liPiliiMl^i!;:^'. 'it^m .rnu/lSi THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES W"m '^.^■H *, 'i'-.vr'C ■^^^W/ .^:i SONGS WITHOUT MUSIC. CHISWICK press:— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. PR MOST of the verses collected in this v^olume have been printed at various times, and in sundry ways, during the last twenty years. About one-third of the songs are new. The rest have been published with music ; and, of these, many have become popular. This is my excuse for gathering together lyrics, the chief merit of which is that they are more singable than perhaps better poetry some- times is ; and that they have been loved, and sung by lips that will sing no more. Of the recitations, it is enough to say that they are not meant to be read in silence. They were written with a special intention, and demand the interpretation of the human voice. Most of the other poems appeared many years ago in a volume which is now out of print. 904093 PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION. A THIRD Edition of these Songs and Reci- tations having been called for, upwards of thirty new ones have been added to the collection. The incident which forms the subject of " On a Spar " was communicated to me by a lady, in a short poem. She vouched for the truth of the story, and requested me to amplify it, with a view to Recitation, if I thought fit. CONTENTS. Songs Without Music. T OVED and Lost . 1 - "Would that Love" 3 4 Soldier's Song 5 A Nile Song 6 A Fragment — for Music 7 Winter is Past lO Shepherd of Israel II Desolation . 12 Sleep .... 13 A Walk and a Word . 14 Western Winds . IS Oh, let me Dream ;6 Bioun Eyes or Blue Eyes . 17 Spanish Boat Song i8 The Linden Waltz 20 The Choice 22 Chloe . . . . 23 In Autumn . . . . 24 Dance on, Maiden 25 CONTENTS. Songs of Mother and Father. I. Babe, Good-night II. Baby's Cxrowth . III. Father's Lullaby . IV. The Picture Book Home, across the Quiet Meadows Alone on the Shore Remember or Forget The Maid I Love Jenny in the Orchard The Maid of the Mill Love's Star The Danube River When we are Parted ' ' Over the Mountain and do\\'n to the Sea ' " Bird, on the Eaves " Too Late . " My Love's worth all the World In the Evening . Change The King . The Wild Wind . The Forsaken Hymn to Night . The Bird's Warning . Come a Hundred Years " Green grows the Willow ' The Knight's Horn . Morning Chorale " At the feet of my Love " The Day of Life . The Fisher , Effie .... CONTENTS. xi PAGE The Skipper and his Boy ..... 67 Twilight- Song 68 The Music of the Sea . 69 The Girl to her Bird .... 71 " I never breathe her Name " 72 Barcarole 73 " In my Lady's Garden " . 74 The Morning and Evening Star . 75 " Love, without Thee "... 76 At my Feet 77 Love, the Pilgrim 78 Year after Year 79 The Lover to his Mistress . 80 "Afterwards" 81 The Song's Message . 83 From a Battlement 85 Sweetheart ..... 86 Where Dwell the Eagles . S7 My Sweet Sweeting 88 Night-Song .... 90 What Might Have Been 91 Gavotte ..... 92 A Seville Love-Song . 93 Early Love 94 The Tryst 95 The Heart's Flower . • 96 Divided — a Duet 97 "If" 98 The Messengers of Peace . 99 The Toast that is Drunk in Silence 100 The Fairy-Ring .... lOI Youth's Return .... 102 A Husband's Song . 103 Song of the Queen's Marys . . 105 " If you and I were Banished " . 107 Xll CONTENTS. Recitations. Lost and P'ound .... The Story of Two Lives The Lady's Punishment King Childeric in the Cloister George Lee .... The Night before the Battle Voisin et Voisine The Battle of the Birds Lines, Written in an Island-Garden in Rescued ..... Two on a Spar .... Christmas Eve .... Venice Mlscellaneous. A Roman Tomb . Mountains .... The River of my Dream The Three Maidens . The Portrait Clasped in Silver The Deserted Villa An Evening's Walk. Albano Sonnet .... An Apologue Two Mistresses . Poppies .... A Dream of Paradise . Love is out of Town . In the Hof Garten Two Views of a Character . Winfred's Hair . A Scandinavian Legend CONTENTS, xiii PAGE Sympathy 223 To a Siren .... 224 Then and Now . 225 Planets .... • 231 The Italian Beggar-Boy 232 Retrospection 235 In Memoriam 237 239 Modern Judah 240 The Road that Jesus Trod . 243 Translation from Victor Hugo 244 Beauty Clare .... 245 Lines to One Aspersed 251 SONGS WITHOUT MUSIC B t>-^ LOVED AND LOST. T TOOK a lute that was shattered, And tried to make music true ; I took the leaves that were scattered, And tried to make roses new. I took up the vase that was broken, And tried to fill it again ; I took up my first love-token, And tried to re-forge the chain. But the high, pure trust that I gave you What art in this world can restore ? I would give up my life to save you, — But faith can return no more. 1880. "WOULD THAT LOVE." I. "\ 1 fOULD that Love would bear my love * * In his arms away, To some green and pleasant place Far from heat of day, And that ever, in that shade, At her feet I lay ! II. Would that Love would bear my love Far from world's desire, Far from thirst of gold, whose flame Scorcheth worse than fire, — Mounting on his wide-spread wings Higher, ever higher ! III. Would that Love would bear my love To that perfect land, Where no other throne than his Can enduring stand ! Love and I would live there happy Clasping hand in hand. 1879. SOLDIERS SONG. I. "\ 1 TE marched, at morning, through the streets, * *^ A thousand men, and more ; The birds sang not so bhthe as we. Along the river shore. We were marching away, With hope and courage high, For honour and for Fatherland, To conquer or to die. II. We marched at noon across the plain. With hearts undaunted still, Though, twice our force, the foeman stood Against us on the hill. We were marching away — With hope and courage high, For honour and for Fatherland, To conquer or to die. III. We homeward marched at night-time — A hundred men — no more — SOLDIERS' SONG. And with the shouts of victory, rose A waihng by the shore. — Of those who'd marched away Nine hundred men were slain, But for honour and for Fatherland, We'd do the same again ! 1878. A NILE SONG. T SAT with my Egyptian maid, -^ Down by the river, in the shade : The red moon, with her half-shut eye. Upon the glassy stream, hard by, Among the lotus-flowers played Dreamily. II. Through her dark hair, I wound the slips Of lotus, with my finger-tips. Gold earrings tinkled on my breast, Our kisses kept the silence best, Love laid his finger on our lips. Dreamily. A FRAGMENT— FOR MUSIC. The musician is alone at night. He opens his lattice., and soliloquises in the star-light. A 1 /"E call night peaceful ; yet, how fiercely burn * ^ The myriad stars above ! Are they at peace, Amid the war of winds, the crash of clouds ? I think that, rather, could we hear the burthen Of their great chorus, 'twould be unfulfilled Desire, expectancy, unrest. To me Heaven's harmonies are complicate as life . . . Of which we have not the solution yet. He takes up his lute and striking a few chords., sings. I. O unknown worlds above ! What fiery hate and love Flash from your eyes, like passionate human tears ! Shall all our bitter strife, When we have done with life, Be expiated in your burning spheres ? I A FRAGMENT— FOR MUSIC. II. Is, there, as some believe, A life, where we must grieve For our wrong-doing, ere we enter Heaven? May it not be, O stars, That from your fiery bars, Poor souls look out, till their last peace is given? III. There, if the spirit sings. Imprisoned, as ils wings Hover around the threshold of God's Gate — It doubts not, while it pleads Pardon for its misdeeds. That He who guards, will open, soon or late. . IV. Beyond all earthly needs— Beyond all human creeds- Knowing the true from false when Death is past, May we not wait release. When doubt and danger cease, In isles where only dwells Remorse at last? V. With anguish from your spheres, Shall we regard the years A FRAGMENT—FOR MUSIC. We wasted ? Shall we grieve, in our unrest, For evil that we wrought. By word, and deed, and thought. On earth, to souls who cannot yet be blest ? VI. Stars, lying in God's hand, We know ye were not planned Merely to light men on their midnight way. Shine on, ye fiery stars ! It may be, through your bars We shall pass upwards, to Eternal Day. . WINTER IS PAST. "\ 1 riNTER ispast, Love; again the stream flows : We two are met who have sorrowed apart ; For each thorn of winter, we'll pluck a spring-rose, Life of my life, my Love, Heart of my heart ! Spring-time rejoicing, the little birds burn Crimson with love in the arms of the woods ; Night hath been long, but now day will return, Wealth of my wealth, my Love, Best of my Goods! Birds sing already, as though it were June, Sorrow and snows are both melted away : Lift up thy voice — let us sing the same tune. Life of my life, my Love, Queen of my May ! SHEPHERD OF ISRAEL. O HEPHERD of Israel, watching thy fold at night, ^^ Up on the hills, over deep Galilee, Thou never slumberest. Thou hast beheld thy flock Breaking away from the fold, and from Thee. Little they reck of the perils before them ; Down by that slippery path to the deep — Lift up thy voice in the darkness, and call to them. Thou who hast laid down Thy life for the sheep ! II. Shepherd of Israel, follow those wanderers, Take back the little lambs home in Thine arms ; Pity the stubborn ones, torn in the brambles. Show them their error, and soothe their alarms. Each one has fancied his way was the right one — — Madly possessed, down that precipice steep Let them not rush, like the swine, to destruction, Thou who hast laid down Thy life for the sheep ! III. Shepherd of Israel, haste to deliver them ; Dawn is now breaking o'er deep Galilee ; Darkness deluded them, day will discover them Far from their fold on the mountain, and Thee. 12 SHEPHERD OF ISRAEL. Is not that fold very broad, if they knew it . . ? Made to encompass the strong and the small ? Oh,lead them home, with Thy voice to those pastures, Thou who hast laid down Thy life for them all ! 1868. DESOLATION. ■\ T riNTRY day, cold and grey, * * As my heart in this chill place ; Will no wind, blithe and kind. Waft a smile into thy face ? Drops of rain, like dull pain, Throb upon the heavy air, Growing thick, beating quick. With the pulse of a despair. All about, — within, without. Creeps the blank and cheerless grey : O for One, like the sun. Who should drive these clouds away ! 13 SLEEP. T N the still time of sleep -*- I dream of thee ; Like stars, so far, so bright, Thine eyes shine through the night Adown, on me. The voices of my sleep Out-sing all birds ; Breathing continuous streams Of music in my dreams, — Thy parting words ! There entereth in that world Nor grief, nor ill : I hold thee to my heart ; Thou can'st not then depart. But liest there still. From the deep peace of sleep At morn I rise. For thee to toil and fight. Then sheathe the sword at night., And close my eyes. A WALK AND A WORD. T^O you recall our woodland walk, ^^^ After the passing showers of rain? The soft sand underneath our tread, The wind that shook the boughs o'erhead, And brought a moment's shower again ? The whisper'd secrets of the leaves, — The silent listening air below, — The cheerful voice of some far bird. High up among the branches heard, — The little stream's untiring flow ? . . . Do you recall some transient words That sank deep in my heart that day ? We count the Past with words like these. As circles mark the growth of trees, Which time can never wear away. 15 WESTERN WINDS. I. T) LOW, western winds, around my father's door; ■'-^ Blow softly : snap not the o'erladen stalks : Drift the red leaf through casements to the floor ; And warmly whistle down the laurel walks. II. Blow as that evening when I last beheld The elm trees answer to your rustling call, — The apron flutter which my Phillis held, Shaking the peaches from the garden wall. III. Blow round the memory of my home and her,- The budding passions of our June and May, — O richer far than frankincense or myrrh, Remains the odour of its new-mown hay. i6 OH, LET ME DREAM/ /~\ H ! let me dream of happy days gone by, ^-^ Forgetting sorrows that have come between, As sunlight gilds some distant summit high, And leaves the valleys dark that intervene. The phantoms of remorse that haunt The soul, are laid beneath that spell ; As, in the music of a chaunt Is lost the tolling of a bell. Oh I let me dream of happy days gone by, &c. In youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, Dropped on the pathway, as we danced along ; And now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried In pages which to that dear past belong. With sad crushed hearts they yet retain Some semblance of their glories fled ; Like us, whose lineaments remain. When all the fires of life are dead. Oh I let me dream, &c. 1 From ' ' A Nine Days' Wonder. " 17 BROWN EYES OR BLUE EYES. "D ROWN eyes, or blue eyes, hazel or grey, -*-^ What are the eyes that I drink to, to-day ? Some seem to mock at us, some seem to frown — Some, when we talk, cast their drooping lids down. No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh replies ! 11. Merry or scornful, angry or kind, I love every mood, so the eyes be not blind ! For man's mood is changeful, and what should he do, If woman's, in sympathy, did not change too ? No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh replies ! III. Brown eyes, or grey eyes, hazel or blue. We watch for them, live for them, die for them, too ! Stars of our morning, sunbeams through life. Beacons in darkness, and danger, and strife. No matter their colour, I drink to the eyes That weep when I weep, when I laugh laugh replies ! C iS SPANISH BOAT SONG.' I. OH, pleasant 'tis, when morn looks grey On the river sea-ward creeping. To he and float in a little boat, And watch the fishes leaping. Hoai ! hoai ! the boatmen cry, As they drag the gleaming river, Our net is long, our arms are strong, Our boat's on the Guadalquiver ! Andalusia ! Andalusia ! What land so fair That can compare With Andalusia ! II. And pleasant 'tis, when evening calls To the west wind over the water. To serenade a dark-eyed maid. With the song my lips have taught her. ' From " Philip." SPANISH BOAT SONG. 19 Hoai ! hoai ! the boatmen cry, As they pull up the golden river, The sun's in the west, we'll hie to rest, On the banks of the Guadalquiver ! Andalusia, &c. III. But best it is to know, when all The world is calmly sleeping, Her watch for me, by the citron-tree, My dark-eyed maid is keeping. Hoai ! hoai I that boatman's cry. She will never forget it, never ! — When heard, that strain will recall again Old days by the Guadalquiver. Andalusia, &c. 20 T THE LINDEN WALTZ. I. HE old waltz by the linden trees Is wafted on the evening breeze. How many memories it brings Of long-departed things ! I see the blind old fiddler stand Among the merry, youthful band : I watch them dance ; before mine eyes Again the joyous groups arise. Floating with pleasure, Unto that measure. While the day's azure Grows purple and gold. Dear little couples make Merry beside the lake, And with their laughter wake Echoes untold ! The old waltz, &c. II. The dancers 'neath those Hnden trees Are severed now by land and seas : THE LINDEN WALTZ. 21 And nothing of the past remains, Except those joyous strains ! BHthe-hearted then, in youth's gay spring, Like birds from branch to branch that sing, We build us nests in fancy, high Above the world, and near the sky ! Dance on for ever ! In my dreams never Shall aught dissever The groups that arise ; Ere future sorrow Bade the heart borrow Care from to-morrow To dim our eyes. The old waltz, &c. THE CHOICE. I. "\ T JOULD'ST thou rather have a kingdom, and ^ ^ a castle by the sea, Far from all that thou hast cared for, far from all who care for thee, Than see at night the eyes thou lov'st, smile by a cottage fire. And know thyself enthroned there, the Queen of his desire ? II. Would'st thou wear a broidered garment, with a golden ring and crown. And no warm human love to stir the heart beneath the gown, Or feel it beating with the pulse o' the purest joy here known, Beneath a russet kirtle, and a wedding-ring thine own ? III. It is thine to choose thy bird to-day, the eagle or the dove — THE CHOICE. 23 The broad wing of ambition, or the lowly flight of love : It is thine to choose thy lot to-day ; consider thy reply. — The Angels will record thy words through all eternity CHLOE/ /~*HLOE sat beside the river, ^^^ Sighing to the murmuring reeds, " Love has wander'd off for ever. Far, and farther he recedes I " Maidens, weep for poor young Chloe ! Scorned she Love, when blithe and gay Vengeful Cupid heard her ; so he Punishes the Maid to-day. Chloe was beloved by Damon, Straight and proud she bore her head. Now the tree he carved her name on Bears another name instead ! Maidens, weep for poor young Chloe ! She, who will not when she may, Angers vengeful Cupid ; so he Punishes the Maid to-day ! ' From " Widows Bewitched." 24 IN AUTUMN. T WALK'D beneath the branches tall, Where we were wont to meet : Alone, I saw the red leaves fall In silence at my feet. But barest bough the April hours Make glad with joys of Spring, — Only to hearts bereaved no show'rs The leaves again can bring. I hear his voice, his very words, — His musical ' good-day,' Out-singing all the song of birds. And waters on their way. And yet I know beneath his feet, The bracken will not bend. And, face to face, we shall not meet, Till sorrow here shall end ! "^^^^ 25 DANCE ON, MAIDEN. TRANCE on, Maiden, high up on the hill, ^-"^ Fresh as at daybreak, unwearying still ; Dimpling the grass with thy dainty feet. As the wave is rippled by seagulls fleet. What a spirit there is in those proud young arms Tossing the hair back that shadows thy charms ! — The only shadow across thy brow. O would I could dance as light-hearted as thou ! Dance on. Maiden, for who can say Thou ever wilt dance — as thou dost to-day ? Thy cithern may break, or thy heart may discover A tune it loves better — the voice of a lover ! But now thou know'st nothing of passion or sorrow. Thy heart's in thy feet — will it be there to-morrow ? Then dance while it beats to that light measure now. O would I could dance as light-hearted as thou ! 26 SONGS OF MOTHER AND FATHER. I. BABE, GOOD-NIGHT. I. "D ABE, good-night ! and with the flowers -^ Close thine eyes to earthly things, Heav'n, where thou so lately dwelled'st. Wide each golden window flings. II. Through the gate thou passest boldly, Which we should approach with fear : In that seraph- world, it may be. Thou art more at home than here. in. Dost thou join the angel-choir.? . . . Meet thy playmates in the sky ? Do we seem to thee but shadows — Shadows of the things on high ? IV. Howsoe'er it may be, darling. Dream until the dawn of blue ; Like a rose thy thoughts are folded, They shall wake refresh'd with dew. II. BABY'S GROWTH. T) ABY, mine no longer, •*-^ Shooting straight and tall^ Growing hourly stronger, Scorning now to crawl. With the help of mother's finger. Or along the wall ; Soon will mother's boy. Baby, Heed her not, they say ; But like a broken toy, Baby, Cast her not away. Ever think of her as something Useful in its day. Little rosy fingers Claspt round mother's throat. How their touch still lingers. And the first sweet note Of thy voice, that on the darken'd Silent room did float ! 28 BABY'S GROWTH. In my open palm, child, Stood two tiny shoes ; Almost doth my arm, child, Now thy weight refuse. Every day some portion of thee. Growing large, I lose. Thou must climb the hill-top. Be it bare or green — Both the good and ill crop ; Learn to choose between, — While with folded hands in prayer At the foot I lean. Man's ignorance they say, child, Is not his innocence, And thou must fight thy way, child, Onward, upward hence. Through a world where mother's arm Is helpless for defence. Knowledge will be bought there. But something must thou lose. And O ! a loving thought ne'er To those days refuse, When thy mother's open palm Held those tiny shoes ! 29 III. FATHER'S LULLABY. T IE at peace, my little one, — ' Let no fears alarm thee, Lie at rest on Father's breast. Nothing there shall harm thee ; Mother to her home is gone, To her home beyond the sea ; She hath left you here alone, Baby, with no nurse but me. Hush I Lie still my little one ! Though my voice, O little one, Knows no soothing measure. Yet my arm can shield from harm Mother's parting treasure. Till we there together meet In that home beyond the sea. Something she hath left me. Sweet, Baby still remains with me. Hush ! Lie still my little one ! IV. THE PICTURE BOOK. \ CHILD look'd up to his father's smile ; 1 \. u -wq-^at do the pictures say ? " " If my little boy will listen awhile, A meaning all have they. This is a soldier, stout and bold, With his scarlet coat, all laced with gold : He will never desert his colours, and fly. — Will my boy be a soldier, by-and-by ?" II. " This is a sailor, honest and brave. Whose home is the mighty sea ; He has left his cottage to breast the wave. For the good of you and me. Nursed in the dangers of the deep, Rock'd by the wind and waves to sleep. Climbing the masts that are up in the sky. — W^ill my boy be a sailor, by-and-by ? " THE PICTURE BOOK. 31 III. " This is the shepherd, faithful and true, Watching over his flock ; You may hear his pipe the long day through, Ringing from rock to rock. He bears the small lambs home on his back, And leadeth those who have lost the track Safe to their fold, 'neath the stariy sky. — Will my boy be a shepherd, by-and-by ?" IV. " Who is this, with the great white wings ? " — " This is the Angel mild, Yet strong to fight, who brings holy things To the heart of my little child. He once was a Child himself, like you, Striving his Father's will to do. God gave him wings, and he soar'd on high . . . Will my boy be an Angel, by-and-by ? " June, 1887. 