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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ■'tO^i^vfcai 
 
 ^^^m 
 
 ■'>-■■*-.'•-■ v/ a;,
 
 CARMINA SILYULAE 
 
 POEMS V- 
 
 ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES AMBROSE STORY, B.A. 
 
 " Of every flower you sip, 
 Little bee, with honied lip ! " 
 " Yes," said the bee, as he poised in air, 
 " Yes, but I leave the poison there." 
 
 p 84. 
 
 LONDON 
 AUTHORS' CO-OPERATIVE PUBLISHING CO., Ltd. 
 20 AND 22 ST. HRIDE STREET, E.G. 
 1890
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication, . 
 
 Ode to Fancy, 
 
 Leonidas, 
 
 To A Child, on her Ninth Birthday, 
 
 Childhood, Youth and Age, 
 
 The Old Year's Death, 
 
 Isf Bonds, 
 
 The Poet and the Waves 
 
 The Cuckoo, . 
 
 Nature's Music, 
 
 Earthly Joys, 
 
 To the Christian, . 
 
 Lord, I follow Thee, 
 
 Lord, remember Me, 
 
 The Vesper Hymn, 
 
 The Creator, 
 
 The Martyr, 
 
 The Night is Coming, 
 
 Ad Angelum Custodem, 
 
 Ad Mariam 
 
 The Holy Family, . 
 
 Page 
 vii 
 I 
 5 
 7 
 8 
 
 9 
 
 lO 
 
 II 
 
 12 
 
 13 
 14 
 14 
 i6 
 i6 
 i8 
 19 
 
 •20 
 21 
 22 
 22 
 23 
 
 1022Sf:P-
 
 IV 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Spring-Tide, .... 
 
 Musings, 
 
 Destruction of the First-Born, 
 The Great Book, . 
 
 The Inn, 
 
 The Lily and the Primrose : A Fable 
 The Poppy and the Daisy : A Fable, 
 The Weeping Willow : A Fable, . 
 The Bread of St. Jodoc : A Legend, 
 The Sisters : An Allegory, 
 The Mermaid : An Allegory, . 
 The Desert Island : An Allegory 
 The Scoffer : A True Story, . 
 Castles in the Air, 
 
 Unrest, 
 
 The Shortness of Life, 
 
 To the Ocean, .... 
 
 To Erin, 
 
 Rome, 
 
 The Voyage Begun, 
 
 The Mystery of the Trinity: A Legend 
 
 of St. Augustine, 
 The Fire of Love : A Legend of St 
 
 Wenceslas, 
 St. Cadoc's Cloak, 
 St. Cadoc and the Mouse, . 
 St. Illtyd and the Stag, 
 St. Samson and the^Mead-Casks, 
 The Vocation of St. Issylio, 
 
 Page 
 
 25 
 25 
 26 
 
 28 
 30 
 32 
 
 33 
 34 
 37 
 39 
 43 
 47 
 53 
 58 
 59 
 60 
 61 
 O2 
 
 63 
 64 
 
 65 
 
 66 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 70 
 71
 
 Contents. v 
 
 Page 
 
 Holy Obedience, . . . . .72 
 The Blessed Philip Evans and his 
 
 Harp, 73 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 74 
 76 
 
 77 
 78 
 
 79 
 84 
 
 84 
 
 The Donkey turned Flutist. Yriarte, 
 
 The Poet and the Sea. Moschus, 
 
 The Life of Man. Mininermus, . 
 
 The Place of Rest. Porchat, 
 
 Go, Pray. Victor Hugo, 
 
 The Bee : A Fable. From the German, . 
 
 When the Swallows Homeward Fly. 
 
 From the German, .... 
 The Cathedral of Cologne. From the 
 
 German, gc 
 
 The Poor Fiddler. From the German, 87 
 
 The Tailor of Brabant. ,, 
 
 The Erl-King. Goethe, 
 
 The Old General. Canon Schmidt, 
 
 The Rain-Drop. 
 
 The Book without Letters. 
 
 The Woodcutter. 
 
 The Painted Window. 
 
 The Purple Cloak. 
 
 The Crosses. Chamisso, 
 
 Abdallah, „ . . " . 
 
 The Song of the Sword. Koemer, 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 97 
 
 99 
 100 
 
 102 
 
 105 
 108 
 III 
 114 
 128
 
 I 
 
 5 
 
 I
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To thee, whose lips first bade me write, 
 
 whose smile 
 My earliest efforts paid; to thee, whose 
 
 face, 
 Thro' mist of time, I now but dimly trace- 
 Thro' mist of tears, that often spring, the 
 
 while 
 On that loved countenance I sadly dwell ; 
 To thee, of whom it yet doth glad my 
 
 heart 
 To think, that, ere from earth thou didst 
 
 depart, 
 I had done something that did please 
 
 thee well ; 
 To thee, dear mother, now in peace above. 
 This little book I fondly have address'd, 
 A tribute to thy faith, thy truth, thy love. 
 Ah ! from that happy seat^where thou dost 
 
 dwell 
 With him, who long before had gone to 
 
 rest, 
 Look down on thine, yet toss'd on ocean's 
 
 swell !
 
 ODE TO FANCY. 
 
 OME, sprightly Fancy, cheerful 
 wight, 
 Come in gayest livery dight, 
 On a sunbeam blithely sporting, 
 Or on frolic Zephyr floating ; 
 Come awhile and stay with me, 
 Then will I thy follower be. 
 
 Wake me ere the break of morn. 
 Ere the lark, on ether borne, 
 Hath left his little grass-made nest. 
 And shook the dew from off his crest ; 
 Long ere the early rising bee 
 Hath left his hive in hollow tree, 
 And to the fragrant heather flown, 
 Or to the flower-spread meadow gone. 
 
 Let us haste to see the sun. 
 While the morn is grey and dun, 
 Tip yon eastern hills with gold, 
 And one by one his beams unfold,
 
 2 Ode to Fancy. 
 
 And dart them thro' the misty sky, 
 
 Till the gloom away doth fly. 
 
 Thro' the meadows then we'll go, 
 
 By breezes fanned, that round us blow, 
 
 And listen to the birds all singing. 
 
 And hear the woodman's hatchet ringing ; 
 
 While as the frequent strokes resound, 
 
 Sly echo mocks with mimic sound. 
 
 See the dewdrops glistening bright 
 On each leaflet ! To the sight 
 They seem like glittenng pearlets all, 
 While the sunbeams on them fall. 
 Come, we'll pluck a nosegay rare 
 Of all the flowers that bloom so fair, 
 Then afar we'll slowly wander 
 Where doth this little brook meander, 
 And watch the fishes in it sporting. 
 And bending flowers its kisses courting. 
 
 Thro' yon thick and shady wood, 
 That for countless years hath stood. 
 Now we'll stray, among the trees 
 That softly woo the passing breeze. 
 Beneath some gnarled old oak we'll sit, 
 Among whose boughs the finches flit : 
 And we'll think of Druids old. 
 Who, in these shades, the Britons told,
 
 Ode to Fancy.   
 
 In the midnight dark and bleak, 
 When the night wind round did shriek, 
 'Twas the cry of spirits damned, 
 For disobeying their command ; — 
 Now doomed for aye, at midnight dreai, 
 To howl before the storm's career. 
 Among the waving branches dashed, 
 And by those waving branches lashed. 
 
 It may be that in yonder glade 
 
 Some dreadful sacrifice was made. 
 
 Perhaps upon the altar stone 
 
 The struggling victim thither drawn 
 
 Was stretched, and in his quivering 
 
 breast 
 The sacrificial blade was pressed. 
 Perhaps the fearful image reared, 
 With shrieking victims full, appeared ; 
 And then, while bards attuned the lyre, 
 The white-robed priest applied the fire ; 
 And soon they drowned the dreadful cry 
 With shouts and noisy revelry. 
 Eventide comes on apace. 
 Soon the sun will end his race. 
 As we gaze on western skies. 
 Where in rosy bed he lies, 
 Lo 1 the clouds take strangest shapes — 
 Castles, dragons, giants, apes,
 
 4 Ode to Fmicy. 
 
 And we think of many a knight 
 Wandering thro' the land to fight 
 All whom he found the weak oppressing, 
 And all the wrongs he found redressing ; 
 Or we think of castles grim, 
 In whose dungeons deep and dim 
 Fair dames were held in durance hard 
 By cruel foe or ruthless lord. 
 
 Lo, the scene is dark around ! 
 
 And the ear arrests no sound 
 
 Save the brooklet's sweet, soft fluting. 
 
 Or the owlet harshly hooting ; 
 
 Or, perchance, some little bird 
 
 Chirping at intervals is heard 
 
 From its nest within the thorn \ 
 
 Or on stilly air is borne 
 
 The mufifled sound of distant bell 
 
 Ringing out day's parting knell ! 
 
 Now we dream of fairies dancing, 
 Of elfins in the moonbeams prancing, 
 And fancy in the shade we see, 
 'Neath the leaves of some low tree, 
 Puck with merry twinkling eye 
 Peering at us passing by. 
 And we dream of Fay-queen Mab, 
 With her dainty snail-shell cab ;
 
 Leonidas. 
 
 Of Oberon, and of his queen, 
 And all their sports upon the green ; 
 And every floweret seems a sprite 
 Dancing in the pale moonlight ! 
 1862. 
 
 LEOiNIDAS. 
 
 iJEONIDAS, when shall thy name 
 No more the patriot soul in- 
 flame ? 
 
 When shall the brave three hundred die ? 
 When perish their proud memory ? 
 Their dauntless eyes beheld the foe, 
 Unmoved they stood in serried row, 
 Their swords and spears flashed in the 
 
 light, 
 Their burnished helms shone glittering 
 
 bright. 
 And like a lion couched they stood, 
 Or like a rock against the flood. 
 Until the clarion's dreadful sound 
 Awoke the echoing hills around ; 
 Then the warriors' war paean rose, 
 Soft as the zephyr, when it blows 
 Over the woods at silent eve, 
 Sweet as the strains the swan doth give
 
 6 Leom'das. 
 
 When dying she a voice doth find — 
 So rose their death-strain on the wind. 
 And to the swelling tones they tread 
 Advancing, 'gainst the foemen led ; 
 And as their feet the nearer drew, 
 And as the strain more mighty grew, 
 Upon that countless host they rushed, 
 From many a heart the life-blood gushed, 
 In many a breast their spears were thrust, 
 And many a Persian kissed the dust. 
 Then raged the contest fierce and loud ; 
 Their bosoms with wild ardour glowed ; 
 And side by side those Spartans fought, 
 Their death by Persia's best blood bought. 
 A hundred foes for each that fell 
 Were plunged into the depths of hell. 
 And Xerxes' proudest and best mailed 
 Before that band of heroes quailed. 
 As fights a tigress for her young, 
 While red spears flashed and trumpet rung, 
 Long, long those Spartans fearless fought, 
 None turned his back, none safety sought. 
 But one by one they nobly die ; 
 Surrounded by their foes they lie ; 
 Till, when no Spartan more remained, 
 Their foes a dreadful victory gained. 
 The green grass grows upon their graves, 
 The olive there its branches waves ; 
 Their bodies mingle with the dust,
 
 To a Child. 
 
 And 'neath the sod their weapons rust, 
 But oh ! their name shall live for ever, 
 The glory of their land for ever. 
 1862. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 ON HER NINTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 |HOU'RT nine years old, and on 
 thy brow, 
 As smooth as summer skies I 
 trow, 
 No sorrow hath its mask imprest. 
 No trace is found of heart's unrest. 
 
 A few years more will pass away — 
 A few short years how brief their stay ! 
 And then, thy childhood with them flown, 
 Thy heart will many a care have known. 
 
 A few years more ! Ah ! where are they 
 Who in thy youth did with thee play ? 
 All, all are gone — like shadows pass'd — 
 And thou alone art left at last. 
 
 So childhood, youth and age shall fly 
 Like sunbeams in an April sky, 
 Like dreams that flit thro' childish minds, 
 Like leaves that float on Autumn winds ! 
 1862.
 
 3 CJiildhood, Youth, and Age. 
 CHILDHOOD, YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 AY was youth's bright morning 
 As a fair spring day, 
 When sunshine adorning 
 Makes all Nature gay. 
 
 Fled the hours by gladly 
 
 With a laughing glee, 
 Ne'er my heart beat sadly, 
 
 All was joy to me. 
 
 Summer-time came after 
 
 AVith a soberer dye. 
 Softer was my laughter, 
 
 Staider was my eye. 
 
 Still my days were gladness, 
 
 All was fair to view ;' 
 Little knew I sadness, 
 
 Thoughts of care soon flew, 
 
 But the hours fast fled on, 
 Autumn soon was nigh, 
 
 And as years now sped on. 
 So did youth's dream fly. 
 
 Things now lost the colour 
 Which in youth shone gay ;
 
 TJie Old Year's Death. 
 
 So a flower — you cull her, 
 And she fades away. 
 
 Winter-time approaches, 
 Mournful is his guise ; 
 
 Slowly he encroaches. 
 As the Autumn dies. 
 
 Gone are childhood's fancies. 
 Gone is youth's glad dream, 
 Naught illusive glances. 
 Things are what they seem. 
 1S62. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR'S DEATH. 
 
 OT a sound broke on the ear, 
 Save the dying year's low sigh 
 And as the hours passed by, 
 
 Sometimes a mcnn you'd hear. 
 
 And many a bright star peeping 
 With glistering, mournful eye 
 Was watching thoughtfully, 
 
 A solemn vigil keeping. 
 
 And the young moon look'd on too, 
 As she sailed across the sky 
 Among the clouds, which by 
 
 Majestically flew.
 
 10 In Bonds. 
 
 If the frost-king then was out, 
 So noiselessly moved he, 
 One thought not he could be 
 
 His wonted task about. 
 
 And listen ! Hark the sigh, 
 
 That falleth on the ear ! 
 
 Is that a moan I hear ? 
 Alas ! the year must die ! 
 
 Listen ! another sigh ! 
 
 Now is his last breath welling ! 
 
 Now is the bell his requiem telling ! 
 Good-bye, old year, good-bye ! 
 
 IN BONDS. 
 
 »JRET not, dear soul, ah, fret not 
 so ; 
 The galling chain that fetters 
 thee. 
 Shall break ere long, and set thee free. 
 
 Thou'rt like a bird, imprisoned fast, 
 That feels the Spring in all its veins. 
 And at its fetters chafes and strains ;
 
 The Poet and the Waves. 1 1 
 
 And longs to break them and away 
 Fly to its fellows in the grove ; — 
 In vain ; the bars it cannot move ; 
 
 And almost bursts its swelling heart 
 With grief and anguish, thus to be 
 Fettered and caged, when all are free. 
 
 But do not fret, dear soul, ah, no ! 
 
 Thy chains shall break, and thou sbalt 
 
 soar, 
 And never feel a fetter more. 
 
