THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE ■ Ex Libris ; C. K. OGDEN • \7 " ■ " ^^^^^-:?t/ c>^ l^^^ ^;^J^ STUDIES OF SENSATION AND EVENT S^tubies of ^engatton antr (^bent POEMS BY EBENEZER JONES EDITED PREFACED AND ANNOTATED BY RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD WITH MEMORIAL NOTICES OF THE AUTHOR BY SITMNER JONES AND WILLIAM JAMES LINTON LONDON PICKERING AxVD CO. 196 PICCADILLY 1879 CONTENTS. PAGE Peeface by the Editor - - - - xi Ebexezee Jones : Im Memoeiam by Stjmnee Jones ------ xvii Eeminiscences of Eben Jones by W. J. Linton Ixii -Studies of Sensation and Event THE naked thinker THE waits - a death-sound zingalee - EMILY THE HAND - two sufferers song of the kings of gold THE masquerade DRESS • 'j. REMEMBRANCE OF FEELINGS f; ODE TO THOUGHT - EARLY SPRING THE GEM OF COQUETTES - A DEVELOPMENT OF IDIOTCY 1 11 16 20 28 34 37 47 52 55 58 62 m 69 VllI CONTENTS Studies of Seksation and Eveptt : youth's departure high summer a happy sadness - hardiness of love A slave's triumph INACTIVITY THE mourner's ISLE SONG OF THE GOLD-GETTERS EYEING THE EYES OF ONE's MISTRESS REPOSE IN LOVE SONG TO A ROSE TO A CORPSE-WATCHER THE SUICIDE ... opinion's CHANGE - A CRISIS .... THE RAILROAD A PRAYER TO A FICKLE MISTRESS - A pagan's DRINKING-CHAUNT DISMOUNTING A MISTRESS- - RAIN .... THE FACE - - - - WHIMPER OF AWAKENING PASSION A lady's HAND 75 77 78 sa 8S m 9? 94 97 99 101 lOS 107 110 111 125 127 129- 131 132 134 136 138. CONTENTS IX Studies of Sensation and Event : THE poet's death - A COMING CRY A PLEA FOR LOVE OF THE INDIVIDUAL PLEA FOR LOVE OF THE UNIVERSAL WAYS OF REGARD - FEMININE SPITE FEMININE GOODNESS CAR LA PENS^E, ^c. PAGE 140 144 147 149 151 173 175 177 Studies of Resemblance and Consent: "when the WORLD IS BURNING" "my WIFE AND CHILD, COME CLOSE TO ME TACT IN KINDNESS - - . - SEEKERS ..... THE misanthrope's CURE - I BELIEVE - . - - . A WINTER HYMN TO THE SNOW - TO DEATH ----- A WARNING . - - - 185 187 188 190 192 195 200 204 207. PEEFACE BY THE EDITOE. " This remarkable poet," -ttTote Mr, Dante Eossetti more than nine years ago of Ebenezer Jones, " affords nearly the most striking instance of neglected genius in oiir modem school of poetry. His poems (the Studies of Sensation and Event) are full of vivid dis- orderly power. I was little more than a lad at the time I first chanced on them, but they struck me greatly, though I was not blind to their glaring defects, and even to the ludicrous side of their wilful 'newness ;' attempting, as they do, to deal recklessly ^vith those almost inaccessible combinations in nature and feeling wliich only intense and oft-renewed effort may perhaps at last approach. For all this, these ^Studies' shoidd he, and one day will be, disinterred from the heaps of verse deservedly buried. xii PREFACE "I met him only once in my life, I believe in 1848,. at which time he was about thirty, and would hardly talk on any subject but Chartism. " Some years after meeting Jones, I was much pleased to hear the great poet Eobert Browning speak in warm terms of the merit of his work ; and I have understood that Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton); admired the * Studies.'* "The only other recognition of this poet which I have observed is the appearance of a short but admirable lyric by him in the collection called Nightingale Valley,, edited by William AUingham. " It is fidhj time that attention should he called to this- poet's name, which is a noteworthy one." Such, in substance, was the warm and generous- response of a living man of genius, himself distinguished equally as a poet and as a painter, to a stray question which found its way in the early part of 1870 into that t " He spoke with enthusiasm," writes Mr. Watts, " of the exqui site little poem called 'The Face.' Indeed, there is a lovely poem of his own, with a kindi'ed motif, in his ' Poems, of Many Years, ' beginning They seem'd to those who saw them meet." BV THE EDITOR. xm invaluable repository of out-of-the-way information, Notes and Queries. That letter of Mr. D. G. Eossetti's was my first in- troduction to Ebenezer Jones and to his Studies of Se7isation and Event. On examining the volume I found it no way disappointed (say rather exceeded) the high expectations thus raised of it, and I determined I would some day, if opjjortunity served, give fulfilment to Mr. Eossetti's prophecy. Pressure of more urgent literary work between the years 1873-76 — postponed the execution of a scheme which I never ceased to cherish ; but when in the summer of last year (1878) there was a lull in my other literary engagements and I was really in search of a subject, it seemed the time had at length come for •doing something. About the middle of August, I accor- dingly issued, as the first of a series of monographs entitled "Forgotten Books worth Eemembering," a little brochure giving a brief account of Ebenezer Jones and his volume, and quoting some half-dozen of his most striking and remarkable lyrics. Meagre as, from want of material, the pamphlet necessarily Avas xiv PREFACE in all that concerned biogi-apliical information, it was nevertheless fortunate enough to do good service in attracting attention to and awakening interest in the subject. Hardly had it been published a month when the brilliant and grapliic series of papers commenced in the Atlienmum, in which Mr. Theodore Watts told with a picturesque power of writing unrivalled since Mrs. Gaskell's account of the early life of the Brontes, the beautiful and touching story of Ebenezer Jones's early life and struggles, and of the love that knit together himself and liis elder brother and sister Sumner and Mary. These papers, extending through three numbers of the jouraal in which they appeared,* served the double purpose of familiarising the reading public with a name they had forgotten, or to speak more properly, had never known ; and to correct certain mis-statements of fact calculated to give an altogether erroneous idea of Ebenezer Jones's life, mind and character, which had gone abroad with a semblance of * Sept. 21, Sept. 28, and Oct. 12, 1878. BY THE EDITOR. xr authority in a letter following Mr. Eossetti's, signed with a name well known in art and literature, and ajDpearing in Notes and Queries just a month after his.* The interest of students and the curiosity of general readers being now everywhere well awakened, it seemed to me that the time had come for makine: a serious and definitive attemjit to resuscitate Ebenezer Jones as a poet. Now, surely, or never I Having sought and obtained the approval and assist- ance of his nearest surviving relatives and friends (and notably of his brother, Mr. Sumner Jones, of Mr. Horace Harral, and of Mr. W. J. Linton), I accordingly at once devoted myself to the task. Mr. Sumner Jones and Mr. Linton have supplied the eloquent and invaluable memorial notices, from which I do not propose to detain the reader any longer. And Mr. Harral, with the promptest kindness and generosity, entrusted to me for use a mass of his friend's papers — consisting mainly of unpublished poems, rescued as brands from the burning, and con- taining things as fine as any in his pubhshed book. * Notes and Qucrk.% ]\Tarch 5, 1870. xvi PREFACE BY THE EDITOR. Should the present volume meet with a reasonable amount of acceptance, I propose to publish a second in the autumn, containing a selection from these, together with a reprint of the pamphlet on the Land Monopoly, some other prose pieces, and per- haps a few letters. This second volume will also contain a very remarkable photographic portrait of the author, executed by two artist friends of his, of which the negative has fortunately been preserved. I shall reserve till then also what I have to say myself respecting Ebenezer Jones's life and work and his place among the poets of his age. I have given way in this volume to those who have a prior and a better right to speak about him ; and it has already ex- ceeded its intended limits. Richard Hekne Shepherd. Chelsea, May, 1879. EBENEZER JONES : IX ME3I0RIA3I. Under date 8tli January 1870, inquiry was made in "Notes and Queries," No. 106, over the signature of F. Gledstanes-Waugh, for " particulars of the life " of Ebenezer Jones, " the above-named Chartist " — as he is incorrectly styled — whose Poems entitled " Studies of Sensation and Event," published in 1843, and now termed " a very striking book," have long been out of print. Ebenezer Jones was my younger brother, and I wish to correct some mis-statements made in *' Xotes and Queries," in reply to the above in- quiry, and also to supply some of the particulars requested — the former in order that I may he faithful to his memory, around which, until 1870, there had been unbroken silence since his death ; the latter with reference mainly to the conditions under which the c XX EBENEZER JONES: in order to ascertain and test the authenticity of its emotions. Be this as it may, I know that Ivis aim was to be, in his o^vn words, a " poetical tliinker," and an " Ode to Thought "* is the first written poem in the volume. Some minor inaccuracies require notice. He wrote no "pamphlet on the Currency " after he forsook his true sphere, Poetry. He A\Tote, however, and pul)- lished two pamphlets. One, I think, was entitled "The Contlition of England Question ;" but of that I can now find no trace. The other was entitled " The Land Monopoly, the suffering and demoralization caused by it, and the justice and expediency of its abolition." This was published in 1 849, f and is before me as I^vrite. Here he expressly denounces Communism in a very striking passage, but there is no allusion even here to Chartism, though the preceding year, 1848, was the Chartist year, and the throne-shaking year for Europe, when many older men than Eben Jones — then aged twenty-eight — were, for a time, fairly carried off their feet. He had from boyhood a decided and not a mere theoretical leaning to a Republican form of Govern- ment, but his philosophical tolerance of opinions opposed to his own is sho-vvn in a Sonnet, " Opinion's * Sec pp. 58-Cl. + By Charles Fox, Paternoster-row, pp. 28 (including title). IN 3IEM0nTA3f. xxi Change," where he counsels the " beardless states- man," and adds : — " But learnVl to think, he sees that mon in a Kiug Find much they need, — a thing to which must bow Masters as low as serfs ; a man whose brow Is higliest in the State, and yet must spring Smiles to their smiles — and so he lets enjoy Mankind its many Kings, as a child its toy."* Caroline Atherstone — to whom he was so lamentably allied in marriage in 18-44 — was not a daughter, but a niece, of the late Edwin Atherstone. Not one line in his book has that reference to her which is clearly implied by the context of Mr. Scott's remark : — '' Ebenezer's day of poetry was his day of love." The book was published Ijefore they ever met, and much of it was written while love was yet confined to the circle of home. Those poems to which the remark does apply were inspired by one who was lost to him by change and estrangement, and who not long after was claimed by death. All this happened to liim before he published. It will sufficiently indicate wliat is here meant, to state that the poems "Kepose in Love," "Happy Sadness," " Dismounting a Mistress," in contrast with " The Face," " Prayer to a Fickle Mistress," with its mournful burden, "Once say you are sad for me," together with still more revealing passages in " A * Page 110. xxii EBENEZEE JONES: Crisis," are pages torn from life, and which tell a story of their own. But beyond what he has himself so disclosed, that story — those " particulars " of his life — must for ever remain untold. There is no foundation for the statement that "interest on the author's behalf" was at anytime sliown in any quarter ; nor, since the phrase clearly implies material interest, is there, on that score, any room for regret. For with that utter independence of spirit which was the very breath of life to my l>rotlier, and was even dearer to him than song, he not only never looked for this, but held himself studiously aloof from eliciting it. On the other hand, the nobler " interest " involved in recognition of him as an independent j^oet — if not of achievement, then of promise — he did most ardently desire, and that he strove manfidly to obtain. But that, also, as shown by the fate of liis poems, was denied to him during his life. And not merely by the so-called critics of the day, but by some in an inner circle, to whom, with the mingled faith and liumility of true genius, he made, or rather permitted to be made, through the writer of this sketch, to whom they were personally kno^vn, a final but vain appeal. Needful corrections thus disposed of, I ^^-ill now ly ME MORI AM. xxiii endeavour to give, in outline, some of the Je.sired par- ticulars of my dear brother's life — a life bare of external incident, but thronged at the outset witli l^assions and with kindling aspirations, Avhich, with rare force of "will, he schooled into patience on a path of narrow and to him utterly alien toil. His struggle for outlet was aided only by the power he felt within him, and when that struggle resulted in aspersion of his motives and his work, that also, after the one appeal for fair play to which I have referred, was borne in silence to the end. Silence was his sole ansAver to liis anonymous accusers. And since he took that silence with him to the grave to deepen there, it seemed to me that what he disdained to do, it would be "WTong for me to at- tempt. But, with others of his kindred, I am forced to see that wliile the silence has been broken by generous tribute to his memory, there is in one of the notices above referred to, allusion to that old painful charge of " impure motive," not as wandering out obscurely from the journalism of his day, but now for the first time stamped with the sanction of the honoured name of Thomas Hood. Perhaps no other name could give equal currency to that charge ; could so convince ordi- nary readers — seeing the notice in question, but not the book, nor even passages from it — that such censure XXIV EBENEZER JONES. of a young poet by an elder one deemed so humane, so cliaritable, must have been merited indeed. Nevertheless, the charge is one which no just and competent critic can substantiate from the book. I disclaim resentful feeling in regard to the revival of this painful charge, thus endorsed. Kather I reflect that if the fact — ^for fact it is — that the book fell under the imvate ban of Hood, had {why, I know not) to hejMbUcIy stated twenty-seven years afterwards, and in context with the words that my brother was "rendered miserable," as though he admitted the charge ; then it is better so now than hereafter — noAV, Avhile a brother lives who would plead with Detraction itself to spare his name. The one fact in the matter is what I here set down as fact. All the rest is apocryphal. Hood never sent for my brother. My brother never went to, nor even saw Hood. Hood did not even write to my brother ; his letter was addressed to myself, Avho had taken the book to him with my brother's consent, and though it was a very severe, and even ' savage' letter, it was my brother, who was a most just man, who pointed out to me in the midst of my vexa- tion at all this, that Hood had evidently "WTitten conscientiously, and from a sense of duty, and so he undoubtedly had. Then sitting down in my presence, he penned at once a brief but very courteous note in IN ME MORI AM. xxv reply, which was merely to the effect that he regretted to receive such an expression of opinion from one he honoured so much, but regretted still more the mistake that he now perceived had been made in placing the book before him. That was all. I saw the note. It was the public attacks, such as that in the Literary Gazette* that troubled my brother. He despised them, never noticed them ; but he saw clearly that they in- volved the failure of his book, and with that of his darling hope that he might obtain some better em- ployment, with more margin of leisure than was possible where he was. Hood's private censure, coming after the public hurt was inflicted, could not and did not affect matters, but left them where they were. How could that render any rational person "miserable?" On the contrary, there was room for congratulation that Hood, Avho it was hoj^ed would review the book in his oion Magazine, had not openly done that, which would have made matters worse ; and so we both felt before we separated that evening. Nine years have passed since Mr, Scott wrote his notice. What I have here written is my refutation of the charge, and my contradiction of the alleged facts ; * December 23, 184.S. xxvi EBENEZER JONES: and imperative to me that I should speak is the voice that seems to issue from my brother's grave. ' ' I shall remember I was pure ; Fearlessly loving, ever, the whole,"* ■was his utterance of himself who sleeps there. I remember too. — I remember him back to the days of his childhood, and almost infancy, before we took our first hand-in-hand slide together ; remember smile, tone, gesture, that marked him out from others in his daring days of boyhood ; and how in early manhood, when he began to think, I loved to track across his mobile features the uuworded thought ; and I J:now that whatever there may seem to be too pronounced, or too warmly sporbive, in some of his pages, it is false to accuse him of deliberately ^vriting with " impure motive," for that never stained his mind. His own words above-quoted compass much that I ^would say. " Fearlessly loving ever the whole," tvas the ideal life he sought to live, was the instinct of his nature, and was the only way for one who was born to side with the noble Few, ever striving to be brave enough for Truth. It was also the way to incur for early endeavour to embody love of " the whole " in artistic form, while the conception was as yet im- mature, the easy scoff of little men, and misconception * Remembrance of Feelings, p. 56. IN ME MORI AM. xxvii €ven by good men, whose feebler passions and less vivid insiglit lead them consciously, or unconsciously, to elect only to love a part. Mr. Rossetti expressed an opinion that my brother's forgotten poems would "one day be disinterred." Certain it is, although unknown to Mr. Eossetti when he so Avrote, that Eben Jones did not wish to be forgotten, to be quite " left out of the story," since after seventeen all but silent years as regards poetry (1843-1860, when he died) a " Winter Hymn to the Snow," and a few other simple verses, written during his last illness, and hitherto unpublished, were held forth in his dying hand. And since a stranger laying down his solitary book felt prompted to ask, at large, for some knowledge of the life of him who wrote it, it is natural to con- clude that others hereafter may echo the wish that something at least could be known of the fate of one who in his early youth so stamped his own fervid mind upon his work. To respond to that wish — while as my own main ob- ject seeking to vindicate his memory from reproach — will be my aim in the outline I now propose to give. Ebenezer Jones was the tliird child and the second son of Eobert Jones, a gentleman of Welsh XXVIU EBENEZER JONES. descent, by his second marriage with Hannah Sumner,* tlie youngest daughter of Eichard Simmer, head of a family long settled in Essex, and in that county — especially in the churchyard of Hadleigh, a village well-known for the massive ruins of an old Castle in the vicinity — family vaults of the Sumners will be found. Not intending to write a word of family history, but simply to delineate as accurately as can be done in outline, one vivid and intensely individual life born into that family, I pass on at once to state that Eben Jones was born in Canonbury-square, Islington, on the '20th of January 1820. That suburb of London, sixty years ago, still had green spaces around it which have long disappeared. Near the house in which El>en was born, on the verge of extensive fields, stood all that remained of the ancient Manor-house of Canonbury, and that well- known brick tower is still standing. An old pond under the shadow of that tower has, I believe, long been filled up ; but my earliest clear remembrance of * There were six children by this marriage, three sons and three daughters :— Mary, born 10th October 1816, died 14th December 1838 ; Sumner, born 22nd April 1818 ; Ebenezee, born 20th January 1820 ; David Robert, born 1st May 1822 ; Seliua, boin 9th October 1824, died 1862 ; and Hannah (the heroine of Ebenezer's beautiful poem of The Hand), born 15th April 1827, died 1st February 1879.— Ed. IX MEMORIAM. xxix Ebby (always his household name) was holding hands with him for a slide on the frozen surface of that pond Avhen he was about four years old. His parents were in competent circumstances, and all the surroundings of his childhood and early boy- hood were so far favourable. But — belonging as they did, with all their immediate connexions, to a very strict sect of Calvinist dissenters — their chief aim as regarded the education of their children was sedulously to train them on a narrow path, through what was termed the " wilderness of this world," from any genuine knowledge of which they were thus ex- cluded until precipitated into it early in life — and at a most grievous disadvantage, in consequence of such bringing up — by the force of events. The young mind of my brother, '* finely touched " from childhood, but wholly unappreciated by all who could influence his future career in life, was dieted at home (we were a bookish family) alternately on books in which " useful knowledge " was framed in a setting of religious " tags " — books of solid doctrinal divinity, and, worst of all, books of over-wrought " spiritual " experience and hysterical evangelism, such as I hope are not published now ; while the Bible, and a com- pilation of short Questions and long Answers (we wished it had been the other way), dreaded by us, and called the " Assembly's Catechism," were in constant XXX EBENEZER JONES: use to fill up all gaps. Dr. Watts and Kirke White were permitted on our Parnassus ; but Shakespeare and even Milton were kept in rigorous quarantine. Of Byron we had a mysterious notion, gathered from hearing our elders now and then speak of him shudder- ingly, as of some Satanic spirit who had been permitted A-isibly to stalk abroad. Of Shelley we had never heard. Card-playing and dancing were denounced^ and those who indulged in them were looked upon as doomed. Schools — private schools — were selected less for edu- cational advantages than because they were conducted by ministers of the same iron Calvinist creed, the tenets of which were a terror to us in our youth. All this was otherwise carried out with pious intention, aided by flagellation, to an extreme at which I do but hint here, but Avhich, when the inevitable day of revolt arrived, resulted in the opposite extreme ; and this is mentioned here because the result of such collision of extremes may, I think, be traced in some of my brother's poems. In a first book of verse it Avould indeed have been specific, and marked, save for his very studious habits of self-culture, so far as he had opportunity — which, as Avill ])e seen, was not far — after school-days had elapsed. In connexion with his school-life, one little inci- IN ME MORI AM. xxxi dent ought to be recorded before I pass on, because it first singled him out from all around him — myself included — and disclosed, as it has always seemed tO' me, even in the child, that force of passion which marks the poems of the man. " You SHALL NOT ! " was his bold and defiant utter- ance of himself, thus publicly uttered in my hearing- and ineff'aceably stam})ed upon my memory, before he can have been nine years old. We were together at a well-knoAvn boarding-school of that day (1828), situated at the foot of Highgate Hill, and presided over by a dissenting minister, the Eev. John Bickerdike, whose peculiar nasal feature had earned for him among us boys the appellation of "Snipe." It was a theme of frequent discussion among us whether the worthy man had ever found that out — which some of us believed and some not. We were together, though not on the same form ; and on a hot. summer afternoon, Avith about fifty other boys, were listlessly conning our tasks in a large school-room built out from the house, which made cover for us to play under when it was wet. Up the ladder-like stairs from the play-ground a lurcher dog had strayed into the school-room, panting Avith the heat, his tongue lolling out Avith thirst. The choleric usher avIio presided, and Avas detested by us for his tyranny, seeing this, advanced doAvn the room. En- xxxii EBENEZER JONES: raged at our attention being distracted from our tasks, he dragged the dog to the top of the stairs, and there lifted him bodily up with the evident intention — and we had known him do similar things — of hurling the poor creature to the bottom. "You SHALL NOI !" rang through the room, as little Ebby, so exclaiming at the top of his voice, rushed with kindling face to the spot from among all the boys — some of them twice his age. But even while the words passed his lips, the heavy fall was heard, and the sound seemed to travel through his listening form and face, as, with a strange look of anguish in one so young, he stood still, threw up his arms, and burst out into an uncontrollable passion of tears. With a coarse laugh at this, the usher led him back by his ear to the form ; and there he sat, long after his .sobbing had subsided, like one dazed and stunned. That little incident stands out from all others of that time, and those words, " You shall not ! " ring in my memory. Often, in after years, a somewhat similar look would come into his face, when his thought, even on a .summer ramble, such as he has described in his poem, '' Inactivity,"* took him into that region which he * pp. SG-91. /X MEMORIAM. xxxiii lived to liaunt so much, and which the Germans have named " icorld-sorruu:" Findinsr a fra£rm?nt of som:' lonor-asio record made of some such summer Sunday ramhle when (1839-40-1) I Avas liis companion, as I would often be, it is here inserted, because it depicts him from life as he then was, in his musing mood, on a day of the " High Summer " he so delighted in, and is better than description from memory, even when she holds the mirror in which, closing my eyes, I see his that were so keen and thrillingly beautiful ; and it does not seem to be remembrance, but actual re-appearance then, for a moment — but he cannot stay. " About him hummVl the labouring bee ; The S(]^uiiTel ran up the tall tree ; Faint cuckoo-calls came drowsed with heat ; Larks dropp'd and nestled near his feet ; And tlirice a young Delight he knew Flew round him, and before him flew, With 'sweet, sweet, sweet — and all for J'ou.' He sat upon a stile apart, The world's convulsion in his heart ; But in his fixil space-searching eye, Conquest — far off, eternally." At Other times, amid such scenes, he would be gay and happy and full of laughter, such laughter as he has himself described as — " the gentle lift Of gently joy-breezed life."