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BERKELEY \ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNJVHiSiTY OF 
 CALI^»4IA/ 
 
GERALDINE, 
 
 A SEQUEL 
 
 COLERIDGE'S CHRISTABEL 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, ESQ., M. A. 
 
 AUTHOR OF " PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY." 
 
 LONDON : 
 .JOSEPH RICKEEBY, SHERBOURN LANE, 
 
 KING WILLIAM STREET, CITY. 
 
 1838. 
 
LOXDOX : 
 
 TED P.y JOSEPH HI 
 SilEHBOl'KN LA.-' 
 
PEEFACE, 
 
 IXCLUDIXG A SKETCH OF CIIRISTABEL. 
 
 The Christabel of Coleridge is a poem of which it is 
 ahiiost impossible to give shortly a fair and perfect 
 abstract. Every word tells ; every line is a picture : 
 simple, beautiful, and imaginative, it retains its hold 
 upon the mind by so many delicate feelers and touch- 
 ing points, that to outline harshly the main branches 
 of the tree, would seem to be doing the injustice of 
 neglect to the elegance of its foliage, and the micro- 
 scopic perfection of every single leaf. Those who 
 now read it for the first time, will scarcely be dis- 
 posed to assent to so much praise ; but the man to 
 whom it is familiar will remember how it has grown 
 to his own liking, how much of melody, depth, na* 
 ture, and invention, he has found from time to time 
 
 a2 
 
 420 
 
VI PREFACE, 
 
 hiding in some simple phrase, or unobtrusive epithet. 
 Most gladly, therefore, do I refer my readers to tlie 
 Christabel itself, however it may tell to the dis- 
 advantage of Geraldine : at the same time, inasmuch 
 as there may be many to whom the sequel will be ob- 
 scure, from having had no opportunity of perusing 
 the prior poem, I trust I shall be pardoned, if, in con- 
 sulting the interest of some of my readers, I mar 
 the fair memory of Christabel by a sketch so im- 
 perfect, as only to serve the purpose of explaining 
 myself. 
 
 The heroine of Coleridge is a ' blue eyed' girl, ' O 
 call her fair, not pale ;' and is introduced as ' pray- 
 ing in the midnight wood,' ' beneath the huge oak- 
 tree,' ' for the weal of her lover that's far away.' 
 While thus engaged, she is startled by ' moanings,' 
 and on the ' other side of the oak,' finds ' a damsel 
 bright' * in sore distress' and ' weariness ;' in fact, 
 the dark-eyed Geraldine, whose sudden aj^pearance is 
 by herself very suspiciously explained. Christabel 
 ' comforting' her, takes her home to Langdale-Hall, 
 the castle of Sir Leoline, where the howl of ' the 
 mastiff bitch' seems to bode evil, and some wild ex- 
 pressions addressed by Geraldine to Christabel's 
 ' guardian spirit,' her dead mother (who had ' said 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 that she should hear the castle-bell strike twelve upon 
 her [daughter's] wedding day/) gives the first clue to 
 the wicked and supernatural character of Geraldine. 
 The maidens now retiring to rest together, the beauti- 
 ful stranger's ' bosom and half her side,' — ' old' ' and 
 cold,' suggest vague alarms, and ' for an hour' Chris- 
 tabel in ' her arms', is ' dreaming fearfully,' — from 
 which state of terror she is delivered by her guardian 
 mother. 
 
 The second part opens with the introduction of 
 Geraldine to Sir Leoline, who recognizes in ' the 
 lofty lady,' the daughter of his once ' friend in youth' 
 ' Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine,' who had parted 
 from Sir Leoline many years ago ' in disdain and in- 
 sult.' At her tale, (which I am pleased to consider 
 a fabrication, as also the' likeness to Roland's daughter 
 to be a piece of witchcraft) the Baron is highly in- 
 dig^nant, and vows to avenoe * the child of his friend.' 
 Meanwhile, poor Christabel is under a mysterious 
 spell, subjected to ' perplexity of mind,' ' a vision 
 of fear,' and ' snake-like looks' of the rival beauty ; 
 albeit ' comforted' by a ' vision blest.' Sir Leoline, 
 glad of the opportunity of a reconciliation to his 
 long-lost friend, sends ' Bracy the bard,' with ' harp' 
 and * solemn vest,' by ' Irt-(hing) flood,' &c, to Ro- 
 
Vlll niEFACE. 
 
 land's border castle, commissioning- him to ' greet 
 Lord Roland/ acquaint him that ' his daughter is 
 safe in Langdale-Hall,' and bidding him ' come' 
 with ' all his numerous array' to meet Sir Leoline 
 ' with his own numerous array' on ' panting' palfreys/ 
 and to be friends once more. * Bard Bracy' hesitates, 
 on account of having dreamt that Christabel — ' the 
 dove' — had ' a green snake' ' coiled around its wings 
 and neck/ ' underneath the old tree / and having 
 ' vowed' ' with music strong and saintly song/ to ex- 
 orcise the forest. The Baron interprets it as of ' Lord 
 Roland's beauteous dove/ and when Christabel, who 
 had ever and anon been tortured by ' looks askance' 
 of ' dull and treacherous hate,' entreats him by her 
 ' mother's soul to send away that woman,' he, ac- 
 counting * his child' jealous ^of the radiant stranger, 
 and no doubt alienated by black arts from his 
 daughter, as the lover is afterwards, seems full of 
 wrath, and ' in tones abrupt, austere,' sends the re- 
 luctant Bracy on his mission. 
 
 Thus far Christabel : for the ' Conclusion to part 
 the second,' however beautiful in itself, is clearly 
 out of place, unless it was intended as a mystifica- 
 tion. 
 
 And now on my own portion, I may be })ermitted 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 to make a few remarks. My excuse for continuing- 
 the fra":ment at all, will be found in Coleridofe's own- 
 words to the preface of the 1816 pamphlet edition, 
 where he says, " I trust that I shall be able to em- 
 body in verse the three parts yet to come, in the 
 course of the present year : " a half-promise, which, I 
 need scarcely observe, has never been redeemed. 
 
 In the following attempt I may be censured for 
 rashness, or commended for courage : of course, I am 
 fully aware that to take up the pen where Coleridge 
 has laid it down, and that in the wildest and most 
 original of his poems, is a most difficult, nay, danger- 
 ous proceeding : but, upon these very characteristics 
 of difficulty and danger I humbly rely ; trusting that, 
 in all proper consideration for the boldness of the 
 experiment, if I be adjudged to fail, the fall of Icarus 
 may be broken, if I be accounted to succeed, the 
 flight of Da3dalus may apologize for his presump- 
 tion. 
 
 I deem it due to myself to add what I trust will 
 not be turned against me ; viz, that, if not written 
 literally ciirrente calamo, Geraldine has been the 
 pleasant labour of but very few days: also, that until 
 I had just completed it, I did not know of the ex- 
 istence of the proposed solution of Christabel in a 
 
X PRErACE. 
 
 recent life of Coleridg'e, and at that period saw no 
 reason to make any change in mine : and fnially, that 
 I should wish to be judged by the whole volume, and 
 not by Geraldine alone. 
 
 M. F. T. 
 
 JS'ovemher, 1838. 
 
CONTEXTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 GERALDIXE, PART I, ^,, .^ 3 
 
 PART II. ,^, 19 
 
 PART III. — - — .^- 37 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I31AGIXATI0X .-^ ™- -^.- ^,^-. 55 
 
 THE ALPIXE ELF -,^ --., ^^ ^^ 63 
 
 DREAMS ^^ .^, — -^^ ^,- CO 
 
 IXFAXT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS .^ .^ ^^ fio 
 
 PAST, PRESEXT, AXD FUTURE ..., .^., 70 
 
 THE 3IUMMIED TULIP „^ ^, „~ ..^ 71 
 
 CRUELTY ,,^ .-.. 7^ 
 
 CHILDREN ^.^ ,^ ^^ .^ ,,^ 83 
 THREE SOXNETS ON " PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY" -,^ 86 
 
 3I0XSIEUR d'alverox ..„ ^,, ^,. ^^ 89 
 
 WISD03l's WISH .,-, „,, ^^ 93 
 
 THE mother's LA3IEXT ..^. 96 
 
 TRUST ^., ,.,, 99 
 
 FLOWERS ^^ ~,, ^^ ,,,, 101 
 
 WEDDIXG-GIFTS ,^ .,^ _^ 103 
 
 MARRIAGE .,^ ^. .„, . 105 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE ",^ .,^ ^, 106 
 
 A DEBT OF LOVE .,., . .^, 107 
 
 TO LITTLE ELLIX ^~ .,^ 108 
 
 TO LITTLE :MARY 109 
 
 DAYS GOXE BY „^ ..„ ,-„ ,,,, 110 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE CRISIS ^^ ^^ _^ ^. 112 
 
 CHARITY . .,^ ..„ _ ._ 113 
 
 TO KLOPSTOCK ^^ _ ,^ IIG 
 
 THE FORSAKEN ^^ ^„ .,., ^., 117 
 
 THE stammerer's COMPLAINT -^ .,^ ..„ 119 
 
 BENEVOLENCE -^, ^^ .,_ .,,, 124 
 
 A CABINET OF FOSSILS ..^ ._, 129 
 
 THE MAST OF THE VICTORY .,-. .„, 133 
 
 THE SOULS OF BRUTES .,^ , 137 
 
 THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER .,., ,„, _.. 145 
 
 NATURE AND ART ^^. .,.. .._ 150 
 
 CHEERFULNESS AND MALICE .,., 152 
 
 HOME ; LIGHT AND SHADOW ,^ ._. .,_ 154 
 
 THEORY AND PRACTICE .^ ^., 15() 
 
 RICHES AND POVERTY ^., .„, .,., 158 
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS — . _^ IGO 
 
 POETRY AND PROSE .,^ .,., .._ 1G2 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND ENMITY .,^ „^ 1G4 
 
 PHILANTHROPY AND MISANTHROPY „., .,,. 1G6 
 
 COUNTRY AND TOWN ^., ,.^ 1G8 
 
 WORLDLY AND WORTHY .^ ^,, ^., 170 
 
 LIBERALITY AND MEANNESS 172 
 
 ANCIENT AND MODERN ^^ .,^ .,_ _^ 174 
 
 SPIRIT AND MATTER ,^ ^., 176 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH .,^ ^_ .„, 178 
 
 ELLEN GRAY ^^ 180 
 
 THE AFRICAN DESERT .^ .^. ^^ ,.^ 189 
 
 THE SUTTEES .^ .^ ..., ^.. 202 
 
 CARMEN S^CULARE ^, ^.. __ 212 
 
 CONCLUSION ^^ ,_ 217 
 
GERALDINE 
 
 PART I. 
 
GERALDINE 
 
 PART I. 
 
 (bEIXG the third of CHRlSTABEr,.) 
 
 It is the wolf, on stealthy prowl, 
 
 Hath startled the night with a dismal howl, 
 
 It is the raven, whose hoarse croak 
 
 Comes like a groan from the sear old oak, 
 
 It is the owl, whose curdling screech 
 
 Hath peopled with teiTors the spectral beech ; 
 
 For again the clock hath toll'd out twelve. 
 
 And sent to their gambols the gnome and the eh 
 
 And awoken the friar his beads to tell. 
 
 And taught the magician the time for his spell, 
 
4 GERALDINE. 
 
 And to her cauldon liatli hunied the witch. 
 And arous'd the deep bay of the mastiff bitcL 
 
 The gibbous moon, all chilling and wan. 
 Like a sleepless eyeball looketh on, 
 Like an eyeball of sorrow behind a shroud 
 Forth looketh she from a torn grey cloud. 
 Pouring sad radiance on the black air, — 
 Sun of the night, — what sees she there r 
 
 O lonely one, O lovely one, 
 What dost thou here in the fcrest dun 
 Fair truant, — like an angel of light 
 Hiding from heaven in deep midnight r 
 Alas ! there is guilt in thy glittering eye 
 As fearfully dark it looks uj) to the sky- 
 Alas ! a dull unearthly light 
 Like a dead star, bluely white, 
 A seal of sin, I note it now, 
 Flickers upon thy ghastly brow ; 
 And about the huge old oak 
 Thickly curls a poisonous smoke. 
 And teiTible sha]:>cs with evil names 
 
GERALBINE. 
 
 Are leaping around a circle of flames, 
 And the tost air whirls, storm-driven, 
 And the rent earth quakes, charm-riven, — 
 And — art thou not afraid ? 
 
 All dauntless stands the maid 
 In mystical robe array'd, 
 And still with flashing eyes 
 She dares the sorrowful skies, 
 And to the moon, like one possest. 
 
 Hath shown, — O dread ! that face so fair 
 Should smile above so shrunk a breast. 
 
 Haggard and brown, as hangeth there, — 
 O evil sight ! — wrinkled and old. 
 The dug of a witch, and clammy cold, — 
 Where in warm beauty's rarest mould 
 
 Is fashioned all the rest ; 
 O evil sight! for, by the light 
 From those large eyes streaming bright, 
 By thy beauty's wondrous sheen, 
 Lofty gait and graceful mien, 
 By that bosom half reveal'd, 
 Wither'd, and as in death congeal'd, 
 
6 GERALDINE. 
 
 By the guilt upon thy brow, 
 Ah ! Geraldine, 'tis thou ! 
 
 Muttering wildly through her set teeth, 
 She seeketh and stirreth the demons beneath, 
 And — hist ! — the magical mandate is spoken, 
 The bonds of the spirits of evil are broken, 
 There is a rush of invisible wings 
 Amid shrieks, and distant thunderings, 
 And now one nearer than others is heard 
 Flapping this way, as a huge seabird, 
 Or liker the deep-dwelling ravenous shark 
 Cleaving thorough the waters dark. 
 
 It is the hour, the spgll hath power ! 
 Now haste thee, e'er the tempest lour. 
 
 Her mouth gi'ows wide, and her face falls in, 
 And her beautiful brow becomes flat and thin, 
 And sulphurous flashes blear and singe 
 That sweetest of eyes with its delicate fringe, 
 Till, all its loveliness blasted and dead, 
 The eye of a snake blinks deep in her head ; 
 
GKIIALDIXE. 
 
 Tor raven locks llowing loose and long 
 Bristles a red mane, stiff and strong, 
 And sea-green scales are beginning to speck 
 Her slu'unken breasts, and lengthening neck , 
 The white round arms are sunk in her sides,- 
 
 As when in chrysalis canoe 
 A may-fly down the river glides, 
 
 Struggling for life and liberty too, — 
 Her body convulsively twists and twirls. 
 This y<a\ and that it bows and curls. 
 And now her soft limbs melt into one 
 Strangely and horribly tapering down. 
 Till on the burnt grass dimly is seen 
 A serpent-monster, scaly and green, 
 Horror ! — can this be Geraldine ? 
 
 Haste, O haste, — 'tis almost past. 
 The sand is dripping thick and fast ; 
 And distant roars the coming blast. 
 
 Swiftly the dragon-maid unroll'd 
 The burnished strength of each sinewy fold, 
 And round the old oak trunk with toil 
 Hath wound and trailed each tortuous coil. 
 
8 GERALDINE. 
 
 Then with one crush hath splitten and broke 
 To the hollow black heart of the sear old oak. 
 
 The hour is fled, the spell hath sped ; 
 And heavily dropping down as dead, 
 All in her own beauty drest, 
 Brightest, softest, loveliest, 
 Fair faint Geraldine lies on the ground, 
 Moaning sadly ; 
 And forth from the oak 
 In a whirl of thick smoke 
 
 Grinning gladly, 
 Leaps with a hideous howl at a bound 
 A squat black dwarf of visage grim. 
 With crutches beside each twisted limb 
 Half hidden in many a flame-coloured rag, — 
 It is Hyxa the Hag 1 
 
 Ho, ho ! what wouldst thou, daughter mine, 
 Wishes three, or curses nine ? 
 Wishes three to work thy will, 
 Or curses nine thy hate to fulfil ? 
 
GEllALDINE. 
 
 Rv:?sa, spite of thy last strong charm, 
 Some pm'e spirit saves from harm 
 Her, who before me was loved too well 
 Our holy hated Christabel ; 
 Her, who stole my heart from hint 
 One of the guardian cherubim 
 Hovers around, and cheers in dreams, 
 Thwarting from heaven my hell-bought schemes 
 Now, — for another five hundred years, 
 
 O mother mine, will I be thine, 
 To writhe in pains, and shriek in fears. 
 And toil in chains, and waste in tears. 
 So thy might will scorch and smite 
 The beautiful face of Christabel, 
 And will drain by jealous pain 
 
 Love from the heart of Christabel, 
 And her own betrothed knight, 
 O glad sight ! shall scorn and sliglit 
 
 The pale one he hath loved so well, 
 While in my arms, by stolen charms 
 And borrowed mien, for Geraldine 
 He shall forget his Christabel. 
 
 B 5 
 
10 GEKALDINE. 
 
 It is done, it is done, thy cause is won ! 
 
 Quoth llyxa the Hag to Geraldine ; 
 Thus have 1 prest my seal on thy breast. 
 Twelve circling scales from a dragon's crest, 
 And still thy bosom and half thy side 
 Must shrivel and sink at eventide, 
 And still, as every Sabbath breaks, 
 Thy large dark eyes must blink as a snake's. 
 Now, for mine aid : — De Vaux doth come 
 To lead his seeming daughter home, 
 Therefore I fit thee a shape and a face 
 Differing, yet of twin-born grace, 
 That all who see thee may fall down 
 Heart- worshippers before thy throne, 
 Forgetting in that vision sweet 
 Thy former tale of dull deceit. 
 And tranc'd in deep oblivious joy 
 Bask in bliss without alloy: 
 He too, thou lovest, in thine arms 
 Shall grace the trium])h of thy charms, 
 While thy thirsty rage thou satest 
 In the woes of her thou hatest. 
 \ et, daughter, hark ! my warninu- mark ! 
 
GERALDIXE. 11 
 
 Hallowed deed, or word, or thought, 
 
 Is with deadliest peril fraught ; 
 
 And if, where true lovers meet 
 
 Thou hearest hymning wild and sweet, 
 
 O stop thine ears, lest all be marr'd, — 
 
 Beware, beware of holy bard ! 
 
 For that the power of hymn and harp 
 
 Thine innermost being shall wither and ^varp. 
 
 And the same hour they touch thine ears, 
 
 A serpent thou art for a thousand years. 
 
 Hush .' how heavily droops the night 
 
 In sultry silence, calm as death ; 
 Gloomy and hot, and yet no light, 
 
 Save where the glowworm wandereth, 
 For the moon hath stolen by. 
 Mantled in the stormy sky, 
 And there is a stillness strange, 
 An awful stillness, boding change, 
 As if live nature holds her breath, 
 And all in agony listeneth 
 Some teiTor undefin'd to hear 
 Coming, coming, coming near ! 
 
12 GERALDINE. 
 
 Hush'd is the beetle's drowsy hum, 
 And the death-watch's roll on his warning drum, 
 Hush'd the raven, and screech owl. 
 And the famishing wolf on his midnight prow], — 
 Silent as death. 
 
 Hark, hark ! he is here, he has come from ai'ar, 
 
 The black-rob'd storm in his terrible car ; 
 
 Vivid the forked light'ning flashes. 
 
 Quick behind the thunder crashes. 
 
 Clattering hail, a shingly flood. 
 
 Rattles like grape-shot in the wood ; 
 
 And the whole forest is bent one wav, 
 
 Bowing as slaves to a tyrant's sway. 
 
 While the foot of the tempest hath trampled and 
 
 broke 
 Many a stout old elm and oak. 
 
 And Geraldine } — O who could tell 
 That thou who by sweet Christabel 
 Softly liest in innocent sleep, 
 Like an infant's calm and deep, 
 
GERALDINK. 13 
 
 Smiling faintly, as it seems 
 From thy bright and rosy dreams, 
 Who could augur thou art she 
 That around the hollow tree, 
 With bad charm and hellish rite 
 Shook the heav'ns, and scar'd the niglit ? 
 
 Alas ! for gentle Christabel, 
 Alas ! for wasting Christabel ; 
 From evil eye, and powers of hell, 
 And the strong magic of the spell. 
 Holy ^lary, shield her well ! 
 
14 GEHALDINE. 
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 fHE murderer's knife is a fearful thing. 
 
 But what, were it edg'd with a scorpion's sting ? 
 
 A dagger of glass hath death in its stroke, 
 
 But what, should venom gush out as it broke ? 
 
 And hatred in a man's deep heart 
 
 Festereth there like the barb of a dart, 
 
 Maddening the fibres at every beat, 
 
 And filling its caverns with fever-heat ; 
 
 But jealous rage in a woman's soul 
 
 vSimmers and steams as a poisOn-bowl : 
 
 A tlrop were death, but the rival maid 
 
 Must drain all dry, e'er the passion be staid : 
 
 It floodeth the bosom with bitterest gall. 
 
 It drowneth the young virtues all^ 
 
 And the sweet milk of the heart's own fountain, 
 
 Chok'd and crush'd by a heavy mountain, 
 
 All curdled, and hardened, and blackened, doth 
 
 shrink 
 Into the sepia's stone-bound ink ; 
 
GERALDINE, 15 
 
 Tlie eye of suspicion deep sunk in llie head 
 
 Shrinks and blinks with malice and dread, 
 
 And tlie cheek without and the heart within 
 
 Are blistered and blighted with searing sin, 
 
 Till charity's self no more can trace 
 
 Aught that is lovely in feature or face, 
 
 J3ut the rose-bud is canker'd, and shall not bloom. 
 
 Corruption hath scented the rich perfume, 
 
 The angel of light is a demon of gloom. 
 
 And the bruise on his brow is the seal of his doom. 
 
 Ah ! poor unconscious rival maid 
 
 How drearily must thou sicken and fade 
 
 In the foul air of that Upas-shade ! 
 
 Her heart must be tried, and trampled, and torn 
 With fear, and care, and slander, and scorn ; 
 Her love must look upon love estranged, 
 Her eye must meet his eye, how changed. 
 Her hand must take his hand unpressing, 
 Her hope must die, without confessing ; 
 And still she'll strive lier love to smother, 
 While in the triumphs of another 
 
16 GERALDINK. 
 
 The shadow of her joys departed 
 Shall scare and haunt her broken-hearted; 
 And he, who once lov'd her, his purest, his hrst. 
 Must hate her and hold her defiFd and accurst, 
 Till wasted and desolate, calumny's breath 
 Must taint with all guilt her innocent death. 
 
 END OF PART J, 
 
GERALDINE. 
 
 PART II. 
 
19 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 (15EIXG THE FGL'RTH OF CHRIST A JJEI>.) 
 
 How fresh and fair is mom ! 
 
 The dewbeads dropping bright 
 Each humble flovrer adorn, 
 
 With coronets bedight, 
 And jewel the rough thorn 
 
 With tiny globes of light — 
 How beautiful is morn ! 
 
 Her scatter'd gems how bright ! 
 
 There is a quiet gladness 
 
 In the waking earth, 
 Like the face of sadness 
 
 Lit with chastened mirth ; 
 
•20 GERALDINE. 
 
 There is a mine of treasure 
 
 In those hours of health, 
 Filling up the measure 
 
 Of creation's wealth. 
 
 The eye of day hath opened grey. 
 
 And the gallant sun 
 Hath trick'd his beams by Rydal's streams, 
 
 And waveless Coniston ; 
 From Langdale Pikes his glory strikes, 
 
 From heath and giant hill, 
 From many a tairn, and stone-built cairn, 
 
 And many a mountain rill : 
 Helvellyn bears his forehead black, 
 And Eagle-crag, and Saddleback, 
 And Skiddaw hails the dawning day 
 And rolls his robe of clouds away. 
 