 THE POET AND THE WAVES. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 |ERRY wavelets, sparkling bright, 
 In the sunshine's golden light. 
 Joyous dancers, laughing gay, 
 
 While your gambols ye do play, 
 
 Happy creatures, tell to me. 
 
 Why so light of heart ye be. 
 
 Waves. 
 
 Brightly beams the morning sun. 
 Briskly blow the breezes on,
 
 12 Tice Cuckoo. 
 
 Cheerily, yonder trees among, 
 Chaunt the birds their matin song ; 
 All are gay as gay can be ; 
 Wherefore, mortal, should not we ? 
 
 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 fELCOME! welcome! lonely bird! 
 Sweet thy voice to me. 
 Distant in the woodland heard, 
 Sounding mournfully ! 
 
 Well I love to hear thy song 
 
 Floating in the air. 
 When, the silent woods among, 
 
 I listen to it there. 
 
 When a child I wandered oft 
 After thee, strange bird, 
 
 When from forth some distant croft, 
 Thy known note was heard. 
 
 Oh, I would that I, like thee. 
 
 Solitary thing, 
 To the lonely woods might flee 
 
 On unfettered wing !
 
 Natures Music. 13 
 
 In the forest, freely roaming, 
 
 After thee I'd stray. 
 With the joyous Spring-time coming. 
 
 With autumn going away. 
 1862. 
 
 NATURE'S MUSIC. 
 
 IPPLING of waters, 
 
 Singing of birds, 
 Whispering of soft wind, 
 Songs without words, 
 
 Nature's own voices, 
 O'er land and sea, 
 
 These are the melodies 
 Sweetest to me. 
 
 Man hath no music 
 Worthy to please, 
 
 But what he deftly 
 
 Copies from these. 
 
 When the heart's weary. 
 And needeth rest, 
 
 Nature's own voices 
 Soothe it the best.
 
 14 EartJily Joys. 
 
 EARTHLY JOYS. 
 
 jHE lovely colours of the spring, 
 Soon, soon decay ; 
 The birds, that then so sweetly 
 sing, 
 Soon fly away. 
 
 The rose, that now so fairly blooms, 
 
 Blooms but to-day ; 
 The flowers that have sweetest perfumes, 
 
 Make shortest stay. 
 
 Earth's greatest joys, soonest depart : 
 
 Love naught too well ; 
 Lest, when 'tis gone, a bleeding heart 
 
 Thine anguish tell. 
 
 TO THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 IRANGER in this world of sin, 
 Christian, strive the prize to win, 
 Onward, upward, ever press, 
 Ever in thy work progress, 
 Till thou reach that happy home 
 Whence thy feet shall never roam.
 
 To the Christian. 15 
 
 Do not linger on the way, 
 
 Do not for a moment stay, 
 
 Let not earthly joys deceive thee, 
 
 Let not man's derision grieve thee, 
 
 Keep the straight, the narrow road, 
 
 Onward to thy bright abode. 
 
 Snares on every side shall meet thee, 
 Satan's wiles shall ever greet thee. 
 Be thou brave, the victory's thine. 
 Doubt not, shrink not, ne'er repine. 
 Only let thy Faith be bright. 
 Thou shalt conquer in the fight. 
 
 Onward, Christian, onward hie, 
 Behold yon mansion in the sky ; 
 Noble is thy aim and pure. 
 Only to the end endure, 
 Soon the contest shall be past, 
 Thou shalt reach thy home at last. 
 
 Angel eyes are watching o'er thee, 
 Glorious are the joys before thee ; 
 There a crown awaits thy brow, 
 Untold pleasures thou shalt know. 
 Onward, Christian, onward hie, 
 On to Immortality !
 
 1 6 "Lord, I Follow Thee." 
 
 "LORD, I FOLLOW THEE. 
 ORD, I come; now naught shall 
 
 stay me, 
 Friends, nor home, tho' dear 
 they be : 
 Dearer far the bond that draws me ; 
 
 Lord, I follow Thee. 
 Not a moment will I linger ; 
 
 But from all to Thee I flee ; 
 Earthly joys, away ! I leave ye ! 
 
 Lord, T follow Thee. 
 Be it joy, or be it sorrow, 
 
 Be it care, 'tis naught to me ; 
 Lord, I come, where'er Thou leadest ; 
 
 Lord, I follow Thee. 
 Onward now, nor, backward turning, 
 
 Shall my soul regretful be. 
 Onward, where the Red-Cross leadeth. 
 
 Lord, I follow Thee. 
 1865. 
 
 "LORD, REMEMBER ME." 
 
 HILE upon life's road I travel. 
 Lest I gay and thoughtless be. 
 Trifling on my heavenward 
 
 journey, 
 Lord, remember me !
 
 "Lord, Remember Me!' 17 
 
 When fair scenes, my eyes alluring, 
 Tempt me to depart from Thee, 
 And in danger's path I wander. 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 When the wiles, my soul enticing, 
 Of the foe spread round I see, 
 Lest those wiles to sin should lead me. 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 And oh ! should my soul, unthinking, 
 
 Of my Friend forgetful be. 
 And, in sin, should I remember. 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 When the storm around me gathers, 
 
 And in woe I look to Thee, 
 Lest I perish in the tempest. 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 When sharp pangs upon me gather. 
 
 When all earthly comforts flee, 
 
 And with pain this form is heaving. 
 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 And, at length, in life's last moments. 
 When death's dreary stream I see. 
 And the dark cold valley's shadows. 
 Lord, remember me ! 
 
 1865. 
 
 B
 
 1 8 The Vesper Hymn. 
 
 THE VESPER HYMN. 
 
 fOMPANIONS.nowthedayiso'er- 
 The sun now lights another shore, 
 The even-tide hath come once 
 more ; — 
 
 Come sing our Vesper Hymn. 
 
 The stars Hght up the darker sky ; 
 The moon sails on in majesty ; — 
 They sing their Maker's praise on higli, 
 In strains unheard by us. 
 
 Morning and noon and eve and night, 
 All tell their great Creator's might ; 
 Creation sings, in depth and height, 
 His awful majesty. 
 
 The earth is Thine, Lord ; the sun 
 x\t Thy behest his course doth run ; 
 By mighty storms Thy will is done ; 
 For thou dost rule o'er all. 
 
 Our feeble, trembling tongues would fain 
 x\ttempt Thy praise in fitting strain ; 
 But, Lord, we do attempt in vain 
 
 To sing Thy worthy praise. 
 
 But yet our songs, though weak they be, 
 Are swelled by notes from land and sea ; 
 And saints and angels, nearer Thee, 
 Join in our Vesper Hymn.
 
 TJie Creator. 19 
 
 THE CREATOR. 
 
 ORD of the Universe, how vast 
 And wondrous is Thy m ightypovver ! 
 Thou rul'st the raging of the blast, 
 And guid'st the dew-drop to the flower. 
 
 In the far depths of distant time. 
 
 Thy stern command dark Chaos heard ; 
 
 And instant, at the word sublime. 
 
 The huije, dark mass with life was stirred. 
 
 The incumbent darkness, hanging o'er 
 The space immense with massy weight, 
 Confessed the great Creator's power, 
 And burst into a glorious light. 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars obey Thy will, 
 x^nd, led by Thee, their courses run ; 
 Thou bid'st the fiercest storm be still ; 
 By great and small Thy will is done. 
 
 .'\nd shall a feeble worm of earth 
 Dare challenge such celestial might ? 
 Shall puny man, of paltry birth, 
 Against the great CreatorTight ? 
 
 Nay, rather, let his soul adore. 
 
 And let his tongue burst forth to praise 
 
 Such goodness, joined to such dread 
 
 power. 
 Such majesty, unto such grace. 
 1865.
 
 20 The Martyr. 
 
 THE MARTYR. 
 
 LESSED Martyr, now reposing 
 On thy Saviour's loving breast, 
 Painful was thy journey's closing, 
 But it brought thee sweeter rest. 
 
 Soldier of the cross victorious, 
 Noble champion of the right, 
 Bright thy triumph was and glorious, — 
 Well thou won'st the bitter fight. 
 
 And with voices sweetly sounding 
 Angels sang the victor strain ; 
 While the heavenly halls resounding 
 Echoed back the glad refrain. 
 
 Then, while palms were strewn around 
 
 thee. 
 All along the golden way 
 Christ Himself as victor crowned iheo, 
 And put on thy white array. 
 
 Blessed martyr, now reposing 
 On thy Saviour's loving breast, 
 Painful was thy journey's closing, 
 But it brought thee sweeter rest. 
 1865. 
 
 I 
 
 il
 
 The Night is Coming. 21 
 
 THE NIGHT IS COMING. 
 
 INNER, flee ; the night is coming, 
 And the storm is gathering 
 round ; 
 
 Lo ! within the distance looming, 
 List the thunder's louder sound ; 
 Threatening clouds are gathering fast, 
 Howleth wild the furious blast. 
 
 See, the vessel still is waiting, 
 That shall bear thee o'er the flood ; 
 Quickly hasten, nor debating, 
 Trifle in that doubting mood ; 
 Danger cannot reach thee there. 
 It shall thee in safety bear. 
 
 Oh ! delay not till the morrow, 
 For the morrow ne'er may come ; 
 Linger still, and thou in sorrow 
 May'st bewail a sinner's doom ! 
 Hasten now, nor stay nor pause ; 
 Quickly nigh the moment draws. 
 
 Jesus 'tis the Vessel guideth ; 
 What can hurt, when He is nigh % 
 Safe across the waste it rideth, 
 Wind and wave still neath His eye ; 
 Sinner, come, no moment stay ; 
 Hell may punish each delay.
 
 22 Ad Angeluni Custodem. 
 
 AD ANGELUM CUSTODEM. 
 
 NGEL of God, whose presence 
 brio'ht 
 Ever accompanies me, 
 Thy form, though clothed in heavenly light, 
 My dim eyes cannot see. 
 
 And yet, at night, thy loving face 
 
 Sometimes upon me beams ; 
 And then, at morn, I strive to trace, 
 
 What I have seen in dreams. 
 
 We do not see such smiles as thine 
 
 On earthly faces glow ! 
 From Heaven alone such light can shine, 
 
 Unseen on earth below. 
 
 Perchance, when time with me is o'er, — 
 
 Ah God, so may it be ! — 
 My opened eyes for evermore 
 
 That blissful smile shall see ! 
 
 AD MART AM. 
 
 H, Virgin Mother ! thy loving face 
 Beameth upon thy child 
 Down from thy niche in the 
 chapel wall 
 With holy smile and milcj.
 
 The Holy Family. 23 
 
 Gazing on thy dear countenance, 
 
 My soul transported seems 
 To see thy face in heaven above 
 
 Shine in life's glowing streams. 
 
 Ah ! mother dear, my weary heart 
 
 Ever to thee doth flee, 
 When suffering from earth's bitter pain, 
 
 Or man's inconstancy. 
 
 How darksome were life's pilgrimage 
 
 Without thy tender love 
 The drooping heart, desponding soul, 
 
 To raise to heaven above ! 
 
 Mother, I make this one request, — 
 
 Whate'er my lot may be, 
 Grant, when life's troubled course is o'er, 
 
 My place may be with thee. 
 
 THE HOLY FAMILY. 
 
 HILD of the Virgin, Thou 
 Mightiest of helpers art, 
 When trouble presses on tlie 
 mind, 
 Or sorrow fills the heart.
 
 24 The Holy Family. 
 
 To Thee I e'er will flee 
 
 For ease in every pain, 
 As wearied hind finds hidden springs, 
 
 And seeks those springs again. 
 
 Mary, dear mother, thou 
 
 Of mothers art the best ; 
 No child of earth e'er came to thee, 
 
 But with thee he found rest. 
 
 Oft have I sought thine aid, — 
 
 Oft sought it tearfully ; 
 But never have I sighed unheard, 
 
 Never in vain to thee. 
 
 Blest Joseph, loving saint, 
 To thee what shall I say ? 
 
 As now, so ever, blessed saint, 
 Support me on my way. 
 
 Jesus, Lord of sweet love, 
 
 Mary, our mother dear, 
 And Joseph, universal sire. 
 
 Ever your suppliants hear ! 
 

 
 spring-tide. 25 
 
 SPRING-TIDE. 
 
 HE first bright day of Spring-tide, 
 Sunny, and warm, and glad, 
 Light'ning the load of sorrow, 
 Cheering the heart that's sad ! 
 
 The first sweet bird of Spring-tide, 
 
 Singing upon the spray. 
 Filling the soul with its music, 
 
 Chasing the gloom away ! 
 
 The first fair flower of Spring-tide, 
 
 Blooming there all alone, 
 Bright'ning the earth with its smiling, 
 
 Telling that winter is gone ! 
 
 Dawn of the Spring-tide eternal, 
 Birds whose songs never cease, 
 
 Flowers breathing fragrance for ever, 
 Come with your joy and your peace ! 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 IND, it is infinite, 
 
 Speech hath its bounds ; 
 Hearts have their motions 
 Where lips have no sounds.
 
 26 Destruction of the First-Born. 
 
 Thoughts there are higher 
 Than ears ever heard ; 
 
 Feelings profounder 
 Than ever found word : 
 
 Greater imaginings, 
 
 Sentiments truer ; 
 Nobler sympathies, 
 
 Longings more pure ; 
 
 Thoughts that are God-like, 
 Higher than earth ; 
 
 Feelings beseeming 
 Heavenly birth. 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE FIRST- 
 BORN. 
 
 iWAS night, silent night, in the 
 land of the Nile, 
 And the moon lit the river's 
 broad breast with her smile ; 
 Over mountain and valley and city she 
 
 beamed. 
 On pyramid, temple, and palace she 
 gleamed.
 
 Destruction of the First- Born. 27 
 
 Over all the Egyptians reigned sleep still 
 
 as death, — 
 The silence unbroke e'en by zephyr's soft 
 
 breath ; 
 Not a breeze moved the leaves of the tail 
 
 stately palm ; 
 All, all was quite motionless, silent, and 
 
 calm. 
 
 And thro' the dim twilight a spirit flew by ; 
 'Twas the Angel of Death, vv'ith his sword 
 
 raised on high. 
 He flashed like a meteor thro' the air on 
 
 his way, 
 And he entered the homes, where the 
 
 sleeping ones lay. 
 
 And the sleepers sleep on till the morning 
 
 is nigh ; 
 And then — Oh, the wail that ascends to 
 
 the sky ! 
 In each home in the land, stiff and cold 
 
 on his bed. 
 The first-born lies motionless, speechless, 
 
 and dead. 
 
 Thro' the land there was wailing, and 
 weeping, and woe ;
 
 28 The Great Book. 
 
 For from east unto west, mid the high and 
 
 the low, 
 There was not a home that had felt not 
 
 the stroke, — 
 Not a house but to sorrow and mourning 
 
 awoke. 
 
