, Clerks and journalists can rise ; Nondescript might have been taken As my quality ; Despair As my sustenance ; forsaken By God and Man, in Canonbury Square. And in London's vast expanses Many such have always been, Men to whom patrician glances Show no likelihood to lean, And plebeian scorn assails them. Both ungenerous and unfair. And the only thing avails them Is some dim haunt like Canonbury Square. On the bounds of Hoxton find it, Just a stone's throw^ from the lanes And the slums : you're sure to mind it Going North ; your step attains Something bland, for weary, resting 'Mid green grass-plats fresh and fair ; Something that is peace suggesting. Found not in slums near Canonbury Square. And should you be Southward heading. You will carry in your thought Thro' the dismal streets you're treading What seemed some sublime resort, A TRIBUTE. 229 Persian Garden, where the ladies Of the harem take the air, Like a running stream in Hades In Hoxton's slums is Canonbury Square. 'Tis not in the world ; yet travels Thro' it many a tinkling car, And its favoured guest ne'er cavils At the City's ceaseless jar, But its humble gate he enters. Views the tall trees past compare, And his mind he grateful centres Upon the charms of Canonbury Square. There's a trellised bower, exceeding In its beauty, all I know, 'Neath which is a fountain, pleading With the scarlet flowers arow. And the calceolarias golden As the Dawn's locks ; I have ne'er In sights new, or visions olden, Dropt on a rest like Canonbury Square. In and out the fountain flutter Blithe and bright-eyed sparrows, glad To escape from soot ; they mutter ^ Chirruping, they are not sad : And poor children from the alleys. And the drunkard's darkened lair. Find the bliss of Happy Valleys, And Country Walks, in Canonbury Square. There I sate with book and paper, And my dreams did wander wide, Products of the midnight taper Were then usefully applied ; And I glided past Misfortune, Hidden from its icy stare, And no trouble dare importune. Sacred the place, e'en Canonbury Square. 230 A TRIBUTE. I to Gardens am no stranger ; Over Naples have I mused While the burning Mount no danger Hinted, and the air infused Was with lemon fragrance, splendid Spread the Bay, yet could I bear Tho' by Beauty's self attended, A backward glance to Canonbury Square. And in that great Garden, lying Pendent, South of Hindostan, I have been with rapture sighing While banana leaves did fan. And swart children brought me roses, And the sea had songs to spare. But Ceylon's self never closes The old time sweets of Canonbury Square. And another time upweUing From the dim Past comes a-pace, When the jasmine sweets excelling Wafted o'er a garden's space, And Kaffrarian skies were deeper Than the love that aught could scare, O'er the sweetheart, and the sleeper, Like Summertime in Canonbury Square. By Port Jackson I have lingered Where luxuriant blossoms spring, Been there when Eve, rosy-fingered. Drew a dark veil, glittering With such gems Brazil will never To compete or rival dare : But — I might have damned for ever My Soul, if not for Canonbury Square. ^ Sydni.v, N.S.W. IN THE NEW BABYLON. 23I IN THE NEW BABYLON. You ask me of the youth we lately found Upon the pavement of our large hotel, Who, from the time we reached him made no sound, But lay a ghastly object where he fell ? The voice of Rumour steals the City round ; Putting together what I've heard, I well Contrive to piece the story of this crime. Which brought a youth to death before his time. It seems he had been gently bred, was learned In a small way ; that is, beyond the crowd ; No fault it was of his his prospects turned From bright to dark ; that he, once over-proud To sue for office anywhere, should spurned. Insulted be, his voice drowned in the loud And vulgar babble of a vulgar mart : 'Twas haply this that helped to break his heart. Low clerks reviled him, for he did their task With less facility, and moneyed men Who in the rays of spurious greatness bask. Were fain he stayed in the dependent's den ; His humbled spirit had to wear a mask To hide its sorrow from too curious ken ; The racer had with merchandise to pass ; The pure-rayed diamond had to sever glass. Not now the lady in her bright saloon, Or blossomed bower, unwinding silken skeins, While he read sonnets. Or, beneath the moon, A walk where by the cliff the sea complains In long-drawn utterance. No more the boon Of cultured speech, where man to light attains. Such were not for him any more, but greed, Vulgarity and harshness, did succeed. 232 IN THE NEW BABYLON. He went from desk to desk dissatisfied : A day came when he money lacked, and work, The passers in the streets his garments eyed. No look of pity in their eyes did lurk ; The world to him was dreary, waste and wide ; None welcomed him from tavern or from kirk ; Did I say none? One solitary gleam Sent a white flash adown Life's misty stream : ' For this no comfortable Saint I've held Responsible. — A paper advertised A post : our youth, tho' tried, was not repelled. He wrote, and in his mind was exercised For days to follow. Debt did round him weld Her cruel chain. Employment much he prized, But, being shifted from his proper plane. Life had perplexed, and toil to him been vain. After a long delay, the summons came He looked for ever since he made reply To that advertisement : the languid flame Of Hope had burned so low as near to die ; Desire had gathered stronger thro' his frame ; One made him strive, the other made him sigh. In the saloon of our hotel he gained A post at last, when naught but life remained. It was a summer afternoon when spake His principal, — ' Come you at eight to-night, And in my private room I things will make Complete between us.' Then our youth's delight Was ardent, and he went some food to take, Tho' but a crust ; faces once more looked bright. He thought : ' The World is not so harsh, its wrong Must have been in my judgment all along ! ' And when the hour had come, his master's door He tapped with trembling knuckles, all was still ; Except a countess swept along the floor Her train, and made the gauzy curtains thrill ; IN THE NEW BABYLON. 