 Ho, warder, ho ! in chivalrous state, 
 A stranger-knight to the castle gate 
 With trumpet, and banner, and mailed men, 
 Comes this way winding up the glen : 
 
GERALDINE. '21 
 
 His vizor is down, and he will not proclaim 
 To the challenge within his lineage or name, 
 Yet by his herald, and esquires eight, 
 And five-score spearmen, tall and straight. 
 And blazon rich with bearings rare. 
 And highbred ease, and noble air. 
 And golden spurs, and sword, can he be 
 Nought but a knight of high degree. 
 
 Alas! they had loved too soon, too well, 
 
 Young Amador and Christabel ; 
 
 Life's dawn beheld them, blythe and bland 
 
 Little playmates, hand in hand. 
 
 Over fell and field and heather 
 
 Wandering innocent together. 
 
 Alone in childhood's rosy hours 
 
 Straying far to find wild flowers ; 
 
 Life's sun above its eastern hill 
 
 Saw them inseparable still 
 
 In the bower, or by the brook, 
 
 Or spelling out the monkish book. 
 
 Or as with songs they wont to wake 
 
 The echoes on the hill-bound lake, 
 
1'2 GERALDINE. 
 
 Or as with tales to while away 
 
 The winter's night, or summer's day ; 
 
 Life's noon was blazing bright and fair, 
 
 To smile u^^on the same fond pair, 
 
 The handsome yoath, the beauteous maid, 
 
 Together still in sun or shade : 
 
 Warmer, good sooth, than wont with friends, 
 
 While he supports, and she depends. 
 
 As to some dangerous craggy height 
 
 They climb with terror and delight. 
 
 Nor guess that the strange joy they feel. 
 
 The rapture making their hearts reel, 
 
 Springs from aught else, than — sweet Grasmere, 
 
 Or hill and valley far and near. 
 
 Or Derwent's banks, and glassy tide, 
 
 Lowdore, or hawthorn'd Ambleside : 
 
 Nor reck they what dear danger lies 
 
 In gazing on each other's eyes ; 
 
 On her bright cheek, fresh and fair, 
 
 Blooming in the mountain air, 
 
 On his form, and agile limbs. 
 
 As from rock to rock he climbs, 
 
GKRALUIXE. *23 
 
 Her unstudied natural grace, 
 
 Loosen'd vest and tresses flowing, 
 
 Or his fine and manly face 
 
 With delighted ardour glowing. 
 
 Thus they gvew up in each other, 
 
 Till to ripened youth 
 They had grown up for each other ; 
 
 Yet, to say but sooth, 
 She had not lov'd him, as other 
 
 Than a sister doth. 
 And he to her was but a brother, 
 
 With a brother's troth : 
 But selfish craft, that slept so long. 
 And, if wrong were, had done the wrong, 
 Now, just awake, \\ith dull surprise 
 
 Read the strange truth, 
 And from their own accusing eyes 
 
 Condemned them both, — 
 That they, who only for each other 
 
 Gladly drew their daily breath. 
 Now must curb, and check, and smother 
 
 Through all life, love strong as death ; 
 
4 GEKALDINE. 
 
 While the clearhope they just have leanit to prize, 
 
 And fondly cherish, 
 The hope that in their hearts deep-rooted lies, 
 
 Must pine and perish : 
 For the slow prudence of the worldly ^vise 
 In cruel coldness still denies 
 The foundling youth to woo and win 
 The heiress daughter of Leoline. 
 
 And yet how little had he err'd, 
 That on his ear the bitter word 
 
 Of harsh reproach should fall, — 
 •' Is it then thus, ungrateful boy, 
 '' Thou wouldst his dearest hope destroy 
 
 '' Who lent thee life and all ? 
 " Why did I save thee, years agone, 
 '' Beneath the tottering Bowther-stone 
 
 " An infant weak and wan ? 
 " Why did I warm thee on my hearth, 
 " Nor crush the viper in its birth, 
 
 " O thou presumptuous one ? " 
 
GERALDINE. '20 
 
 They met once more in sweet sad fear 
 
 At the old oak-tree in the forest drear, 
 
 And, as enamour'd of bitterness, they 
 
 Wept tlie sad hour of parting away. 
 
 The bursting tear, tlie stifled sob, 
 
 The tortur d bosom's first-felt throb. 
 
 The fervent vow, the broken gold, 
 
 Their hapless hopes too truly told ; 
 
 For, alas ! till now they never had known 
 
 How deep and strong their loves had grown, 
 
 But just as they sip the full cup of the heart. 
 
 It is dash'd from the lip, — and they must part : 
 
 Alas ! they had loved, yet never before 
 
 The wealth of love had counted o'er. 
 
 And just as they find the treasure so great, 
 
 It is lost, it is sunk in the billows of fate. 
 
 Yea, it must be with a fearful shock 
 
 That the pine can be torn from its root-clas])'d 
 
 rock, 
 Or the broad oak-stump as it stands on the 
 
 farm 
 Be rent asunder by strength of arm ; 
 
 c 
 
26 GERALDINE. 
 
 So, when the cords of love are twinV! 
 
 Among the fibres of the mmcl, 
 
 And kindred souls by secret ties 
 
 Mingle thoughts and sympathies, 
 
 O what a wrench to tear in twain 
 
 Those that are lov'd and love again. 
 
 To drag the magnet from its pole. 
 
 To chain the freedom of the soul. 
 
 To freeze in ice desires that boil, 
 
 To root the mandrake from the soil 
 
 With groans, and blood, and tears, and toil :> 
 
 lie is gone to the land of the holy war 
 
 The sad, the brave young Amador, 
 
 Not to return, — by Leoline's oath. 
 
 When all in wrath he bound them both. 
 
 Not to return, — by that last kiss. 
 
 Till name and fame, and fortune are his. 
 
 Aye, he is gone : — and with him went, 
 
 As into chosen banishment, 
 
 The bloom of her cheek, and the light of licr 
 
 eye. 
 And the hope of her heart, so near to die : 
 
GERALUINE. 27 
 
 He is gone o'er Paynim lands lo roam, 
 
 But leaves his heart, his all, at home : 
 
 And years have glided, day by day, 
 
 To watch him warring far away. 
 
 Where, upon Gideon's hallowed banks. 
 
 His prowess hath scatter'd the Saracen ranks, 
 
 And the Lion-king with his own right hand 
 
 Hath dubb'd him knight of Holy Land : 
 
 The crescent wan'd where'er he came, 
 
 And Christendom rung with his glorious fame, 
 
 And Saladin trembled at the name 
 
 Of Amador de-Ramothaim. 
 
 He hath won him in battle a goodly shield, 
 Three wild-boars Or on an azure field. 
 While scallop-shells three on an argent fess 
 Proclaim him a pilgrim and knight no less ; 
 Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel 
 A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed keel, 
 Hafiz his hound, who hath rescued his life 
 From the wily Assassin's secret knife, 
 Hafiz his friend, whom he loveth so well 
 As the last gift of Christabel : 
 
 c 2 
 
•28 GERALDIXE. 
 
 And over his vizor, and round his arm, 
 And grav'd on his sword as a favourite charm. 
 And on his banner emblazon'd at length, 
 Love's motto, '■' hope is all my strength." 
 
 Oh then, with how much pride and joy 
 And hope, which fear could scarce alloy, 
 With heart how leaping, eye how bright. 
 And fair cheek flush'd with deep delight, 
 Heard Christabel the wafted story 
 Of her far-off lover's glory ; 
 
 For her inmost soul knew well 
 That he hoped and spake and thought 
 
 Only of his Christabel, 
 That he liv^'d and lov'd and fought 
 
 Only for his Christabel : 
 So, she felt his honour her's, 
 His welfare her's, his being her's, 
 
 And did reward with rich largesse 
 The stray astonish'd messengers 
 
 Who brought her so much happiness. 
 
GERALDINE. 29 
 
 Behold ! it is past, — that many a year ; 
 The harvest of her hope is near ; 
 Behold ! it is come, — behold him here ! 
 Yes, in pomp and power and pride, 
 And joy and love how true, how tried, 
 He comes to claim his long-lov'd bride; 
 Her own true knight, O bliss to tell, 
 Her Amador she loves so well 
 Returns for his sweet Christabel ! 
 
 He leapt the moat, the portal past, 
 He flung him from his horse in haste, 
 
 And in the hall 
 He met her ! — but how pale and wan ! — 
 He started back, as she upon 
 
 His neck would fall ; 
 He started back, — for by her side 
 (O blessed vision !) he espied 
 
 A thing divine, — 
 Poor Christabel was lean and white, 
 But oh, how soft, and fair, and bright, 
 
 Was Geraldine ! 
 Fairer and brighter, as he gazes 
 All celestial beauty blazes 
 
30 GERALDINE. 
 
 From those glorious eyes, 
 And Amador no more can brook 
 The jealous air and peevish look 
 
 That in the other lies ! 
 
 Alas, for wasting Christabel, 
 
 Alas, for stricken Christabel, — 
 
 How had she long'd to see this day, 
 
 And now her all is dash'd away ! 
 
 How many slow sad years, poor maid, 
 
 Had she for this day wept and pray'd. 
 
 And now the bitterest tears destroy 
 
 That honied hope of cherish'd joy. 
 
 For he hath ceas'd, — O withering thought. 
 
 With burning anguish fully fraught, — 
 
 To love his Christabel ! 
 Her full heart bursts, and she doth fall 
 Unheeded in her father's hall. 
 And, oh, the heaviest stroke of all. 
 
 By him she loves so well. 
 
 O save her, Mary Mother, save ! 
 Let not the damned sorceress have 
 
GERALDINE. 31 
 
 Her evil will ; 
 O save thine own sweet Christabel, 
 Thy saint, thine innocent Christabel, 
 
 And guard her still ! 
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART II. 
 
 For it doth mark a godlike mind, 
 Prudence, and power, and truth combin'd, 
 -\ rare self-steering moral strength, 
 To over-love the dreary length 
 Of ten successive anxious years, 
 Unwarp'd by hopes, untir'd by fears ; 
 Still, as every teeming hour 
 Glides away in sun or shower. 
 Though the pilgrim foot may range. 
 The heart at home to feel no change, 
 But to live and linger on, 
 Fo]id and warm and true — to one ! 
 
.3-2 GERALDINE. 
 
 O love like this, in life's young spring, 
 Is a rare and precious thing ; 
 A pledge that man hath claims above, 
 A sister-twin to martyrs' love, 
 A shooting-star of blessed light 
 Dropt upon the world's midnight, 
 A drop of sweet, where all beside 
 Is bitterest gall in life's dull tide, 
 One faithful found, where all was lost, 
 An Abdiel in Satan's host. 
 
 To love, unshrinking and unshaken, 
 
 Albeit by all but hope forsaken. 
 
 To love, through slander, craft and fear. 
 
 And fairer faces smiling near, 
 
 Through absence, stirring scenes among, 
 
 And harrowing silence, suffering long, 
 
 Still to love on, — and pray and weep 
 
 For that dear one, while others sleep. 
 
 To dwell upon each precious word 
 
 Which the charm'd ear in whispers heard 
 
 To treasure up a lock of hair, 
 
 To watch the heart with jealous care, 
 
GERALDIXE. 83 
 
 To live on a remembered smile, 
 
 And still the wearisome days beguile 
 
 With rosy sweet imaginings, 
 
 And all the soft and sunny things 
 
 Look'd and spoken, e'er they parted, 
 
 Full of hope, though broken-hearted, — 
 
 O there is very virtue here, 
 
 Retiring, holy, deep, sincere, 
 
 A self-pois'd virtue, working still 
 
 To compass good, and combat ill. 
 
 Which none but worldlings count earth-born, 
 
 And they who know it not, can scorn. 
 
 Ah yes, let common sinners jeer. 
 And Mammon's slaves suspect and sneer, 
 While each idolator of pelf. 
 Judging from his gross-hearted self, 
 Counts Love no purer and no higher 
 Than the low plot of base desire ; — 
 Let worldly craft nurse its false dreams 
 Of happiness, from selfish schemes 
 By heartless hungry parents plann'd. 
 Of wedded fortune rank and land, — 
 
 c 5 
 
34 GERALDINE. 
 
 There is more wisdom, and more wealtli. 
 More rank in being, more soul's health, 
 In wedded love for one short hour, 
 Than endless wedded pelf and power : 
 Yes, there is virtue in these things ; 
 A balm to heal the scorpion-stings 
 That others' sins and sorrows make 
 In hearts that still can weep and ache ; 
 There is a heavenly influence, 
 A secret spiritual fence, 
 Circling the soul with present power 
 In temptation's darkest hour, 
 Walling it round from outw^ard sin, 
 While all is soft and pure within. 
 
 END OF PART II. 
 
GERALDINE 
 
 PART III. 
 
'^7 
 
 PART III. 
 
 (being the fifth AKD last of CHRISTAliEI.) 
 
 Hast thou not seen, world-weary man. 
 Life's poor pilgrim white and wan,— 
 A gentle beauty for the cheek 
 
 Which nothing gives but sorrow, 
 A sweet expression, soft and weak, 
 
 Joy can never borrow r 
 Where lingering on the pale wet face 
 The rival tears run their slow race 
 
 Each in its wonted furrow ; 
 And patience, eloquently meek, 
 
 From the threaten'd stroke unshrinking. 
 In mild boldness can but speak 
 
 The burden of its sadden'd thinking, — 
 
38 GERALDINE. 
 
 " Dreary as to-day has been, 
 " And sad and cheerless yestereen, 
 " 'Twill dawn as dark to-morrow ! " 
 
 Desolate-hearted Christabel, 
 Hapless, hopeless Christabel, — 
 Nightly tears have dimm'd the lustre 
 
 Of thy blue eyes, once so bright, 
 And, as when dank willows cluster 
 
 Weeping over marble rocks. 
 O'er thy forehead white 
 
 Droop thy flaxen locks : 
 Yet art thou beautiful, poor girl, 
 
 As angels in distress, 
 Yea, comforting the soul, sweet girl. 
 
 With thy loveliness ; 
 For thy beauty's light subdued 
 
 Hath a soothing charm 
 In sympathy with all things good 
 
 That weep for hate and harm ; 
 And none can ever see unmoved 
 
 Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white, 
 O none have seen, who have not loved 
 
 The sadly sweet religious light 
 
GERALDINE. 39 
 
 That doth with pearly radiance shine 
 From those sainted eyes of thine. 
 
 A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port, 
 A hundred horse in the castle-court! 
 From border-wastes, a weary way, 
 
 Through Halegarth wood and Knorren moor, 
 A mingled numerous array, 
 On panting palfreys black and grey. 
 
 With foam and mud bespattered o'er, 
 Hastily cross the flooded Irt, 
 And rich Waswater's beauty skirt. 
 And Sparkling-Taim, and rough Scathwaite, 
 And now that day is dropping late. 
 Have passed the drawbridge and the gate. 
 
 By thy white flowing beard, and reverend 
 
 mien, 
 And gilded hai*p, and chaplet of green, 
 And milk-white mare in the castle-yard, 
 Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard ! 
 And, — by thy struggle still to hide 
 This generous conquest of thy pride. 
 
40 GERALDINE, 
 
 More than by yon princely train. 
 And blazon'd banner standing near, 
 
 And snorting steed with slacken'd rein, 
 Hail, O too long a stranger here. 
 
 Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall. 
 
 Thou noble spirit, most of all, 
 
 Roland de Yaux of Tryermaine ! 
 
 Like aspens tall beside the brook 
 
 The stalwarth warriors stood and shook, 
 
 And each advancing fear'd to look 
 
 Into the other's eye ; 
 'Tis fifty years ago to-day 
 Since in disdain and passion they 
 Had flung each other's love away 
 
 With words of insult high : 
 How had they long'd and pray'd to meet ! 
 But memories cling; and pride is sweet ; 
 And — which could be the first to greet 
 
 The haply scornj'ul other r 
 What if De Vaux were haughty still, — 
 Or Leoline's unbridled will 
 Consented not his rankling ill 
 
 In charity to smother? 
 
GERALDINE- 41 
 
 Their knees give way, their faces are pale, 
 
 And loudly beneath the corslets of mail, 
 
 Their aged hearts in generous heat 
 
 Almost to bursting boil and beat; 
 
 The white lips quiver, the pulses throb, 
 
 They stifle and swallow the rising sob, — 
 
 And there they stand, faint and unmanned, 
 
 As each holds forth his bare right hand ! 
 
 Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble, 
 
 All unable to dissemble 
 
 Penitence and love confest. 
 
 As within each aching breast 
 
 The flood of aflfection grows deeper and stronger 
 
 Till they can refrain no longer, 
 
 But with, — " Oh, my long-lost brother !"— 
 
 To their hearts they clasp each other, 
 
 Vowing in the face of heaven 
 
 All forgotten and forgiven ! 
 
 Then, the full luxury of grief 
 
 That brings the smothered soul relief, 
 
 Within them both so fiercely rushed 
 
 That from their vanquish'd e}'es out-gushed 
 
4*2 GERALDINE. 
 
 A tide of tears, as pure and deep 
 As children, yea as cherubs weep ! 
 
 Quoth Roland de Vaux to Sir Leoline ; 
 " No lady lost can be daughter of mine. 
 For yestereen at this same hour 
 My Geraldine sat in her latticed bower, 
 And merrily marvelled much to hear 
 She had been found in the forest drear : 
 Nathless, of thee, old friend, to crave 
 Once more the love I long to have 
 E'er yet I drop into the grave, 
 
 Behold me here ! 
 I hail'd the rich offer, and hither I sped 
 Glad to reclaim our friendship fled, 
 And see that face, — e'er yet it be dead, — 
 
 I feel so dear ; 
 And my old heart danc'd with the joy of a child 
 When out of school he leaps half-wild 
 To think we could be reconcil'd." 
 
 ^' Thy tale is strange," quoth Leoline, 
 '' As thy return is sweet j 
 
GERALDINE. 43 
 
 Yet might it please thee, brother mine, 
 
 In knightly sort to greet 
 This wondrous new-found Geraldine, 
 For sure she is a thing divine 
 So bright in her doth beauty shine 
 
 From head to feet, 
 Yea, sure she is a thing divine, 
 
 For angels meet." 
 
 O glorious in thy loveliness ! 
 Victorious in thy loveliness ! 
 From what strong magnetic zone. 
 Circling some strange world unknown, 
 Hast thou stol'n sweet influence 
 To lull in bliss each ravished sense ? 
 That thine eyes rain light and love 
 Kindlier than the heavens above, — 
 That the sunshine of thy face 
 Shows richly ripe each winning grace, — 
 That thine innocent laughing dimple. 
 And thy tresses curling simple. 
 Thy soft cheek, and rounded arm, 
 And foot unsandalled, white and warm, 
 And every sweet luxurious charm. 
 
44 GERALDINE. 
 
 Fair, and full, and flusli'd, and bright, 
 Fascinate the dazzled sight 
 As with a halo of delight ? 
 
 Her beauty hath conquer'd : a sunny smile 
 
 Laughs into goodness her seeming guile. 
 
 Aye, was she not in mercy sent 
 
 To heal the friendships pride had rent ? 
 
 Is she not here a blessed saint 
 
 To work all good by subtle feint ? 
 
 Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame. 
 
 Our Lady of Furness ? — the same, the same ! 
 
 O holy one, we know thee now, 
 
 O gracious one, before thee bow. 
 
 Help us, Mary, hallowed one, 
 
 Bless us, for thy wondrous Son — 
 
 The name w^as half-spoken, — the spell was half- 
 broken, — 
 And suddenly, from his bent knee 
 
 Upleapt each knight in fear. 
 All warily they look'd around, 
 Sure, they had heard a hissing sound. 
 
GERALDINE. 4/3 
 
 And one quick moment on the ground 
 
 Had seen a dragon here I 
 But now before their wildered eyes 
 Bright Geraldine, all sweet sm-prise, 
 With her fair hands in courteous guise 
 Hath touch'd them both, and bade them rise ; 
 Alas, kind sirs, she calmly said, 
 I am but a poor hunted maid. 
 Hunted, ah me ! and sore afraid, 
 That all too far from home have stray'd, 
 For love of one who flies and hates me, 
 For hate of one who loves and waits me. 
 
 Wonder-stricken were they then. 
 And full of love, those ancient men, 
 Full-fired with guilty love, as when 
 
 In times of old 
 To young Susannah's fairness knelt 
 Those elders twain, and foully felt 
 The lava-streams of passion melt 
 
 Their bosoms cold : 
 They loved, — they started from the floor, — 
 But, hist ! within the chamber- door 
 
46 GERALDINE, 
 
 Softly stole Sir Amador ; — 
 Nor look'd, nor wondered as they past, 
 (Speeding by in shame and haste, 
 Meekly thinking of each other 
 As a weak and guilty brother,) 
 For all to him in that dark room, 
 All the light to pierce its gloom. 
 All he thought of, car'd for, there. 
 Was that loved one, smiling fair. 
 Wondrous in her charms divine. 
 Glad and glorious Geraldine. 
 
 The eye of a hawk is fierce and bright 
 As a facet-cut diamond scattering light, 
 Soft and rayed wdth invincible love 
 As a pure pearl is the eye of a dove ; 
 And so in flashes quick and keen 
 Look'd Amador on Geraldine, 
 And so, in sweet subduing rays, 
 On Amador did fondly gaze, 
 In gentle power of beauty's blaze. 
 Imperial Geraldine. 
 
GEEALDINK. 47 
 
 His head is cushioned on her breast. 
 
 Her dark eyes shed love on his. 
 And his changing cheek is prest 
 
 By her hot and thrilling kiss, 
 While again from her moist lips 
 The honeydew of joy he sips, 
 And views, with rising transport \^'arm. 
 Her half-nnveil'd bewitching form — 
 
 A step on the threshold! — the chamber is dim, 
 And gliding ghost-like up to him, 
 While entranced in conscious fear 
 He feels an injured angel near. 
 Sad Christabel with wringing hands 
 Beside her faithless lover stands, 
 Sad Christabel with streaming eyes 
 In silent anguish stands and sighs. 
 
 Ave, Maria ! send her aid. 
 
 Bless, oh bless the wretched maid ! 
 
 It is done, — he is \\'on ! — stung with remorse 
 He hath dropt at her feet as a clay-cold corse, 
 
48 GERALDINE. 
 
 And Christabel with trembling dread 
 Hath rais'd on her knee his pale dear head, 
 And bathed his brow with many a tear, 
 And listened for his breath in fear, 
 And when she thought that none was near 
 But guardian saints, and God above. 
 Set on his lips the seal of her love ! 
 
 But Geraldine had watch'd that kiss, 
 
 And with involuntary hiss, 
 
 And malice in her snake-like stare, 
 
 She gnashed her teeth on the loving pair 
 
 And shed on them both a deadly glare. 
 
 Softly through the sounding hall 
 
 In rich melodious notes, 
 With many a gentle swell and fall. 
 
 Holy music floats, 
 Like gossamer in a sultry sky, 
 Dropping low, or sailing high : 
 Bard Bracy, bard Bracy, that touch was thine 
 
 On Cambria's harp with triple strings, 
 Wild and sweet is the hymn divine, 
 
 Fanning the air like unseen wings ; 
 
(JERALDINE. 49 
 
 Thy hand, good Bracy, thine alone 
 Can wake so sad, so sweet a tone, 
 Xought bnt the magic of thy touch 
 Can charm so well, and cheer so much. 
 And wondrously, with strong controul, 
 Rouse or lull the passive soul. 
 