 THE GREAT BOOK. 
 
 HERE is a ponderous volume, 
 Where all our words are writ 
 Its leaves are seen in Heaven, 
 And in Hell's gloomy pit. 
 
 Some gleam in glory brighter 
 Than sun hath ever shone ; 
 
 Some glare in darkness blacker 
 Than Hell hath ever known. 
 
 The good man's word of kindness, 
 The bad man's words of hate, 
 
 The bitter curse, the blessing, 
 The words of small and great, 
 
 There full 'twixt Hell and Heaven 
 They stand, or black, or bright ;
 
 The Great Book. 29 
 
 Nor fiend, nor happy angel, 
 But doth behold the sight. 
 
 And no good word is ever 
 Upon that wide page writ, 
 
 But the Almighty's countenance 
 With a sweet smile is lit. 
 
 That smile all Heaven illumines 
 With its effulgence bright ; 
 
 The face of every angel 
 Reflects that smile of light. 
 
 But oh, when words of evil 
 Are written on that leaf, 
 
 Tn Hell, the fiendish laughter 
 Tells that in Heaven is grief. 
 
 Each angel's face is shrouded 
 To hide the dreadful sight ; 
 
 The Almighty's face is clouded, 
 And none behold its light. 
 
 Each word, not only from the lips, 
 But from the heart as well. 
 
 Gladdens God's happy angels, 
 Or gladdens fiends in Hell.
 
 30 The Inn. 
 
 Each word! each thought ! Oh! may 
 there be 
 
 Nor word, nor thought of thine, 
 But, writ in golden characters, 
 
 Eternally may shine. 
 
 THE INN. 
 
 PILGRIM on his weary way 
 Had plodded from the break of 
 day ; 
 
 And now, when night was drawing on, 
 He felt his strength was almost gone ; 
 And looked around with anxious mind, 
 Hoping some resting-place to find. 
 
 And lo ! a castle with delight 
 He saw, upon a neighbouring height. 
 Then, mustering his remaining strength. 
 He reached the castle gate at length, 
 And begged, in words of simple grace, 
 To see the owner of the place. 
 
 His lordship came with haughty air, 
 And asked him what he wanted there. 
 The pilgrim made his meek request, — 
 A little food, a place of rest, —
 
 The lun. 31 
 
 The humblest bed, the meanest fare, 
 That might his failing strength repair. 
 
 The master listened with amaze ; 
 Then, with a stern and angry gaze, 
 Said to the pilgrim : " Hence ! Away ! 
 You cannot in my mansion stay. 
 This is no inn, where travellers rest ; 
 A little further make your quest." 
 
 The pilgrim turned, with look of pain, 
 But then addressed the lord again : 
 " Since here I may not find a friend, 
 To yonder hamlet I will wend ; 
 Yet I would fain three questions ask. 
 Ere I resume my toilsome task." 
 
 " Ask without fear," the lord replied, 
 
 " And answer shall not be denied." 
 
 " Pray," quoth the pilgrim, " tell me who 
 
 Dwelt in this castle before you ? " 
 
 " My father." " Who before 'twas his ? '" 
 
 " My ancestors for centuries." 
 
 "And tell me who," the pilgrim said, 
 " Will dwell here after you are dead ? " 
 " My son, I hope ; " the lord replied. 
 "Ah!" said the pilgrim, — and he sighed, — 
 " What is this but an inn, when they 
 Who dwell here make so short a stay ? "
 
 32 TJie Lily and the Primrose. 
 
 His lordship paused, and mused a while ; 
 He looked no more with scornful smile. 
 " Alas ! " he said, " I sadly fear 
 " I've little known my duty here ! 
 If this is but an inn, then I 
 To be a better host must try." 
 
 The pilgrim to his house he led. 
 And meat and wine before him spread ; 
 Then a soft silken couch he shows, 
 Whereon the pilgrim may repose ; 
 And rose next morn, at break of day. 
 To help his guest upon his way. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 LITTLE child was wandering, 
 One sunny summer day. 
 Where the little brook, mean- 
 dering, 
 All mirthfully did play. 
 
 And while she thus was roving, 
 She saw its golden crest, 
 
 A lily proud displaying. 
 
 Above the brooklet's breast.
 
 The Poppy and the Daisy. 33 
 
 " How beauteous is this flower ! " 
 The little child, she said ; 
 
 " How gorgeously doth tower 
 Its lustrous golden head ! " 
 
 And then a primrose spying 
 Upon the brooklet's side, 
 
 In grass half-hidden lying, 
 All joyously she cried : 
 
 " But oh ! how far, far fairer 
 Is this sweet little flower ! 
 
 Sure ne'er was found a rarer 
 In garden or in bower ! " 
 
 And straight with hand so loving 
 She culled the primrose fair, 
 
 And placed it in her bosom ; 
 But left the lily there. 
 1862. 
 
 THE POPPY AND THE DAISY. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 ITHIN a meadow, side by side, 
 A poppy and a daisy grew ; 
 The poppy gay in gaudy pride, 
 The daisy meekly hid from view 
 
 c
 
 34 The Weeping Willow. 
 
 " Poor paltry thing," the poppy said, 
 
 " Why are thy thoughts so mean and low? 
 
 See how I boldly lift my head, 
 
 Whilst thou art cowering there below ! " 
 
 The daisy heard the scornful word ; 
 She heard, but did not make reply ; 
 For lo ! the thunder's roll was heard, 
 And clouds were gathering o'er the sky. 
 
 And soon the rain in torrents fell, 
 
 The storm beat fiercely everywhere ; — 
 
 The daisy from it sheltered well, 
 
 The poppy to its fury bare. 
 
 Soon was the furious tempest o'er. 
 
 The rainy flood had ceased to fall ; 
 
 The sun came from the clouds once more; 
 
 And golden sunshine covered all. 
 
 Then, while the poppy on the plain 
 
 Lay stretched along, all bruised and 
 
 crushed. 
 The humble daisy bloomed again. 
 And with a sweeter beauty blushed. 
 
 THE WEEPING WILLOW. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 WEEPING willow grew by a 
 brooklet's side, 
 And overshadowed it from bank 
 to bank ;
 
 The Weeping Willow. 35 
 
 But sadly swayed its branches in the 
 
 breeze, 
 And drooping down sighed ceaselessly. 
 Then sang the nightingale. All nature 
 
 sat 
 Listening in silent rapture to the song. 
 " Ah ! " said the willow, when the strain 
 
 was o'er, 
 " Why am not I a nightingale, that I 
 Such melodies might utter ? " 
 
 A swan came swimming down the 
 
 placid stream : 
 Its graceful form moved slowly on, and 
 
 passed 
 Beneath the willow's branches, and at 
 
 length 
 Was lost in the far distance. Then the 
 
 tree 
 Sighing again, exclaimed, " Ah ! would 
 
 that I, 
 Like yon fair bird might float and gladden 
 
 all 
 With grace and beauty ! " 
 
 A noble horse went swiftly by, and bore 
 A warrior on his back. With lightning 
 
 speed 
 He flew, and from his hoofs the glowing 
 
 sparks
 
 36 The Weeping Willow. 
 
 Sprang upwards as he pass'd. " Ah ! " 
 
 cried the tree, 
 "Why am not I a warrior's steed, to fiy 
 Like Hghtning o'er the plain ? " 
 
 High in the azure sky an eagle soared, 
 And higher and still higher flew, as tho' 
 He fain would reach the sun, whose burn- 
 ing rays 
 His eye alone could meet with orb un- 
 
 quenched. 
 Again the willow sighed, and sadly said : 
 " Were I an eagle too, how I would soar, 
 And make my dwelling-place above the 
 clouds ! " 
 
 The brooklet heard the willow's sigh?, 
 
 and paused 
 A moment in its course. " O beauteous 
 
 tree," 
 It said, " cease, cease to sigh. The good 
 
 Creator 
 Hath blest His every creature; and to 
 
 thee 
 He gave surpassing beauty. Cease to 
 
 envy 
 The gifts of others ; for thine own are 
 
 great."
 
 The Bread of St. Jodoc. 37 
 
 The willow listened to the stream; she 
 
 gazed 
 Upon her beauteous form reflected fair 
 Within the watery mirror, and gazing still, 
 Forgot a while to sigh. 
 
 THE BREAD OF ST. JODOC. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 jlO prove His servant came the 
 Lord one day 
 In meanest guise unto St. 
 Jodoc's door, 
 And begged for bread. 
 
 Unto the Almoner 
 The Abbot said : "Give to the wayfarer." 
 " Nay, master," said his servant ; " but 
 
 one loaf 
 Is all remains." 
 
 "Give," said the saint; "the Lord 
 Will see to us." 
 
 The Almoner took the loaf, 
 And in four portions cut it. Turning then 
 Unto the beggar, " One for thee," he said, 
 " For me, the Abbot, and the dog, one 
 each ! "
 
 3 8 The Bread of St. Jodoc. 
 
 The Abbot heard and smiled. The 
 
 mendicant 
 Went on his way. In guise more woful still 
 Again the Lord came to St. Jodoc's door, 
 And begged an alms. 
 
 "My portion give to him," 
 The Abbot said. "The Lordwill see tome." 
 The Almoner gave ; the beggar went his 
 
 way. 
 
 Again with tattered garb and hungry looks 
 The Lord for alms begged at St. Jodoc's 
 
 door. 
 "Give him thy portion," to the Almoner 
 The Abbot said; "the Lord will see to 
 
 thee." 
 
 The Almoner gave once more. The 
 beggar went. 
 
 But once again, lame, Wind, half-naked 
 
 came 
 The Lord and begged for bread. 
 
 " Give the dog's portion," 
 Then said the saint ; " the Lord will see 
 
 to us." 
 The Almoner gave; the beggarwenthisway; 
 But as he went, a voice rang in their ears : 
 " Well done ! my faithful servant ; great 
 
 thy faith ;
 
 The Sisters. 39 
 
 And, as thy faith, so thy reward shall be ! " 
 
 And lo ! as thro' the narrow window 
 looked 
 
 The Almoner, along the river came 
 
 Four vessels sailing, all with viands full. 
 
 No man was there ; but on a pennon 
 white 
 
 These words were writ : " The Lord, who 
 feeds the ravens, 
 
 These vessels to His servant Jodoc sends, 
 
 Who, in one day, four times hath suc- 
 coured Him : 
 
 One for the Abbot, for the Almoner one ; 
 
 One for the dog, one for the Giver's kin." 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 HE Almighty walked in Paradise, 
 and came 
 Where grew apart, in a most 
 beauteous garden, 
 The choicest blossoms of His love ; for 
 
 these 
 Were they, who others, when on earth, 
 
 had loved. 
 More than they loved themselves. And 
 as He passed
 
 40 The Sisters. 
 
 Among the blossoms, these more brightly 
 
 bloomed, 
 And sweeter odours cast around; and tones 
 Of wondrous symphonies filled all the air. 
 
 Then came the Almighty to a spot re- 
 tired, 
 
 And lo ! there yet was room for two. A 
 while 
 
 He gazed ; then to the attendant spirit 
 turned, 
 
 And said : "Go swiftly thou to earth, 
 where dwell 
 
 The children sad of Adam. Find me there 
 
 Two creatures worthy here to bloom, in 
 this 
 
 The garden of my chief delight." 
 
 Thro' space the spirit sped on swiftest 
 
 wings. 
 And, like a falling star, on earth alighted. 
 Thro' many abodes of men he passed ; 
 
 'mid scenes 
 Of sin and sorrow loving souls he found ; 
 But none of these were worthy deemed to 
 
 blow 
 Within the garden of God's chief delight. 
 
 At length, amid the dwellings of the 
 poor,
 
 The Sisters. 41 
 
 The spirit entered one, most poor of all ; 
 And there, within the topmost attic, dwel 
 Two sisters. One upon a bed of straw 
 Lay stretched, with scantiest covering 
 The cough, the hectic flush upon her 
 
 cheeks. 
 Spoke of the approach of death. The 
 
 other sister 
 Knelt by her side. Pale cheeks and hol- 
 low eyes 
 Told the sad tale of want. 
 
 And then between the two arose a contest. 
 She who knelt press'd on her dying sister 
 The scanty remnants of their food. "Take 
 
 thou 
 The food, dear sister/' then the sick one 
 
 said, 
 "For thoij hast greater need of it than I." 
 And neither sister could persuade the 
 
 other. 
 
 The spirit gazed uponthescene,andsaid: 
 " Surely, ah, surely these are meet to 
 
 blossom 
 In the Almighty's garden. These I take." 
 And when the kneeling one had risen, 
 and crept 
 Close by her sister's side, while orisons sweet
 
 42 The Sisters. 
 
 Of resignation from their lips arose, 
 
 Soft sleep upon their eyelids shed the angel 
 
 Of Paradise ; and thro' their minds sweet 
 
 dreams 
 Floated. Together, so it seem'd to them, 
 They pass'd thro' air, and to a garden 
 
 came. 
 Where flowers of fairest hue and fragrant 
 
 odours 
 In myriads grew. And then, it seem'd to 
 
 them 
 They too were flowers, and bloom'd among 
 
 the rest, 
 And sweetly smiled their sister flowers 
 
 upon them. 
 While all the garden fair with dulcet voices, 
 Thatuttered wondrous harmonies, was fiU'd, 
 In praise of Him Whose Presence was their 
 
 life; 
 And both the sisters join'd the joyous song. 
 
 At morn, upon the straw, 'neath those 
 
 poor rags, 
 Two sleeping forms were found, sleeping 
 
 in death. 
 But gladdest smiles illumed the i) faces ; 
 
 and, 
 To those who saw, it seem'd, as tho'from far. 
 Came fragrant odours and sweet melodies,
 
 The Mermaid. 43 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 SEA-GIRT isle, and nigh its 
 
 rocky shores 
 A troop of mermaids sporting. 
 Now here, now there, thro' the trans- 
 lucent waves 
 They swiftly darted in the full moon's 
 
 light. 
 But one, apart, 'neath an o'erhangmg rock 
 Sat desolate, and gazed with fixed eyes 
 Far thro' the moonlit waves. 
 
 A mermaid old 
 Approached. "Whyart thou here," she said, 
 " While all thy fellows join in mirth and 
 
 sport ? 
 What grief so heavy weighs upon thy 
 
 heart?" 
 "Because the time will come," the mer- 
 maid said, 
 " When I shall cease to be. This form of 
 
 mine 
 ^Vill fade away. This spirit in the winds 
 Will be dissolved \ and I shall be as tho' 
 I ne'er had been at all. This makes me 
 
 sad. 
 For this, I cannot join in sport and 
 laughter."
 