32 HOME ACROSS THE QUIET MEADOWS. TTOAIE across the quiet meadows, -*- ^ Shines a Hght through evening shadows, Bright as wand of faiiy ; Leads me to the home I long for, Which my heart beats ever strong for ; Leads me to the home I long for. Home again to Mary. Hark ! the tinkling flocks before me ! And the shepherd's pipe comes o'er me, Ringing through the wild-wood. On the sky's brow, smoothed from wrinkles Of the wind and storm. Night sprinkles Here and there, a star that twinkles. Like the eyes of Childhood. Home across the quiet meadows, Shines a light through evening shadows, Bright as wand of fairy ; Leads me to the home I long for, Which my heart beats ever strong for i Leads me to the home I long for, Home again to Mary ! 33 ALONE ON THE SHORE. T STOOD on the cold grey rock that looks out -*- on the hungry sea, And the waves that were boiling below my feet bore my true love away from me. Oh, how often since then, have waves and waters striven, And unto the sea, at sunset time, the peace of God been given ! But thou, O thou, my Love ! no more — no more return'st to me, And I sit alone on the desolate shore, and list to the surging sea. II. An image of mortal life are the waves around me vext ; Ebbing one hour with strife, flowing with joy the next. Some crafts they wreck for ever, cast some upon the beach, D 34 ALONE ON THE SHORE. Where happy sunsets bring them peace the world can never reach. But thou, O thou, my Love ! no more — no more retum'st to me, And I sit alone on the desolate shore, and list to the surging sea. 35 REMEMBER OR FORGET. T SAT beside the streamlet, I watch'd the water flow, As we together watch'd it One little year ago ; The soft rain pattered on the leaves, The April grass was wet, Ah ! folly to remember ; — Tis wiser to forget. II. The nightingales made vocal June's palace paved with gold ; I watched the rose you gave me Its warm red heart unfold ; But breath of rose and bird's song Were fraught with wild regret. 'Tis madness to remember ; 'Twere wisdom to forget. III. I stood among the gold corn, Alas ! no more, I knew. 36 REMEMBER OR FORGET. To gather gleaner's measure Of the love that fell from you. For me, no gracious harvest- Would God we ne'er had met ! 'Tis hard, Love, to remember, but 'Tis harder to forget. IV. The streamlet now is frozen The nightingales are fled, The cornfields are deserted, And every rose is dead. I sit beside my lonely fire, And pray for wisdom yet — For calmness to remember Or courage to forget. 37 THE MAID I LOVE. I. T LOVE a maid whose eyes are blue, -^ Who never walks but runs, Whose voice is shrilly-clear, and who Is very fond of buns. You'll not be shocked if you behold Her seated on my knee, — The maid I love is six years old. And I am thirty-three ! II. She thinks I'm veiy old, I know, She treats me like her slave. She laughs in mockery when I show Her how she should behave. She pulls my whiskers when I scold, And dances round in glee — But then— she's only six years old. And I am thirty-three ! III. I fear she's rather fickle, too. She has a score of " flames," — 38 THE MAID I LOVE. She makes them tell her tales untrue, And play at noisy games. In search of crumbs, like robin bold, She hops from knee to knee — But then, she's only six years old, And I am thirty-three ! IV. And when my back is bent with years, And I no longer sing, And she hath known the cares and tears That life must surely bring, I know her loving heart will hold A tender thought of me, In days when she was six years old. And I was thirty-three ! 39 JENNY IN THE ORCHARD. "''nWAS in an orchard that I met my Jenny long ago; The apples were not half so red as were her cheeks, I trow, The sunlight through the boughs made sport upon her golden hair, For hide and seek it found no place within a mile as fair. She smiled on me : I whispered low, " My Jenny, I perceive That Eden was an orchard, and you resemble Eve !" She plucked an apple from the bough, and laughing gave it me. " Take it, for apples are not here forbidden fruit, you see." As she reached up, I stole my arm around her waist and sighed — " The fruit I crave is Jenny's love, and that's to me denied ! " She blushed. " Ah ! serpent-like your arm winds round my waist, 'tis true 40 JENNY IN THE ORCHARD. The Tempter in the orchard was not so bold as you ! " I wooed her all the winter long, I vv'on her in the May ; The apple-blossoms strewed Love's path upon our wedding day ; And now, though many a one is dead, my Jenny, silver-hair'd, Still sits beneath the apple-tree that fifty springs have spared. With children's hands to guide our steps, we totter down the steep, Till both, within that orchard, at last shall fall asleep. 41 THE MAID OF THE MILL. I. ^~^ OLDEN years ago, in a mill beside the sea, ^ There dwelt a little maiden, who plighted her faith to me ; The mill-wheel now is silent, the maid's eyes closed be ; And all that now remains of her, are the words she sang to me. " Do not forget me ! Do not forget me ! Think sometimes of me still. When the morn breaks, and the throstle awakes. Remember the maid of the mill ! " II. Leaden years have passed, grey-haired I look around ; The earth has no such maidens now, such mill- wheels turn not round. But whenever I think of Heaven, and of what the angels be. 42 THE MAID OF THE MILL. I see again that little maid, and hear her words to me. " Do not forget me ! Do not forget me ! Think sometimes of me still, When the morn breaks, and the throstle awakes, Remember the maid of the mill ! " 43 LOVE'S STAR. I. T N the stream, one star above -^ Lies reflected brightly here. In my darkened Hfe one love Shines through all the distance clear. Half the night long, by the stream. Love, I am watching that pale star, Till I fall asleep to dream, Love, And behold thy face, afar. II. Through the darkness round me spread Heaven's pure star of Love prevails, In the thicket over head Murmur low the nightingales. Half the night long, by the stream. Love I am watching that pure star. Till I fall asleep to dream, Love And behold thy face afar. 44 THE DANUBE RIVER. in\0 you recall that night in June, "^^^ Upon the Danube river ? We hstened to a Landler tune, We watched the moonbeams quiver. I oft since then have watched the moon. But never, Love, oh ! never. Can I forget that night in June, Adown the Danube river ! II. Our boat kept measure with its oar. The music rose in snatches. From peasants dancing on the shore With boist'rous songs and catches. I know not why that Laudler rang Through all my soul — but never Can I forget the songs they sang Adown the Danube river. 45 WHEN WE ARE PARTED. WHEN we are parted let me lie In some far corner of thy heart, Silent, and from the world apart. Like a forgotten melody. Forgotten of the world beside, Cherisht by one, and one alone, For some loved memory of its own ; So let me in thy heart abide When we are parted I II. When we are parted, keep for me The sacred stillness of the night ; That hour, sweet Love, is mine by right ; Let others claim the day of thee ! The cold world sleeping at our feet, My spirit shall discourse with thine ; — When stars upon thy pillow shine. At thy heart's door I stand and beat, Though we are parted. 46 "OVER THE MOUNTAIN AND DOWN TO THE SEA." T TP in the morning, ere daylight is breaking, ^^ Over the mountain and down to the sea. All nature round me, from slumber awaking. Calls me to thee. Love, calls me to thee, II. Then in the heat of the noon's burning hour. Over the mountain and down to the sea, Bees humming round from the heart of each flower, Call me to thee. Love, call me to thee. III. Last, when the moon in her glory rejoices, Over the mountain and down to the sea, Nightingales round me with messenger voices Call me to thee. Love, call me to thee. 47 T)IRD, on the eaves of my beloved's dwelling, Sing out what I would breathe into her ear ; May the full love within my bosom swelling, Through thee find utterance, musical and cleai-. Swifter than thine, my spirit's wing will take me. And where thou can'st not go, through crystal pane ; But love's interpreter to her I make thee. On window-sill, outpouring thy rich strain. Tell her my heart beats with tumultuous passion, For the soft haven of its long unrest : In spring, from our dead past, new hopes we fashion. As thou tak'st mosses from thy last year's nest. And though through wintry seasons we are parted, Still in her faith, as in a mantle, furl'd. Bid her be steadfast and courageous-hearted. Nor bow before the keen breath of the world. 48 TUO LATE. Sing thy bold music, ever shriller, crisper, Through every room thy passionate love-songs sing; But when thou fliest hence, in autumn, whisper, " Love, once enthroned here, never can take wing." TOO LATE. T WOULD have made a song in spring. But dissonance my young heart haunted, A chord untrue I would not sing, I could not find the words I wanted. The autumn brought the notes, the words— The music that should rule my fate, The true solution of the chords — I found it all — too late ! I would have drawn in summer days The portrait that my fancy painted ! The eyes — the forehead, crown'd with bays, The smile by no deception tainted — I found that noble type at last : The snow was falling round my gate ; A knight, in armour clad, rode past — Rode past ! . . . It was too late ! October, 1880. 49 "MY LOVE'S WORTH ALL THE WORLD." A /T Y love's worth all the world to me : -'■*-*■ Her walk, to others' dance, is light. When she comes by, the sun rides high, And when she's past, 'tis night ! Her gentle voice, that bids " good-day," Is music that my soul loves best ; Her deep-set eyes, her low replies, The dreams that haunt my rest. Her presence, like fresh morning showers, Gives to all things refreshing grace ; If she but stoop, sweet buds that droop, Gaze up into her face. That May-day face — where nothing lives That is not bright, for long together ; Thoughts come and go, like winds that blow The clouds in golden weather. Life's passing shades have scarcely chill'd The gladness of her spirit's light — O when she's by, the sun seems high, And when she's past, 'tis night ! E 50 IN THE EVENING. I. ]\ /T Y love, when life was young, I knew ^^ ^ But little what you were to be, A light more bounteous to me, While lengthening shadows grew. Have I been silent, Love? or cold? It may be you have little guess'd All the strong love, half-unexpress'd, — Stronger, as I grew old. 11. But, Darling, when the day is done. And we together walk at peace. In that bright world, where sorrows cease, Beyond the set of sun : What best of me you brought to light On this dark earth shall there expand. And each shall wholly understand What now is hid from sight. April, 1880. SI CHANGE. A /T Y Love is gone to live in London town, ^^ ^ Has left the hills and cottage of her youth, For silk has changed her simple russet-gown, Barter'd for gold her constancy and truth. Ah ! is she happy ? If I thought she were. Would there be comfort for me in despair ? II. My Love is gone to grace the crowded ways, The hawthorn lanes are empty of delight. The woods no longer echo with her praise. And on each budding rose hath fall'n a blight. Ah ! is she happy ? If I thought she were, Would there be comfort for me in despair ? 1881. 52 THE KING. I. O HE has not found her King as yet ^^ The golden days go by, They bring no sorrows to forget, Nor any cause to sigh. No heart for her devotion made. The passionate summers bring, Unharm'd she walks, and unaffray'd ; — She has not found her King. II. Men bring their titles and their gold ; She smiles, and turns away ; The man must be of other mould, The man whom she'll obey. Though poor in honours and in land. Rich in a rarer thing. Titled by God alone he'll stand Whom she will own her King. III. But when he comes, as come he will, A sceptre in his hand, THE KING. 53 With supplication that shall fill Her soul like a command. Straightway will she obey, and take Whate'er this world may bring ; Proud and contented for his sake, Whom she hath made her King. Aug. 1878. THE WILD WIND. 'I "HE wild wind blows from far away, — What message to the sons of men ? Refresh and purify, and play Among our fever'd haunts, and then Die gently with the death of day ! O, would, my far-off Love, that I For one short hour at morn could flee Like that wild wind, across the sky. And having kiss'd thy lips — for me, It were enough — and I would die ! Aug. iqth, 1878. 54 THE FORSAKEN. I. O HE sat beside the mountain springs, *^ Her feet were on the water's brink, And oft she wept when she beheld The birds that lighted there to drink ; She wept : but as they spread their wings. Her sweet voice followed them on high^ " He will return — I know him well ; He would not leave me here to die." II. And there she sat, as months rolled on. Unmindful of the changing year ; She heeded not the sun, or snow, All seasons were alike to her. She looked upon the frozen stream, She listened to the night bird's cry ; " He will return — I know him well ; He would not leave me here to die." III. And still she sits beside the springs, And combs the gold drips of her hair ; THE FORSAKEN. 55 Red berries for a bridal crown At early morn she places there. At every shadow on the grass She starts, and murmurs with a sigh, " He will return — I know him well ; He would not leave me here to die." HYMN TO NIGHT. OHOLY Night ! Send down thine angel, Sleep, On weary hearts. And watching eyes that weep. As on a mother's breast, In all our daily grief. We fly to thee for rest And find relief ' Soother of human sighs, Father of lullabies, King of a world that lies Far out of sight ; O ! Holy Night ! In all our daily grief. We fly to thee for rest, And find relief ! S6 THE BIRD'S WARNING. A BIRD is calling from bower to brake, '^ Awake ! Awake ! The Ladye treads lightly the turret stair, Her true Knight waits in the thicket there. Awake ! Awake ! A bird is singing from topmost bough, They are happy now ! Shaking out songs of wild delight From his covert of leaves, o'er the Ladye and Knight. They are happy now ! A bird is wheeling in midmost air. Beware ! Beware ! But the lovers are deaf to his call, Alas ! A shadow comes stealing across the grass . . . Beware ! Beware ! A bird is moaning up in the tree, — Ah ! woe is me ! Wedded at last by a rapier-thrust, They lie locked together in death-cold dust. Ah ! woe is me ! 57 COME A HUNDRED YEARS. T T OUND in leash and hawk in hand, I sought my lady fair and fine ; " I thee endow with half my land, An thou consentest to be mine." " All these will pass away," she said, " Naught will remain to me when dead, Come a hundred years ! " " Fame," I cried, " when life grows cold. Lives in men from mouth to mouth. Thee I'll crown with a crown of gold. And sing thy praise through all the South." " Alas ! " she sighed, " or pi-aise or blame. To me it will be all the same. Come a hundred years ! " " I'll sing thee, Dear, with such true love. As shall proclaim thy rarest worth. In vain for me, where'er I rove, Shall shine the brightest eyes of earth." She smiled, " Beyond the moth and rust This only will not turn to dust. Come a hundred years ! " 58 "GREEN GROWS THE WILLOW." BALLAD. r\ ! I LOVE my love the best, ^-"^ Green grows the willow, With the gold cross on her breast, Lying down to take her rest On her green turf pillow. Calm she looks, nor shy, nor bold, Green grows the willow, When mine eyes pierce the fresh mould, Where she lies, in white robes stoled. On her green turf pillow. Calm she looks, and very fair. Green grows the willow, With the grass-roots in her hair — O ! my love is constant tJiet'e, On her green turf pillow. False was she that now is kind. Green grows the willow. Blow it East or Western wind. Nothing now can change her mind. On her green turf pillow. 'GREEN GROWS THE WILLOW. '• 59 Living, we were sundered wide, Green grows the willow .^ Dead, shall nothing us divide, When we two sleep side by side Oji our green HtrJ pillow. 6o THE KNIGHT'S HORN. A KNIGHT rode forth in golden mail, ■^ *- Along the river strand, A Ladye o'er the castle wall Leant forth, and waved her hand. " Thine, thine till death ! " the Ladye sighed ; The Knight's Horn echoed far and wide, " When next I blow that call," he cried, " Reply, Love, then as now ! " The Horn along the morning air Leapt clear, as down a silver stair, Tra, la, la, Tra, la la. As the Knight did blow. Years after, late one summer eve, There rode along that strand An aged Knight ; his silver horn He grasped with trembling hand. He blew ; and yet the blast he blew No answer from the Castle drew. *' Ah ! is she dead or false ? " (none knew !) The old Knight dwelt alone : But often, as he paced the wall, The peasants heard that bugle-call, Tra, la, la, &c., On the silence blown. THE KNIGHTS HORN. 6i And still the boatmen, as they ply Their ferry o'er the tide, And children, at their evening play Along the river side, Hear the faint Horn that echoes blow. Among the mountains, crowned with snow, And whisper to each other, " Lo ! The Knight his Ladye calls ! " And as the echo dies away, Alas ! she answers not," they say — Tra, la, la, &c., Listen how he calls ! 62 MORNING CHORALE. ' I ^HE Golden East is breaking clear, -*- And one by one now disappear The trembling stars : Grey shadows into purple melt, And wider grows the horizon's belt ; The opening bars Of Day's great symphony are felt, Awake ! Awake ! From wind-stirred bough the whispering leaves Begin to sing : from cottage eaves The wakening bird : The tlowers arise, refreshed and strong. And, through the world, great Nature's song Once more is heard. Hark I through the hills it rings along, Awake ! Awake ! 63 A SONG to lay at the feet of my Love- Something that when the singing is done, And the singer himself hath past away, May recall the voice of that absent one, And the whispered love of a vanished day — This would I lay at the feet of my Love. A rose to lay at the feet of my Love — To live in her hair for just as long As my singing may linger about her heart. But whose petals shall keep, as shall the song, Their sweetness, when colour and voice depart - This will I lay at the feet of my Love. A heart to lay at the feet of my Love ! To leave it there in its simple truth, Not for a day — not for a day — Strong to endure, when the heat of youth, And cold mid-age shall have past away — Such heart I lay at the feet of my Love ! •uMx/- 64 THE DAY OF LIFE. "r^AY of Life ! thine hours are fast advancing, ^^^ Faster, one by one ! BrilHant hopes, like diamonds adorning Dewy meadows, disappear with morning, 'Neath the noon-day sun. Now the mid-day heat and passion burneth, May my arm be strong, To plough in Life's broad field beside my neighbour, Singing with cheerful heart that lightens labour, The old untiring song ! Cast me gently on the shore at evening, With the one I love ! May a sunset golden-calm surround us, Sliding into darkness, where it found us, Till the Dawn above ! .<■: 65 THE FISHER. FISHER, if beside this stream Thou hast stood since break of day Hast thou seen a ladye fair, Wandering up or down this way?" " I have stood beside the stream All day long," the Fisher said, " I have seen no ladye fair Save the ladye who is dead, Floating down the stream." " This can ne'er my true love be ; She was full of life and light ; E'en the hlies on her breast Cannot yet be faded quite. She hath eyes wide open, clear. Lips and cheeks of healthy red." — — "I have seen no ladye here Save the ladye who is dead, Floating down the stream. " And the red was on her lip. And the light was in her eye, And the lilies on her breast Had not yet had time to die ! " — F 66 THE FISHER. Then I flitng me on the gj-ound, O ! the passionate tears I shed ! Would that I were there., at peace.. With the ladye who is dead Floating down the stream. EFFIE. T STOOD in the silent playground, -*• Where I had been wont to hear The voice of my little EfBe Ringing out sweet and clear. But the words of the child who was left me Rebuked my grief that day, — " Sister cannot come to us. Father, She is now with the Angels at play." The song that she left half finished, Was Heaven's pure song of love ; Her life was a short burst of music, — She has gone now to end it abo\'e. There is one beam the more in Heaven, Since God beckoned Effie away, And her sister has taught me to know it ;— She is now with the Angels at play 1 67 THE SKIPPER AND HIS BOY. T T IGH ran the sea, and the wind was wild, -*- -*■ When the skipper called to his only child, " My boy, if fears assail thee now, Go pray in silence down below." " Fear !" cried the boy, " I know not fear, Father, when thy right arm is near . . . But merry it is, when the waves run high, To ride together, my father and I ! " Mother will watch from the door, and pray For us both, dear father, till break of day ; , And she'll be the first, when her prayer is done. To catch sight of our sails 'neath the morning sun." " Yes, yes," quoth the skipper, brief and stern, " To-morrow shall see our bark return O'er the green waves, 'neath the morning sky, We'll ride together, my boy and I ! " The mother is watching— but never more Will that gallant skipper return to shore ! The boy's black handkerchief lies on the sand, — It was tied round his neck by her parting hand. 68 THE SKIPPER AND HIS BOY. And all that doth of the skipper remain, Is the compass he never shall use again. But she knows that now, on the Jasper Sea, They ride together, his boy and he. TWILIGHT-SONG. /"^LOSE thine eyes, the day is done ^^ Lay thee down to sleep. Fold thy pinions broad and strong, That have borne thy soul along. O'er the troubled deep. Life, my child, is like the day — May its morn be blest ! Take thou manfully thy share Of allotted toil and care, Then lie down and rest. Only once, the morning breaks ; Noon will bring its tears ; Through the shadow and the sun, Soon our little race is run, And the night appears. 69 ' THE MUSIC OF THE SEA. T HAVE not seen the glorious sea -*- Since I was a little child, Ocean-bred in a fisher's hut, Washed by the waters wild. And now the shells upon my shelf Are dearer than aught to me ! My soul still longs and listens for The music of the sea. I learnt to walk to the sound of waves. The shingly beach along ; The salt-spray dashed against the pane. That was my cradle-song. The sea-mews' cry was far before The thrushes' song to me, O ! my heart still longs and listens for The music of the sea. To drag nets filled with gleaming fish Under the silver moon ; To watch ships on the far blue line Grow nearer in the noon ; To make friends with the whistling wind O'er the waves is the life for me ; My heart longs wearily to hear The music of the sea ! 