233 A millionaire next passed ; no one seemed poor, But him who stood there waiting, anxious, ill ; A louder knock adown the passage rang, It reached the millionaire but caused no pang. Out stept a chambermaid, our youth addressed : ' The gentleman you seek has gone ; he went An hour ago ! ' She thought — He is distressed This unknown person I well, I am content ; Perhaps he is a rascal at the best ? Perhaps he wants the money for his rent ? Perhaps he wants a supper ? But what right Have such young men to want ? His looks affright ! The youth was leaning o'er the balustrade Of our well staircase ; up and down the stairs, In dazzling limelight, mistress tripped, and maid ; Bouquets and silks and gems, all Fashion wears, He might have seen. Think you, is woe allayed By waltzes, laughter, din of thoroughfares ? Think you, that hunger is allayed by scents That from the kitchens come thro' myriad vents ? He saw no present glory, but a Past Opening with sunshine, every bird sang sweet. Rare blooms exhaled their odours on each blast. Could he be dreaming ? But he next did greet A premature, sad evening. Then he cast His eyes below, and saw, some sixty feet, Past flights of stairs the tesselated hall ; And this sufficed to hold his soul in thrall. The ladies screamed, ' A thunderbolt has dropped Right thro' the distant dome ; O, mercy, pray ! ' The gentlemen bawled out, ' What Bank has stopped ? ' And, crushing, made a pitiful display. But at the truth, no more were women propped, Cigars and billiards had regained their sway With men. One entered, looked, said : ' My new clerk But, Policy ! — I'd best suppress remark.' 2 34 DERELICT. DERELICT. An old man hawking books about : Can such a sight as this Awake the lyre, or conjure out Its mysteries of bliss ? I say the subject, in wise hands, A very fertile crop commands. Because the sailor hawking books Presents a theme for song, He's nearly blind, and sad his looks, He must have suffered wrong ; And sufferers the poet views With love, as favourites of the Muse. What made the sailor's eyes so weak ? Their ill use, I opine ; Too much and frequently they'd seek The gleaming sky and brine ; Too much they'd be exposed to heat. To spray, to darkness, snow and sleet. O, think what it must be to stand And strain eyes on the black And solid wall of night, lest land Or reefs should mar the track ; Or to sit stitching in the glare Of tropics : he's to both aware. It happened that his eyesight failed, Grew bleared, in course of time ; When this affliction him assailed Came on life's heaviest rime ; He drifted thro' a hospice gate. Cast anchor in a battered state. DERELICT. 235 Altho' 'tis only just and right His joy there to admit, The doctors mourned his loss of sight, Nurses would by him flit Like sunbeams, whtn one passes, soon Appears another with like boon. They found him useful too ; no tone Dejected passed his lips, In homely gifts he stood alone, Learned on his many ships ; He'd faith, trust, in a certain squire, And Hope did in his breast aspire. He sang the songs that sailors sing. To inmates of the wards ; He danced the hornpipe and the fling xVs on the fo'c'sle's boards ; He told of many strange events Upon high seas and continents. The patients thought him, one and all, A hero great and strange ; None did his yarns in question call ; And if one dared to change The subject, with a sigh or moan. He left the chicken-heart alone. At length a cheering episode Was chronicled : his eyes Grew stronger, light upon them flowed Like a sublime sunrise. Which steeps the hills and vales and brine In an effulgence rare, divine. And said the Doctors : Let him forth ! So he his mooring slipped. His mates sighed for departing worth As he his best gear shipped ; The cook put up a many things, Cold meats, and pastry puffs and rings. 236 DERELICT. Blithely he took him to the docks, Crowded with ships, and there, Regardless of the crimp's curst flocks Of harpies, entered where His last kind skipper sate, and prayed Employment in the lowest grade. The skipper his old hand surveys, Scans close the old discharge. Asks him how he has passed his days ? And then his bosom, large With pity, says : ' I'll find ye place. But chiefly in the cabin's space. ' I will not have ye up aloft On rattlins, yard, or stay ; At braces or at halyards oft Not wanted to belay ; But in the galley, from the cook. Ye may for some instructions look.' So he was shipped, but, woe is me ! Ere they made out the Nore His eyes began to disagree, Were weakly as before : They landed him because they vowed Him useless in a sailor crowd. Infirmaries again his home Were destined long to be, Altho' his heart was on the foam True wedded to the sea ; It was when he was very low He took his earlier hope in tow ; — And in Squire Palmer's study stood ; The worthy squire was vexed. Not knowing aught for Jack's real good ; Well might he feel perplexed ; At length he set him up to vend Bibles, and here his help did end. THE FLOWER MISSIONER. 237 The poor man now no longer gay, Dragging affliction's chain ; A beached hulk, rotting in the spray, Ne'er to be launched again ; — 'Twas thus I knew him, at a time When my own life was far from prime. THE FLOWER MISSIONER. She was fair, but methinks her beauty Neither hers, or her friend's chief care ; 'Twas devotion to love and duty That makes some women fair. And she sought the abodes of sorrow, The hospital wards, where meet So many sad, whom no morrow Will bring a respite sweet : Until in the great Hereafter They enter, and drop the chain ; House having no wall or rafter As in these realms of pain. What did she in pain's dominions Among the rows of beds, Where Time flew on freighted pinions, And Graces drooped their heads ? — Where ofttimes the air was heavy With ether and chloroform, And sighs swept a sombre bevy Like a lowering locust storm ? 238 THE FLOWER MISSIONER. And Cometh the recollection Of flowers in neat bouquets By which she would help Dejection Its drooping head to raise. Attached by the ribbons neatly Were fragments of Holy Writ ; The flowers and the texts completely Did God's true Light admit. For Flowers are past expression A boon to such as pine, And teachers of many a lesson, And in pain an anodyne. While Scriptures that round them fluttered Were messages of balm ; It seemed as an Angel uttered The Beatific Psalm. The blind in their woe abysmal Heard how no night is there, Where nothing that's dark or dismal Can blight the always fair. And those in a burning fever, Saw gushing from out the Throne The River, which flows for ever With magic sight and tone. And children heard how the Saviour Took into His arms a child ; And thus the Redeemer's favour To pain them reconciled. And those who were simply jaded, Body and brain distrest. Found light had their dark invaded With — ' I will give you Rest ! ' THE FLOWER MISSIONER. 239 The wicked, whose sins had brought them Pain's sharpest edge to touch, Knew the Saviour had long since sought them In one who had 'loved much.' And portions of old-time history Were on those labels found, With patriarchal mystery Enhanced, and compassed round. How Samuel heard God calling ; And Daniel, in his den Amid fierce beasts appalling. Feared neither them, nor men : Of Solomon's great glory ; Of Ruth in simple guise ; O, many an old, old story. Met those poor people's eyes. While over them all was flowing The fragrance of the flowers. Like life-giving zephyrs blowing, Or summer's sparkling showers. And whispered each sick one, ' Lady, I sadly here remain ! O, think of my pathway shady, And come with light again ! ' Beyond praises, rewards, devices, At this distance she but appears Like the perfume of wind-borne spices Athwart the Gate of Tears. 