* * The XaJ:ed Thiiiltr (p. 4). d xxxiv EBENEZER JONES: And yet those were the days when, as will presently be seen, we Avere working together twelve hours daily at the same city desk, and he was wringing from his nights and his Sundays the time both to live his life and to Avrite his ];ioems. I return for a moment to school-days. The incident above related was followed by no ai^parent change in him, excepting that he would now occasionally break off from sport, and climb with some lx)ok in play-hours up into the poplar trees that bordered the play-gi"ound fence, to read and peer about alone. In one of his poems are the lines : — " From sunsets flushing heaven with sudden crimson To the moth's wing that spots the poplar leaf ;"* — which I told him had that ' habitat ' in his memory, and he smiled. Of his really juvenile verse one fragment remains on a time-stained page which has accidentally escaped destruction, and for the sake of the child-like simplicity of the lines, and a certain consciousness which they evince of what he even then felt stirring within him, I transcribe them here. They denote his favourite hal)it, above alluded to, of climbing into trees, with the life of which he had intense sympathy. He was a boy of about fourteen, home for the holidays, when this Avas written, as shown by a deceased sister's * A Development of Idlotcy (p. 71). IK ME MORI AM, xxxv j>apers among wliicli it was found, and is here unen- titled, as on the page : — " Fee, sister, yonder is the bank Where the dragon-flies did plaj' ; How often have I broke the rank Of school-fellows and stole away To climb that very beechen tree, To con some old romantic story Of Jewish maid or Alice Lee — Of knightly love and feudal glory. While the stately sun was going Like a hero to his bride. On my leafy study throwing His parting glance of pride. Then came to me the joys, the fears — The lofty hopes of poetry, And brightly shone my future years, I stood and gazed exultingly. And sometimes 'neath my lofty bower A beauteous girl would wander by — I knew not then that wealth was power. That love from poverty would fly : With ardent and devoted pride I read in her sky-watching eyes Genius might win a lovely bride, And vow VI to gain the prize." Comparison of these lines Avith " The Kings of Gold," or the "Ode to Thought," which appeared in magazines about four years after, will show the progress made in that time ; but some tender streak of light that comes before the dawn seems to me discernible eA'cn here ; and the boy in his " leafy study," on whom d 2 xxxvi EBEXEZER JOXES : the sun threw " hi? parting glance of pride," might, had the worhl dealt better with him, or dealt even with common fairness, have made himself a memorable man. I now pass on to the time when a long illness of the head of the faniily resulted disastrously, and all hope of the training of the sons for professional pur- suit was at an end. This change in his prospects, although it became clear that he would soon have to stand forth in the market- place of the world, caused him no immediate despon- dency. For Avith the falling away of ministers and their allies (for whom our father's house had been quite an unctuously-esteemed rendezvous) to other quarters where high Calvinism could still be solidly supported by Consols, and the altar for family worship flanked by the lavish hospitality such per- sons prized, there came an irruption of new ideas which bore down, absolutely and for ever, and as with a cataract of jubilation, all the old restraint. Now was the veritable awaking of my brother's mind ! I do not so much recall that time, as see it return, and re-enact itself vividly before me as I write. There was in him nothing whatever of that vacilla- ting purblind conflict curiously called "spiritual," which weaker minds so dealt with have often cruelly to un- dergo. He felt intuitively that the grim tenets which 7.V JIEMOETAJf. xxxvii had manacled his chiklhocxl, liad been inherited by both pai'cnts through lives of their progenitors, and that it Avas owing to tlie parents being themselves over- shadowed by dark beliefs that the children had been screened from light. Irreparable was the loss (he ahvays felt that) that the bright and wide-believing eye of childhood had not been permitted to see fairly mirolled the great panorama of life, and the true world of men and women and their work. But from the dark corner where he had been forced to crouch beneath a Moloch of man's invention, he boldly emerged, and poetry and religion became one with him — contemplating a Presence he could now lioth adore and love, " unto whom now I offer Eapt adoi'ation which no priestly scoffer Of thee and thy dear love may hope to know," as he wrote in perished ])oy-verse of that time. In the same spirit he will be found in the " Studies" renouncing, yet religiously renouncing, the " worship of terror-"nTenched thanks." " How vast must be thy blessedness, aye sphering Happy bright planets from the galaxy, Thereon inhoming us intelligents ! Lover that knows no weariness ! ■ Time sounds of life which scare us listening here, Shaking our faith with their unanswer'd plainings, xxxviii EBENEZER JONES: Play sweetly unto thine eternal mind The discords of one deepening liarniony !"* He has been charged with "profanity," (I use the Avord in its conventional meaning), but the charge was false on the evidence of his book. The above passage with others, such as the simple lines at the close of " Two Sufferers," commencing " Children of earth ! believe,"! are sufficient disproof of this. It is true as stated {Notes and Queries, No. 110) that " vivid " but " disorderly" power is stamped on some of his poems, written during the "storm and stress" of after years. But it is also true, and now known only to me (and to me incommunicably) that in the fair beginning, before that happened to him which seemed to take for him the sun out of the sky and leave all blackness, and the verdure from the earth and leave all barrenness — he sought to "Leap with his passionate reason down the depths, Tempestuously tossd, of human nature, Seeking the masked demons that invoke SufiFering and wi'ong ;"+ only that he might in the end be enabled more firmly, the storm of passion over and the knowledge gained, to approach his favourite idea of creative art in song, which was that of " harmonizing elements." o Erjremond (p. 15 of the original edition of the Studies). + p. 4G. I^E'jiemond [uhl supra, p. 12). IX ME MORI AM. xxxix His mind was now fairly aroused, and Itooks hitherto proscribed, and which we had been taught to consider of a " worldly " character and worse, could no longer be suppressed. Carlyle's " French Revolution " was lent to him, not very long after its publication ; and later on " Sartor Resartus " was read, and " burned Avithin him." A little thick duodecimo edition of Shelley's Poems was also obtained, and this had afterwards a magical effect upon him. But it was at first Carlyle's famous History that l)ecame among us a " Sensation and Event." Whole passages from Carlyle were got by heart amonij us, and recited— one from his "Sartor Resartus," commencing "Two men I honour, and no third," was an especial favourite. Passing each other on the stairs, however hurriedly, my brother — our elder sister shaking her curls with joy and beaming smiles upon us — and the writer of this sketch, would chant forth those words, " Two men I honour, and no third," in a swift rejoicing way, in token of our freedom — our new-found creed — and as the vanguard of the new ideas which were now rapidly expanding in my brother's mind. More than forty years, Avith all their joys, sorrows and illusions have since rolled away ; yet still as I Avrite, a wave of sound from that far past seems travelling xl EBENEZER JOXES : on, freighted with his resonant voice, toning out the words of that passage : — " Hardly-entreated brother I For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed : thou Avert our conscript, on -whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles -wert so marred."'* Other books followed in rapid succession, and ho now betook himself A'igorously to composition both in prose and verse, but chiefly prose. Among lost ex- ercises of this time I specially remember the follow- ing : — ■" My relations to the Universe in so far as I seem to have present discernment of them ;" written as a sort of mental seed-plot in which to sow his newly-acquired ideas and thoughts ; " On the nature and office of Poetry," written to the sub. ject as given to be read before an Association he had joined for a time. AVith this he took great pains, sending it in with his favourite motto "Homo SHm,"&c., and it Avas a remarkable Essay, preserved for many years by himself, who destroyed so much, and I deplore that it was not finally preserved. There were also Songs of which I can recall no echo, and many series of Sonnets ; a poem too on " Slavery under the American Eepublic," which I regret he ex- cluded from his book. ' ' Land of the West ! how great thy shame Amid immortal graves, Within the Holy Place of fame, To shackle slaves. "' * Sartor Besarfus, Book iii. chap. 4, § Helotage. IX MEMOEIAM. xli are lines in it wliicli cling to memory, and an invoca- tion to tlie spirit of AVasliington in the same poem, was for a youth of seventeen nobly penned. These metrical compositions, Avritten before he had ever thought of publication, he would give to the sister I have mentioned, a gifted girl of whom he was proudly fond, striving with tender art to give her back some- of her own cherished ideas set in the wider light of his now kindliuir mind. She, not destined long to survive the family troubles, died at the age of twenty-two. After her first taste of the new ideas with her brothers, the wings of her mind were folded up again within the limits of sheltered belief, all her own impassioned feeling for truth and beauty passing into unwavering and even ecstatic faith imder her chosen " Leader of faithful souls and guide Of those who travel to the sky " — and so she passed into her rest. In after years some verses appeared in a periodical commencing : — • " Twice three years in this tomb she hath lain, Speak low, speak low;"— which he wrote on revisiting this sister's grave. Often would he recur to the days when on a Sunday evening, he would close his books and escort her to the chai)el of her choice, strolling himself through lanes and fields xl EBENEZER JONES: on, freighted with his resonant voice, toning out the ■words of that passage : — " Hardly-entreated brother 1 For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed : thou wert our conscript, on -whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred."* Other books followed in rapid succession, and he now betook himself vigorously to composition both in prose and verse, but chiefly prose. Among lost ex- ercises of this time I specially remember the follow- insf : — " Mv relations to the Universe in so far as I seem to have present discernment of them ;" written as a sort of mental seed-plot in which to sow his newly-acquired ideas and thoughts ; " On the nature and office of Poetry," written to the sul). ject as given to be read before an Association he hadistressed, that I never renewed the subject. There IN ME MORI AM. lix is something touching in the silent homage he paid to Carlyle. But Eben had also quite a love for old Chelsea, the old Bridge, and the reaches of the river up to Putney, Kew, Richmond ; and after he became too ill to take long walks, he would steal out before bed-time, and loiter on the Bridge and muse ; watching the effects of hght and shade on those summer nights, when the moon was looking about her, and all was hushed, so that he could hear the water swaying and gurgling among the wooden piles, and mark the craft of the bargemen coming down with the tide. This would often soothe him very much, and then he would go to bed. I cannot at this moment fill up the interstices of this narrative with further particulars of the later years of my brother's Hfe. But no sketch, however cm-sory, should omit to mention by name Mr, W. J. Linton, who was his old associate and friend, and whose heart-felt tribute to his memory finds a place in the present volume. Some of my brother's happiest days were passed as Mr. Linton's guest at Coniston. A still earlier friend — one who formed part of his life for fully twenty years — "from whom," as Mr. Theodore Watts (whose words I fully endorse) has said, * he received an infinity of tender kindness,' who stood Ix EBENEZER JONES: by him to tlie last, was his frequent visitor at Paultons- square and at Brentwood (where he was with him till witliin an hour of his death) and who stood by my side when his body was lowered into the grave — must also be mentioned here. Any record of my brother would indeed be incomplete that did not contain the name of Horace Harral. It was early in August 1860, that, yearning for the country once more, he decided to remove to Brentwood, Essex, where a female relative, since deceased, resided, and where he had sisterly attendance too, and every comfort that could be desired for him. I accompanied him thither. At first he seemed to rally, his eye still keen and bright, his voice strong ; and he woidd bid me denote the muscular grasp of his hand, pointing to his chest and saying, " It is only here I fail." And it was so. He passed away peacefully on the morning of Friday September 14th, 1860. He had carefully indicated where he wished to be buried. " Such reasonably near burying groimd as may be at the same time unlikely to be disturbed, and yet not lonesome or neglected," are his words, written by his own hand. His wish was obeyed. This true poet sleeps beneath a stone erected to his memory in the rural churchyard of Shenfield, about a mile from Brentwood, in a spot selected absolutely /^ ME MO EI AM. Ixi to fulfil his last wish. The stone bears the following inscription : — Sacred to the memory of ebenezer jones second son of robert and hannah jones who departed this life september 14, 1860 aged 40 years TO LIVE IN HEARTS WE LEAVE BEHIND IS NOT TO DIE. The village children pass on their way to school, and the robin perches on the garden fence close beside his grave. And there may be heard two of his best-loved sounds in life — the watch-dog's bark from the farm across still fields at night, and in Spring-time, in the morning, the tlirostle's first unmistaking song. Sumner Jones, EEMINISCENCES OF EBEN JONES. So many years gone by, no records kept, and dates not borne in mind, however clear in my own thought the impression of my friend, I have but an impression, or some impressions of him, to convey as I best may to others. Fortunately Mr. Watts's Memoir,* more authoritative than anything I could give, written where he has been able to make inquiry of the brother and other friends, supplies those biographical details for writing which I should be altogether incompetent. For I was not even so intimate with Eben Jones as I have credit for, from his brother Sumner as well as from others who knew us in our together-time. Specially refeiTed to as one "who could perhaps give the best account " of him, his brother kindly endorsing the words, I am sadly obliged to confess that I can but poorly meet the claim so made upon me. Would that I could do more ! The theme were worthy of abiographer's * Printed in The AthencBum of Sept. 21, Sept. 28, and Oct. 12, 1878.— Ed. EBEN JONES. Ixiii best powers. There is no change in my affection and esteem for him. After thirty years I may be forgiven some forgetfulness, not effacing nor defacing the im- pression which remains firmly as fresh stamped upon my soul. Of the man then, rather than of circumstance or event, is what I am able to Avrite. Comj^anions and close friends for a few years, our lives were sundered, not by any cooling of our friend- ship. Personal] regard most certainly, yet more the similarity of our opinions and our tastes had held us together during our closest years ; still it is but simple truth to say, we were hardly so knit together in that closer brotherhood wliich would desen-e the name of intimacy. I say this, not as disclaiming what I had recollected with pride, but as apology for any short- coming in the words I would write in his praise, for any incompleteness in the portrait I will attempt to draw. Nevertheless I had more than ordinary oppor- tunity of studying, knowing, and esteeming him. How that opportunity taught me I will try to show. If in some respects I may differ from Mr, Watts, or from those Avho knew him personally better than I, the difference may not invalidate their judgment. Two men looking at a statue from different points may not find it susceptible of precisely the same description ; merits or defects may strike either from his standing- place, yet naturally escape the other. Two men Ixiv REMINISCENCES OF seeing the same landscape under perhaps opposite aspects, in light or shadow, in summer or winter, will paint two very dissimilar pictures, though the subject be the same. I apprehend no such great variance between Mr. Watts and myself. One chief point .^n so much as it indicates character, to which my attention is first called, is some over- statement, so far as my recollection serves me, as to Jones's despondency and after neglect of poetry on account of the little notice attracted by his first attempt. Particular recollection failing me, I should still know that he was not one to be crushed because, having enlisted among those desirous to make a figure in the world, he found the world in no hurry to witness the performance. Knowing the worth of his attempt, surely he wished for and felt his right to expect some sympathy, if not applause. The desire of appreciation belongs to a healthy mind. But he knev/ also the course of other poets, and had too much good sense not to be forewarned of his own eventu- alities. His Studies of Sensation and Event* was published in 1843. John Hamilton Eeynolds (Keats's friend and Hood's brother-in-law) in 1814-15, and * I may note in passing that in the copy he gave me he altered the title— then or at a later period — to Studies of Emotion and Event. [A similar alteration is made in the title of a copy now in my possession. — Ed.] EBEN JONES. . Ixv Charles Wells in 1824, had also published : and Avere forgotten, by the critics and by the world. Hood's dainty Midsummer Fairies, his Hero and Leandcr, his other serious poems, were forgotten too. All the lightness of his so popular humour had been insufficient to float them into recognition during his life.* Home's magnificent tragedies. The Death of Marlowe (1835), Cosmo de'Medici (1837), and Gregory VII. (1840), had made no mark above the Lethe flood of public indifference. Sarah Flower Adams' Vivia Perpetua (1841) was unknown save to a small circle of co-religionists. Ebenezer Elliott was only the poet of the Corn-Law League, a rhymer in Tait^s Magazine and the Monthly Repository. Robert Nicoll died in 1837, as little cared for outside of Leeds. Of Wade's M%mdi et Cc/rdis Carmina (1835), a book most akin to that of Jones, I doubt if a score of copies had been sold when Jones was printing his. Who were the purchasers of Darley or of Beddoes 1 I think, recollecting my own knowledge of those books at that time (I was very early a hunter of such 'unconsidered trifles') some talk concerning them must have liai^pened between us, so * I think the first attempt to have him regai'ded as a poet rather than as only a humourist was made by my friend R.. H. Home, in a review of Hood's eai'ly vokime of poems, ^VTitten for the Illuminated Magazine, during the few months in which I succeeded Douglas Jerrold as editor, in 184.5. ixvi • REMINISCENCES OF that they would be known to Jones ; and he must have known of them also as not paying speculations and been accordingly prepared for the failure of his own. For that, notmthstanding others' experience, he yet ventui'ed on the same vain quest, who needs to seek a reason 1 ancl that not in over-weening conceit of his own ability nor yet in over-sanguineness of nature. The youthful poet must see himself in print. Even the aged may be troubled with the same malady. What crown but one of paper will the voices at the Games award us 1 After all Chance is mighty. The book may sell. At worst there will be presentation copies for appreciative friends : fit audience however few. I call the great God of Poesy and all the Muses to witness that I, who also have published poems, never counted on a sale : not in my youngest days, when I was as aspiring as my friend, more sanguine and more conceited than I knew him to be. My time of companionship "\nth him must have been mainly between 1842 and 1848. I can recal no special alteration of thought or demeanoiu" at all attributable to the non-success of his literary venture. Disaj^point- ment struck him in passing, but passed on : having other and more poisoned darts with wliicli to reach him, where no armour of good sense or pride could avail for his protection. AVhen Hood wrote to Sumner Jones (who, and not EBEN JONES. Ixvii Ebenezer, had forwarded to him a copy of the book) those harsh words — " shamefully prostituting his gift of poetical power," because certain of his love-poems, touched no answering chord in Hood, surely the ac- knowledgment of poetical power must have satisfied the poet however the manner of acknowledgment might hurt the man. It was not in despondency, but with defiant disdain that Eben met a rebuke so unexpected and so undeserved. Grieved he doubtless was; grieved that " impure motive " (other of Hood's words) should be imputed to him: but it did not make him " miserable." His answer was a manly letter to Hood, in courteous, collected, but incisive terms vindicating himself from a false charge. He was not one to be cast down by condemnation or to relinquish his right of self-assertion; nor was he one to be made miserable by the imjust opinion of any man. Too self-reliant and with too much pluck for that ! Yet in his appre- ciation of his own genius he wanted not for a manly modesty, could cordially admire work on a diff'erent plane from his own, and could receive a friendly criticism as worth attention, for itself or for the critic's sake. To W^B. Scott, who had promised to send him a copy of his Year of the World, he writes, in a most characteristic letter : — * * The substance of this letter was printed in The Academy, November 2, 1878.— Ed. /2 liviii REMimSCENCEa OF "I think it is about time that I should write to tell you that your proposal to present me with a cojiy of " The Year of the World "* had been forestalled by Mr. L 's kindly giving me one. I have delayed doing this because I wanted to write a letter that might accurately represent my regard towards said book and also in some sort reply to j'our last kind letter to me. "Touching your remarks on 'Studies of Sensation and Event,' I think they .M'etrue; and your qualification of the jDoems as being true perceptions, " but seen through certain partial conditions of the percipient," very fairly suggests the question whether the condition of the percipient was a condition dui'ing which works of art should be undertaken. (Not that I think the poems, except one or two lyrics, worthy of the name of works of art, being so devoid of construction, or constructed with unrecognised material, empty of definite- ness of purpose or unity of representation. ) I suppose I need not say that the condition of the percipient generally was 'dissatisfaction,' hacked by detei-mination never to hold one's peace. *****♦» "What is literary excellence ? Nothing. What is being able to gain the applause of those ' curious in the matters of thought and expression ? ' Vanity of vanities. What even is influence over the public mind ? Why, one must creep in order to climb to it, and generally go masked afterwards. ******* "I should be very glad to see you when you come to London. t I suppose you are much older than I am, but I don't think we should be afraid of talking to each other. / never flourish ' mij stake ' about. I see nothing to vaunt in having ' stuck in the mud,' so to speak. Any sort of beauty, moral or physical, * The Year of the World; a Philosophical Poem on " Be- demiMon from the Fall,'''' by William B. Scott. Edinburgh and London, 1846, pp. xii. 113. This poem^s a descriptive and imaginative expression of the Development theory — not physical but intellectual development : it is based on the perfectibility of human nature. — Ed. t Scott was at this time Master of the School of Design at Newcastle-on-Tyne. EBEN JONES. \x generaUii prits me in good spirits, so I hope yoii will not fail when you come to town to let know " Your very honest admirer, " Ebenezer Jones." The lines I have italicized (the letter was written in June, 1847) are as windows into the man's heart, showing us clearly what his nature had : passionate love of beauty, moral or physical, a self-respect that forbade him to thrust himself forward for praise or pity, a stern fortitude that would have refused commiseration, and a will that knew not how to give in. There was no sign of yielding even in his saddest or his weakest days. Again to make dissentient explanation. I do not think that Jones's politics were of my manufacturing. Let him never be confounded with Ernest Jones, the Chartist, and a poet too ; concerning whom, and marking the difference between the two, I recal some such words as these :— "Eben Jones, A swift brook among stones ; And less earnest Jones, Scanter brook with more stones." Eben was a Chartist and he was not a Chartist. A writer in the Athenceum has said : — " Jones, being a sincere, grave-minded man, not afraid of carrying out his opinions into their consequences, became a Chartist."* Let pass the "grave-minded" for the * Athenceum, Sept. 14, 1878. Ixx REMINISCENCES OF moment. The "sincere and not afraid" aptly describes the man ; points also to the likelihood of consequence. That "once met by Mr. Eossetti towards 1848," he " Avould hardly talk on any subject but Chartism,"* means only that he broadly sytripathized with the move- ment ; and almost any expression of sympathy was then enough to entitle a man to the name. Mr. Watts is right ill saying that " technically " he was not a Chartist : that is to say, I do not think he was ever enrolled as member of any Chartist association or ever (so far as I can call to mind) spoke at a public meeting. Those were days in which that now inno- cent word Radical meant something exceedingly reprehensible if not actually disreputable : days when to wear a beard or an incipient moustache would call down the condescending scowl of the counting-house Jove, and according to the jovial mood subject you to instant dismissal or the gently severe request that you would leave off that enormity in business hours. So much mercy might be shown if Jove were of the liberal party. Therefore I do not think that Jones would have dared to add to his poetical delinquencies the more noticeable criminality of a speech in public. Dared is however a wrong word here. He dared do anything that he thought right. But he had a certain * ih., ubi supra ; see also Mr. Rossetti's letter in Notes and Queries, Feb. 5, 1870.