 44 The Mermaid. 
 
 "Thou sayest the truth;" rephed the 
 
 aged one ; 
 " But happier far than they of human race 
 Art thou and we. Their hfe is but a span, 
 And full of pain and sickness. Ours out- 
 lasts 
 Their many generations ; and to us 
 Sickness and pain are things unknown." 
 
 " Nay," said the lone one ; " they of human 
 
 race 
 YMq, not. The body dies ; the spirit lives 
 For ever, and rejoices in its Maker. 
 Ah ! gladly would I bear the pain and 
 
 sickness, 
 Could I, like man, possess a soul undying!" 
 
 ■' And know'st thou not," then said the 
 
 aged one, 
 " Thou, too, mayst be like them ? Hast 
 
 thou ne'er heard. 
 The mermaid who for one of human race 
 Shall give her life, shall have a human soul, 
 And, like them, live for ever. But life is 
 
 sweet ; 
 And death is full of dread ; and never yet 
 Hath any of our race dared thus to pur- 
 chase 
 A soul immortal."
 
 The Mermaid. 45 
 
 The mermaid heard, and pondered. 
 Shall she dare ? 
 
 Shall she to the dear ocean bid adieu 
 
 And leave the liquid waves, the caves of 
 crystal, 
 
 The tossing billows, all the mirth and sport? 
 
 Yea, she will dare. For tho' the mer- 
 maid's hfe 
 
 Be glad and long, for her 'tis sadness, so 
 
 The thought of that last nothingness doth 
 weigh 
 
 Upon her heart. 
 
 Thro' the pellucid waves 
 Shone now the matutinal sunbeams. She 
 Rose from her seat under the crystal rock, 
 And hastened to approach the haunts of 
 
 men. 
 Up the broad river swift she darts along. 
 The river narrows. Soon the o'erhanging 
 
 trees 
 From bank to bank o'erarch the waters. 
 Then heard the mermaid children's joyous 
 
 voices, 
 Shouts and glad laughter ; and she nearer 
 
 drew 
 To where they played. 
 
 One child she saw apart.
 
 46 Tlie Mermaid. 
 
 Upon the river's bank he stood and gazed 
 Upon a fish, that ghttered in the sun- 
 beams ; 
 He stretched his hands, as tho' to grasp 
 
 the creature ; 
 He fell, and sank beneath the waters. 
 
 Swift the mermaid 
 Sprang after him. The current too was 
 
 swift j 
 And far she darted, e'er she caught the 
 
 child. 
 She bore him to the bank, and on the 
 
 flowers, 
 That fringed the river, laid him. His 
 
 blue eyes 
 Were closed. His locks hung heavy 
 
 round his brow. 
 He spake not, moved not. Lo ! the child 
 
 was dead ! 
 
 Soon rose the sound of sorrow. O'er her 
 
 child 
 The mother wept. Beneath a willow's 
 
 branches 
 That overhung the stream, the mermaid 
 
 saw. 
 Then fall'd her heart a mighty resolution. 
 To the Creator lifting up her voice she 
 
 cried :
 
 The Desert Island. 47 
 
 " Take thou my life away ; restore the 
 child's ; 
 
 That so the sorrowing mother may re- 
 joice ! " 
 
 The Almighty heard her prayer. Closed 
 her eyes ; 
 
 Her bosom ceased its beatings ; on the 
 stream 
 
 Her lifeless body floated ; but from be- 
 neath the willow, 
 
 Unseen by mortal eyes, sprang joyous up- 
 wards 
 
 A beauteous spirit, that, with arms out- 
 stretched, 
 
 And eyes intent aloft, flew heavenwards, 
 
 Winging with rapid flight to meet its 
 Maker. 
 
 THE DESERT ISLAND. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 GENEROUS lord summoned 
 
 one day his slave, 
 And took him to the shore, 
 where lay at anchor 
 A noble ship, rich laden, and said to him : 
 *' Lo ! thou art free ; this vessel, too, is 
 th ne.
 
 48 The Desert Island. 
 
 Go, sail where'er thou wilt." 
 
 The slave, now free, 
 Thanked his good lord, then went on 
 
 ' board the ship. 
 And sailed away across the tranquil sea. 
 But lo ! at eve, a mighty tempest rose, 
 And drove the ship before it. On a rock 
 It struck, and quickly sank beneath the 
 
 waves. 
 Its master only out of all on board was 
 
 saved, 
 And found himself, naked and helpless, 
 
 lying 
 Upon a barren shore. Hunger-press'd, 
 After long swoon he rose, and inland 
 
 ventured. 
 Hoping to find shelter and food. He 
 
 reached a height ; 
 And lo ! in the far distance saw he then 
 A city fair, gilded by morning's sunbeams. 
 His steps he thither turned ; but e'er he 
 
 came 
 Nigh to the city's gate, forth came a troop 
 With joyous acclamations \ who, meeting 
 
 him, 
 Bore him in triumph citywards. They 
 
 entered ; 
 And to a lordly palace bore him. Royal 
 
 robes
 
 TJie Desert Island. 49 
 
 And golden crown they placed upon him, 
 
 throned 
 (n regal state : then bent the knee before 
 
 him, 
 And hailed him king. 
 
 " It is a dream," he said, 
 " A beauteous dream ; and I shall soon 
 
 awake 1 " 
 But days passed by, and still the dream 
 
 continued ; 
 The shipwrecked outcast was indeed a 
 
 king. 
 
 At length, one day, wondering o'er these 
 
 events. 
 He called an aged vizier, and enquired : 
 " Wherefore have ye, my subjects, chosen 
 
 me 
 To be your king? How chanced ye to know 
 That I upon your coast was cast? Explain 
 This wondrous mystery." 
 
 " Sire," said the vizier, 
 " In days long past, our ancestors remote 
 Made prayer to the Almighty, that each 
 
 year 
 A monarch new might rule them. Their 
 
 prayer was heard. 
 
 Shipwrecked like thee, each year a stranger 
 
 comes 
 
 D
 
 50 The Desert Island. 
 
 Upon our shores, and him proclaim we 
 king." 
 " What do ye then with him who ruled 
 before ? " 
 Enquired the king. 
 
 " Alas ! his lot is hard ! " 
 The vizier answered. " Borne unto the 
 
 shore, 
 A little boat awaits him, and to a distant isle 
 Barren and desolate they carry him, 
 And leave him there." 
 
 " And knew my predecessors 
 The fate that waited them ? " 
 
 " All of them knew ; 
 But all, enslaved by pleasure, spent their 
 
 year 
 In folly, heedless of their destiny, 
 Till came the fatal day." 
 
 " Can naught avert 
 This dreadful doom ? " again enquired the 
 king. 
 "When comes the hour appointed," 
 said the vizier, 
 " Thou must depart ; such is thy destiny. 
 Yet if thou wisely use the year allotted, 
 Thou may'st prepare thyself a happy 
 future." 
 " I pray thee, tell me how ? " the king 
 demanded.
 
 The Desert Island. 51 
 
 " Thus," said the vizier ; " in this thy 
 year of rule 
 
 Send to thy future home, and build thy- 
 self 
 
 A pleasant dwelling place. Thy subjects bid 
 
 To go and cultivate its barren soil ; 
 
 Bid gardens, woods and cities there ap- 
 pear ; 
 
 Then, of thy subjects here, send thither 
 
 Those whom thou wiliest ; they will go 
 with joy ; 
 
 And these shall be thy future subjects. 
 When 
 
 The destined hour arrives, and thou from 
 hence 
 
 Art borne upon the fatal bark, then these 
 
 Upon that other shore shall welcome thee, 
 
 And thou shalt rciarn for ever." 
 
 o 
 
 I The king was wise. 
 
 The vizier's advice he followed carefully. 
 Artificers and husbandmen were sent ; 
 And soon the desert isle began to bloom 
 With trees and flowers ; a stately palace 
 
 rose; 
 And many a lovely cottage hid itself 
 'Neath sheltering trees ; and, as the year 
 
 passed on. 
 Still fairer grew the isle, still wider spread
 
 > 
 
 52 The Desert Island. 
 
 The fruits of prudent toil ; and gladly 
 
 thither 
 Full many of his subjects went to dwell. 
 
 The end approached. The destined 
 
 day arrived. 
 Stripped of his robes, his crown, the king 
 
 was borne 
 Down to the shore, and there the boat 
 
 stood ready. 
 Swiftly away they bore him. Soon the isle, 
 His destined home, was reached. The 
 
 shore was filled 
 With joyous multitudes, to greet their 
 
 kinc;. 
 He landed midst acclaim; and royal robes. 
 And crown of gold, and throne of regal 
 
 state, 
 Awaited him ; and there he reigned in 
 
 bliss. 
 
 And thou, O man, the shipwrecked 
 
 outcast art, 
 The slave made free by a most bounteous 
 
 lord. 
 To life naked and helpless cam'st thou ; 
 
 king 
 Thou art ; thy subjects, all the gifts of 
 
 God.
 
 The Scoffers Confession. 53 
 
 Thy reign is brief. Soon the bier shall 
 
 bear thee 
 Across Death's ocean ; but there awaits 
 
 thy coming 
 A kingdom new, a long and happy reign, 
 If thou thy time on earth hast wisely 
 
 spent. 
 Be prudent now. Prepare in time. 
 
 Spend not 
 In folly and forgetfulness the fleeting 
 
 hours ; 
 Else, in long, dreary exile, shalt thou rue. 
 
 THE SCOFFER'S CONFESSION. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 T chanced, in one of France's 
 greatest cities, 
 A band of youths, who long the 
 hallowed path 
 Of Faith and Hope and Holiness had left, 
 One evening at the tavern spent their time, 
 In merriment together. Filled with wine, 
 Their childhood's pious teachings were 
 
 their jest ; 
 Things once deemed best and holiest now 
 became
 
 54 The Scoffer s Confession. 
 
 The objects of their laughter, until one, 
 More wanton than the rest, exclaimed : 
 
 " 'Twere sport. 
 If one should to the priest his sins confess, 
 And all for mockery ! " 
 
 Cried another then : 
 " I lay a wager, that the deed I do ! " 
 " Accepted ! " cried the first. " A dozen, 
 
 I wage. 
 Of Champagne's choicest vintage you do 
 
 not ! " 
 " Before the week has ended, I will go," 
 The second said ; and all the room was 
 
 filled 
 With laughter at the jest. 
 
 Next noon the youth bethought him of 
 
 his' bet. 
 "I go!" he said; "altho' the morning air 
 Makes things to wear a different aspect, yet 
 I goj I wiU'not lose the wager." 
 
 'Tis eve; and in the temple's dim-lit 
 
 aisles 
 Behold the faithful gathered. One by one, 
 They enter the confessional's sacred shades, 
 And unto God, in person of his minister. 
 Open their hearts, with tears of penitence; 
 And many a burthened soul lays down its 
 
 load. 
 And goes away rejoicing.
 
 The Scoff eis Confession. 55 
 
 One there came, 
 Upon whose face, had any looked, no signs 
 Of penitence were seen. The Hp of scorn. 
 The mocking eye were his. Yet in his 
 
 turn, 
 Where many more had entered, entered he: 
 And at the feet of him, of whom 'twas 
 
 said : 
 " Whose sins thou shalt forgive, they are 
 
 forgiven ; 
 Whose sins thou shalt retain, they are re- 
 tained," 
 The scorner knelt. 
 
 " I come," he said, " my sins to tell ; 
 Yet not in penitence come I ; 'tis a jest ; 
 For I have laid a bet, and needs I win." 
 " Make thy confession then ; " the priest 
 
 replied. 
 And lo ! the youth a history sad related 
 Of years spent in transgressions ; and as 
 
 each sin 
 He told of that long, dreadful category, 
 The scornful words he added : " Naught 
 
 care I ! " 
 Listened the holy priest in silent sadness ; 
 Yet in his heart he said : " The boy is 
 
 mad ! 
 Dear Lord, forgive ; and bring him back 
 
 to Thee ! "
 
 56 The Scoffers Confession. 
 
 The long confession ended, said the 
 
 priest : 
 " Now thou hast said thy say, unhappy 
 
 boy, 
 I will say mine. If thou wouldst win thy 
 
 bet, 
 Thy task must be done wholly, not in part. 
 Confession made, comes penance ; and 
 
 this is thine : 
 Three days, three times each day, morn, 
 
 noon, and eve, 
 Upon thy knees these words I bid thee 
 
 say : 
 * Death follows life ; but naught I care for 
 
 death ; 
 Then judgment comes ; for judgment 
 
 naught I care ; 
 Last Cometh hell ; but naught I care for 
 
 that ! ' 
 Such is thy penance; look thou do it well !" 
 
 The youth departed. Soon, with laughter 
 wild, 
 
 His comrades heard. "Do thou the pen- 
 ance," cried they, 
 
 " Else losest thou the bet." " The bet I 
 lose not," 
 
 Answered the youth. " The penance I 
 will do."
 
 The Scoffef^s Confession. 57 
 
 And morn, and noon, and evening, he 
 
 knelt. 
 And said the penance that was laid upon 
 
 him : 
 " Death follows life ; but nauglit I care 
 
 for death ; 
 Then judgment comes ; for judgment 
 
 naught care I ; 
 Last Cometh hell ; but naught I care for 
 
 hell ! " 
 
 First from his lips the words came care- 
 lessly ; 
 But, as he said, back to his spirit came 
 The sweet remembrances of days gone by, 
 When at a mother's knee he knelt, and 
 
 learned 
 To pray ; and as the dreadful sentences 
 Fell from his tongue, his soul was filled 
 
 with horror. 
 " Death, judgment, hell ! " he scarce had 
 
 heart to utter 
 The awful words. " Care not for these ! " 
 
 he said ; 
 "I needs must care : 'twere madness else;" 
 
 and ere 
 The penance was complete, the three days 
 
 passed. 
 Again the holy priest beheld the youth,
 
 58 Castles in the Air. 
 
 Not now in mockery kneeling, but with 
 
 tears 
 Of penitence unfeigned. And soon he 
 
 rose, 
 The band of scoffers ne'er to meet again. 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 |0W I do love, in the still hour of 
 eve, 
 After the sun hath sunk down 
 
 in the west. 
 When sleeps the day-bird in its downy nest, 
 My books and studies for awhile to leave, 
 And slowly stray, in thoughtful mood, and 
 
 rnuse, 
 In my own thoughts shut up, on many a 
 
 theme ; 
 Or for the future build fair hopes, that 
 
 seem, 
 In the far distance lying, clothed in hues 
 Of fairy splendour, or which glowing shine 
 Like joys of some sweet earthly paradise. 
 Painted by fancy as entirely mine. 
 And tho' in sober thought I well perceive, 
 That hopes like these will never greet 
 
 mine eyes, 
 Yet still I love them, and great joy they 
 
 give. 
 1862.
 