240 A SKATING PARTY AT THE HALL. A SKATING PARTY AT THE HALL. It is not a matter of yesterday, that Skating Match at the Park, 'Tis a Memory getting far away, tho' ne'er to be wholly dark; But it looms up out of the distance grey : I wistfully remark The mirth and jollity gone : For aye ? Is Hope, then, stiff and stark ? We walked across the mead o' the mill, my friend and I, to call For two young girls, we went with a will ; the Match was held at the Hall. We neared the villa with a thrill, for, on this mundane Ball No girls, I thought (and think so still), could Annie and May forestall. They stood expecting us at the gate, in heaviest furs arrayed ; We asked. Were they inclined to skate ? but little time chatting stayed ; The holly berries seemed to wait on their ruddy lips displayed ; Their bright eyes hinted the Winter state of sparkling joy, not frayed. Again across the ermined mead we blithely pursued our way, I took of red-tiled cots less heed than I'm prone to take to-day ; For now I note the tardy speed of ice-bound streams, and play With snowballs, but of dreams have need beneath the tropic ray. A SKATING PARTY AT THE HALL. 24 1 We Struck upon the broad main road that leads to London town, How flashing bright the snow-wreaths showed on branches bare and brown ! The firehght in each small abode at hand should Winter frown, A crimson donative bestowed thro' curtains shedding down. But on that afternoon no hint of dreariness marked our march, The sun shone without any stint in the sky's cerulean arch, And we our footsteps did imprint in what looked salt or starch, Anxious the thick-set ice to dint, the Carnival to watch. At length the palings did we pass that hem the demesne around. We saw the stags, in search of grass, snuffing the frosted ground ; The Hall, a building of its class in splendour to astound, Ruled o'er a scene that never was by higher beauty crowned. There on the Lake were gathered groups who would pay inspection, sure, Ladies who had inspired songs, and will in verse endure ; " The clink and whirr of skates, the tongues of merriment, did lure : (Remembrance emphasises wrongs which Time doth not inure). Some on the bank their gimlets plied, and Valour did bend the knee. Some skimmed the lake's smooth space in pride like yachts on a fresh'ning sea, While I each point of vantage tried from snow he ice to free, Or viewed the Hall from every side to make my thoughts agree. 242 A SKATING PARTY AT THE HALL. Momentous times that Hall has known ; its doors have been flung wide To let the orchestra's rich tone pass out in stately stride ; What fair ones up its steps have flown, what hands ess ayed to guide The stranger, who dare walk alone its floors at eventide ! Upon the ice the skaters flew, cutting figures with sprightly skill, Day waned, and deeper waxed the blue, the weird moon caused a thrill ; Stars 'gan the Milky Way to strew, in glassy lake and rill The torches flared, their blood-red hue did other radiance kill. It was a splendid time for mirth : methinks the maid and man Deemed it the happiest scene on earth, and danced in Pleasure's van ; But the dear Robin in the dearth was saddened for a plan To bring a wholesome grain to birth, or filch from plenty's can. O, clear and freezing was that night ; it made the ice more thick. It gave the restless deer a fright, and stung birds to the quick, It set the Hall's vast logs alight, its glass and stone and brick Like pearl and diamond met the sight, and a white mound rose the rick. But in their beds of warmest down the two girls slumbered deep ; That afternoon they gained renown with an unexpected leap ; The steely stars their forms had known athwart the ice- field's sweep. And now they wandered in the zone of a maiden's mystic sleep. THOSE YELLOW SANDS ! 243 It is not a matter of yesterday, but a piece of auld lang syne, Which comes Hke the scent of new-mown hay, an influence benign, And I have more which can convey as rare an anodyne, Contrast once laid, an ether spray on this sad Hfe of mine. THOSE YELLOW SANDS ! What were love without the lad)' ? What were day without the sun ? What were gardens minus shady Paths ? or life devoid of fun ? Night, and ne'er a constellation ? Nature, and no varied dyes ? And me, robbed of contemplation ? What were my Life without its Memories ? Best of all my mind has taken, And as treasures, put aside, Is the place where youth did waken To the glamour of the tide ; To the manly beauty bursting From the bosom of the sea. For which still my soul is thirsting As when upon the sands a Child I'd be. When I sailed my model schooner On the pools where shrimps did dart, And she seemed a whaler : sooner Then, than now, such thoughts would start : For I'd read in Kingston's stories What the whaling fleets achieved, The Aurora's matchless glories ; And what I read I every jot believed. 244 THOSE YELLOW SANDS ! Days I peered thro' shallows shining And saw seaweed forests grand, And anemones, combining The gay charms of flowers on land ; And again to Kingston's pages Was I carried, where I found Tropic forests, — growth of ages, Described at length in manner to astound. Days I gathered periwinkles, Cockles, mussels, and did hie Where the ebb-tide left dark wrinkles. Tracts to soon be smooth and dry ; And the star-fish was a capture, And the jelly-fish was prized, And a hermit crab caused rapture As late no friend or scholar has devised. Days I looked across the ocean For the trawler's slanting sail, Or the distant ship's slow motion, Or the packet's smoky trail ; And I built me castles stately, At whose outworks waves might chafe ; Never they resisted greatly : But — have I found my later castles safe ? Days when little girls were cheerful As I journeyed on the cliff; Days when I was seldom tearful, Prefacing my wants with ' if. ' O, I count these retrospections Largesse from the Angels' hands : And of all my recollections The best is of those bright— those Yellow Sands ! THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD, 245 THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD. A TALE of Love and Glory, This is to-night my story : How in the battle gory The Greys their spurs enhanced ; How Ewart, force defying, Burst in where hot steel flying Carpeted earth with dying ; He over them advanced. He had by Love been stricken : Love makes the stout heart sicken, And troubles round one thicken If she we love is coy : And Madeline, the splendid. From ancient race descended. Was, so it seemed, offended. Asked by a soldier boy. The soldier boy retiring, Persistent Love still firing His heart, was but desiring To have a chance defined ; Vowed : ' I will prove by action In War, to satisfaction. My claim to draw attraction, Tho' now to me she's blind ! ' - And many round her pressing, Her very fan caressing. Also desired the blessing To soldier lads denied ; But she all answered clearly, — * I ask not homage merely. Prove that ye love sincerely, Your acts shall be my guide ! 