— Ed. EBEN JONES. Ixxi practicality and sense of the importance of " minor " duties very remarkable in a poet. Something of the pernicious politics he might have learned from me, in my exceptional position as an artist half-forgiven for "eccentricities" which had damned a young man in the City ; but such doctrines were kno"\vn and felt too generally among the young men of that day, to leave much room for individual credit for conversions. Few of the present generation seem to understand how active the more intelligent of the middle classes were in the agitation, first for the Eeform Bill, and after- wards for the Repeal of the Corn Laws ; and the sons or younger brothers of those men, yet more enthusiastic or more disinterested than their elders, were Chartists, to the extent Jones was, almost to a man. But the one object on which he cared to concentrate his thoughts (an object too with the Chartists, only too much so, almost to the shelving of the Suffrage question), was the right of the People, instead of a landlord class, to possess the Land. For that he "wrote his one sustained prose work. Many short articles also he wrote, most of them in the spirit of The Kings of Gold, with burning indignation against the Trader (Reports from Factories and Mines were just then ex- posing the horrors of those simple organizations of labour), in such wrath as that of Keats, against the men of wealth, in liis Pot of Basil. Some of these Ixxii REMINISCENCES OF articles, it may be verses also, probably appeared in the Odd-Felloiv (not named for its comicality, but because it was tlie record of proceedings of " Odd- Fellows' " Associations), a penny weekly broad-sheet published in the Strand by Heniy Hetherington, the gallant and successful champion of the Unstamped Press. Of such appearance there however I cannot speak from certain recollection. I was editor of the Odd-Fellow from 1841 to '43^ as near as I can recal dates ; and when the paper passed out of Hethering- ton's hands, its named being then changed to the Fire- iide Journal (still with political leaders), Jones became editor in my stead. Whether he wrote only then, or had written before for the Odd-Fellow I cannot be sure, not having a single number to refer to ; but I suppose his editorship must have been in consequence of assis- tance given to me in the earlier work. For myself, I wrote political leaders, reviews of books and dramatic criticisms (among them reviews, on first appearance, of Dickens's Curiosity Shop and Gerald Griffin's Gisippus), poetry, answers to correspondents real or imaginary, anything or everything ; and Eben was so much at one with me in all these matters that it seems to me I must have had his occasional collaboration. It is only thus vaguely though that I can speak of his various writing. His opinions were, as I have said, those of the EBEN JOA'ES. Ixxiif Chartist party : going beyond, I would add, to repub- licanism, iDut that the prevalent opinions among us all tended that way if they did not absolutely reach it. And his opinions were frankly expressed by him when required. " Sincere and not afraid :" so, if not of us or among- us, nor technically entitled to the name, he was cer- tainly with us Chartists. The " grave-minded " is not so applicable a term. Serious, when seriousness was necessary, would be more exact : for if the other ex- pression implies that he was without a sense of humour (say rather fun) or a natural tendency to pleasure, it would altogether mislead. A right capable man of business, diligent in his hours of work, however (quasi poet) he disliked that work, he could make amends for the enforced restraint by riotous, almost reckless enjoyment in the after hours ; could play the bohemian as well as any never-calvinized youth among us, with perhaps a more eager craving and fuller relish because of Calvinistic recollections. That sort of thing may happen. Grave-minded ? No ! however his spon- taneity may have been repressed in childish days. Earnest, intense ! And intense in pleasure also. Every pore of his being was open to pleasurable sensations,, his attraction generally toward the best. Caught too readily perhaps (not being suspicious or distrustful) by a fair outside, loving easily, careless sometimes of Ixxiv REMINISCENCES OF appearances (for formality surely he could have no respect), however ^vilf ul or careless, I always perceived and respected in him a pure clean-heartedness, a per- cej)tion of the highest, a severely honest determination to do right, and a chivalrous feeling very rare among men. " He was ever best and happiest," Avrites his brother Sumner to me, " out of doors ; and the poetic side of his nature then came winningly and delight- fully out." Do I not well remember that ? It was no grave-minded man with whom I rambled through our wonderful Lake-Country. His brother, A\Titing but recently, reminds me of a poem called the Mountain Land, written after a visit to me at Conis- ton. My o"vvn remembrance dwells most upon our first journey to the Lakes, a week's holiday there from London work. How well to this day I can re- trace our steps and recall the pleasant bright com. panionsliip that, like the sjjarkle in the wine, made that j)leasure-draught but more enjoyable ; our delight in the moonlight walk from the Windermere Station by the Lake side to Ambleside, that lovehest five miles in all England ; our next day's climb (the track missed) •over the Stake Pass, after bathing under the falls in a pool at Great Langdale head ; how we lingered, dally- ing with our joy, upon the mountain tops till night -came on, a cloudy night of late Sei)tember, after a day >of autumn glory, overtaking us before we could reach EBEN JONES. Ixxv the Borrowdale Eoad ; how, unable even to grope our way, we lay down together on the stones to sleep, and awakened by the rain crept under an over-hanging rock — and, cold and hungry, smoked oxvc pipes and talked till the dawning light was sufficient for us to find some trace of path to Stonethwaite ; how we sat in a cottage porch to await the rising of the inmates and beg a breakfast of bad coffee and mutton-ham, so salt that it scarified our mouths. No grave-minded man was either of the pair who went laughing and singing, if somewhat limping on their way ; nor much was there of a disposition to gravity two evenings later, when after supper at the little Fish Inn at Buttermere we amused ourselves with improvising verses (certainly never printed) not exactly in honour of "William Marshall, William Marshall, Cotton-spinner of Leeds ! " verses of mere rhythmical extravagance, in proper poetic execration of the factory-owning plutocrat who had the impudence to possess the one grand home in beautiful Buttermere. Full capacity for enjoyment, whether of his senses or his intellectual faculties^ characterised the man in his day of health : delighted with all he saw, from the rugged bleakness of Wast- dale to the pastoral repose of Buttermere, enjoying equally a row on Crummock-water and our evening walk beside the golden woods to Keswick. Tliis was IxxTi REMINISCENCES OF Ebenezer Jones, the City clerk, not too much dis- appointed at a literary failure, before his heart was saddened and his health destroyed. For it was not that poetic disappointment that crushed the poetry out of him and broke the brave man down. Other disappointment, not foreseen or to be guarded against, heart-sorrow, and disease, pursued him and marked him for their prey. And then the home-unhappiness : it is difficult to speak at all of that. But in barest justice to him something must be said before I close these insufficient reminiscences. Poetry he put aside for prose : not altogether. Before all his ambition was to be a man. To write poetry : yes ! his nature swayed to that, as the tree sways with the wind, the continual sea-wind that drives all growth in one direction. The manhood in him refused to be so ])Owed and limited. What he might not say, or could not so well say, in poetry, he would say in prose. The same knightly desire to battle against Wrong which produced Ms Kings of Gold impelled his pamphlet of The Land Monopoly. The pleasure-loving poet felt for the woes of others ; and the ground on wliich he wrote is well defined in a single paragraj)h, when he writes : — " In the year a.d. 1846 there were exported from Ireland 3,266,193 quarters of wheat, barley, and oats, besides flour, beans, peas, and rye, — 186,483 cattle, 6,363 calves, 259,257 sheep, 180,827 swine (food that is in the shape of meat and EBEN JONES. Ixxvii bread for about one half of the Irish population) ; cind yet this very year of a.d. 1846 was preeminently, owing to a Land monopoly, the famine year for the Irish people, "t Note the exactness of the man of figures ! Truly a man capable of much beside poetry. As truly at that date, as at some others, something beside poetry was needed. Which somewhat concerns poets. This one cared to do his part. His "day of poetry," the manifestation thereof, was verily, as W. B. Scott has said, " his day of love" : not love of his wife, his volume being published before he knew her, but the earlier love of which Mr. Watts has spoken. Also his genius needed only an occasion (which what impressionable boy has not "?), slight or serious, to provoke its love-dreams. A worshipper of beauty, sensitive, pleasure-loving, impassioned, his erotic poetry was as much the affluence of his blood as of his brain (not that I find one line in it of which one need be ashamed) ; and easily moved to love he could not help but sing, as the buds must open in the spring sunshine. His first title to his book better ex- pressed its genesis than the later title of Emotion, perhaps suggested by the unexpected possibility of some mistake as to the meaning of Sensation. Also as regards his courtship of the wife, it was too brief for much amount even of the most rapid rhyming. I + The Land MonojJoly, p. 10. Ixxviii REMINISCENCES OF believe he had not been many days acquainted with her before, in his impetuous way, taken by some personal attractions and the charm of music, of which he was passionately fond, he proposed and was accepted. Too hasty, alas ! Had he rejoiced in a hapi^y home, we had not been without more of such lines as those he did address to her, a richer growth through culture of his most poetic nature, and with the continuance of his day of love continuance of poetic aspiration and a performance only promised by the genuine if not always artistic essays of his youth. Of the misery of that marriage I must speak. But how 1 Surely I have no thought of telling the unhappy story after the manner of a witness in a police-court. Trite observations on causes also may be avoided. Wliat would all the facts avail 1 The facts which I relate bear not the construction which the same facts do reported by any one else. Facts ! I never knew any, of man's or woman's life, that could not be stated in at least two ways, and that without direct violation or much straining of the truth. Nay, set down by the Recording Angel himself, were there only the bare record, — we well might dread the Judgment. The outer facts of the life of Sir Philij) Sidney, are they not well known to us % And not only the outer facts, but Sidney himself has almost written out the inmost motions of his soul. Some of EBEN JONES. Ixxix US can see even in the broadest and plainest statement of the facts nothing but Avhat is in accordance with his loftiest words and confirmation strong as Holy Writ of all we loved to think of England's knightliest son, the idol of his age, " whose life was i^assed like a smnmer day, all sunlight, warmth, success, even his death suiTOunded with the poetic splendours of a summer sunset." Yet by others the same facts have been received as destructive of our ideal, altogether damnatory of the man. I will give no facts. Nor have I word to utter of the wife ; of whom also per- sonally I have but a faint impress, seeing but little of her. I have to write only of what concerns my esti- mation of the man, of what remains stamped upon my memory as the truth in relation to his conduct and his character. Here is his brother's record. "Ebby, both as boy and man, was full of force and fortitude, and as he advanced in life he became inspired with a high sense of the duty he owed to his fellow men, and was never, under any trial — and he had many trials — less than a most genuine, courageous, and uncompromising man, who fought his way back to his Maker, without ever once striking his flag. That was Eben Jones, and in telling you that I tell you what you know." Indeed I know it. And could I ever have had any doubt, that sorest of his trials, how he bore it, and how he behaved, had made me sure. A man most Ixxx REMINISCENCES OF keenly sensitive, the torture he went tlu'ongh must have heen agony indeed, the bitterest such a man could undergo. Like the Spartan lad, he bore the rending of his bowels without complaint. I have not in my mind an instance of heroism more heroic, of martjTdom more severe than his. And I speak not only of the more than Spartan fortitude, but of a great, unflinching, Christ-like generosity and goodness which has endeared his memory to me, making of it a holy thing to which I bow in reverence and love. What need I of particular facts, happy in forgetting some 1 The one authentic and well-recognised like- ness of my friend lives before me ; and no portrait, nor other identified facts, can make me think it false. Looking back among other memoranda I find that I must have begun my acquaintance with Eben in 1842. In the beginning of that year I became the partner of John Orrin Smith, the engraver, of whom Horace Harral had been a pupil. Working daily beside each other, both young men, Harral and I were friendly ; and he soon introduced me to Jones. So also I knew Sumner Jones, and can recollect how we four spent many an evening together. Of the merit of Sumner Jones, a poet also, but of a more retired and contemplative disposition, as he is still living, it would be impertinent here to speak; and it was Eben toward whom my sjTnpathies were chiefly EBEN JONES. Ixxxi dra^vn, and whom in consequence I better knew. How we drifted apart I hardly recall to mind. It was not purposely. In 1844 I Avas busied Avith Mazzini in bringing before Parliament our complaint of the opening of letters in the English Post-Offic& That led to friendship with the great Italian, and involved me later in EurojDean politics, making large demands upon my time ; also heavily taxed (Mr. Smith dying in 1845) by the sole charge of a business on which two families depended. I can find no other Treasons except this want of time to account for any discontinuance of the ahvays friendly and at one time very frequent intercourse between myself and Jones. In 1849 I removed to the North, and after that engrossing political work, then sorroAvs of my OAvn, had share in sundering us. For years I had seen and heard but little of him till returning to London, I learned that he was living in Paultons-square, Chelsea, and Avent to see him. I found him dying : the Avreck of his old energetic self, wasted aAvay, sad, but uncom- plaining. That evening no one AA-as Avith him but his son, a delicate nervous boy, little able to be of comfort to the life-Avearied man. I believe that even then Jones was engaged on some accountant's work, with his old pride, to eat only the bread of independence. He gave me, almost as a parting gift, some three or four short poems, AAritten no great while before, 9 IxxxH REMINISCENCES OF They are somewhere, among other treasured papers, letters and other relics, which one religiously preserves yet dares not look at. I have them not in this country, and know not how to direct anyone to find them. I speak of them but to prove that through all unhappiness, even to the last, the poetic spirit had not departed from liim. Even to the last, A few days later he had left London, to lay his bones at Shenfield. Sensations of the keenest, whence quick impulses ; clear insight as to right and wrong, from which arosf his indignation against injustice ; fearlessness and fortitude, and with them tenderness for others ; rare poetic gifts, and at the same time the practical talent and good sense of a man of the world : all these belonged to Eljenezer Jones. AVhat he has written speaks for itself, needs no comment, eulogium or criticism from me. I have spoken only of the man. He was of the type of Alcibiades, but with an idea of duty which the Greek had not : a man seemingly marked out fiTDm his birth, by his very nature, to be beloved and to succeed. Sorrow and Misfortune saw and envjang slew him. Only a memory remains in place of all that promise. W. J. Linton. New Haven, Conn., U.S.A. March, 1879. EBEX JOXES. Ixxiiii [Note. — Most faithful are the "Reminiscences" of my brother which Mr. Linton has sent across the Atlantic, but a& might be expected from that blissful unconsciousness of the realities of City life in whicli artists and men of letters can I'ejoice, a few qualifying words are here and there required. I confirm Mr. Linton's conjecture that my brother never made "a speech in public." Had he done so, however, it would not have been "to add to poetical delinquencies" in the City ; for, with that "practicality and sense " to which Mr. Linton refers as " very remai'kable in a poet," he preserved the line of demarcation between City work and poetical or political activity so complete, that to this day I meet occasionally those who knew him in the haunts of business, and remember him well as an able man of aifairs, yet who are quite unconscious that anything better than invoices or commercial correspon- dence ever passed his pen. Tlie moral obliquity of City life, his gi'oove of it and mine, ^^^th him and since, can only be described by those behind tlie scenes — record of which exists, but of that this is not the place to speak. He knew that to be in the City is not to be of it. To serve is not to share, and the soul need contract no stain. Many a City clerk can say " Amen " to that, though it may be long before one like my brother shall step from his desk to Paternoster- row, and publish over his o^ti name his defiance to the Mammon-worshippers, returning thence only to see that " shattering of his ideal " of a nobler brotherhood elsewhere, on which Mr. Watts has wi'itten with such absolute grasp of truth. It maj^ here give a tinge of biogi'aphical interest to state that my brother made more than one effort at escape. In 1S4G (the Railway-mania year) he became for a time the secretary of a Railway Company, which soon collapsed. Again, when the Daili/ Ketcs was established, he endeavoured to join the staff of that newsj)aper, and I saw an interchange of letters between my 1)rother and Mr. Dickens on the subject ; but he was re- Ixxxiv REMTNISCENCES. ferred from one to another, and in the end nothing came of that. Yet he would, in one way or another, inevitably have freed himself, had it not been for incessant and extravagant claims upon him, thwarting at every turn one m^io to work with high-minded men would have been content to live upon the ascetic edge of life. On that subject — the deep domestic calamity — I restricted myself to the one word " lamentable," lest kindred feeling might be supposed to guide a partial pen, and also because I dared not trust myself to speak. Mr. Linton, without hint from me, has spoken out. I know nil that he has set down, and more — know the duty done to the uttermost, the suffering silently borne, the sacrifice of himself in ceaseless striving to reclaim. For him there is no more grief. But I cannot rest without telling Mr. Linton in this note how great the solace is to me, and will be until my time comes to pass away, to find that such sorrow was confided to such sympathy, to one who knew so well how to * ' guess at the wound and heal with secret hand." We have all our differing estimates of things — in poetry as in politics. With my brother, his politics sprang out of his poetry, and poetry in itself was little or nothing to him other- wise than as a form of life, the secret issues of which are in the heart of man. There was no " lost leader " for my brother in Mr. Linton, I knew from a letter he sent to him, not long before he went to Bi'entwood to die, how he held him in his inmost heart. Nearly nineteen years have passed away, and now I know the i-esponse he met, and it is sacredly dear to me. And surely all can agree that such things as these, between such men as my brother was and as Mr. Linton is (let the reader turn to his words), may be, in a reckoning not oiirs, Ijetter than song, and ten times more than fame. — S. J.] StiiDifs of *rn0ation attD [Published 1S43.] [Studies of Sensation and Event ; Poems, by Ebenezer Jones. London: Charles Fox, Paternoster Roiv, mdcccxliii. The text of the pi'esent reprint is foundetl on two coijies of the original Edition, marked throughout ^\-ith autograph correc- tions by the author. The dedication to Shelley is now printed for the first time from one of these cojiies.] TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY WHO DIED StH JULY 1822 BUT WHO LIVETH FOR EVER IN THE HEARTS AXD MINDS OF POET-! I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK NOT SO MUCH IN REVERENCE FOR HIS PERFECTION IN ART AS IN LOVE OF THE INFINITE GOODNESS OF HIS NATURE IN WHICH PARTLY FOR ITS ESSENTIAL EEAUl'Y AND PARTLY BECAUSE IT WAS HUMAN IT HAS OFTEN BEEN GIVEN ME TO REJOK E WITH JOY UNSPEAKABLE AND FULL OF CiLOEY " Tlie gi-eat end of all the arts is to make an impression on the imagination and the feeling. Tlie imitation of natnre frequently does this. Sometimes it fails, and something else succeeds. I think, therefore, the true test of all the arts i.s, not solely whether the production is a true copy of nature, Init whether it answers tlie end of art, which is to produce a pleasing effect upon the mind." Sir Joshua Reyxolds. THE NAKED THINKER. The house was broad, aud squared, and liigh,- The house of ApsAvern's lord, — And all the lordly houses nigh Did with its forms accord ; Their portals all four steps did dwell Above the drifting crowd, And all their windows did repel. Deep set, and heavily brow'd ; The house Avas one of countless ones, All builded white Avith stone ; And round its base for ever runs The hurrying people's tone. THE NAKED THINKER.. The room was wholly bare, and raised Above all other rooms, And its large crystal window gazed O'er roofs, and towers, and domes ; The winds uncheck'd aromid it swept ;; And o'er all others high. Straight into it the sunshine stept Stark naked from the sky ; 'Twixt it and the revolving stars Did never aught arise, And morning's earliest golden bars Its Avails did first surprise. Now forward in this lonely room, A door unsounding savings — White human movings just illume The darkness whence it springs ; The darkness dies, "without the door, A man half naked stands ; His eyes are fix'd with thoughtful lore, Baring himself, his hands : And doATO into this lonely room, As swimmer unto sea, "With stately tread, defying liead^ All naked steppeth he. THE NAKED THINKER. TavcIvc times this lonely chamber round This naked man doth pace, His globing eyes growing more profound, Scorn firing more his face ; Each grand limb firmly planting franks Itself its place's lord ; His body, from its haughty flanks, Lifts like a lifted sword ; He pauses, and like one who stands Trampling an emperor's crown. He lifteth high his clenched hands, He strains his stern limits down. Before the room's large window'd eye, That stares from roof to floor, He stands ; the sunshine from the sky Dazzlingly slants him o'er : "With splendid perfectness the sheen Kills every shade and haze, And multitudinous and keen His bossed form displays : Loud laughs he at the sounding croAwl That far beneath him tides, Chariots, and dames, and horsemen proud, Corpses, and harlots, and bi'ides. THE NAKED THINKER. An infant's laugh's a blessed thing, Its soft fall smooths the soul ; And children's laughter, Avlien they spring Away from loved control ; Such laughs are but the gentle lift Of gently joy-breezed life : This man's bare laughter, hard and swift, With scorn's delight was rife ; His muscles glisteningly unthong'd As burst each ringing peal. And shone like beach-stones thickly throng'd When bright waves o'er them reel. While sinks this scornful laughter down Deep in his frame, to thought, He turns from gazing o'er the town Like one by ghosts besought ; He couches on the chamber's floor, His limbs like creatures spread ; And -writes he jest, or writes he lore, He writes with thought-stoop'd head ; And ever and anon, Avhile glides Over the scrolls his pen, He stops, and glisteringly rides His laughter forth again. THE NAKED THINKEB. Why seeks this man this lonely height His fellows sport below ! Why is he naked, what doth he write, Nakedly couching low 1 What mean the scorns that swiftly surge O'er his expanded eyes ? Why do his mind-strung muscles urge 1 What is their mind's emprize 1 What means the room, of life's stuff bare As mountain-hollow'd grave 1 The naked manhood, nerving there, Like a tongue in its dark red cave ? The abbey-bell toll'd fast and loud When Apswern's old lord died ; And all the people rose and bow'd, And mourn'd their nation's pride ; He had led its armies through the world, Like sea-snakes through the sea ; And he its flags of peace unfurl'd While earth blazed up her glee ; The bell of the abbey heavily toll'd. When they bore his corpse to its tomb ; And the thought of death did arise and fold The thought of God with its gloom. THE NAKED THIXKER. But when Apswern's old lord died, — When pale on his couch he lay, So that the gazer might not decide What of him was life, and what clay, — When the weeping servants distant stood, And the tearlest: loving stood near, — When the doctor's eye forgot to brood, Regaining human fear, — When the frighten'd people in whispers spake Of the fears that they could not disclose, As children do who in darkness wake — The Lord of Apswern arose : And he said, " They think me great and proud, Their kings have knelt to me ; Before me ranks of manhood bow'd, Their looks no more were free : — I die a fool, a duping fool ; I leave a veiled world, "NMierein, by unsuspected rule, I thought no veils were furl'd ; I sink within the senseless tomb, — The shapes I seem to leave Now shake their masks, and midst the gloom Some real glim2:)ses give. THE NAKED THINKER " Duped, unsuspecting, from my Inrth Till now, my life has been ; And yet I flaunted o'er the earth, As I all truths had seen ; I thought I fought for man, — I know 'Twas for the thing man seem'd ; I thought to man my love did flow, — It flow'd to dreams I dream'd ; With armies I have lash'd the world, And at my will it flew, I knew not what the power I hurlVl, Nor that I did subdue. " I die deceived ; — but one shall tear The masks that lied to me ; The lands that I bequeath mine heir, He but retains, Avhile he Fights Adth his eyes against the world, Against all things that are. Mocking the veils around them furl'd. And scattering them afar ; Through him I hurl detecting scorn At life's old harlot zone, I crush her masks for centuries worn, I strip her on her throne. THE NAKED THINKER. " Let there be lifted from the roof Of Apswern's house, a room From every other room aloof, And bare as is the tomb ; And stripp'd of all the clothes we wear To aid life's lying show. Naked from every influence, there Lord Apswern's heir must go ; And there, alone, for Apswern's land, A tenth of each day Avar Fiercely to rend life's seemings and Drag out the things that are." Long ere the worms had fretted through The clay that thuswise spake, The heir's dependents swiftly flew His lonely room to make ; With wanton jests, with reasons A\ise, They forced him there each day ; That he might seem in legal eyes His fortune's price to pay : Lord Apswern holds that old man's laud, He works that old man's will ; But now, though bound him no command, He'd Avork that Avild Avill still. THE NAKED THINKER. For minds tliat underneath the l)hize Of Tune's revolving things, Have learn'd to si)urn wliat Avorkl-shared rays The trooj), quick passing, flings — ■ And stopping each, with stern connnand, Have forced it to disclose Its inmost soul, the unknown land It comes from, where it goes, — Can no more calmly passive lay 'Neath Avhat things seem, than can Eagles, who've track'd the sun's bright way, Stare at it, down with man. And thus, though hright through Kensington Lord Apswern's fellows stray. Ladies with beauteous garments on. And lords, Avith laughter gay ; Making not sense a sword to tease, Or fight the summer day, — The day, a sunny bright sea-breeze, That breeze's bright spray, they ; Though thus through Kensington they glide, While bright their light smiles play, No thoughts to strive with, or deride. And happiness all their way ;— 10 THE NAKED THINKER. Tlii.s day that joys Lord Apswern's peers, And seeks his lonely room, — • He heeds not, tl^ough alone it rears Its face there, bright with bloom ; Working his work, Avith painful throes. He broods, and writes, and raves, — Kensington's music towards him flows, He smiles not o'er its Avaves ; His l)ody Avrithes beneath his strife To make men keenlier see ; — Not for tlie glory of all his life Should any I love be he. Lord Ai)swern's eyes are lightning keen, So keen his world is not The world by other mortals seen, His thought is not their thought : Lord Apswern glows with glorious pride, That lift beyond earth's creeds. Its thoughts and laws beneath him tide, Hour storms he calmly reads ; — ■ But ever in courts, in marts, in farms, AVhether we joy or moan, Yea, even in the lovingest lady's arms, Lord ApsAvern is alone. 