70 THE MUSIC OF THE SEA. An4 when my sails are furled at last, Life's troublous voyage o'er, I fain would fall asleep to that Sweet sound upon the shore. In the grey sand, could I but choose, My narrow bed should be ; And I should sleep more soundly for The music of the sea I 71 THE GIRL TO HER BIRD. O ING, little Birdie, sing to me ; ^^ Beat not thy wings against the wire, Nor waste thy heart in vain desire To be free ! " Open the door," I hear thee say, " And let me fly away, away, To haunts I know so green and cool, Where branches over-arch the pool. My cage is gilded — but the sky Is pleasanter. Oh ! let me fly !" Shall ? or shall I not ? Ah me ! That truant Love were caged like thee, And never, never could get free ! Love, little Birdie, Love, I know. If once I caught him, would remain Content, nor beat the wires in vain, Nor pine to go ! " But Love enthrall'd," I hear thee cry, "Is Love made happy — not so I : He drinketh ever at new springs Of pleasure, though with pinion'd wings. 72 THE GIRL TO HER BIRD. Freedom were death to him — to me Freedom is life ! Oh ! set me free ! " Poor Bird ! because I hope and pray That Love may here be caged some day — The door is open — fly away ! "I NEVER BREATHE HER NAME." 'T^HERE is a lady I do know, -*- And I love her still the same, Through the world where'er I go. Though I never breathe her name. In the pilgrimage I make, Never shall my lips proclaim All I suffer for her sake, — And I never breathe her name. Who is he that would not shield Her he loves from breath of blame ? None this poisonous arm can wield ; For I never breathe her name. Thus until the close of day. Still, unseen, that constant flame Burns my secret life away. And I never breathe her name ! 73 BARCAROLE. COME where the waves are rocking My bark upon their breast, As a mother lulls her little one To and fro to rest. Come, and beneath the quiet stars We'll sing, love, sweet and low. While the water laps around our oars And the long waves come and go. Those waves run up and fill The star-lit sandy coves. Delay not thou until It be too late, my love ! Come, for the night is waning, The crescent moon is gone. The winds are whispering of the morn That shall appear anon. Come, while the world is hushed in sleep, And the stars alone can know The burthen of the songs we sing. As the long waves come and go — Those waves run up and fill The star-lit sandy coves, Delay not thou until It be too late, mv love ! 74 "IN MY LADY'S GARDEN." T N my lady's garden, fair and tall, The stately lily grows, And its scent comes o'er the garden wall, When the West Wind blows. O wild West Wind ! O rare West Wind ! Bid the East not so unkind to be. But in travelling hitherward to waft O'er that garden-wall a thought of me ! Underneath my Lady's garden-wall, I sat at evening-time ! In the stream I watched the blossom fall Of the flowering lime. O wild West Wind ! O rare West Wind ! Waft down the blossoms of her love to me, And they will sweeten all my heart, O stream, As those fair blossoms, falling, sweeten thee ! 75 THE MORNIN ; AND EVENING STAR. A /T ORNING star that shin'st above her, -'--*■ Guard my love from sorrow's frown, Bid the happy hills to love her, On her lattice looking down. In between the roses peeping, Smile upon her, Morning Star, For I give her to thy keeping. While I watch thee, from afar. Evening star, my lady sleepeth ! Watch her with thy jealous ray. Tell her so my fond heart keepeth Watch, a thousand miles away. And when sweet winds come a-gleaning Songs of love across the sea . . . May she at her casement leaning Hear the words I breathe to thee. (?58sls=%^ i<©«©^ 76 "LOVE, WITHOUT THEE." A H, for this weary life ! ■^ ^ Were there not peace with thee- Could I endure its strife, Did it not cease with thee ? Star of my dwelling-place, Where'er it be, Earth would have lost its grace, Love, without thee ! Time robbeth, day by day. Bright hours of youth from us, Yet steals he not away Constancy's truth from us. Star I that with Morning's light, Shone over me, How could I meet the Night, Love, without thee ? Time, with unerring spade. Digs a grave low for us ; Yet shall not love be laid There, when tears flow for us. Star, that with purer beam Shines o'er Death's sea, Joyless would Heaven seem, Love, without thee ! n AT MY FEET. \ T my feet she was playing there— -^ *■ In the old, old nursery days,— A baby with lengths of golden hair, And garrulous infant ways. The spot where she stood seemed ever Flooded with sunshine gay ; And she grew like the rolling river. Rapidly day by day. At my feet she was kneeling there — A woman heart-broken and lorn. Alone with God in her great despair. When I found her again that morn ! Years of storm and rain Had clouded that radiant face. As thus I beheld her once again, Praying for Christ's dear grace. At my feet she is lying there ! Safe at last from the tempest wild ; And knowing more of the Shepherd's care Than she did as a little child. After long years of pain. She sleeps 'neath the quiet sod, And the spirit, free from its mortal chain, Is at rest again with God. 78 LOVE, THE PILGRIM.' EVERY day a Pilgrim, blindfold, When the night and morning meet, Entereth the slmnbering city, Stealeth down the silent street ; Lingereth round some battered doorway, Leaves unblest some portal grand. And the walls, where sleep the children, Toucheth, with his warm young hand. Love is passing ! Love is passing ! — Passing while ye lie asleep : In your blessed dreams, O children, Give him all your hearts to keep I Blindfold is this Pilgrim, Maiden. Though to-day he touched thy door. He may pass it by to-morrow — — Pass it — to return no more. Let us then with prayers entreat him, — Youth ! her heart, whose coldness grieves, May one morn by Love be softened ; Prize the treasure that he leaves. Love is passing ! Love is passing ! All, with hearts to hope and pray. Bid this pilgrim touch the lintels Of your doorways every day. 1 Suggested by a sketch by E. Burne Jones. 79 YEAR AFTER YEAR. T N at the open window The birds fly o\er her head, Laid on its snowy pillow, The gold hair round it spread. Meekly her palms are folded, Without a trouble or fear ; She lies there taking her rest — Year after year. The birds fly round and round her ! She neither moves nor speaks ; The fringed eyelids softly Rest on the marble cheeks. Those eyelids now are never Dimm'd by a falling tear ; She lies there taking her rest — Year after year. It was thus she lay at morning, They painted her there that day ; And when the birds flew in next dawn. They had carried the dead away. But still by the f>pen window, On that wall doth the maid appear ; And she lies there taking her rest- Year after year. 8o THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. IV T OT for the splendour of the brow that shines Upon nie at this minute, Love, Not for the cunning ringlet that entwines, Snake-like, the finger in it, Love, — Not for thy wit, nor all thy radiant smiles, Nor that sweet voice that my dark hour beguiles, Do I adore thee ! But because I see Something none other has, Sweet-heart, in thee ! There is a beauty that a man desires. And wearies with possessing. Love — What is the secret charm that never tires ? A secret worth the guessing, Love ! And thou hast guessed it — of the stars and moon And glad-returning morn ; for I as soon Of Nature's fairest sights and sounds could tire As, kneeling here, could other shrine desire ! i 8i AFTERWARDS." A X /"E can never meet again, For our lot is now decided ; Our two paths are now divided. Is it more of loss, or gain, To have loved thee once, as I did ? II. Nothing ever can efface The deep stain of my transgression ;- All the memories of possession, All a bleeding heart's disgrace, All a cruel world's oppression. III. Who has suffered, understands How, when Hope no longer borrows From the past, to gild our morrows, We can sit with folded hands, At the quiet end of sorrows. G 82 afterwards: IV. " Was it better to have met " — So you sigh, in Love's December, Watching cold grey ash and ember- " Than have nothing to regret, And have nothing to remember ? " Aug., 1881. 83 THE SONG'S MESSAGE. TJ' LY to her heart, my little Song, And say that unto her belong Thy trills and graces ; That, as I sing, before my eyes I see the dearest face arise Of all dear faces ! II. Say that by night thou earnest to me. Like some poor bird, from o'er the sea That feebly flutters ; Till, soaring with mom's strength to sing, The tender hopes of budding Spring Once more it utters. III. O Song, like streamlet on its way, That hath no respite, night or day. Do not fatigue her ! But may thy melody at times Floating, with its persistent rhymes. Her heart beleaguer ! 84 THE SONG'S MESSAGE. IV. So, little Song, without applause, In secret plead with her my cause, Till her heart, ringing With thy low music, hath confessed That, of all songs, she loves the best That of Love's singing ! April, 1881. 85 FROM A BATTLEMENT. I. r~\ SWALLOW, hast thou found my knight ? ^-'^ Last autumn, dost thou mind When thou wast wheeling round for flight, I charged thee, Bird, to find My Love, in lands beyond the sea, And give him heart's desire from me. II. Didst tell him that the child is grown ? Didst tell him I wax thin ? That his goss-hawk without is flown ? His hound is dead within ? Didst tell him that all night I pine To know his heart's desire is mine ? III. Was he encamped on burning plain ? Was he of goodly cheer ? Alas ! we may not meet again For many a weary year. Only I know my knight is true, And sent his heart's desire by you. Sepi., 1881. 86 SWEETHEART. O WEETHEART, I have no hero's face ^^ To plead my passion's cause, No knightly, no persuasive grace. To win a world's applause. What should I do — what can I be, Sweetheart, to be beloved of thee ? II. The waters play not in my life, Like fountains sparkling clear ; They rush not with the torrent's strife ; Mine is the deep, still mere. Where one bright face, beloved by me. Sweetheart, I still reflected see. III. No buds of Spring, no tender shoots. No Summer flowers that fade, Only the Autumn's mellow fruits Are mine. Art thou afraid, Sweetheart, to trust thy life to me. Who would lay down my life for thee ? Oct., 1881. 87 WHERE DWELL THE EAGLES. Tl THERE dwell the eagles, there would I, 'Mong the proud rocks against the sky Far from the warmth of wooded vale, Sun-smitten, till his last rays fail ; Swept by each wind of Heaven ; secure From vapours noxious and impure. Brought face to face with God's clear sky, Where dwell the eagles, there would I ! II. Others may haunt wind-shelter'd coves, The flower-starr'd fields, and myrtle groves. There, langorous heat and damp evoke Insects that sting, and frogs that croak. I'd rather dwell on snow-clad height, With the dear Heaven for aye in sight. There, in that nobler world, would I Dwell where the eagles dwell, and die. Chalet Blumenthal. Sept., 1889. 88 MY SWEET SWEETING. "D LESSINGS to that hour belong, When I first beheld your eyes, And with passionate surprise Quick my heart went beating. Memory then of Poet's song Whispered a caressing name. And from that day you became " My sweet Sweeting." II. Do you mind how many a mile Foolish I was led a dance ? How you flouted each advance Of Love's first greeting ? Till, from your height I won a smile. And Hope sprung up, for me to climb Its branches, in the course of time, " My sweet Sweeting." III. Now, secure from all alarms — Fear, by perfect love outcast — MY SWEET SWEETING. Holding thee more dear at last Than at our first meeting, Since I clasp thee in my arms, Life has nothing more to give, All is mine for which to live, " My sweet Sweeting." 89 90 NIGHT-SONG. ' I ""HE fields of night are sprinkled -■- With a thousand sparkling daisies, And her stately head above them The moon, like a lily, raises. II. Below, in the lake's blue mirror, Those star-flowers shine so clear, It seems as if I could pluck them. And weave thee a garland, Dear. III. For how should true-love's garland Of earth's poor buds be made } I would circle thy head, my Darling, With blossoms that never fade ! 1887. 91 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.^ I. A H, Life is not all roses, "^^ As we thought it at sixteen ! Weeds choke, and winds deface them. No after-years replace them With that same tender green. Cold winter comes, and closes Sweet fields where Love reposes, In memory of the roses. And of what might have been I II. Yet sometimes, sweetest flowers In shortening days are seen : The sun, thrice-welcome comer, May bring Saint Martin's summer, And gild the fading scene. Though brief those golden hours, Though winds deface our bow'rs, Some buds may yet be ours. Of those that might have been I ^ From " Not at Home," 1886. 92 GAVOTTE. I. /~^OME and tread a measure stately, 'Mid the rustics on the green, Show them how to dance sedately. Footing it with modest mien. Place in mine your fingers taper. Point the toe, and turn the head. Better than a boorish caper Is the gavotte that we tread. II. Better than their roystering measures, Is this dainty tune from France : Better than their boisterous pleasures, Graceful and decorous dance ! Show them on the sward so shady, Where the harpsichord is set, How a gentleman and lady Tread the stately minuet ! 1885. 93 A SEVILLE LOVE-SONG. T 00 K down from your window, Dearest ! -* — ' The mists of night are fled ; Venus, of stars the clearest, Bums just above your head. I am not at your sweet eyes' level, Nor above, where the jasmines blow Round the golden towers of Seville — I am here at your feet — below. II. Send me a flower. Dearest — A word from that common speech, To all mankind the clearest. Which Peasant, like King, may reach. I am here, as it were, in December, And you are in May, up above — Oh ! send me a bud to remember The Spring's first promise of love ! 1885. 94 EARLY LOVE. T T EAVEN guide you, Child, upon your upward way ! Give no look back to kingcups, and to daisies. The rose you planted but the other day, Its crimson mouth above the window raises. We played at love, for one short morning hour, Among the fields, with joyous songs and dances. All left behind ! The sun has gained more power ; The shadows lengthen, as the day advances. Go to — go to ! You should not weep, who know Nothing is lasting in this world of ours. The blue-bells fade, we thought made Heaven below, And early loves pass by, like April show'rs ! 95 THE TRYST. /~\NE evening, my darling had promised to meet ^-^ me, At sundown, where daffodils grow on the hill. She came not ; but, sure that she never would cheat me, I waited. The night came : I waited there still. A nightingale warbled, " Believe me, believe me. The maid's heart is true, though she seem to forget " — And I think to this day she ne'er meant to deceive me, Though long years are past, and we never have met. II. I know we shall meet in the sweet summer weather. When we two have passed from the night to the day. In a garden of roses we'll wander together. And doubt, like the clouds, shall be drifted away. 96 THE TRYST. An angel will whisper, " You trusted — you trusted, Believed, though 'twas silent, the heart remained true. You fought for her faith, and your sword never rusted, And this your reward — she was faithful to you ! '' THE HEARTS FLOWER. "r~\EEP in my heart there springs a flower ; ^-^ It was a bud : it is a rose. Expanding 'neath the Sun-God's power, And fed by every morning shower, Warm sheltered there, the floweret grows. II. Weeds cannot choke that growth so tender, Age cannot spoil the expanding bloom : God planted, and is its defender ; Nor unto death will it surrender. Knowing it can survive the tomb. -^^^ G' 97 DIVIDED— A DUET. I. LIDE to thy rest in the sunset-bay, Glide to thy rest, O River ! Would that we two by thy banks could stray, Till our life's close, for ever ! He. You were a child, when I held your hand O'er the stepping-stones memory hallows. She. You, like a River-God, took your stand In the midst of the reedy shallows ! Both. Glide to thy rest in the sunset-bay, etc. II. O that the time could feturn again, When our songs with the birds did mingle, Before our bosoms grew heavy with pain, And our feet sank deep in the shingle ! He. You were a girl, when I left my lot In your hands to be decided. She. You were a man — I believed you not — And thus we were divided. Both. Glide to thy rest in the sunset-bay. Glide to thy rest, O River. Would that we two by thy banks could stray. Till our life's close, for ever ! H 98 " IF." I. T F Pain and I were parted, If Hope and I were one, If I had but just started On the journey that's half run. If Love peeped, as in childhood Athwart the boughs in May, My footsteps in the wild-wood No more alone would stray. II. If Faith had not been shaken, If Love were like a tree. That with the Spring would waken To fresh felicity, My song would not be bringing A shade across your brow, If one who loved my singing Sat here beside me now. III. If sorrow were the kernel. And not the husk of life, If joy were not eternal Beyond this weary strife, i88s. "IF." How could I meet the laughter That mocks my grief to-day, If there were no Hereafter, Where tears are wiped away ? THE MESSENGERS OF PEACE. 99 "■ I ^O men of old God's angels have arisen, -*- But now no longer gladden they our sight : Their shining raiment gleams not in the prison, Their rustling wings stir not the silent night. II. Yet are these messengers, to our amazement, Still sent through all the sorrowing streets of life, Who enter in, though barred the door and case- ment. And lift our souls beyond this world of strife. III. This world of strife o'er things uncomprehended ! If we but take their hands, they lead us out Into the daybreak, when the night has ended, — Into a land where Peace has conquered Doubt. 1888. THE TOAST THAT IS DRUNK IN SILENCE. I. A RE not our loved ones with us still, Though veiled their faces be from sight ? And though their voices no more fill Our homes with joy, from morn till night ? Nearer than most who interchange Our daily talk in common store, Though hidden, these are never strange I drink to those who are no more ! II. The gate through which, or late or soon, All pass, half-open seems to be. And in the night-time we commune With those whom we no longer see. Ah ! when we cease to feel the fine Soul-touch through that half-open door, Our natures suffer a decline I drink to those who are no more ! III. We know how they would feel and speak ; We know when they would weep or laugh : We see the smile, responsive, break Upon the faded photograph. TO A S T THA T IS DR UNK IN SILENCE. loi Dear, living souls ! you are not fled, As some we loved, and we deplore, Who, though in life, to us are dead — — I drink to those who are no more ! 1887. THE FAIRY-RING. I. T KNOW a wood where the fairies dwell, *- And there, when the moon rides high. The Queen comes out of a heather-bell. And the King on a moth rides by. The owls are hushed, and the only note ■ Is the nightingale's, who sings To the gossamer youths and maids, who float All night in their fairy rings. II. There's a silent land, where fancies dwell, And there, when the world's at rest, Each fairy comes from her secret cell. And peoples that region blest. Though pain oppress our hearts by day, In dreams those spirits sing, And through our brain their fancies play, All night in a fairy ring. YOUTH'S RETURN. I. T ITTLE Maid, whose daybreak eyes -*— ^ Light the woodland with surprise, GHnting through the coppice green, With thy snood, and silken sheen. Come and give me my reward, Dance a measure on the sward, Till beneath thy dainty tread Ev'ry daisy bows its head. Years flow back, beholding thee, And my youth returns to me ! II. Little face, so full of light, Turn to morn my joyless night ! As the sun, at rising, shines On the twilight that declines ! Voice of five years old that sings, Breath from buoyant heart that springs, Heart of peace without regret. Shadow hath not touched thee yet — Years flow back, beholding thee, And my youth returns to me I 1884. I03 A HUSBAND'S SONG. 1. T LOVE a little woman, though she's very far from -*- perfect. She rails my religion, though I care not what is her sect ; She is blithe as summer-grasshopper ; she sings like any linnet, And when I use an argument, she says "there's nothing in it." I admit that she is saucy, but then sauces may be sweet ; And to me there is no music like the music of her feet ! II. She dances all about the house ; she peers into each nook, There's nothing sacred from her touch, or secret from her look. But though I dread her setting my untidy papers right. 104 A HUSBAND'S SONG. And though my old clothes tremble, when she says I am "a fright" : Though always very curious, and sometimes in- discreet — To me there is no music like the music of her feet. III. And when Time's snow upon our heads — not on our hearts — is laid. And when my little wife has grown with years de- mure and staid, If I should pass away the first, and she should visit me, Standing beside my narrow bed, beneath a cypress- tree, I think I still should feel that step, that made my young heart beat. When to me there was no music like the music of her feet ! I05 SONG OF THE QUEEN'S MARYS. " There was Marie Beaton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael and me." Old Song. I. A /T ARY unto Mar>' sings — IVI "Hear the hope that April brings, In the wood the mavis sings, — ' Mary shall be free again ! ' Free, by Highland hearts and wills, Free as air on Highland hills. Free as woodland daffodils, — Mary shall be free again ! " II. Mary unto Mary cries — "Thou the light of Scotland's eyes ! When our Highland clans arise, Mary shall be Queen again. Kindle fires from height to height, Sound your pibroch through the night. Draw your claymores for the fight, — Mary shall be Queen again !" 