 What aileth thee, O Geraldine ? 
 
 Why waileth Lady Geraldine ? 
 
 Thy body convuls'd groweth lank and lean. 
 
 Thy smooth white neck is shrivell'dand green, 
 
 Thine eyes are blear'd and sunk and keen, 
 
 O dreadful ! art t]ioi( Geraldine ? — 
 
 The spell is dead, the charm is o'er. 
 Writhing and coiling on the floor 
 Awhile she curl'd in pain, and then was seen 
 no more. 
 
50 
 
 CONCLUSION TO PART III. 
 
 Sweet Christabel, my Christabel, 
 I have riven thy heart that loved so well : 
 Oh weak, O wicked, to rend in its home 
 The love that 1 cherish wherever I roam ! 
 
 As when with his glory the morning sun 
 
 Floods on a sudden the tropical sky, 
 And startled twilight, dim and dun. 
 
 Flies from the fear of his conquering eye, 
 So flash'd across the lighten'd breast 
 
 Of Christabel, no more to moan, 
 A dawn of love, the happiest 
 
 Her maiden heart had ever known ; 
 For sure it was only through powers ol" hell, 
 And evil eye, and potent spell. 
 That Amador to Christabel 
 
 Could faithless prove, — 
 And when she saw him kneeling near 
 Contrite, yet more in hope than fear, 
 
GERALDINE. .31 
 
 Oh then she felt him doubly dear, 
 Her rescued love. 
 
 Ave, Maria ! unto thee 
 
 All the thanks and glory be. 
 
 For thy gracious arm and aid 
 
 Saved the youth, and blest the maid. 
 
 So falls it out, that vanquish'd ill 
 
 Breeds only good to good men still. 
 
 And while its poison seethes and works 
 
 It yields a healing antidote, 
 
 Which, whether mortals use or not, 
 
 Like a friend in ambush, hirks 
 
 Deepest in the deadliest plot. 
 
 Not swift, though soon, next day at noon, — 
 
 Just at the wedding-hour 
 As hand-in-hand betroth'd they stand 
 
 Beneath the chapel tower, 
 A holy light, — a vision bright, — 
 
 'Twas twelve o'clock at noon, 
 A spirit good before them stood. 
 Her garments fair and flowing hair 
 
 Shone brighter than the moon. 
 
52 GERALDINE. 
 
 And thus in musical voice most sweet,— 
 " Daughter, this hour to grace and greet, 
 To bless this day, as is most meet, 
 
 Thy mother stoops from heaven : 
 And, ancient men, who all so late 
 Have stopp'd at Death's half-opened gate, 
 In tears of love to drown your hate, 
 
 Forgiving and forgiven, 
 Hear, noble spirits reconcil'd, 
 Plear, gracious souls, now meek and mild 
 Albeit with guilt so long defilM, 
 
 Love's lingering boon receive : 
 Roland de Vaux, — thy long-lost child, 
 Whom border-troopers, fierce and wild. 
 An infant from his home beguil'd, 
 
 Thy soul to gall and grieve,. 
 In Amador — behold ! " 
 
 The spirit said, and all in light 
 Melted away that vision bright : 
 My tale is told. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart, 
 Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber, 
 Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie, — 
 Thou lovely Siren, who, with still small voice 
 Most softly musical, dost lure me on 
 O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea, 
 Or quaking sands of untried theory, 
 Or ridgy shoals of iixt experiment 
 That wind a dubious pathway through the deep, 
 Imagination, I am thine own child : 
 Have I not often sat with thee retired, 
 Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad. 
 
56 IMAGINATION. 
 
 All silent outwardly, but loud within, 
 As from the distant hum of many waters. 
 Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought, 
 And hushing every breath that might have rent 
 Our web of gossamer, so finely spun ? 
 Have I not often listed thy sweet song, 
 {While in vague echoes and ^Eolian notes 
 The chambers of my heart have answered it,) 
 With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse, 
 As the coy village maiden's, when her lover 
 Whispers his hope to her delighted ear ? 
 
 And taught by thee, angelic visitant, 
 Have I not learnt to love the tuneful lyre. 
 Draining from every chord its musical soul ? 
 Have I not learnt to find in all that is. 
 Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind, 
 Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise 
 Alike in small and great things ? and this power 
 This clearing of the eye, this path made straight 
 Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core 
 This keenness to perceive, and seek and find 
 And love and prize all-present harmony, 
 
IMAGINATION. -57 
 
 This, more than choosing words to clothe tlie 
 
 thought, 
 Makes the true poet ; this thy glorious gift, 
 Imagination, rescues me thy son 
 (Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust 
 Of mammon, and the cares of animal life, 
 And the dull thraldom of this work-day world. 
 
 Indulgent lover, I am all thine own ; 
 
 What art thou not to me ^ — ah, little know 
 
 The worshippers of cold reality. 
 
 The grosser minds, who most sincerely think 
 
 That sense is the broad avenue to bliss, 
 
 Little know they the thrilling ecstacy, 
 
 The delicate refinement in delight. 
 
 That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars 
 
 Far above all these petty things of life ; 
 
 And strengthened by the flight and cordial joys, 
 
 Can then come down to earth and connnon men 
 
 Better in motive, .stronger in resolve, 
 
 Apter to use all means that compass good, 
 
 And of more charitable mind to all. 
 
 Imagination, art thou not my friend 
 
 I) 5 
 
58 IMAGINATION. 
 
 In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear, 
 Brother, and sister, mine own other self, 
 The Hector to my soul's Andromache ? 
 
 Triumphant beauty, bright intelligence ! 
 The chastened fire of ecstacy suppressed 
 Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart, 
 Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed. 
 Is all on flame a censer filled with odours, 
 And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power, 
 Suggesting passive terrors and delights, 
 A slumbering volcano : thy dark cheek. 
 Warm and transparent, by its half-formed dimple 
 Reveals an under-world of wondrous things 
 lli23e in their richness, — as among the bays 
 Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep 
 Ruddy and white fantastically branch 
 The coral groves : thy broad and sunny brow, 
 Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven. 
 Shoots up an hundred fold the glorious crop 
 Of arabesque ideas ; forth from thy cmls 
 Half hidden in their black luxuriance 
 The twining sister-graces lightly spring, 
 
IMAGINATION. 59 
 
 The muses, and the passions, and young love, 
 Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx, 
 Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops, 
 Centaurs, and shapes uncouth, and wild conceits : 
 And in the midst blazes the star of mind, 
 Illumining the classic portico 
 That leads to the high dome where Learning sits : 
 On either side of that broad sunny brow 
 Flame-coloured pinions, streaked with gold and 
 
 blue. 
 Burst from the teeming brain ; while mider them 
 The forked lightning, and the cloud-robed thun- 
 der. 
 And fearful shadows, and unhallowed eyes, 
 And strange foreboding forms of terrible things 
 Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks. 
 
 And thou hast been the sunshine to my landscape. 
 Imagination ; thou hast WTeathed me smiles. 
 And hung them on a statue's marble lips ; 
 Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems; 
 Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove 
 The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres; 
 
60 IMAGINATIOX. 
 
 Ilast lengthened out my nights with life-long 
 
 dreams, 
 And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day ; 
 Helped me to scale in thought the walls of heaven 
 While journeying wearily this busy world ; 
 Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles. 
 And with leviathan the silent deep ; 
 Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand 
 Beyond himself, and live in other scenes, 
 And other times, and among other men ; 
 Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone, 
 First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims, 
 And sensibilities of delicate sort. 
 Like timorous mimosas, which the breath, 
 The cold and cautious breath of daily life 
 Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill 
 From my heart's garden ; for they stand retired, 
 Screened from the north by groves of rooted 
 
 thought. 
 
 AVithout thine aid, how cheerless uere all time, 
 Ikit chief the short sweet hours of earliest love ; 
 When the young mind, athirst for hap])incss. 
 
IMAGINATION. 61 
 
 And all-exulting in that new-found treasure, 
 The wealth of being loved, as well as loving, 
 Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, 
 
 speaks not, 
 Except it be of her, his one desire ; 
 And thy rose-coloured glass on every scene 
 AVith more than earthly promise cheats the eye, 
 While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words, 
 And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty. 
 So too the memory of departed joy. 
 Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl, 
 Passes before the mind with look less stern 
 And foot more lightened, when thine inward 
 
 power. 
 Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face 
 Sheds the fair light of better joy to come, 
 And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope. 
 
 As the wild chamois bounds from rock to rock. 
 Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised. 
 Unconscious that the cliff from \\'hich he hangs 
 Was once a hery sea of molten stone, 
 Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized 
 
62 IMAGINATION. 
 
 When earth was labouring with her kraken brood ; 
 
 So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love, 
 
 Imagination, over pathless wilds, 
 
 Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful ol' 
 
 The fever of my sou;l that shot them up 
 
 And made a reddy footing for my speed, 
 
 As like the whirlwind 1 have flown along 
 
 Winged with ecstatic mind, and carried away, 
 
 Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida, 
 
 Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores 
 
 Of Arctic or Antarctic, — stolen from earth 
 
 Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes 
 
 That watch her from afar, to the pure seat 
 
 Of rarest Matter's last created world. 
 
 And brilliant halls of self-existing Light. 
 
03 
 
 THE SONG OF xlN ALPINE ELF. 
 
 Ha lia ha ! — My coy Jimgfra 
 
 Is tall and robed in snow, 
 Yet at a leap to the cloudy steep 
 
 I bound from the glen below ; 
 On her dizziest peak I sit and shriek 
 
 To the winds that around me blow. 
 And heard from afar is my ha ha ha 1 
 
 The wild laugh echoes so. 
 
 In the forests dun round Lauterbrunn 
 That line each dark ravine, 
 
 I hide me away from the garish day 
 Till the howling winter's e'en ; 
 
6*4 THE SONG OF AN ALPINE ELF. 
 
 Then I jump on high through the coal-black sky, 
 
 And light on some clifF of snow- 
 That nods to its fall like a tottering wall, 
 And I rock it to and fro' ! 
 
 My summer's home is the cataract's foam 
 
 As it floats in a frothing heap. 
 Mv winter's rest is the weasel's nest, 
 
 Or deep with the mole T sleep : 
 I ride for a freak on the lightning-streak, 
 
 And mingle among the clouds 
 My swarthy form with the thunder- storui. 
 
 Wrapped in its sable shrouds. 
 
 Often I launch the huge avalanche, 
 
 And make it my milk-white sledge 
 When unappall'd to the Grindlewald 
 
 I slide from the Shrikehorn's edge : 
 Silent and soft to the ibex oft 
 
 I have stolen, and hurried him o'er 
 The precipice to the bristling ice 
 
 That smokes with his scarlet gore. 
 
THE SONG OF AN ALPINE ELF. 65 
 
 But my greatest joy is to lure and decoy 
 
 To the chasm's slippery brink 
 The hunter bold, when he's weary and old, 
 
 And there let him suddenly sink, — 
 A thousand feet — dead ! — he dropped like lead, 
 
 Ha, he couldn't leap like me ; 
 With broken back, as a felon on rack. 
 
 He hangs in a split pine-tree. 
 
 And there mid his bones, that echoed with groans, 
 
 I make me a nest of his hair ; 
 The ribs dry and white rattle loud as in spite 
 
 When I rock in my cradle there : 
 Hurrah, hurrah, and ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 I'm in a merry mood. 
 For I'm all alone in my palace of bone, 
 That's tapestried fair with the old man's hair, 
 
 And dappled with clots of blood ; 
 And when I look out all around and about, 
 The stonn shouts high to the coal-black sky, 
 And the icicle sleet falls thick and fleet, 
 And all that I hear on the mountains drear 
 And all I behold in the vallies cold. 
 Is death and solitude. 
 
66 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 A DREAM — mysterious word, a dream ! 
 
 What joys and sorrows are enshrin'd 
 In those still hours we fondly deem 
 
 A playtime for the truant mind : 
 
 It is a happy thing to dream, 
 
 When rosy thoughts and visions bright 
 Pour on the soul a golden stream 
 
 Of rich luxurious delight : 
 
 It is a weary thing to dream, 
 
 When from the hot and aching brain, 
 
 As from a boiling cauldron, steam 
 The myriad forms in fancy's train. 
 
 It is a curious thing to dream. 
 
 When shapes grotesque of all quaint things 
 Like laughing water-witches seem 
 
 To sport in reason's turbid springs : 
 
DREAMS. 67 
 
 It is a glorious thing to dream, 
 
 When full of wings and full of eyes, 
 
 Bome on the whirlwind or sun-beam, 
 We race along the startled skies : 
 
 It is a wondrous thing to dream 
 Of tumbling with a fearful shock 
 
 From some tall cliff where eagles scream, 
 — To light upon a feather rock : 
 
 It is a terrible thing to dream 
 
 Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt. 
 And ghosts that in the darkness gleam, 
 
 And horrid eyes of midnight guilt. 
 
 I love a dream, I dread a dream ; 
 
 Sometimes all bright, and full of gladness, 
 But othertimes my brain will teem 
 
 AVith sights that urge the mind to madness. 
 
68 
 
 INFANT CHRIST, WITH A WREATH OF 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 FROM A PICTURE BY CORREGGIO. 
 
 Yes, — I can fancy, in the spring 
 
 Of childhood's sunny hours, 
 That nature's infant priest and king 
 
 Lov'd to gaze on flowers : 
 
 For lightly, mid the wreck of all, 
 
 When torn from Eden's bowers, 
 Above the billows of the fall 
 
 Floated gentle flowers. 
 
 Unfallen, sinless, undefil'd, 
 
 Fresh bathed in summer showers. 
 
 What wonder that the holy child 
 Ijov'd to play with flowers ? 
 
INFANT CHRIST. 69 
 
 In these he saw his Father's face, 
 
 All Godhead's varied powers, 
 And joy'd each attribute to trace 
 
 In sweet unconscious flowers : 
 
 In these he found where Wisdom hides 
 
 And modest Beauty cowers, 
 And where Omnipotence resides 
 
 And Tenderness, — in flowers. 
 
 Innocent child, a little while. 
 
 E'er yet the tempest lours. 
 Bask thy young heart in Nature's smile, 
 
 Her lovely smile of flowers ; 
 
 Thy young heart, — is it not arrayed 
 
 In feeling such as ours ? — 
 Ves, being now of thorns afraid, 
 
 I see thee crown'd with flowers. 
 
70 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 A SAD sweet gladness, full of tears, 
 And thoughts that never cloy 
 
 Of careless childhood's happier years, 
 Is memory's tranquil joy. 
 
 A rapturous and delusive dream 
 
 Of pleasures, ne'er to be. 
 That o'er life's troubled waters gleam, 
 
 Is Hope's sweet reverie. 
 
 Yet, before Memory can look back, 
 When Hope is lost in sight. 
 
 Ah ! where is Memory's fairy track, 
 Ah ! where is Hope's delight ? 
 
 The present is a weary scene 
 
 And always wish'd away; 
 We live on " to be," and " has been," 
 
 But never on " to-day." 
 
71 
 
 ON A BULBOUS ROOT, 
 
 WHICH BLOSSOMED, AFTER HAVIXG LAIN FOR AGES IN THE 
 HAND OF AN EGYPTIAN MUM31Y. 
 
 What, wide awake, sweet stranger, wide awake ? 
 
 And laughing coyly at an English sun. 
 
 And blessing him with smiles for ha\dng thawed 
 
 Thine icy chain, for having woke thee gently 
 
 From thy long slumber of three thousand years r 
 
 Methinks I see the eye of wonder peering 
 
 From thy tall pistil, looking strangely forth 
 
 As from a watch-tow'r at thy fellow-flowers, 
 
 x\dmiring much the rich variety 
 
 Of many a gem in nature's jewel-case 
 
 Unknown to thee, — the drooping hyacinth. 
 
 The prim ranunculus, and gay geranium. 
 
 And dahlias rare, and hearts-ease of all hues. 
 
 Mealy auriculas, and spotted lilies. 
 
 Gaudy carnations, and the modest face 
 
 Of the moss-rose : methinks thy wondering leaves 
 
7*2 ON A BULBOUS ROOT. 
 
 And curious petals at the loug-lost sun 
 Gaze with a Hngeriug love, bedizen'd o'er 
 With a small firmament of eyes to catch 
 The luxury of his smile ; as o'er the pool 
 Hovering midway the gorgeous dragon-fly 
 Watches his mates with thousand-facet vision ; 
 Or as when underneath the waterfall 
 Floating in sunny wreaths the fretted foam 
 MiiTors blue heaven in its million orbs. 
 Methinks I see thy fair and foreign face 
 Blush with the glowing ardour of first love, 
 (Mindful of ancient Nile, and those warm skies. 
 And tender tales of insect coquetry,) 
 When some bright butterfly descends to sip 
 The exotic fragrance of thy nectarous dew : 
 Even so, Jabal's daughters in old time 
 Welcomed the sons of God, who sprang from 
 
 heaven 
 To gaze with rapture on earth's fairest creatures, 
 And fan them with their rainbow-coloured wings. 
 
 Didst ever dream of such a day as this, 
 A day of life and sunshine, when entranced 
 
ON A BULBOUS ROOT. 73 
 
 111 the cold tomb of yonder shrivelled hand ? 
 
 Didst ever try to shoot thy fibres forth 
 
 Through thy close prison-bars, those parchment 
 
 fingers, 
 And strive to blossom in a charnel-house ? 
 Didst ever struggle to be free, — to leap 
 From that forced wedlock with a clammy corpse, — 
 To burst thy bonds asunder, and spring up 
 A thing of light to commerce with the skies ? 
 Or didst thou rather, with endurance strong, 
 (That might have taught a Newton passive power,) 
 Baffle corruption, and live on unharmed 
 Amid the pestilent steams that wrapped thee 
 
 round. 
 Like Mithridates, when he would not die, 
 But conquered poison by his strong resolve ? 
 
 O life, thy name is mystery, — thatcouldst 
 Thus energize inert, be, yet not be. 
 Concentrating thy powers in one small point ; 
 Couldst mail a germ, in seeming weakness strong, 
 And arm it as thy champion against Death ; 
 Couldst give a weed, dug from the common field, 
 
 E 
 
74 ON A BULBOUS ROOT. 
 
 What Egypt hath not, ImmortaHty ; 
 Coiilclst hill it off to sleep ere Carthage was, 
 And wake it up when Carthage is no more ! 
 It may be, suns and stars that w^alked the heavens, 
 .While thou wert in thy slumber, gentle flo\\'er. 
 Have sprung from chaos, blazed their age, and 
 
 burst : 
 It may be, that thou seest the world worn out, 
 And lookst on meadows of a i^aler green, 
 Flow'rs of a duskier hue, and all creation 
 Down to degenerate man more and more dead. 
 Than in those golden hours, nearest to Eden, 
 When mother earth and thou and all were young. 
 
 And he that held thee, — this bituminous shape, 
 This fossil shell once tenanted by life. 
 This chrysalis husk of the j^oor insect man. 
 This leathern coat, this carcase of a soul, — 
 What w^as thy story, O mine elder brother ? 
 I note thee now, swathed like a Milanese babe. 
 But thine are tinctured grave-clothes, fathoms 
 
 long; 
 On thy shrunk breast the mystic beetle lies 
 
ON A BULBOUS ROOT. 75 
 
 Commending tliee to Earth, and to the Sun 
 
 Regenerating all ; a curious scroll 
 
 Full of strange written lore rests at thy side ; 
 
 While a quaint rosary of bestial gods, 
 
 x\mmon, Bubastes, Thoth, Osiris, Apis, 
 
 And Horus with the curl, Typhon and Phthah, 
 
 Amulets ciphered with forgotten tongues, 
 
 And charm'd religious beads circle thy throat. 
 
 Greatly thy children honoured thee in death, 
 
 And for the light vouchsafed them they did well, — 
 
 In that they hoped, and not unwisely hoped. 
 
 Again in his own flesh to see their sire ; 
 
 And their affection spared not, so the form 
 
 They loved in life might rest adorned in death. 
 
 But this dry hand, — was it once terrible 
 When among warrior bands thou wentest forth 
 With Ramses, or Sesostris, yet again 
 To crush the rebel Ethiop ? — wast thou set 
 A taskmaster to toiling Israel 
 When Cheops or Cephrenes raised to heaven 
 Their giant sepulchres .? — or did this hand. 
 That lately held a flow'r, with murderous gras]:) 
 
 E 2 
 
76 ON A BULBOUS ROOT. 
 
 Tear from the Hebrew mother her poor babe 
 
 To fling it to the crocodile ? — or rather 
 
 Wert thou some garden-lover, and this bulb 
 
 Perchance most rare and fine, prized above gold, 
 
 (As in the mad world's dotage yesterday 
 
 A tulip-root could fetch a prince's ransom,) — 
 
 Was to be buried with thee, as thy praise, 
 
 Thy Rosicrucian lamp, thine idol weed ? — 
 
 Perchance, O kinder thought and better hope, 
 
 Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee 
 
 As nature's hieroglyphic, her half-guess 
 
 Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die : 
 
 What emblem liker, or more eloquent 
 
 Of immortality, whether the Sphinx, 
 
 Scarab, or circled snake, or wide-winged orb. 
 
 The azure-coloured arch, the sleepless eye, 
 
 The pyramid four-square, or flowing river, 
 
 Or all whatever else were symbols apt 
 
 In Egypt's alphabet, — as thou, dry root, 
 
 So full of living promise ? — yes, I see 
 
 Nature's " resurgam" sculptured there in ^vords 
 
 That all of every clime may run and read : 
 
 I see the better hope of better times. 
 
ox A BULBOUS ROOT. 77 
 
 Hope against hope, wrapped in the dusky coats 
 
 Of a poor leek, — I note glad tidings there 
 
 Of happier things : this undecaying corpse 
 
 A little longer, yet a little longer 
 
 Must slumber on, but shall awake at last ; 
 
 A little longer, yet a little longer, — 
 
 And at the trumpet's voice, shall this dry shape 
 
 Start up, instinct with life, the same though 
 
 changed. 
 And put on incoiTuption's glorious garb : 
 Percliance for second death, — perchance to shine. 
 If aught of Israel's God he knew and lov'd. 
 Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun. 
 
78 
 
 CRUELTY. 
 
 Will none befriend that poor dumb brute 
 
 Will no man rescue him ? — 
 With weaker effort, gasping, mute, 
 
 He strains in every limb ; 
 
 Spare him, O spare : — he feels, — he feels i 
 
 Big tears roll from his eyes ; 
 Another crushing blow ! — he reels, 
 
 Staggers, — and falls, — and dies. 
 
 Poor jaded horse, the blood runs cold 
 
 Thy guiltless wrongs to see ; 
 To heav'n, O starv'd one, lame, and old. 
 
 Thy dim eye pleads for thee. 
 
CRUELTY. 
 
 Thou too, O dog, whose faithful zeal 
 
 Fawns on some ruffian grim, — 
 He stripes thy skin with many a weal. 
 
 And yet, — thou lovest him. 
 
 Shame ! that of all the living chain 
 
 That links creation's plan. 
 There is but one delights in pain. 
 
 The savage monarch, — man ! 
 
 O cruelty, — who could rehearse 
 
 Thy million dismal deeds. 
 Or track the workings of the curse 
 
 By which all nature bleeds } 
 
 Thou meanest crime, — thou coward sin, 
 
 Thou base flint-hearted vice, — 
 Scorpion ! — to sting thy heart within 
 
 Thyself shalt all suffice ; 
 
 The merciless is doubly curst. 
 
 As mercy is '^ twice blest ;" 
 Vengeance, though slow, shall come, — but first 
 
 The vengeance of the breast. 
 