11 THE WAITS. I HAD seen the snow sink silently to the ground ; And beauteously its Avhite rest Quieted all things ; and the hushing sound Murmuring and sinking everywhere around, Blessed nie and was blest. I had seen the moon i)eep through the dark cloud-tlight, Then gradually retreat ; And her re-appearing smile of gentlest might, Beneath Avhicli all the clouds sank calm and briiiht. Me lustrously did greet. And I had heard the ungovernable sea Earth's quietness loud scorn ; I had mark'd afar his raging radiancy. And proudly, in his pride, had felt that he And I were twain god-born. 12 THE WAITS. But than the under-uttering husli of snow, Tlian the moon's queenly reign, Than ocean's pride, more beautiful did glow One other beauty, — even now bending low I adore to it again. For on that niglit, while Christmas melody plain'd Our lonely house around, Interpreting wild feeling, else restrainVl From any utterance in the heart death pain'd ; — ■ Suddenly, hushing sound, Came from a lonely chamber's opening door A beautiful boy child ; His pale face fear'd to dare the darkness more, His white feet hesitated o'er the floor, And many n }>rayer he smiled. Then tiptoe gliding through the gallery's gloom, His hands press'd on his heart. Noiselessly enter'd he a distant room. And stealthily its mellow 'd moonlight bloom His gliding limbs did part ; — ■ THE WAITS. 13 Till o'er a couch all bathed in slanting sheen, Where, lapt in splendour, slept A little girl her childhood's sleep serene, — His look growing like to her look, he did lean, And a brief moment kept Affection fixed, a rejDosing gaze Upon the sleeping light. Pleasuring beneath her eyes, and like soft haze, O'er the clueless beauty of her mouth's sweet maze, Glowing mildly bright. When suddenly, with intenser utterance, scream'd The music's wild require ; And as suddenly his startled countenance bcam'd In vivid pallor, and his wide eyes gleam'd With coming and going fire : — And then he arrested her unclasped hand. He kiss'd her gentle cheek ; Till sighing, as loth to leave sleep's peaceful land, Her eyes look'd sadly up, and wearily scann'd His face, while he did speak. C 14 THE WAITS. He whisper'd, " Hark ! the music that you fear'd Again we might not hear ; "Wake ! wake ! it is very passionate, it has near'd — It mourneth, like the wind o'er the moors career'd — Listen ! listen ! Amabel dear." Here ! here ! that beauty, which than hush of snow, Than the moon's royal reign, Than ocean's pride, more beautiful did gloAv, He is that beauty ; even now bending low, I adore to it again. Sweet peace to me the hushing snow had sent. The moon had given me joy. The ocean transport ; but high thought-content. Begotten of all things, measureless, yet unspent, Gave me this gentle boy. For, from the sanctuary of this scene, Through the strange world around, That never knew happiness, that fierce and mean, Now whiningly grovelleth, mth disease unclean, That deepening, owtis no bound ; — THE WAITS. 15 Where love loud rages, seeing throned the wrong That all his hoj^e destroys ; Wliere poetry pales, despairing, and for song Raves, till her utterance, erst so sweet and strong, Sinks to mere maniac noise ; Where even science hath faH'n, with terrible dread Palsied his strenuous limbs, Dashinsf the diadem from his ansuish'd head, And howling atheist bowlings — was I led ; And, lifting solemn hymns, Nor anger moved me, nor disgust, nor scorn. Nor sufFer'd I any fear : For when the drear was stormiest, most forlorn, Tliis boy illimiined, soft his voice was borne, "Listen, listen, Amabel dear." c 2 16 A DEATH -SOUND. Oh ! never sent Italian summer a fairer, brighter day, Than when amid the wildwood he led J'oiing Eose away ; Down from heaven's curving roof of all unshaded blue Sank the sunshine o'er the hills, aiid strong the forest through ; — All the leaves did droop, and all the birds did dream; They pass'd the silvery fishes, slumbering on the stream ; 'Twas the fearfully bright noon-hour, and restless life had gain'd Its most unshelter'd pinnacle, and failed rapture pain'd ; For the press of the sunshine held the world ; And with never a breeze or a sound, The golden air glow'd radiant, While as ever the earth rush'd round. A DEATH-SOUND. 17 Down all the liapjiy morning the birds did flit and smg; But now across the silence there waved not any wing ; They were sitting 'neath the trees, he felt her soft hand come, — It clasp'd his brow and swerved it towards her bosom home ; He sank upon his pillow, resign'd to think that this, If 1)liss might be on earth, Avas sure earth's happiest bliss : Then heard he through her frame the busy life-works But the sound was not of life ; and he knew that she must die : And the press of the sunshine held the w^orld ; And wuth never a breeze or a sound, The golden air glow'd radiant. While as ever the earth rush'd round. *' Why start you sol" she whisper'd ; no words found he to say ; " You are pale, you are chilly, love V — again her lips did pray ; He urged his ear into her bosom, — fast the life-works ply, 18 A DEATH-SOUND. But the sound was not of life, — lie was sui'e that she must die ; The life within his veins did press at every pore, lie found no speech, and wami he felt her tear his cheek drop o'er, — One tear, and then another ; — Oh, it seem'd death dared not be, And he langh'd, " I am well, I am well, I ever grow with thee : " And the press of the sunshine held the world ; And with never a breeze or a sound, The golden air glow'd radiant, While as ever the earth rush'd round. Now distant wedding-bells rang out; he saw her blushing cheek, — Of their coming bridal morning she thought that he might speak : — 'Twas then his brain sank broken ; Oh, seek no more to know ; — The Avorms will make their feast upon her coffin'd brow ; — When she died in his arms, " forget, forget," she said, " How I loved thee, love thee dying," then her last look fed, A DEATH-SOUND. 19 And died against his face ; Oh ! is there reason why Haunts me that summer morning, when he found that she would die ; When the press of the sunshine held the world ; And with never a breeze or a sound, The golden air glow'd radiant, While as ever the earth rush'd round. 20 ZINGALEE. The Avar Avas over ; the ship Sail'd gaily tOAvards the land ; He leap'd upon the deck, Joy-fire in his face and neck ; A tear his cheek did fleck As he murmur'd softly " land," " Her land !" " her land !" His colour burned high, His look assured the sky. Then glanced exulting scorn, When, on that joyous morn, AAvay, aAvay, through the dazzling spray. He sprang from the ship to the roaring sea. And seized the Avaves in their saA^age play, And rush'd AA-ith their rush, more bright than they ; Zingalee ! ZING A LEE. 21 A myriad eager men, Thronging the harbour mountl, With flags of fights sublime, With a myriad church-bell chime, Hail his returning time, And loud his victory sound : Bare-limbed stand. In dazzling band, The noblest ladies of the land, Gracing his car ; — Their Avhite breasts bend, their arms ascend, And their eyes extend, towards his ship afar ; And their gentlest musics and softest voicings O'erpower the sense with intense rejoicings ; But away, away from this jjroud array. In lonely delight to his bride bounds he ; No lady-abandonment wins him to stay ; He reck'd nought of power, or of glory that day ; Zingalee ! He has leaped from the brine ; His visage smiles divine ; The flashings of its light Change, change, more bright, more bright, As da^vn upon his sight. 22 ZINOALEE. Eemember'd things that sign Her shrine ! 'Twas here farewells were dreaded, 'Twas here farewells were spoken, And here farewells were hushed, — Here anew wild they wedded, Here gave they the love-token, And here the last grief gushed, At their parting time ! And now to acclime His gasping life to the heaven it nears, Hero he takes the love-token she gave with tears, — Her pictured self, as o'er him she hung, \A1ien her love from her loveliness all veil flung, " Drawn by herself," so its jewels tell, "For one whom none other can love so well :" And calm'd is his face, blissful are his eyes. While over the picture low murmureth he, "With voice whose deep love signeth sweet self-sur- prise, *' Was I ever away from this paradise ?" Zingalee ! And bright with the glowing repose Of one long dwell'd in heaven. ZI KG ALEE. 25 To whom assurance great Of the unchanging fate Binding his blissful state, Suddenly has been given, — He passeth the garden where nestles her home ; And fondly he notetli the roses, like foam Flecking the greenery round ; The birds softly warbling, the breeze waving treen, The atmosphere sunny, the heaven serene, And the sea's distant sound ; Oh ! he noteth them all as parts of her. With her, tlirough them, doth his soul confer, For she loves them all ; He enters the mansion, with quivering frame He glides to her chamber, soft murmuring the name- She was used him to call : There heard he a sound That lovingly womid Wild words around ; — 'Twas her voice — And faintly it said, " Oh ! nothing I dread, But that thou mayest be fled ; No ! bid me rejoice ; Let me fly -with thee even to the end of the world,. But my life must, must ever in thy life be furl'd, ■24 ZIXGALEE. I cannot even die, from thee parted :" And he stagger'd towards the room, And there, in voluptuous gloom, Her breasts all naked and heaving, Lay his bride ; And her beside One like a man, around him cleaving Her quivering limbs, while still she moan'd grieving, ■" I cannot even die from thee parted." The river of his life stood still, Eose at its woe. And gazed vdih. terrible will The abysm below : — A wild beast he rush'd to the couch where now grows The deep stillness of love-rite ; back, hissing, shrank he ; One long deepening howl from his crashing life rose ; Convulsed, he fell senseless ; his ■\vTenched face froze, Where still linger d the sound of her wanton love- throes : — Zingalee ! He is born ; again he is born ; And unto his life of woe He aAvakeueth slow, Moaning low ZINGALEE. He hath no soul for scorn ; His mind nought questioneth, he is alone, Staring past everything, unmoved as stone, As cold. — Over his hand hath fallen her love-token ; — He seeth it, liis despairing trance is broken, — He calleth on his love, his love, his love ; Down on his knees, with clasped hands he calleth,. Upon his love, upon his love, upon his love ; — But no quick footstep to his couch'd ear falleth, Only the voice-disturbed tapestries move : He bounds to the air ; Oh ! music is there, And he gnashes his teeth, and teareth bare His bosom, and grovelleth on the ground His naked flesh, and howleth around :— He flies to the jessamine bower, where first On one golden eve his passion outburst ; Fair, fair to his thought that heaven-time glows, — There oft in her arms did his life repose, 'Twas there, in the flush of their youthful pride. He walk'd a god, and she, his bride. Some robeless nymph, sported with flowers. Dancing her joy through summer hours. Still in thought he beholds her thus playfully pace,, But another burns at each naked grace ; •26 ZINGALEE. And another seeks, with the flowers she wove, To fetter her flight, and constrain her to love : — The flesh flakes on his face ! His eyes roll blood-blind ! A corpse stands in his place ! Its joints knock in the wind ! And across the joyous town. Over the pastures bro^vn, Beneath the sunny skies, The gibbering thing doth flee : — Dead on the moor it lies, Cover'd with worms and flies ; Zingalee ! "\Miy weeps Zingalee 1 Words only conceal, Thought cannot reveal The tortures they feel Who suffer as sufiered he : — But even didst thou knoAv The worst of his woe. Still shouldst thou not, Zingalee, Aveep ; For thy tears might cheat his soul from its'resfc To love thee still, and be still opprest. Seeing thee love another ; — ZINGALEE. 27 Oh ! thou must not -weep, thou must seem to scorn His love and his woe, and from mom to morn All grief must thou smother : — Then crown thee, then crown thee with jewels bright, And with joyous robes thy body bedight, Summon thy music, illumine thy hall. Dance and exult, like a young bacchanal, Greet thy live lover with love's wild glee, Zingalee ! 28 E M I L Y. On listen, njaiiphs ! to my distress ; Tell Emily ! tell what wild desire Throbs all my veins, and yet confess I would not lose the glorious fire. Oh listen, njTiiphs ! in sunny wind, Emily on the la^\n reclined ; One of her beauteous arms was wound Embracingly her jiilloAv round ; Her face and bosom, 'neath the sky, Backwardly loll'd, in smiles did lie ; Her face and bosom upward bending Flush'd as with virgin shames ; and lending Her hand to some caressing dream, Over her flowing limbs it lay, "Where stricken by the sunny beam, Around it rosy light did play : And seem'd those gently swelling limbs, EMIL Y. 29 Curving at sound of Avarm love-liymns, Towards fond minglement, though tliey Minglement made not, but did stray Partedly ever ; and the dress Which fell soft o'er this loveliness, Its glowing life all unconcealing, Yet shaded from entire revealing, — With witching modesty confessing What matchless splendour still it veil'd, Though oft the breezes, rudely pressing, The heavenly secrecy assail'd, — - And then illumed the couch of azure. And then the air did pant and glow, While shivering mth mysterious pleasure, Like waves her limbs did lift and flow. Oh listen, nymphs ! the sound of horn, Over the distant mountains borne, Disturb'd her dream ; Oh marvellous grace ! She moved, she raised her brightening face ; She rose against the lipping wind, So fondly its persistings wrestling, I almost thought she still design'd Still to endure its boisterous nestling. Olowing she sate ; her lustrous eyes 30 EMIL Y. Gave trusting thouglits to far-off skies, And sometimes glancing o'er our earth, Bless'd it with smiles whole empires worth, — Such proud, bright, wild, caressing smiles, With pride and love so sweetly blended, That ever, when her gaze ascended, I watch'd for one of Nature's Aviles To lure it back ; — or blackbird's singing, Or childhood's shout through far woods ringing. I glided towards her, hush'd were words, By her I knelt ; — to list the birds To watch the sky like her I strove, But could not, all my life did love : — I could but gaze her blissful cheek. The heaven of hor broAV I could but scek,- Tlie slightest vaiying of her look, The gentlest movement of her form, My nature to its centre shook With rapturous agony ; a storm Of joy rush'd o'er my startled being. — Giving me all her gaze, and seeing My quivering face, her eyelids fell. Swift to her brow the crimson flcAv, Her bosom heaved, her throat did swell. EMIL Y. 31 Around her mouth a ne'w smile grew : Gasiiiug, I sank upon the ground, Powerless of sign, or sight, or sound. Upon that ground her robe was spread, And on that robe was lain my head ; Into its folds, Isurningly yearning, My lips went, pouring kisses, till I shook Avith ecstasy, and felt The pulses of my life sink still, And every energy to melt. Time was not then ; how long I lay In that sweet death, not mine to say ; From 'neath my cheek did something move ; — Arising was my worshipp'd love ; — Swift to my mind a strange thought darted, And wildly to my feet I started, " Where lay my cheek V'—l trembling said ; — Back three steps stepp'd the blushing maid, — A short soft laugh betray'd her joy. Her fingers yni\\ their rings did toy. With smiling eyes the ground she eyed, And " on my foot " her voice replied. Then forward that divinest foot With the same short soft laugh she put ; D 2 32 EMIL Y. I saw the sandals gaily lacing Its gracefully arched instep ; yearn'd— Whilst sportively the flowers displacing, It stroked slow the turf, whilst turn'd Its smooth round ankle, very sloAvly, Its inside curve out, askingly— That it and I again were lowly, My cheek upon it taskingly ; My lips again its smoothness pressing, While conscious Avhat they were caressing. Oh ! doubt not how I strove to gain Emily's grace ; all, all was vain ; Laughter alone was her reply ; "I die," I moan'd,— she whisper'd, "die;" Still smiling smiles, she backward drew. And bade me stay, and homeward flew. Upon the couch where she had lain I sprang ; it but increased my pain ; And where her cheek had press'd the pillow I bmied mine ; a little billow Of 'dew-gemm'd velvet told me where Her breath had fall'n, and of her hair I foimd the odour ;— far I flew, Still she pursues, and still I her pursue. Oh ! when Avas wretchedness like mine ? Never may I be self-forgiven ; EMIL Y. 33 Encoucli'cl upon that foot cliviue, Yet ignorant that I was in heaven ! Tell, tell me, npnplis ! what hopes have 1 1 For this, for this, did Emily fly. o4 THE HAND. Lone o'er the moors I stray'd ; With basely timid mind, Because by some betray'd, Denouncing human-kind ; I heard the lonely wind, And A\-ickedly did mourn I could not share its loneliness, And all things human scorn. And bitter were the tears I cursed as they fell ; And bitterer the sneers I strove not to repel ; "With blindly mutter'd yell, I cried unto mine heart, — " Thou shalt beat the world in falsehood, And stab it ere Ave part." THE HAXD. 35 My hand I backward drave As one who seeks a knife ; When starthngly did crave To quell that hand's wild strife Some other hand ; all rife With kindness, clasp'd it hard On mine, quick frequent claspings That would not ])e debarr'd. I dared not turn my gaze To the creature of the hand ; And no sound did it raise, Its nature to disband Of mystery ; vast, and grand, The moors around me spread, And I thought, some angel message Perchance their God may have sped. But it press'd another press, So full of earnest j)rayer. While o'er it fell a tress Of cool soft human hair, I fear'd not ; — I did dare Turn round, 'twas Hannah there ! 36 THE HAND. Oh ! to no one out of heaven Could I what pass'd declare. We wander'd o'er the moor Through ail that blessed day ; And we drank its waters jDure, And felt the world away ; In many a dell we lay, And we twined flower-crowns iDriiiht ; And I fed her ^rith moor-benies, And bkss'd her glad eye-light. And still that earnest jiray-er That saved me many stings, Was oft a silent sayer Of countless loving things ; — I'll ring it all with rings, Each ring a jewell'd band ; For heaven shouldn't purchase- That little sister hand. 37 TWO SUFFEREKS. 'Neath an Acacia's overhanging branches, That venture not to touch it ; where the ground Is carpeted richly with the sumptuous greenness Of soft moss clustering ; — tall, in graceful youth, With gentleness about its countenance. And mild reserve, as though itself it lifted To find retirement from intrusive herbs Around it sprawling in indelicate joy, — The alone star of a large ancient garden, A spotlessly white lily gleam'd : at morn. Leading the orisons of all the flowers, Soft its voice rose ; when the hot noonday sun Was troubling every leaf to pleasant pain. Often o'erwearied spirits of the breeze Lapsed towards its sphere, and, softly bending forward, It seem'd to tremble joyfully, the while They sank beside its fragrance ; and at even, When the gently pressing dusk awoke to revel, Those not-perceived beautiful ones, who frolic 38 TWO SUFFERERS. In old luiibrageous vroods, vrlience swift tliey rush Out on fields moonlight-lDathed, to startle back In pleasing fear, who know the thoughts of flowers, Loving them more than man does, — there did \'isit it Troops of these gentle creatures, and they stay Each other to admire it, some entreat The wind to wave back the acacia boughs That screen it from the moonlight, others aromid it Press the elastic turf in lightsome dance, Or rest reclining, wliilst all night it smiled The same mild smile : but neither morning's flowers, Who ceased their hymns to listen to its music So soft and fidl ; nor spirits of the breeze, "Who, fainting in its shadow, gain'd fresh strength Contemplating its grace ; nor woodland njTiiphs, Who for its gentle smile selected it The Antness of their loves and revelry ; Dream'd — that within the centre of its roots Eavaged a fierce and unopposed destroyer, CTna\nng with venomous teeth its shuddering core, Sleeplessly raging. Distant a moth-flight from this suffering lily. Centred amidst vast interbranching treen, TWO SUFFER BBS. 39 A temple of pleasiu-e gloAvecl with the hj^ht DazzKugly iindulating it within Ever with varying hue, — now azui-e, now roseate, Now yellow as amber ; like one gorgeous opal It glow'd, and in its vast capaciousness Exquisitely nerved life sought all sensations, Crises, and tides of pleasui'es. Festival Had summon'd there beauty and youthfulness, The gentle and the gallant ; its broad mirrors The company multiplies, the space disbounds, And its music strangely wantoneth, and aye chaugeth The hue of its light, — till pleasingly bewilder'd Its revellers doubt the earthliness of the scene. All precedent circumstance dazzled from their thought, All future. Suddenly the music sinks ; Each knight prays to some lady, and with smiles And downcast eyelashes, and fluttering body, Each lady grants the prayer ; and gently laugliing Low, tumbling laughter, gives her beautiful self To liis disposal, till the murmuring temple Holds only happily pair'd ladies Avith knights. Tinkle, tinkle the bells, the music riseth. To its voluptuous onwardings all move ; The pairs commingling not, yet all together Beneath the golden roof, around the altar, Around the ivy-croAniM illuminate statues 40 TWO SUFFERERS. Of leaping bacchanals, — they move, they dance. Longer and louder the arising music Utters its challenges ; in dizzy pleasure Each lady smiles divine, with swimming eye, And head fall'n backward, whilst her partner gazing Down in her flushing countenance, whirls her on. They pause ; the ladies on their worshipping knights Lean kind. Now float amongst them gentlest sounds. Confusing, folding them ; with liquid light O'erfilling their eyes ; and teaching every voice Yet gentler lingering ; wreathing round each pair Deliberate 'prisoning strains, resistlessly. Yet fondly binding them : — the music dies ; Silence possesses the temple ; amber dusk Fills it from roof to pavement, and therein The revellers rest. Anon the wilful queens Feign weariness of love-toying, and again Entreat to dance. Now how the minstrels bend And riot in their task ; the merciless music Sweeps eddying on, and on each lady whirls, And whirling aloft her draperies, her limbs Startle the hall with symmetry, like sea-surge The light lace heap'd above each shelterless knee. The merciless music gives no moment's respite. Forging all action it sweeps out all thought, Its secret hurrying notes be^nlder sense, TWO SUFFERERS. 