246 THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD. ' The Battle now is rumbling, Some mighty columns crumbling, Contending Nations grumbling, A great storm is at hand ; Go forth, and who acquits him In manner as befits him, Does well ; prowess admits him To Love's enchanted Land ! ' But Ewart was unheeded : Yet it was he succeeded In proving prowess, needed By that exacting dame ; True love requires true valour : The Vikings in Valhalla Preferred to wear death's pallor To the deep blush of shame. And Ewart grew right lusty, Hand, eye, and heart were trusty, His soul, too, was not rusty But as his cuirass, bright : And Waterloo unfolded His chance, the ordnance scolded, Ne'er was a ball there moulded But to deal death and blight. He in the charge was dashing ; Blood on his charger splashing, The keen blades o'er him flashing. And lo ! before his face, The Imperial Eagle fluttered ! Under his breath he uttered, ' Now Madeline ! ' more he muttered, Then flew to death's efiibrace. The French Dragoon was noble, And not without sharp trouble His majesty bent double Under brave Ewart's hand THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD. 247 But in the end grown weaker, As from a poisoned beaker, But not a whit the meeker, He lost the Eagle grand. On blood-soaked turf he rested. His battered helm attested How he the fray had breasted : Foam made the dark blood pink Upon his steed's hide ; Noting One Eagle the less floating. Brought up a Lancer, gloating Should you proud victor sink. But he, the Standard holding, Its Eagle round him folding. Was not to be controlled, in The fray, the lance him missed ; He spurred his horse, and quickly. The battle grasses prickly, With broken blades heaped thickly, The cloven Lancer kissed. And next a Footman, eager Tho' his equipment meagre, Was in that fight a leaguer. And with his bayonet Charged the Dragoon, him seated Upon the grey : he treated His chance too light, was meted A sleep from battle fret. And Ewart's arm was aching, The eye-balls glow forsaking His gallant steed, the taking Of what he sought achieved ; And battle round him maddened, And the sweet blue skies saddened, But later he was glad, and His Right to Love believed ! 248 FOR LOVE AND GLORY. Ah, then, where streams were purling, Soft airs the June leaves curling, All signs of coyness furling, He won the maid's esteem ; What tho' his birth was slender ? His Love was true and tender, His record writ in splendor To dazzle with its gleam ! And since that wondrous fighting Of Ewart's, all delighting To show the Ensign, bright in The dove-like rays of peace, That captured Standard's carried To prove the Scots Greys parried The French, with one, who tarried To give three foes release. And now, I often wonder, 'Midst life's strong war, the thunder Of fight, forced march, and blunder. Who will their Colours hold ? Only a few. War broken, How blessed with that token To hear the sweet praise spoken, And win the Spurs of Gold ! FOR LOVE AND GLORY. The first act of a soldier's hfe is when the Sergeant rallies A bumpkin in the market-town, and treats him at the inn, Subjects him to a long discourse that's interspersed with sallies, And puts the shilling in his hand, amid his comrades' din : FOR LOVE AND GLORY. 249 Behold him then marched off betimes ; 'tis told abroad he's 'listed, His reasons canvassed o'er and o'er, and like a puzzle twisted, To spend his stock of cash have all the raw recruits assisted, The Sergeant helping with light heart, thinking the fun no sin. Act number two is when he starts the blissful game of wooing, By which time he has donned his belt, and pipe-clayed, spotless gear ; He meets his sweetheart at the farm, where doves are busy cooing. But 'neath the hawthorn hedge he stands, lest others see or hear : 'Tis well to note the milking maid, the goddess of the dairy. Complexion clear as cream, in form as faultless as a fair}'. Exponent he of Love, whose rules thro' ages never vary, And Glory is the word to seal the Warrior's career. So in the next stage him we find en route for service active, His knapsack, water-bottle, rug, upon his shoulders strapped ; The band plays gaily, and the scene is every way attractive, Altho' his heart too truly tells affections are not sapped : His loving wife sees him embark, with tearful eyes de- laying, She hates the long black ship her love away from her con- veying, O, cruel, cruel, are those flags, and bands so blithely playing. When wives are left in lonely grief, and the life domestic snapped. 250 FOR LOVE AND GLORY. It may be that his child will play upon the cliffs, where gambol The pretty lambs, and poppies pull that grow a-near the sea, To carry to the cot at eve ; and that the wife will ramble To write his name within the sand, or carve it on the tree : The while afar he lies in death, in smoke of battle shrouded, The maimed, the dying, and the dead, around him thickly crowded, A charger near him belching fire, the ashen face o'er- clouded By death, of him who was so brave and redolent of glee. Or let him in this instance be more kindly overtaken : Suppose him crouching in the trench, or kneeUng in the square. While the defences of his chief assaulted, are not shaken ; Let us suppose him well awake to the manoeuvres there ; — The charge of horse to intercept the craven foemen flying, The Engineers their tools of peace in warlike service plying, Artillery bringing up the guns that shall augment the dying, The Surgeon passing thro' the ranks to lessen the despair ! He hears the cannon's thund'rous noise, like forest mon- archs roaring, The rattle of the smaller arms, and clanging of the steel ; He sees thro' curtains of the war the ball and cartridge pouring, The quick flash doth the whole sad scene a slender space reveal : — The sharp incisive word that makes the massed battalions sever, He hears, and thro' it aU is brought the spring of his endeavour — FOR LOVE AND GLORY. 25 I The wife whom he has left, for Courts and Monarchs will gain never First service, tho' 'tis sometimes thought the}' first to men appeal. By Kings is all this carnage done ; it looks its best on paper, And troops will always give a zest to sober scenes of peace ; But think you not that Truth's appears a very trifling taper. If War should still pursue its course, and carnage never cease ? The bright accoutrements of War — the plume in sunshine dancing. The clanging sabre, and cuirass whereon the sun is glancing, The glossy charger to the strains of martial music prancing : But take the other side, and find my arguments increase. For Love and Glory ! — these the words which are the Soldier's learning ; He loves that he may one day in the cloudy battle blend His valour with his true love's name ; the legend in him burning Doth ever like a beacon star his path thro' life attend. But O, methinks that Love is not of nattire to be waning ! That while the world goes round, there also Love will be remaining. And Glory !