80 CRCELTY. 
 
 Why add another woe to life, 
 Man, — are there not enough ? 
 
 Why lay thy weapon to the strife ? 
 Why make the road more rough ? 
 
 Faint, hunger-sick, old, blind, and ill. 
 
 The poor, or man or beast, 
 Can battle on with life uphill. 
 
 And bear its griefs at least ; 
 
 Truly, their cup of gall o'erflows ! 
 
 But, when the spite of men 
 Adds poison to the draught of woes, 
 
 Who, who can drink it then ? 
 
 Heard ye that shriek ? — O wretch, forbear 
 Fling down thy bloody knife : 
 
 In fear, if not in pity, spare 
 A woman, and a wife I 
 
 For thee she toils, unchiding, mild, 
 And for thy children wan, 
 Beaten, and starv^'d, — with fimine wild, 
 To feast thee, selfish man: 
 
CRUELTY. 81 
 
 Husband, and father, drunkard, fiend ! 
 
 Thv wife's, thy children's moan 
 Has won for innocence a friend. 
 
 Has reach'd thy Judge's throne; 
 
 Their lives thou madest sad ; but worse 
 
 Thy deathless doom shall be, 
 '' No mercy" is the withering curse 
 
 Thy Judge has passed on thee : 
 
 Heap on, — heap on, fresh torments add, — 
 
 New schemes of torture plan, 
 Xo MERCY : Mercy's self is glad 
 
 To damn the cruel man. 
 
 God ! God ! thy whole creation groans. 
 
 Thy fair world writhes in pain ; 
 Shall the dread incense of its moans 
 
 Arise to Thee in vain t 
 
 The hollow eye of famine pleads. 
 
 The face with weeping pale. 
 The heart that all in secret bleeds, 
 
 The grief that tells no tale, 
 
82 CRUELTY . 
 
 Oppression's victim, weak and mild. 
 Scarce shrinking from the blow, 
 
 And the poor wearied factory child, 
 Join in the dirge of woe. 
 
 O cruel world ! O sickening fear 
 Of goad, or knife, or thong ; 
 
 O load of evils ill to bear ! 
 
 — How long, good God, how long .^ 
 
83 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Harmless, happy little treasures, 
 Full of truth, and trust, and mirth. 
 
 Richest wealth, and purest treasures, 
 In this mean and guilty earth. 
 
 How I love you, pretty creatures, 
 Lamb-like flock of little things, 
 
 Where the love that lights your features 
 From the heart in beauty springs : 
 
 On these laughing rosy faces 
 There are no deep lines of sin, 
 
 None of passion's di*eary traces 
 That betray the wounds within ; 
 
84 CHILDREN. 
 
 But yours is the sunny dimple 
 Radiant with untutor d smiles, 
 
 Yours the heart, sincere and simple, 
 Innocent of selfish wiles ; 
 
 Yours the natural curling tresses, 
 Prattling tongues, and shyness cov. 
 
 Tottering steps, and kind caresses, 
 Pure with health, and warm with joy. 
 
 The dull slaves of gain, or passion, 
 Cannot love you as they should. 
 
 The poor worldly fools of fashion 
 AVould not love you if they could : 
 
 Write them childless, those cold-hearted, 
 Who can scom Thy generous boon, 
 
 And whose souls with fear have smarted, 
 Lest — Thy blessings come too soon. 
 
 While he hath a child to love him 
 No man can be poor indeed. 
 
 While he trusts a Friend above him, 
 None can sorrow, fear or need. 
 
CHILDREN. 85 
 
 But for thee, whose hearth is lonely 
 And unwarmed by children's mirth, 
 
 Spite of riches, thou art only 
 Desolate and poor on earth : 
 
 All unkiss'd by innocent beauty, 
 
 All unlov'd by guileless heart, 
 All uncheer'd by sweetest duty, 
 
 Childless man, how poor thou art. 
 
86 
 
 SONNET TO MY BOOK, 
 
 "proverbial philosophy;" before publicatiox. 
 
 My soul's own son, dear image of my mind, 
 
 I would not without blessing send thee forth 
 Into the bleak wide world, whose voice unkind 
 
 Perchance will mock at thee as nothing worth ; 
 For the cold critic's jealous eye may find 
 In all thy purposed good little but ill, 
 May taunt thy simple garb as quaintly wrought. 
 And j)raise thee for no more than the small 
 skill 
 Of masquing as thine own another's thought : 
 What then ? — count envious sneers as less than 
 nought : 
 Fair is thine aim, and having done thy best, 
 Lo, thus I bless thee ; yea, thou shalt be blest ! 
 
87 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 AFTER PUBLICATION. 
 
 That they have praised thee well, and cheered 
 thee on 
 With kinder tones than critics deign to few, 
 Child of my thoughts, my fancy's favourite son, 
 Our courteous thanks, our heartfelt thanks are 
 due. 
 Despise not thou thine equal's honest praise ; 
 Yet feast not of such dainties ; thou shalt rue 
 Their sweetness else ; let rather generous pride 
 Those golden apples straightly spurn aside. 
 
 And gird thee all unshackled to the race : 
 On to the goal of honour, fair beginner, 
 A thousand ducats thou shalt yet be winner ! 
 
88 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 OV THE PUBLlCATIO>r OF THE SECOND EDITION Ol ^iY 
 " PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY." 
 
 Yet once again, not after many clays 
 
 Since first I dared this voyage in the dark, 
 Borne on the prosperous gale of goodmen's praise 
 
 To the wide waters I commit mine avk, 
 And bid God speed thy venture, gallant bark ! 
 For I have launched thee on a thousand 
 prayers, 
 Freighted thee well with all my mind and 
 heart. 
 And if some contraband error unawares 
 Like Achan's wedge, lie hid in any part, 
 Stand it condemned, as it most justly ought : 
 Yet be the thinker spared, if not his thought; 
 For he that with an honest purpose errs 
 Merits more kind excuse than the shrewd world 
 confers. 
 
89 
 
 MONSIEUR D'ALVEROX, 
 
 AX INCIDENT, FOUXDED OX FACT. 
 
 Poor Monsieur D'Alveron ! I well remember 
 
 The day I visited his ruinous cot, 
 
 And heard the story of his fallen fortunes. 
 
 It was a fine May morning, and the flowers 
 
 Spread their fair faces to the laughing sun, 
 
 And look'd like small ten'estrial stars, that beam'd 
 
 With life and joy ; the meny lark was high 
 
 Careering in the heavens, and now and then 
 
 A throstle from the neighbouring thicket pour'd 
 
 His musical and hearty orisons. 
 
 The cot too truly told that poverty 
 
 Found it a home with misery and scorn : 
 
 No clambering jessamine, no well-train'd roses 
 
 There lingered, like sweet charity, to hide 
 
 The rents unseemly of the plaster'd wall ; 
 
 No tight trimm'd rows of box, or daisy prim 
 
90 MONSIEUR d'aLVERON. 
 
 Mark'd a clean pathway tlirough the miry clay, 
 
 But all around was want and cold neglect. 
 
 With curious hand, (and heart that beat with warm 
 
 Benevolence) — I knock'd, lifted the latch, 
 
 And in the language of his mother-land 
 
 Besought a welcome ; quick with courteous phrase. 
 
 And joy unfeign'd to hear his native tongue, 
 
 He bade me enter. — 'Twas a ruined hovel ; 
 
 Disease and penury had done their worst 
 
 To load a wretched exile with despair, 
 
 But still with spirit unbroken he liv'd on. 
 
 And with a Frenchman's national levity 
 
 Bounded elastic from his weight of woes. 
 
 I listed long his fond garrulity, 
 
 For sympathy and confidence arc aye 
 
 Each other's echoes, and I won his heart 
 
 By pitying his sorrows ; long he told 
 
 Of friends, and wife, and darling little ones. 
 
 Fortunes, and titles, and long-cherished hopes 
 
 By frenzied Revolution marr'd and crush'd ; 
 
 But oft my patience flicker'd, and my eye 
 
 Wander'd inquisitive round the murky room 
 
 To see wherein 1 best might mitigate 
 
j\roNSiEUK d'alveron. 91 
 
 The misery my bosom bled to view. 
 
 I sat upon his crazy couch, and there 
 
 With many sordid rags, a roebuck's skin 
 
 Show'd sleek and mottled ; swift the clear grey eye 
 
 Of the poor suff'erer had mark'd my wonder, 
 
 And as hi simple guise this touching tale 
 
 He told me, in the tongue his youth had lov'd. 
 
 Many a tear stole down his wrinkled cheek. 
 
 " Yon glossy skin is all that now remains 
 
 " To tell me that the past is not a dream ! 
 
 " Oft up my Chateau's ayenue of limes 
 
 " To be caress'd in mine ancestral hall 
 
 " Poor * Louis' bounded, (I had called him Louis, 
 
 " Because I lov'd my King ;) — my little ones 
 
 " Have on his forked antlers often hung 
 
 '' Their garlands of spring flowers, and fed him 
 
 with 
 '' Sweet heads of clover from their tiny hands. 
 " But on a soiTowful day a random-shot 
 " Of some bold thief, or well-skill'd forester 
 ^' Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob 
 " Were the unwritten epitaph upon him. 
 
9*2 MONSIEUR d'aLVERON. 
 
 *' The children would not lose him utterl}^ 
 
 " But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin 
 
 " A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they 
 
 " Might oftener think of their lost favourite. 
 
 " Ay — there it is ! — that precious treasury 
 
 " Of fond remembrances, — that glossy skin ! 
 
 " O thou chief solace in the wintry nights 
 
 '' That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my 
 
 breast 
 " With tears of, — Mais, Monsieur, asseyez vous !" — ■ 
 But I had started up, and turn'd aside 
 To weep in solitude. — 
 
93 
 
 WISDOM'S WISH. 
 
 An, miglit I but escape to some sweet spot, 
 
 Oasis of my ho2:>es, to fancy dear, 
 Where rural virtues are not yet forgot, 
 
 And good old customs crown the circling year 
 Where still contented peasants love their lot, 
 
 And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear, 
 Ijut hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm 
 To country quiet add their social charm ; 
 
 Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore, 
 A wooded dingle on a mountain-side. 
 
 Within the distant sound of ocean's roar. 
 And looking down on valley fair and wide. 
 
 Nigh to the village church, to please me more 
 Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride, 
 
 And blest with pious pastor, who has trod 
 
 Himself the way, and leads his flock to God, — 
 
94 wisdom's wish. 
 
 '' There would I dwell, for I delight therein ! " 
 Far from the evil ways of evil men, 
 
 Untainted by the soil of others' sin. 
 My own repented of, and clean again : 
 
 With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within, 
 Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen, 
 
 And mountain-rambles with a welcome friend. 
 
 And dear domestic joys, that never end. 
 
 There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore, 
 To cull the gems that bounteous nature gave, 
 
 From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore, 
 Or seek the curious crystal in its cave ; 
 
 And learning nature's Master to adore, 
 
 Know more of Ilim who came the lost to save ; 
 
 Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives. 
 
 And learn to love the meanest thing that lives. 
 
 No envious wish my' fellows to excel, 
 No sordid money-getting cares be mine ; 
 
 No low ambition in high state to dwell, 
 
 Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine : 
 
wisdom's ^vish. 95 
 
 But. Hueet benevolence, regale me well 
 
 With those cheap pleasures and light cares of 
 thine, 
 And meek-eyed piety, be always near, 
 With calm content, and gratitude sincere. 
 
 Rescued from cities, and forensic strife, 
 
 And walking w^ell with God in nature's eye. 
 
 Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife. 
 
 Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh, 
 
 Oh thus to wear away my useful life. 
 
 And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die, 
 
 Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can, 
 
 And challenge earth to show a happier man ': 
 
96 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 My own little darling — dead I 
 The dove of my happiness fled ! 
 
 Just Heaven, forgive, 
 
 But let me not live 
 Now my poor babe is dead : 
 
 No more to my yearning breast 
 Shall that sweet mouth be prest, 
 
 No more on my arm 
 
 Nestled up warm 
 Shall my fair darling rest : 
 
 Alas, for that dear glaz'd eye, 
 Why did it dim or die ? 
 
 Those lips so solt 
 
 1 have kissed so oft 
 Why are they ice, oh why ? 
 
THE mother's lament. 97 
 
 xVlas, little frocks and toys, 
 Shadows of bygone joys, 
 
 Have I not treasure 
 
 Of bitterest pleasure 
 In these little frocks and toys ? 
 
 O harrowing sight to behold 
 That marble-like face all cold, 
 
 That small cherish'd form 
 
 Flung to the worm, 
 Deep in the chamel -mould ! 
 
 Where is each heart-winning wa> , 
 Thy prattle, and innocent play r 
 
 Alas, they are gone, 
 
 And left me alone 
 To weep for them night and day : 
 
 Yet why should I linger behind ? 
 Kill me too, — death most kind ; 
 
 Where can I go 
 
 To meet thy blow 
 And my sweet babe to find ? 
 
98 THE mother's lament. 
 
 1 know it, I rave half-wild ! 
 But who can be calm and mild 
 
 Wlien the deep heart 
 
 Is riven apart 
 Over a dear dead child ? 
 
 1 know it, I should not speak 
 So boldly, — I ought to be meek, 
 But love, it is strong, 
 And my spirit is stung 
 Lvins: all numb'd and weak. 
 
99 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 " My times are in thy hand." 
 
 Yet will I trust ! in all my fears, 
 Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears. 
 To guide me through this vale of tears. 
 
 And be my strength ; 
 Thy mercy guides the ebb and flow 
 Of health and joy, or pain and woe. 
 To wean my heart from all below 
 
 To Thee at length. 
 Yes, — welcome pain, — which Thou hast sent,- 
 Yes, — farewell blessings, — Thou hast lent, 
 With Thee alone I rest content. 
 
 For Thou art Heav'n, — 
 My trust reposes, safe and still. 
 On the wise goodness of Thy will. 
 Grateful for earthly good — or ill. 
 
 Which Thou hast giv'n. 
 
 F 2 
 
100 TRUST. 
 
 O blessed friend ! O blissful thought ! 
 With happiest consolation fraught,— - 
 Trust Thee I may, 1 will, I ought, — 
 
 To doubt were sin ; 
 Then let w-hatever storms arise, 
 Their Ruler sits above ihe skies, 
 And lifting unto Him mine eyes, 
 
 'Tis calm within. 
 Danger may threaten, foes molest, 
 Poverty brood, disease infest. 
 Yea, torn affections wound the breast 
 
 For one sad hour. 
 But faith looks to her home on high, 
 Hope casts around a cheerful eye. 
 And love puts all the terrors by 
 
 With gladdening power. 
 
101 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Wilt thou gaze with ine on flowers, 
 And let their speaking eyes 
 
 Glancing brightly up to ours 
 Teach us to be wise ? 
 
 The pale narcissus tells of youth 
 Nurtured in purity and truth ; 
 Violets on the moss-bank green, 
 Of sweet benevolence unseen ; 
 A rose is blooming charity ; 
 A snow -drop, fair humility ; 
 Yon golden crocus, smiling sweetly, 
 vSmiles, alas, to perish fleetly; 
 That hyacinth, with cluster'd bells. 
 Of sympathy in sorrow tells ; 
 This young mimosa, as it trembles, 
 Affection's thrilling heart resembles ; 
 
102 FLOWERS. 
 
 And the glazed myrtle's fragi'ant bloom 
 Hints at a life that mocks the tomb. 
 
 What is a flower ? a beauteous gem 
 
 Set in nature's diadem, 
 
 A sunbeam o'er her tresses flung, 
 
 A word from her poetic tongue, 
 
 A silent burst of eloquence, 
 
 A plaything of Omnipotence ; — 
 
 The poet's eye sees much in these, 
 
 To learn, and love, and praise, and please 
 
103 
 
 WEDDING-GIFTS. 
 
 Young bride, — a wreath for thee ! 
 
 Of sweet and gentle flowers ; 
 For wedded love was pure and free 
 
 In Eden's happy bowers. 
 
 Young bride, — a song for thee ! 
 
 A song of joyous measure, 
 For thy cup of hope shall be 
 
 Fill'd with honied pleasure. 
 
 Young bride, — a tear for thee ! 
 
 A tear in all thy gladness ; 
 For thy young heart shall not see 
 
 Jov unmixed with sadness. 
 
104 WEDDING-GIFTS. 
 
 Young bride, — a prayer for thee ! 
 
 That all thy hopes possessing, 
 Thy soul may praise her God, and He 
 
 May crown thee with his blessing. 
 
 Young bride, — a smile for thee ! 
 
 To shine away thy sorrow. 
 For heaven is kind to-day, and we 
 
 Will hope as well to-morrow. 
 
105 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 It is most genial to a soul refined 
 
 When love can smile, unblushing, unconceard, 
 When mutual thoughts, and words, and acts are 
 kind. 
 
 And inmost hopes and feelings are reveal'd, 
 When interest, duty, trust, together bind, 
 
 And the heart's deep affections are unseal'd, 
 When for each other live the kindred pair, — 
 Here is indeed a picture passing fair ! 
 
 Hail, happy state ! which few have heart to sing, 
 Because they feel how faintly words express 
 
 So kind, and dear, and chaste, and sweet a thing 
 As tried affection's lasting tenderness ; — 
 
 Yet stop, my venturous muse, and fold thy wing, 
 Nor to a shrine so sacred rudely press; 
 
 For, marriage, — thine is still a silent boast, 
 
 " Like beauty unadorned, adorned the most." 
 
106 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE. 
 
 Not many rays of heaven's unfallen sun 
 
 Reach the dull distance of this world of ours, 
 Nor oft dispel its shadows cold and dun, 
 
 Nor oft with glory tint its faded flowers : 
 But, oh, if ever yet there wandered o;/p, 
 
 Like Peri from her amaranthine bowers, 
 Or ministering angel, sent to bless, 
 'Twas to thy hearth, domestic happiness, 
 Where in the sunshine of a peaceful home 
 Love's choicest roses bud, and burst, and bloom, 
 And bleeding hearts, lull'd in a holy calm, 
 Bathe their deep wounds in Gilead's healing balm. 
 
107 
 
 A DEBT OF LOVE. 
 
 Thou, more than all endeared to this glad heart 
 
 By gentle smiles, and patience under pain, 
 I bless my God, and thee, for all thou art, 
 
 My crowning joy, my richest earthly gain ! 
 
 To thee is due this tributary strain 
 For all the well-observed kind offices 
 
 That spring spontaneous from a heart, imbued 
 With the sweet wish of living but to please ; 
 
 Due for thy liberal hand, thy frugal mind, 
 
 Thy pitying eye, thy voice for ever kind, 
 For tenderness, truth, confidence, — all these : 
 
 My heaven-blest vine, that hast thy tendrils 
 twin'd 
 Round one who loves thee, though his strain be 
 
 rude. 
 Accept thy best reward, — thy husband's gratitude. 
 
108 
 
 TO LITTLE ELLIN. 
 
 My precious babe, my guileless little girl, — 
 The soft sweet beauty of thy cherub face 
 
 Is smiling on me, radiant as a pearl 
 
 With young intelligence, and infant grace : 
 And must the wintry breath of life efface 
 
 Thy purity, fair snow-drop of the spring ? 
 
 Must evil taint thee, — must the world enthrall 
 
 Thine innocent mind, poor harmless little thing ? 
 Ah, yes ! thou too must taste the cup of woe, 
 Thy heart must learn to grieve, as others do, 
 
 Thy soul must feel life's many-pointed sting : 
 But fear not, darling child, for well I kno\A' 
 
 Whatever cares may meet thee, ills befall. 
 
 Thy God, — thy father's God, — shall lead thee safe 
 through all. 
 
109 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF LITTLE MARY. 
 
 Lo, Thou hast crowned me with another blessing, 
 Into my lot hast dro])t one mercy more ; — 
 
 All good, all kind, all wise in Thee possessing, 
 My cup, O bounteous Giver, runneth o'er. 
 And still thy princely hand doth without ceasing 
 pour : 
 
 For the sweet fruit of undecaying love 
 
 Clusters in beauty round my cottage door. 
 
 And this new little one, like Noah's dove. 
 
 Comes to mine ark with peace, and plenty for 
 my store. 
 
 O happy home, O bright and cheerful hearth ! 
 Look round with me, my lover, friend, and wife, 
 On these fair faces we have lit with life. 
 
 And in the perfect blessing of their birth, 
 
 Help me to live our thanks for so much heaven 
 on earth. 
 
110 
 
 DAYS GONE BY. 
 
 Though we charge to-day with fleetness, 
 Though we dread to-morrow's sky, 
 
 There's a melancholy sweetness 
 In the name of days gone by : 
 
 Yes, though Time has laid his finger 
 On them, still with streaming eye 
 
 There are spots where I can linger 
 Sacred to the days gone by. 
 
 Oft as memory's glance is ranging 
 
 Over scenes that cannot die, 
 Then I feel that all is changing, 
 
 Then I weep the days gone by ; 
 
 Sorrowful should 1 be, and lonely, 
 
 Were not all the same as I, 
 'Tis for all, not my lot only, 
 
 To lament the days gone by. 
 
DAYS GONE BY. Ill 
 
 Cease, fond heart, — to thee are given 
 
 Hopes of better things on high, 
 There is still a coming heaven 
 
 Brighter than the days gone by ; 
 
 Faith lifts off the sable curtain 
 
 Hiding huge eternity, 
 Hope accounts her prize as certain. 
 
 And forgets the days gone by, 
 
 Love, in grateful adoration 
 
 Bids distrust and sorrow fly. 
 And with glad anticipation 
 
 Calms regret for days gone by. 
 
112 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 Hush — O heaven ! a moment more, 
 A breath, a step, and all is o'er; 
 Hark — beneath the waters wild ! 
 Save, O mercy, save my child. 
 
 Swiftly from her heaving- breast 
 The mother tore the snowy vest, — 
 Her little truant saw and smil'd, 
 Tm'n'd, — and mercy saved the child. 
 
 Thus, the face of love can win 
 Where fear is weak to scare from sin, 
 Thus, when faith and conscience slept. 
 Jesus look'd, — and Peter wept. 
 
113 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Fair charity, thou rarest, best, and brightest ! 
 
 Who would not gladly hide thee in his heart 
 With all thine angel-guests ? for thou delightest 
 
 To bring such with thee, — guests that ne'er de- 
 part; 
 Cherub, with what enticement thou invitest. 
 
 Perfect in winning beauty as thou art. 
 World- wearied man to plant thee in his bosom 
 And graft upon his cares thy balmy blossom. 
 
 Fain would he be frank-hearted, generous, cheer- 
 ful, 
 F^orgiving, aiding, loving, trusting all, — 
 But knowledge of his kind has made him fearful 
 All are not friends, whom friends he longs to 
 call ; 
 For prudence makes men cold, and misery tearful. 
 And interest bids them rise upon his fall. 
 
114 CHARITY. 
 
 And while they seek their selfish own to cherish, 
 They leave the wounded stag alone to perish. 
 
 Man may rejoice that thy sweet influence hallows 
 His intercourse \^'ith all he loves — in heaven : 
 
 But canst thou make him love his sordid fellows, 
 Nor mix with them untainted by their leaven ? 
 
 How can he not grow cautious, cold, and callous. 
 When he forgives to seventy-times seven, 
 
 And still-repeated wrongs, unwept for, harden 
 
 The heart that's never sued nor sought to pardon ? 
 
 Reserve's cold breath has chilled each warmer 
 feeling. 
 