106 SO.VG OF THE QUEEN'S MARYS. Ill, Mary unto Mary saith, " Ours to serve thee until death, Ours to sing, with our last breath, ' Mary shall be Queen again !' Crowned by Heaven, for woe or weal. Crowned by loyal hearts, and leal. Crowned by Scotchmen, true as steel, — Mary shall be Queen again!" r886. lOJ "IF YOU AND I WERE BANISHED." I. T F you and I were banished, Love, To some fair isle of Greece, How soon were sorrow vanished, Love, How quickly care would cease ! Our troubles by the world are sent ; There, by the world forgot. We'd make a heaven of banishment. And bless our happy lot ! What storms could then sweep o'er the land ? What clouds obscure our sky ? When, heart with heart, and hand in hand, We wandered, you and I ? If you and I were banished, Love, To some fair isle of Greece, How soon were sorrow vanished. Love, How quickly care would cease ! II. If you and I, my Love, were told We never more should meet io8 "IF YOU AND I WERE BANISHED. Until each loving heart was cold, Each pulse no longer beat ; If o'er the sky advancing night Hid Passion's burning ray, One star would still with steadfast light Shine o'er our future way. For when the locks of life are forced. Love, like an essence, flies. To dwell, from this poor clay divorced. Eternal in the skies. If you and I were banished. Love, To some fair isle of Greece, How soon were sorrow vanished. Love, How quickly care would cease ! Zante, 1888. RECITATIONS. J LOST AND FOUND. O OME miners were sinking a shaft in Wales — ^^ (I know not where, — but the facts have filled A chink in my brain, while other tales Have been swept away ; as when pearls are spilled, One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor :) — Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed. And men tear in the dark, at the earth's heart-core. These men were at work, when their axes knocked A hole in a passage closed years before. A shp in the earth, I suppose, had blocked This gallery suddenly up, with a heap Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked, Till these men picked it; and 'gan to creep In, on all-fours. Then a loud shout ran Round the black roof, — " Here's a man asleep ! " They all rushed forward, and scarce a span From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp Fell on the upturned face of a man. No taint of death, no decaying damp Had touched that fair young brow, whereon Courage had set its glorious stamp. 112 LOST AND FOUND. Calm as a monarch upon his throne, Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear, He sat there taking his rest, alone. He must have been there for many a year. The spirit had fled ; but there was its shrine, In clothes of a century old or near! The dry and embalming air of the mine Had arrested the natural hand of decay, Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line. Who was he then H No man could say When the passage had suddenly fallen in — Its memory, even, was past away ! Awestruck, they stood : then, touched the skin. And handled the cloth. The flame o' the soul Had been blown out, ere its lamp grew thin. In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal,. They took him up, as a tender lass Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole, To the outer world of the short warm grass. Then up spoke one, " Let us send for Bess, She is seventy-nine, come Martinmass : Older than anyone here, I guess ! Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there» And remember the chap by his comeliness." LOST AND FOUND. 113 So they brought old Bess with her silver hair, To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay, Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. And the crowd around him all gave way, As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh. And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! . . . Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed Her withered arms in the summer sky. . . . " O Willie ! Willie ! my lad ! my lost ! The Lord be praised ! after sixty years, I see you again ! . . . The tears you cost O Willie darlin', were bitter tears ! . . . They never looked for ye underground, They told me a tale to mock my fears ! They said ye were auver the sea, — ye'd found A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain How ye'd a-vanished fra' sight and sound ! Darlin' ! a long, long life o' pain 1 ha' lived since then ! . . . And now I'm old, 'Seems a-most as if youth were come back again. Seeing ye there wi' yer locks o' gold. And limbs sa straight as ashen beams, . . . I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled I 114 LOST AND FOUND, Between us ! . . . O Willie ! how strange it seems To see ye here, as I've seen ye oft, . . . Auver and auver again in dreams ! " In broken words like these, with soft Low wails she rocked herself. And none Of the rough men around her scoffed. For surely a sight like this, the sun Had rarely looked upon. Face to face, The old dead love, and the living one ! The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace, At the end of threescore years ; the quick, Puckered, and withered, without a trace Of its warm girl-beauty ! A wizard's trick Bringing the youth and the love that were. Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! Those bodies were just of one age : yet there Death, clad in youth, had been standing still, While Life had been fretting itself threadbare ! But the moment was come ;— (as a, moment will. To all who have loved, and have parted here. And have toiled alone up the thorny hill ; When, at the top, as their eyes see clear, Over the mists in this vale below, Mere specks their trials and toils appear, LOST AND FOUND. 115 Beside the eternal rest they know !) Death came to old Bess that night, and gave The welcome summons that she should go. And now, though the rains and winds may rave, Nothing can part them. Deep and wide. The miners that evening dug one grave. And there while the summers and winters glide. Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side ! ii6 THE STORY OF TAVO LIVES. {As related in a tnornitig visit.) A. "\ 71 7"ELL ! well ! How strangely things fall out! * * So they are married ? Do you know That he is old, and rather stout, And she is fifty-six or so ? B. Ah, that is vulgar reckoning, — And Love is blind ! To him she seems Still young and fair — and he, the king Remains, of all her early dreams . . . Shall age two faithful souls divide ? Shall years prevent two hearts from loving? What constancy was ever tried More than this couple's? . . . Do you doubt it? A. Humph ! well, perhaps, for turtle-doving They may be thought a trifle old — But tell me all you know about it. B. 'Tis an old tale, and often told. Now more than forty years since they Were parted : penniless was he. An orphan youth, and sweet Ann Grey, The beauty of the " North Countrie." 1 1 never could be heard of ! never ! — There was a talk of broken hearts, — THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 117 A. Ah, boys and girls in vain endeavour To break those toys ; at least the parts I think so soon unite again, (Except, perhaps, some tiny particles !) That even if the crack remain. They still are serviceable articles ! B. Well then, as hearts in life are tougher Than novels make them, Annie Grey Lived on, when he was sent away ; Although the road of life was rougher, And storms and biting winds did blow Round the heart's door. She said her mind Would never change, and was resigned To see her girlhood's hero go. Could she not wait ? The pebble lies Contented on the silent beach, Until the waves triumphant reach. And in their arms sweep off, the prize. She said so : but her voice was sad — Her father swore the girl was mad ! This father was a man of honour, (Men called him,) of a poor, proud race. Who every day impressed upon her That all her fortune was her face — The boy had only lo\e and youth ! (It must be owned a slender rental), Combined with that uncringing truth To fortunes often detrimental. ii8 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. A. I'm not surprised that Uncle John Refused — or Squire Grey for his daughter. You cannot make the kettle boil By kindling fires, and putting on A kettle, without any water ! B. Oh ! How prosaic ! You would spoil Youth's brightest fires . . . Well ! 'Twas decreed Between these men one winter's day. That it was well, with all good speed To send the orphan lad away — That he should cross the seas, and fight Beneath the burning Indian sun, And win a fortune, if he might, As other friendless youths had done. And if he fell, why who was there A narrow piece of crape to wear. But Uncle John ? The years rolled by ; they might not write. His letters were returned unread ; And yet his love swerved not — in spite Of all his Uncle John had said. He kept undimmed before his eyes The constant hope of that one prize. And then at last a false report Reached him, that she was married : She Of whom each night and morn he thought. For whom he worthier strove to be ! THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 119 Ambition's fairest star was set : Thenceforth, this soldier only fought For Duty's sake, not Love's--and yet When good results from evil rise, You stoics ask with some surprise, (The end being happy,) where the harm is? . . . Certain it is the service gained A sterner man, more self-contained, A better general of armies ! From heart of youth the violets died ; In heart of man the oak spread wide. And while the soldier's fame grew up, And bays were twined to deck his brow. She, like an acorn in its cup Dwelt lonely on her parent bough. Her boisterous brothers drank and swore. And shot, or hunted all the day : And home their booted friends they bore, Who made fierce love to Annie Grey. But obdurate to all was she. While youth to middle age slid by : Her father died ; she lived to see One after one, her kindred die. Four brothers to the grave she carried : And still Ann Grey remained unmarried. Her life was like the silent floor. Where pattered tiny feet of yore ; I20 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. And like those solitary walls, That echoed once to children's calls ; The faded portraits of the past, In pastille — far too bright to last ! The line of empty rooms, shut up ; The marble naiad's moss-grown cup : The old piano's rusted string. Where sweetest music used to ring, The one cracked jar, where erst a pair Held richest perfumes from the air — All, all around, with types were rife. Of that lone heart and joyless life ! A. Why did she not consent to wed One of these " booted friends ? " Absurd ! Where is the man (I've often said). For whom I'd wait ? B. IValfs not the word. She was not waiting still. Ah, no ! That was a dream of long ago. That, like the sun, had glorified The morning of her summer's day. And, like that golden sun, had died Behind the purple hills away. She was not waiting. She was sure They never more on earth should meet, Yet still her Hero's name was sweet ; Her pride in all his fame was pure — THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 12: She neither knew, nor asked the rest. . . . (For Uncle John long since was dead ;) The Hero's public deeds she read. The story of his heart she guessed ! Some woman in those Indian years Had wound about his heart a snare, She might be good — she must l)e fair- Pray God she had not caused him tears ! Thus to herself the spinster thought, As winter after winter brought The snow-flakes on her auburn bands, And loosed the rings upon her hands. And then she murmured, " 'Tis our lot That what in all the heat and strife Of man's career is soon forgot. Should make a lonely woman's life." A. And what of him the while? the man. Who bronzed and scarred on Indian plains. In mid age, I suppose, began To feel the penalties and pains Of that hard life of self-denial ? One arm the less, and K.C.B. ! With these rewards for years of trial. Was it in search of "home" that he Crossed once again that dreadful sea ? B. Ah ! Home ! Its light shines bright and clear To some, through darkness— absence — strife ! 122 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. But what had honours done to cheer His solitaiy end of life ? — A Club arm-chair from noon till night : His home a lodging in Pall-Mail ! It was not thus Hope painted bright The Home that he should love so well ! But that was long ago ; since then, How changed is all ! Old friends are dead ; Old school-boys now are battered men, Their grandsons are about to wed ! He — only he hath let the tide Of life flow past him, standing still. Little to mark the years, until He stands that youthful race beside. A bachelor of fifty-nine May well, indeed, for home repine ! But Fate— A. My dear 1 I feel eighteen, Until Great Nephews interfere. And prove to me I might have been A grandmother full many a year Ago, — wer't not for my abrupt Dismissal of — B. Don't interrupt ! I'll hear you afterwards, dear friend. My story's not yet done ... It shows (If you will listen to the end,) The part Chance plays in life with those THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 123 Who bend not circumstance to Will. 'Twas Fate decreed, tow'rds Autumn's close Those lives should crown each other still. She rarely left the home-estate ; But now she must to town, to wait Upon a cousin who had written, To say that she was sorely smitten With divers ills ; — a flighty dame, Unlike Ann Grey, who all the same Loved her and, being here, consented To stay and see the Exhibition ; Though it was plain her friend's condition. Of lung and limbs had been invented To lure that ever-welcome comer ! Thus it fell out. One day, last summer, The General had stood for more Than half an hour transfixt, before " The Reading Girl," that sculptured rhyme,, Of youth's sweet passion-budding time. His thoughts perhaps had travelled back. Into the unforgotten track Of the far Past : and in the place Of marble, rose a fair young face He used to watch in by-gone days, When, under evening's slanting rays, A girl sat thus intent — and read The stories of the noble dead. And lo ! while fancied semblance, traced. 124 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. Slowly with life the stone replaced, Sudden, 'twixt him and it, there cross'd A visage in the flesh, almost As white, as though from the same block Of marble hewn : but wasted, dim, As a dream-phantom ; while on him The eyes turned mournfully. A shock Ran through his heart — he scarcely heard A shrill voice near him, till the sound Of his own name his senses stirred. And then the old man started round. " Well ! really this is quite a treat. To meet you. General, in this buzz And crowd — reposing on a seat ! We hav'n't met for such an age ! But then you know one never does In London, — in this Hermitage I call it, where it's such a labour To find out who's one's next-door neighbour I And one may live secluded, quite As much as any anchorite. And never see a friend unless One lives among the parks and squares, No frzends/np stands two-shilling fares j And, as you know, a wilderness Beyond Tyburnia is my home ! But, General, you're a Hero ! Come, Be brave, to-morrow dine with me — Though lest you should not find a Hansom, THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. 125 On your return, 'twere well to be Clad in strong armour cap a pie, (Like the dark Knight in Millais' ' Ransom,') You'll come, now, won't you ? need I send A note ? , . . Remember that we dine At seven. ... Ah ! let me, by the way, Present you. General, to my friend— A country cousin — Miss Ann Grey." 'Twas thus, with commonplaces round. With " quips, and cranks, and wreathed smiles," That after life's wide-sundered miles They once again each other found. For thus in life the Melodrame And Comedy so often meet — As through church doors the solemn Psalm Blends with the music of the street. You guess the rest ; how forty years In that one hour had melted quite. Like the dark vapours of the night, When the first streak of dawn appears. And how once more they seemed to stand, A shower of bright spring blossoms o'er them, A Youth and Maiden, hand in hand. With Love, and Hope and Life before them. Who now in Autumn's shortening days Were met at last — unchanged and true. In spite of all the world could do : They knew it as their steadfast gaze 126 THE STORY OF TWO LIVES. Crossed in that hour. For why, in sooth Should not true hands and hearts, being met Be clasped in age as in their youth ? And so in steadfast comfort set Their feet together on the last Remaining rounds of life's dark ladder? Instead of brooding on their past, And growing gloomier and sadder, Careless of self, of all each day . . . Now, tell me, will not poor Ann Grey Be infinitely better married ? A. My dear, your eloquence has carried Me over to your side completely ! I think your General acted sweetly ; I wish he wasn't quite so stout. But seriously I'm half inclined (I'm only sixty) to look out And see if I perhaps can find Some bald old gentleman in stocks. Who loved me fifty years ago In little pinafores and frocks ! I might get up a touching show Of constancy. ^- Ah : well, my friend, The hour is yours — but by and by Laugh those who win I when you and I Approach in loneliness the end Of life, it may be we shall share One wish— to be as this old pair. 12/ THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. T MET a lady in the narrow path, ^ That leadeth up into the wood of pines, Whose red and jagged stems are clothed aloft With marble foliage. Her face was white, And with one hand she held her kirtle up, Brimmed o'er with early flowers ; cyclamen, Anemone, and starry buds, whose name I knew not. With the other hand, She touched me on the arm, and sighing, said, " Follow and I will show what things, and how We sow in maddest joy, and reap in tears." She turned, she glided up the wood ; and I Followed, as one pursuing in a dream. Resistless, step by step, my pale-faced guide, To where a dusky thicket closed about A little space of turf, — a mound — no more : And here she stopped, and let her kirtle drop Its rosy treasures on the green earth's lap ; Then turned on me the stone-blue eyes, from which Passion long since had drunk the tears away. And once again in measured accents spake. " In life my sin and punishment were hid. 128 THE LADYS PUNISHMENT. And now long since my very name is wiped Out of men's memories. But haply here, The story of my grief, my life-long grief. May reach in this new world hearts that are deaf Unto the Preacher's voice. " I was the child And heiress of a robber-lord, who once In yonder tower, where reigns the owl, held rule ; Clenching his mailed hand on the march around. No princess, in the days of old was kept Curtained more closely from the chance side-wind Of love, that heedeth not degrees, nor wealth. But where he listeth, blows. Therefore, for me, Those only might come near my feet, endowed With great inheritance, or whose right arms Had compassed sov'reign mastery in raid. And foray. But of all these wolfish lords Not one had grace to win a woman's heart. Or child's,— for I was scarcely more, and turned Laughing from each, to falcon and to hound. And better pleased to play at ball, or dance In rings with all my merry maids, than list To vows of love ... at least, I thought so then ; Till that soft side-wind took me unawares And captured me one morn. Upon this wise. It fell about. My father was away And I, my falcon on my wrist, rode forth, A train about me, through the flowery mead, THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. 129 Where the stream, swelled by winter's snow and rain, O'erlips its banks in spring. There, clad in grey, We met a sad and solitary man, Who with a deer-hound paced the river's marge — - His eyes were bent upon a book : but O ! Their strange and subtle beauty when he turned His face, mid-day, upon me, drave the blood Circling through all my veins. I galloped on, Slipping the jesses of my bird, who soared Above his quarry ; when my jennet, stung By the sharp hand wherewith I urged her on, Reared up on high, and falling backwards, plunged. Herself and me together in the stream. Swift as the wind, — ere falconer and page Could check their steeds and turn to succour me, The man — the man in grey — had leapt the bank, And striking out with one strong arm, he flung The other round me, as I struggling sank. . . . Thus it began. O stranger ! thus, the life Won back, new light flowed through that open door. From child to woman suddenly I sprang ; Woman, with senses passionately stirred ; Woman, who, loving, sacrifices all. To the one God of her idolatry ! We met each morn : while yet the castle slept I through the postern in my garden ran, K I 130 THE LADYS PUNISHMENT. Creeping 'mong crystal moss and dewy fern, 'Neath daybreak's opal sky, to this black wood. . Sweet stolen moments in the mists of dawn ! Love's precious childhood, who too soon grows old, And blind, and passionless, alas ! We met Each morn by stealth, — not otherwise ; for he Preserver, Lord, and Master of my life. Had but his sword wherewith to win me then. His brother's was the Seigneury that marched With ours, dividing sway from hill to hill ; And he, the younger, dowered with strength alone, Soldier of fortune, who had fleshed his sword In the late wars, — my father would have spurned His suit for me, whom riches, rank, and land Alone might win. But hearts were never yet Thus bartered : nor can such cold law infuse Strength to repel One mightier than it. When women's veins have passionately drunk His subtle poison. Speak thou to the soul In such an evil — else unto the winds ! Plead with it — strive with it — hold fast the hem Of its pure raiment : use such argument As only reacheth that immortal part Of man, or else be mute ! For, look you, what Doth touch no more than this vile dust of ours, How shall it shield us in our peril ? I THE LADYS PUNISHMENT. 