41 Utterly falleth on her lover's bosom Each eye-closed lady ; with a cry of joy, Her lover takes her. From the temple's altar, Now steps the Empress of this festival ; The peerless maiden, round whose crowned beauty Delay'd the dancing, while the dancers worshipp'd The inscrutable splendour of her lofty brow As over all she smiled ; she steps unnoticed. And all smile vanishes from her downcast face : Hastily she quits her kingdom, and alone Threads with impatient steps the winding paths Of many gardens, till she reach the place Of an acacia, 'neath whose pendant branches That suffering lily smiles. Why is thy lifted gaze so discontent. Beautiful maiden ? yon majestic moon, Proud bursting through the gathering clouds of night, As a frigate through a storm-toss'd sea — yon stars, Happy resplendently — yon caves of azure, Nor storm, nor wind, can near — have these no power To calm the trouble of thy countenance To fearless reverence, to assure thy soul To comforting love 1 "Wherefore, oh gentlest one, 42 TWO SUFFERERS. Dost throw tliyself in passionate disquiet Wild to the ground, scaring the woodland nymphs ? Oh ! why repidse yon sky 1 The moonlight pains her ; — Uprising, close unto the tree she shrinks, — Its trunk supports hei ; whitely droops her face : The universe is the millstone roimd her neck ; And she cannot lift her eyes. Anon, her voice, — Now scarcely heard, as from an outspent struggler, Now loud with passionate protest, now broken With powerless pity, utters— " Eldest of Deities ! beneath whose reign Trembled no sense ; Avdien motionless, and calm, All worlds were still, unquivering Avith pain Of central fire ; when no ocean roll'd Her serpent form in continent-strangling folds Around the struggling earth, thus torture-claspt, Compell'd to toil its endless orbit round. The jaAvs of its still tightening enemy Plunged deep into its heart ; when no false spring Summon'd out flowers to feel the sunshine sweet, And then Avith freezing rains and venomous blights JMocking their joy, — over the delicate petals Of azure and pink blossoms, over leaves Shrinkingly sensitive and verdant, sending Filthily craAAding insects endlessly, As a loathsome sloAv-dragg'd sheet; AA-hen himian things TWO SUFFEBEES. 45 Existed not by momentary stojjs In their monotonous suffering almost cheated To acknowledge life not torture, not a rack, Relaxing now and then its furious tension To hold alive its victims ; when did never, Love — by his voice whose passionate afFection Doth wondrously caress, and by the joy Serene and serious in his face and eye Apparently enfeatured, — mn swift entrance To each deluded heart, where, once received, He gradually withdraws his beauteous veil. In l)ase and hideous buffoonery, To laugh, to rage, to soil ; when cruellest Hope Never did rouse and aggravate Desire B}'' promising displays and amorous movements, In rapturous happiness to pursue him even To a bridal couch, that there he close may bind her. And unpossess'd, spring from her pinion'd limbs, Mocking her burning agony ; when never Was trampling passion, or unresting torpor, Or conflict, or decay : — By thy remissness in permitting life To violate this deep tranquillity ; Creating lidless eyes, to roll, but close not, 'Neath skies of fiery brightness ; forming hearts As delicate as spring's youngest flower-cup U TWO SUFFERERS. That tliirsteth for the purest dew, to fill them Up to the very brim with leprous filth ; By all that I have sufi'er'd, agonies Which in the cells of memory are not dead, But whom I dare not summon, even to Avitness In this great need ; — Oh ! by this very fear, — I dare not look behind, and all before ]\Iakes my soul sick, the present tramples me, I cannot stay, I cannot on, nor back — By all this horror, save me :— Hear ! oh Death ! Eouse from thy rest, and hear me, save me, save me, Mightiest of gods ! Oh ! save ! I plead not ignorant, I not thee deem The portal guardian of some paradise ; I seek no paradise, I seek no heaven, I want forgetfulness, I want but rest, I want but not to be. Shall I endure Eesistless years of slavery to life, And when too torture-spent to feel his malice, Then cease 1 Oh ! let me in my tyrant's presence Now tell him he is bafiled, bare my limbs To his vile gaze, and scorn him with this glory, ' Thine never m-ore.' God, thou dost hear me ! Ha ! I shall feel my limbs, as I forsake my couch. Weakening, and Aveakening ; up against the sun I shall hold my trembling fingers, and perceive TWO SUFFERERS. 45 Increasing thinness ; when men talk to me About the future, shall I be very silent And inwardly smile. Oh ! could one die for all ! Or I be alone life-tortured ! millions live ; I am released, the rack remains, the tyrant Smileth immortal ; — over those I have loved His cold eye roUeth. Heard I now a noise, Not from the sea, and not from cloud, and not From centre or surface of the earth, but far. Farther than science telleth, gather and roll Of evident destruction ; — saw I now Blackness sweep out the stars, and yonder moon Shake like a vessel struck by opposite seas. Drop down precipitately, and suddenly stay'd, Turn a dead face amidst the scurrying clouds As a drown'd man on the waves ; — oh, then ! oh, then ! While this tight globe did split, the madden'd ocean Like a great white steed upleaping into heaven Its death-leap, as mown grass the forests falling ; The voice of an imiversal cry proclaiming All life at once withdrawn ; — Suddenly would my soul befit its death-time By wonderful growth, and suffer mightiest thoughts Of the glory of its storm ; — the stricken world Grinding its atmosphere to thundering surf As wild it plunges : — with enormous joy. 40 TWO SUFFERERS. Feeling myself last-life, I'd hear ail cease ; And when the air grew icy, when the darkness Abolish'd vision, into the deepening silence Would I expire." From her whitening face Now starts its lustre ; closed her quivering lips ; Fall'n to the ground by passion, she lies paler Than the lily at her side ! Novv% suddenly, Trembled the moonlight from the gardens ; swiftly, Clouds swept before the moon ; a swift cold wind Came, bending all the trees ; — she shudder'd, dead : — In her dark scatter'd hair the wind-snapt lily Lay Avith its lifeless leaves ; from its bare roots Fierce sneak'd their worm. Oh, friends ! what secret woe Had blooded the vision of this pagan lady, That she saw nought but womided suffering In our glad world ! Children of earth ! believe, Though but a moth-flight distant yonder temple, It Avas no chance that led the lady suffering To impart her fate to a like suffering flower ; For it may make sacred every nook in space. May annihilate despair, alleviate sorroAv, To believe in a rule unseen. 4J SONG OF THE KINGS OF GOLD. Ours all are marble halls, Amid untrodden groves, Where music ever calls. Where faintest perfume roves ; And thousands toiling moan, That gorgeous robes may fold The haughty forms alone Of us — the Kings of Gold. t( Chorus.) We cannot count our slaves, Nothing bounds our sway, Our will destroys and saves, We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! who are Gods ? E 2 48 SONO OF THE KINOS OF GOLI>. Purple, and crimson, and blue, * Jewels, and silks, and pearl, All splendours of form and hue. Our charm'd existence furl ; When darc>d shadow dim The glow in our winecups roll'd ? "When droop 'd the banquet-hymn Raised for the Kings of Gold ? (Chorus.) We cannot coimt our slaves,. Nothing bounds our sway, Our will destroys and saves, We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! who are Gods ? The earth, the earth, is ours ! Its com, its fruits, its wine, Its sun, its rain, its flowers, Ours, all, all ! — cannot shine One sunlight ray, but where Our mighty titles hold ; Wherever life is, there Possess the Kings of Gold. ""o^ (Chorus.) We cannot count our slaves,, ^ONG OF THE KIN08 OF GOLD. 49 Nothing bounds our sway, Our \nll destroys and saves, We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! who are Gods 1 And all on earth that lives. Woman, and man, and child, Us trembling homage gives ; Aye trampled, sport-defiled, None dareth raise one frown, Or slightest questioning hold ; Our scorn but strikes them down To adore the Kings of Gold. {Chorus.) We cannot count our slaves, Nothing bounds our sway, Our Avill destroys and saves, We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! who are Gods I On beds of azure down, In halls of torturing light, Our poison'd harlots moan. And burning toss to sight ; 50 SONG OF THE KINGS OF GOLD. They are ours — for us they burn ; They are ours, to reject, to hold ; We taste — we exult — we spurn — For we are the Kings of Gold. (Cliwus.) We cannot count our slaves^ Nothing bounds our sway, Our will destroys and saves. We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! Avho are Gods 1 The father writhes a smile, As we seize his red-lipp'd girl, His wliite-loin'd wife ; aye, while Fierce millions burn, to hurl Rocks on our regal brows. Knives in our hearts to hold — They pale, prepare them bows At the step of the Kings of Gold. (Chorus.) We cannot count our slaves. Nothing bounds our swa}'", Our will destroys and saves, We let, Ave create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! who are Gods V. SONG OF THE KINGS OF GOLD. 51 In a glorious sea of hate, Eternal rocks we stand ; Our joy is our lonely state, And our trust, our own right hand ; "We frown, and nations shrink ; They curse, but our swords are old : And the wine of their rage deep drink The dauntless Kings of Gold. (Chorus.) We cannot count our slaves, Nothing bounds our sway. Our will destroys and saves, We let, we create, we slay. Ha ! ha ! wlio are Gods 1 52 THE MASQUERADE DEESS. The hall of the dancers with light was ablaze ; But for Cressida's presence the dancing delays ; She, alone in her chamber, was sheathing her limbs In soft silk, that display'd all their forms and their whims ; O'er her body the same silk she brought \vith gay scorn, For the rind fits its fruit as this silk-sheath was worn. Beautiful did she stand ; pearl-hued was the vest ; To her waist, by degrees, its rich colours increased ; To her feet, from her waist, by degrees they did fade, And her limbs seem'd all light in their faint mas- querade ; Like a young rose-bud's cup, towards her neck it did close ; Tis the garb of a boy ; her breasts underneath rose. THE MASQUERADE DRESS. 53 The dance-music sounded ; she laugh 'd a boy's laugh ; And she shook her gay curls down a foot and a half ; Then she narrow'd her waist with a girl's waist-band. And smilingly strove with a boy's stride to stand : In a girl's gentle shppers she slipp'd her small feet, And she sprang towards the hall singing loudly and sweet. *' Who cares for the grape till his throat be dry 1 Who blesses the stream till the sun rides high % What man to his mistress will fitly complain Till she sport with his love, and increase it to pain 1 I'll lure him, repel him, repel while I lure ; For the wilder its passion, the dearer its cure. ** Love's a chase, and I'll fly ; 'tis the flying invites ; A thing nearly lost shows tenfold its delights ; Should chance dare dishevel my robes as I'm flown, Why, I'U turn to tread down the pert chance, and be shown. Tush ! what though the vision my huntsman inflame. The more ardent the hunting, the dearer the game. 54 THE MASQUERADE DRESS. " Should he flag in the chase, I shall happen to fall ; And prostrate, and helpless, his name I shall call : He will lift me— he'll trick to caress me the while ; And I'll be too faint quite to note the fond guile. Tush ! what though the burthen his love makes to burn, The fondlier he'll pray me to hold him in turn. " Should prudes blame my dress, oh ! all beautiful braid, Yellow, crimson, and green over it shall be play'd ; Like snakes on their simny banks, soft it shall wind, Everywhere where a place it can fancy or find ; I'll not feign one repulse, but right onward I'll lure, Laughing out to my lover, — love makes its own cure !" oo EEMEMBRANCE OF FEELINGS. Oh ! never may the heart regain Past feelings, as the mind may thought ; Dejiarted joy leaves dreariest pain, But memory of its nature ! — nought : Then cease remembrance to reprove ; I shall forget, alas ! too soon Not that you gave me leave to love, But what the heaven that was that boon. I shall forget, — nay ! World's alone 1 I shall remember, ■\vith dark fear. With mean disgust at all that's known, With self-despair's most lying sneer, — That this life loved you, and that then Its ramifications shot through heaven ; 56 REMEMBRANCE OF FEELINGS. And thrill'd with measureless rapture, when Thereby heaven's bliss to you seem'd driven. I shall remember I was pure ; Fearlessly loving, ever, the whole ; Sure that eternity's obsciire. All paradised bright stars did roll. That bearing you, there I might soar, The joy in your cheek still wildly eyeing, Its happiness light yet deepening more, The more my strength rose, heaven defying. I shall remember each love-scene. From love's first dawn to this wild end ; Your deepening clasp, your rapturous mien, The murmuring sounds your heart did send ;- Take, take his jewels from your brow ; Bend, if your heart be not cold stone ; And I will whisper to you now What the forgettings that I moaa I shall forget what was that heaven, Through which my loving hfe did spread ; REMEMBRANCE OF FEELINGS. 57 I shall forget the bliss me given, When it seem'd you through that heaven I led; I shall forget how feel the pure, Though remembering their bliss divine ; How pulsed the life yours did immure, Though remembering that life was mine. And these forgetting, all beside In life will darken deepening gloom ; The world of these deprived, denied, Will seem to surge, a reeking tomb ; Such darkness may be truth, but when We loved, how different dream 'd this heart ; Might I recall love's feelings, then Perchance the dream might not depart. Then cease remembering to reprove ; I shall forget, alas ! too soon. Not that you gave me leave to love, But what the heaven that was that boon. Would, lady ! that the heart could gain Past feelings, as the mind may thought ; The hours might then give up their pain, And be with memoried raptures fraught. ODE TO THOUGHT.* AYiiETHEE you make futurity your home, Spirits of thought ! Or past eternity ; — come to me, come ! For you have long been sought : I've look'd to meet you in the morning's cla^vn, Often, in vain ; I've follow'd to her haunts the ^vild yoimg fa^vn ; Through sxmshine, and through rain, I have waited long and fondly ; surely you v.-ill come, Farailiarly as doves returning to their home. Oh ! I have need of you ; if you forsake My troubled mind, "\Mience can it strength and consolation take, Or peace or pleasure find ? For the great sake of the eternal spring Of all your might, — * This poem originally appeareJ in Taif s Kiiiihur 103 TO A CORPSE-WATCHER Earth hath no home for thee ! whither wouklst thou ? Fear'st thou the death-light damping its brow 1 Would'st thou gnash thy wild wrath at the world's life-smile, Or against the unknown blindly howl thy revile 1 Turn thee ! turn thee ! sit by its bed ; With its hand in thy hand, learn the feel of the dead ; Think how she yesternight danced down thy hall, Laughing out gentle light to each melody's call. Glancing thee girlhood's love, when her fine foot did fall In the arch feats of dance ! Earth hath no home for thee ! sit by its bed ; And thy fury vnll sink Avhen thou feel'st it quite dead ; 104 TO A CORPSE-WATCHEB. For the shadows thou saAvest, that rose in its face, When its mouth shudder'd down into death's fix'd grimace, — The shadows that rose in its face, and therefrom Came '^^^th a shudder, — more blackly shall come From that same white face in steady succession, And fill all the room with their soundless procession, Till thine eye-balls shall start from their swift retro- gi'ession. Darkenincc doA\'n from the roof. And the gloom of those shadows shall sink in thy brain, Expelling all thought, and deadening all pain ; The tide in thy veins shall move heavy and slow, And the beats of thine heart long-inten'all'd go ; To passionless torpor thy face shall wane, And omnipotent sleep shall thy life unstrain ; — B3- the corpse thou shalt sleep, — by it thou shalt Avake, But no glorious rage shall thy nature then shake, For low idiot tears will thy broken face slake. The tears of self-sorrow. TO A CORPSE-WATCHER. lOf) Thou wilt weep ; and when wept all thy greatness away, Thou shalt start from the corpse, and its grave-clotlies array, And look with no love, but with horror, to its face, And say that a cold smell doth steam round its place, The cold smell of corruption ; — thou'It long for tlie day Of the quick busy world, with its work and its play ;— To that day then depart thou, — feel saved in its bloom, Hug thyself with the thought, distant far is thy tomb, Lose thyself in the gay crowds whose bright looks assume All that's most unlike death. But earth hath no home for thee ! — far as thou strayest, ' Thy heart shall still sneer at all love that thou sayest, At all love that is said ; for thou shalt believe ever Love to be a false friend, even Death's frown can sever ; 106 TO A CORPSE-WATCHER. And thus homeless, and hopeless of home, shalt thou mourn, With bitter life-hate and gnawing self-scorn, The time when thou thought'st that love could not fail so, The time Avhen such thought from thy damn'd heart did go, That time when above thy slain love there did flow Thy tears of self-sorrow. 107 THE SUICIDE. Life is an island ; and eternity's sea That girds it round, Eolleth for ever, vast and gloomily, With doubtful sound, Save when it stormeth up tempestuously. Lashing the ground. Voices are mingled with the rolling waters. Unearthly sweet ; They fascinate the island sons and daughters. In bands to meet, And listen, heeding not the wrecks and slaughters RolFd to their feet. Some walk before this sea with restless wings, Strong to dare 108 THE SUICIDE. The cliilling mist its heavy rolHng flings ; With forehead bare And flashing brow, resistless genius springs Undaunted there. A naked youth came bounding to its shore, Shouting out loud ; But Avhen he heard the interminable roar, His spirit bow'd One moment, and the next it strove to soar Uncheck'd and proud. Upon his feet and shoulders Avings were waving "Widely and fast ; ■Over the quiet country he Avas leaving One look he cast Of contempt beautiful and godlike craA^ng ; Sweet voices pass'd Out from the sea, towards him richly ringing : He hails their tone ; To explore the deep, the mighty child is winging ; Oh ! not alone ; THE SUICIDE. 109 Concealed sirens toss there wildest singing, While golden spray is thrown. Rushing back came the youth with drooping pluine ; His strength was gone ; — He stands again before the unthridden gloom, And still its moan Wails to him burning melodies that consume Him there alone. His frenzied eye read the eternal ocean ; His pale lips gave Echoings to its inscrutable commotion ; His speech did rave Language unknown ; glancing sublime devotion, He pass'd beneath the wave. 110 OPINION'S CHANGE. The beardless statesman out at monarchy screams, " Down trampler by the heel on man's rights, down Foe to humanity's miiversal crown Because it overdazzles thy false crown's beams ; "— Thoughtless of human needs, he ever dreams Of human " rights ; "—those '' rights " being just alone The singular needs peculiarly his own, — Such needs as power to test one's o\ra law-schemes : But learn'd to think, he sees that men, in a king, Find much they need,— a thing to which must bow INIasters as Ioav as serfs ; a man whose brow Is highest in the state, and yet must spring Smiles to their smiles ;— and so he lets enjoy Mankind its many kings, as a child its toy. Ill A CRISIS. If wlien the day was fine, the summer high, Encentred in this meadow, one revolved Inquiring gaze, around it he would see Fencing it, wooden palings, mossy, and mellow'd To gentle kinds of undecided colour. By rain and age ; then close behind the fence. All round it rising high, would stop his sight An impassable verdure of commingled trees, Oftering the eye a thousand fathomless nooks Fill'd with green dark, but nowhere tunnell'd through By any passage ; 'midst the dark green mass Would puzzle him fluttering motionings and sounds —As unassignable as an ant-hill's stir— Of wild-wood denizens ; while frec[uently Might song-bird soundlessly from one of its shades Flit o'er the meadow, and, with closing wings, I 2 112 A CRISIS. Into shade opposite glide ; but from its top His eye would only lift to a roof of sky. Within this meadow did no tame thing browse ; Wild were the hares that canter'd through its ferns ; Wild were the hawks that wheel'd 'twixt it and heaven ; Its bees were wild bees of some cavernous tree ; None pluck'd its flowers ; no menial o'er it trod ; It had been the battle-field, the unsculptured grave, Of Christian martyrs ; and its reverent lord Ordain 'd it sacred. The evening church-chimes had dispersed the mowers From all the fields of toil ; the evening sun Slanted his golden light, as he did lapse Towards underneath the earth ; his light was ray'd So gorgeously upon this sacred meadow. Its yellow buttercups, its ruby sorrels, Its milk-white clover, and its cool green grass, Seem'd blended into one rich colour'd woof, Changing in hue, as waved beneath the breeze ; — When leaning theremthiu, against its fence, A light-robed maiden in the whelming sunshine Exhibited woman symmetry unstirr'd A CRISIS. 113 By womanliood's exj)erience ; slie lean'd. Fronting the mead ; against the lofty fence Her shouklers settled, and her pertinent feet,* Pressingly side by side, are forwarded Into the mead, and planted firmly there ; And from her planted feet to her fall'n back head, One proud full arch she arches. A large wind Came o'er the mead, and flaggingly on her fell, Weighing her vestments downwards and around ; Sleeker than apples show her round young knees ; Show beauteously together twined her limbs : The frontage of her body broadly orbs ; The sunlight whelmeth all : — -loosely her head. Loosely her neck falls backward ; her round chin, And its rich blood-red lip, now idly sink Down from the upwardly curved lip above ; Wliih^ round the corners of her idling mouth, In the original edition this passage stood thus : — When leaned therewithin, against its fence, A form white rolled, which the whelming sunshine Show'd to be fullest symmetry of woman Swelling thro' girlhood's prime. Fronting the mead She stood ; against tJ.e fence her shoulders rest ; Above it gently her head and neck bend back ; Her long brown hair behind her straightly fall'n Leaves unconcealed her twin-breasted bosom, Thus raised against her vest ; her pertinent feet, &c. 114 A ClilSIS. Slow smiling dimples, when her basking eyes, A little uplifting their nigh-closed lids. Thrill with voluptuous light, — above her cheeks Like opening crevices to measureless splendour. Rounds she out thus on firmly-planted feet Her enjoying form, and thus her face is naked In glo'wing raptiu-e, — because by her stands, Lovingly gazing on her, he whose gaze Pours dizzying pleasure over her, to permeate, Till her shoulders shiver and shrink with her delight. Feelings, as things, do grow ; and growing, change : The love that bended forth this gazer's face, Fixing its slightest muscle, and its ej^es Firing to their very depths, had gro^ni and changed. When first he loved, had risen in him one lusting Towards her, he had spat into his heart Intense self-loathing ; Avhat was then his love AVords may not scribe, his memory could not seize, Fancy may compass not ; thercAAdth was nought Of jealousy, or desire, or doubt, or pain ; Nought of self-love, self-consciousness ; it join'd With marvellous adoration, perfectest rest. Instinctive trust and measureless devotion And measureless sympathy, but it Avas not these. A CRISIS. 115 Such iu this meadow, by her arch'cl-out form, Was it not now, for it had grown and changed. 'Twas love ! but now every atom of his body Trembleth for every atom moulding hers ; 'Twas love ! but now he could strangle her from life Rather than see another bridegroom her ; Oh ! yes, 'twas love ! for in life's flintiest highways, He would rush to grovel his being's nakedest bosom To gain her smile, or cause her one delight. Yea, still he loved her, utterly ; through the world Drifting unknown and knowing not ; his mind, A mirror multiplying a thousand times Her lonely loveliness, — ever there he gazed, Still, still she shone ; his will, a trembling rudder, She held to play with, or to queen ; his body, Their mutual serf, its separated being, Never once recognized by any of his thoughts. Yet never had he spoken to her the love, Making thus his being with its countless powers, Her magnificently swift automaton ; To measureless action spring'd by her in a moment, To measureless rest subdued. She saw it, loved it, Dream'd her world oiit of it, and yet he fear'd She knew it not, and knoAving, would disapprove. ^or 116 A CBISIS. NoAv therefore here, into this saci'ed meadoAV, To try her hath he come ; to daringly burst Into the secretest chambers of her soul, Its unveil'd moods to see : the talisman That shall rend away the garments of her being. All pitilessly nakeding her, he bears ; He approaches her, he trembles, pales his face, He would see, yet fears to see. But even now, In fond coquetry, or affectionate joy. She lifts her head ■ against the fence behind. She plants its cro-v\Ti ; her feet move slightly back Move back apart and so on tiptoe rising, Up outwardly she leisurely lifts her form. The while she talks. AMiere now is his intent 1 Thrice his knees bend unconsciously, and thrice His hand descends towards her lifted heels, Qui\'eriug to fill its hollow with their round. The struggling eyes of his fire-beflooded face Devour the unshod archings of her feet, As he imagineth his caressing mouth There trami)led ; yet around her arching loins His arms he girds not, but with great control Apart he stands. Now suddenly her eyes Turn'd roimd to his, their startled lids, once fluttering. Could not close dovv-n, and thus transfix'd, she took Awhile his rifling glances, — till he moved. oy A CJRISIS. 117' When SAvift she snatch'd her eyes Ijack, turning pakv Soon they both feign'd indifference, and spake Of the meadow sleeping goldenly before, — The trees around, — the richly-shanting sunhglit ; But as they spake, relapsed with gradual lapse, Her heels to ground, her shoulders to the fence : No longer curved she out as a sail wind-fill'd. For her exquisitely suj^ple body revolved in Over its ample throne ; and negligently Her feet slid out apart into the mead ; And to her bosom, with loAv-drooj^ing lids, Her face declined ; and doAvn from her proppVl shoulders. Her arms fell loosely ; and her slackening limbs, Loosen'd out all her form ; and thus by him She sloped ; in virgin ignorance unknoAving His fiery mood, or eA^en the sympathy loosening All her OAvn make. He gasp'd, his mouth did strive- 'Neath suffocation ; — for beneath her eyes, A dimly-flushing sultriness did increase, And her lips out-sulk'd such a complaining sulk, As though possess'd all conqueringly by desire. And faintingly requiring love's moist balm. He stood like one shot through Avitli fixing pain ; Recovering his purpose, Avith a cry. He tore the talisman from his breast, and thrcAV it lis A CBLSIS. Towards her feet, and leapt into the wood. Watching him swiftly stagger through the trees, She reach'd the talisman ; it was a page Scribed with his words, and kneeling she did read : Her eyes seem'd straining down a vast abysm. For some wing'd car to save ; her lips apart, Her shoulders lifted, aud her fingers clench'd, — Show'd how she strove with hope, while read she there : — ■" Oh ! beautiful girl, but one could love thee so ! When yestermorn sent thee stepping o'er the mead. The thought of being adopt thine universe steed. Doubled his life ; — thine universe steed, to go. And against and through each fiercely-phalanx'd foe, Bear thee all glorious ; in his heart bliss-fire, That his broad frontage would itself attire, With every Avound aim'd towards thine overthrow : And oh ! a thousand deaths seem'd less than nought, Would'st thou but ride him through life's fiery storm ; Burthening him fondly, thine aff'ectiouate form. Whenever might peace be found or melody caught ; When danger near'd, relinquishing proud all rein ; When past, all fondly burthening him again. But his will reins his heart ; and thereby rein'd A CRISIS. 