 Unrest. 59 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 ,H ! could thy soul but leave its 
 high aspiring, 
 And, like the multitude, con- 
 tented be 
 To pass day after day unceasingly 
 In the same changeless round ; if no 
 
 desiring 
 Of higher, nobler things, thy bosom firing 
 With restless longings, eager to pursue 
 Some aim sublime, that mocks thy 
 eager view. 
 Now in thy changeful breast fair hope 
 
 inspiring, 
 Now plunging deep thy soul in black 
 despair, 
 Then cheating thee again with kindlier 
 
 smiling, 
 Again thy brightening hopes away to 
 tear, 
 With cruel hand — perchance without a care 
 Of higher things, thou might'st, thy time 
 bewhiling 
 With petty things, not then these achings 
 bear. 
 
 1867.
 
 6o The Shortness of Life. 
 
 THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 
 
 EE, M'hen the morning sun doth 
 gild the sky, 
 The flow'ret blooms in his en- 
 livening streams, 
 It opes, it spreads its bosom to his beams, 
 With fragrant breath and beauty-glowing 
 
 eye. 
 But soon the morn, the noon have passed 
 
 by, 
 Night Cometh on, and as it comes, so 
 
 fades 
 'Ihe flow'ret, withered ere the evening 
 
 shades 
 Have fairly come ; — so soon the flower 
 
 doth die. 
 Lo ! such is man ! Short as the flower's 
 
 his day ! 
 He cometh, and the hours, days, years 
 
 pass on. 
 And quickly bear him from this bourne 
 
 away ; 
 Till soon his little span of life is o'er — 
 r!ed like the shades, — his short existence 
 
 gone. 
 And but an empty name remains, — no 
 more. 
 1868.
 
 To the Ocean. 6i 
 
 TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 USH, rush, thou ever-shifting 
 ocean, on, — 
 Rush, dashing, splashing on the 
 
 sand-strewn shore ! 
 Ye depths unseen in your dark caverns 
 
 moan. 
 Ye mighty, never-resting billows roar ! 
 Unfathomed, measureless, immense, pro- 
 found. 
 That with thy hundred arms, Briareus 
 
 like, 
 Dost span the earth in close embrace 
 
 around, 
 And now with furious rage dost terror 
 
 strike 
 Into her, now play round her like a child 
 In wanton merriment, with many a soft 
 
 caress ; 
 Wondrous art thou, whether with aspect 
 
 wild 
 Thou rage sublime, in awful restlessness, 
 Or the glad sunshine on thy brow serene 
 Doth spread in quiet splendour all his 
 
 golden sheen. 
 
 1867.
 
 62 To Erin. 
 
 TO ERIN. 
 
 [AIR ocean Isle, two winters now 
 are thine. 
 The one hath robb'd thy moun- 
 tains and thy vales 
 Of thy green verdure; driven, with wintry 
 
 gales, 
 The J0j3us songsters from thy groves, to 
 
 find 
 Welcome in other lands ; the leaves and 
 
 flowers 
 Withered from trees and meadows, and 
 
 left bare 
 Thy whilom lovely aspect. Fiercer far 
 That other winter which still grimly 
 
 glowers, 
 And long hath glower'd upon thee. Cruel 
 
 might. 
 And savage tyranny, with rancorous hate, 
 Have made thy once blest homesteads 
 
 desolate, 
 And filled thee all with horror and 
 
 affright. 
 But soon shall both these winters cease 
 
 their reign, 
 And twofold spring-time make thee smile 
 
 again.
 
 Rome. 63 
 
 The icy north shall its rude blasts recall ; 
 Again the woodland quirists their sweet 
 
 song 
 Shall raise thy hills and meadowlands 
 
 among — 
 And kindly rain and sunshine cover all 
 Thy land with leaf and flower. Gay 
 
 shall be 
 Thy aspect then, sweet Erin. The harsh 
 
 reign 
 Of withering tyranny that long hath Iain, 
 Filling thee with dismay and death, sliall 
 
 see 
 Its speedy end ; and from thy tvery shore 
 Shall smile prosperity and glad content ; 
 While all thy virtues, like sweet flowers, 
 
 shall scent 
 The air with fragrant perfumes : and no 
 
 more 
 Thy loving sons, exiled far from thee. 
 Shall with vain longing pine their father- 
 land to see. 
 
 1868. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 [EAD is the city of proud memo- 
 ries ! 
 Dead is the city of the ancient 
 date! 
 Pass'd are her days of glory and of state.
 
 64 The Voyage Begun. 
 
 Ended at last are her high destinies ! 
 
 City of kings, city of heroes, is 
 
 Thy doom at length spoke by the mouth 
 
 of fate ? 
 Shall fame no more upon thy borders 
 
 wait? 
 Glory no more recount thy victories ? 
 Rome, city of kings and martyrs, is not 
 
 dead. 
 Foes and false friends are eager to betray. 
 Foes and false friends shall soon be 
 
 scattered. 
 City of Pontiffs, thou shalt ne'er decay 
 Till the great world itself shall bow its 
 
 head, 
 And sun and moon and stars shall pass 
 
 away. 
 1870. 
 
 THE VOYAGE BEGUN. 
 
 LllTLE wail announced thine 
 advent here, 
 Into a world which is a world 
 of wail, 
 A new adventurer on this sea to sail. 
 To sound its shallow joys, thy bark to 
 
 steer 
 Over its woes profound. O world of fear !
 
 The Mystery of the Trinity. 65 
 
 ocean wondrous we are sailing o'er, 
 Each after other venturing from the 
 shore 
 Upon its unknown waters ! Ocean drear, 
 How can we venture on thy waves 
 alone ? 
 How can we venture our frail tottering 
 
 boat 
 Midst dreadful storms and cheating calms 
 to float, 
 Midst quicksands and alluring rocks, 
 
 unknown — 
 We weak, unskilful, timorous creatures 
 prone 
 To be deceived, unknowing, without 
 thought ? 
 1869. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF THE TRINITY. 
 
 IlLONG the shore of the deep- 
 sounding sea 
 The sage of Hippo paced, in 
 mighty thought ; 
 For, as he upward gazed, his spirit sought, 
 With eager yearning, the great mystery 
 To fathom of the wondrous One-in-Thrcc. 
 Vainly he strove ; no ray, with brightness 
 fraught, 
 
 £
 
 66 The Fire of Love. 
 
 The longed-for image to his vision brought, 
 That might explain how such Strang? 
 
 thing could be. 
 And lo ! a child upon the strand, who 
 
 sought, 
 With ocean's waves, to fill a hollow 
 
 small ! 
 Then said the saint : " And think'st thou, 
 
 child, that all 
 This ocean vast may in thy trench be 
 
 brought ? " 
 "And think'st thou," said the child, with 
 
 smile of hght, 
 " That mortal mind can grasp the In- 
 finite ? " 
 
 THE FIRE OF LOVE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. WENCESLAS. 
 
 WAS the chill winter. On the 
 frozen ground. 
 The trees, the cottage roofs, 
 thick lay the snow 
 And heavy. The piercing storm-gusts 
 
 blow 
 Across the plain. To yonder cottage 
 bound.
 
 St. Cadods Cloak. 6y 
 
 Behold, with hasty step, the royal saint, 
 His shoulders laden with a weighty store 
 Of fuel for its inmates, hurries o'er 
 The snow ; and after him a boy, now 
 
 faint 
 With cold. " My master dear, I can no 
 
 more ! 
 My limbs are stiff ; my very heart is 
 
 chill'd ! " 
 Then said the saint, his breast with pity 
 
 fill'd ; 
 "Tread in my footsteps, child, who go 
 
 before." 
 The boy obeyed. Love's fire divine, that 
 
 press'd 
 E'en from his master's footsteps, warmed 
 
 his breast. 
 
 ST. CADOC'S CLOAK. 
 
 fO, bring me fire ; I needs must 
 bake to-day ; " 
 The hermit Meuthi to his 
 pupil said. 
 Unto the threshing-floor straight Cadoc 
 
 sped. 
 Where Tidys with the flail was busy. 
 « Stay,
 
 68 St. Cadoc and the Mouse. 
 
 Tidys, from thy toil awhile. For fire 
 
 1 come from holy Meuthi," said the boy. 
 " Fire dost thou want ? I have no time to 
 
 toy; 
 
 Go ; elsewhere seek the thing that ye re- 
 quire. 
 
 Yet stay ; I give thee fire ; but thou must 
 take 
 
 The embers in that cloak of thine ; 
 naught 
 
 I give thee else, even for Meuthi's sake." 
 
 The embers in his mantle Cadoc caught, 
 
 And with all haste unto his master came ; 
 
 And lo ! the cloak was scatheless from 
 the flame. 
 
 ST. CADOC AND THE MOUSE. 
 
 \0 Brecknock once St. Cadoc 
 came, to learn 
 From Bachan's lips ; and lo ! 
 in all the land 
 Was famine sore. The poor on every 
 
 hand 
 Clamour for bread ; and to St. Cadoc 
 
 turn 
 Their tearful eyes for comfort. Burns 
 his breast 
 
 a
 
 St. Illtyd and the Stag. 69 
 
 With pity. Unto God with tears he 
 
 prays : 
 " O Thou, Whose hand the raven's hunger 
 
 stays, 
 Succour Thy children, now so sore dis- 
 
 tress'd ! " 
 And lo ! a mouse, with artful wile and 
 
 play, 
 Brings to the saint a single grain of wheat. 
 Lays it before him, and then turns away. 
 Follows the saint, with no unwilling feet. 
 It leads him where a hidden granary lay, 
 With store of corn well-filled, wholesome 
 
 and sweet. 
 
 ST. ILLTYD AND THE STAG. 
 
 IILD Merchion with his dogs the 
 stag pursued 
 O'er Llantwit's brakes and 
 marshes. Swift in flight 
 Sped on the beast, till came it where the 
 
 knight, 
 St. Illtyd, dwelt alone in desert rude. 
 Into the hermit's cell, for refuge, bounds 
 The wearied stag, hard by the blood- 
 hounds press'd, 
 And on the ground it lies in trustful rest ;
 
 JO St. Samson and the Meadcasks. 
 
 While spell-bound at the portal stand the 
 
 hounds. 
 The eager huntsmen come, and with 
 
 amaze 
 On stag reposing on the cottage floor, 
 The panting blood-hounds standing at the 
 
 door, 
 The holy hermit in the midst, they gaze. 
 Of higher justice Merchion owns the 
 
 sway ; 
 He leaves the stag, and calls his hounds 
 
 away. 
 
 ST. SAMSON AND THE MEAD- 
 CASKS. 
 
 HE poor came crowding round 
 the Convent gate. 
 By hunger driven. Samson 
 with lavish hand 
 The Convent's stores among the famished 
 
 band 
 Divided, corn and mead. With hearts 
 
 elate, 
 Their hunger satisfied, they blessed the 
 
 saint, 
 And went their way ; the saint went to his 
 books.
 
 The Vocation of St. Issylio. y i 
 
 At noontide hour the monks, with angry 
 looks, 
 
 Unto the abbot came, and made com- 
 plaint. 
 
 Samson the mead had wasted ; none was 
 left 
 
 To place upon the noontide table. 
 Straight 
 
 The abbot views the mead-casks. Sadly 
 wait 
 
 The thirsty monks, of wonted cheer be- 
 reft. 
 
 Samson is called. He comes. The 
 holy sign 
 
 He makes. The empty casks are filled 
 with wine. 
 
 THE VOCATION OF ST. ISSYLIO. 
 
 SSYLIO with his brothers in the 
 wood, 
 Pursued the forest denizens ; 
 when lo ! 
 A band of monks passed by. Solemn and 
 
 slow 
 They went, singing sweet hymns. Issylio 
 stood
 
 72 Holy Obedience. 
 
 And listened to the strains. The har- 
 mony fills 
 The woodland glades. Cease the birds' 
 
 sweet notes, 
 While on the air that sweeter music floats, 
 Which thoughts of Heaven into the breast 
 
 instils. 
 Pass'd the procession, straight Issylio 
 
 said : 
 " Lo ! I the chase abandon, home, and 
 
 all! 
 These heavenly voices to my spirit call, 
 And needs I follow whither I am led." 
 The world abandoning, with the monks 
 
 he went. 
 And in God's service all his years were 
 
 spent. 
 
 HOLY OBEDIENCE. 
 
 |HE monk in the scriptorium sat 
 and wrote 
 The Gospel. Line by line and 
 stroke by stroke 
 Slowly he traced the holy characters, 
 
 which spoke 
 Of Him, whom Love Divine from Heaven 
 had brought
 
 The Blessed Philip Evans. 73 
 
 To take upon Himself the form of man, 
 And, mortal, dwell with mortals, — of his 
 
 life. 
 His holy teaching, and His ceaseless 
 
 strife 
 With human sin and sorrow ; and, as ran 
 His quill along, the monk in deepest 
 
 thought 
 Was wholly wrapt, — entranced his spirit so 
 The wondrous mysteries, that the writing 
 
 taught. 
 The final letter of God's name he made ; 
 And lo ! 'twas said : " The Abbot calls 
 
 thee ; go ! " 
 He left the stroke unfinished, and obeyed. 
 
 THE VENERABLE PHILIP EVANS 
 AND HIS HARP.* 
 
 Harp of Cymru, never with 
 
 sweeter swell 
 
 Didst utter song than then, 
 
 when he, to whom 
 
 'Twas said : "At morn thou mcetest a 
 
 felon's doom," 
 
 *The V. Philip Evans die I for his religion at 
 Cardiff on July 22nd, 1679. On being told, 
 while amusing himself o.e day at a game of 
 bowls in the Castle grounds, that he was to die 
 the next morning, he said : " What hurry ! Let 
 us finish our game." Having done so, he was so
 
 74 The Donkey turned Flutist. 
 
 Awoke thy chords to sing his last farewell ! 
 That felon's death the martyr dreaded not ; 
 For well he knew that he was doomed to 
 
 die, 
 Because that he, like them of days gone 
 
 by, 
 
 The hand that blessed, the gifted tongue 
 
 had got. 
 O Saints of Cymru, David, Teilo, thou 
 Llancarvan's sage, and thou, famed 
 
 Llantwit's knight, 
 With all the rest, who sweeter incense 
 
 light, 
 To burn before that Greater Altar now, 
 Oh ! plead with God, your children's 
 
 offspring may, 
 Like them of old, soon learn the Better 
 
 Way. 
 
 THE DONKEY TURNED FLUTIST. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF YRTARTE. 
 
 HIS same little fable, 
 Like you it, or not, 
 I have this moment thought of 
 y chance. 
 
 full of joy, that he took up his harp, on which he 
 was an accomplished player, and spent some time 
 in playing unon it his favourite airs.
 
 The Donkey ttirned Flutist. 75 
 
 Round about some meadows, 
 That lie near my abode, 
 Wandered one day a donkey 
 By chance. 
 
 A flute within those meadows 
 He found ; some country lout 
 Had left it there, — forgotten 
 By chance. 
 