131 Knew but the honour of my house — no more — No other guide — no other staff. ... I fell. . . . I fell ! and all grew dark about my eyes. . . . No less, — no less by reason of my sin, I loved him — dearer than my life itself ! But when I thought that I might no more hold A place unshamed among my fellow maids, Nor any more be crowned by them, with buds Of lilies, gathered in their kirtles green, Lest each white virgin-flower should wither up Upon my guilty brow, — when morn by morn, I knew how suns and moons would rise and set, Winter and summer bring the long years round. But never, never, never a return Of the proud spotless insolence of youth, — My punishment began. . . . He went away To the great war in Flanders : and in days Of maddest grief that followed, I became A mother. In her arms with bitter tears The aged woman who had nursed me once Now held my child, and he was borne away — My boy — my own sweet babe ! who knew me not. Nor never might a mother's blessing know — Borne safe from prying eyes and babbling tongues Safe from a father's wrath, beyond the hills. And to my father some pretence was made 132 THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. That I was sick'ning of the tertain plague, And no one sa\-e one faithful maid, and she, That aged nurse, came near me. Thus from men My shame was secret ; and a year rolled by. " A year rolled by, and Death came striding on Mowing down young and old, and high and low ; • On one hand, Hope rose smiling as he passed, And on the other weeping went Despair. Over against my window rose a hill, And on its topmost crest a tow'r was set, (A blot of purple 'gainst the sunset sky) And in that tow'r they brought me word, lay dead My true Knight's brother, childless, and alone. . . . God pardon me ! .... I wept aloud for joy, To think how in the dead man's place, my Love Should reign, and I become his honoured bride, And have my baby back again, and all The past be blotted out. So, outwardly It came to pass, indeed ; for he returned, And from my father straightway sought my hand. And we were married. On that very night, Just such another starlit night as this, While yet in hall the revelry was loud. My Lord still pledging, as in honour bound. His boisterous guests, I stole away to where THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. 133 The stars made doubtful twilight on the wall. Then, as I mused the shadow of the nurse Beside me sudden fell ; and lo 1 She stooped And plucked me by the sleeve, and hoarsely said, ' Come to yon wood, and I will show thee that I dared not tell thee sooner.' Then we trod Along the dusky thicket, till we came Unto this little mound, the nurse and I. 'Here lies' — she spake in murmurs low — 'the child ; Dead three months since . . . and it is better so.' I did not rave or shriek. I did not fall. From crown to foot I shook, and all the blood Froze round my heart. O God ! and thus it was My prayer was heard ! The past was blotted out. Never to see my babe on earth, of whom I dreamt each night, his little golden head Smiling between the silver clouds — and now, — And now ! to think that at my feet he lay, Wrapped in the brown earth's arms instead of mine — And I had never e'en beheld his eyes, And should not know his little voice among The angels' choir ! . . . Ah ! cruelly, indeed. My prayer was heard — my past was blotted out. Earth keeps her secrets well. No fear that mound In the wild wood should tell my shame to men ; 134 THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. But I was childless ! all my sorrow, — all, Was nothing unto this. I walked away. . . . I walked away, my face between my hands ; And now 'twas very night : the stars were hid ; And as I walked the cruel dread grew strong Within my soul, that in that little grave My hopes on earth lay buried. . . . There was yet Another grief in store for me, good Sir, Which women who had fallen as I fell May haply learn. Into my Lord's deep eyes, I, looking for the passionate love that burned of yore. Found nothing but a poor sad counterfeit, An honourable subterfuge through which The soul of Chivalry redeemed its pledge, And wedded me. . . . Alas ! it might be now. That I was changed, grown white and wan : my lip Had lost its trick of smiling, and my voice Carolled no longer, when upon his arm I leant, as down the garden's length we paced. And yet, I loved him better, clung to him More closely now than ever, would have spumed All other love. . . . But one dark cruel thought Like a black bough across a pool, kept out All sunshine from my heart. The child was dead ! The little life, whose leaves in darkness blown, THE LADYS PUNISHMENT. 135 Might have expanded on a mother's breast, Was gone — the only child that I should bear — I knew it, and I could not smile, and thus His love grew further from me ev'ry day, And my life's burthen heavier to lift. I could not blame him if the scent was fled From the poor flower he had plucked, — too soon, — And now wore openly i' his breast. My Lord Was ever gentle, kind, and patient ; But the old glamour of my eyes for him Was dead ; and while I strove, and strove to be The thing I was not, wider ev'ry day I felt my frail bark drifting from the shore That should have been my haven ! From my toVr I watched this wood of pines ; and stole each morn Unseen, with flowers, to where my babe lay hid. The months unrolled themselves to years : no hope Blossomed again upon my barren boughs ; While peasants' overladen orchards flung Their rosy fruit beneath my castle wall, I— I alone had no more fruit wherewith To win my Lord's affection back to me ! And thus at last (but not till I had prayed Morning and night) the frost struck at the root Of this poor sapless tree. Grown old and grey 136 THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. Before my time, what marvel that my Lord Sought other women, fair and full of grace, While ever bearing gently with me still And my sad humours ? It was time to die : For I was weary of my life, since all That made it sweet was taken. Gossips' tongues Should wag no more reproaches, that my Lord's Inheritance must pass to distant hands. When I was gone, and interchange of smiles Could never vex my heart within the tomb. And so I died. The mourners, two and two. Bore me with pomp to the cathedral spire, (I might not sleep beside my babe, alas !) Where 'neath a fretted canopy I lay, In the great church forgotten and alone. " Stranger, three hundred years are past, and more ; My Lord, and all his line of heirs, long since Are gathered to the dust : yon keep alone Tells of their greatness. Yet, within this wood. Where in my life I suffered, loved, and sinned, Where for long years my footsteps daily turned, And joy lay compassed in three feet of earth. Here, round this spot, one night in every year 'Tis given my soul to wander, and to tell The old, old story of my griefs to whom I find here. All who, sinning as I sinned. Mourn with repentant tears, and turn to Christ, THE LADY'S PUNISHMENT. 137 Shall learn one day how crosses borne in life In death are reared to bring us nearer Heav'n." She said ; and fading from me as she spake, I turned, astonished. ... To my feet I sprang, From the soft turf whereon I lay, and saw, Between the interlacing leaves, the morn Lifting her head already o'er the hill. 138 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. A.D. 750. /^"^ OD give me patience, miserable king ^^ That am, beneath the cowl ! on whom the sun Shines but one hour a day, when slanting through These cloister-arches : where my sandalled feet Break the grey moss-grown silence of the flags — I, that was wont to meet the sun at morn. And take my pleasure, as became a king, In sports, all day, across the plain. Woe's me ! How changed am I ! — seems all, that yet's un- changed ! The same wind that, through purple curtains, scarce Lifted the rushes from my palace floor, In the old time, around a bare damp cell Now freezes all my bones. Ah ! hunger, thirst, Vigil, and painful penance,- come to none Of these poor monks so hardly as to me. For one hath left his vineyard by the Rhine, To whom, as he was delving on a day. KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 139 The blessed Mary showed herself : and one, A poor aureficer in Aix, whose house The plague left desolate. From mountain-hut, Or camp, or city, come they hither ; led By that strong mward voice, men christened Faith. But, like me, none . . . Well, well, and so, because I shun their simple talk of beeves and goats. They whisper, that by reason of some crime Hanging like mill-stone round me, am I come To expiate the past. And here, in truth, I pace the flags each day ; and muse, as oft I watch the spiders weave athwart the wall Their silken death-nets for the foolish flies, " So weaved his webs around my helpless youth, Th' unloyal crafty head, where sits my crown : Founder, methinks, of a long line of kings." For so I dreamed last night it is decreed. The Merovingian race should pass away For ever, — sicut herba transeat — Then these in turn, gave place, their work being done. The builder setteth up, and pulleth down. Building his tow'r. We are but stocks and stones Shaped to his mighty purpose. Hark ! the bell Rings into vespers ; and the brothers pass I40 K'ING CHILD ERIC IN THE CLOISTER. Down the side-cloister, eyeing me askance. Sweet sunshine — bird, upon the cloister roof, Farewell until to-morrow. Now they sing, " Ecce quam bonum habitare est Fratres in utmni." .... What a mock'ry 'tis ! I 141 GEORGE LEE. CHIVALRY is dead among us !" So sigh those who read the tale Of Arthur and his Knights. They wrong us. Not alone to knights in mail Does that noble self-disdain, That recks not peril, strife, and pain In succour of the oppressed, pertain. There are now, too, lives sublime, Heroes (let us thank God for it !) Whose bright deeds, from time to time, Cast a glow on these our days — Some like beacons from a turret, Some uplighting lowly ways. Listen, while I tell the story Of a humble man, George Lee, Who, in life unknown to glory. Will in death remembered be, By the men 'mong whom he died. Their example and their pride. " FIRE, FIRE, FIRE ! " That dread cry in dead of night Rouses the sleepers with affright. 142 GEORGE LEE. Adown the narrow squalid street ; And while men stumble to their feet, And snatch their earnings up with oaths, Wives clasp their babes and tattered clothes. And all run out into the ways. On which the lurid firelight plays. The faces of that crowd show plain Starvation, misery, and pain : Strange that to this sad life they cling As much as placid priest, or king Upon his throne may do ! Along The street, from every open door And court and alley, fresh streams pour. To swell the dense excited throng. The cry is " Water ! " now. Below The doomed house press the serried ranks, And pass the buckets from the tanks ; While the bewildered inmates throw All they can into the street. The crowd screams out, " Come down ! A sheet Of flame is rising, and the smoke Grows dense ! Come down before it choke Your breath ! " " Where are the engines ? See ! It spreads ! God help us ! Not alone This house ; the entire street will be A blaze if they are long delayed ! There's ne'er a hope for us but one — The fire-brigade, the fire-brigade ! " GEORGE LEE. 143 Hark ! — God be thanked !— at last ! D'you hear That distant roar that grows more near ? " Fire, fire, fire ! " as on they tear Down the close streets ; for dear life rushing. Like a coal-black steed that is spurred to death, — To right, to left, the people crushing, — Sending sparks from its fieiy breath, The engine comes panting. Its riders draw up Where the flames, now mounting to heaven, glow On the pavement of human heads below. And water is poured as into a cup. On the seething walls and molten glass ; And a smoke, as of hell, sweeps over all. They have set the escape against the wall : " There's never a soul there, mates ? " cries Lee, The fireman ; (he who, three days hence With his strong right arm for competence. Shall wed the girl he has loved from a boy — Gallant George Lee, his comrades' joy). "No soul within?" The crowd cries, "None !" But e'en while they answer one halloos, " See, There's a woman up there, in the topmost room ! " Yes, at an open window, alone. Looming out black against the glare, Stands a shadow of hopeless, dull despair. With folded hands, foreseeing her doom — She is face to face with death. One minute 144 GEORGE LEE. Lee looks at her and the escape, no more ; Then through the smoke that blinds the door He springs over burning stair and floor, Up to the roof, if he can but win it ! With tight-clenched lips that breathe no word, Scorched and blinded, yet undeterred. He struggles on. From below, men, seeing The whole house now is one blazing stack. Cry out, " It's never no use ! Come back ! " But what is peril to sight or limb. If the life of a helpless human being Has yet a chance to be saved by him ? So through the fumes that now oppress him. Fainting, falling, he beats his way To the room where the woman stands at bay. With the flames, like bloodhounds, licking the edge Of the window. They crj', " He's safe I God bless him ! " . . . /^ he safe? He has reached her, seized her, stands With her form in his arms on the parapet-ledge. Men hold their breath ; the sight appals The stoutest hearts, for he reels ; his hands Cannot reach the escape. " O God in heaven, Let him not die ! " That prayer is given With all men's hearts. He grasps a cleft In the burning bricks, with just strength left To save the woman, and then he falls ! GEORGE LEE. 145 A scream of horror runs down the street : George Lee lies dead at the people's feet ! Children, ere you sleep to-night In your cots secure from fear, Think of those brave men who fight For your lives when peril's near. Other soldiers war with men ; These with fire, — a lowlier trade — For their fellow-citizen, Fight the fight of their brigade. At your nursery window-sill Stand, and think, ere lying down. When the lonely streets are still. How they guard the sleeping town. Children, ask not of your Father Honour, glory, length of days ; There is something I had rather You possessed, worth more than praise Of men or worldly profit. Ask For heart of grace and strength of will To be true heroes, and fulfil Like this man, each his daily task ; Living for others — dying too Without a murmur, if need be. Bear him in mind : I breathe for you No better hope— be like George Lee ! L 146 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. T LEFT my tent at midnight, And stood on a little hill, The moon burned red in heaven. And the camp lay husht and still ; II. Save by the hourly tramping Of the picket on its beat, The sentinel's sharp challenge. As he paced the canvas street. III. The hour, from one to another Cried with a clear "All's well!" The curse of uneasy dreamers, Tossing with shot and shell. IV. All else was frosty silent : I thought on to-morrow's fight ; How, when its heat was over. Would return the quiet night. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 147 V. And I wondered, " Will those white tents Be shining there the same?" Then slowly riding through them, A sable horseman came. VI. Clad in the ancient armour, His vizor closed he kept, Unchallenged by the sentinel. Full in the moonlight swept. VII. His charger's hoof, I marvelled. No ringing echo sent. Sudden the horseman reined him up. Before my captain's tent. VIII. I spake in fear, " What art thou ? Nor guardsman, nor dragoon. That ridest thus in armour clad Under the midnight moon?" IX. Then sighed a voice in answer, Between his vizor's bands. Like wind among the rushes, Along the river sands. 148 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. X. " My name," he said, " thou knowest, My face shalt one day see ; I come to choose the gallant men Who to-morrow ride with me ! " XI. I cried (and from my forehead The drops of anguish fall) : " O Rider ! now I know thee well — Thou who o'ertakest all, XII. " Or soon or late :— but that brave man, Oh, let him ride the plain, To cheer his troop from battle back, And lead them forth again ! " XIII. The horseman sighed for answer : His charger reared apace ; Like sea-spray, as he snorted, flashed The foam-flakes by my face. XIV. Then, on a little further, I heard him say to one. Who slept the sleep of sweet eighteen : Before to-morrow's sun u THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 149 XV. " Sink, with the tide of battle In scarlet o'er the town, Meet me in yonder hollow, When the Cossack charges down." XVI. " O spare, at least, that boy ! " I cried, " Life's ride has just begun For him, so full of life and pride — His mother's only son ! XVII. " A widow she, who liveth In his letters, week by week ; News flasht along the wires Of this fight will blanch her cheek XVIII. " Through days of anxious watching. Till she learn the list of slain." . . . The horseman shook his mournful plume, The charger tossed his mane. XIX. Then to a distant watch-fire. Where Highlanders stood round. And one, his head upon his hand. Sat, thinking, on the ground, 150 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. XX. Wrapt in the plaid of his own hills, Where now his thoughts are flown. The horseman turned his mailed hand, And spake in hollow tone : XXI. " When the rushing tide of bayonets Breaks crested upon yon height, And wide-mouthed cannon thunder down Their welcomes left and right, XXII. " I wait thee by the shallow ford, When cheering on thy men ; Flash all the waters round thine eyes, — Up to my saddle then ! XXIII. " And we will ride to a quiet place "... " Ah, cruel ! " I burst forth, "That fallen Highlander will leave Wide blank in the far north ! XXIV. " Seest thou, in that peaceful home, A fair and patient wife, Teaching three children, at her knee, To pray for ' father's life .? ' THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 151 XXV. " Hast thou no pity?" . . . Tow'rds a tent That stood apart he turned, Where paced a sentry, and a lamp Behind the canvas burned. XXVI. The horseman gazed in silence ; Then, with a heavy sigh, " Old man," he said, " the time is come To lay thine armour by, XXVII. " Now forty years since first I stood Over thee, on the plain. When thou, in charging, wounded fell, Upon the fields of Spain. XXVIII. "And since that time, through years, till thou A wider fame did'st reach. Commanding where thy sword first led Forlorn hopes to the breach. XXIX. " My charger's hoofs have often flasht A stone's-throw from thy head : And now, at last, thy day is come ! " " Welcome to him !" I said. 152 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. XXX. " To such as he, oh terrible Dark rider ! through the world, Thou com'st not ill, upon the wings Of the rushing battle whirled. XXXI. " In such as he, the flame that burned Through long life to renown. Is better blown out suddenly, Than flickering slowly down XXXII. " In a leaden socket, day by day ; Fitter for all such ones, Their veteran souls should march away, To the music of the guns. XXXIII. " Tribute of reverential tears Be paid them when they fall ; But oh ! from these, far spent upon Life's journey, choose thou all XXXIV. " Who ride to-morrow out of sight, In mist — whate'er their worth — Spare us the flower of our youth, With such strong roots on earth ! THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 153 XXXV. " Spare us" . . . Then sudden rang a blast The glimmering white tents through ; And down them faded, as I gazed, The Horseman from my view. XXXVI. I started — from a feverish sleep. The dawn was breaking grey ; The shrill reveille roused the camp To life, once more, that day. 154 VOISIN ET VOISINE. I. T A matinee est belle, — ' Au dessus des lilas La premiere hirondelle Plonge dans Fair la bas. Si je regarde k travers toils, peut-etre Je verrai ma voisine, a sa fenetre. Je raper9ois .... Dans le ciel du matin Je vois briller son front pur et mutin. " Bonjour ! Le Printemps est venu, ma chere ! N'irons nous pas tons les deux Au pays des amoureux ? " " Pour m'en aller si loin j'ai trop a faire. Quand j'aurai fini mon travail, ce soir J'dcouterai .... mon voisin, au revoir ! " II. Le soir, de ma fenetre Je guette, a mon retour. Ma belle va paraitre Avant la fin du jour. Oh, si j^tais I'hirondelle qui passe, J'aurais deja cent fois franchi I'espace .... VOISLW ET vol SINE. 155 Mais la voila, qui se coiffe au miroir En face, et qui feint de ne pas me voir ! " Bonsoir, voisine, Oh ! que la nuit est belle I N'irons nous pas tous les deux Au pays des amoureux ?" " Pour marcher la nuit, c'est trop loin," dit elle. " Et je suis bien lasse .... il est tard ce soir .... Demain, peutetre .... Voisin, au revoir !" Sept., 1879. IS6 THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS. AN APOLOGUE. A DISCUSSION among British birds once arose, As to where they should praise the Almighty. The reverend faction of Rooks were the foes Of the Swallows, whose tenets were flighty : These wanderers lax from the south cried " Rejoice ! No matter the soil, or the tree, On which one alighteth, to lift up his voice To the Lord of the land and the sea." " Not so," cawed the Rooks, with a vehemence, fit Opposition to drown or o'erwhelm ; — " For worship, in one place, alone, must all sit, — 'Neath the high gothic arch of the elm. The Cardinal, Parrot, or such foreign bird, 'Neath the palm's rounded dome he may perch ; But we who are quite set apart from the herd Should abjure pagan forms for a church. That impudent Wren has selected a larch, Whose boughs form a cupola quite ; We must carry down twigs from our elm's gothic arch. THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS. 157 To make it an orthodox site ! " Then a great storm arose. While the advocates fought, The Geese cackled round, as of old. The Magpies repeated the words they were taught, The Gulls swallowed all they were told. The Owl hooted loud its discordant assent To the dreariest doctrine. The Dove Cooed in vain 'mid the tumult, and did not resent That none heard her message of love. Till the Lark, soaring up in the blue summer-sky, Rained down her clear notes o'er the crowd : E'en the Nightingale's singing was hushed by the high Small voice that was heard from the cloud. " I am nighest to Heaven, and up here, my friends. Your squabbles appear very small : Ev'ry spot, whence the voice of true worship ascends, Is blest by the Maker of all. Sing out, in the wild wood, ye Mavis and Merle ; Ye Ptarmagans, cry o'er the moor ; Caw, ye reverend Rooks, in the elms of the earl ; Robins, pipe round the homes of the poor. The Master, who gave each a different tone, And a plumage, diverse as our birth. Never meant that one form of a tree or a stone Should be hallowed alone upon earth. 