 Ingratitude has frozen up his blood, 
 Unjust neglect has pierced him, past all healing, 
 
 And scaiTcd a heart that panted to do good ; 
 Slowly, but surely, has distrust been steeling 
 
 His mind, much wronged, and little under- 
 stood : 
 Would charity unseal affection's fountain ? 
 Alas ! tis crushed beneath a marble mountain. 
 
CHARITY, 115 
 
 Vet the belief that he was loved by other 
 
 Could root and hmi that mountain in the sea, 
 
 Oblivion's dej^th the height of ill would smother 
 And all forgiven, all forgotten be ; 
 
 Man then could love his once injurious brother 
 With such a love as none can give but he ; 
 
 The sun of love, and that alone has power 
 
 To bring to bright perfection love's sweet flower. 
 
 Soft rains, and zephyrs, and warm noons can van- 
 quish 
 
 The stubborn tyranny of winter's frost ; 
 Once more the smiling valleys cease to languish, 
 
 Drest out in fresher beauties than they lost : 
 So springs with gladness from its bed of anguish 
 
 The heart that lov'd not, when reviled and crost. 
 For, though case-hardened by ill-usage, often 
 Love's sunny smile the rockiest heart will soften. 
 
116 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE UXDYING SPIRIT OF 
 
 FREDERICK KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 (The allusions herein are to expressions contained in his letters.) 
 
 Immortal mind, so bright with beautiful thought. 
 
 And robed so fair in loveliest sympathy, 
 " Thou Christian," by thy " guardian angeF' 
 taught 
 
 The master-touches of all melody, 
 Am not I " one of those" unworthy, sought 
 
 By thy rapt soul with " love's prospective eye ?" 
 I feel I love thee, " brother," as I ought, — 
 
 Look down, and love me too, where'er thou art ; 
 
 I too am cherish'd by as kind a heart 
 As beat in " gentle Cidli's" breast divine, 
 I too can bless the hand which made her mine ; 
 
 And within me, congenial feelings dart. 
 Whether to glow, or thrill, or hope, or melt, 
 Mv soul attuned to thine can feel as thou hast ielt 
 
11 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 I THOUGHT him still sincere, 
 
 I hoped he lov'd me yet ; 
 My poor heart pants with harrowing fear, 
 
 O canst thou thus forget ? 
 
 1 gaz'd into his face 
 
 And scannM his features o'er, 
 And there was still each manly grace 
 
 That won my love before ; 
 
 But coldly look VI those eyes 
 
 Which oft had thrill'd my breast, 
 
 He was too great, too rich, too wise. 
 To make me his confest. 
 
 Couldst thou know what I felt 
 
 To see thee light and gay. 
 Thy frozen heart would wann and melt, 
 
 And weej) its ice away : 
 
118 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 Yes, / can tell of tears 
 
 These eyes for thee have shed, 
 
 In daily, nightly, hourly pray'rs 
 For blessings on thy head. 
 
 I name thee not, through shame 
 That truth should fade and flee : 
 
 Fear not, — thy love, thy vows, thy name 
 Are known to none but me. 
 
 Farewell ! 'tis mine to prove 
 Of blighted hopes the pain ; 
 
 But, O believe, I ne'er can love, 
 As I have lov'd, again : 
 
 Farewell ! 'tis thine to change. 
 
 Forget, be false, be free ; 
 But know, wherever thou shalt range, 
 
 That none can love like me. 
 
119 
 
 THE STAMMERER'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Ah ! think it not a light calamity 
 
 To be denied free converse with my kind, 
 
 To be debaiTed from man's true attribute, 
 
 The proper glorious privilege of Speech. 
 
 Hast ever seen an eagle chain'd to earth ? 
 
 A restless panther in his cage immured ? 
 
 A swift trout by the wily fisher cliecked ? 
 
 A wild bird hopeless strain its broken wing ? 
 
 Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, 
 
 Some undefined and horrid incubus 
 
 Press down the very soul, — and paralyse 
 
 The limbs in their imaginary flight 
 
 From shadowy terrors in unhallowed sleep ? 
 
 Hast ever known the sudden icy chill 
 
 Of dreary disappointment, as it dashes 
 
 The sweet cup of anticipated bliss 
 
 From the parched lips of long-enduring hope 
 
120 THE STAMMERERS COMPLAINT. 
 
 Then thou canst picture, — aye, in sober truth, 
 In real, unexaggerated truth, — 
 The constant, galling, festering chain that binds 
 Captive my mute interpreter of thought ; 
 The seal of lead enstamp'd upon my lips, 
 The load of iron on my labouring chest. 
 The mocking demon that at ever}- step 
 Haunts me, — and spurs me on — to burst with 
 
 silence ! 
 Oh ! 'tis a sore affliction, to restrain, 
 From mere necessity, the glowing thought ; 
 To feel the fluent cataract of speech 
 Check'd by some wintry spell, and fi-ozen up, 
 Just as it's leaping from the precipice ! 
 To be the butt of wordy captious fools. 
 And see the sneering self-complacent smile 
 Of victor}- on their lips, when I might prove, 
 (But for some little word I dare not utter,) 
 That innate truth is not a specious lie : 
 To hear foul slander blast an honour'd name. 
 Yet breathe no fact to drive the fiend away : 
 To mark neglected virtue in the dust. 
 Yet have no word to pity or console : 
 
thp: stammerek's coMrLAixx. 1-21 
 
 To feel just indignation swell my breast. 
 
 Vet know the fountain of my wrath is sealed : 
 
 To see my fellow-mortals hurrying on 
 
 Down the steep cliff of crime, down to perdition, 
 
 Yet have no voice to warn, — no voice to win ! 
 
 'Tis to be mortified in every point. 
 Baffled at every turn of life, for want 
 Of that most common privilege of man. 
 The merest drug of gorged society, 
 Word s , — \\'i n dy w ords . 
 
 And is it not in truth, 
 A poison'd sting in every social joy, 
 A thorn that rankles in the writhing flesh, 
 A drop of gall in each domestic sweet. 
 An in'itating petty misery, 
 That I can never look on one I love. 
 And speak the fullness of my burning thoughts ? 
 That I can never w*ith unmingled joy 
 Meet a long-loved and long-expected friend, 
 Because I feel, but cannot vent my feelings, — 
 Because 1 know I ought, — but must not speak, 
 
 G 
 
1*22 THE STAiMMEIlER's COMPLAINT. 
 
 Because I mark his quick imj^atient eye 
 
 Striving in kindness to anticipate 
 
 The word of welcome, strangled in its birth ! 
 
 Is it not sorrow, while I truly love 
 
 Sweet social converse, to be forced to shun 
 
 The happy circle, from a nervous sense, 
 
 An agonizing poignant consciousness 
 
 That I must stand aloof, nor mingle with 
 
 The wise and good, in rational argument, 
 
 The young in brilliant quickness of reply, 
 
 Friendship's ingenuous interchange of mind, 
 
 Affection's open-hearted sympathies. 
 
 But feel myself an insolated being, 
 
 A very wilderness of widow'd thouglit ! 
 
 Aye, 'tis a bitter thing, — and not less bitter, 
 Because it is not reckoned in the ills, 
 " The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir 
 
 toj" 
 Yet the full ocean is but countless drops. 
 And misery is an aggregate of tears, 
 And life replete with small annoyances, 
 Is but one long protracted scene of sorrow. 
 
THE STAMMEKEIl'S COMPLAINT. 1-23 
 
 1 scarce would wonder, if a godless man, 
 (I name not liim whose hope is heavenward,) 
 A man, wdiom lying vanities hath scath'd 
 And harden'd from all fear, — if snch an one 
 By this tyrannical Argns goaded on 
 Were to be wearied of his very life, 
 And daily, hourly foiled in social converse, 
 By the slow simmering of disappointment 
 I3ecome a sour'd and apathetic being, 
 Were to feel ra])ture at the approach of death, 
 And long for his dark hope, —annihilation. 
 
 G 2 
 
1-24 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 " It is more blessed to give, than to receive. 
 
 There is indeed one crowning joy, 
 A j^leasure that can never cloy, 
 
 The bliss of doing good ; 
 And to it a reward is given 
 Most precious in the sight of heaven, 
 
 The tear of gratitude. 
 
 To raise the fallen from the dust, 
 To right the poor by judgment just, 
 
 The broken heart to heal, 
 Pour on the soul a stream as bright 
 Of satisfying deep delight 
 
 As happy spirits feel : 
 
 Yes, high archangels wing their way 
 Far from the golden founts of day 
 To scenes of earthly sadness, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. l'^- 
 
 That they may comfort the distress'd, — 
 And feel in blessing, deeply blest, 
 In gladd'ning, full of gladness. 
 
 The choicest happiness there is, 
 Godhead's essential perfect bliss, 
 
 Is born of doing good ; 
 He looks around, and sees the eye 
 Of all creation spangled by 
 
 The tear of gratitude ! 
 
 All hail, my country's noble sons, 
 Ye generous and unselfish ones, 
 
 Who foreign shores have trod, 
 Smit with the love of doing good, — 
 that my portion with you stood ! 
 
 For ye are like your God. 
 
 And lives there one, who never felt 
 His heart with zeal or kindness melt, 
 
 Nor ever shed a tear 
 Of sympathy for other's woe ? 
 If such a man exist below^ 
 
 A fiend in flesh is here. 
 
1*26 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 Brethren, unsatisfied with earth, 
 Who heave a sigh 'mid all your mirth, 
 
 And feel it empty jov, 
 Ye ma.y, — there only wants the will, — 
 Your dearest hope of bliss fulfil. 
 
 Of bliss without alloy : ^ 
 
 Most glad a thing it is and su'eet, 
 To sit, and learn at wisdom's feet, 
 
 And hear her dulcet voice ; 
 First in her comforts to be glad, 
 And then, to comfort other sad. 
 
 And teach them to rejoice ; 
 
 Hew sweet it is to link again 
 Estranged affection's broken chain, 
 
 And soothe the tortured breast; 
 To be the favoured one that may 
 Eecal to love hearts torn away. 
 
 And thus by both be blest. 
 
 Rich men and proud, who fain would finti 
 Some new indulgence for the mind. 
 Some scheme to gladden self, 
 
BENEVOLENCE. 1*27 
 
 If ye will feed the famish'd poor, 
 Happiness shall ye buy, far more 
 Than with a world of pelf : 
 
 Ye cannot see the tearful eye. 
 Ye cannot hear the grateful sigh, 
 
 Nor feel yourselves belov'd 
 By the pale children of distress 
 Whom ye have been the gods to bless, — 
 
 With hearts unthrilled, unmoved. 
 
 And you, who love your fellow-men, 
 And feel a sacred transport, when 
 
 Ye can that love fulfil, — 
 Go, rescue yonder tortured brute, 
 Its gratitude indeed is mute. 
 
 But, oh ! it loves you still. 
 
 Children of science, who delight 
 To track out wisdom's beauty bright 
 
 In earth, or sea, or sky, — 
 While nature's lovely face you scan. 
 Go, seek and save some erring man, 
 
 And set his hope on high. 
 
128 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 But still reflect that all the good 
 Ye do, demands your gratitude, 
 
 For 'tis a heavenly boon, 
 That should for its own sake be sought, 
 Though to itself is kindly brought 
 
 A blessing sweet and soon : 
 
 It is re^\'ard to imitate. 
 
 In comforting the desolate, 
 
 That gracious One who stood 
 A ransom for a ruined world. 
 And still, himself to ruin hmi'd, 
 
 Found evil for his good. 
 
 And what an argument for pray'r 
 Hath yearning Mercy written there, 
 
 For if indeed " to give 
 Is blessed rather than the gift" — 
 Go thou, to heaven the voice uplift, 
 
 And then thou must receive. 
 
1-29 
 
 A CABINET OF FOSSILS. 
 
 Come, and behold with curious eye 
 These records of a world gone by, 
 These tell-tales of the youth of time, — 
 When changes, sudden, vast, sublime, 
 (From chaos, and fair order's birth, 
 To the last flood that drowned the earth ,- 
 Shattered the crust of this young world, 
 Into the seas its mountains hurl'd, 
 And upon boisterous surges strong 
 Bore the broad ruins far along 
 To pave old ocean's shingly bed, 
 While bursting upwards in their stead 
 The lowest granites towering rose 
 To pierce the clouds with crested sno\\ s. 
 Where future Apennine or Alp 
 Bared to high heav'n its icy scalp. 
 
 Look on these coins of kingdoms old, 
 These medals of a broken mould : 
 
 G 5 
 
130 A CABINET OF FOSSILS. 
 
 These corals in the green hill-side, 
 These fruits and flowers beneath the tide. 
 These struggling flies, in amber found, 
 These huge pine-forests underground. 
 These flint sea-eggs, with curious bosses. 
 These fibred ferns, and fruited mosses 
 Lying as in water spread, 
 And stone-struck by some Gorgon's head. 
 The^ chambers of this graceful shell, 
 So delicately formed, — so well, 
 None can declare what years have jDast 
 Since life hath tenanted it last. 
 What countless centuries have flown 
 Since age hath made the shell a stone : 
 Gaze with me on those jointed stems, 
 A living plant of starry gems, 
 And on that sea-flower, light and fair, 
 Which shoots its leaves in agate there : 
 Beliold these giant ribs in stone 
 Of mighty monsters, long unknown. 
 That in some antemundane flood 
 Wallow' d on continents of mud, 
 A lizard race, but well for man. 
 Dead long before his day began, 
 
A CABINET OF FOSSILS. 131 
 
 Monsters, through providence extinctj 
 That crocodiles to fishes link'd ; 
 And shreds of other forms beside 
 That sported in the yeasty tide, 
 Or flai^ping far with dragon-wing 
 On the slow tortoise wont to spring, 
 Or ambush'd in the rushes rank 
 Watch'd the dull mammoth on the bank, 
 Or lov'd the green and silent deep. 
 Or on the coral-bank to sleep, 
 Where many a rood, in passive strength, 
 The scaly reptiles lay at length. 
 
 For there are wonders, wondrous strange, 
 To those who will through nature range, 
 And use the mind, and clear the eye, 
 And let instruction not pass by: 
 There are deep thoughts of tranquil j oy 
 For those who thus their hearts employ, 
 And trace the wise design that lurks 
 In holy nature's meanest works, 
 And by the torch of truth discern 
 The happy lessons good men learn : 
 
132 A CABINET OF FOSSILS. 
 
 O there are pleasures, sweet and new, 
 To those who thus creation view. 
 And as on this wide world they look, 
 Regard it as one mighty book. 
 Inscribed within, before, behind, 
 With workings of the Master-mind ; 
 Ray'd with that wisdom, which excels 
 In framing worlds, — or fretting shells, — 
 Filled with that mercy, which delights 
 In blessing men, — or guiding mites, — 
 With silent deep benevolence. 
 With hidden mild Omnipotence, 
 With order's everlasting laws, 
 With seen effect, and secret cause. 
 Justice and truth in all things rife. 
 Filling the world with love and life, 
 And teaching from creation round 
 How good the God of all is found. 
 His handiwork how vast, how kind. 
 How prearrang'd by clearest mind, 
 How glorious in his own estate. 
 And in his smallest works, how great ! 
 
133 
 
 THE MAST OF THE VICTORY. 
 
 EALI.AD ; lOUXDED OX AN AXECi:)OTE HERE I^E'JAI I.TD. 
 
 PART L 
 
 Nine years the good ship's gallant mast 
 
 Encountered stoiTn and battle, 
 Stood firm and fast against the blast, 
 
 And grape-shots' iron rattle : 
 
 And still, though lightning, ball, and pike, 
 
 Had stricken oft, and scor'd her. 
 The Victory could never strike, — 
 
 For Nelson was aboard her ! 
 
 High in the air waved proudly there 
 
 Old England's flag of glory,— 
 WTiile see ! below the broad decks flow, 
 
 With streaming slaughter gory ; 
 
134 THE MAST OF THE VICTORY. 
 
 Each thundering gun is robed in dun, 
 
 That broadside was a beauty, — 
 Plip, hip, hurrah ! the battle's won. 
 Hip, hip, hurrah ! each man has done 
 This day a sailor's duty. 
 
 But, woesome lot ! a coward shot 
 
 Struck Nelson as he vanquish'd, 
 And Britain in her griefs forgot 
 Her glories, where her son was not, — 
 Her lion-heart was anguish'd. 
 
 For hit at last, against that mast 
 
 The hero, faintly lying. 
 Felt the cold breath of nearing death, 
 
 And knew that he was dying. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 And past is many a weary day, 
 Smce that dark glorious hour. 
 
 And half the mast was stow'd away 
 In Windsor's roval tower ; 
 
THE MAST OF THE VICTORY. I;i5 
 
 But three feet good of that old wood 
 
 So scarr'd in war, and rotten, 
 Was thrown aside, unknown its pride, 
 
 Its honours all forgotten ; 
 
 When, as in shade the block was laid, 
 
 Two robins, perching on it, 
 Thought that place best to build a nest, 
 
 They plann'd it, and have done it : 
 
 The splinter'd spot which lodg'd a shot 
 
 Is lined with moss and feather. 
 And chiii^ing loud, a callow brood 
 
 Are nestling up together : 
 
 How full of bliss, — how peaceful is 
 
 That spot the soft nest caging. 
 Where war's alarms, and blood-stain'd arms 
 
 Were once around it raging ! 
 
 And so in sooth it is a truth 
 
 That \\'here the heart is stricken, 
 
 Sweeter at last, for perils past 
 That us'd the soul to sicken, 
 
1-36 THE MAST OF THE VICTORY. 
 
 Comes a soft calm, with healing balm 
 Where sorrow deeply smarted, 
 
 And peace with strength is sent at length 
 To bless the broken-hearted. 
 
137 
 
 AX ENQUIRY CON'CERXIXG THE SOULS 
 OF BRUTES. 
 
 •• IXCERTUS ERRO PER LOCA DEVIA. 
 
 Are these then made in vain ? is man alone 
 
 Of all the marvels of creative love 
 
 B)est with a scintillation of His essence, 
 
 The heavenly spark of reasonable soul ? 
 
 And hath not yon sagacious dog, that finds 
 
 A meaning in the shepherd's idiot face, 
 
 Or the huge elephant, that lends his strength 
 
 To drag the stranded galley to the shore. 
 
 And strives with emulative pride to excel 
 
 The mindless crowd of slaves that toils beside 
 
 him, 
 Or the young generous war-horse, wdien he sniffs 
 The distant field of blood, and quick and shrill 
 Neighing for joy, instils a desperate courage 
 Into the veteran trooper's quailing heart, — 
 
138 AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING 
 
 Have the}- not all an evidence of soul 
 
 (Of soul, the proper attribute of man,) 
 
 The same in kind, though meaner in degree ? 
 
 Why should not that which hath been, — be for 
 
 ever ? 
 And death, — O can it be annihilation ? 
 No, — though the stolid atheist fondly clings 
 To that last hope, how kindred to despair ; 
 No, — 'tis the struggling spirit's hour of joy, 
 The glad emancipation of the soul. 
 The moment when the cumbrous fetters drop, 
 And the bright spirit wings its way to heaven ! 
 
 To say that God annihilated aught 
 Were to declare that in an unwise horn- 
 He plann'd and made somewhat superfluous : 
 Why should not the mysterious life, that dwells 
 In reptiles as in man, and shows itself 
 In memory, gratitude, love, hate, and pride, 
 Still energize, and be, though death may crush 
 Yon frugal ant, or thoughtless butterfly, 
 Or with the simoom's pestilential gale 
 Strike down the patient camel in the desert r 
 
THE SOULS OF BRUTES. 139 
 
 There is one cliain of intellectual soul, 
 In many links and various grades, throughout 
 The scale of nature ; from the climax bright 
 The first great Cause of all. Spirit supreme, 
 Incomprehensible, and unconfni'd. 
 To high archangels blazing near the throne, 
 Seraphim, cherubim, virtues, aids, and powers, 
 All capable of perfection in their kind ; — 
 To man, as holy from his Maker's hand 
 He stood, in possible excellence complete, 
 (Man, who is destin'd now to brighter glories, 
 As nearer to the present God, in One 
 His Lord and substitute, — than angels reach ;) 
 Then man as fall'n, vrith every varied shade 
 Of character and capability, 
 From him who reads his title to the skies, 
 Or grasps with giant-mind all nature's wonders, 
 Down to the monster shaped in human form, 
 Mm'derer, slavering fool, or blood-stained savage : 
 Then to the prudent elephant, the dog 
 Half-humaniz'd, the docile Arab horse, 
 The social beaver, and contriving fox, 
 The parrot, quick in pertinent reply, 
 
140 AN EXQUillY CONCERNING 
 
 The kind-afFectioned seal, and j)atnot bee, 
 
 The merchant-storing ant, and wintering swallow, 
 
 With all those other palpable emanations 
 
 And energies of one eternal mind 
 
 Pervading, and instructing all that live, 
 
 Down to the sentient grass, and shrinking clay. 
 
 In truth, 1 see not why the breath of life. 
 
 Thus omnipresent and upholding all. 
 
 Should not return to Him, and be immortal, 
 
 (I dare not say the same) in some glad state 
 
 Originally destin'd for creation. 
 
 As well from brutish bodies, as from man. 
 
 The uncertain glimmer of analogy 
 
 Suggests the thought, and reasou.'s shrewder guess ; 
 
 Yet revelation whispers nought but this, 
 
 " Our Father careth when a sparrow dies," 
 
 And that " the spirit of a brute descends" 
 
 As to some secret and preserving Hades. 
 
 But for some better life, in what strange sort 
 Were justice, mixed with mercy, dealt to these ? — 
 Innocent slaves of sordid guilty man. 
 Poor unthank'd drudges, toiling to his will, 
 
THE SOULS OF IJRUTES. 141 
 
 Pampered in youth, and liaply starv'd in age, 
 Obedient, faithful, gentle, though the spur 
 Wantonly cruel, or unsparing thong 
 Weal your galFd hides, or your strain'd sinews 
 
 crack 
 Beneath the cruslnng load, — what recompence 
 Can He who gave you being, render you 
 If in the rank full harvest of your griefs 
 Ve sink annihilated, to the shame 
 Of government unequal ? — In that day 
 When crime is sentenced, shall the cruel heart 
 Boast uncondemn'd, because no tortured brute 
 Stands there accusing ? shall the embodied deeds 
 Of man not follow him, nor the rescued fly 
 Bear its kind witness to the saving hand : 
 Shall the mild Brahmin stand in equal sin 
 Regarding nature's menials, with the wretch 
 Who flays the moaning Abyssinian ox. 
 Or roasts the living bird, or flogs to death 
 The famishing pointer ? — and must these again. 
 These poor unguilty uncomplaining victims 
 Have no reward for life with its sharp pains ? — 
 They have my sufli-age : Nineveh was spared, 
 
142 AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING 
 
 Though Jonah prophesied its doom, for sal^e 
 
 Of six-score thousand infants, and " much cattle ;" 
 
 And space is wide enough, for every grain 
 
 Of the broad sands that curb our swelling seas 
 
 Each separate in its sphere to stand apart 
 
 As far as sun from sun: there lacks not room. 
 
 Nor time, nor care, where all is infinite : 
 
 And still I doubt : it is a Gordian knot, 
 
 A dark deep riddle, rich with curious thoughts ; 
 
 Yet hear me tell a trivial incident, 
 
 And draw thine own conclusion from my tale. 
 