119 That Iieart is from the slightest start to love Thee, who perchance its love might disappro^'e ; For every love-plaint nninvitedly plain'd Fouls ; yea, woman's purity is arraign'd. When man thrusts towards her love-display, love- claim, She prompts not, cherishes not : what woman's shame But witnessing love she loves not, uncurtain'd 1 Then, beautiful girl ! though one could love thee so. His passions in tumultuous armies, Avaiting Worshippingly to convoy thee down time, ' He wills not love ; exultingly shall go His passions past thee, loudly jubilating Towards life's fit ways, so crowdedly sublime." The going radiance of the sinking sun Was from the crimson sorrel yet undrawn. When back return 'd this chieftain of his passions. King of his heart : as loitering, he came ; Striving to twist his face into the forms Of cold keen observation, such as make With angular lines the countenances of those Who scan phenomena. She still did kneel. Her face bewilder'd white, and hued with pain. 120 A CBISIS. One look she look'd to him, — its prompting feelings Women perchance may know ; reproach was there, Sadness was there, — yea, in its large fix'd eyes, A questioning sadness that could make one's throat Convulse with pity ; yet through all did rule The deepest tenderness ; — " A lie ! a lie ! It was all lie I '" he cried ; and at her feet His face abased ; " your foot was on my neck ; Had you withdr-awn from me your trusting eyes. Opening their avenues to some other gazer ; — Oh God ! the imagining of the horror makes The flesh to slide from my detested frame. — I am calm ; my mind lifts up above my life, I see it sovereignly ; this life of mine. As it did tide beneath you, I will bare ; Look you, and see how gloriously I lied. I think, — but that through which I have been pass'd Hath shaken the memory of earlier things : — I think that ere we met life was to me, As to most men, a whirl of beauteous mirage, I still in vain jDursued ; or sadly stood, Mocking its hollowness ; the ponderous curse Of unpursuit Aveighing deadeningly in my brain. I know that when we met did all things change : I nought pursued, yet passiveness was pleasure, \ A CRISIS. 121 Being was bliss ; from all the outward things, That make the total which mankind call life, I was abstract ; or only then related. When they did influence as subservient bonds To bind us twain ; — the sunshine I did know, Because that when its Avarmth relax'd my limbs, I saw your arms fall also ; and the sea I knew, because that when it awed my soul, I saw your countenance gaze mysterious fear. I had content ; my blood did pleasantly flow ; Breathing Avas rest : — yet action that you urged From the moment when my being prepared to act. Till the moment that accomplished your will, Was a delirious ecstasy, — the greater, The greater the action that you did command. And if 'twas bliss to be by you, and bliss To act your will, — oh ! what the crushing torture, To see another man look o'er your brow, As he were fancying how divine his life. Were it thus sway'd by yours ; to see another Acquire your will, and with a happy smile. Move for its service. Other things now are come, I know not Avhether to endure or curse. Desire of you doth change my blood ; it burns ; My veins start stiff", they tighten through my body, They strangle me. Oli girl ! what destiny is there, 122 A CRISIS. That I am stricken thus ! I gaze against yon ; ]\Iy baffled eyes see nought but murderous beauty ; Your sound is beauty ; beauty are your robes ] I dare not see your form beneath them move ; And yet I see, and tremble, and die down. " Oh, why is this V he moan'd through sobs, and roll'd His body o'er the ground, " where is the peace. The aforetime peace with which I blessingly loA^ed you, The rapture men call pure 1" Two lips did press upon his fiery brow ; They press'd, they stay'd, they lingeringly withdrew ; He felt Avhole ages rolling o'er his life ; Oblit Gratingly, ages roll'd away, While those two lips his brow did apprehend Gently to press themselves apart, and then Gently to close again ; no word she said ; Not otherwise she touch'd him ; he did never Rise up his face to look ; but blindly wound His arms around her sides, and to her bosom Mo-^-ed his still downcast head ; till there it dropt In signless passiveness. Anon they rose. Both pale as alabaster : summoning, "With a heavy sigh and compressure of her lips. A CRISIS. 123 The needful force ; — her hand enclasp'd his ann, Holding liim opposite her, and with voice, That came by syllables, distinct, she said, — • "I scarce know what men mean when name they love; I have not dream'd of life from you apart ; Since many months I have not thought to liide Aught that I feel from you ; it gave me joy, AMien we have sjTnpatliized ; I never saw Aught in you that offended me ; I would Dare aught to make you happy or more good." Thus aU is over ; her concluding words AYere smother'd in his bosom ; for his anns Had bound her to him, and her head had fall n there. The storm of feeling sank in both their beings To the joy of rest ; upon the bank they sate ; Over her shoulder lay his sinking face ; 0^'er liis shoulder hers ; no words they spake, No fast enlacements made they ; very softly, And very timidly, close in her ear, At last he whisper'd, " Tliis is as I felt, Those days I did lament, when peace was mine, And love that men call pure ; " then gradually Their faces they did Kft ; and open-eyed. They look'd unto each other, a look all free 124 A CRISIS. From every questioning, or Avant, or aught But love unutterable* : — 'twas a look Painter hath never limn'd, nor poet sung, Nor dreamer vision'd, and could poet sound Words that should crive the minds of those "who heard Knowledge of its prompting feelings, he would fling Art to the Avinds, thought, life, and heaven, forget, — And though the uttering the Avords should shatter Him to annihilation, he Avould speak, And shatter himself into eternal fame. * Nine lines here followed In the original edition which are scored out in the tAvo corrected copies, as "an untrue intrusion into this place of the punishment that follows the gratification •of vile and degrading amours. Here (as all througli the A-olume) the immaturity and unsettled condition of the iiuthor's ideas are very apparent." 1-25 THE llAILROAD. AVhy ! why to yon arcli do the people drift, Like a sea hurrying in to a cavern's rift, Or like streams to a whirlpool streaming swift ? 'Tis the railroad ! Each street and each causeway endeth there ; And the whole of their peoples may step one stair Down from the arch, and a power shall bear Them swifter than vnnd from the mighty lair ; 'Tis the railroad ! Pass through the arch ; put your ear to the ground ! This road sweepeth on through the isle and around ! You touch that which touches the country's bound ! 'Tis the railroad ! Like arroAvy lightning snatch'd from the sky, And bound to the earth, the bright rails lie ; K 126 THE RAILROAD. And their Avay is straight driven through mountains high. And headhand to headLind o'er valleys they tie ; 'Tis the railroad ! See how the engine hums still on the rails, While his long train of cars slowly down to him sails ; He staggers like a brain blooded high, and he wails ; 'Tis the railroad ! His irons take the cars, and screaming he goes ; Now may heaven warn before him all friends and all foes ! A whole city's missives within him repose, Half a thousand miles his, ere the day's hours close ; 'Tis the railroad ! 1 127 A PRAYER TO A FICKLE MISTRESS. Froini the dei^tli of my gloom to youi' beauty I come ; But my gaze may not brighten, as erst, at its glow : Nor kneel may I to you all gloriously low, Nor feel your dear hand o'er my brow softly go ; I know that you would that even now I sank duml) ; Lelia ! once say you are sad for me. You would shrink, but to me, when mine eyes love did fight ; When this arm clasp'd you round, 'midst your ravish- ing hair, On this bosom loll'd your head, while unhidiugly there Your face turn'd to mine with such restful repair ; God ! then how I dived in your eyes' surging light ! Lelia ! once say you are sad for me. Never God sent the night but I saw on my couch Your cheek's beautiful sleep that I guarded supreme ; K 2 128 TO A FICKLE MISTRESS. Alone would I gaze till your soft lips would seem There stirr'd by the mild light that round them did gleam ; — Behind that chamber's madness horror-stricken I crouch ! Lelia ! once say you are sad for me. None could pity, I am hopeless ! I loved you to shame ; Mine honour had been gone for one promising smile ; When your soft hair fell cool o'er my burning face, while My brain swoon'd with delight 'neath its curls ; — any guile To be bless'd with thy bidding, had become my wild aim ; Lelia ! once say you are sad for me. Your lover is coming ; I hear his wild vow ! For ever we are parting ; oh ! in mercy refrain From that acted surprise ; I nor plead, nor complain ■. Oh ! yet say, when wc loved, that thou didst not all feign. And I'll bless thee, and pray for thee as to thee now ; Lelia ! once say you are sad for me. 129 A PAGAN'S DPJNKING-CHAUNT. Like the bright white arm of a young god, thrown To the hem of a struggling maiden's gown, The torrent leaps on the kegs of stone That held this wine in the dark gulf down ; Deep five fathoms it lay in the cold, The afternoon summer-heats heavily weigh ; This wine is awaiting in flagons of gold On tlie side of the hill that looks over the bay. There a bower of vines for each one bends Under the terracing cedar-trees ; Where, shut from the presence of foes or friends, He may quaff and couch in lonely ease j The sunshine slants past the dark green cave. In the sunshine the galleys before him will drowse ; And the roar of the town, like a far-travell'd wave, Will faintly flow in to his calm carouse. 130 A PAGAN'S DRINKING-CHAUNT. No restless womanhood frets the bower, Exacting and fawning and vain and shy ; But a beautiful boy shall attend the hour And silently low in the entrance lie. As he silently reads the scrolls that tell The Cyjirian's loves and the maiden's dreams, His limbs will twane and his lips will SAvell, And his eyes dilate with amorous schemes. And his yearning limbs and his sultry mouth Will recal to the drinker his own youth's prime ; When there seem'd crowding round him from east, west, and south, Countless sleek limbs of women with capturing mime ; And he'll mourn for youth ; and he'll deem more dear This cool bright wine ; — to our 1)owers, away ! And nothing will witness the sigh or the tear On the side of the hill that looks over the bay. 131 DISMOUXTIXG A MISTRESS. I touch'd her lily hand ! Earth, bound away ! — I' the stirrup did she stand ; Her glorious foot I spann'd, As she stepp'd to the land I — Where is the day 1 "VVliere go ye, brother men 1 Nought the same did stay !- I went ; I turn'd agen ; She kissed doA\Ti the glen Her fingers to me then ! — Earth, bound away ! 132 E A I N. ]More than the wind, more than the snow. More than the sunshine, I love rain ; AVhether it droppeth soft and low, Whether it rusheth amain. Dark as the night it spreadeth its wings, Slow and silently up on the hills ; Then sweeps o'er the vale, like a steed that springs From the grasp of a thousand wills. Hwiit sweeps under heaven the raven cloud's flight; And the land and the lakes and the main Lie belted beneath with steel-bridit li^ht. The light of the swift-rushing rain. BAIN. i:u. On evenings of summer, when sunlight is low, Soft the rain falls from opal-hued skies ; And the flowers the most delicate summer can sho^v Are not stirr'd hy its gentle surprise. It falls on the pools, and no ^n•inkling it makes, But touching melts in, like the smile That sinks in the face of a dreamer, but breaks Not the calm of his dream's happy wile. The grass rises up as it falls on the meads, The bird softlier sings in his bower, And the circles of gnats circle on like wing'd seeds Through the soft sunny lines of the shower. 134 THE FACE. These dreary hours of hopeless gloom Are all of life I fain would know ; I would T)ut feel my life consume, While bring they back mine ancient Avoe ; For midst the clouds of grief and shame They crowd around, one face I see ; It is the face I dare not name ; The face none ever name to me. I saAv it first when in the dance Borne, like a falcon, down the hall. He stay'd to cure some rude mischance My girlish deeds had caused to fall ; He smiled, he danced with me, he made A thousand ways to soothe my pain ; And sleeplessly all night I pray'd That I might see that smile again. I saw it next, a thousand times ; And every time its kind smile near'd ; THE FACE. 135 Oh ! twice ten thousand glorious chimes My heart rang out, when he apjDcar'd ; What was I then, that others' thought €ould alter so my thought of him ! That I could be by others taught His image from my heart to dim ! I saw it last, when black and white, ShadoAvs went struggling o'er it wild ; When he regain'd my long-lost sight. And I with cold obeisance smiled ;— I did not see it fade from life ; My letters o'er his heart they found ; They told me in death's last hard strife His dying hands around them wound. Although my scorn that face did maim, Even when its love would not depart. Although my laughter smote its shame, And drave it swording through his heart, Although its death-gloom grasps my brain With crushing unrefused despair ; — That I may dream that face again God still must find alone my prayer. 130 WHIMPER OF AWAKEXIXG PASSION. Your hands made a tent o'er mine eyes, As low in your lap I was lain, Perhaps half from yourself to disguise The prayer that they could not restrain.* Y'ou sang, and your voice through me waved Such rapture, I heard myself sa}', " Oh here is the heaven I have craved, Never hence Avill I Avander astrav." As I lay in your lap your limbs gave Such beautiful smooth rest to rae, I told you that thus to be slave I Moidd never consent to be free. * The opening stanza runs thus in the original edition :- Your hands were a tent for mine eyes, As low in your lap I was lain ; And I thought as I gazed at my skies, I will never know other again. WHIMPER OF AWAKENING PASSION. 137 But now mine eyes under their tent Think such distance from yours, love, is wrong ; And my mouth wants your mouth to be sent Down to him, all undrest, love, of song. Oh I fear if yoiu' beautiful limbs Still to have me their slave feel inclined, You must either prevent all these whims, Or a way, love, to humour them find. 13S A LADY'S HAND. It is the same bright fairy dress That robes thy beauteous form, And with the same unstartled grace Thou gazest o'er the storm ; The same mysterious horn- Now girdles round us twain ; Lay then, in this same bower, Thy hand on me again. 1 Thy hand on me again, hady All man's world sleepeth still ; And God hath given the rein, lady, To his world's passionate will. See how the lightnings leap, lady. Over the rocks and the main ; Oh ! lay, while all men sleep, lady, Thy hand on me again. A LADY'S HAND. 13;> The storm around us rife Befits the storm that then "Will rise amidst my life, With the same wild joy as when At this same midnight hour, When thus raged heaven and main, In this same secret Ijower, Thy hand did not refrain. On me again that hand, lady, Nearer the thunder peals ; The chains on my heart disl:)and, lady. Now, now, while Nature reels. While sleeps all life like the grave, lady. But ours and the hurricane, — While now thou may'st yet save, lad}', Thy hand on me again ! 140 THE POET'S DEATH. Now the Poet's deatli -was certain, aud the leech liatl left the room ; Only those who fondly lo^•ed him waited to receive the doom ; And the sister he loved best, Avhiter than hemlock did veer; And she bent, and " Life is going " faintly whisper'd in his ear. Though her fingers claspd his fingers, though lier cheek by his did lay, Though she whisper'd " I am dying ; with thee, death hath no dismay ;" Fiercely sprang the startled Poet, and his eye did fight through space. While dark agony did thicken his drawn lips and wrench his face. THE POETS DEATH. 141 Sister arms did wind around him, knelt his sire beside the bed ; And his mother busied round him, love extinguishing her dread ; But the Poet heeded nothing, fixing still his fighting eye, Gathering, gathering, gathering inward that he was that hour to die. Now the sound of smother'd sobbings smote upon his distant mind, And he turn'd a glance around liim, that each gazer's love divined ; The torture in his face did stagger once before his mother's look ; Then came back more whiteningly, while his neck did downward crook. From his crook'd-down neck, his visage struggled love back through its pain. First to one, and then to another, and then left them all again ; As the sister wept against liim, shudderingly to her he turn'd ; And his lips did open at her, and his eyes for language yearn'd. L 142 THE POET'S DEATH. Quick at her his lij^s did open, strivingly his eyelids rose, But no sound, no word, no murmur, their fast ges- turings did disclose ; Straightly pointed he his arm then where his poet- desk was lain ; To his grasp the sister brought it, while the stillness throbb'd amain. From his desk the Poet tore the unform'd scriptures of his soul ; And to them he fiercely pointed, while his eyes large tears did roll ; ^ Perfected, my memory earth to endless time Avould love and bless ; I must die, and these will live not ! " through his lips at last did press. Whiter grew the gazing faces, as the cliffs that sun- shine smites, Wlien they found no aid could come from earthly loves, or priestly rites ; O'er his scriptures he fell forward, and they all did trust and say That the last wild pang was on hini, for as still as stone he lay. THE POET'S DEATH. 14 But than lightning's flash more sudden, he did spurn the al>horred bed ; And a moment he stood tottering, toss'd defyingly his head ; Ere one reach'd him, he was fallen, lifeless, and his wide dull'd eye Rigid with the fierce defiance that had just refused to die. To the gloomy troop of Atheists gibberingly the sister ran, Wliile the praying father kneeling hurl'd at her his pious ban ; In the churchyard lies the Poet, and his smell the air depraves ; And ten thousand thousand like him stuff the earth with such-like graves. 144 A COMING CRY. The few to wliom the law hatli given the earth God gives to all Do tell us that for them alone its fruits increase and fall; They tell us that l)y labour vv-e may earn our daily bread, But they take the labour for their engines that work on unfed ; And so we starve ; and now the few have publish 'd a decree, — Starve on, or eat in workhouses the crumbs of charity j Perhaps it's better than starvation, — once we'll pray, and then We'll all go building workhouses, million, million men ! A COMING CRY. 145 We'll all go building Avorkhouses, — million, million hands, So jointed wondrously by God, to work love's wise commands ; We'll all go building workhouses, — million, million minds, By great God charter'd to condemn whatever harms or binds ; The God-given mind shall image, the God-given hand shall build The prisons for God's children by the earth-lords will'd ; Perhaps it 's better than starvation, once we'll pray, and then We'll all go building workhouses, — million, million men. What '11 we do vnih the workhouses 1 million, million men ! Shall we all lie down, and madden, each in his lonely den? ^^^lat ! we whose sires made Cressy ! we, men of Nelson's mould ! We, of the Eussells' country, — God's Englishmen the bold ! 146 A COMING CRY. Will we, at earth's lords' bidding, build ourselves dis- honour'd graves 1 Will we Avho've made this England, endure to be its slaves 1 Thrones totter before the answer ! — once we'll pray, and then We'll all go building workhouses, — million, million men. 147 A PLEA FOR LOVE OF THE INDIVIDUAL. It Avere to live not ! Lady, cease thy pleading, "Love not, love not," — words indeed "vainly spoken ;" The heart will love even when torn and bleeding, Yea, love that very one by whom 'tis broken : Oh love then ! love ! Love ! love ! though it be true the loved may change; For thine agony in his alien caressing Will sink to a sad calm, and cannot estrange Thy power to love him still with measureless blessing : Oh love then ! love ! Yea, even then loving, when pales with fear his brow At his own inconstancy, — thou shalt awaken To a wild sweet bliss in striving more to endow With beauty and truth the one for whom thou wert forsaken : Oh love then ! love ! 148 PLEA FOB LOVE OF THE INDIVIDUAL. Love ! love ! albeit the loved may die, — yet love ! Canst not thou die 1 the loving grave-descender Bums with a raptiu'ous joy that never may move The unloving wanderer down whole lives of splendour : Oh love then ! love ! Though one Tarief love-hour order years of sorrow, Love ! love ! for that one hour "\A-ill make thee know How, long as earth rolls round from mom to morrow, "Will its myriad peoples pant with love's wild glow : Oh love then ! love ! Yea ! for this knowledge even from oblivion's tomb Banishes disgust ; who, who disdains to end, Knowing the love-bliss that wliile life shall bloom. Over his grave shall deepeningly expend ? G love then ! love ! 149 PLEA FOR LOVE OF THE UNIVERSAL. Nay, minstrel, love ! and all tliino-s round thee- o'- movmg Shall utter heavenly music, smile thee light ; For mighty is the loveliness of loving To endue the loved with joy, and joy makes briglit ;, Oh love then ! love ! Love magnifies existence ; love the world, — Thy soul shall grow world-great in its sensation ; And 'neath the blaze of infinite life unfurl'd, Pant with the passion of a whole creation. Oh love then ! love ! For thine own heart's sake, love ! the unloving mind,, Unemanating light, no light receiveth ; Tomb of itself, unable rest to find. Buried alive, it low and wildly grieveth. love then ! love ! 150 PLEA FOR LOVE OF THE UNIVERSAL. Why saj^est thou " Love not, for the loved may die !" Eeasoning inadequate ! — because trees ^Adther, Do suns cease shining 1 though one loved tiling fly, Sends it not others love-desiring hither 1 Oh love then ! love ! And thy warning "Love not, for the loved may change," Discrediteth love, that never a fee requires ; Hai>py in loving, though all, all be strange, Its flame still burns, itself feeds still its fires : Oh love then ! love ! Love is that act wliich maketh rich in giving ; Passion of soul which wasteth not, nor paineth ; Battled for, pray'd for, wept for, by all living ; Dwelling most in him who most of happiness gaineth Oh love then ! love ! 151 WAYS OF EEGARD. Sharks' jaws are glittering through the eternal ocean Now, even as ever ; through its topmost seas That mightily billow, through the secrecy Of its abysms, where the waters bide Omnipotently shuddering, — scattering fear, Onward they go ; their illuminating teeth Perpetually parting ; and ever through Some dolphin's body nervously they clench. Hidden within the tropic forest's maze. Now, even as ever, glares the tiger's eye Over its victim, yellow-circling light : And there the serpent, with his gaze, still charms To approach, and into liis distended jaws Shiveringly hie the gaudy chattering parrot, Or gambolling coney : and shaggy spiders there Catch in their webs the flitting humming-birds : 152 WAYS OF REGARD. And through the golden air, the humming-bu'ds flitting Shiy countless happy insects. Slaughter sways Supremely everywhere : where man comes not, Beasts kill each other ; where his empire holds, There, oh ye gods ! on richer aliment Feeds slaughter, and extends. There armies clash ; And in the shock ten thousand human forms. Each with all exquisite joints and countless nerves, Fall bloodily broken. There the priest-piled faggots Flame round the martjT, and send up to heaven The smoke of torment. There the blood-stain'd hands Of gold-holders sell sustenance to the goldless. At price of body, at price of mind and heart. There the goldless pay this price, and breed successors ; A generation of things that never live, But toil, and suffer, and shriek, — tindead abortions^ That yet are human children ! And seK-slain, Often humanity. Man's to'wois and cities Seem builded on rivers, that the rushing waters May roll for him the ever-ready tomb He oft assmnes ; and self-slain, ever go down Fond women, who the cup of life still spill. Offering it tremblingly to some gallant's lips. WA YS OF REGARD. 153 Dire is the woe, when first the vision of slaughter, Thus everywhere regnant, breaks into the mind, Youthful and loving, and emerging from the home Where all it knew was that all round it smiled ; And whence ever went its fancies, towards some fate That should one day lead it through the maze of life, To seek and share love everywhere. At first, Stmm'd like a wader out into the sea, Who thinking he steps upon the sand, finds only Water yield under him, — the appalled youth, Withouten speech or thought, instinctively. Reaches out aimlessly and in vain for aid. Then the howl of the world arouses him ; he rises, — Through heavens and hells, eternities and times. Wildly he stares ; — seeking the power that bids This terrible reign. Baffled, his gaze retreats ; He strips liis being of all control and veil. With which men gird themselves ; and he thinks his teeth Could grasp Earth's wretched breast, and that he could leap With her to oblivion. And wliile thus he dreams. Steals sensual pleasure to him. The nakedness To which in his noble rage he smote liis being But exposes him to her dalliance ; and he tiu"ns From thought that bids him hurl against the unknown 154 WA YS OF REGARD. His life, that itself dishonours in enduiing Sight of the blood-stain'd universe, — to the arms Of sensual pleasure, and exhausted there, Finds ignominious sleep ; — If sleep that be, whereunto ever descend The visions of possible and gentle glory. That circled brightly round his youth, and that now Invite him, from his impotent degradation, To soar unto their joy ; — if sleep that be, From which the sleeper must ever rise, and slay, With a murder worse than jiarricide, these entreaters ;— Or awake, to find his moral powers gone idiot. And his intellect sane to watch them. But many there are who know the scheme of life, A plan for battle and murder, yet undergo Nor fear, nor rage. With energy they strain Life's murderous principle to their use to curb. Earth, bleeding, drags her chain ; but a car thereto These ones do fasten ; and therein they sit, In their happiness, and their pride, all sumptuously. Also are those, whose minds Avill never take A world-wide \'ision ; and who mete life's merits By their own present circumstance. When shines. Full on their skins, the sun, — this life they call WAYS OF REGARD. 