158 THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS. Let the Rook have his lancet-shaped aisle and groined roof; His dome of rich foliage, the Wren. Then shall birds, in their harmony, cany reproof To the turbulent children of men ! " 1886. 159 LINES, WRITTEN IN AN ISLAND- GARDEN IN VENICE. T F we never left this island, -*- If we dwelt here, I and you, 'Mid the vineyards and the roses, 'Twixt a sky and sea of blue ; If havened here, and heedless Of how men toiled and fought. No salt wind brought a sorrow, No wave a troubled thought ; If, never, in our music A minor chord should be, Would it be blest for you, Love? Would it be blest for me? II. If the gondola that brought us Should drift away from shore. And Venice on the sky-line Were a phantom — nothing more : Life's problems and its struggles. i6o LINES, WRITTEN IN VENICE. Its ambition and its fame, Should seem to us as echoes, Or smoke from distant flame — If lapped, like lotus-eaters. In a dream, our lives might be, Would it be blest for you, Love? Would it be blest for me? III. If song of bird at sunrise. Or strain of gondolier, Or sighing of the West-wind Were all that met our ear ; Beyond the call for pity. Removed from cry of pain — Each sunrise, without shadow. Each sunset without stain ; If life were one long glory, And death our night should be, Would it be blest for you, Love? Would it be blest for me? 1885. i6i RESCUED. T WAS walking in the meadows near a river, -*- when a boy, And with me was my dearest friend, a big retriever, Roy: He was hunting 'mong the alders, out of sight ... I heard a scream . . . A plunge ... a struggle . . . then a bark. I ran to- wards the stream. II. I pushed aside the alders— sprang down the grassy shore. I saw an eddying circle ... a field-flower . . . no- thing more, Save the black muzzle of my Roy, cleaving his watery way, To where upon the sluggish stream the little field- flower lay. III. Then sudden rose a tiny hand . . . O God ! I saw it plain, M i62 RESCUED. Is it beyond the reach of Roy, before it sinks again? "Good Roy!" I shout. "Brave dog!" the banks reecho with my cries — One struggle more . . . Hurrah ! Hurrah ! My Roy has won his prize. IV. With tender Hps he brought the child, and laid her at my feet ; And from that hour, I took the freight God sent me, as was meet. Most precious gift, through all these years, of all the gifts that be, —A loving heart was saved by Roy, who brought my wife to me ! i63 TWO ON A SPAR. T T was the wreck of a mighty ship— ■^ And can two Hves be won, That are cUnging hard, in death's last grip, To the spar that can scarce hold one ? II. From the same town both, they had led one life, On the wild sea toss'd and hurl'd : But Billy had won Jack's love to wife, And Jack was alone in the world. III. Alone in the world — without goal to win. Or rudder to guide his bark. His soul had plunged through reefs of sin. Ignorant, reckless, dark. IV. But Billy was all that a man should be — He went to church on shore ; He loved his wife, and his children three — And what can a tar do more .'' i64 TWO ON A SPAR. V. "We shall both be drowned, if we cling," cries he, " To a spar that can scarce hold one : And I have a wife and children three. And you, old man, have none. VI. " Give me a chance, for the sake of my wife . . . Return, Jack, good for ill ! " Cries Jack, " what chance have / had in life ? You've had all the chances. Bill. VII. "It seems you've a'most had more than your share Of the good things here below; And 'cause, if he dies, there is none to care, Is that why a man must go.'' VIII. " Where? . . . Ah ! j'ou have nothing to be forgiven, You're safe enough when you die. But, Bill, there is never a door in Heaven, For one that's as bad as I ! IX. " Yet, for her sake, man, the spar shall rise Lighter, as I go down— TWO ON A SPAR. 165 How could I live, if her grieving eyes Told me I'd let ye drown? X. "It is done ! . . . I have dropp'd from the bit of wood, . . . I am down in the trough of the sea . . . Tell her I died, as a poor chap should, And may God have mercy on me ! XI. " Never a heart on shore to miss me ! . . . But who is this walks the waves ? Leans o'er my face, as if to kiss me ? Can it be He who saves ? XII. "Can He, like me, be poor and lonely? On earth, has He no friends there. That He comes o'er the sea, to greet me only. And bid me not despair ? XIII. "Is this a shower of stars around me, Or is it the dawn at last ? Or can it be that Christ has found me. And pardons me all my past ? i66 TWO ON A SPAR. XIV. " I only know I'm at peace . . . contented For you, old man, to die. . . . Say, when you kiss her, that I repented Of all my sins . . . Good-bye." 1889. Note. The real incident upon which this is founded was com- municated to me by a lady in some verses, with the request that I would make use of the subject in a longer poem for recitation. i67 CHRISTMAS EVE. 'T^WAS Christmas Eve. The frost lay on the ■*- road, And moonhght smote with silver all the fields, Around the gable-ends of an old house That stood alone, beyond the village-street. Alone, unvisited by priest, or friend, Shunn'd, as plague-stricken, while its casements flashed From their blue diamonds not one welcoming light To the wayfarer. All was dark within ; Dark without hope,— save that the clear white moon Shone, like God's truth, upon the good and ill That the room held, wherein a sinful man Lay dying. On one side his bed, there stood A woman, who had journeyed here in haste, Flush'd, as the marble statue may be flush'd By wrathful torch-light. On the other, knelt A creature, shaken in her dumb despair, Crush'd, tear-stain'd. He had been untrue to both. As only Man can — ne'er baser beasts : Untrue to vows he pledged unto the one. Before the altar,— pledged for weight of gold— i68 CHRISTMAS EVE. Untrue to honour, lying, while he loved The other one, betrayed. The impartial moon Lit the thin outline of the unloved wife, Hard, upright, just : and touched the head, bow'd low. Of her who knelt ; and made a halo round A gold-hair'd child, who played upon the floor. With strings of daises. O'er the wasted face Of him who lay a-dying it fell full. As on an open book, wherein was writ Remorse ; no coward dread of punishment For self, but a great fear for those He left behind, whose ruin he had wrought. Then spake the wife to her who knelt, " Go forth ! My place is here, beside my dying lord — Whom God hath join'd, let no man put asunder." The woman gave an inarticulate cry : The child, unconscious, wove its chain of stars. " O, pardon . . . pardon ! " moaned the hapless one. " I wronged you — yes ! but knew not all the wrong. I ask your mercy, as I ask for Christ's. He who forgave a sinner once, like me, Perhaps He will not shut me out ! " . . . . . . "/do." The wife replied, " We cannot both stay here. The house is mine. You took my husband's love ; CHRISTMAS EVE. 169 His soul — his body — all belonged to you. My home made desolate — my reverence lost, My faith destroy'd in man ; loveless, alone. No baby-blossom at my breast, have I Toiled on. Your deed ! Living, he was all yours : Dead, he is mine. Mine now the right to close The eyes that never yet have look'd with joy Into mine eyes, as they have into yours ! Why do I claim that right ? Why am I come ? Because I would redeem him yet, — save him From passing hence, with unrepented sin." Then gasped the dying man, " I do repent The more, because I see her agony. Mine, only mine, the sin — not hers — not hers ! She knew not I was wed. She gave her life, — She, a mere child, — into my keeping. Now, It is in yours : be merciful to her. Thrusr her not out. You, blameless, holy, pure, Since all is past, and sin outlives not life. Will you not stoop to lift the fallen up ? " '" Sin doth outlive life," she in haste replied. "There is the child — not mine, but hers. . . . And yet, I would not harm it, nor its mother. So, If poor lip-pardon, that can never reach The inner heart of wrongs, suffice to soothe Your dying hour, 'tis yours — 'tis hers. . . . But let I70 CHRISTMAS EVE. Her presence here no more distract your thoughts From heaven, nor outrage me, your wife." At once, That frail young creature, white as drifted snow, Trembhng, arose. "The right is yours." She bowed Her head. ... " O Love ! loved only here too well, We part, but not for long . . . stricken unto death Am I, and shall not linger far behind, Only" — and here her voice broke down — "the child . . . To leave him motherless, — without a friend ! " . . . Suddenly, voices from the village-choir, Singing from house to house their Christmas Song, Rose in the frosty night, exultant, clear. As those the Shepherds heard in Bethlehem. ^'■Hark / The herald angels sing, Glory to the new-bar )i King I Peace on earth and mercy mild, Gvd and sinners reconciled ! " It seemed to her who stood beside that bed, — The embittered wife, who never had known peace, — A message straight from Him. And she beheld The Heavens open, and she saw His face Fill'd with divine compassion for the sins CHRISTMAS EVE. 171 And suffering of His creatures : and she heard A voice like music, " Inasmuch as ye Have done it unto one, the least of Mine, Ye did it unto Me." Then all the ice Frozen by winters on her heart seemed broke, And Pity welled up, as she took the babe In her wide-open arms, and said " So be it. When both are gone, your child shall be as mine. I take this sacred charge : and if it please The Lord, the void of love in my lone life May be refilled." Then the glazed eyes of him Who heard her sought, with tenderness unknown Before, his wife's eyes. The cold fingers pressed Her hand. That touch healed all the wounded past. For, as she stooped to catch the last faint breath, " Kiss me ! " he whispered — and so passed away. i88q. MISCELLANEOUS. ^w^ 175 A ROMAN TOMB. ONE starlit night, upon the Appian way I stood, amongst the tombs of ancient Rome, The nameless monuments of men who lay Gathered to their last home. Mighty in life, haply they here had raised Stones that should tell, when they were under- ground, Of the great names that flatterers had praised. And Poets' lays had crowned. Ambition, Pride, all sensual delights That bind the soul in leaden chains to earth. Once filled the measure of their days and nights — What lives to show their worth ? How much to rouse our sympathy and love. In what is left of those world-famous men, The conquerors in the field, or they who strove To conquer with the pen ? What, but the stinging verse of satires bought And sold, to flay a friend with fatal ease.? 176 A ROMAN TOMB. The cirque, where men were slain by beasts for sport : What monuments but these ? What, in the name of all their gods of stone, But polished plinths of temples raised to lust, Triumphal arch or portico o'erthrown ? Dust back again to dust ! In every form, self-worship and self-love ; Passions in marble deified with grace ; The cultured arts, like fruitage, carved above A quickly-crumbled base. The spirit fled — the informing fire is cold. And herein lies the difference between The ruin of the things that we behold. And of the things unseen. While the rude stones up-built by peasant hands Mark where the shattered cross once held control, The spirit there. Time's cruel scythe withstands, — Soul answers still to soul. But not so here. I said : when through the gloom (Cold horror seized and held me there, I wist), Methought the headless Roman on his tomb. Moved in the moonlit mist. A ROMAN TOMB. 177 The arm was slowly raised wherewith he held His toga's folds ; and in the very place Where the stone head erst stood, I now beheld A pale, stern Roman face. Then from those lips, as when a night-wind grows Among the reeds on Thrasimene's cold lake. In Latin tongue, a hollow voice arose. And murmuring hoarsely spake. " Mortal, now twice ten hundred years are past^ Com'st thou to vex the ashes in my urn, With all thy vain and shallow wisdom, cast On the great names that burn " In the world's temple, like fed-lamps of old ? Let none, presumptuous, dare to quench the light, Because the growing centuries behold The dawn succeed to night. " The dawn ; not yet the day ! The vapours curled But slowly rise ; and ignorance's cloud Which the All-wise hath laid upon His world. Doth half mankind enshroud. "And He whom blindly we adored as Jove, O thou vain Mortal, was it not His will That knowledge feebly scales the stair above. Higher and higher still ? N 178 A ROMAN TOMB. " We found the world barbarian : is it nought, That where we trod, arts sprang beneath our feet ? The tales of virtue and of valour wrought. Your children still repeat. " Who framed just laws, to govern Kings and crafts ? Who made the streams from hill to hill to flow? Through Europe's heart who drove the roads, like shafts Shot from a mighty bow ? " The fierceness, wolf-imbibed, of all our race. Made half the world the Roman Eagle's home. From Greeks, we borrowed poetry and grace. Our arms belonged to Rome ! " And if the antique virtue ceased to shine. In days when I had long been out of sight. Did Rome but share the natural decline Of all things at their height .'' 'o- " For peace is kin to luxuiy : they sank By slow degrees, those latter men, supine, Rose-garlanded, inglorious, as they drank The red Falernian wine, " Cool from their grottos by the tideless sea. Where mantled round with pine and olive wood. A ROMAN TOMB. 179 With gardens, baths, and fishponds fair to see. Their stately villas stood. " Feasting on Lucrine oysters, or the fruit Of many a distant sea, while boys in praise Of love, their voices mingled with the lute, In soft emasculate lays. " Not such our lives ! We fed, in days of old, With less refinement, and had rougher games ; Our sterner measures. Saturnine and bold, Had nobler, worthier aims. " We sang the God-like hero in his urn ; We crowned the living Victory with bays ; We worshipped Mars ; and Justice, blind and stern Sat in our open ways. " To prove the public virtues in this life. Stands not the yEdile's tomb unto this hour ? And, as a monument to wedded wife, Behold Metella's tower ! " The Vineyard, where the Scipios' ashes lie. And linked with them, that motherhood, whose name. While Gracchus is remembered, shall not die. Old Roman worth proclaim. i8o A ROMAN TOMB. " And there are memories, greater e'en than these, Embahned in History, their graves unknown ; While soon or late, Time's ruthless hand doth seize The perishable stone. " The stone that mocks for some few hundred years The honoured relics, gathered 'neath that tomb. Raised by a loving hand, with pious tears, Over — ye know not whom ! " Such lot is mine. A lucky flight of birds Presaged my birth : my life was crowned with fame. Men in the forum ever met my words With reverent acclaim. " They made me Praetor : placed on high my bust ; And when for ever I had passed away, The city trailed their garments in the dust, With covered heads that day. " They bare my ashes here : the Senate raised This sculptured marble, which hath long survived The recollection of the man it praised, — A memory so short-lived ! " Why doth it cumber still the ground?" And here The hollow voice grew tremulous with scorn. A ROMAN TOMB. i8i " To point a moral, obvious and clear, To ages yet unborn ? " That builded toinbs, and all the strong desire To be remembered after death is vain. The centres of small systems that expire With us, our souls sustain " The conscious loss of all that pride believed Should keep us living through the future years : We learn, O Mortal, how we were deceived, When the hot bitter tears " Shed by those few whose lives were bound with ours, Or wife's or freedman's — (since we only know In death what depth of root have Love's fair flowers) — When these have ceased to flow, " Oblivion quickly gathers round our lives : The spade may strike some urn that tells of Fame, But of the struggle of that life survives Naught save an empty name ! " Our Race is passed away. At dead of night The Master called us ; and we did His will. Ye, who through widening avenues of light Are gathering knowledge still, l82 A ROMAN TOMB. "Who, to the Past's accumulated wealth, Add, day by day, fresh stores that inward roll, The large experience that bringeth health And wisdom to the soul, " Learn yet one thing. He who is wise above, Leadeth in every age His children home; And He, beholding, something found to love. Even in Pagan Rome." i83 MOUNTAINS. /^ MOUNTAINS : inaccessible, nigh Heaven, ^-^^ We gaze in wonder. Hearing your deep mysterious answers given To God's voice. Thunder. Ye seem to hold communion with the Immortal : First on your summit, The fiery steeds, let loose from Heaven's portal, Strive to o'ercome it. And while in impotent wrath they split the pine roots, And downwards hunt them. Tearing up valleys where the tender vine shoots. Unmoved, ye front them. Unmoved, regard the tongue of fire that splinters Forests beneath ye ; Your crowns impearled with snow of countless winters. Still proudly wreathe ye. i84 MOUNTAINS. Ye drink the sunshine in your morning re\'els While we are sleeping, And stars invisible at lower levels, Their vigils keeping. In nebulous depths of blue, to your keen focus, Are ever patent ; Yet know ye, Mountains, more than the gold crocus At your feet latent ? Have ye the knowledge of a Power sustaining, More deep and serious. Than thrills throughout its delicate gold veining, With sense mysterious ? Wist ye what mighty Arm, O Rocks ! have driven Those snow-flakes o'er ye ? When, to their base, surrounding hills were riven, What hands up-bore ye ? Have ye more knowledge of the Love that showers Its dew caressing, Than the small weeds that lift their thankful flowers To drink the blessing ? 'o Image of intellectual power, the gloiy Of Man's endeavour. MOUNTAINS. 185 In your great solitudes, O Mountains hoary, Are ye for ever ! Breathing an atmosphere of rarer essence, The ages show them. Sending the shadow of their mighty presence On all below them. And in those heights where soars the eagle only, From our eyes clouded, The pride of human intellect dwells lonely, With mists enshrouded. Striving to reach that yet unfathomed power, Insight not given — What fuller knowledge than the humblest flower Has it of Heaven ? Of that great Love per\ading all creation, Uncomprehended ? The subtle problem of our destination. When life is ended ? Knowledge of " Power and Glory " never ending To whom is given ? Are not the heights and depths of understanding Herein made even ? i86 MOUNTAINS. The lessons, these, O Mountains, that ye teach, If men receive them ; The loftiest human intellect cannot reach, — The low — believe them ! i87 THE RIVER OF MY DREAM. METHOUGHT I stood beside a city's River, That like an arrow through its bosom shot^ Black with the poisoned tide of sins for ever, Salt with the tears of sorrow long forgot. What human burthens underneath lay buried ? I watched the crowd of swimmers struggling there ; And while the dark Stream never stayed nor hurried, It closed each instant o'er some life-despair. Silently closed ;— but ere the circling eddy Had widened full its rings, to fill the place, Another form was striking out already, Till the Stream clasped him in its black embrace. And prayers, and curses, and a wail for ever, Swept, like a wind, beneath the arches dim ; Souls battling on, each with his small endeavour. Each to the separate goal foredoomed for him 1 All men, — all ages, — young and very old. The sad, the wicked, and the innocent. i88 THE RIVER OF MY DREAM. i)ome sank beneath their cherished weight of gold, Some 'neath a weight of human learning bent. First came the children, with their day-break eyes Wide set, that went resistless down the stream, Their tiny fingers catching at the flies And water-lilies. 'Twas a summer's dream For them, the rushing of the waters now ! Till one, the brightest, loveliest, most brave. Dropped all his starry treasures, and his brow Circled in glory, sank beneath the wave. An anguished mother with despairing gesture Reached after him — in vain ! . . Yet happier they Who sink serenely thus, in spotless vesture. Before the burthen and the heat of day ! Yes I happier far than those — once dearly prized, The faded shapes of what were erst so fair. And flattered, — now forgotten and despised, With bloodless lips, and wild entangled hair. Who cried for help, and up the oozy bank Clutched at the weeds — then sliding backwards, fell ; — Others, more happy, landed there, and sank Among the flowery fields of asphodel : THE RIVER OF MY DREAM. 189 Lapt in luxurious dreams, of powerless will To breast the current ; letting the gold sand Of Life slip through their languid fingers still, They lay, forgetful of the promised Land ! Forgetful that the roaring water-course Is Man's inheritance ; that only he Shall win that Land, whose firm persistent force Cleaves on, with stroke unwearied, to the sea. And lo ! beside them and the rushing River Were bleaching skeletons, whose life-decay, Without one action towards the great " For Ever," Had crumbled slowly into dust away. Thus crumbled now these idle lives of fashion. While earnest swimmers in the heat and strife, Through swiftest currents of fierce human passion, Were struggling onwards to the Better Life. Sometimes they sank, amid the foaming water : — But even thus, methought, O ! better far, To fall, like men, o'ercome in human slaughter. Than coldly gaze, like statues, from afar. And some my straining eyesight followed keenly, The heroes, — nameless though in life they be^ I90 THE RIVER OF MY DREAM. Floating in evening's golden light serenely Down to the marge of an unfathomed sea. Further I saw not ; but the sunbeams quiver On that extremest margin ! and I knew, The stains and sorrows of the Human River, No more were seen in the Eternal blue ! 