 Paris kept holiday ; a merrier sight 
 
 The cro\vded Champs Elysees never saw : 
 
 Loud pealing laughter, songs, and flageolets 
 
 And giddy dances 'neath the shadowing elms, 
 
 Green vistas thronged with thoughtless multitudes, 
 
 Traitorous j^rocessions, frivolous pursuits, 
 
 And pleasures full of sin, — the loud '^ hurra ! " 
 
 And fierce enthusiastic " Vive la nation !" — 
 
 Were these thy ways and works, O godlike man, 
 
 Monoj^olist of mind, great p^itentee 
 
 Of truth, and sense, and reasonable soul ? — 
 
THE SOULS 01' r,RrTi-:s. 143 
 
 My lieart \vas sick with gaiety ; nor less, 
 
 When (sad, sad contrast to the sensual scene) 
 
 1 marked a single hearse through the dense crowd 
 
 Move on its noiseless melancholy way : 
 
 The blazing sun half ([uencli'd it with his beams, 
 
 And show'd it but more sorrowful : I gaz'd, 
 
 And gaz'd \^ith wonder that no feeling heart 
 
 No solitary man followed to note 
 
 The spot where poor mortality must sleep : 
 
 x\las ! it was a friendless child of sorrow, 
 
 That stole unheeded to the house of Ceath ! 
 
 My heart beat strong with sympathy, and loath'd 
 
 The noisy follies that vrere buzzing round me, 
 
 And I resolv'd to v>atch him to his grave, 
 
 And give a man his fellow-sinner's tear : 
 
 I left the laughing crowd, and (piickly gain'd 
 
 That dreary hearse, and found, — he was not 
 
 friendless ! 
 Yes, there was one, one only, faithful found 
 To that forgotten wanderer, — his dog .' 
 And there, with measured step, and drooping head, 
 And tearful eye, paced on the stricken mourner. 
 Yes, 1 remember how my bosom ached 
 
144 AN ENQUIIIY, &C. 
 
 To see its sensible face look up to mine 
 As in confiding sympathy, — and howl : 
 Yes, I can never forget what grief unfeign'd, 
 What true love, and unselfish gratitude, 
 That poor, bereav'd, and soulless dog betray'd. 
 
 Ah, give me, give me such a friend, I cried ; 
 Yon myriad fools and knaves in human guise 
 Compar'd with thee, poor cur, are vain and worth 
 
 less. 
 While man, who claims a soul exclusively. 
 Is sliam'd by yonder " mere machine," — a dog ! 
 
 '' EQL'IDEM CREDO UUIA SIT DIVIXITUS 1T,I.TS 
 
 iXGE>riu>r," — Vino. 
 
145 
 
 THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER. 
 
 A LESSOX OF LIFE. 
 
 The scene was bathed in beauty rare, 
 For Alpine grandeur toppled there, 
 
 With emerald spots between, 
 A summer-evening's blush of rose 
 All faintly warmed the crested snows 
 
 And tinged the vallies green ; 
 
 Night gloom'd apace, and dark on high 
 The thousand banners of the sky 
 
 Their awful width unfurl'd, 
 Veiling Mont Blanc's majestic brow, 
 That seem'd among its cloud-wrai:)t snow, 
 
 The ghost of some dead world : 
 
146 THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER. 
 
 When PieiTe the hunter cheerly went 
 To scale the Catton's battlement 
 
 Before the peep of day ; 
 He took his rifle, pole, and rope. 
 His heart and eyes alight with hope, 
 
 He hasted on his way. 
 
 He cross'd the vale, he hurried on. 
 He forded the cold Arveron, 
 
 The first rough teiTace gain'd, 
 Threaded the fir- wood's gloomy belt. 
 And trod the snows that never melt. 
 
 And to the summit strained. 
 
 Over the top, as he knew well, 
 Beyond the glacier in the dell 
 
 A herd of chamois slept, 
 So down the other dreary side, 
 With cautious tread, or careless slide, 
 
 He bounded, or he crept. 
 
 And now he nears the chasmed ice ; 
 He stoops to leap, — and in a trice, 
 
THE CHAMOIS-HUNTEK. 147 
 
 His foot hath slipp'd, — O heaven ! 
 He hath leapt in, and down he falls 
 Between those blue tremendous walls, 
 
 Standing asunder riven. 
 
 But quick his clutching nervous grasp 
 Contrives a jutting crag to clasp, 
 
 And thus he hangs in air ; — 
 O moment of exulting bliss ! 
 Yet hope so nearly hopeless is 
 
 Twin -brother to despair. 
 
 He look'd beneath, — a homble doom ! 
 Some thousand yards of deepening gloom. 
 
 Where he must drop to die ! 
 He look'd above, and many a rood 
 Upright the frozen ramparts stood 
 
 Around a speck of sky. 
 
 Fifteen long dreadful hours he hung, 
 And often by strong breezes swung 
 
 His fainting body twists. 
 Scarce can he cling one moment more, 
 
 H -2 
 
148 THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER. 
 
 His half-dead hands are ice, and sore 
 His burning- bursting wrists ; 
 
 His head grows dizzy, — he must drop, 
 He half resolves, — but stop, O stop, 
 
 Hold on to the last spasm. 
 Never in life give up your hope, — 
 Behold, behold a friendly rope 
 
 Is dropping down the chasm ! 
 
 They call thee, Pierre, — see, see them here, 
 Thy gathered neighbours far and near, 
 
 Be cool, man, hold on fast : 
 And so from out that terrible place. 
 With death's pale paint upon his face 
 
 They drew him up at last. 
 
 And he came home an altered man. 
 For many han-owing terrors ran 
 
 Through his poor heart that day ; 
 He thought how all through life, though young, 
 Upon a thread, a hair, he hung, 
 
 Over a gulf midway : 
 
THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER. 149 
 
 He thought what fear it were to fall 
 Into the pit that swallows all, 
 
 Unwiiig'd with hope and love ; 
 And when the succour came at last, 
 O then he learnt how firm and fast 
 
 Was his best Friend above. 
 
150 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 I STRAYED at evening to a sylvan scene 
 
 Dimpling with nature's smile the stem old 
 mountain, 
 A shady dingle, quiet, cool, and green, 
 
 Where the moss'd rock poured forth its natural 
 fountain, 
 And hazels clustered there, with fern between, 
 And feathery meadow-sweet shed perfume round, 
 And the pink crocus pierc'd the jewelled ground; 
 
 Then was 1 calm and happy : for the voice 
 Of nightingales unseen in tremulous lays 
 
 Taught me with innocent gladness to rejoice, 
 And tuned my spirit to unformal praise : 
 So, among silvered moths, and closing flowers, 
 Gambolling hares, and rooks returning home, 
 And strong- win g'd chafers setting out to roam, 
 In careless peace I passed the soothing hours. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 151 
 
 ART. 
 
 The massy fane of avcliitecture olden, 
 Or fretted minarets of marble white, 
 Or ^loorish arabesque, begemm'd and golden, 
 Or porcelain Pagoda, tipp'd with light. 
 Or high-spann'd arches, — were a noble sight : 
 Xor less yon gallant ship, that treads the waves 
 In a triumphant silence of delight, 
 
 Jjike some huge swan, with its fair wings un- 
 furl'd, 
 Whose curved sides the laughing water laves, 
 
 Bearing it buoyant o'er the liquid world : 
 Xor less yon silken monster of the sky 
 
 Around whose wicker car the clouds are curl'd, 
 Helping undaunted man to scale on high 
 X'earer the sun than eagles dare to fly ; — 
 Thy trophies these, — still but a modest part 
 Of thy grand conquests, wonder-working Art. 
 
152 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 AN IXVOCATIOK. 
 
 Come to my heart of hearts, thou radiant face ! 
 
 So shall I gaze for ever on thy fairness ; 
 Thine eyes are smiling stars, and holy grace 
 
 Blossoms thy cheek with exotic rareness, 
 Trelissing it with jasmin-woven lace : 
 
 Come, laughing maid, — yet in thy laughter calm, 
 Be this thy home. 
 Fair cherub, come. 
 
 Solace my days with thy luxurious balm, 
 And hover o'er my nightly couch, sweet dove, 
 So shall I live in joy, by living in thy love ! 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 153 
 
 MALICE. 
 
 A DEPRECATIOX. 
 
 White Devil ! tuni from me thy louring eye, 
 
 Let thy lean lips unlearn its bitter smile, 
 Down thine own throat I force its still-born lie, 
 
 And teach thee to digest it in thy bile, — 
 
 But I will merrily mock at thee the while : 
 Such venom cannot harm me ; for I sit 
 
 On a fair hill of name, and power, and purse, 
 Too high for any shaft of thine to hit. 
 
 Beyond the petty reaching of thy curse, 
 Strong in good purpose, praise, and pregnant wit : 
 
 Husband thy hate for toads of thine own level, 
 I breathe an atmosphere too rare for thee : 
 
 Back to thy trencher at the witches' revel. 
 Too long they wait thy goodly company : 
 
 Yet know thou this, — I'll crush thee, sorry devil, 
 If ever again thou wag thy tongue at me. 
 
 H o 
 
154 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 THE HAPPY HOME. 
 
 O NAME for comfort, refuge, hope, and peace, 
 O spot by gratitude and memory blest! 
 
 AVhere as in brighter worlds " the wicked cease 
 From troubling, and the weary are at rest," 
 And unfledg'd loves and graces have their nest ; 
 
 How brightly here the various virtues shine, 
 And nothing said or done is seen amiss ; 
 
 While sweet affections every heart entwine. 
 And differing tastes and talents all unite, 
 Like hues prismatic blending into white. 
 
 In charity to man, and love divine : 
 Thou little kingdom of serene delight, 
 
 Pleaven's nursery and foretaste ! O what bliss 
 
 Where earth to wearied men can give a home 
 like this. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 1-35 
 
 THE WRETCHED HOME. 
 
 Scene of disunion, bickering, and strife, 
 
 What curse has made thy native blessings die r 
 Why do these broils embitter daily life, 
 
 And cold self-interest form the strongest tie ? 
 
 Hate, ill conceal'd, is flashing from the eye, 
 And mutter'd vengeance curls the pallid lip ; 
 
 What should be harmony is all at jar; — 
 Doubt and reserve love's timid blossoms nip, 
 
 And weaken nature's bonds to ropes of sand ; 
 
 While dull indifference takes the icy hand 
 (Oh chilling touch !) — of constrained fellowship : 
 
 What secret demon has such discord fann'd ? 
 What ill committed stirs this penal war, — 
 Or what omitted good ? — Alas ! that such things 
 are. 
 
156 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 THEORY. 
 
 JTow fair and facile seems that upland road, 
 
 Surely the mountain air is fresh and sweet, 
 And briskly shall I bear this mortal load 
 
 With well-brac'd sinews, and unweary feet ; 
 
 How^ dear my fellow-pilgrims oft to meet 
 O'ertaken, as to reach yon blest abode 
 
 We strive together, in glad hope to greet, 
 With angel friends and our approving God, 
 
 All that in life we once have lov'd so well, 
 So that we lov'd be worthy : her bright wings 
 My willing spirit plumes, and upward springs 
 
 Rejoicing, over crag, and fen, and fell. 
 And down, or up, the cliff's precipitous face. 
 To run or fly her buoyant happy race ! 
 
CONTKASTED SONNETS. 157 
 
 PRACTICE. 
 
 This body, — O the body of this death .' 
 Strive as thoa wilt, do all that mortal can. 
 This is the sum, a man is but a man. 
 
 And weak in error strangely wandereth 
 
 Down flowery lanes, with pain and peril fraught, 
 Conscious of what he doth, and what he ought. 
 
 Alas, — but wherefore ? — scarce my plaintive breath 
 Wafts its faint question to the listening sky, 
 
 When thus in answer some kind spirit saith : 
 " Man, thou art mean, altho' thine aim be high ; 
 
 '^ All matter hath one law, concentring strong 
 " To some attractive point, — and thy world'score 
 
 " Is the foul seat of hell, and pain, and wrong : 
 " Yet courage, man ! the strife shall soon be o'er, 
 
 ^' And that poor leprous husk, sore travailling long, 
 " Shall yet cast off its death in second birth, 
 " And flame anew a heavenly centred earth !" 
 
155 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 RICHES. 
 
 Heaps upon heaps, — hillocks of yellow gold, 
 Jewels, and hanging silks, and piled-up plate, 
 
 And marble groups in beauty's choicest mould, 
 And viands rare, and odours delicate. 
 
 And art and nature, in divinest works, 
 
 Swell the full pomp of my triumphant state 
 With all that makes a mortal glad and great ; 
 
 — Ah no, not glad ; within my secret heart 
 
 The dreadful knowledge, like a death- worm 
 lurks. 
 
 That all this dream of life must soon depart ; 
 And the hot curse of talents misapplied 
 
 Blisters my conscience with its burning smart, 
 So that I long to fling my wealth aside : 
 For my poor soul, when its rich mate hath died, 
 Must lie with Dives, spoiled of all its pride. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 159 
 
 POVERTY. 
 
 The sun is bright and glad, but not for me. 
 
 My heart is dead to all but pain and sorrow, 
 Nor care nor hope have I in all I see. 
 
 Save from the fear that I may starve to-morrow : 
 And eagerly I seek uncertain toil, 
 
 Leaving my sinews in the thankless fuiTow, 
 To drain a scanty pittance from the soil, 
 While my life's lamp burns dim for lack of oil. 
 
 Alas, for you, poor famishing patient wife, 
 And pale-faced little ones ! your feeble cries 
 
 Torture my soul : worse than a blank is life 
 Beggar'd of all that makes that life a prize : 
 
 Yet one thing cheers me, — is not life the door 
 
 To that rich world where no one can be poor r 
 
160 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 A GLORIOUS vision : as I walk'd at noon 
 
 The children of the sun came thronging round 
 me, 
 In shining robes and diamond-studded shoon ; 
 And they did wing me up with them, and soon, 
 
 In abright dome of wondrous width I found me, 
 Set all with beautiful eyes, whose wizard rays. 
 
 Shed on my soul, in strong enchantment bound 
 me ; 
 And so I look'd and look'd with dazzled gaze, 
 
 Until my spirit drank in so much light 
 That I grew like the sons of that glad place. 
 
 Transparent, lovely, pure, serene, and bright ; 
 Then did they call me brother : and there grew 
 
 Swift from my sides broad pinions gold and 
 white, 
 And with that happy flock a brilliant thing I flew ! 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 1()1 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 A TERRIBLE dream : I lay at dead of night 
 
 Tortured by some vague fear ; it seem'd at first 
 Like a small ink-spot on the ceiling white, 
 To a black bubble swelling in my sight, 
 
 And then it grew to a balloon, and burst ; 
 Then was I drown'd, as with an ebon stream, 
 
 And those dark waves quench 'd all mine inward 
 light, 
 That in my saturated mind no gleam 
 
 Remain'd of beauty, peace, or love, or right : 
 I was a spirit of darkness ! — yet I knew 
 
 I could not thus be left ; it was but a dream ; 
 Still felt I full of hoiTor ; for a crew 
 
 Of shadowy its hemmed-in my harried mind, 
 
 And all my dread was waking mad and blind. 
 
162 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill, 
 
 To raise and purify the grovelling soul, 
 To warm with generous heat the selfish will, 
 
 To conquer passion with a mild controul, 
 And the whole man with nobler thoughts to fill, 
 
 These are thine aims, O pure unearthly power, 
 These are thine influences ; and therefore those 
 Whose wings are clogged with evil, are thy foes, 
 
 And therefore these, who have thee for their 
 dower. 
 The widowed spirits with no portion here, 
 
 Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower : 
 For thine are pleasures, deep, and tried, and true. 
 
 Whether to read, or write, or think, or hear, 
 By the gross million spurn'd, and fed on by the 
 few. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 163 
 
 PROSE. 
 
 That the fine edge of intellect is dulled 
 
 And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure, 
 And the numb'd heart so deep in stupor lulled 
 
 That virtue's self is weak its love to lure, 
 
 But pride and lust keep all the gates secure, 
 This is thy fall, O man ; and therefore those 
 Whose aims are earthly, like pedestrian prose. 
 
 The selfish, useful, money-making plan, 
 Cold language of the desk, or quibbling bar, 
 
 Where in hard matter sinks ideal man : 
 Still, worldly teacher, be it from me far 
 
 Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band 
 Poetic all, though not so named by men, 
 Who have swayed royally the mighty pen. 
 
 And now as kings in prose on fame's clear sum- 
 mit stand. 
 
164 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, CONSTRAINED. 
 
 Gentle, but generous, modest, pure, and learned, 
 Ready to hear the fool, or teach the wise. 
 
 With gi'acious heart that all within him bunied 
 To wipe the tears from virtue's blessed eyes 
 And help again the struggling right to rise, 
 
 Such an one, like a god, have I discerned 
 Walking in goodness this polluted earth, 
 
 And cannot choose but love him : to my soul, 
 
 Sway'd irresistibly with sweet controul, 
 
 So rare and noble seems thy precious worth, 
 
 That the young fibres of my happier heart. 
 Like tendrils to the sun, are stretching forth 
 To twine around thy fragrant excellence, 
 
 O child of love : — so dear to me thou art. 
 So coveted by me thy good influence ! 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 165 
 
 ENMITY, COMPELLED. 
 
 Coarse, vain, and vulgar, ignorant, and mean, 
 Sensual and sordid in each hope and aim, 
 
 Selfish in appetite, and basely keen 
 
 In tracking out gross pleasure's guilty game 
 With eager eye, and bad heart all on flame. 
 
 Such an one, like an Afreet, have I seen 
 
 Shedding o'er this fair world his balefire light, 
 
 And can I love him ? — far be from my thought 
 
 To show not such the charities I ought, — 
 But from his converse should I reap delight, 
 
 Xor bid the tender sproutings of my mind 
 
 Shrink from his evil, as from bane and blight, 
 Nor back upon themselves my feelings roll ?— 
 
 O moral monster, loveless and unkind, 
 
 Thou art as Avormwood to mv secret soul ! 
 
166 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 PHILANTHROPIC. 
 
 Come near me, friends and brolliers ; hem me 
 round 
 
 With the dear faces of my fellow-men, 
 The music of your tongues with magic sound 
 
 Shall cheer my heart and make me happiest 
 then ; 
 My soul yearns over you : the sitting hen 
 
 Cowers not more fondly o'er her callow brood 
 Than in most kind excuse of all your ill, 
 
 My heart is Avarm and patient for your good ; 
 
 that my power were measured by my will ! 
 Then would I bless you as I love you still, 
 
 Forgiving, as I trust to be forgiven : 
 Here, vilest of my kind, take hand and heart, 
 
 1 also am a man — 'tis all thou art. 
 
 An eiTing needy pensioner of heaven. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 167 
 
 MISANTHROPIC. 
 
 How long am I to smell this tainted air, 
 
 And in a pest-house draw my daily breath. — 
 Where nothing but the sordid fear of death 
 Restrains from grander guilt than cowards dare r 
 O loathsome, despicable, petty race, 
 
 Low counterfeits of devils, villanous men, 
 Sooner than learn to love a human face, 
 
 I'll make my home in the hyaena's den, 
 
 Or live with newts and bull-frogs on the fen 
 These at the least are honest ; — but for man, 
 The best will cheat and use you if he can ; 
 
 The best is only varnished o'er with good ; 
 Subtle for self, for damning mammon keen. 
 Cruel, luxurious, treacherous, proud and mean,— 
 
 Great Justice, haste to crush the viper's brood 
 And I too am — a man ! — O wretched fate 
 To be the thing I scorn — more than I hate. 
 
168 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 Most tranquil, innocent, and happy life, 
 
 Full of the holy joy chaste nature yields, 
 Redeem'd from care, and sin, and the hot strife 
 That rings around the smok'd unwholesome dome 
 
 Where mighty Mammon his black sceptre 
 wields, — 
 Here let me rest in humble cottage home, 
 
 Here let me labour in the enamell'd fields: 
 How pleasant in these ancient woods to roam 
 AVith kind-eyed friend, or kindly-teaching book ; 
 
 Or the fresh gallop on the dew-dropt heath. 
 Or at fair eventide with feathered hook 
 To strike the swift trout in the shallow^ brook, 
 
 Or in the bower to twine the jasmin wreath, 
 Or at the earliest blush of summer morn 
 
 To trim the bed, or turn the new-mown hay. 
 Or pick the perfum'd hop, or reap the golden corn ! 
 
 So should my peaceful life all smoothly glide 
 away. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 16*2 
 
 TOWx\. 
 
 Enough of lanes, and trees, and vallies green, 
 Enough of briary wood, and hot chalk-down, 
 
 1 hate the startling quiet of the scene. 
 
 And long to hear the gay glad hum of town : 
 My garden be the garden of the Graces, 
 
 Ilow'rs full of smiles, with fashion for their queen, 
 My pleasant fields be crowds of joyous faces, 
 
 The brilliant rout, the concert, and the ball, — 
 
 These be my joys in endless carnival ! 
 For I do loathe that sickening solitude. 
 
 That childish hunting-up of flies and weeds, 
 Or worse, the company of rustics rude. 
 
 Whose only hopes are bound in clods and seeds : 
 Out on it ! let me live in town delight. 
 And for your tedious country-mornings bright 
 Give me gay London with its noon and night. 
 
170 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 WORLDLY AND AVEALTHY. 
 
 Idolator of gold, I love thee not, 
 
 The orbits of our hearts are sphered afar, 
 
 In lieu of tuneful sympathies, I wot, 
 
 My thoughts and thine are all at utter jar, 
 
 Because thou judgest by what men have got. 
 Heeding but lightly what they do, or are : 
 Alas, for thee ! this lust of gold shall mar. 
 
 Like leprous stains, the tissue of thy lot, 
 
 And drain the natural moisture from thy heart: 
 Alas ! thou reckest not how poor thou art, 
 
 Weigh'd in the balances of truth, how vain : 
 O wrecking mariner, fling out thy freight. 
 Or founder with the heavily sinking weight ; 
 
 No longer dote upon thy treasured gain. 
 
 Or quick, and sure to come, the hour shall be. 
 When MENE tekel shall be sentenced thee. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 171 
 
 WISE AND WORTHY. 
 
 Rather be thou my counsellor and friend, 
 
 Good man though poor, whose treasure with 
 thy heart 
 
 Is stored and set upon that better part, 
 Choice of thy wisdom, without waste or end, 
 And full of profits that to pleasures tend : 
 
 How cheerful is thy face, how glad thou art ! 
 Using the world with all its bounteous store 
 
 Of richest blessings, comforts, loves, and joys. 
 Which thine all-healthy hunger prizeth more 
 
 Than the gorg'd fool whom sinful surfeit cloys ; 
 Still, not forgetful of thy nobler self, 
 
 The breadth divine within thee, — but with care 
 
 Cherishing the faint spark that glimmereth there, 
 Nor by Brazilian slavery to pelf 
 
 Plunging thy taper into poison'd air. 
 
 I -i 
 
17*2 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 LIBERALITY. 
 
 Give while tliou canst, it is a godlike thing, 
 
 Give what thou canst, thou shalt not find it loss, 
 Yea, sell and give, much gain such barteries bring. 
 Yea, all thou hast, and get fine gold for dross : 
 Still, see thou scatter wisely ; for to fling 
 
 Good seed on rocks, or sands, or thorny 
 ground. 
 Were not to copy Him, whose generous cross 
 Hath this poor world with rich salvation 
 
 crown'd. 
 And, when thou look'st on woes and want 
 around. 
 Knowing that God hath lent thee all thy wealth, 
 
 That better it is to give than to receive, 
 That riches cannot buy thee joy nor health, — 
 Why hinder thine own welfare ? thousands grieve 
 Whom if thy pitying hand will but relieve, 
 It shall for thine own wear the robe of gladness 
 weave. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 17o 
 
 MEANNESS. 
 