— there's a Glory yet more worthy of attaining. Ay, Love and Glory, both shall spring, when War shall have an end. 1^2 IN ENFIELD CHURCHYARD. IN ENFIELD CHURCHYARD. In Enfield churchyard ('twas the Autumn season) A youth and maiden walked, and lingered long : That memory is strong, And so it were a treason Not to attempt its setting in a song. The sun was westering, his beams were mellow, And Day took leave of Night like lovers tied By vows ; the landscape vied In garments red and yellow. With that famed Queen who to the wise King hied. The youth and maiden little spake, they dallied To read the rhymes funereal bards had penned In honour to the friend Who, struck by Death, ne'er rallied, But, as it seemed, did to the skies ascend. There were no stragglers in that Churchyard lonely, But 'twas a garden tended with much care ; And lo, an ash tree, fair With berries showed, if only It boded not sharp frosts, nor said, beware ! Because the Ash (the maid commenced explaining, It was the chief thing she that evening spake) Doth into red beads break Ere Winter starts complaining. And Frost welds chains on river and on lake. O, heartless tree ! when mortals presage sorrow. They do not deck them in their best array. But garments grave and grey They most are wont to borrow. When they unwelcome tidings have to say. A BROKEN KEY. 253 But both misjudged the Ash — owe reparation ; Because that Winter came, and it was mild ; And gentle snowdrops smiled, And spring lit up creation, When winds might have blown keen, and snow been piled. That youth and maid no longer walk together, And many things have hinted woe to be ; But may the Shadows flee ! And may come brighter weather ! How slow art thou, O Time ! how wide, O Sea ! A BROKEN KEY If I had Gold, my dearest, No mansion were too grand For thee, not Chatsworth's stately pile, The fairest in the land ; No want, not e'en the merest, Shouldst thou in it behold, Fair as the Pride of Caprae's Isle, Or Nero's House of Gold. If I had Gold, my dearest. Thy matchless form should be Arrayed in silks of iris dyes Gathered by land and sea ; Thy gems should be the clearest ; Not that great Queen of old. Of Sheba, should more splendid rise Than thou, had I but Gold. If I had Gold, my dearest. Would we not seek all climes ? The Capitals of Europe scan, And live in bygone times ? 254 THE MILL. Spots loveliest, and queerest ; See Egypt's tide outrolled, And glide on Cleopatra's plan, If I had one thing — Gold. If I had Gold, my dearest, I'd rain it down like Jove ! When glowing he to Danae went A shining net he wove. Yet — when my love's sincerest — I at the thought turn cold ; For O, I doubt I'd make content My Lady, with My Gold. THE MILL. I've known what 'tis, half waking and half sleeping Thro' a whole night to lie, And hear outside my wall a mill wheel sweeping ; The sportive stream's reply. And they have brought to me an illustration What Forces twain achieve ; The best result, fraught with the least vexation, When each will each relieve. I've known what 'tis to have this music soothe me And open out my dream. While perfume, air and moonlight, served to smooth me Till Life resembled cream. And then, at Morn to hear the song-birds pouring Their matin hymns of praise, — To don my garments 'mid their glad adoring And feel responsive lays ! — THE MILL. 255 Then to descend, and find the coffee ready, The salmon steaks prepared : The country Ufe had made two young folks lieady, For food they little cared. But I was laughing at their pangs ; and quickly, The breakfast being o'er. Crammed my fly-book with angling oddments thickly, Wrapped up my luncheon store. Ah, noble Car-cun-reigh ! with thee I'd wrestle, Thy rocks, thy porous skirts ; And thou hadst secret nooks wherein to nestle Safe from the tempest's hurts ! A down thy side the noisy stream was brawling; And at thy base, the sea Was sometimes laughing low, at times appalling, But always loved by me. Ah, in those days I trailed my line, how neatly ! It glittered in the beams, And played my victims patiently and featly. Had well explored the streams. Returned, had not the Mill a garden, growing Of Flora's gems the prime ? E'en now I take a small white hand's bestowing ; 'Tis variegated thyme. The best of all, that dance, when all translated Did seem to Paradise ; Surely our girls in white the Angels mated, They were so sweet and nice ? Those intervals between the rich pulsations For love and lemonade, — To call a halt, and leave the hot gyrations For ocean breeze and shade ! 256 A DRINKING PARTY. It may be, I don't say it is, am wary, That in the neighbourhood Are maidens, known as Kathleen, Norah, Mary, Like them of old, as good. 'Tis certain that the mountains, streams, and billows, Still give their benison : The Mill-wheel tho' is passive as the willows. Because its work is done. A DRINKING PARTY. You scarce would have thought had you seen me there I sate in the Smugglers' Ring ; Around me was never a trace of care, We knew how to joke and sing. Ho ! Landlord, replenish what ne'er was told The Customs, the contraband liquid gold ! Mine host had an eye like the glist'ning dew, A cheek like the dawning day, Tho' edging his woollen cap's scarlet hue Were the tale-telling locks of grey ; He bustled, and poured out the eau-de-vie We knew had been smuggled, and drank with glee. O, bright was the inn by the shelving beach ! No speck upon aught there seen ; And a colleen was nigh, none had need to teach Love's ways, for she there had been ; And many fine fellows in seamen's dress Were pining because of her loveliness. Below, on the smiling and swelling tide The hookers at anchor heaved. MY FISHERMAN. 