 Of course our noble donkey 
 Must smell what it was like. 
 And at that moment snorted 
 By chance. 
 
 And through the flute his snorting 
 An impulse chanced to send ; 
 And then, the flute it sounded 
 By chance. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried our noble donkey, 
 " Who says I cannot play ? 
 Yet some will blame my music, 
 Perchance ! " 
 
 Of rules of art unknowing 
 There many donkeys are, 
 Who o?ice are quite successful, 
 By chance.
 
 y6 The Poet and the Sea. 
 THE POET AND THE SEA. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS. 
 
 |HEN softly moves the wind across 
 the wave, 
 My timid mind is stirred, — the 
 Muse no more 
 Doth please ; I stand delighted on the 
 shore. 
 But when the grisly depths of ocean rave, 
 And foaming surge, and mighty billows 
 fling,— 
 Then to the land I turn, and shun the 
 
 seas, 
 And earth seems trusty, and the dim 
 woods please, — 
 Where though the gale blow, sweet the 
 
 pine doth sing. 
 An evil life the fisherman hath wed, — 
 
 His bark his home, his toil upon the ssa. 
 The doubtful winnings of the net his 
 bread ! 
 For me, — I love to slumber 'neath a 
 shady tree, 
 A brooklet murmuring near my rustic 
 bed, 
 Whose sounds delightful never bid me 
 flee.
 
 The Life of Man. yy 
 
 THE LIFE OF MAN. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF MININERMUS. 
 
 |E, like the leaves at flow'ry hour 
 of Spring 
 Brought forth, when sudden 
 
 shines the fiery sun 
 With hotter glow, the blossomed days of 
 
 youth 
 Awhile enjoy, careless alike of good, 
 Careless of ill. But round our path black 
 
 Cares 
 Have ta'en their stand. The one hath in 
 
 her hand 
 Eld's lonesome lot, and Death her sister 
 
 holds. 
 A little span Youth's joys endure, while 
 
 lasts 
 The sunny Spring. But when the glowing 
 
 hour 
 Hath pass'd away, far better 'twere, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 That Death should come forthwith. For 
 
 many an ill. 
 From household cares and poverty's sad 
 
 lot, 
 The life of man molests. One fondly 
 
 yearns
 
 78 
 
 The Place of Rest. 
 
 For children's loving smile, yet dies un- 
 wept 
 
 By son or daughter dear; worn by disease, 
 
 Another lingers on ; nor is there mortal 
 man, 
 
 Who at the hand of Zeus receives not 
 many an ill. 
 
 THE PLACE OF REST. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF PORCHAT. 
 
 ONDER below, the hamlet nigh, 
 Around that black tower doth it 
 he ; 
 
 Beneath the elm, whose foliage green 
 Rustleth in the breeze of e'en. 
 'Tis there our miseries shall cease, 
 'Tis there our fathers rest va peace ; 
 Till comes the great awakening cry, 
 Sweet sleep there on our eyes shall lie. 
 
 Behold the turf uneven lies ; 
 
 As ocean's billows fall and rise. 
 
 So mounds and hollows small and great 
 
 In this enclosure alternate ; 
 
 And flowers in countless numbers grace 
 
 The spot, where once a tomb found plac. . 
 
 Till comes the great awakening cry, 
 
 Sweet sleep there on our eyes shall lie.
 
 Go, Pray. 79 
 
 GO, PRAY. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 |0, pray. It is the eve— the still, 
 soft eve ; 
 The twilight cometh on— the 
 night is nigh. 
 It is the hour when earthly feehngs leave 
 The soul awhile. With holy thoughts and 
 
 high 
 Aspirings doth the subdued spirit heave : 
 Go, while these feeUngs move thee ; raise 
 thine eye, 
 
 And pray. 
 
 The sun is setting on the horizon low ; 
 
 His last bright beams across the welkin 
 stealing 
 
 Are shedding there a softer, purer glow, 
 
 Like the remembrance of some bye-gone 
 feeling : 
 
 Go ; turn thee to thy God, go to thy 
 chamber now, 
 
 Wiiile the soft inspiration's on thee, kneel- 
 ing 
 
 To pray. 
 
 Go, pray. For whom? For what? There 
 
 is around 
 A world in woe, — a race of millions dying
 
 8o Go, Pray. 
 
 In sin, in misery, — thoughtless, careless, 
 
 drowned 
 In vice and wretchedness and want, yet 
 
 lying 
 Unknowing of their woe. Oh ! gaze 
 
 around ! 
 For these upraise thine eyes to heaven, 
 
 sighing, 
 
 And pray. 
 
 Oh ! pray with heart and mind and soul ; 
 
 and naught 
 But thy petition feeling, in that hour 
 Forget all else. Yea, let not e'en a thought, 
 But thy great prayer unto the Father — our 
 Great Father — rise within thy mind. He 
 
 taught 
 His children prayer, — then go with power. 
 
 And pray. 
 
 Pray for the wicked man, — the man of sin ; 
 O pray for him with heaving, anxious 
 
 breast ; 
 And bid the tears of sorrow, pent within 
 Thine eyes, flow down with sympathy ; 
 
 and rest 
 Not, cease not, till thy mighty pleading 
 
 win 
 The ear of Him, Who bade us, when on 
 
 earth a guest, 
 
 I'o pray. 

 
 Go, Pray. 8i 
 
 Remember, Oh ! remember, over him, 
 When lying lisping on a mother's knee. 
 Fond eyes have gazed, filled up to the 
 
 brim 
 With tears, with tears of love; remember he 
 Was once a fair, sweet, loving child, — tho' 
 
 grim 
 His spirit now with guilt and misery ; — 
 
 And pray. 
 
 E'en now, perchance, at times a vision o'er 
 His spirit comes, — a dream of byegone 
 
 years ; 
 And he looks back upon the time once 
 
 more, 
 When at a mother's knee he prayed. The 
 
 tears. 
 Hot, scalding, trickle down, — his head, 
 
 now hoar 
 With years, bows grief-struck, as again lie 
 
 hears 
 
 Her pray. 
 
 And there are those who never had a 
 
 mother 
 Who taught them in their infancy to kneel 
 And pray ; who never prayed for self or 
 
 other ; 
 Remember these to Him, whose balm can 
 
 heal 
 
 F
 
 82 Go, Pray. 
 
 The vilest ; for each of them is still thy 
 
 brother, 
 Though black. Remember these, and for 
 
 their weal, 
 
 Go, pray ! 
 
 The sun is set, the twilight deepens, and 
 A stilly hush broods over all. The eve 
 Is tranquil, — meet for prayer; and soft 
 
 and bland 
 The breeze flows on; the dying light doth 
 
 weave 
 Shades dark and darker now on every 
 
 hand. 
 All, all is peace around. Hasten, ere it 
 
 leave, 
 
 And pray. 
 
 Pray for the v/eeper, who within the tomb 
 Hath placed her best-beloved; for him 
 
 who mourns 
 Over his dearest. All is dark, dark gloom 
 For them. Their hopes dashed from 
 
 them, oh, how burns 
 The anguish-stricken heart, and torpor 
 
 dumb 
 Seizes upon them ! For these, while yet 
 
 thy spirit yearns. 
 
 Go, pray.
 
 Go, Pray. 83 
 
 The widow and the orphan, — pray for 
 them. 
 
 Forget them not ! Unhappy they, be- 
 reaved 
 
 Of him, who was their stay ; now left to 
 stem 
 
 The world's rough tide alone! They had 
 believed 
 
 That many happy years awaited him ; 
 
 And suddenly they woke to woe, too 
 grieved 
 
 To pray. 
 
 'Tis night. The sky is veiled in darkness. 
 
 Lo! 
 The moon shines softly as she strays along. 
 Above, the stars gleam quietly. Below, 
 The birds are silent in their nests. The 
 
 song 
 Of insects too is hush'd. The rustlino: 
 
 low 
 Of leaves alone is heard. Think it not 
 
 long 
 
 Still pray I
 
 84 When tJie Swallows Homeward Fly. 
 THE BEE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 iNCE a little bee was flitting 
 Hither, thither, everywhere, 
 In each flow'ret's bosom dipping 
 And from each one sweetness sipping. 
 " Little Bee," said the gardener's wife, 
 Who chanced to meet him there, 
 " Don't you know many a flower is rife 
 With poison, tho' so fair ? 
 And yet, from every flower you sip, 
 Little Bee, with honied lip ! " 
 " Yes ! " said the bee, as he poised in air, 
 " Yes ! but I leave the poison there ! " 
 
 WHEN THE SWALLOWS HOME- 
 WARD FLY. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 the swallows homeward fly, 
 When the roses fade and die, 
 When the nightingale's sweet 
 
 song 
 With the nightingale is gone.
 
 The Cathedral of Cologne. 85 
 
 Asks my heart, with bitter smart, 
 If I thee shall see again, — 
 Parting, ah, parting is such pain ! 
 
 When the swans all southward go. 
 Thither where the citrons blow ; 
 When the evening glory fades, 
 Glancing thro' the wood's dim shades, 
 Asks my heart, with bitter smart, 
 If I thee shall see again, — 
 Parting, ah, parting is such pain ! 
 
 Why, poor heart, so sore distrest ? 
 Thou at last shalt also rest. 
 What on earth is doomed to die, 
 Shall we see again on high ? 
 Asks my heart, with bitter smart. 
 Yes, we all shall meet again. 
 Although the parting is such pain ! 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 T is a wood of mighty trees, 
 
 Their joyous branches bend- 
 ing, 
 
 And from them pious thoughts like birds 
 To Heaven are e'er ascending.
 
 86 The Cathedral of Cologne. 
 
 The hardy thought, the earnest striving, 
 That made these stones like flowers to 
 blow ; 
 
 Such was our fathers' life and nature, 
 Now found no more on earth below. 
 
 Thus do thd^e lofty pillars speak, 
 
 That ever heavenward draw our eaze ; 
 
 Between which, as in shady groves, 
 The pious suppliant kneels and prays. 
 
 And where the soul its secret tells. 
 
 In silent, shady, holy light, 
 A tapestry is overhung, — 
 
 A tent with saintly pictures bright. 
 
 Upon those variegated panes 
 It is no idle light that gleams ; 
 
 'Tis a reflection earthv/ard falling 
 
 Of endless joys which on them beams. 
 
 But sideways, sweetest spot, thou draw'st 
 me ; 
 
 To thee my ardent longings swell, 
 Chapel, wherein with love and mercy 
 
 The ancient faith doth ever dwell. 
 
 Here may no noisy songs arise, 
 
 Although with songs my bosom beats ; 
 
 But silently, where angels sing, 
 
 Mary's sweet smile my spirit greets.
 
 The Poor Fiddler. 87 
 
 THE POOR FIDDLER. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 T Mentz, in ages distant, 
 A fiddler poor, and old, 
 With hoary hair and tattered 
 rags 
 Was beggin in the cold. 
 
 Alas ! how cold and hungry, 
 
 How faint I am and weak ! 
 Will no one have some pity. 
 
 And grant the aid I seek ? 
 
 I once was young and happy ; 
 
 I sang with power then. 
 And my fiddle, by its sweetness, 
 
 Entranced the ears of men. 
 
 But now, poor, old, and lonely, 
 My singing days long gone — 
 
 They say : — " Come, tune thy fiddle. 
 And sing, thou aged one ! " 
 
 At Mentz, along the river. 
 
 The old man walked distressed ; 
 
 Till he came to a little chapel 
 
 Where he stopped to pray and rest.
 
 88 The Poor Fiddler. 
 
 And, stepping within the doorway, 
 
 On an altar he doth behold 
 The Holy Virgin's image, 
 * Gleaming in silk and gold. 
 
 With prayerful eyes upgazing, 
 
 From her he seeks relief; 
 And it seemed as though her gentle voice 
 
 Soothed the old man's grief. 
 
 Then from his eyes, for gladness, 
 The tears in torrents pressed ; 
 
 And before her image, to thank her. 
 He played his very best. 
 
 He played and sang before her : 
 " Thou knewest want's bitter smart ; 
 
 And thou hearest not my fiddle, 
 But thou seest my grateful heart." 
 
 And when the song was ended, 
 
 And as he turned away, 
 The image threw a slipper of gold 
 
 For his tune and song to pay. 
 
 The old man seized the slipper, 
 
 lie kissed it o'er and o'er ; 
 And then with haste to the city went, 
 
 For hunger pressed him sore.
 
 The Poor Fiddler. 89 
 
 But the watchman chanced to see him, 
 As he hastened off with glee ; 
 
 And "Hold!" he cried, "thou wicked 
 thief; 
 That slipper give to me ! " 
 
 " 'Twas the holy image gave it, 
 For my tune and song to pay," 
 
 He said ; but the people laughed. 
 And they led him quick away. 
 
 And as, along the pathway, 
 
 He passed the chapel door, 
 He stood before the image. 
 
 And prayed, as he did before. 
 
 " Thyself hast known much sorrow, 
 
 Thyself hadst woes to bear ; 
 To thee I offer my poor old heart, 
 
 Ah ! take it in thy care ! " 
 
 And again the aged fiddler 
 
 Placed his fiddle against his breast, 
 And he sang before the image, 
 
 And played his very best. 
 
 And when the song was ended, 
 
 And as he turned away, 
 Another slipper the image threw, 
 
 For his tune and song to pay.
 
 90 The Tailor of Brabant. 
 
 The people gazed with wonder, 
 And they cried aloud with fear j 
 
 " 'Twas the Holy Virgin gave them, 
 And God is surely here ! " 
 
 They all kneel down in sorrow, 
 And each one humbly prays, 
 
 And then, with the aged fiddler. 
 They sing the Virgin's praise. 
 
 THE TAILOR OF BRABANT. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 HE wine that's best for children 
 Is that clear wine which flows 
 Down from the rock-girt foun- 
 tain, 
 And carols as it goes. 
 
 It flows through verdant meadows, 
 It flows through bush and brake ; 
 
 And bird and beast all drink it, 
 For it makes no head to ache. 
 
 And if this wine for children 
 Is the best that they can drink. 
 
 To their elders it would do no harm, 
 If they drank it too, I think,
 
 The Tailor of Brabant. 91 
 
 In Brabant there was a tailor, — 
 
 His name I cannot tell, — 
 But he drank not much of the white wine, 
 
 This I know, alas, full well. 
 
 Our tailor's choice was the red wine, 
 
 He loved it exceedingly ; 
 He drank so much of the red wine, 
 
 That his head hung heavily. 
 
 Then, the sport of all naughty children, 
 
 He tottered on his way, 
 Until in the midst of the market place 
 
 The drunken tailor lay. 
 
 And while there he lay and slumbered. 
 
 As drunk as drunk could be, 
 There passed that w.;y Count Philip, 
 
 The Lord of Burgundy. 
 