191 THE THREE MAIDENS. T SAW three Maidens, sitting in a wood. -*- A thorn, a Judas-tree, and laurel, green With never-dying hope, spread their dark shade Over them, and a runnel at their feet Laughed over pebbles, and a sand that gleamed Like silver, where the sun, 'thwart the black boughs, Smote it. Of these, one wore a vermeil robe. With creamy points of Venice lace, and knots Of pearl, that matched her sanguine cheek, clear eyes, Clear brow, red lips, and crisply-golden hair : And on her wrist, she bore a falcon, fain To soar and swoop on all the singing-birds Around ; only her hand held tight the jess. And smoothed the feathers of the warlike bird. The next, in yellow ; pale, with dusky braids Slipt from their net ; and in her hand a flower Of Nightshade ; motionless, a bitter smile Upon her lip. The third, from head to foot White-robed ; a star-shaped blossom on her breast, And in her hand a mandolin, whereon Her fingers swept a tune, like wind, at times ; At others, dipping a blue jar that stood 192 THE THREE MAIDENS. By her, she drew the cr>'Stal up that flowed Over the pebbles and the silver sand. Yet none, I marked, drank of it — only she. Then spake the first. " My Knight is far away ; Gone to the Wars ; he would not bide with me, Loving to hurl his blows about, and win Fame, better than to lay his head upon A woman's lap, through the long summer-days. . . . Why should I weep ? I cannot bind him fast. Like you, my gallant bird. I should not love My Knight without his honour ; and that grows Only in tented fields, with peril plucked. . . . And yet, if any ill, or hurt, befell Him, so that he should not return, what good Were my life unto me ? For all I have Belongs to him ; and out of him, have I Nor Hope, nor Faith, upon this earth, nor yet Beyond the grave, where they shall carry him." The second laughed : " My Knight is far away. A woman took him from me with her wiles. Deadly as poison in the flower I hold ; And now he lies, drowned in her arms, and deaf To plighted love, true honour, knightly faith ! . . . Why should I weep ? I hold all men alike ; War hath made false your Knight, a woman, mine. I smile, — recalling every oath he swore To love me, only me — that twilight-time THE THREE MAIDENS. 193 We stood among the vineyards, he and I : 'Tis such a jest, this phantasy called Love ! Neither in this world, nor the next, shall I Behold his face,— yet would I give my life To meet her here, alone, one moonless hour, In the dark wood — so should I die content ! " Then spake the third : " My Knight is far away : Yet know I neither fear, nor jealous wrath ; For he is safe from earthly evils now. Him can no arrow from an arbalist In the hot noon of life smite down ; no face Of a strange woman send its shadow 'twixt His heart and mine. He is in Paradise, And we shall meet there, by and by, I know ; For in the garden is a place for me, Which he is keeping ; if I drink, through life. Of this pure stream, the water of true Faith, And hold my heart unspotted from the world." And she whose Knight lay dead, I held to be Blest even now — and happiest of the three. ^^-^ 194 THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. "" I ''HE white-faced moon looked out From the riven clouds of night, And beheld two figures struggling In fierce and deadly fight. The dark was dowered with beauty, The fair was nobly born ; In the face of the one was hatred, In the face of the other, scorn. Both men were tall, broad-chested, And lithe of limb, and sound ; And like bands of knotted iron. Their arms were together wound. Till in that mortal wrestle. From the neck of the fair man fell A portrait, clasped in silver. The dark man knew full well. With a ghastly smile he snatched it, And then his right hand felt THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. 195 For a poniard's handle, which he plucked From out of his rival's belt. But the scornful eyes of the other Heeded nor weapon nor clasp, As his naked fingers grappled That throat in their deadly grasp ! The white-faced moon looked out From the riven clouds of night. And beheld the two men tottering On the brink of a dizzy height. The fair man's fingers tightened, Till the dark eyes started wide ; But the dark man drove his poniard Home in the fair man's side. One slip in the blood-stained heather,— One cry of a sharp despair, — Then over they rolled, and over, Down the face of the the sea-cliff bare ! One splash in the foaming water,— One sweep of the wave — and then The secret of love and hatred Was safe from the ears of men ! 196 THE PORTRAIT CLASPED IN SILVER. The white-faced moon gazed out From the riven clouds of night, And the portrait clasped in silver, Lay there on the rocky height. 197 THE DESERTED VILLA. A DEWY morn with sunlight on the hills ; Bees humming everywhere through thyme and sage ; Her white mule in the stable ; and the cage Of singing linnets on the window-sill. Awake ; . . . He sees the chamber door ajar. — " Where is my Beatrice, my morning star ? " Where does she linger, who was wont to rise With bird and flower ?" He pushes back the door Her veil is gone, her missal on the floor. He calls, and calls again — no voice replies. Through all the empty rooms his footsteps stray Hour after hour. Noon burns itself away. The dead still heat of noon, when nothing stirs Save shrill circalas through the grass ; a thread Of water in the dried-up river's bed, A cloud of road-dust 'twixt the vines and firs. He stares, in vain, along that road's white band, Crushing the o'er-head jasmines with his hand. 198 THE DESERTED VILLA. Then golden sunset dripping down through boughs, And wide-horned oxen lowing to their rest, Blue shadows creeping up the soft hill's breast. And lemon-odours wafted round the house : But human voice and footfall silent both — He kicks aside the spaniel with an oath ! And round and round the house, all through the night. The moon his profile on the wall defines, Angry and black in passionate bold lines. Morn breaks. The dream is over, wild and bright ; The wrong, the jealous tyranny — all flown ! The dreamer wakes, to find himself alone. Nor ever more did she return. Still stands The gate a-rusted with the wind and rain, Fig and pomegranate choke the window-pane. The mule and linnets passed to other hands ! O'ergrown the garden all, with long rank grass — You see it from the high-road as you pass. 199 AN EVENING'S WALK. ALBANO. I. "T^OWN on the sunset ledge, one heron veers *~^ Towards the green-blue lake, Fluffing along its surface, where the spears Of flags and rushes shake. II. The heats and fiery winds have died their death, In silence calm and deep, As in hot passion, angrj' gusts of breath Are hushed to gradual sleep. III. 'Neath Palazzola's monastery wall, Franciscan monks we see. Sitting beneath their thick-leaved laurels tall, Idle as boys might be. IV. How strange that active men can think that ease With " aves '' marked, is blest ! That only prayer and meditation please A God who knows no rest ! 200 A A EVENING'S WALK. A LB A NO. V. We wander on, until the silver leaves The sea that sunset lies on, And the sharp outline of Soracte cleaves The golden-grey horizon. VI. In its cold shadow sleeps the lake, one side The height whereon we stand : The other, Rome's campagna, stretching wide Its sunburnt wrinkled hand. VII. St. Petei-'s dome, with campaniles girt. Far as may reach the eye, Hangs, like a burnisht drop, upon the skirt Of the clear opal sky. VIII. Then, from Gandolfo's castle of the Popes We turn our steps, adown Through Barberini's terraces and slopes, Back to Albano's town. 20I SONNET. A S one who, walking on a summer day ^ 'Neath branching trees, afar from the noon glare, Seeth no sun, but noteth, here and there, A beam that makes the flickering foliage gay : So I, whose footsteps far from thee must stray, Down thickset paths, where the sun-sparkling air, That lent -such colour to life's common grey Is overshadowed, — suddenly am 'ware Of a gleam lightening all my forward way ; When, through the lapse of distance, falls a word Radiant and cheering, and my heart is stirred By the quick influence of that warm ray. Let it shine oft : since like a caged bird. My heart sings only, when the sunbeams play. 202 AN APOLOGUE. ' I ""HREE Pilgrims once from Palestine were landed Upon an island in the main storm-tost. They, craving refuge, came not empty handed, But in return, gave all they had not lost. One planted firm his cross upon the granite ; One dropt his anchor deep from shifting sands ; And one, a heart so large he scarce could span it. Charged with men's sorrows, bore with loving hands. Straight from the tomb of their dear Lord and Master, Those precious gifts, amid the storm and strife, Fearing with them no shipwreck, no disaster. They brought, to sweeten and ennoble life. The first was Faith, with large eyes ever growing More bright, the longer that they lifted be. The second Hope, about whose feet was flowing A tide that bore bright things from far at sea. The third was Charity, the well-beloved one. Who heals all wounds with his sweet tender lips. And for the thorn, where'er he has removed one, AN APOLOGUE. 203 Lays light a roseleaf with his finger-tips. Faith, Hope, and Charity. If all else perish, Grasp what we may of each, with eager hand. Happy is he, who those three gifts can cherish. Brought by the Pilgrims from the Holy Land ! 204 TWO MISTRESSES. O HE wore a yellow gown, with filagrees ; "^ I watched her swarthy cheek, that sudden flushed And sudden, ghastly deadened, with the thrust His rapier-wit sent through her, to the lees Of her heart's blood. He strokes his beard, and twirls His pourpoint's tassel, as he turns to speak To a ripe heauty, with a Rubens cheek, And large white bosom, overlaid with pearls, Seated beside him on the flowery green, Who whispers in his ear some amorous staves. And through gold rivers of whose hair he laves His fingers, laughing at the other's spleen. ■■r * * -:f * In the first grey of dawn, a figure stands. And draws aside the damask of his bed . . . Then to the fountain with a stealthy tread. — The fishes sickened where she washed her hands. 20S POPPIES. ' ' On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats, So pert and useless, that they call to mind The scarlet coats that pester human kind." — Keats. TV T OTHING is useless. Do not scorn ■^ ^ These poppies of the field : Who thinks a space will not despise Their blushful cheeks and downcast eyes, Remembering all they yield. The life-blood of the golden land, They greet the passer by : Flushing, with ev'ry wind that's born, The heaving bosom of the corn. Under the summer sky. Ah ! fitting is it ye should grow Beside the " staff of life,"— The one our strength from day to day. The other a pow'r to smooth away All human care and strife ! When on some fevered bed, perchance, The com will not avail, 2o6 POPPIES. Nor wine, nor any potions deep, To call one little hour of sleep Over the eyelids pale ; 'Tis then those " useless scarlet coats " (Like some of human kind) Prove their strong hearts can soothe distress, For all they wear a gaudy dress, That flutters in the wind. Their sun-dried leaves have not in vain Outlived the harvest-day, If life has gained one hour of peace — If troubles for a moment cease — Under the Poppy's sway. 207 A DREAM OF PARADISE. A VISION rose before my eyes, '^*- As I sat musing on this life, (Its good and ill, its joy and strife,) Of what should be in Paradise. I saw two souls that, until then, Had been divided ; hand in hand, In golden day at last they stand, Clear from the doubts of scornful men. They look into each other's eyes. With sense of perfect peace at last. Made dearer for Life's sorrows past, — Thus shall it be in Paradise. Where fruit and flower together grow, Where all is ripe, and no decay. Where the birds warble through the day, And singingly the waters flow. Where good that here hath feebly blown Shall, 'neath that sun, expand its leaves, 2o8 A DREAM OF PARADISE. And Angels bind it into sheaves, The evil withering, unknown. For Love, that lights men up to Heaven, ( Love, is the sun that rules that day. In whose name tears are wiped away, In whose name all sins are forgiven. The vision this, before my eyes ; The reign of what on earth was good ; Where nothing is misundersood, — Thus shall it be in Paradise. 209 LOVE IS OUT OF TOWN. I. T WALKED this morning through the silent -*- square, And looked up at the house I love so well, Two cats crept through the area-railing there, The milkman passed, and did not ring the bell. The frail policeman gave no side-glance down. He passed as I did — Love is out of Town ! II. All the dear windows of that house are dark, The door is bolted, and her pug is still. No chimney's smoke tells of a human spark To light and feed a fire. Upon the sill Lobelias sown in May look sere and brown : — All things declare that Love is out of Town ! 2IO IN THE HOF-GARTEN. A FRAGMENT FROM A PLAY. Baron. T AM from Wiirj^burg, her old home, you know, -*- And being here, would fain behold her face, Gracious as summer-rain to dry old hearts Like mine ! But in an hour, the Prince's audience done, We ride, from hence, for Ratisbon. I fear Mine eyes shall not be gladdened, Count Rudolf, With sight of your young Duchess ? Count Rudolf. She was here A minute since. . . . The musk of velvet robes Clings yet, methinks, along this colonnade. . . . That fallen rose-leaf on the marble step Marks where she passed — yes ; look you ! there she stands Leaning against the balustrade. Baron. So — so — She looks less bright, methinks . . . Time works that change. . . . (Two years come Martinmass, since she was wed i*) But fairer, fuller blown, and statelier. IN THE HOF-GARTEN. 211 Becoming station and apparel. . . . Who Are they who stand aloof, and yet so near ? Wanting, methinks, in courtliness, to leave Their Duchess thus. Count. It is the Duke himself. With Countess Arnheim. Baron. Ha! the Duke himself? A likely-looking man, well-limbed, erect : Yet time to him. perhaps, might something add Df mental vigour. . . . Eh ? . . . The face is weak ; Drawn with too soft a brush — but he is young— Who is this Countess Arnheim ? Count. If you mean Her birth, 'tis dubious : her rank, you hear : Her wit, her talent, is the talk of all Since she appeared at Court. Baron. Humph ! how long since ? Her wit, like Charity, hath much to hide. She is ill-favoured. Count. Wait till you have speech With her. Not three months is it since she came, And yet already half the men are mad About her. Baron. Doth the Duchess much affect Her company ? Count. Well . . . Yes ... I scarce can say . . . I think so. She diverts the Duke's dull hours, Hath a sweet trick of singing — nay, of late. 212 /N THE HOF-GAKTEN. I note that in the fashion of her coif And farthingale, the Duchess copies all That Countess Arnheim wears. Baron {after a pause). Tell me, my friend — Though now I push my question to the verge Of indiscretion — Is the Duchess held A happy woman ? Happy, as the wife Of some poor peasant is, upon a rood Of land, whose wishes never further stray ? Count. Nay, Baron, was it not a marriage made, As royal marriages so seldom are — Firstly, for love, and only afterwards Approved of by the State ? Rarely is lot So blest in sov'reign station as should be That of our Duke and Duchess. Baron. You evade The question, ne'ertheless. Not what should be, But what />, I desire to know. She looks Like one in whom the light of youth hath died Out suddenly. Count. I hope not so. Baron. Confess, Do you not mark a difference, since first She came ? Think ! only twenty-two ! Tis soon To wear that listless, court-begotten air I Count. Baron, you drive me hard. ... I live at Court, And should not see, that which were best unseen . . . IN THE HOF'GARTEN. 213 There is a change, I cannot but deplore, Noting no element from her life withdrawn — No shock of fate — no sudden grief to cause The alteration. But from Nature's face We learn how trifles imperceptible Have large result. . . . Between yon sycamores, Look at the lake there. Scarce a minute since,. It bore the perfect image of the sky. Upon its bosom : every golden moss Along its bank, and lichen's pale-green hair On the down-bending branch was mirrored clear : And now— the change ! A breath of air— a drift Of fleecy vapour o'er the blue,— no more, And lo ! the lake's untroubled sympathy With the bright day above, is gone. A cold Grey ripple, Uke an empty laughter, breaks The tranquil trust wherein it lay, and smiled. . . . Such change there is in the young Duchess. Baro7i. I^oth Your parable imply that o'er the face Of what was once her Heaven, — a husband's love, — A cloud hath blown already ? Count. God forbid ! I think, — nay, I am sure, the Duke doth love His wife : but women sometimes entertain Hopes of eternal honeymoons, which few Have ever reahzed. It may be this : It may be that the Duke, like many men, 2 14 IN THE HOF-GARTEN. In the security of " home " and " wife," Finds peace indeed, yet still unsatisfied, That lack of something to excite and stir The sluggish blood, at Court (our wars being done). Where men must needs spend stratagem on chess, And try their strength on tennis, or at ball ! ^ Baron. And waste their wit on women, — not their wives. I understand. The drift of your remark Touches me nearly. I had rather see This broidered Duchess back again, a girl Stepping to Mass in modest stuffs, beside Her aged mother (the Princess, you know. Was fall'n from royal fortunes when the Duke First met her daughter) — I had rather see Her back, I say, in Wiirzburg, — exiled — poor, But where each burgher blessed her, like the sun. For shining on him, as she passed, — than here, More lonely far, in all the gold brocades Of court, where riot is so loud, that hearts. Though side by side, hear not each other beat ! As to your Countess Arnheitns, — one and all. They should be Count. Baron ! not alone the walls But trees and flowers have ears ! 'Tis dangerous To breathe with disrespect a lady's name. We are at Court ! But you, on your return, If you should speak of us, bear this in mind ; IN THE HOF-GARTEN. 215 The Duchess, being a woman, hath her share Of thorns and roses : being a good one, she Will try and put the thorns aside, in time ; Taking the roses only to her heart. . . . They come this way — 'twere well that we retire. 2l6 TWO VIEWS OF A CHARACTER. Herbert. T T E is a hypocrite .... -*- ^ Max. I think it not— I do believe that you misjudge him, taking Your side-view of the man to be the whole Completed truth : just so, a mountain shows One aspect to the North, one to the South ; Jagged and peaked to one, and to the other All curves and slopes. The man is many-sided, Not false, I say. Herbert. Pah ! doesn't he sing psalms. And pass with half the women for a Saint, And talk his vaporous sentiment, the while He's no whit better than his neighbours, Max ? If that's not cant^ forgive me ! Don't wash in The sky of your celestial charity. Old Boy, so thick that eveiy edge is lost And outline blurred. Max. Herbert, the real sky Lights all, and colours, softening all the lines ; Remember this. If our weak copy strives To blend and reconcile in our finite view TIVO VIEWS OF A CHARACTER. 217 Of others what seems fauhy, let us take Revenge in clear sharp sunlight on ourselves In the known foreground. Think how oft our thoughts — Our secret thoughts, if not our open acts — To-day give lie to yesterdays and to-morrows I Of all the seed the Sower dropped, what fell By the road-side, I think, fell thickest. Birds I' the air for ever hover round us, eager To snatch the good seed as it falls. And if The lower nature of this man forswears At times the nobler part, as I believe. He is but human. Peter thrice denied His Master ; and God's chosen Shepherd-King Was stained with shameful sin. Yet none, I think, Hold these for hypocrites. Herbert. Now you confound Two things — or else you are a Jesuit, Max. An upright man may fall, being tempted — well, None know their strength, alas ! but far from this. Are the habitual double-lives that, like Panels we wot of, painted for the world With Godly Saints, show, when reversed, a lewd And devilish riot. Max {after a pause). There are such, I know ; But oftener, far oftener, I believe. Do lives resemble pictures that we judge Not as complete, but in their several parts 2i8 riVO VIEWS OF A CHARACTER. Saying, "Well done 1 " to this— turning our eyes From that uncared-for corner— finding them But inconsistent, ill-accomplished wholes, Yet not all worthless. ... Ah ! Believe me. Truth To our own hearts is rarer than to men, So much the larger part of self lies hid From all save God. 219 WINFRED'S HAIR. WINFRED, waking in the morning, Locks dishevelled, sighed, " Alas I Broken is the Venice-bodkin That you gave me —'twas of glass. All my auburn hair, henceforward, Shall be given to the wind." — Ere the evening came, another's Net of pearls her hair confined. Fragile as the Venice-bauble I had thrust in Winfred's hair. Soon the pearl-net snapped asunder Other hands had fastened there ; Ere the moon's wide-blossomed petals On the breast of night had died, (Net and bodkin both discarded,) Winfred's glittering hair flowed wide ! Silver comb and silken fillet Next, in turn, the wild hair bound. Till, at length, the crown of wifehood Clasped itself that hair around. 