 Where vice is virtue, thou art still despis'd, 
 O petty loathsome love of hoarded pelf, 
 
 l^^v'n in the pit where all things vile are priz'd, 
 Still is there found in Lucifer himself 
 
 Spirit enough to hate thee, sordid thing : 
 
 Thank Heav'n ! I own in thee nor lot nor part; 
 
 And though to many a sin and folly cling 
 The worse weak fibres of my weedy heart, 
 
 A^et to thy withered lips and snake-like e3-e 
 My warmest welcome is, Depart, depart, — 
 For to my sense so foul and base thou art 
 
 1 v/ould not stoop to thee to reach the sky : 
 Aroint thee, filching hand, and heart of stone ! 
 Be this thy doom, with conscience left alone 
 Learn how like death thou art, unsated selfish 
 one. 
 
174 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 ANCIENT. 
 
 My sympathies are all with times of old, 
 I camiot live with things of yesterday, 
 Upstart, and flippant, foolish, weak, and gay, 
 
 But spirits cast in a severer mould. 
 
 Of solid worth, like elemental gold : 
 
 I love to wander o'er the shadowy past. 
 
 Dreaming of dynasties long swept away. 
 And seem to find myself almost the last 
 Of a time-honoured race, decaying fast : 
 
 For I can dote upon the rare antique. 
 Conjuring up what story it might tell, 
 
 The bronze, or bead, or coin, or quaint relique ; 
 And in a desert could delight to dwell 
 
 Among vast ruins, — Tadmor's stately halls, 
 
 Old Egypt's giant fanes, or Babel's mouldering 
 Avails. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 175 
 
 MODERN. 
 
 Behold, I stand upon a speck of earth 
 To work the \^'0^ks allotted me, — and die, 
 
 Glad among toils to snatch a little mirth. 
 
 And, when I must, mmmrmuring down to lie 
 
 In the same soil that gave me food and birth : 
 For all that went before me, what care I ? 
 The past, the future, —these are but a dream ; 
 
 I want the tangible good of present worth. 
 
 And heed not wisps of light that dance and gleam 
 Over the marshes of the foolish past: 
 JVe are a race the best, because the last. 
 
 Improving all, and happier day by day 
 
 To think our chosen lot hath not been cast 
 
 In those old puerile times, discreetly swept away. 
 
176 CONTRASTED SONNETS. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Throw me from this tall clift", — my wings are 
 strong, 
 
 The hurricane is raging fierce and high, 
 My spirit pants, and all in heat I long 
 
 To struggle upward to a purer sky. 
 
 And tread the clouds above me rolling by ; 
 Lo, thus into the buoyant air I leap 
 
 Confident, and exulting, at a bound. 
 Swifter than whirlwinds, happily to sweep 
 
 On fiery wing the reeling world around : 
 Off with my fetters ! — who shall hold me back ? 
 My path lies there, — the lightning's sudden 
 
 track. 
 O'er the blue concave of the fathomless deep, — 
 
 Thus can I spurn matter, and space, and time, 
 
 Soaring above the universe sublime. 
 
CONTRASTED SONNETS. 177 
 
 MATTER. 
 
 In the deep clay of yonder sluggish flood 
 The huge behemoth makes his ancient lair, 
 And with slow caution heavily wallows there, 
 
 Gloving above the stream, a mound of mud : 
 And near him, stretching to the river's edge 
 
 In dense dark grandeur, stands the silent wood, 
 Whose unpierc'd jungles, choked with rottinj 
 sedge, 
 
 Prison the damp air from the freshening breeze : 
 Lo ! the rhinoceros comes down this way 
 
 Thundering furiously on, — and snorting sees 
 The harmless monster at his awkward play, 
 
 And rushes on him from the crashing trees, — 
 A dreadful shock : as when the Titans hurl'd 
 Against high Jove the Himalayan w^orld. 
 
 1 o 
 
178 CONTRASTED SONNETS = 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 LIFE, O glorious ! sister-twin of light, 
 Essence of Godhead, energizing love, 
 
 Hail, gentle conqueror of dead cold night. 
 Hail, on the waters kindly-brooding dove ! 
 
 1 feel thee near me, in me : thy strange might 
 
 Flies through my bones like fire, — my heart 
 beats high 
 With thy glad presence ; pain and fear and care 
 
 Hide from the lightning laughter of mine eye ; 
 No dark unseasonable teiTors dare 
 
 Disturb me, revelling in the luxury. 
 The new-found luxury of life and health, 
 
 This blithesome elasticity of limb, 
 
 This pleasure, in which all my senses swim, 
 This deep outpouring of a creature's wealth ! 
 
C(JNTRASTED SONNETS. 179 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Ghastly and weak, O dreadful monarch Death, 
 With failing feet I near thy silent realm, 
 
 Upon my brain strikes chill thine icy breath, 
 My fluttering heart thy terrors overwhelm 
 
 Thou sullen pilot of life's crazy bark. 
 
 How treacherously thou puttest down the helm 
 Just where smooth eddies hide the sunken rock ; 
 
 While close behind follows the hungry shark 
 Snuffing his meal from far, swift with black tin 
 The foam dividing, — ha ! that sudden shock 
 
 Splits my frail skiff; upon the billows dark 
 
 A drowning wretch awhile struggling I float. 
 Till, just as I had hoped the wreck to win, 
 
 I feel thy bony fingers clutch my throat. 
 
180 
 
 ELLEN GRAY. 
 
 THE EXCUSE OF AX UNFORTT'KATE. 
 
 A STARLESS night, and bitter cold ; 
 The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd 
 
 Scudding before the blast, 
 And cheerlessly the frozen sleet 
 Adown the melancholy street 
 
 Swept onward thick and last ; 
 
 When crouched at an unfriendly door, 
 Faint, sick, and miserably poor, 
 
 A silent woman sate, 
 She might be young, and had been fair 
 But from her eye look'd out despair, 
 
 All dim and desolate. 
 
ELLEN GRAY. 1^1 
 
 Was I to pass her coldly by, 
 l^eaving her there to pine and die, 
 
 The live-long freezing night ? 
 The secret answer of my heart 
 Told me I had not done my part 
 
 In flinging her a mite ; 
 
 She look'd her thanks, — then droop'd her head ; 
 " Have you no friend, no home ?" I said : 
 
 " Get up, poor creature, come, 
 " You seem unhappy, faint, and weak, 
 " How can I serve or save you, — speak, 
 
 " Or whither help you home ?" 
 
 "' Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray 
 " Has had no friend this many a day, 
 
 " And, but that you seem kind, — 
 " She has not found the face of late 
 " That look'd on her in aught but hate, 
 
 " And still despairs to find : 
 
 " And for a home, — would I had none ! 
 " The home I have, a wicked one. 
 
182 ELLEN GRAY. 
 
 " They will not let me in, 
 " Till I can fee my jailor's hands 
 " With the vile tribute she demands, 
 
 " The wages of my sin : 
 
 " I see your goodness on me frown ; 
 *^ Yet hear the veriest wretch on town, 
 
 " While yet in life she may, 
 " Tell the sad story of her grief, — 
 *' Though heav'n alone can bring relief 
 
 " To guilty Ellen Gray. 
 
 " My mother died when I was born : 
 " And I was flung, a babe forlorn, 
 
 " Upon the workhouse floor ; 
 ^^ My father, — would I knew him not I 
 " A squalid thief, a reckless sot, 
 
 " — I dare not tell you more. 
 
 "' And I was bound an infant-slave, 
 *' With no one near to love, or save 
 
 *"' From cruel sordid men, 
 " A friendless, famish'd, factory child, 
 
ELLEN GRAY. 1 S3 
 
 '^ Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd, — 
 " Yet was I happy then ; 
 
 *' My heart was pure, my cheek was fair. 
 " Ah, would to God a cancer there 
 
 " Had eaten out its way ! 
 " For soon my tasker, dreaded man, 
 " With treacherous wiles and arts began 
 
 " To mark me for his prey. 
 
 " And month by month he vainly strove 
 *' To light the flame of lawless love 
 
 " In my most loathing breast ; 
 " Oh, how I fear'd and hated him, 
 *' So basely kind, so smoothly grim, 
 
 '' My teiTor, and my pest ! 
 
 *' Till one day, at that prison-mill, — 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 i^ 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
184 ELLEN GRAY. 
 
 " Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head ; 
 " I hv'd, — I died, a life of dread, 
 
 " Lest they should guess my shame : 
 " But weeks and months would pass away. 
 " And all too soon the bitter day 
 
 " Of wrath and ruin came ; 
 
 " I could not hide my alter'd form : 
 " Then on my head the fearful storm 
 
 ^' Of jibe and insult burst : 
 " Men only mocked me for my fate, 
 *' But women's scorn and women's hate 
 
 " Me, their poor sister, curst. 
 
 " O woman, had thy kindless face 
 '•' But gentler look'd on my disgrace, 
 
 " And heal'd the wounds it gave !— 
 " I was a drowning sinking wretch, 
 " Whom no one lov'd enough to stretch 
 
 " A finger out to save. 
 
 " They tore my baby from my heart, 
 " And lock'd it in some hole apart 
 " Where I could hear its cry, 
 
ELLEN GRAY. 1S5 
 
 " Such was the horrid poor-house law ; — 
 " Its httle throes I never saw, 
 " Although I heard it die ! 
 
 " Still the stone hearts that ruled the place 
 " Let me not kiss my darling's face, 
 
 '' My little darling dead ; 
 "01 was mad with rage and hate, 
 " And yet all sullenly I sate, 
 
 " And not a w^ord I said. 
 
 " I would not stay, I could not bear 
 " To breathe the same infected air 
 
 " That kill'd my precious child ; 
 " I watched my time, and fled away 
 " The livelong night, the livelong day, 
 
 " With fear and anguish wild : 
 
 " Till down upon a river's bank, 
 
 " Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank, 
 
 " And only long'd to die ; 
 " I had no hope, no home, no friend, 
 " Xo God ! — I sought but for an end 
 
 " To life and misery. 
 
186 ELLEN GRAY. 
 
 " Ah, lightly heed the righteous few, 
 " How little to themselves is due, 
 
 " But all things given to them ; 
 " Yet the unwise, because untaught, 
 " The wandering sheep, because unsought, 
 
 " They heartlessly condemn : 
 
 " And little can the untempted dream, 
 " While gliding smoothly on life's stream 
 
 " They keep the letter-laws, 
 " What they would be, if, tost like me 
 " Hopeless upon life's barren sea, 
 
 '' They knew how hunger gnaws- 
 
 " I was half-starved, I tried in vain 
 " To get me work my bread to gain ; 
 
 '^ Before me flew my shame ; 
 " Cold Charity put up her purse, 
 " And none look'd on me but to curse 
 
 " The child of evil fame. 
 
 " Alas, why need I count by links 
 
 " The heavy lengthening chain that sinks 
 
ELLEN GRAY. 187 
 
 " My heart, my soul, my all ? 
 '' I still was fair, though hope was dead, 
 " And so I sold myself for bread, 
 
 " And lived upon my fall : 
 
 " Now was I reckless, bold and bad, 
 " My love was hate, — I grew half-mad 
 
 " With thinking on my wrongs ; 
 " Disease, and pain, and giant-sin 
 " Rent body and soul, and rag'd within I 
 
 " Such meed to guilt belongs. 
 
 '•' And ^vhat I was, — such still am I ; 
 " Afraid to live, unfit to die, — 
 
 '^ And yet I hoped I might 
 " Meet my best friend and lover — Death 
 " In the fierce frowns and frozen breath 
 
 " Of this December night. 
 
 " My tale is told : my heart grows cold ; 
 " I cannot stir, — yet, — kind good sir, 
 
 " I know that you will stay, — 
 " And God is kinder e'en than you, — 
 
188 ELLEN GRAY. 
 
 '' Can He not look with pity too 
 " On wretched Ellen Gray ?" 
 
 Her eye was iix'd ; she said no more, 
 But propp'd against the cold street-door 
 
 She leaned her fainting head ; 
 One moment she looked up and smil'd, 
 Full of new hope, as Mercy's child, 
 
 — And the poor girl was dead. 
 
189 
 
 THE AFRICAN DESERT. 
 
 SYNOPSIS. 
 
 By contemplating a guilty death-bed, the mind is brought 
 to that state in which it can best picture the desohition of 
 luiture. — The desert. — Allusion to the fable of the cranes and 
 pigmies. — The contrast afforded by Surrounding countries. — 
 The omnipotent God. — ]\Ian regarded as an intruder on the 
 wastes of nature. — Exemplified by the journey and fate of a 
 caravan crossing the desert. — In detaiL — An African sunrise. 
 — Approach of the caravan. — Solitude. — The father and child. 
 — ^Mirage. — The Avell in sight. — The simoom. — The stillness 
 that succeeds. 
 
 Go, child of pity ! watch tlie sullen glare 
 That lights the haggard features of despair, 
 As upon dying guilt's distracted sight 
 Rise the black clouds of everlasting night ; 
 Drink in the fever'd eyeball's dismal ray, 
 And gaze again, — and turn not yet away, 
 Drink in its anguish, till thy heart and eye 
 Reel with the draught of that sad lethargy ; 
 
190 THE AFRICAN DESERT. 
 
 Till gloom with cliilling fears thy soul congeal. 
 And on thy bosom stamp her leaden seal, 
 Till Melancholy flaps her heavy wings 
 Above thy fancy's light imaginings, 
 And sorrow wraps thee in her sable shroud, 
 And ten'or in a gathering thunder-cloud ! 
 
 Go, call up darkness from his dread abode. 
 
 Bid desolation fling her curse abroad, 
 
 — Then gaze around on nature ! — ah, how drear, 
 
 How widow-like she sits in sadness here : 
 
 Lost are the glowing tints, the softening shades, 
 
 Her sunny meadows, and her greenwood glades ; 
 
 No grateful flow'r has gemm'd its mother-earth, 
 
 Rejoicing in the blessedness of birth ; 
 
 No blithesome lark has wak'd the drowsy day. 
 
 No sorrowing dews have wept themselves away: 
 
 Faded, — the smiles that dimpled in her vales ; 
 
 Scattered, the fragi'ance of the spicy gales 
 
 That dew'd her locks with odours, as they swept 
 
 The waving groves, or in the rose-bud slept ! 
 
 Is this the desert ? this the blighted plain 
 Where silence holds her melancholy reign, — 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT. 191 
 
 Where foot of daring mortal scarce hath trod, 
 But all around is solitude — and God, — 
 And where the sandy ^ billows overwhelm 
 All but young Fancy's visionary realm, 
 In which, beneath the red moon's sickly glance, 
 Fantastic forms prolong the midnight dance. 
 And pigmy warriors, - marshall'd on the plains, 
 Shout high defiance to the invading cranes ? 
 
 Regions of sorrow, — darkly have ye frown'd 
 
 Amidst a sunny world of smiles around : 
 
 Luxurious Persia, bower'd in rosy bloom. 
 
 Breathes the sweet air of Araby's perfume, 
 
 And where Italian suns in glory shine 
 
 To the green olive clings the tendrill'd vine ; 
 
 In yon soft bosom of Iberia's vales 
 
 The orange-blossom scents the lingering gales, 
 
 That waft its sweets to where Madeira's plain 
 
 With emerald beauty gems the western main : 
 
 ' " The sands roll onward in waves like those of a troubled 
 sea." — Goldsmith's Animated Nature, Vol. I. p. 13. 
 
 - Some account of the Pigmies may be found in Philostra- 
 tus. — Icon. II. c. 22. 
 
192 THE AFRICAN DESERT. 
 
 The winds that o'er the rough ^Egsean sweep, 
 Tamed into zephyrs, on its islands sleep ; 
 And where rich Delta drinks the swelling Nile, 
 Auspicious Ceres spreads her golden smile. 
 But on Sahara ^ death has set his throne, 
 And reigns in sullen majesty alone : 
 Unfurl'd on high above the desert-king 
 The red " simoom spreads forth its fiery wing ; 
 The spirits of the storm his bidding wait, 
 Gigantic shadows swell his awful state, 
 And circling furies hover round his head, 
 To crown with flames the tyrant of the dead ! 
 The desert shrank beneath him, as he pass'd, 
 T3orne on the burning 23inions of the blast ; 
 He breath'd, — and solitude sat pining there ; 
 He spake, — and silence hush'd the listening air ; 
 He frown'd, — and blighted nature scarce could fly 
 The lightning glances of her monarch's eye. 
 But where he lookVl in withering fury down, 
 A dying desert knit its giant frown ! 
 
 Saliara, or Zara, the Great Desert of Africa. 
 
 That extreme redness in the air, a sure presage of tli 
 coming of the simoom." — Bruce, Vol. IV. p. 558. 
 
 2 U 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT. 19:3 
 
 Desolate wilds, — creation'sx barren grave, 
 Where dull as Lethe rolls the desert-wave. 
 How sparingly with warm existence rife 
 Have ye rejoic'd in love, or teem'd with life. 
 Can it then be in solitudes so drear. 
 That utter Nothing has its dwelling here : — 
 Hence, — thought of darkness ! — o'er the sandy 
 
 flood 
 Broods the great Spirit of a present God: 
 He is, where other being may not be ; 
 Space cannot bind Him, — nor infinity ! 
 Deeper than thought has ever dared to stray. 
 Higher than fancy wing d her wondering way, 
 Beyond the beaming of the furthest star, 
 Beyond the pilgrim-comet's distant car, 
 Beyond all worlds, and glorious suns unseen, 
 He is, and will be, and has ever been .' 
 Nor less, — where the huge iceberg lifts its head, 
 Dim as a dream, from ocean's polar bed ; 
 Or where in softer climes creation glows. 
 And Paphos blushes from its banks of rose, 
 Or where fierce suns the panting desert sear, — 
 He is, and was, and ever will be, here ! 
 
 K 
 
194 THE AFRICAN DESERT. 
 
 But would thy daring spirit, child of man, 
 The secret chambers of the desert scan, 
 Cm'tain'd with flames, and tenanted by death, 
 Fann'd by the tempest of Sirocco's breath ? 
 With crested Azrael ^ shall a mortal strive. 
 Or breathe the gales of pestilence, and live ? 
 O then, let avarice his hand refrain, 
 Nor tempt the billows of that fiery main, 
 Let patience, toil, and courage nobly dare 
 Far other deeds than fruitless labours there. 
 Let dauntless enterprize, with generous zeal, 
 Toil, not unlaureird, for her fellows' weal, 
 But be the howling wilderness untrod, 
 And trackless still, Sahara's ban'en flood. 
 
 Lo, from the streaming east, ablaze of light 
 Has swept to distant shores astonish'd night, 
 Darkness has snatch'd his spangled robe away, 
 And in full glory shines the new-born day ; - 
 Rejoice, ye flowery vales, — ye verdant isles 
 With the glad sunbeams weave your rosy smiles, 
 
 ^ Azriiel, the angel of deatli. 
 
 ^ A morning near the equator has no twihght. 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT. U): 
 
 The bridegroom of the earth looks down in love, 
 
 And blooms in freshened beauty from above ; 
 
 Ye waiting dews, leap to that warm embrace, 
 
 With fragrant incense bathe his blushing face, 
 
 Thou earth be robed in joy ! — But one sad plain 
 
 ]:'.xults not, smiles not, to the morn again : 
 
 Soon as the sun is all in glory drest 
 
 The conscious desert heaves ' its troubled breast, 
 
 Like one, arous'd to ceaseless misery. 
 
 That, ever dying, strives once more — to die. 
 
 And can Sahara weep } with sudden blaze 
 
 Deep in her bosom pierce the cruel rays, 
 
 But never thence one tributary stream 
 
 Shall soar aloft to quench the maddening beam : 
 
 Tearless in agony, fixt in grief, alone. 
 
 Pines the sad daughter of the torrid zone, 
 
 A rocky monument of anguish deep, 
 
 The Xiobe of Nature cannot weep ! 
 
 Yet from her bosom steams the sandy cloud. 
 
 And heavily waves above ; — a lurid shroud, 
 
 ^ " The solar beams causing the dust of the desert (as they 
 emphatically call it) to rise and float through the air." — Pot- 
 tinger's Travels to Beloochistan, p. 133. 
 
 K 2 
 
196 THE AFRICATs DESERT. 
 
 Dense as the wing of sorrow, flapping o'er 
 The wither'd heart, that may not blossom more. 
 
 Faint o'er that burning desert, faint and slow, 
 Failing of limb, and pale w^ith looks of woe, 
 Parch'd by the hot Siroc, and fiery ray, 
 The wearied kaflle ^ winds its toilsome way. 
 'Tis long, long since the panther bounded by, 
 And howl'd, and gaz'd upon them wistfully;^ 
 Long since the monarch lion from his lair 
 Arose, and thunder'd to the stagnant air : 
 No wandering ostrich with extended wing 
 Flaps o'er the sands, to seek the distant spring ; 
 Bounding from rock ^ to rock, with curious scan 
 No wild gazelle surveys the stranger, man ; 
 Nor does the famish'd tiger's lengthening roar 
 Speak to the winds and wake the echoes more. 
 
 ^ The kaffle or caravan. 
 
 '^ These animals are mentioned as inliabiting the skirts of 
 the desert, but not found in the interior, by Mungo Park, Vol. 
 I. p. 142. 
 
 '' Buffon, Hist. Nat. Vol VII. p. 248.—" Une terre morte, 
 &c., laquelle ne presente que desrochers debout ou renvcrse's." 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT. 197 
 
 But o'er these realms of sorrow, drear and vast, 
 
 In hollow dirges moans the desert blast, 
 
 Or breathhig o'er the plain in smothered \\'rath 
 
 Howls to the skulls, ^ that whiten on the path. 
 
 And as with heavy tramp they toil along, 
 
 Is heard no more the cheering Arab song, — 
 
 No more the wild Bedouin's joyous shriek 
 
 With startling homage greets his wandering shiek, 
 
 Only the mutter'd curse, or whisper'd pray'r, 
 
 Or deep deatti-rattle wakes the sluggish air. 
 
 Behold one here, who till to-day has been 
 
 A father, and with bursting bosom seen 
 
 His last, his cherished one, whose waning eye 
 
 Smiled only resignation, droop and die ! 
 
 Parch'd by the heat, those lips are curl'd and pale, 
 
 As rose-leaves withered in the northern gale ; 
 
 Her eye no more its silent love shall speak. 
 
 No flush of life shall mantle on her cheek ; — 
 
 ^ Skeletons in the desert, Denliam and Clapperton, Vol. I. 
 pp. 130, 131, also j3uffon in the passage above quoted. — " Une 
 terre morte, et pour ainsi dire echorchee par les vents, laquelle 
 ne presente que, 6cc. — des ossemeuts." 
 
198 TPIE AFIilCAN DESERT. 
 
 Yet witli a frenzied fondness to his cliild 
 The father clung, and thought his darling smil'd ; 
 Ah, yes ! His death that o'er her beauty throws 
 That marble smile of deep and dread repose. 
 
 What thrilling shouts are these that rend the sky, 
 Whence is the joy that lights the sunken eye ? 
 On, on, they speed their burning thirst to slake 
 In the blue * waters of yon rippled lake, — 
 Or must they still those maddening i:>|^ngs assuage 
 In the sand-billows of the false mirage .? 
 Lo, the fair phantom, melting to the wind, 
 Leaves but the sting of baffled bliss behind. 
 
 Hope smiles again, as with instinctive haste ~ 
 The i^anting camels rush along the waste. 
 And snuff the grateful breeze, that sweeping by 
 Wafts its cool fragrance through the cloudless sky. 
 