 He pressed through the crowd of gazers 
 
 To see what was lying there ; 
 And he bade them to the castle 
 
 The drunken tailor bear. 
 
 Then spake Count Philip, laughing, 
 
 For his heart beat merrily : 
 " r faith, the tailor's punishment 
 
 Our pastime now shall be."
 
 92 The Tailor of Brabant. 
 
 And in the Count's richest garments, 
 Silk robe and golden vest, 
 
 With coronet and ribands gay, 
 The sleeping man they dressed. 
 
 And, when his sleep was over, 
 They cried, on bended knee : 
 
 "All Hail, our liege, Count Philip, 
 The I-ord of Burgundy ! " 
 
 Our tailor rubbed his eyelids. 
 He rubbed them o'er and o'er ; 
 
 He listened, and he listened, 
 And they shouted as before. 
 
 He gazed with joy and wonder 
 On gold and precious stone, — 
 
 On his coronet of glittering pearls, 
 And on his ivory throne. 
 
 As Count he heard them greet him, 
 
 He saw the lighted hall, 
 His ears they heard, his eyes beheld, 
 
 And it vexed him not at all. 
 
 The honours and the glory, 
 They pleased him mightily ; 
 
 " Doubtless I am Count Philip 
 The Lord of Burgundy ! "
 
 The Tailor of Brabant. 93 
 
 First timidly, then boldly, 
 
 He issues his command ; 
 First with the smile of favour, 
 
 Then with the threatening hand. 
 
 To do his will the servants 
 
 Are hurrying here and there ; 
 Not the Count himself e'er bore him 
 
 With such a lordly air. 
 
 At last he cried with anger : 
 
 " Make haste, you lazy lot ; 
 For a draught of wine I'm parching. 
 
 And yet you bring it not. 
 
 " And hark ye, bring the red wine ; 
 
 For, by my coronet. 
 That horrid stuff, your white wine, 
 
 I loved it never yet.'' 
 
 And then the huge golden goblet 
 
 He drained full thirstily ; 
 And sleep once more o'ermastered 
 
 The Count of Burgundy. 
 
 As Count Philip of Burgundy 
 
 In the Castle he fell asleep ; 
 But, as tailor, in the market-place, 
 
 He awoke from slumber deep.
 
 94 The Tailor of Brabant. 
 
 He called upon his servants \ — 
 With threatening words he said : 
 
 " Bring not to me your white wine,- 
 I only drink the red." 
 
 But instead of a velvet cushion, 
 On the cold, hard stone he lies ; 
 
 And near him, in the fountain. 
 The cool, white wine he spies. 
 
 And the tailor, parched and thirsty, 
 Of that hated wine did drink, 
 
 And then, with sober footsteps. 
 Homeward begran to slink. 
 
 'O 
 
 But, as he tottered onward. 
 The crowd cried scoffingly : 
 
 " All Hail, our liege, Count Philip, 
 The Lord of Burgundy ! " 
 
 And the tailor never after 
 
 From his dwelling ventured out. 
 
 But the scornful crowd would follow 
 With mocking laugh and shout. 
 
 Now lest you too should suffer 
 
 The tailor's cruel fate, 
 Be sure you do not learn, like him. 
 
 The pure white wine to hate.
 
 The Erl-Kiiig. 95 
 
 THE ERL-KING. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 
 |H0 rideth so late throu-^h the 
 night so wild ? 
 It is the father with his child. 
 He holdeth the boy close in his arm ; 
 He grasps him tightly, he keeps him 
 warm. 
 
 " My son, why hidest thy face with fear?" 
 " Seest not, father, the Erl-king near ? — \ 
 The Erl-king, with his crown and train ? " 
 " My son, 'tis a mist athwart the plain." 
 
 " My darling child, come, go with me, 
 And gladsome games will I play with thee. 
 Fair are the flowers on our sea-side path, 
 And garments of gold my mother hath.'"' 
 
 "My father, my father, and dost thou not 
 
 hear, 
 What Erl-king whispereth soft in mine 
 
 ear?" 
 " Be quiet, rest thee quiet, my child ; 
 The branches rustle in the night-wind 
 
 wild."
 
 96 The Erl-King. 
 
 " Wilt, pretty child, thou not come with 
 
 me? 
 My daughters shall wait on thee fair and 
 
 free ; 
 My daughters the nightly dance shall 
 
 keep, — 
 They shall dance and sing and rock thee 
 
 to sleep." 
 
 " My father, my father, and seest thou 
 
 not 
 Erl-king's daughters in yon shady spot ? " 
 ' My son, my son, I see it full well \ — 
 Tis the mist on the meadows worketh the 
 
 spell." 
 
 " I love thee, I love thee, thou beauteous 
 boy; 
 
 And, art thou not willing, must force em- 
 ploy ! " 
 
 *' My father, my father, he seizeth me now ; 
 
 Ah ! Erl-king hath done me a hurt, I 
 trow ! " 
 
 The father shudders ; fast rideth he on ; 
 He holds in his arms his moaning son ; 
 He reacheth his home with fear and 
 
 dread ; 
 Within his arms his child lay dead.
 
 TJie Old General. 97 
 
 THE OLD GENERAL. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 EAR children, listen to my song : 
 
 There lived upon his pension 
 
 A general, now no longer 
 
 young,— 
 A man of high intention ; 
 To help, to console, to gladden, to give. 
 For this alone he seemed to live. 
 
 His son had died, and he, beguiled, 
 
 Adopted as his daughter, 
 From kindliness, his sister's child, — 
 
 A pious girl he thought her ; 
 But she loved only gold, and pearls, and 
 
 rings, 
 And other such transient, worldly things. 
 
 " Child," said the general one day, 
 "You give me little pleasure ; 
 
 You care for naught but dress and play, 
 And the poor you do not treasure ; 
 
 I am aging fast, and must soon depart : 
 
 Would you be my heiress, amend your heart. 
 
 " And now, I go awhile from home ; 
 
 But I leave you money in plenty, 
 That, when to my door the poor shall come, 
 
 They never may go away empty ; 
 And if ever a soldier comes, poor and old. 
 Give him, for my sake, a ducat of gold." 
 
 G
 
 98 The Old General. 
 
 He goes. Night comes. She hears a rap ; 
 
 And at the door discovers 
 An aged soldier, whose bear-skin cap 
 
 His countenance quite covers ; 
 On his crutches he feebly totters nigh, 
 And begs for a little charity. 
 
 "You drunken knave," exclaimed the 
 shrew, 
 " A little further crutch it ! 
 My money's not for such as you, 
 And you shall never touch it ; 
 Pack off, you shameless, drunken thief, 
 Or my dog shall bring your shins to 
 grief." 
 
 "Is it thus you do my will ? " he cried ; 
 
 And, aside his bear-skin throwing. 
 She saw the general by her side. 
 
 His eyes like lightning glowing. 
 " 'Twas my wish to fairly test your heart,— 
 And now, from my house, you must de- 
 part. 
 
 " You cannot now my heiress be ; 
 
 Pack off, without delaying. 
 You need not cry and pray to me ; 
 
 My house you shall not stay in. 
 For a girl who drives the poor away. 
 Need never to an old soldier pray."
 
 The Rain-Drop. 99 
 
 THE RAIN-DROP. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 SUDDEN shower, one April day, 
 Disturbed three children at 
 their play ; 
 And soon the nimble youngsters stood 
 'Neath shelter of a neighb'ring wood. 
 
 Scarce had the rain-drops ceased to patter. 
 Scarce had the sun begun to scatter 
 His rays again, when something bright 
 Fell on the children's wondering sight. 
 
 " Oh ! what a lovely light is this ! " 
 Cried Charles ; " just look liow bright it is ! 
 See, Fred'rick, in the bush ; its hue — 
 I never saw so clear a blue." 
 
 " I see the httle light," cried Fred, 
 " There, on the branch above my head ; 
 But yet — I'm sure — what can you me.m? 
 I never saw a brigliter green." 
 
 "Green, blue," cried Hal; "where are 
 
 your eyes ? 
 The tiny light close by me lies ; 
 And, I declare, it is as red 
 A light as ever ruby shed."
 
 100 The Book Without Letters. 
 
 The lads returned to their play. 
 Whence was that many-coloured ray ? 
 A rain-drop there reflected bright 
 A sunbeam to the children's sight. 
 
 Thus oft unto our earnest eyes 
 The truth in varied colour lies ; 
 But when we get a nearer view, 
 We see one pure, unchanging hue. 
 
 THE BOOK WITHOUT LETTERS. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 PEASANT, at his cottage door, 
 A little bock was reading o'er,- — 
 A simple, untaught, aged man. 
 Whose locks in silvery tresses ran ; 
 His cheeks, of rosy colour yet, 
 With quickly dropping tears were wet. 
 
 A doctor, with each^ science pat. 
 Beheld the peasant as he sat ; 
 Though learned and of high repute, 
 He bent, the peasant to salute ; 
 " Old simpleton, now tell me, pray, 
 Do you e'en know the letter A ? "
 
 The Book Without Letters. lor 
 
 " Nor letter A, nor letter B, 
 Sir Doctor, e'er was known to me ; 
 Nor does my little book contain 
 Aught but six empty pages plain ; 
 Six too the tints those pages hold ; — 
 Now list the truths those tints unfold. 
 
 " The first, of heaven's bright blue, doth 
 
 say, 
 Mine eyes should heavenward ever stray ; 
 The next, whose hue with roses vies, 
 Tells of the blood that purifies ; 
 The third's clear whiteness says to me, 
 ' Seek thou the lily's purity.' 
 
 " The fourth, which bears night's dark- 
 some hue, 
 Tells me that death to all is due ; 
 The fifth, with fiery coloured glare, 
 Seems with the gleam of hell to stare ; 
 While the sixth page, with golden light, 
 Pictures to me heaven's glorious sight. 
 
 " When on these simple truths I pore, 
 My heart is stirred, the tears run o'er ; 
 I find here all I need to know ; 
 And all the tomes your shelves can sho\v. 
 Volumes on volumes, rich and rare, 
 Cannot with this my book compare."
 
 I02 The Woodcutter. 
 
 Sir Doctor stood, and thought a minute. 
 " H'm," he exclaimed, " there's something 
 
 in it. 
 Who Httle does, though much he know, 
 Far from the mark will surely go ; 
 Who little knows, but does it too. 
 Is wise as well as good and true." 
 
 THE WOODCUTTER. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 PEASANT was felhng a knotty 
 oak; 
 He sighed and murmured at 
 every stroke. 
 " What endless sorrow, what ceaseless pain 
 It costs a poor man's bread to gain ! 
 Alas ! Alas ! 'Tis a wretched fate 1 
 Would God I'd been born of rich estate ! " 
 
 And lo ! a beautiful youth stood at hand, 
 With silver garments and golden wand ; 
 He spoke to the peasant in kindly tone, 
 "God bless you, you poor unfortunate one! 
 Whatever you wish, ask without any dread ; 
 Your prayer shall be granted the moment 
 'tis said."
 
 TJie Woodcutter. 103 
 
 The peasant, no doubt, was somewhat 
 
 afraid, 
 But yet his choice was speedily made. 
 Humbly he lifted his hat from his head, 
 And, lowly bending, reverently said : 
 " O heavenly youth, pray think me not 
 
 bold. 
 But grant, that whatever I touch, become 
 
 gold." 
 
 The beautiful stranger raised his hand. 
 And touched the man with his golden 
 
 wand. 
 " I would thou hadst asked more pru- 
 dently. 
 But yet thy petition is granted thee." 
 He disappeared as this he said, 
 And heavenly odours around were shed. 
 
 " Good God," cried the peasant, " how 
 
 rich am I ! " 
 And at once began I; is new powers to try. 
 He touched the stem of the knotted oak, 
 And the sheen of gold upon him broke, 
 And stem, and bough, and leaf, and bud 
 Of glittering gold before him stood. 
 
 " Oh wonder ! Oh joy ! no more labour 
 
 for me 1 
 Another must now the woodcutter be !
 
 104 '^^^^ Woodaitter. 
 
 I will eat no more but the rich and rare ; 
 I will drink but the wine that sparkles ffir. 
 For the last time on my coarse bread I'll 
 
 sup, 
 And drink my last draught from this 
 
 earthen cup." 
 
 His little earthen cup he drew ; — 
 " How heavy it is ! How it ghtters too ! " 
 But, alas, the liquid itself is gold ; 
 Not a drop of water the cup doth hold. 
 He raises the bread to his mouth ! Ah 
 
 woe ! 
 It is solid sold that hurts him so. 
 
 &^ 
 
 " Alas ! Alas ! what now shall I do ? 
 What has my folly brought me to ? 
 Can gold my hunger take away ? 
 Can gold this parching thirst allay ? 
 Oh had I, instead of gold, but bread, 
 And water to moisten my lips ! " he said. 
 
 The peasant awoke in pain and affright ; 
 For this was but a dream of the night. 
 " Thank God," in sudden joy he said, 
 " That instead of gold, I've my daily 
 
 bread ! 
 Thank God, that a peaceful mind I hold, 
 Instead of that greedy desire for gold ! "
 
 TJie Painted Window. 105 
 
 " 'Tis well, as my dream hath clearly- 
 shown, 
 God grants not all our hearts would own. 
 For gold in abundance many would pray, 
 Who with it would never be cheerful and 
 
 gay. 
 
 Man asks for much with thoughtless mind, 
 And seldom seeks true good to find." 
 
 THE PAINTED WINDOW. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 PILGRIM poor, of pious mind, 
 Leaving his native land behind, 
 With cockle shell, and staff in 
 hand, 
 Journeyed full far from land to land. 
 He saw the poor oft sore oppressed, 
 The bad, in stars and ribands dressed. 
 Naught but confusion met his glance ; 
 And all appeared the sport of chance. 
 
 His journey, one tempestuous day, 
 Through a rude, pathless desert lay. 
 The sky with clouds was overspread ; 
 The storm beat fiercely on his head ;
 
 io6 The Painted Window. 
 
 When lo ! a little chapel stood, ^ 
 
 Ancient and moss-grown, in the wood. 
 With reverent step his way he made 
 Into the chapel's darksome shade. 
 
 The pointed arch, the walls around, 
 
 All bare and unadorned he found. 
 
 The little altar of grey stone 
 
 Was with green mould quite overgrown ; 
 
 Above the altar he could trace 
 
 The only window in the place ; 
 
 Its panes, with black and red besmeared, 
 
 A dark and aimless daub appeared. 
 
 " Pah ! " cried the pilgrim with amaze, 
 " What work is this offends my gaze ? 
 Some blind man, sure, with soot and blood. 
 Hath painted this, in fever's mood ! 
 Daub upon daub, smear upon smear ; — 
 Nor meaning, aim, nor thought appear ! 
 Alas ! it pictures but too well 
 The chaos, that on earth doth dwell ! " 
 
 While thus the pious pilgrim spoke, 
 The sun from forth the clouds outbroke 
 The window, kindled by its rays, 
 Revealed its glories to his gaze. 
 A gorgeous picture he doth see 
 Shining in wondrous brilliancy ;
 
 The Painted Window. 107 
 
 And the dim chapel's darksome night 
 Enhanced the more its glowing light. 
 