155' A beautiful home ; and when they suffer one Of the world's evils, — maundering for death, The self-same life they cry a torture-house. These pester, with charge of morbidness and disease,. Those of their brethren, in whose world-wide hearts,. Earth's misery ever sticks, a poisoning knife. And beings unhuman are there who regard This universal slaughter never as man. The general mind knows only things that impinge- Its palpable senses ; — otherwise, haughty steps Of men who tread with appropriating feet Earth and its causeways ; and of beauteous women, Who walk our pavements and our terraces, And our s^mng bridges, as though hoveringly Their scornful feet the fitness questioned Of every spot they press, — would drop to the shuffle Of slaves and tools. Yea ! had man the vision That sees all being, he would scramble on Athwart his fields, and his hills, and through all his; streets. With the abased hurry of one, who moves A petty unit in a round of motion. By other intelligences curiously scann'd. And for their study begotten. Yea ! would he 156 WA YS OF REGARD. Pause in his being, and question whether to end. He would check the lion-like passions, which him prompt To complete the sovereignty of slaughter ; and ask Whether, like Avild l^easts for the Koman's sport, His groups should tear themselves, that unhuman powers ]\Iay study the unity which through creation Most orderly dwells. One saw, commanding time. And extinguishing space, and past the farthest reach Of the five senses reaching, — he beheld, Within this earth, when night was dark, a cavern, Peopled with slaves contemplating revolt. Under the light of many a lurid fire That burn'd on upper ledges of the rock, The comitless slaves stood noiselessly ; the light Fell on the mass, as eagerly it upheld Its faces to the chief, who on a ledge Above them stood. In tumult lifted it Its wither'd countenances, skinny jaws, Wild eyes, and knotted brows, and bloodless lips. One after the other rose the faces, till They settled there, one pale dark stare of pain. WA YS OF REGABD. 157 Passing the cro^ycIed slaves, towards the chief, There rush'd a woman ; with the gasjiing utterance Of fear, she shriek'd unto the chief, " Your daughter ! Your daughter has been ravish'd ! In the grove, She rush'd by where I stood, and after her The lord, your master. Furiously obscene Were his wild oaths. I follow'd him ; I saw Him snatch her from the jirecipice she had climb'd ; He took her in his arms ; he laid him down Beside her senseless form ; I knelt to him ; And by his mother's fame, his sister's honour, By his own manhood, by her helplessness, Pray'd him for pity on her chastity. He spat in her face, and laugh'd ; I snatch'd his knife, And should have slain him ; but he wrested it, Pinion'd my arms, and to the nearest tree Bound me. Her screaming shudder'd on my cheek : The -wind swept, but it waved no death-sword ! The stars shone, but afar, and placidly ! Clouds hurried through the air, but no avenger Burst from their gloom ! the hill, the poison'd hill, Stirr'd not ! I heard his oaths, his laughs, his bloAvs, Sound out in the clear night. I could not stir ; My impotence was crime ; one terrible shriek Struck my heart void. Oh ! nothing more I know." M 158 WAYS OF REGARD. Tlie mechanism of the chieftain's frame Shook for a moment wliile this tale began ; Then evidenced not emotion, save by pallor That through his frame did deepen,— the same pallor As that within the murder'd ^dctim's face, At the last blow of many. AMien the silence Throbb'd through the cavern, he arose, and cried, " ^Yhy tell you that your sister and my child, Struck from the pedestal of maidenhood To the cold ditch of harlotry, outcrieth Her pain, her terror ; that the coming hom-s Still bring the fiend who dash'd her ; that unhinder'd He aye repeats his brutal ravishment ! That presently, tired of his victim, he, From utter hatred of her chaster nature. Will thrust her o'er to indiscriminate rape ; Make her sweet form the sink of filthiness ; Yea, for the merriment of his gazing comrades, Force her to crimes unnatural, too monstrous For words to image ! I insult the maiden. Proclaiming thus her ^vrongs, for you abet them ! She shrieks to us for aid ; your lying eyes Smile to her ravisher !— Do thou, God ! hear me ! Hear, God ! Not even my child herself supposeth The blackness low impending o'er her life. She will not keep her virtues : she must change ; WA YS OF REGABD. 1 59 Tlie filth perpetually assailing her Must alter her ! 'Tis not in human nature, Endless repulsion. that she could know — For then her life would shudder out at once — Know that the very horrors she now hates She shall lust after ; — that her soul shall suit Its nature to its circumstance, until Its wings shall rotten off, its plumage drop, — Till it become a naked leprous remnant To whom death dares not ojien j^aradise. Hear, God ! this daughter of thine OAvn shall start, And fight against herself, and doubt her being ; She shall begin to fear that she may change ; She shall think that she may change ; her thouglit will grow Into belief ; — then ever, ever, ever, The spectre of her future self shall haunt her ; She dares not hate it, yet she must, she does ; Like to a serpent-fascinated bird, She loathes yet runs to it. Oh ! worse than every other agony. Thou keenest consciousness of vilest crime, — This struggling amidst darkness of the soul ; — This giving o'er the struggle when all palsied She first perceives that irredeemably She is changing to the foulness she a1)hors : M 2 160 WA YS OF REGARD. Her aWIcI doom, like a vast ujistanding sea, Unnatural, overhangs ! Slaves ! brothers ! are we Already thus cursed 1 Danin'd are we to endurance, To acquiescence, to contentment ? Oh ! not so ! The habit of obedience hath not slain ye ! Arise ! shake out the fetters from your souls, And they will leave your limbs ! All is not lost. Hear m<>, oh hear me ! We no more are slaves ; — Have we not hearts like men 1 do we not feel The voice of kindness, contemplate ■with pleasure The joys of life ? are not our senses human ? Own we no love ; can we not love return ? Oh ! being men, they who would hold you slaves, Do murder you alive ! They blind your minds "With Avrithing toil, and say you have no sight ; They break you from the majesty of man Into gaunt monsters, crooked miseries, And call you brute-like, — trample down your hearts. And say you have none, — banish from your souls The light of knowledge, and proclaim you soulless, — Rend you from God, saying you are not men : — But that we are, witness this himgering dagger Which through his troops of hireling cut-throats, WA YS OF REGARD. IGl And through his massive towers, and through his silks, Shall reach my daughter's ravisher's heart, and stab Right through its damned core, there thundering, The man, your slave ! Aha ! have you no daughters ? Where are your Avives 1 your sweethearts 1 Spitten upon ! Beaten in the face while ravish'd ! Ha ! you start ! Prove, prove that you are men ! Eevenge ! re- venge ! — They bade us feed on grass — we will grow drunk With their red blood ; they trample us as snakes — We -wall rise dragon-like, and Avith our fetters Act inconceivably ! — Revenge ! revenge ! Not that they violate our wives for sport, And laugh at our unnatural endurance, — Not that they tear our children from their mothers. Crippling their limbs, extinguishing their minds With endless toil, — the only things that love us, — Not that our food is garbage ; that our babes Droop at the milkless teat ; — not that they dare, Oh shameless beasts ! unnaturally deprive Our youth of manhood, — But because that they have so damned us That we've endured these shames ! Oh for tlds murder, 162 WA YS OF REGARD. This poisoning, this pollution, this dead life, What, what revenge ! They lash us into smiles ! God ! we will rush through blood up to our arm- pits ! "— He ceased, o'ercome with passion ; his clench'd hands Signing the fury that had choked his voice, And roll'd his eyeballs backward. In the cave Each auditor foams fiercely with his mouth ; Motionless where he stood, and listen'd, and shook. With horrible imprecations at their lords, With wordless yells, they rage around the cave Like madden'd tigers ; tearing each other's flesh And pledging murder with the outspurting gore. Amidst the uproar gasps the chief ; his hair Cresting ; his hands clutch'd up in vacancy ; And an inward light burns lurid in his face, Like the reflection of a burning kingdom ; And backward from liis gnashing teeth are drawn And fix'd his lips. One saw, commanding time And extinguishing space, and past the farthest reach Of the five senses reaching, — he beheld Glide from this cavern, while thus the chieftain ceased. WAYS OF REGARD. 163 A yoimg man and a maiden. To that caste. Whereat the chief did rage, did both belong By birth and circumstance ; yet the young man, By sympathy for the oppress'd, to the slaves Felt himself bound. And she, the maiden with him. Loved him ; and therefore thought his feelings noblest. And therefore shared them. On his shoulder leans she One hand ; and opposite to him she stands. Her pity-parted lips and glistening eyes Answer the chief's harangue, and anxiously ask Her lover's interference. Yet she waits, All confident that he will end this shame ; That now he will tell her how. Yea ! never, Shall Christian, opening out his household bible When hours of anguish crowd round threateningly — Never shall soldier, while around liis sword's liilt Putting a quiet hand, when tramp of foemen Catches liis ear — shall pole-star seeing sailor — God, self-contemplating — feel confidence More perfectly assured than that which beam'd Light through this maiden's quivering tears, when lines Of high resolve, made architectural The face of her love ; of him, her sword, her bible. 164 WA ra OF REGARD. Her guiding star, her God omnipotent. — For woman, in the idolatry of her love, Believeth him in whom her soul reposes Ever as divine in power as in will. And then the young man answers — partly himself. And partly her, and partly unpresent things, Addressing passionate : — " And what were I But a superior, a more criminal slave, Should I retreat to my abodes and pleasures. Leaving these wretched ones uncounsell'd thus ? Give a man all his rights, and these alone. He's a high animal, a noble brute ! Crown him vnili duty, and you make him man ; King of himself, and equal citizen Of all earth's populaces. Glorious duty ! Give me thy crown, and though its weight be death, - Dying, I'll crown myself. Yea, plunder'd slave ! Yet shalt thou know what glorious exultation. The consciousness of liberty ; a joy Vast as the courser's, when in lonely freedom He rushes wave-like o'er the gusty hill-top. Kicking liis heels into the rivalling wind. And thou shalt know too what divine repose Accomplish'd duty yields. Thou hast no self : Oh monstrous contradiction ! — thou, possessing A cursed identiiiy,. yet having no power WA YS OF REGARD. 165 To self-determinate, — a tortured tool For others' usage, which, when overworn, Is flung aside to rot. You might have homes. And gambolling children, and affectionate wives ; You might be loving, wise ; for you are men ! Man is eternal ; tyrants and slavery Are but the tricks of time. Within the senate, I'll taunt our nobles, till they drag their crowns DoAvn on their brows to hide the blush of shame. If I move not the king to piteous thought, His lip shall Avhiten. All their boasted order. Their laws unbroken, all the deep submission Of their whipp'd slaves, — is terrible disorder ; Disorder of the universe and of the heart. They shall know anarchy is abroad, more dread That her -wild step is noiseless, that her form Is undistinguishable, save at times By the red fires that in the yards of law Curl round rebelKous serfs ; while then her bearin, Hath not the noble fierceness of a storm-god. But with assassin calmness her cold smile Measures a secret dagger. They outcry, " The nation flourishes, its power is vast," " Its wealth supreme." Oh idiot knaves and liars ! Say, is a flag a nation 1 is an army 1 Do half a million traders make a nation 1 or- O 106 WA YS OF REGARD. A thousand lords 1 The people is the nation ; If they be slaves, if they be suffering, The power, the majesty, the Avealth you boast, Is tinsel hiding the rottenness you ordain ! And much they prate of station. Much they say Touching God-order'd ranks. Me they accuse Of rendering slaves superior to that state. In which, they say, it has pleased God to place them ! They counsel — if your slave seem fond of freedom, fStarve him, till he be glad to lick your foot And then get crumbs ; if he would fain be Anse, Work him, until the writhing of his body Shall suffocate his mind ; if he Avould love. And husband womanhood, let famish'd children Of others terrify ; even from his birth Palsy his heart with fear, darken his soul. Defile his body. Yea ! this mutilation They do advise, when smilingly they say. Be slaves so educate, that to their stations, Their natures may be fitted. " Educate ! " Ye villains sacrilegious, who would rob 'God's human temple of its majesty. That ye may stable there in barbarous pomp ! Misname not thus your murderous reduction Of beauty into baseness, man to brute. Man has no station ; he must ujjward soar WA YS OF EEOAED. 167 Towards briglit-wing'd deities, or sink down towards fiends ; Man cannot pause. — Go ! bid the sun to rot within its heavens ! Arrest the marching melodies of stars ! Chill every river into stagnancy ! Deracinate the fruitful earth of growth ! Though infinite space grow dark, the soul of man Shall soar triumphantly. "Within this cavern Are thousands, sworn to rise from out the mire, Wliereto you damn them ; they wall rise, — will rise, Though war may hew their pathway, though their march Be in blood to the armpits ! Oh that it were mine To lead them bloodless conquerors ! They wall rise, — But with the chains they shatter from their limbs, Must they do hellishly. A vessel, laden With captives fetter'd unto famine and plague. Now is this land ; the slaves force-freed, Avill make it A burning wreck ; themselves amidst the flames, Maniacs, wild dancing. Oh who, who can know, How to redeem this people 1 " All this heard The seer ; and more than this harangue did proff'er 1(JS WA YS OF REOARD. Unto tlie ear, the seer beheld, and took, Down in the young man's countenance. And now Canie from the cave a statesman ; his high brow All restless with anxiety ; to himself He mutter'd as he walk'd, — " The fools I serve Under pretence of ruling, to whose whims Aye must I pander, and the pandering call Government ; for whose robbery of their fellows That have no gold, I ever forge skilful tools And term them law — will sooner or later rue The existence of this slavery. A power Eepress'd, yet gathering, and without a vent For its intenseness, must in every body Do certain death. A power must either serve For or against the thing in which it dwells ; Neutral it cannot be." And on he shuffled. For there were none to watch him grandly walk ; And as he went, continued he, " These fools AYould hurl me from my eminence and renown. Told I them truth ; why should I lose my power. To gain their hatred 1 The uncouth revolters A little while can be repress'd, and so Eepress'd shall be ; while I acquire the fame Of wise, bold statesmanship." "With a dark sneer At human error ; and chuckling out these words — " Let the future look to it," — the statesman pass'd. WA YS OF REGARD. 169 Him follow'cl one, not lofty in the state, Not low, but finding there the middle rank ; The rank which 't-\vixt the lowest and the hisjhest Lifts an imjiassable barrier, and like A voluntary lackey, eA^er kicks The loAvest lower. Eank, whose envy is To have some other under it ; whose hope Is to merge into the highest ; and whose action Is getting gold to administer these desires. His white lip Avrithed, as from the cave he rush'd In savage wrath. " Our constitution, order, Obedience, command are jeoparded ; No slaves ! no master ! Even upon ourselves, The beasts would have us tend ! By all that is Holy and reverend ; by our household hearths. These fiends would desecrate ; by the constitution, Our fathers have bequeathed us ; if there be Virtue in law and armies, — a swift cure Shall find these wretched levellers ; " — this creature, Able to reason on the modes of servinsr His purposes and liis instincts, but no more ; Forgetting, or unable to examine Those instincts or those wills ; — cried, rushing on Towards his home, the thought within him burning That his dear children's sumptuousness and grace Were based upon this slavery. 170 WA YS OF REGARD. The seer saw on : And the cavern still shook with uproar, and the fury Therein wax'd devilish. S^vdftly from its mouth, Swifter than a river hurl'd from off a star That rolls uncheck'd, stream'd high to the empyrean Radiance of powers unhuman. In a moment. Above all lower firmaments, and above All clouds and winds, it soar'd. Immortal calm Received its glory. To the immortal calm The unhuman powers rush'd, — as rushes one From drinking in some exquisite music tones, To shun all else, and in unpeopled space Breathe rapturously. They circled round and round ; Now sweeping vast and rapture-uttering curves. Now floating tremulously with happiness, Now solemnly moving in elated thought Of their own grandeur ; while in unison. Circled above the seer their measured song. " The baptism of the earth speeds s-w-iftly on ! Earth's human things pour bounteously their blood ! Rejoice, companions ! Soon will be complete Auxiliar changes, and one mighty change Glorious outburst. No doubt disturbs our joy ; Assm-ed of the universe's truth. We wait expectant. To her sister worlds Soon shall we convoy this long-travail'd planet ; WA YS OF REG A RD. 1 7 1 Our pleasures tlirill'd to that ecstatic bliss, With which we watch'd the sun mount up in chaos, Before him wildernesses of shade dissolving, Till where he paused, towards him smftly sail'd The numberless stars that worshipping round him move. Rejoice, companions ! All earth's crowded creatures Leaven it for its fate, unfalteringly. And the blood and passion Avhich must yet l^e spill'd Into its substance, with a tenfold richness Sink o'er it now. The creatures of its youth Were few and passionless, and they spill'd them- selves Half niggardly. But now quick human things Throng gloriously redundant ; and they spring In armies to their calling ; and they fall. Of measureless passion full.— Herein is love ! The movements of all things still gradual quicken, That followingly may our contemplation large From happiness to ecstasy. Eejoice ! Rejoice, companions ! on this embryo star, As on a myriad earlier ones, men grow Tliick as the nebulse of the galaxy ; As on a myriad other ones, they pom- Oceans of blood and passion into her veins ; That, as a myriad other ones, this star 172 WAYS OF REGARD. May slmdder into a thousand different moods, — The happiness of her changings never the same, Ever increased and different. . Even now The race of man is culminating ! Now, Big is the earth A^dth the superior creatures Waiting to disphace man. Their glorious slaughters, Their frenzied passions, their quick-ended lives. Await our gaze. Oh, sweep, sweep on, companions, And glory in our delight ! We still remain ; All undisturb'd our high prerogative Of blissful contemplation. Though we know Nought of the emotions which the short-lived children Of earth, and all the planets, impart and share,— Be ye sure that even when their faces whiten, And their forms rend each other, and the air Rocks with their outcry,— not even then, nor ever, Beach they our bliss contemplative. We remain ! All things beneath us change, and still we take From every change fresh joy. Beneath us roll Differently all things ; everything us yields Joy differently. Sweep, sweep on, companions 1 And glory in our delight. Eternally All things intensify ; and we must ever Intenselier contemplate, intenselier joy. Rest we above the cave. Rejoice, companions ! Brightly speeds on the baptism of the earth." 173 FEMININE SPITE. The trial was over ; for stolen gold, Robin the gardener his life had sold ; The judge had commended to heaven his soul, And his head from the guillotine's hatchet to roll ; The maiden who loved him did speed to his cell, And her brain shook with fear, like a vibrating bell. When there purposely met lier the black-hair'd Lucette, Whose grass-flipping feet show'd the village coquette. This black-hair'd Lucette oft had striven to make A suitor of Kobin ; — at church, and at wake, With her eyes in the dance, M^th her leg at the stile, With her romps in the fields, she had striven to beguile The senses of Eo1)in, that so he might pray Her mercy, and she, with disdain, answer nay ; But no looking, no romping, no unveiling would do, • To the maiden who loved him poor Robin was true. N 174 FEMININE SPITE. Now to meet this lorn maiden, Lucette had put on Her flauntiest of dresses, her blackest shoes shone Against her white stockings, her Avhite and red gown Was tassell'd with ribands, around, up and down ; She saw the maid sobbing, — her bright greedy eye Just glanced all around to see no one was nigh, — Then she sniff 'd, and she smirk'd, and she toss'd back her head. And " You're lucky to kirow the young gardener," she said. FEMININE GOODNESS. Soft to her bower the letter came, Where dreaming Ibliss she sigh'cl ; And signed by her lover's name It claims her for his bride ; Like cloudless skies of summer night One hour before the day, Where in the east translucent light Beneath the dark doth play, — Her eyes well up with beauteous sheen. For though she knew 't would come, 'Tis fresh excess of happiness. To clasj) it thus-wise home. But ere she left the bower, there fill'd Another light those eyes ; N 2 176 FEMININE GOODNESS. Two crystal tear-drops o'er them thrilFd, And half disguised their skies ; But holier far than tears of joy, Than tears of maiden fear, They started for some gentle boy Who'd found their glance too dear. And, oh ! Avere I her lover, I Had rather found her now, Than when her eyes shone bright replies To my recorded vow. 177 "Car la 2}ens6e a aussl ses ivresses, ses extases, ses voluptes celestes, dont line Jieiire vaut toute une jeunesse, toute une vie," — ■ George Sand. Of all the suns that over earth have sniiled, The summer's evening sun I love the best ; Because it ray'd when I beheld a child Come from the cedar grove, at home to rest. His wide-orb'd eyelids moved not as he came ; His cheeks were pale ; his eyes were heavily bright ; His lips were parted movelessly ; pale flame Around his mouth play'd quietly pale delight. His forest dog went bounding to his side ; His eyes veer'd slowly towards the fawning hound, But kept their fixedness, pre-occupied With thought, whence other thoughts did all rebound. His beautiful mother took his drooping hand ; And when he lavish'd on her no caress, ITS — " WHiat ails my boy ? " from across her soul's large land, Pass'd through her lips, -with ravisliing gentleness. " Mother, I know not ; to the cedar trees I chased a butterfly ; it danced too high, And left me underneath ; the evening breeze Came "\\'ith me there, and there it seem'd to die. " And all Avas silent as the minster's nave On common days ; upon the ground I sate, And reverence closed mine eyes, as viith the wave Of silent and of soundless passing state. " Anon mine eyelids lifted, and I saw Above me terracing the mighty trees ; The sun continuing utterly to A\dthdraw His rays from out them, by composed degrees. " When the rays all were taken, and unht The grove gloom'd dark, again mine eyes did close, And in my mind, where lonely I did sit, The memory of the high priest's blessing rose. 179 " As from the scene towards this thought I g-azed, A mighty ecstasy through my brain did go, Like overwhelming ocean ; cresting, raised My hair, while I did cower and tremble low ; "For both one essence possess'dj — the cedar-grove, Spreading its shadowing bows high o'er me there ; And the priest's hands outstretch'd my head above, Solemnly sheltering me, with voiceless prayer. " It seem'd as though into my brain did roll A thunder-cloud, that burst in bright wild rain, Torrenting through my limbs, and for its goal. Mounting back mightily to my brain again. " I am not sad, mother ; I have no ill, But a great storm within me doth subside ; The ebbing of rapture wearies me ; still, still, Me alone leave, dear mother ;" the boy replied. Ceasing, he kissed her with serious pride, The while his hand carress'd the hound's large head ; And then away he seriously did glide. And I retired where'er my footsteps led. 180 Deems any tliis \*ision insufficient cause That I should love the hour that gave it me, Oh ! knew he his OAvn human-nature's laws, Much would he yearn to have been given it to see. The essence O'f mind's being is the stream of thought ; Difference of mind's being is difference of the stream ; Within this single difference may be brought The countless difiFerences that are or seem. Now thoughts associate in the common mind By outside semblance, or from general wont ; But in the mind of genius, swift as wind, All similarly influencing thoughts confront. Though the things thought, in time and space, may lie Wider than India from the Arctic zone ; If they impress one feeling, swift they fly. And in the mind of genius take one throne. This order of mind is shaken to the core With mighty joy, while therewithin cohere Its far-brought thoughts; o'er the common mind's dull floor, As of old, its thoughts, rejoicing not, ajjpear. 181 This boy, then, suffering in the ceclar-gi'ove, All rapturously, the uniting in his mind Of these far-parted thoughts, — the boughs above. And the priest's lilessing o'er his head declined — Is, in embyro beauteousness, one of that band, Who, telling the sameness of far-parted things. Plants through the universe, with magician hand, A clue which makes us following universe-kings. One of the seers and prophets who bid men pause In their blind rushing, and awake to knoAv Fraternal essences and beauteous laws In many a thing from which in scorn they go. Yea, at his glance, sin's palaces may fall, Men rise, and all their demon gods disown ; For knowledge of hidden resemblances is all Needed to link mankind in happiness round Love's. throne. StuDiefii of Ue^cmblance antJ [The eight poems which conclude this volume have all appeared in print before,— all but the last two in the author's lifetime. They are grouped here, as will also be the poems to be printed for the first time in the second volume, under the title of Studies of Eesemhlance and Consent, in accordance with a design of the author which, owing to circumstances detailed more fully in the introductory portion of this book, he was never able to complete,] 1 i 185 WHEN THE WOELD IS BURNING.