2 Those hailing from Holland were stout and wide, They bluntly the billows cleaved ; But none of them let out the secret grand ; And for herrings — they are not contraband. I had not a scruple, but felt as free As the children who climbed the planks Of the old battered schooner just home from sea, The foggy and frozen Banks : I said in my heart, ' What have I to rue ? Am I paid to protect the Revenue ? ' 'Twas novel to sit 'mid that smiling crowd And think of the midnight toils, — The waves on the cavern floor breaking loud. And mist that the coastguard foils : 'Twas pleasant to think of the blinding surf, The shppery ropes, and the oi>zing turf; — And then to look round on the reckless crew Who hoisted a dozen fljgs ; At-home o'er a jug of October's brew, At-home on the slimy crags, At-home stowing brandy 'neath nets and gear, At-home breathing love in a maiden's ear. J/ MY FISHERMAN. The ocean waves my fisherman braves When he launches his tarry smack, He sails away in the morning grey And at sunset comes he back ; Tho' rough is his life, with the waves at strife, A jolly sea dog is he, For the pride of his days is a winsome wife And his boat that sails the sea. R 258 IN THE VALLEY. Then here's your health my man of wealth ! Long may you the tiller hold, When the surf runs high, or the small waves sigh, In heat, in fog, in cold. For the only wealth is in perfect health, And a conscience stainless, free, And a woman bright as her shining delf, And a good boat for the sea ! IN THE VALLEY I\ a green and peaceful valley Thro' which doth a river glide, I was wont, a youth, to dally. Drifting on Time's quiet tide : Woods around did thickly cluster. Turf allured the noontide's beam, And I borrowed from its lustre Listening to the murmuring stream. On a rustic bridge I waited While the water hurried by, Swallows round my head gyrated. And I watched the ousel fly In and out the moss-grown arches, And the angler's line agleam Like a fine steel wire : the larches Sang in concert with the stream. Pools were deep as meditation Where the banks were high, and trees Kept a loyal and loving station Over their weird mysteries ; But where widened out the waters Shallows did with fancies teem. Bright thoughts meet for mortal daughters, Simple as the singing stream. IN THE VALLEY. 259 What were then my dreams partaking ? Ladies did to me appear : Ahce, the brunette, caused aching, Not assuaged tho' she were near ; Light of noble halls ; the centre Of attraction, sweet as cream ! Strength was yet her spirit's mentor : Alice ! sounded from the stream. And my Frances. Mine ? — I question If her heart were ever free To this life, whose one suggestion Was 'a holy virgin be.' All the day she had to travel Paths she did delusive deem : Farther I will not unravel Her life, told me by the stream. Then there was the queenly Ellen, Tall and gracious in her mien ; O, and still my heart is telling Of a sloped cliff's moonlit scene ; Of the fragrance of rare flowers ; She could make me fill a ream Even now, and wake my powers. Make me tuneful as the stream. While I mused the country maiden Brought her pitcher to the brink, And the pahid poet, laden With his thought, to rest did sink ; And the children bound their posies ; And the lovers sate to dream Of a future filled with roses. Told them by the singing stream. So the buoyant morn's ambition Led on to the noon mature. Type of feminine fruition, (Early charms are not so sure) : 26o THE AGED FERRYMAN. And the pensive eve came to me Like a nun : her steady beam With pure rays essayed to woo me Listening to the Murmuring Stream. THE AGED FERRYMAN. Mv friend, your sight has quickly failed ; A few months back, when I was here, To you the outlines were not veiled ; In blackness now doth all appear. This knowledge is to me less drear, Feeling that you a good life spent ; Your duty now to rest, is clear, And wait Death's great event. Yet many thousands still there are Who recollect your manliood's prime, Your stalwart bearing seen from far — A relic of the Viking time ; And such can hear the steady chime Of clinking rowlocks on the tide. When your stout boat, thro' heat or rime, Athwart the fair Colne plied. It may be now a trifle dull To sit so long within your chair, But then, you have a Past to cull Whose blossoms are most sweet and rare, You feel not all I have to bear, As being nearer that glad shore Where mutual friends have cast their care. To take it up no more. I look upon your silver locks, And then recall those summer days THE AGED FERRYMAN. 26 I When, fearful of no tempest shocks, Gay yachts would stem the wat'ry ways, White timbers caught the gathered rays Of Sol, and languidly did flow Flags of device to merit praise Above the sail's pure saow. I also winter days recall. When ice was drifting, and the meads Were buried in an ermine pall. And yachts, the heroes of bright deeds, Stood mournful amid mud and weeds. And silence on the village fell, \\'hile moonlight made the hoar frost's beads Brazilian gems excel. Old friend, it is a striking thought How much is owed thy brawny arms ; Unto the hard for years they brought Man's dauntless front, and woman's charms ; Past for them now life's storms and calms, Another river had to stem ; And few, methinks, have found alarms, But most a diadem ! Roehead and Donyland have sent To Wyvenhoe a varied crew, — The blithe young tar on courtship bent, Framing a tale that is not new : The maiden, modest, kind and true. The housewife with her pleasant face Which kindly greeting ever drew, Found in your ferry place ! And doubtless 'mid the sailor band An artist or a bard has been, To watch the dark smack make the land, Or graceful barges aid the scene With beauty : and with reverent mien To note the crimson flashes thro' 262 MOORED IN THE RIVER COLNE — WINTER. The masts of schooners, tall and clean, And wet with evening dew. Well, here you sit and smoke, ray friend, And are — to say as you have said — Like Paul, his anchor cast, the end Of night awaiting, when the red And welcome dawn shows dark is fled. With reverence I take your hand Soon, in your case, must Death be dead, You in the Better Land. MOORED IN THE RIVER COLNE— WINTER. I. Moored were we by the quays of Wyvenhoe"; And as I thro' the porthole looked at morn, Dark and pale golden flashes did adorn The eastern sky. Around us still was snow. But ice upon the river drifted slow. Most with the ebbing tide ; the cakes were worn By sun rays ; some essayed the stream to scorn And some obeyed the undercurrent's flow. I said, while scraped those tiny bergs our side, And spun them round as anxious to be free. How they example Life ! — it starts in glee But loses in the voyage all its pride, Attenuate sailing to the hungry sea, And to my thought the wild fowls' grating cries replied. 1 1. The day increased in beauty and in power : But yesterday the sun had looked like steel, Now it a silvern glory did reveal ; And as one looks fresh from a kind maid's bower So was his smile about the noontide hour ; , CAPTAIN HAM, A COLNE-SIDE VILLAGE HERO. 263 While from church steeples came a holy peal, A softness superficial did I feel On meads ; and no keen breezes made me cower. Once more I viewed the river's noble reach, The short bare poles of yachts laid up to rest, The red brick cosy houses that did nest In leafless, lovely copses. Lost their speech Had nearly all the birds. Silence is best To pacify the heart, to entertain and teach. 