220 WIN FRED'S HAIR. Golden crown of Love ! displacing Girlhood's vain adornments there Winfred never more shall alter, Now, the fashion of her hair. 221 A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND. A LITTLE water-spirit all day long ■^^ Sat singing on the stream. The fisher heard And smiled to hear that sweet voice, as it stirred The reeds and rushes with its trustful song. " I hope, O I hope," that burthen ever grew, " That the Redeemer of mankind will save me too ! " A stern, hard priest who rode along that way, Wrapt in a mantle of self-righteous zeal. Felt his wrath kindle at the soft appeal. That formed the burthen of that trustful lay. " I hope, O I hope," burst from those lips anew, " That the Redeemer of mankind will save me too ! " There sat the little Spirit on the wave. As the priest turning on his saddle, cried, " Cease, cease that clamour, the Redeemer died The souls of men — not such as thee — to save. As soon shall blossoms this bare twig unfold As thou, Salvation, impious sprite, behold ! " With that same twig, his lazy mule he smote. And the poor Spirit's cry of sharp despair 222 A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND. At those fell words rang on the silent air, As he sank down, too helpless now to float. But lo ! the priest's mule scarce ten paces bore him, Ere the dry twig burst out in bloom before him ! Struck with remorse and shame, the salt tears ran Down the hard face of that repentant man ; And turning back, his humbled head he bowed Before God's throne of grace : then cried aloud, " See, sinful man, the twig has bloomed, to prove That God's love worketh in no narrow groove ! Thy soul, thou little Spirit, saved shall be— Pray thou that Christ like mercy show to me." And all that night, when trembling moonlight wakes The shadowy water with its silver strings. The fishers hear the little voice that sings Louder than ever, till its burthen breaks ; " I hope, yea, I hope — my hope I now renew. That the Redeemer of mankind will save me too." ^ 223 SYMPATHY. "\ "^ TE are as Harps, that vibrate to a touch From stranger hands, unconscious of the strings ; While the soul's slumbering echoes wake to life, And through its halls responsive music rings. Few are the Davids to these Harps of ours ! Few learn the cunning of the instrument : And those to whom the gift has been denied Are oftenest those with whom our Ii\es are spent. But God's large gift of Love is showered around. Let us be thankful. Earth were too like Heaven, If with the power of loving deep and long, That other gift of Sympathy were given ! 224 TO A SIREN. O MERMAID, Mermaid, underneath the sea, Luring to death the sailors with thy strain, The day is gone when thou could'st capture me. Pass on : thy music here is spent in vain ! " —Thus my heart sang when I beheld her face. After the lapse of many changeful years, And 1 refused to bow before the grace That cost me once so many bitter tears. " O Mermaid, Mermaid, on thy coral strand Lies many a gallant heart for thee who died, And no tear dims the mirror in thy hand ! Pass on — pass on " — in bitterness I cried. Time had not touched her beauty : she was gay ; No pity lingered round her harp's sweet strings ; And I rejoiced that I had broke away, — That now in vain for me the Siren sings. 225 THEN AND NOW. T T E and I in the twilight, -*- -*■ I mind it well — ah me ! His wild despair, the ciy of his heart, In its hopeless misery. Crushed as a flower is crushed In a shut-down book, his soul. That hour ta'en out of a summer's day, Had lost all self-control. The book was a heavy anguish, Closed on a living man : We may slowly learn to unclasp the book,- Unfold the flower, who can ? Was this the friend I knew. Who smiled at love, in scorn ? And all because that a worthless woman Died here yesterday morn ! Yet she no more deceived him. With the guile of her pouting kiss. Q . 226 THEN AND NOW. God ! that such precious oil should be poured Into vessel as vile as this ! No — she no more deceived him : The worth of her soul he had found : But, as ivy will smother the strongest oak, Her being round his was wound. And not when the axe first severed The roots that had sapped his youth. Did he break from the coil of that noxious weed- Did his soul confess the truth. And this the cry that he uttered. As he hid his face in the bed. Where she, with her wealth of golden hair About her, was lying dead : " Gone from me I gone for ever ! All prayer in vain — in vain ! And I who would give my hopes of Heaven To call her back again ! " O, how I loved that woman ! Many and many a night Have I covered with kisses those little feet, Clasped in my fingers tight. THEN AND NOW. '2'2.^ " I had no power to hold her Close enough, as it seemed, When that head with its gold abundance bowed, Between my brown arms gleamed. " I watched her fringed eyelids. And listened, hour by hour, As the soft and regular breathing rose From her mouth's half-open flower. " The snow lay round our hut, friend. But she never felt the cold. And now, O God ! 'tis in vain my arms Her icy limbs enfold. "You point to those Dresden letters. To the lock of that Saxon's hair, I do not forget — but forgive — poor child ! — She was mad when we were there. " She was mad — yet I think she loved me. When we dwelt by the happy Rhine, — That autumn among the Styrian lakes — That spring in the Apennine. " And now the summer's come round, In Florence my darling must die ; 228 THEN AND NOW. She was with me but twelve short months ; yet hfere My Past and my Future lie. " Why was she taken from me ? Friend, did I ever complain ? I loved her, with all her hundred sins. As I never can love again. " Cruel, to her so young — Cruel, the summons sent ; In all the splendour and heat of youth, And without the time to repent ! " In darkness, O God ! I cry, Since the light of my life is flown, Since the woman I loved is dead — take me, For I cannot walk alone ! " These the passionate words That broke from his wild despair. I never saw him again, till ten Long years had blanched his hair. But 'tis thus that I recall him In that twilight, years ago ; Without, earth's darkness gathering round - Within, heart-ruin and woe. THEN AND NOW. 22<) God willed that out of that ruin A better man should rise, In whom the flesh was subjected To a spirit, pure and wise. As the cataract over a rapid ' Becomes a river of strength. The curf-ent of that mad life flowed calm ; His heart was God's at length. All the impetuous love He had poured, in youth, on the shrine Of an earthly Idol now was laid At the feet of Love Divine. As a cup, that in feverish joy Is drained on a festal day, May be sanctified to contain the Blood That washeth all sin away ; As we choose the self-same metal To shield our ships, and assail ; As the same words, uttered for good or for ill. For good or for ill prevail ; So with those Human weapons Chosen to fight God's fight. 23© THEN AND NOW. They are never passionless, luke-warm lives, But mighty for wrong, or right. Perhaps they have sinned and suffered, As this man did — I know That from men too cold for the Devil to tempt Saint Pauls can never grow ! Thus I think, as I look on him. Of his heart's long-wasted love. And how, through waters of bitterness, God Hath drawn that heart above. I see how men bless his coming. How they grieve when he departs : The secret of bruised spirits hath he. And a balm for wounded hearts. He cheers all them who suffer. He lifts all them who fall ; By temptation and sin, long years ago, He hath sympathy with all. As I look at him, I repeat All worketh to God's wise end ; Perhaps without that passionate love. He had not been here, my friend. PLANETS. 231 Perhaps he might have been harder, From a height of untempted strength — He was Passion's slave for a season, Is the servant of God, at length ! PLANETS. HP HE stars shoot from us as we gaze, and bear -*■ Their little lights from our dark world away ; The many twinkling pleasures of the day Fade into night, and leave us all unblest ; But the great planets burn unchanging there, Ahd the true glories of our life we wear, Like jewels on our breast. Nothing can rob us of them : ours they are, When God hath said, " Let there be light within," And while our earth-lamps fail us, and the din Of this dark world grows distant in our ears, We are led onward by our jewel-star, As shepherds once were guided from afar, To the low-cradled promise of past years ! 232 THE ITALIAN BEGGAR-BOY. " A FOREIGN vagabond and his ape, *■ Begging the bread away From honest Enghsh children, Who are hard at work all day, — You'll have never a penny of mine, indeed ! " I heard the good wife say. I looked and lo ! a swarthy child, With piteous hollow eyes, His monkey was his only friend, And almost half his size. A vagabond life ? Well, so it is. And they who work are wise. And we who preach these saws are wise ! Jacko in red and gold Held up his cap— I blushed to think My sixpence would uphold In luxury's lap, the man to whom The little child was sold. And then I questioned him, and learned Of the hard and pinching ways THE ITALIAN BEGGAR-BOY. 233 That young life was acquainted with, In its weary tramp to raise Enough to pay for a bed and crusts, From the master of his days : And how he oft on steps at night His weary Hmbs would throw, Not daring, penniless, to meet His wage of curse and blow. Such idleness, 'faith ! is harder work. Than factory children know ! So friendless, ignorant, debased. Without a single bond To raise him, through a human love, Unto the life beyond — Almost tempted to seek for rest In the heart of the first black pond ! I thought how children, mean as he. For whom some mother strives To lead them, through the fear of God, To follow upright lives, Were blessed : for through the rankest tares That grain of good survives. I thought how he too once lay warm, In the light of Love divine, 234 THE ITALIAN BEGGAR-BOY. As he hung on his sunburnt mother's breast, Under a Tuscan vine. From her grave on the hill, could she now behold How all light had ceased to shine ! I thought how bad the best of men Might have been had that light have fled ! " Vagabond lives are loveless ones ; I pity all such," I said. -'' In the name of her who bore thee, child. Here is a loaf of bread." 235 RETROSPECTION. '"T'HE only sorrows that endure are those -'- Of our own building ; roof d in with remorse. For loss of friends, of health, of riches, fame, Why, look you. Time shall reconcile us all To each of these, until we haply grow To count each loss, a gain ; but only this, The conscious loss of something in ourselves. Unseen, but lessening surely day by day, (As though a well should feel the water-spring Drying up slowly in its heart) — the years Do not assuage this ill. Our own old selves Down the long avenue of Life we see. And the pale phantoms of what might have been Lining the road on either side : we mark The early promise unfulfiU'd ; the corn — Some field half-cut, and some unripen'd still ; — Our figs and vines unpruned and profitless ; The flowers — Ah me ! — the flowers that we bound In sheaves at morn, have wither'd in mid-day ! And Hope, and Faith, and Singleness of Heart Have dropp'd like those fair petals, one by one. Under the world's hot breath. Is it not so ? 236 RETROSPECTION. " Turn not thine eyes behind," the preacher saith, " Nor long, Hke Lot's wife, for the things that were." If every day were as the smoke that fades. Leaving no trace behind, this might be so ; But men whose Hves are more than jibe and jeer Feel how each hour is laden with its seed. And that God marks the harvest. Unto such Oblivion can never come. To mourn With manly sorrow for his past, unfits No earnest man to win his future way. 237 IN MEMORIAM, MEN say, when saints are carried to the grave, " Rejoice, for they have join'd that heavenly • throng, To which in life their faithful spirits gave Sure pledges to belong." I say not so. Salt of the earth are they, Lent us to savour Hfe's too bitter food ;— To help us forward on the thorny way : — — Weep only for the good ! For weaker spirits, wasted in life's wear. Be glad, when God hath laid within the ground Burthens they were not strong enough to bear. — His mercy doth abound ! His mercy doth abound ; for He hath seen. And judged, by other than our human laws. The movements of this intricate machine, — — Each hidden physical cause. 238 IN MEMORIAM. By early taint or heritage, have we Follow'd, it may be, at the temptei-'s call. Man sees these things as in a glass, but He, Our Father knoweth all. Therefore weep not that this our loved one lies Deaf to our voice, and colourless, and cold. That never more shall he unveil his eyes, « Nor his clasp'd hands unfold. Never, until that day, when, under Heaven, He and the Judge of men meet face to face ; And all his sins be known, — and be forgiven. Through His abounding grace ! For that he died repentant of his sins, Thankful, and humble, with his latest breath, And that we know the truer life begins, When this is closed in death. Let us rejoice then ; he has reach'd his goal ; For surely he is better hid away. Where earth's corruption cannot touch the soul But only the vile clay : The clay that held, in sorrow and in strife. The better part of our beloved, we know ; God, in His wisdom, cut the thread of life, — — Yes ! it is better so. 239 BY THE SEA. OCOME, Love, to the yellow sand, Now in the sunny morning weather, There heart by heart, and hand in hand, The impress of our feet shall stand One little hour together. The sea, yon distant bar along. Is moaning, like a heart in pain ; But rising, as a giant strong. Soon shall the burthen of his song Break on the shore again. " Oblivion " is that burthen grand. For ages. Love, unchanging still ; While reaching out a wrinkled hand. He clean effaces from the sand Our names,— as Time soon will ! Nor Time nor tide, Love, hath control Our hearts this little hour to sever ; Tho' waves may rise,— while the years roll. Its memory stands within each soul, As on a rock,— for ever ! 240 MODERN JUDAH. I. /^ JUDAH ! Thy rocks are unshaken, ^^ From Uan unto Beersheba still ; But when will thy voice reawaken The echoes from valley to hill ? Dominion is not as the land is, Thy glory, O Judah ! is past : Thy children are blown, as the sand is, Along ev'ry shore, by the blast. II. The Lord chose thee, in the beginning, And brought thee from bondage to reign. And ofttimes He punished thy sinning. As fathers in wisdom ordain. Yet forgave thy backsliding, and lent thee Great prophets who spake His decree. Till, last, in His mercy, He sent thee His son, whom ye nailed to the tree. III. For this, was thy kingdom divided. For this, from thy throne was thou hurled. MODERN JUDAH. 241 To wander, despised and derided, With a brand on thy brow, through the world. Thy sons come from exile, with wailing. To the wall of the Temple that stands. But repentance is now unavailing, — The sceptre is past from thy hands. IV. The eyrie of eagles in Zion Is still on the heights, as of yore. But the mountain that Judah would die on Shall never be his any more. No longer the keeper of cattle, No longer the shepherd of flocks, No longer the mighty in battle, Nor builder of cities on rocks. V. Thy back and thy brain have no longer The force and the vigour of old : For one thing alone are they stronger,— The heaping up silver and gold ! So this is the end of thy story. Thy strength is in lending to kings, Of gold is thy vision of glory — Of gold is the psalm Judah sings ! R 242 MODERN JUDAH. VI. And, behold ! as great gifts to base uses Are prostitute, so it shall be, That the God of thy Fathers refuses To give back thy kingdom to thee. He chose thee, anointed thee, crowned thee, O Judah ! with blessings, and then Cast thee forth from thy throne, when he found thee The last 'mong the children of men ! 243 THE ROAD THAT JESUS TROD.* I. A MONG the rocky hills, there winds "^ ^ A way where little water flows ; Nor shade from trees the traveller finds, Nor verdure to invite repose. But names we spelt, and loved to learn In childhood, from the Word of God, Greet us, like friends, at every turn Of the rough road that Jesus trod. II. To right and left, that rocky range, Saw His uprise. His bowing down. The thorns He suffered do not change : These are the children of His crown. The bitter waters that betray — The silver star that lights the sod — They are the same, unchanged to-day, As on the road that Jesus trod. 1 Written between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, 1887. 244 THE ROAD THAT JESUS TROD. HI. And when the scene of all His pains Has faded from our mortal sight, May their remembrance fill our veins With strength to suffer and to fight : To suffer for our fellow-man, To fight for truth that comes from God ; Far from Judea, pilgrims can Thus tread the road that Jesus trod. TRANSLATION FROM VICTOR HUGO. O OYONS comme I'oiseau, pose pour un instant ^^ Sur les rameaux trop freles ; Qui sent trembler la branche, mais qui chant pour- tant, Sachant qu'il a des ailes. Be as the bird, who for an instant makes The pliant twig his resting-place ; yet sings Secure, although the branch beneath him shakes. Knowing that he hath wings. ^4^^ 245 BEAUTY CLARE. T T ALF Lucrece, half Messalina, -*- -*- Lovely piece of Sevres-china ! When I see you, I compare You with common quiet creatures, — Homely delf, in ways and features, — Beauty Clare ! Surely Nature must have meant you For a Siren, when she sent you That sweet voice, and glittering hair. — Was it touch of human passion Made you woman, in a fashion — Bfeauty Clare ! I think not. The moral door-step Cautiously you never o'er-step, When your victims you ensnare — — Lead them on with hopes — deceive them- Then turn coldly round, and leave them. Beauty Clare ! 246 BEAUTY CLARE. You've a husband, — and you like him Very fairly : does it strike him That at home a married pair Does not want a tenor-chorus Ever, to his wife, canorous. Beauty Clare ? Some new slave I note each season, Wearing life away, his knees on. (Moths around the taper's flare !) Guardsman fine — or young attache^ Black and smooth as papier-mache ; Beauty Clare. • In your box, I see them dangling, Triumphs of successful angling, Trophies ranged behind your chair ; How they watch the fan you flutter ! How they drink the words you utter, Beauty Clare ! When at kettle-drums presiding, I admire your tact, dividing Smiles to each, in equal share. Lest one slave wax over-jealous, Or another grow less zealous. Beauty Clare ! BEAUTY CLARE. 247 At each ball you fill a hundred Girls, when you approach, with one dread, — (What enchanting wreaths you wear I) — That the men will dance no longer, Drawn by an attraction stronger. Beauty Clare. What perfection in your waltzing ! How in vain the women all sing, When you warble some sweet air ! But, your sentimental ditty Over, — you are then the witty Beauty Clare. Men of every age and station Listen to your conversation. With a rapt admiring stare ; As though words that from your mouth fall Sweet as grapes were, on a south wall. Beauty Clare. How you light the smouldering embers Of decrepid Peers and Members ! While you still have smiles to spare For a new-fledged boy from college, Sitting at yotir feet for knowledge ! — Beauty Clare. 248 BEAUTY CLARE. At your country-seat in Salop What contention for a gallop With you, on your chestnut mare ! How the country-misses hate you, Seeing o'er a five-barr'd gate, — you. Beauty Clare ! Who at croquet can come near you ? E'en the men, at billiards, fear you — Might dislike you, if you were Less engaging — child-like — simple — ( !) With that figure, and that dimple, Beauty Clare ! All-accomplish'd little creature ! Fatally-endowed by nature, — Were your inward soul laid bare, What should we discover under That seductive mask, I wonder. Beauty Clare ? Should we find a heart, revealing Any one warm, tender feeling ? Or a cold hard nature, there, Saving you — in the Law's letter — From the lot of many a better, Beauty Clare ? BEAUTY CLARE. 249 Yet — who knows ? Good might have won you — Have not those rare gifts undone you ? Had it not been better, ne'er To have had gifts rain'd so thickly, Vanity-corrupted, quickly. Beauty Clare ? Had you once a little sister ? Did you, when at night you kiss'd her. Ever breathe an inward pray'r. That, in all things, God would make her Unlike you, — or else would take her. Beauty Clare ? For the thought of a Hereafter Hushes even your light laughter Sometimes, I suppose ? Beware, How you find yourself within it ! — All is changed in such a minute, — Beauty Clare ! When the day shall overtake you. That your lovers all forsake you. How with you, then, will it fare ? — When your conquests are forgotten, In the Row that men call " Rotten," Beauty Clare ? 25© BEAUTY CLARE. Locks grown thin, and roses faded, From your pinnacle degraded. When the men no longer care Round your withered form to cluster,- Friends how many shall you muster, Beauty Clare? Wretched woman ! I deplore you — What an old age lies before you ! In that hour of dark despair. All the ghosts of your attractions Will rise up, and curse your actions,- Beauty Clare ! 1865. 251 LINES TO ONE ASPERSED. "D ISE, noble Heart, and speak, Speak to the Nation ! Rise in thy strength, and crush Each accusation. Rise to thy feet, and face All who accuse thee. Slay, with the sword of Truth, Lies that abuse thee. II. Show what the life of a Base man can never teach, How to thee nothing Ignoble could ever reach ! If thou hast fallen, 'twas Striving to fight with them ; Better to fall with thee. Than stand upright with them. 252 LINES TO ONE ASPERSED. III. Thou with ambition's crew Never hast herded on, — Never for selfish ends Thy sword hast girded on. God of the fickle crowd One little day — no more. Now of thy strength and thy Virtues they say no more ! IV. Monarch of all, as the Deer on the mountain is, Bright and unsullied, and Pure as the fountain is, Natures like thine are most Quickly ensnared, we know. Natures like thine are not Easily spared, we know. V. Come, as the morning comes, Clad in its golden clouds, Dashing the darkness back — Thee no dark fold enshrouds LINES TO ONE ASPERSED. Falsehood and mystery Never could live with thee. Noble Heart ! All the rest We can forgive with thee ! 253 CHISWICK PRESS :--C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. r r This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 213 (533) m ■| IHW LlJbJKAK^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AA 000 369 298 5