 ^ For a description of the mirage, see Capt. Lyon's Travels, 
 p. 347, and Bnrchardt's Nubia, p. 193. — " Its colour is of the 
 purest azure." 
 
 '^ The rush of a caravan to a stream in the desert, is Avell 
 described in Buckingham's Mesopotamia, Vol. II. p. 8. 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT. 199 
 
 Swift as the steed that feels the slackenVl rein 
 
 And flies impetuous o'er the sounding plain, 
 
 Eager as bursting from an Alpine source 
 
 The winter torrent in its headlong course, 
 
 Still hasting on, the wearied band behold 
 
 — The green oase, an emerald couch'd in gold ! 
 
 And now the curving rivulet they descry, 
 
 That bow of hope upon a stormy sky, 
 
 Now ranging its luxuriant banks of green 
 
 In silent ra})ture gaze upon the scene : 
 
 His graceful arms the palm was waving there 
 
 Caught in the tall acacia's tangled hair, 
 
 While in festoons across his branches slung 
 
 The gay kossom its scarlet tassels hung ; 
 
 The flowering colocynth had studded round 
 
 Jewels of promise o'er the joyful ground, 
 
 And where the smile of day burst on the 
 
 stream. 
 The trembling waters glitter'd in the beam. 
 
 1 Bruce's Travels, Yol. IV. p. 559. — " The Simoom — I saw 
 from the S. E. a haze come, in colour like the purple part of a 
 rainbow &c., a kind of hlusli upon the air, a meteor, or purple 
 haze." 
 
200 THE AFRICAN DESERT. 
 
 It comesj the blast of death ! that sudden glare 
 Tinges with purple hues the stagnant air ; 
 Fearful in silence, o'er the heaving strand 
 Sweeps ' the wild gale, and licks the curling sand, 
 While o'er the vast Sahara from afar 
 Hushes the tempest in his winged car : 
 Swift from their bed the flame-like billows rise. 
 Whirling and surging to the copper skies, 
 As when Briareus lifts his hundred arms, . 
 Grasps at high heav'n, and fills it with alarms ; 
 In eddying chaos madly mixt on high 
 Gigantic pillars dance "' along the sky, 
 Or stalk in awful slowness through the gloom. 
 Or track the coursers of the dread simoom, 
 
 1 (Trp6jx(3oi de koviv ei\i(T(Tov(n — ^scli. Prom. V. 1091. 
 
 ^ Bruce, (as above.) " We were here at once surprised 
 and terrified by p sight surely one of the most magnificent in 
 the world. In that vast expanse of desert from W. to N. W. 
 of us we saw a number of prodigious pillars of sand, at times 
 moving with great celerity, at others stalking on Avith p majes- 
 tic slowness : at intervals we thought they were coming in a 
 few minutes to overwhelm us, &.c. Sometimes they were broken 
 near the middle, as if struck with a huge cannon-shot." See 
 also Goldemitli's An. Nat. Vol. I. p. 303. 
 
THE AFRICAN DESERT, 201 
 
 Or clasliing in mid air, to ruin liurrd, 
 Fall as the fragments of a shatter'd world ! 
 
 Husli'd is the tempest, — desolate the plain, 
 Still'd are the billows of that troublous main ; 
 As if the voice of death had check'd the storm, 
 Each sandy wave retains its sculptured form : 
 And all is silence, — save the distant blast 
 That howl'd, and mock'd the desert as it pass'd ; 
 And all is solitude, — for where are they. 
 That o'er Sahara wound their toilsome way ? 
 Ask of the heav'ns above, that smile serene, 
 Ask that burnt spot, no more of lovely green. 
 Ask of the whirlwind in its purple cloud. 
 The desert is their grave, the sand their shroud. ' 
 
 ^ Denliam and Clapp. I. 16. " The overpowering effect of 
 a sudden sand-wind, when near the close of the desert, often 
 destroys a whole kafila (caravan) already weakened by fatigue, 
 &c." — and p. G3 — " The winds scorch as they j)ass ; and bring 
 with them billows of sand, rolling along in masses frightfully 
 suffocating, which sometimes SAvallow up whole caravans and 
 armies." 
 
 K D 
 
202 
 
 THE SUTTEES. 
 
 SYNOPSIS. 
 
 The natural beauty of Ilindoostan contrasted with its moral 
 depravity. — Approach of a funeral procession. — Hymn of the 
 Brahmins. — The widow. — Her early history. — The scene of 
 the funeral pile. — Enthusiastic feelings of the victim. — The 
 pile is fired. — Address to British benevolence in behalf of the 
 benighted Hindoos. 
 
 O GOLDEN shores, primeval home of man, 
 How glorious is thy dwelling, Hindoostan ! 
 Thine are these smiling vallies, bright with bloom, 
 Wild woods, and sandal-groves, that breathe per- 
 fume, 
 Thine, these fair skies, — where morn's returning 
 
 ray 
 Has swept the starry robe of night away, ' 
 xAnd gilt each dome, and minaret, and tow'r, 
 Gemm'd every stream, and tinted every flow'r. 
 
 ^ iEsch. Prom. V. 24. TToiKiXtifnov v6^, and Oi-j)!!. Argon. 
 102C, aarpoxirixiv vv'^. 
 
THE SUTTEES. 203 
 
 But dark tlie spirit within thee ; — from old time 
 Still o'er thee rolls the whelming flood of crime, 
 Still o'er thee broods the curse of guiltless blood, 
 That shouts for vengeance from thy reeking sod : 
 Deep-flowing Ganges in his rushy bed 
 Moans a sad requiem for his children dead, 
 And, wafted frequent on the passing gale, 
 Rises the orphan's sigh, — the \\'idow's wail. 
 
 Hark, 'tis the rolling of the funeral drum. 
 
 The white-rob'd Brahmins see, they come, they 
 
 come, 
 Bringing, with frantic shouts, and torch, and trump, 
 And mingled signs of melancholy pomp, 
 That livid corpse, borne solemnly on high— 
 And yon faint trembling victim, doom'd to die. 
 
 Still, as with measur'd step they move along. 
 With fiercer joy they weave the mystic song: 
 Eswara, ' crown'd with forests, thee tliey praise, 
 Birmha, to thee the full-ton'd chorus raise ; 
 
 ' Eswara, goddess of Nature. Surya, the sun. Varuiua, a 
 
•201 THE SUTTEES. 
 
 To ocean, — where the loose sail mariners fin-l, 
 And seek in coral caves the virgin pearl ; 
 And to the source of Ganger's sacred streams, 
 Bright with the gold of Surya's morning beams, 
 Where on her lotus-throne Varuna sings, 
 And weeping Peris lave their azure wings : 
 They shout to Kali, of the red right hand, 
 Bid Aglys toss on high the kindled brand. 
 And far from Himalaya's frozen steep. 
 In whirlwind-car bid dark Pavaneh sweep : 
 They chant of one, whom Azrael waits to guide 
 O'er the black gulf of death's unfathom'd tide ; 
 Of her, whose spotless life to Seeva giv'n. 
 Bursts for her lord the golden gates of heav'n. 
 Of her, — who thus in dreadful triumph led, 
 Dares the unhallow'd bridal of the dead ! 
 
 And there in silent fear she stands alone, 
 The desolate, unpitied, widow'd one : 
 
 water-nymplk Peris, or spirits of a certain grade, are excluded 
 from paradise, from a gate of which Ganges flows. Kali, god- 
 dess of murder. Aglys, god of fire. Pavaneh, of wind. See 
 iSIaurico's Indian Antiq. 
 
THE ST'TTEES. 205 
 
 Too deeply tauglil in life's sad laic of gvief, 
 In the calm house of death she hopes relief, 
 For few the pleasures India's daughter knows, 
 A child of sorrow, nursed in want and woes. 
 Curst from the womb, how oft a mother's fear 
 In silence o'er thee dropt the bitter tear, 
 Lest a stern sire to Ganga's holy wave 
 Should madly consecrate the life he gave : 
 Cradled on superstition's sable wing 
 In joyless gloom pass'd childhood's early spring, 
 And still, as budded fair thy youthful mind, 
 None bade thee seek, none taught thee, truth to 
 
 find : 
 Poor child ! that never rais'd the suppliant pray'r, 
 Nor iook'd to heav'n, and saw a Father there, 
 Un tutor' d by religion's gentle sway 
 To love, believe, be happy, and obey. 
 Betroth'd in artless infancy to one 
 Thy warm affections never beam'd upon. 
 Flow shouldst thou smile, when ripe in beauty's 
 
 pride 
 The haughty Rajah claim'd his destin'd bride ? 
 A trembling slave, and not the loving wife, 
 
206 THE SUTTEES. 
 
 Pass'd the short summer of thy hapless life ; ' 
 And now to deck that bier, that pile to crown, '' 
 His fiery sepulchre becomes — thine own. 
 
 And must it be, that in a spot so fair 
 
 Shall rise the madden'd shriek of wild despair ? 
 
 This lovely spot, where glows in every part 
 
 The smile of nature on the pomp of art : 
 
 The banian spreads its hospitable shade, 
 
 The bright bird warbles in the leafy glade. 
 
 The matted palm, and wild anana's bloom. 
 
 The light pagoda, the majestic dome. 
 
 With emerald plains, and ocean's distant blue, 
 
 Cast their rich tints and shadows o'er the view. 
 
 But murder here must wash his bloody hand, 
 
 And superstition shake the flaming brand. 
 
 And terror cast around an eager eye 
 
 To look for one to save, — where none is nigh ! 
 
 ^ On tlie miserable state of woman in India, see Ward on 
 Hindoostan, Letter VI. in p. 96, he says, " between eight and 
 nine hundred widows are burnt every year in the presidency 
 of Bengal alone ! 1818." 
 
 2 Capt. Marr's Picture of India, p. 235. 
 
THE SUTTEES. 207 
 
 Far other incense than the breath of day 
 From that dark corpse must waft the soul a^^'ay, 
 Far other moans than of the muffled drum 
 Herald the lingering spirit to its home : 
 Yes, — thou must perish ; and that gentle frame 
 ]\Iust struggle frantic ^vith the circling flame, 
 Constant in weal and woe, for death, for life, 
 The victim widow, as the victim wife. 
 
 Hoping, despairing, — friendless, and forlorn, 
 The death she may not fly, she strives to scorn : 
 Lists to the tale that bright- win g'd Peris wait 
 To waft her to Kalaisa's crystal gate, ^ — 
 Thinks how her car of Are shall speed along, 
 Hail'd by high praises, and Kinnura's song, — 
 And upward gazing in a spe,echless trance. 
 Darts earnestly the keen ecstatic glance, 
 Till rapt imagination cleaves the sky, 
 And hope delusive points the way, — to die. 
 Who hath not felt, — in some celestial hour, 
 When fear's dark thunder-clouds have ceasVl to 
 lour, 
 
 ' Kalaisa, the Indiau heaven. Kinnura, the heavenly singer. 
 
•208 THE SUTTEES. 
 
 When angels beckon on the fluttering soul 
 To realms of bliss beyond her mortal goal, 
 When heavenly glories bursting on the sight, 
 The raptur'd spirit bathes in seas of light. 
 And soars aloft upon the seraph's wing, — 
 How boldly she can brave death's tyrant sting ? 
 Thus the poor girl's enthusiastic mind 
 Revels in hope of blessings undefin'd, 
 lioams o'er the flow'rs of earth, the joys of sense, 
 And frames her paradise of glory thence : 
 For oft as memory's retrospective eye 
 Glanc'd at the blighted joys of days gone by. 
 How sadly sv>^eet appeai'd tliose smiling hours 
 When hope had strew'd life's thorny path with 
 
 flow'rs. 
 How dark, and shadow'd o'er with fearful gloom, 
 The unimagin'd horrors of the tomb ! 
 When she remembered all her joy and pain. 
 And in a moment liv'd her life again. 
 Each sorrow seem'd to smile, that frown'd be- 
 fore, — 
 Her cup of blessing tlicrt was running o'er, — 
 
THE SUTTEES. 209 
 
 Days past in grief, beam'd now in hues of blisj. 
 Fancy gilt them, — but terror clouded this ! 
 Vet swift her sjDirit, resolutely proud, 
 Scorn'd every hope, by mercy disallow'd: 
 The priests have long invok'd their idol god. 
 The murd'rous pile, his altar, thirsts for blood, — 
 A horrid silence summons to the grave, 
 All wait for her, — and none stands forth to save, 
 O shall she tremble now, nor die the same, — 
 Shall she not fearless rush into the flame ? 
 From her dark eye she strikes tlie rising tear, 
 And firmly mounts the pile — a widow's bier- 
 Instant, with furious zeal and willing hands. 
 Attendant Brahmins ply the ready brands ; 
 And as the flames are raging fierce and high, 
 And mount in rushing columns to the sky. 
 Lest those wild shrieks, or pity's soft appeal 
 Should rouse one hand to save, one heart to feel, ' 
 Madly exulting in their victim's doom 
 They heap with fiendish haste her fiery tomb, — 
 
 ' For a description of a Suttee, see Capt. Marr, as above, 
 p. 243. 
 
210 THE SUTTEES. 
 
 Clash the loud cymbals, wake the trumpet's note, 
 Roll the deep drum, and raise the deafening shout, 
 Till in dread discord through the startled air 
 Rise the mixt yells of triumph and despair ! 
 
 Britain, whose pitying hand is stretchM to save 
 From despot's iron chain the writhing slave ; 
 Where freedom's sons, at wild oppression's shriek 
 Feel the hot tear bedew the manly cheek, — 
 Where the kind sympathies of social life 
 Sweeten the cup to one no more a wife, 
 Where mis'ry never pray'd nor sigh'd in vain, — 
 Shall India's widow'd daughters bleed again ? 
 Let ^vreaths more glorious deck Britannia's head 
 Than theirs, who fiercely fought, or nobly bled, 
 Wreaths such as happy spirits wear above, 
 Gemm'd with the tears of gratitude and love, 
 Where palm and olive, twin'd with almond bloom, 
 Tell of triumj^hant peace and mercy's rich per- 
 fume : 
 And ye, whose young and kindling hearts can feel 
 The prayer of pity fan the fiame of zeal, 
 
THE SUTTEES. 211 
 
 Trace tlie blest path illustrious ITebcr trod, 
 
 And lead the poor idolator to God ! 
 
 Thus, in that happy land, where nature's voice 
 
 Sings at her toil, and bids the world rejoice, 
 
 No guiltless blood her paradise shall stain. 
 
 No demon rites her holy courts profane, 
 
 No howl of superstition rend the air. 
 
 No widow's cry, no orphan's tear, be there, — 
 
 India shall cast her idol gods away. 
 
 And bless the promise of undying day. 
 
212 
 
 A CARMEN SiECULARE FOR CHRISTIAN 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 ON THE PATTERN AND IN THE METRE OF THAT FOR 
 HEATHEN ROME BY HORACE. 
 
 Holy Creator, ruler of the kingdoms, 
 Glory of earth and heaven, the Almighty, 
 Thou to be prais'd and worshipped never ceasing, 
 Hear us, Jehovah ! 
 
 While as in days of innocence aforetime 
 We with the choral voice of supplication 
 Cry to the one great Spirit who beholds us. 
 Save, we beseech Thee ! 
 
 May the bright sun, thy day-bestowing servant, 
 And at whose setting blushes modest even, 
 Still as he beams successive o'er the nations. 
 Favour old l^ngland : 
 
A CAKMEN S.ECULARE, &C. 2\S 
 
 Kindly may nature, providence a2:)proving, 
 Bless our homes with increase, and the matrons 
 Gently relieving, give us noble sons and 
 Virtuous daughters. 
 
 Rivet the golden links of happy wedlock, 
 And be the social sympathies unT)roken, 
 While on her lord the wedded wife depending, 
 Smiles for him only. 
 
 Still against sect and heresy protesting, 
 Nursing her babes with motherly affection. 
 Loving to all, and tender, may the Church be 
 Faithful and holy : 
 
 And if Omniscience, never to be altered 
 In its decrees, be destiny presiding, 
 JNIay Britain, by that destiny protected. 
 Prosper in greatness. 
 
 Pour on us kindly seasons, that abundant 
 Be the rich fruits of mother earth, and healthy 
 Still be the gales that waft us o'er the ocean 
 Conquerors ever ! 
 
•214 A CARMEN S.^CULARE 
 
 Hear us, Redeemer, hear us, ever-blessed ! 
 Hear, thou that dwellest infinite in splendour, 
 Hear, thou that always lovest to be gracious. 
 Rise and be with us ! 
 
 If yet thou smilest favouring on England, 
 If yet the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock, 
 Form a sweet garland ofFer'd on thine altar. 
 Keep us united. 
 
 Let not the thief, or murderer infest us, 
 Let not the base incendiary be near us, 
 Let not the foul adulterer pollute us, — 
 Spare us from evil : 
 
 Bring up the youth in modesty and virtue. 
 Grant to old age tranquillity and wisdom. 
 Give the glad sons of Britain health and honour, 
 Greatness and plenty. 
 
 May British mercy more than British valour 
 Gain from the world its laurel and its olive, 
 Till over all her enemies triumphant 
 Glories Britannia ! 
 
FOR CHRISTIAN ENGLAND. '215 
 
 Help her to rule her own rebellious children, 
 That the wide West may honour and uphold her, 
 Aid her to spread the banner of protection 
 Over her conquests : 
 
 Save from intestine murmurings and discord, 
 Criminal sloth, and infidel compliance, 
 Scatter the curse of national rejection 
 Brooding above us : 
 
 Let open faith, integrity, and firmness, 
 Primitive truth, and piety, and prudence, 
 Loyal content, and patriotic virtue, 
 
 Quickly returning. 
 
 Crown us with blessings, though we be unworthy, 
 Fill us v/ith mercies forfeited, and rescue 
 From bitter hate and scorn among the Gentiles 
 Protestant Zion. 
 
 Friend of the needy, pity and relieve them : 
 Prosper our arts, and sciences, and commerce ; 
 All that can bless and beautify a nation, 
 Ever be Britain's ! 
 
216 A CARMEN S^CULARE, &C. 
 
 Long as the world rejoices in thy favour, 
 Holding it up, Omnipotent, — let England, 
 Let Caledonia, with her sister Erin, 
 
 Queen of the nations, 
 
 Reign, and be strong, acknowledging thy mercy ; 
 Hear us in choral voice of supplication. 
 Who now invoke thy succour and thy blessing, 
 Father Almighty ! 
 
 Yes, we accept the promise of thine answer. 
 Yes, we depend on pity for protection. 
 And upon God our confidence reposes. 
 
 Through the Redeemer. 
 
•217 
 
 CONCLUSTON. 
 
 Alas ! poor muse, thy songs arc out of time, 
 Thy lot hath fallen on an iron age, 
 When unrelenting war the sordid wage 
 Against thee, — counting it no venial crime 
 , To fling down in thy cause the champion's gage, 
 And utterly scorning him, who dares to rhyme : 
 O that thy thoughts had filled an earlier page, 
 And won the favouring ears of holier men ! 
 Whose spirits might with thee have soar'd sublime 
 Far above selfish Mammon's crowded den : 
 Thou iiadst been more at home, and hajipier then : 
 Yet be thou of good courage ; there are still 
 Those " left sov'n thousand," wliose affections will 
 Yearn on thy little good, and pardon thy much ill. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 JOSEPH RICKERBY, PHINTKR, 
 SHrUBOITRN LANE. 
 
15V THi: SA3IE AUTHOU, (SKCOXI) EDITION,) 
 
 Price (is. cloth lettered, 
 
 1UU)VERBI AL PlllLOSOPlI \ 
 
 a 33ooli of ^!)ougl)ts ant) ^vgumcnts, 
 
 OllKilXALLY TKKATKl). 
 
 " There is more novelty in the sentiments, a greater sweep of subjects, and a rincr seiiso 
 of moral beauty displayed by Mr. Tupper, than we remember to have seen in any work ol 
 its class, excepting of course the Proverbs of Solomon. We also discover in his P'hilosophv 
 the stores of extensive readin'j;, and the indisputable proofs of habitual and devout rettii'tioti, 
 as well as tlie workings of an elegant mind." — Montlili/ Review. 
 
 "Full of good principles and feelings, and showing long and continue<l thought on the 
 most imiKirtant subjects."— ZJ/vYii/i Mafcazhie. 
 
 " Pro\'erbial moralist, we thank thee! whoever tliou art, under whatever ausjnces tliou 
 Jiast improved thy tastes and extended thy knowledge, we honour thee for tlie spirit of liene- 
 \olence, the piquancy of remark, and the jwetical imagery that adorn thy i)ages. We re- 
 gard the work before us as one of decided originality." — Literan/ Gazette. ' 
 
 _ " Such is the Author of the very remarkable work before us,— a work abounding in 
 
 riclj thoughts and delicate fancies, — in sound philosophy, and high moral resolutions, and 
 which may be read over and o\-er again, by the voung pliilosopher, or ix)etical dreamer, 
 
 with equal profit and delight Ha\e we not now done enough to show that a poet of iwwer 
 
 and promise, — a poet and philosopher both is amongst us to delight and instruct— to elevate 
 and guide ? Do ^ve err in saying that a fresh leaf is added to the laurel crown of poetry ?"— 
 Conscrvati re .loiinud. 
 
 " The wliole tendency of the lxx)k is good. It inculcates a pure morality, a contempt for 
 mere wealth, contentment of mind, and a poetical spirit of interpreting the' mysteries of life, 
 quite in the manner of Jeremy Taylor. The author is a religious man. His work is a reli- 
 gious work. A spirit, Scriptural and unworldly, breathes through it: and its effect (wide and 
 lasting may it be!) must be favourable to piety', favourable to happiness." — Hunday Times. 
 
 " This is one of the most original and curious productions of our time. — The volume may 
 be strongly recommended for the originality of the conception, the exquisia- choice, and ap- 
 [>ropriate employment of tlie language, the'richness, and profusion of the images, and the re- 
 ligious and solemn tone of the truths it inculcates. 1 1 is a book which the >oun^ may reap as 
 much delight as profit from, and in which the old will find the lessons of exi)erience reflected 
 in new and pleasurable forms." — Atlas. 
 
 " It strongly excites our curiosity by the manifest abundance, grace, and benignity of its 
 reflections." — Monthly Repository'. 
 
 " The high intellectual abilities of its better than clever author. He has contril)uted 
 
 enough to obtain for liim the credit of an original thinker, as well as a writer of great iiromisc." 
 
 " Many of his thoughts are noble and hc».\.m{\x\."—MetniiX)Hiait. 
 
 " An admirable work An author of great ability."— .Mo<7i(//.i,'- i'os/. 
 
 " A quaint and thoughtful \-olame, tlie product of much got)d reading, meditation, and 
 careful comparison of tilings."— S;yt'cf«A*/-. 
 
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 l)oth execution and design."— '/>>;•(•;/. 
 
 " A book as full of sweetness as a honeycomb, of gentleness as woman's heart, in its wis- 
 dom worthy of the disciple of a Solomon, in its genius the child of a Milton."— ("'""■' 
 Joitrnul. 
 
 AI.SO, BV THE SAME AUTHOR, PUKE lo. 
 
 A CORONATION ODE, AND SONNETS. 
 
 "One of those gems which betray the true spirit and feeling of generous sentiment.— oi 
 extreme beauty and Awo\.\on."—Critrrul Notice. 
 
 "Unquestionably displaying much poetic genius, and great power of Mrsification. - 
 Co»sen'ative .lo'iriiaK 
 
™ ^ ^°*** MPT. 
 
 ^ '"''^^ 'o immediate recall. 
 
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