1 1 1. And Eve came on, and crisper was the ground, Sections of snow that were prepared to fall From off the roofs of cottage and of hall, Rallied, and said, no beams dare us confound. Bright crimson flashes did the West surround Limned on a dark, impenetrable wall. Which later more the senses did appal When chrome and orange bars the horizon crowned. The Moon that erst had showed a little cloud Now gathered brightness, but at first too faint To shake the sable mass which did attaint Her splendour : but she regal was, and proud ; ; She rose, and no hostility allowed. And as 1 write she reigns an Empress and a Saint. CAPTAIN HAM, A COLx\E-SIDE VILLAGE HERO. Again you fill the Rectory Chair ; I turn my eyes and books behold In rich profusion everywhere. Walls lined with the unsordid Gold ; And Captain (may I be so bold ? ) Worthy you are 'mid books to sit, You who did erst the tiller hold With bravery and wit. 264 CAPTAIN HAM, A COLNE-SIDE VILLAGE HERO. The smoke from your cigar ascends, A glass is on the table seen, But as companions, not as friends. The bottle and the weed have been : Forward with anxious face I lean. No word of what you say to lose, O, what intelligence they glean Who sailors' converse choose ! You tell how you a Schooner steered Laden with fruit from teeming isles. At night no sudden tempest feared, But, as the sky was wreathed with smiles Your canvas spread in snowy piles ; Bound from the dark-blue Inland Sea Across the green and white waste miles Of Biscay, merrily. I see you, Captain, stand abaft. In somewhat other rig than now ; With many a plunge your little craft Flings dazzling foam-wreaths from her prow ; To beat all rivals is your vow, The Schooner seems to know that well ; Why need to ask the question, how So far astern they fell ? No light except the shining foam And from the binnacle a gleam. Yet is the cuddy like to home With comforts such as tars beseem ; The stove can pipe, the kettle steam, But seldom are your oilskins there ; They hear the shrouds and sea-gulls scream In cold and briny air. Ah, as you sate and told such tales. Bereavement on our kind host weighed, And Death whose advent never fails E'en then anigh the portal strayed ; BENARES. 265 Your powers to charm will be displayed But not beneath his roof again ; Captain, we've signed, whate'er our grade, To voyage o'er Death's main ! I like you because you revered The Rector's wife, a lovely soul, And in her boudoir oft appeared \\^here Culture held supreme control ; O, since her death, what valued scroll Has been removed from my sad eyes ! Yet, we are struggling to the goal ; She is in Paradise. It is a gentle life you lead ; — An Office-Bearer in the grey Historic parish church, to heed What pews are let, where falls a ray Of goodness, and who disobey : No more the tiller's in your grasp. No more your voice sings out, ' Belay ! ' A plate is what you clasp. O, had I seen what you have seen — The heaps of oranges aglow ! Knowing that they were gathered green, And ripened where the salt airs blow, Aboard your schooner stowed below. O, had I, Captain, that wide heart We seldom but in Sailors know, That Ocean doth impart ! BENARES. On the banks of a crystal-clear River The City of Palaces stands. Which Siva doth keep and deliver, 'Tis poised in the strength of his hands 266 BENARES. I do not profess to have taken Much pains in Erahminical lore, Yet Thames I have ofttimes forsaken To dwell on the Ganges' blest shore ; Have wandered thro' streets cramped and narrow To stairs that sweep down to the wave, In the place where not even a sparrow Is given a man to enslave : Have been, when the River was twinkling With many sad tapers at night ; Have been, when fair ladies were sprinkling " Themselves in the first flush of light. The legends explaining those tapers Are stories of sorrow and sighs. More pleasant to dwell on the capers Of Bathers, 'neath Morning's blue skies. They trip, those fair Pilgrims, in numbers, Their beautiful faces nut-brown. Their varied light vesture ne'er cumbers ; O, they trip to that Stream of Renown ! Perchance you may think them too cheerful If matched with the mendicant's pain ? Ah, well 'tis when youth is not tearful, Too soon they will notice the chain. Their garments are bright in the water. There is rose, there is amber, and blue, White and gold is the Rajah's young daughter The Queen of that magical crew. And when from the tide they come dripping, And Ganges of blossoms seems reft. They wait where they lately were tripping While sunlight creeps into each cleft. BENARES. 267 Their souls are as bright as the Glory From Brahma the Giver, that gleams ; On the stairs there is laughter and Story Nor frowns that most Holy of Streams. Benares, thy alleys I'm treading ; What Palaces rise to my gaze ! The sky and the earth they seem wedding, They fill all my soul with amaze. From distances cometh the Holy Who prostrate themselves by the way ; And noble, plumed Chieftains, are lowly, And sad with their sins are the gay. A time by thy Palaces shaded, A time in thy River-abodes ; And then, when their sins have quite faded, 'Tis ho ! for the limitless roads. Benares, who cometh with laughter ? These are the Disciples that fled ; But, patience, their trouble comes after ; Yet none shall be chosen instead. Benares, who cometh so meekly, With peace on his tall brow impressed ? Beside him each mortal seems weakly. For Gautama's the Herald of Rest. Benares, what asks the Life failing? ' How far to thy walls must I press ? ' To die in thy streets is availing, And leads us to Splendour's Excess. O, pleasant thy precincts, Benares ! Life teems from thy wells and thy sods ; Death wafts us from regions where care is. And lands us at last with the gods ! 268 A ROSE GARDEN. A ROSE GARDEN. So sweet a day as passed we seldom know. And when the Sun had brought his coursers down To Ocean's western rim, a golden brown Thin haze crept up the smiling vale below. For I was on that hill's delightful brow O'erlooking the dear Lee ; and from its crown One sheet of Roses, red and white, full blown, Spread wide, unto the River's slumb'rous flow. Was it the noiseless gliding of the River — Was it the freighted branches' scarce-heard shiver — Or that long-terraced Garden — took my breath ? Was it the sunbeams in the gauzy curtain ? Was it thy voice ? Of nothing am I certain, Except that now thou sleep'st the sleep of Death. THE STUDIO. It matters nothing where I roam, One place is welcome, day or night, I see it on the flashing foam. It rises up by rivers bright. It stands where tides of traffic flow, A Sculptor's pleasant Studio. If I should ever cross the main To visit rare artistic shrines, The sweet small house will come again Whose door is covered with woodbines ; By Rhine, by Tiber, or by Po, I'll see my Sculptor's Studio. Ah, happy, calm, delightful place ! The Muses' habitation thou. Compactly stored, and stored with Grace By him of the artistic brow. THE STUDIO. 