* (stanzas for music.) When the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning' Round with face unscathed ; Ere fierce flames, uprushing, O'er all lands leap, crushing. Till earth fall, fire-swathed ; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows. Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden. Though by bard beholden. When in calm dreams folden, — Calm his dreams will bide. * Printed in Ainsivorth's Magazine, January, 1845. 1S6 WHEX THE WOULD IS BCEMXG. ^^llo^e the dance is sweeping, Through the greenswarvi peeping. Shall the soft lights start ; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it triok-pla^nng, H[igh their robes ups"wa}"iug, O'er the lights shall dart ; And the woodland haimter Shall not cease to saunter "VMien, far down some glade, Of the great worlds biuming One soft flame upturning Seems, to his discernin!::, Crocus in the shade. 187 My wife aud child, come close to me, Tlie world to us is a stornij" sea : With yom- hands iu mine, if your eyes but shine, I care not how wild the stoim may be. For the fiercest wind that ever blew Is nothing to me, so I shelter you ; Xo warmth do I lack, for the howl at my back vSings down to my heart, " Man bold and true !" A pleasant sail, my child, my wife, O'er a pleasant sea, to many is life ; The wind blows warm, and they dread no storm, And wherever they go, kind friends are rife. But, wiie and child, the love, the lo'^'e That lifteth us to the saints above, Could only have groAvu where storms have blown The truth and strength of the heart to prove."' * Printed iu The Critic, May 31, 1845. 18S TACT IN KINDNESS.* What its sound is to the shower, What its smoothness to the flower, What its silence to the kiss, — All this tact to kindness is. Of the sound of the rain, of the feel of the flower, Now there is not a bard hut would carol the praise ; Then to tact, when subservient to kindness its power, May not I fitly give one of my humble lays \ For though tact be a word that weds music not kindly, Let the sAveet of its meaning make up for its sound ; Without tact all kindness must go to work blindly. And inflame when it seeks to relieve the heart's wound. * Printed in the Illuminated Magazine, and in the Illustrated Family Journal, July 5, 1845. TACT IN KINDNESS. 189 Granted sometimes deception included in tact, And oftenest deception the handmaid of sin ; Yet deception sometimes is by virtue enact, And some universal applauses shall win ; Yea, though truth crowning glory of virtue is, still Sometimes 'tis a luxury the good must forego ; Ask Trotty* who feign'd to have supp'd that starved Will Might eat the whole meal, yet without remorse go. Oh ! seem when one serving, to be yourself served; Conceal not your blush when entirely bestowing ; Expose, if you're woman, yourself all unnerved. When a lover's false hopes kindly all overthrowing : Serve not on one absolute plan, as though tending Herds or flocks ; but each kindness effect in a way To each weakness adajited, and so be commending That tact half whose goodness words fail to display. What its sound is to the shower. What its smoothness to the flower, What its silence to the kiss, — All this tact to kindness is. * The Trotty Veck of " The Chimes." O 190 SEEKERS* Twice three years in this tomb she hath lain ; Speak low, speak low. One like to her doth the earth yet contain 1 We have sought ever ; is the search vain 1 Speak loAv. Answer we nothing ? none have we found ? Weep not, weep not. One like to her earth could but wound, Sense with but wearying trammels bound ; — Weep not. I would not meet one like to her ! Start not, start not. * Printed in The Illuminated Magazine, 1845. SEEKERS. 191 Not with hope search I the world's strife and stir, Ne'er at two shrines be I Avorshipper ; — Start not. Part we now from around her tomb, — Speak low, speak low. East and west, through the world's gloom. Seeking ever till here we come ; — Speak low. September 1845. 2 192 THE MISANTHEOPE'S CURE.* One had counted every blo-vv ^^^lich the lofty deal the low, Till his wretched soul could know Nought beside. And to liim earth seem'd a plain "\Miere each strove his good to gain Through some other's loss or pain ; EvH all. Common fate ! such watch will blind Even a wise and learned mind To the goodness in mankind Rooted deep. For — be it well or be it ill — To each man the universe A^^ll, Like his o^vn experience, still Ever loom. * Printed in The People's Journal, November 28, 1S46. THE MISANTHROPE'S CURE. 193 He gi'ew sick with wrath and gloom ; And one day, to ask his doom, In the leech's waiting-room Waited pale. But a dame and maid coming in, He from them his cure did win ; How, it were a heavy sin Ever to hide. From the city's farthest side, Through the city five miles wide. Twice each week the dame here hied. Lone and old, To be present while the maid. Paying nought, sought the leech's aid ; Lest the maid's fair fame might fade, Hied she here. Told this, to the dame he said, " Five miles walk'd you with this maid ? " Said she, " For her ride I paid ; She is ill." 194 THE MISANTHROPE'S CURE, " Then you are kin to lier ? " said he ; '• No, oh no ! but those that be Would not do it, sir," answer'd she Softly still. Ask'd he, " Could you both not ride 1 " " Little, since my husband died, Have I ; she has nothing," replied Yet the dame. Look'd he wondering in her face ; Heavenly shone its human grace ; And to him the world apace Heavenly shone. As when in a wood a shower Lights up every leaf and flower, Was the universe in this hour Lit for him. Oh let none learn good by stealth ; Tombing so earth's real wealth ; Thus regain'd its moral health This poor soul. 195 I BELIEVE.* "Nature is not malignant like the gods of the people ; she is dreadfully imperfect, but has shown herself caxiable of im- provement. " — Barker. Every ship, except the sliip we embark in, Gives us dreams Of bright voyaging, beauteous lands afar, and Glorious streams ; Every maiden, until she has consented, Angel seems. Beautiful is nought, unless some foreground Grasp debar ; All things flying attract us, and all charm till Gain'd they are ; The hills are beautiful but because their summits Soar afar. Printed in The Reasoiier, May 15, 1859. 196 I BELIEVE. Wlaat is the argument of thy discontent, Human soul 1 Wilt thou, oh haggardest of coursers ! ever Find fit goal ? Art thou a wild exception, or knoAveth Nature Nothing whole ? Sometimes I dream the law of thy well-being Ceaseless change, And while thy senses and affections bid thee Narrow range, Thou, like a bird encaged and fetter'd, pinest Lost and strange. But most I pondering deem that it may be That thy sight To grasp the perfect 'neath Time's imperfections Hath no might, \Miilst only before the perfect canst thou exjDand to Fit delight. And seems it then, whilst each fruit thou pursuest Turns to dust, That, spite of all thy pride in thy pursuing, / BELIEVE. 19T 'Twere more Just That tliou liadst never been unto dead-sea apples Thus out-thrust. Wait, blind-whu-rd Ixion of the flashing wheels, Life and Death ! This thing is certain, that like ore good grows all 111 beneath ; Other than worsliippers of dreams and scriptures Live by faith. Tombs many yet may rise for us, of lifetimes Dark and brief ; We may not see Time's victory, but it comes, and. For our grief, Endurance knows celestial consolations Past belief. Dissatisfaction accident is of Earth, Not Earth's plan ; Years come when even its name shall be a riddle None may scan ; Perchance even now his plumes outspreads the hour that Ends the ban. 198 / BELIEVE. Roll on then, Earth, with all thy soaring mountains Pale as Ghosts ! Enchant, oh maids, and glory in enchanting Man's young hosts ; Toward a new future will we make your victims Eoad sign-posts. Mix i)igments, study lines, exalt us Nature, Painters all, Burn fire on all her altars ; and, though wearied, Never fall ; What if 'twere come that she a Cleopatra Could not pall. Hills, shake not off one torrent, nor grow pale thou. Golden Sun ! The music of the world thou light'st up hath not Yet begun. Get ready, women ! fitly have ye not yet Once been won. Nor shake thou mockingly thy dart, oh Death ! Know, oh king ! We have made friends ^vitli Melancholy, and she / BELIEVE. lyj Thee will bring Gently among us, yea to teach new music Them that sing. There is a heaven, though we to hope to pass there May not dare ; Where adoration shall for ever adore some Perfect fair ; And we can wait thee. Death, om^ eyes enfixed Firmly there. Jersey. 200 A WINTEE HYMN TO THE SNOW.* Come o'er the hills, and pass imto the wold, And all tilings, as thou passest, in rest upfold, Nor all night long thy ministrations cease ; Thou succourer of young com, and of each seed In plough'd land sown, or lost on rooted mead. And bringer every^^here of exceeding peace ! Beneath the long interminable frost Earth's landscapes all their excellent force have lost, And stripp'd and abject each alike appears ; Not now to adore can they exalt the soul, — Panic, or anger, or unrest control, — Or aid the loosening of Affliction's tears, * Printed in The Athenceum, September 14, 1S78. i WINTER HYMN TO THE SNOW. 201 No more doth Desolateness lovely sit Lone on the moor ; no more around her flit From far high-travelling heaven the sailing shades ; The shrunk grass shivers feebly ; reed and sedge, By frozen marsh, by rivulet's iron edge, Bow, blent into the ice, mix'd stems and blades. The mountains soar not, holding high in heaven Their mighty kingdoms, but all do^vnward driven Seem shrunken haggard ridges running low ; And aU about stand drear upon the leas, Like giant thorns, the frozen skeleton trees, Dead to the winds that ruining through thern go. The woodland rattles in the sudden gusts ; Frozen thi-ough frozen brakes the river thrusts His arm forth stiffly, like one slain and cold ; The glory from the horizon-line has fled ; One sullen formless gloom the skies are spread, And black the waters of the lakes are roll'd. Come ! Daughter fair of Sire the sternest, come, And bring the world relief ! to rivers numb Give garments, cover broadly the broad land ; •202 WINTER HYMN TO THE SNOW. All trees Tntli thy resistless gentleness Assume, and in thine o-vvn white vesture dress, And hush all nooks with thy persistings bland. Come ! making rugged gorge and rocky height EA'en more than fur of ermine soft and white, And cover up and silence roads and lanes ; And, wliile the ravish'd wind sleeps hush'd and still, Wreaths, little infancy with glee to fill, Upheap at doorways and at casement-panes. Fancy's most potent pandar ! gentlest too : Man, rising on the morn, the scene will view Thus, all transform'd, vAi\\ no less sweet surprise Tlian stirreth him to Avhose half-doubting sight Sudden appears beloved friend, masqued bright In not less fair than unexpected guise. And some will think the earth, in white robes drest, Seems sinking fast in a great trance of rest, Beyond all further reach of Avintry ill ; And some will say it seems as though a ghost Ajipear'd ; and thus, on fancy's seas far toss'd, With doubtful shadowy joys their spirits fill. WINTER HYMN TO THE SNOW. 203 Thy task complete, if to the amazing scene With Night should come, fiJl-orb'cl, Night's radiant Queen, How the whole race from out their homes will gaze 1 Hard hearts will restless grow, and mean men sigh, And \\ish they could be holier, and on high Some, whispering words of heaven, meek thanks will raise. I, sweet celestial kisser ! from croft home-crown'd. From ancient mead by stateliest trees girt round. From wilds where thou the earth lovest all alone. Shall watch thee shower thy kisses, and all the hours Rapt worship solemnize, and bless the Powers That let thy loveliness to my soul be known ! 204 TO DEATH.* I see tliee in the cliurcliyard, Death, And fain would talk ^Wth thee, Wliile still I draw the young man's breath And still Anth clear eyes see. Thou wilt not make my spirit sink, Thou dost not move my fear ; More sad more blest I often think The mortal sojom'ner here. Here where the symbols all of fair With vileness mix'd we find ; "Where knowledge soothes not, and where care Haunts most the finest mind. '■' Printed in the Academy, November 16, 1878. TO DEATH. 205. 'Tis thou who know'st if any knows Of life's wild maze the key ; And if behind its marv^ellous shows Some Master moving be. And haply of some farther life That shall this life adjust, Or if we are men for threescore years, And then unconscious dust. For this, oh Death, of thee I crave Some sign ; but not to pray Against the inevitable grave Or self-contain'd decay. Alas ! since first our fragile race Appear'd this earth upon, Hast thou been question'd thus, and trace Of answer never won. In vain the young from youth's delights, From lips whose kissing bloom Bright chaos makes of days and nights, To thee defiant come. 206 TO DEATH. In vain the old with trembling tread And trembling hands applies, And strives to coax thy silence dread, And lifts beseecliing eyes. And vainly I desert my post In life's poor puppet game, And seek thee where tliis silent host Of tombs thy power proclaim. "\Mien midnight wraps the world in sleep, Or when the vanisliing stars And mom once more, new day to keep, Rolls back her golden bars. In vain, in vain, but one reply In thy sad realm I find ; Some fresh grave ever meets the eye, And mocks the unanswer'd mind. June 10, 1860. 207 A WARNING.* He took his heart away from his fellows, And gave it to angels fair ; But the angels cannot commune with the human, Nor, if they could, would they dare. Then took he back his heart from the angels. And over it long he mourn'd ; For he either could not or would not offer it Back to the race he scorn'd. But all things die if utterly self-bound ; And slowly this lone heart died : And ever the Scorner is doom'd to wander, Meaner than all beside. * Printed in The Illuminated Magazine, 1845. ShoHly Witt he ready, FOURTH EDITION Revised and considerably Enlarged. THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF RUSKIN, A Bibliographical List arranged in chronological order of the published Writings in Prose and Verse of John Ruskin, M.A, from 1834 to 1879. " I am very grateful to you, as I am in all duty bound, for this very curious record of myself." — From a Letter of Mr. Ruskin' s to the Compiler, dated " Brantwood, Conis- ton, Oct. 23, 1878." "I have looked with much interest through your Bibliography of Ruskin." — From a Letter of the late SirW. G. Trevelyan, Bart., to the Compiler. *' It is a marvel of painstaking." — H. S. Marks, R.A. Subscribers' names received by the Editor — R. H. Shepherd, 26, Paul tons-square, Chelsea, S.W. TRANSLATIONS FROM CHARLES BAUDELAIRE, With a few Original Poems, By RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD. Fcap. 8vo., cloth boards, Gs. (Only 100 copies printed.) ' The work of a cultivated man, with an exquisite ear for rhythm, and a genuine poetical sense. 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Containing directions for the Celebrant and Ministers of the Altar and the Communion Service, with the Sccreta translated from the Sa- rum Missal. CERVANTES. — Sancho Panza's Proverbs, with others which occur in Don Quixote ; with literal translation, Notes, and Introduction, by Ulick Ralph Burke. i2nio, 3s ; Large Paper, crown 8vo, 8s 6d , CHAMBERS (J. D.) The Principles of Divine Worship, the Book of Common Prayer, Illustrated by refe- rences to the Sarum Rites and Ceremonies. With ■ iiuvieroiis Illustrations, nciv cditiou, revised, wiiJi additions, 4to, £,11% CH ATE LAIN (Chevalier de) L'Hostellerie des Sept Pdchds Capitau.x. Crown 8vo, sewed, is (Le Chevalier de) Les Noces de la Lune. Crown 8\'o, sewed, is (Clara de) Photographs of Familiar Faces, edited by the Chevalier de Chatelain. Crown 8vo, 5s *HAUCER (G.) 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" — TAi: Illustrated Revlnv. CLAUDET (A., F.R.S.) A Memoir reprinted from " The Scientific Review." 8vo, sewed, 2s COLERIDGE (S. T.) The Poetical and Dramatic Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. An entirely new edition, revised and enlarged, founded on that published in three volumes by the late Willia:m Pickering in 1834. 4 vols, fcap. 8vo, 30s Large Paper Copies {only 100 printed) £2 12s 6d. While containing everything which appeared in the earlier Edition, the present Re-issue includes a number of pieces of considerable value -and interest, now for the first time collected. CONSTABLE (Henry) Diana, Spiritual Sonnets, and other Poems, now first collected, with some Account of the Author, by W. C. Hazlitt, and Notes by Thomas Park. 1859, crown 8vo, only 230 copies printed, 6s Ditto, Large Paper, only 20 copies printed, nncnt, 15s OX (F. E.) Hymns from the German, the Originals and Translations side by side, translated and edited by Y. E. Cox. 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Crown 8vo, 2s 6d N.B. — The Blue Book Report, issued by the Royal Commission, presents the above evidence in a mutilated condition only. ARSLAKE (W. H., Preacher at Lincoln's Inn, Vicar of IVestcott, late Fcllozu and Tutor of Merton College, Oxford) The Litany of the English Church considered in its History, its Plan, and the Manner in which it is intended to be used. 8vo, Ss 6d K K KEBLE (J.) The Christian Year ; Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holy Days throughout the Year. 8vo, beautifully printed, 9s EN (Bishop) Christian Year ; or Hymns and Poems for the Holy Days and Festivals of the Church. 8vo, pp. 478, every page surrounded by an elaborate wood- cut border in the style of Geoffrey Tory. £,\ \s These borders are entirely new, never having been used in any other work. They are larger and more elaborate than those used in the " Elizabeth Prayer," or the other bordered Prayer Book. Bishop Ken was the author of "Awake my soul and with the Sun !' and of " Glory to Thee, my God, this nisht." " Bishop Ken's ' Christian Year,' published by Mr. Pickering, is an exquisite edition of a book which would have been welcome in any shape." — Times. Christian Year ; Hymns and Poems for the Festi- vals and Holidays of the Church. Third edition, fcap. 8vo, 6s, and may be had in various bindings lO KERSHAW (S. W., Librarian of Lambeth Library) The Art Treasures of Lambeth Library : a Description of the Illuminated j\ISS. and Illustrated Books, with Outline Illustrations from the most remarkable MSS. 8vo, uniform with MaitlancTs Catalogues of the Early Printed Books^ only 225 copies printed, 14s • 4to size, on hand-made paper, plates on India paper, L L half Roxburghe morocco, only 25 copies printed, £2 125 6d LATvIB (Charles and Mary) Poetry for Children, Edited and Prefaced by R. H. 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T OVE'S TRIUMPH : a Play, iimo, 3s 6d " A light dramatic five-act pl.ay, cast rather in the style of thought and expression which belong to the age succeeding that of Shakespeare. The author is evidently a man of poetic taste, as well as a great admirer of those golden days and golden writers, and tells his light and pleasant ove-story in a quiet and simple fashion." — The Mor/nug Herald. LYRICS OF LIGHT AND LIFE.— Original Poems, by Dr. John Henry Newman, Alexander Lord Bishop of Derry, Miss Christiana G. Rossetti, Rev. Gerard IMoultrie, Rev. J. S. B. Monsell, Rev. W. J. Blew, Aubrey de Vere, Rev. H. N. Oxenham, Rev. Ed. Cas- wall, &c., &c., edited by Dr. F, G. Lee. S econd edi- tion, revised and enlarged, handsomely printed with head and tail-pieces, fcap. 8vo, 6s — — Large Paper. Crown 8vo, printed on hand-made paper, only 24 so printed, £,\ \% M II ACGILL (HA:\nLTON M., D.D) Songs of the Christian Creed and Life, selected from Eighten Centuries. Crown 8vo, 7s The representative hymns included in this volume range from the Second Century to the Nineteenth. In each case the original and a translation are given, and where the hymn was originally in English, a Latin rendering is given. A (ew are Greek and English ; all the others have the Latin and English side by side. Among the authors may be enumerated Clement of Ale-^candria, Hilary, Ambrose, Augustine, Gregory of Nazianzus, Anselm, Thomas A. Kempis, Xavier, Watts. Toplady, Cowper, Heber, Keble, Newman, Bonar, and many others. lyr ACKENZIE (J.) An Appeal for a New Nation. 8vo, Mainoc Evline, and other Poems. i2mo, 5s MANNING (Cardinal) and History: An Answer to the Cardinal's Appeal to the History of the Venerable Bede, by Two Priests. Sewed, is 6d MANUEL (Prince Don Juan, the Spanish Boccaccio) Count Lucanor, or the Fifty Pleasant Stories of Pa- tronio, written by the Prince Don Juan Manuel, A.D. 133s — 1347, and now first translated from the Spanish into English, by James York, I\I.D. i2mo (//. xvi. 246), 6s " This curious collection of ' Pleasant Stories,' composed a century before the invention of printing, has already been translated into French and German, and was well worth putting into an English dress. . . In his brief account of Don Juan Manuel, Dr. James York has told the readers of ' Fifty Pleasant Stories ' as much, perhaps, as they will require to know of them. . . . The notes e.xplanatory or illubtrative of the stories are, as notes should be, brief, instructive, and to the point." — The Saturday Review. ARTYN (Rev. Thomas, M.A.) Greek Testament Studies ; or, aRevision of the Translation for Private Use. 8vo, 23 6d MARY (Queen) Tv/o Plays by Dekker, Webster, and by Thos. Heywood, newly edited, with Essay on the Relation of the Old and Modern Dramas in this Chapter of History, by \V. J. Blew. i2mo, 4s 6d ILTON'S PARADISE LOST, in Ten Books, the text exactly reproduced from the First Edition of 1667, with Appendix, containing the additions made in later Issues, and a Monograph on the original publi- cation of the Poem. Crown 4to, iSs Large Paper, ^i 4s The reproduction of Milton's " Paradise Lost" has an interest supe- rior to that of most reprints, as no edition subsequent to the first has preserved the system of emphasis adopted by Milton. M M 12 NEWMAN (Dr. John Henry) The Arians of the Fourth Century, third edition. Crown 8vo, 6s Callista ; a Sketch of the Third Century. Crown 8vo, 5 s 6d Certain Difficulties felt by Anglicans in Catholic Teaching Considered, in a Letter addressed to the Rev. E. B. 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IX.— Catholicity of Anglican Church. X.— .\ntichrist. XL— Miiman's View of Christianity. XII. —The Reformation of the Eleventh Centurj-. XIII. — Private Judgment XIV.— John Davison. XV.— John Keble. Historical Sketches. Vol. I., 6s Containing : I.— The History of the Turks in their relation to Europe. II.— Life of Apollonius of Tyana. III.— The Personal and Literary Character of Cicero. IV. — Of Primitive Christianity. Historical Sketches. Vol. IL, 6s Containing: I. — A Sketch of the Life ofThtodoTet(no7u_fiyst />ri'tU'J)- IL— A Sketch of the Life of St. Chrysostom. III.— Of the Mission of St. Benedict. IV^— Of the Benedictine Schools. V.— The Church of the Fathers, containing Sketches of St. Basil, St. Gregory, St. Anthony, St. Augustine, Demetriu.«, and St. Martin. Historical Sketches. Vol. IIL, 6s Containing : I. — A Sketch of the Rise and Progress of Universities. II. — An Essay on the Northmen and Normans in England and Ireland. III.— A Review of Mediaeval Oxford. IV. — An Historical Sketch of the Convocation of Canterburj-. 13 NEWMAN (Dr. John Henry) An Essay on the De- velopment of Christian Doctrine, new edition, revised by the author. Crown 8vo, 6s Loss and Gain ; the Story of a Convert, sixth edi- tion, with a New Advertisement. Crown 8vo, pp. 442, 5s 6d On Miracles. — Two Essays on Scripture Miracles, and on Ecclesiastical. Crown 8vo, pp. 406, 6s Tracts, Theological and Ecclesiastical, Crown 8vo, 8s Containing:!. — Dissertatiunculae. II. — The Doctrinal Causes oi Arianism. III. — Apollonarianism. IV. — St. Cyril's Formula. V. — Ordo dtf Tempore. VI. — On the various revisions of the Douay Versions of Scripture. Several of the above have never been previously printed, others are from periodicals now inaccessible. ^The Via Media of the Anghcan Church. Vol. I. containing the whole of the " Lectures on the Prophet- ical Office of the Church Viewed Relatively to Roman- ism and Popular Protestantism," as published in 1837; with New Preface and Notes [1877]. Vol. II., containing Occasional Letters and Tracts written between 1830 and 1841. 1 vols, crown 8vo, 6s each Idea of a University, Considered in Nine Dis- courses, Occasional Lectures, and Essays. Crown 8vo, iinifo7-in ill cloth {double vohtnic), 7s NOWELL (T. W.) Sacrifice or no Sacrifice? John Wesley an Unconscious Romanist : Notes on a Sug- gested Alteration in the English Communion Office. 8vo, sewed, 2s PAN IZZI (Antonio) Chi Era Francesco da Bologna? Seconda edizione con nuova appendice. i2mo, only 265 copies printed, ruith fiiie facsimiles 0/ the types used by Francesco da Bologna., 2s 6d Large Hand-made Paper, only 12 printed, I OS 6d This essay is written to establish the identity of Francesco da Bologna, who designed and cut the Aldine cursive type, with the celebrated sculp- tor and artist Francesco Raibolini. usually called II Francia, the con- temporary of Leonardo da Vinci, Rafaelle, and Michael Anselo. ^4 PAYNE (John) The Masque of Shadows, and other Poems. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, js Intaglios, Sonnets. iirviO.) finely pi-inted with head and tail-pieces, ornamented with initial letters, 3s 6d " Excellent scholar's work in poetry. The spirit of his work is much akin to the earlier writin;;s of JNIr. Rossetti and Mr. ^lorris. " — The A cade my. Lautrec, a Poem. i2mo PEARCE (M.) Philip of Konigsmarkt, and Poems. i2mo, 8s 6d POCOCK (N.) The Principles of the Reformation shown to be in Contradiction to the Book of Common Prayer. 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Crown 8vo, 6s ALKER (C.) An Order for Matins and Evensong, and the Celebration of the Holy Communion, commonly called the Mass, chiefly after the P'irst Prayer Book of Edward \'I. i6mo, 2s ALTON (Izaak) RcliquicC Waltonian^e : Inedited Remains of Izaak Walton, Author of '"The Complete Angler," edited by R. H. Shepherd. i2mo, 6s ARBURTON (R. E. Egerton) Poems and Epi- grams. Crown 8vo, only 2^0 printed, js 6d Hunting Songs, Si.xth Edition. i2mo, luith vig- w w w w w iiettc title, uncut, 5 s " We have to thank Mr. Egerton AVarbiirton, a sportsman of the best stamp, for the agreeable collection of hunting songs before us. Tiiey are fresh, lively, not deficient in point, and frequently characterized by a healthy and genial humour." — I'idc reiiciv of t'MO columns in the " Sattiriiay Ret'iczu" ff Jan. 24,1874. ILBERFORCE (R. T.) 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