269 Who would not Art's dictates forego In his own tranquil Studio. I've entered the delicious room At morning's fresh and fragrant time, And in a book-shelved corner's gloom Have welcomed dreams of things subhme, The while a group or bust did grow, And work filled up the Studio. And often of an afternoon When Strawberries were plentiful, I've dipped in cream the shining spoon, And poured the ruby claret cool ; And then, of ladies what a show ! Girl-garlands in the Studio. But O, I ween 'twas after dark, When doors were closed, and tapers brought, I loved that room, for then I'd hark To conversation tinged with thought ; And then cigars and pipes would glow, And punch steam in the Studio. The friends I made around its fire Are men we cannot always find ; Some unto Learning's bays aspire. Others have fortune, all have mind : My Sculptor shuns the mean or low, They're banished from his Studio. And so I ever must repeat Where'er my duty leads, if far From Britain's realm, I still will greet That little house as 'twere a star. Blest be the gales that o'er it blow ! God's Light illume that Studio ! 270 THE OLD PIANO. THE OLD PIANO. 'Tis very old and rotten now ; You say the case is worth five pounds ? Your skill and judgment I allow, Yet your suggestion cruel sounds. For wedded to that bit of wood, And the discoloured ivory keys, Are memories of the sweet and good ; And who cares not for these ? If that Piano could but speak, Of festive seasons it would tell. And paint for you the glowing cheek And blossomed bosom of the belle, — Depict for you soft, pious eyes Fixed on a holy hymn-book's page, When sunset flushed the western skies, And winds had spent their rage. Those rusty strings have sent forth tones That hurried partners to the dance. Have hushed the poor afflicted's groans, Assuaged the wounds of Cupid's lance ; And even now, a few sad notes I draw from them in silent night. When near to me my Psyche floats And stars gleam coldly bright. You say : ' Five Pounds would help me much, That my resources are threadbare ? ' 1 say : ' Your gold I'll never touch ! Leave the Piano — leave it there ! My only Love in prosperous hours Sate o'er it, and her sweet eyes shone ; She was the pink of all my flowers. And now, alas ! she's gone. HE STREETS OF GOLD. 27 1 THE STREETS OF GOLD. No one had troubled her much^ poor thing, Since she lay on her bed of pain, From which it was destined her soul should wing. But her body ne'er rise again. But just ere the wick of her life consumed, A Doctor of Physic came ; While a Doctor of Biblical lore illumed Her soul with the Gospel flame. The Doctor of Physic said : ' Hope is past. She will die, and her death is near ; ' Then the Doctor of Biblical lore poured fast His words in her closing ear. Quoth he : ' You are nearing the pearly Gates Which ope on the land of Light, Where Happiness never satiates But waxes each hour more bright ; ' And soon you will stand by the Glassy Sea Which flows from the great White Throne, With Elders who cast down their crowns will be Hymning Jesus, the Lamb, alone. 'And then you will walk in the Streets of Gold ; ' While he added : ' O happy lot ! ' As if earth had no charms for the parson, stoled And hooded— were best forgot. But what made the eyes of the woman ope And Horror eclipse their peace ? 'Twas the thought that a street could reward her hope. Or compass her pains' release. Of streets she had known thro' the weary years Monotonous, dark and sad. 272 WHERE? They were foul as their mud, dark with blood and tears ; The harbour of all things bad. ' O, no ! ' did she plead, ' do not say I go To a street when my breath is spent ! For Cities have brought me such endless woe, That they never can bring content. ' Kind Sir, pray assure me, I soon shall stray In meadows or fields of corn ; Or uplands with broom and with bracken gay, Or beaches by sea-tides worn : — ' Or woods where the violet sheds perfume And streams sing in undertone ; My soul no desire hath her wings to plume For Streets in the distant zone. ' I've suffered and sinned all my life in streets. My aversion is uncontrolled ; To be seated 'mid woodbines my soul entreats, And to revel in meadow gold ! ' WHERE? Where are the Hopes which sang so sweetly to me When I seemed launched beneath a lucky star, Which like Favonian breezes then did woo me ? — Afar. Where are the little friends I once would play with And find them nestling in my conscious heart, The many I was wont to be so gay with ? — Apart. Where is the land the like of which I've seen not, Whose great attractiveness is unsurpassed ? When have I put this question and blithe been ? not Aghast ? SHAKESPEARE APPLIED. 273 Where are my Dreams which soared with fearless wings, and Took in each phase of Life, and were untried By their exertions? They are bygone things, and Aside. Where are my Resolutions' ships that sped so, And o'er the ocean's widening space did lift, Till it was wonderful to see them head so ? — Adrift. Where are those later friends whose kindness won me, At whom I cannot hope again to peep ? Alas ! the answer this that hath undone me, — Asleep. SHAKESPEARE APPLIED. Three months ago a great event took place, It gave excitement to our womankind ;. A child was born to Dolly : no like case, So seemed it, they could find. And Lucy left the house at fairy time, Naught could induce delay till early morn. It would have been more hideous than a crime Now that the child was born. George and myself were calmer, it to us Was an event to rouse a steadier joy ; We sat a pipe and tankard to discuss And guess if 'twere a boy. We heard it all when Lucy back returned ; It was a boy, a braver ne'er was seen ! Dolly was doing well : her kind face burned With joy, such news to glean, s 2 74 SHAKESPEARE APPLIED. And full particulars went round and round, More than the ladies did to us impart ; Mother and infant were alike renowned, The theme would end to start. It died away, this wonder, by degrees : Meanwhile the baby past all knowledge grew, Kicked on the floor, was rocked on many knees. Stared with bold eyes of blue. Within May Cottage, on a Sabbath day, I sat to con my portion of the Bard Whose truths are such, we cannot one gainsay, 'Twere peril to discard. And in was brought to me the three months' child ; I was astonished ! fat it was and firm ; It took life easily, as not exiled To earth, to serve its term : In three short months developing so much Of flesh and bone ; to ripe hour after hour, And then, to put my Shakespeare to the touch. To rot, reversed Time's power. But to continue ripening as yet : So different to me ; for, at my stage. At least I do not ripe, three months more debt Is on my ledger's page. The child has been developing each hour In beauty matchless, and in vigour hale ; Meanwhile, nor scent nor strength has gained my flower. And, Thereby Hangs a Tale. THE END. London: Digby, Long & Co., Publishers, i8 Bouverie Street, Fleet .Street, E.G. JUNE 1894. SUPPLEMENTARY LIST. DIGBY, LONG & CO.'S NEW NOVELS, STOEIES, Etc. 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