 The burning bush, whose wreathing flame 
 Traced Jehovah's awful name ; 
 The prophet, bending to the ground ; 
 The sheep, unconscious, grazing round ; 
 And purple vest, and mantle blue, 
 Brown rock, and meadow's verdant hue, 
 All, blending in one lovely light, 
 Beamed down upon his wondering sight. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the pilgrim, " what a scene ! 
 How fiery, and yet how serene ! 
 What erst was dark, confused and drear. 
 Is now so sweet, so bright, so clear ! 
 What seemed without design or thought, 
 Is now with deepest meaning fraught ; 
 And every touch, and every hue. 
 Reveals fresh beauty to the view." 
 
 Light o'er his darkened spirit broke, 
 Deep in his soul a soft voice spoke : — 
 " Lo ! such as this is human life ! 
 All seems confusion, all seems strife ; 
 But, when the sun of Truth shines bright, 
 What erst was dark, becometh light. 
 Then trust and pray ; whate'er befall, 
 He ruleth well, Who ruleth all."
 
 io8 The Purple Cloak. 
 
 THE PURPLE CLOAK. 
 A Legend of St. Martin. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CANON SCHMIDT. 
 
 YOUTHFUL knight of noble 
 race 
 Rode on his steed at rapid pace; 
 Upon a warlike message sent, 
 His thoughts were on his errand bent ; 
 Both hill and dale with snow were white, 
 The frost had bound each torrent tight ; 
 Each footfall on the frozen ground 
 Was echoed by the hills around. 
 
 The snow was falling thick and fast ; 
 Across the plain wild swept the blast ; 
 It shook the warrior's feathery crest, 
 Nor let his golden locks have rest. 
 His helm and shield with ice were bound — 
 So keen the tempest raged around, 
 His purple cloak of many a fold 
 Could not keep out the piercing cold. 
 
 And look ! an old man, poor and lame. 
 Whose rags scarce hide his shivering frame, 
 Sits trembling on the frozen ground. 
 While cold the snow-drifts whirl around ; 
 And holds, the warrior's gaze to win. 
 His naked arms, so long and thin, — 
 Ah God, who hear'st each mourner's cry. 
 Have pity on his misery !
 
 The Purple Clcak. 109 
 
 The knight held in his furious steed, 
 For sore he felt the beggar's need. 
 Quickly his keen-edged blade he drew, 
 And cut his purple cloak in two ; 
 And then, while tears of pity start, — 
 For tender was the soldier's heart, — 
 One half unto the beggar cast 
 To shield him from the biting blast. 
 
 " There, aged father," saith the knight, 
 " Draw that around thee warm and tight ; 
 And, held my scanty purse but gold. 
 That also would I not withhold. 
 Trust thou in God, for surely He 
 Will help thee in thy misery. 
 Farewell ! I dare no longer stay ; 
 My errand brooketh not delay." 
 
 Away he sped upon the road ; 
 His breast the while with gladness glowed. 
 O'er hill and dale he made his way 
 Wearing but half his mantle gay, 
 Until, nigh frozen with the blast, 
 He reached his journey's end at last; 
 Where many a merry jest was made. 
 When he his scanty cloak displayed. 
 
 But little recked the pious knight 
 How laughed they at his curious plight. 
 E'en now the midnight hour was past^ 
 And he would fain repose at last ;
 
 no The Purple Cloak. 
 
 But scarce had slumber closed his eyes, 
 When lo ! he saw a vision rise, 
 Whose heavenly sweetness filled his breast 
 Till life in immortality had rest. 
 
 Enshrined in beams of radiant light, 
 
 Begirt with choirs of angels bright. 
 
 Whose faces bent before His throne, "i 
 
 While golden clouds around were strown, 
 
 Beyond conception sweet and fair 
 
 He saw his Lord and Saviour there, 
 
 Unfolding to his wondering sight 
 
 The Deity in truth and might. 
 
 And lo ! a cloak of purple hue 
 The Saviour round His shoulders drew. 
 Which, falling on the warrior's eyes. 
 His bosom filled with glad surprise. 
 His eager and astonished gaze 
 Beheld with wonder and amaze 
 The mantle he, that very day, 
 Threw to the beggar on his way. 
 
 Then, pointing to the purple cloak, 
 The Saviour to the angels spoke : 
 " Behold the generous gift," said He, 
 " Martin to-day hath given to Me ! 
 For what upon the poor is spent. 
 Is only to the Saviour lent ; 
 And when shall come the Judgment Day, 
 The gift I will with interest pay."
 
 The Crosses. in 
 
 THE CROSSES. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. 
 
 PILGRIM, who had scaled the 
 mountain height, 
 Beheld beyondthe valleys widely 
 
 spread, 
 And clothed all in evening's chasten'd light. 
 
 Upon the odorous grass he made his bed ; 
 (The setting sun still shed its beams 
 
 around), 
 And, ere he slept, his vesper prayer he 
 
 said. 
 
 His weary eyes were soon in slumber 
 
 bound ; 
 But from the covering of this earthly clod 
 A vision raised his spirit from the ground 
 
 The sun appeared the countenance of 
 
 God,— 
 The firmament, His gorgeous robe of 
 
 state, — 
 And on the earth in majesty He trod. 
 
 " Wilt thou, O Lord, Who all things didst 
 create,
 
 1 1 2 The Crosses. 
 
 Turn from me Thy dear countenance in 
 
 scorn, 
 Who here confess to Thee my hapless 
 
 state ? 
 
 P'uU well I know that man, of woman born, 
 Must bear his cross while he on earth doth 
 
 stay; 
 Yet is by each a different burthen borne. 
 
 And mine, — it is too great. I humbly 
 pray 
 
 Thou'lt grant a cross that fits my feeble- 
 ness, 
 
 And kindly take this grievous one away." 
 
 Childlike did he this humble prayer 
 
 address, — 
 When lo ! there came a mighty wind, that 
 
 bore 
 The suppliant upward with resistless stress. 
 
 And, when he stood on solid ground once 
 
 more. 
 He was within a roomy hall, alone. 
 And saw around him crosses in great store. 
 
 Then spake a voice to him with solemn 
 tone :
 
 The Crosses. 113 
 
 " Behold all ills that human hfe molest ; 
 Choose thou the burthen thou wouldst 
 call thine own." 
 
 From cross to cross the pilgrim makes his 
 
 quest, 
 Seeking to find, from all he seeth there, 
 The one that fits his bending back the best. 
 
 This is too large, and that he cannot bear ; 
 And, tho' a third is small and passing light, 
 Its edges keen his tender shoulders tear, 
 
 He seeth one — as gold it shineth bright — 
 He cannot pass it by untried ; but lo ! 
 Its golden glitter gilds a golden weight ! 
 
 And now he raiseth this, now that. But 
 
 no. 
 The pilgrim's choice no single burthen 
 
 won, 
 No cross with ease would on his shoulders 
 
 go- 
 
 At length he hath assayed them every one ; 
 Lost toil ! he hath assayed them all in vain ; 
 The weary task must once again be done. 
 
 But, as he turned to make the search a^^ain, 
 
 H
 
 114 Abdallah. 
 
 He saw a simple cross, unseen before ; 
 And to examine this was now full fain. 
 
 Though from the tree of pain, the pilgrim 
 
 bore 
 
 This cross with ease. Upon his knees he 
 fell. 
 
 And said : '' Lord, this I bear till life is 
 o'er." 
 
 But as he gazed upon the cross, the spell 
 Fell off, that darken'd his dull eyes 
 
 before ; — 
 It was the very cross he knew so well ; — 
 He raised it up, and never murmured more. 
 
 ABDALLAH. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. 
 
 BDALLAH rests in quiet 
 
 by the desert fountain's side, — 
 His fourscore camels round him, 
 the wealthy merchant's pride. 
 To Bassorah he had taken 
 
 his goods, — a costly store, — 
 And with unladen camels 
 
 now seeks Bagdad once more.
 
 Abdallak 115 
 
 And lo ! a holy dervish 
 
 draws nigh with staff in hand ; 
 From Bagdad he hath travelled 
 
 on foot across the sand. 
 Then greet they each the other, 
 
 and sit together there, 
 And drink from out the fountain, 
 
 and praise its waters rare. 
 
 And soon hath each the other 
 
 asked what he fain would learn ; 
 And each the other's questions 
 
 hath answered in his turn. 
 Of this thing and of that 
 
 they h^ve together spoken, 
 And then a silence follows, 
 
 a silence long unbroken. 
 
 But to the merchant turning 
 
 the dervish spoke at last : 
 " Near to this very fountain 
 
 I know a treasure vast. 
 One could from out that treasure, 
 
 so countless is the store. 
 Load all your eighty camels, 
 
 and then a thousand more." 
 
 Abdallah stares astonished ; — 
 he sees the gleaming gold ; —
 
 ii6 Ahdallah. 
 
 Cold runs his blood ; — the glamour 
 
 his very soul doth hold. 
 " My brother, oh, my brother," 
 
 he to the dervish cried, 
 " Lead thou me quickly thither 
 
 this very eventide. 
 
 " Come, and my fourscore camels 
 
 with treasure we will load ; — 
 My camels are but eighty ; — 
 
 come, thou shalt show the road. 
 And then, oh, then, my brother, 
 
 thy service to repay, 
 The best of all my camels 
 
 is thine this very day ! " 
 
 Then spake the dervish : " Brother, 
 
 Such bargain may not be ; 
 Take forty of the camels, 
 
 and forty give to me. 
 The worth of forty camels 
 
 thou'lt have a million-fold ; — 
 And think, had I ne'er spoken 
 
 of this treasure and this gold ! " 
 
 " Agreed, agreed, my brother ! " 
 Abdallah straight did say ; 
 
 " We will share alike the treasure, 
 but let us haste away ! "
 
 Abdallah. 117 
 
 He spake, but spake with sorrow ; 
 
 for like a millstone press'd 
 The thought of his forty camels 
 
 upon the merchant's breast. 
 
 Abdallah and the dervish 
 
 arose without delay ; 
 The merchant led the camels, 
 
 the dervish showed the way. 
 And soon they reached a mountain, 
 
 where an opening, strait and small, 
 Led to a narrow valley, 
 
 like a doorway through a wall. 
 
 Cliifs steep and overhanging 
 
 closed in the vale all round ; 
 Seldom that lonely valley 
 
 the foot of man had found. 
 They halt ; and while Abdallah 
 
 the camels doth divide. 
 The dervish straight advances 
 
 unto the mountain's side. 
 
 A pile of withered brushwood 
 
 and herbage soon he raised ; 
 And soon the sparks flew upward, 
 
 and soon the bonfire blazed. 
 Then while the flames ascending 
 
 filled cliff and vale with light, 
 With words and signs mysterious 
 
 he cast in drugs of might.
 
 ii8 Abdallah. 
 
 The black smoke quickly covered 
 
 all in its murky fold ; 
 The earth, it shook beneath them ; 
 
 above the thunder rolled ; 
 But, when the smoke had scattered, 
 
 and brightly shone the day, 
 Lo ! in the side of the mountain 
 
 a door wide open lay. 
 
 They entered ; and around them 
 
 on gorgeous halls they gazed 
 Of precious stones and metals 
 
 by mighty genii raised. 
 High rose on golden pillars 
 
 a crystal roof o'erhead. 
 Whence glittering carbuncles 
 
 a glorious daylight shed. 
 
 And between the golden pillars 
 
 in countless store there lay 
 The precious gold, whose glitter 
 
 men's reason takes away ; 
 And, with the gold commingling 
 
 in heaps upon the ground 
 The diamond and ruby 
 
 and emerald were found. 
 
 Abdallah stares astonished ; — 
 he sees the gleaming gold ; — 
 
 Cold runs his blood ; — the glamour 
 his very soul doth hold.
 
 Abdallah. 119 
 
 They set to work ; the dervish 
 stores up each precious stone, 
 
 But the merchant loads his camels 
 with the glittering gold alone. 
 
 Yet soon he sees his error, 
 
 and casts the gold away, 
 And the diamond and ruby 
 
 upon his beasts doth lay ; 
 But the riches he doth gather 
 
 delight not so his mind, 
 As grieveth him the treasure 
 
 that perforce he leaves behind. 
 
 The camels soon are laden, — 
 
 laden beyond their strength. 
 And Abdallah to his sorrow 
 
 must cease his task at length ; 
 When lo ! he sees the dervish, 
 
 from an opening in the wall 
 At the end of a distant passage, 
 
 take a casket mean and small. 
 
 Of common wood 'twas fashioned ; 
 
 and, as the merchant deemed, 
 Held naught but simple ointment, — 
 
 all valueless it seemed ; 
 But the holy dervish scanned it 
 
 with keen and eager eye, 
 And then within his bosom 
 
 concealed it carefully.
 
 120 Abdallah. 
 
 Now stepped they forth together, 
 
 and stood upon the plain, 
 And, as the cave had opened, 
 
 so did it close again ; 
 The mountains closed together, 
 
 while earth with thunder shook, 
 And the merchant and the dervish 
 
 each his share of treasure took. 
 
 Back to the desert fountain 
 
 their journey now they make. 
 For there the paths divided, 
 
 which each of them should take ; 
 Then give they to each other 
 
 of peace the parting kiss. 
 And the dervish turns to that side, 
 
 the merchant turns to this. 
 
 But as Abdallah turned, 
 
 his heart with envy toss'd, 
 And the treasure of the dervish 
 
 he deemed that he had lost. 
 " A dervish with such riches ! 
 
 my forty camels too ! 
 What can a holy dervish 
 
 with such a treasure do ? " 
 
 He turned and cried : " My brother, 
 now hearken unto me !
 
 Abdallah. 121 
 
 I think not of my profit, 
 
 I only think of thee ! 
 Thou knowest not what sorrow, 
 
 thou knowest not what care, 
 With thy treasure and thy camels 
 
 for thyself thou dost prepare. 
 
 '* Thou knowest not how vexing 
 
 these animals can be ; 
 Believe me, who have known them 
 
 from earliest infancy. 
 With forty beasts to govern, 
 
 I pity thee thy lot ! 
 Thirty thou mightest manage 
 
 — but forty thou canst not." 
 
 Then quickly to Abdallah 
 
 the dervish thus replies : 
 " What thou hast said, my brother, 
 
 I think is very wise. 
 Take of my forty camels 
 
 ten most unto thy mind ; 
 I would not that ray brother 
 
 should deem I am unkind." 
 
 Abdallah took and thanked him, 
 and turned once more away. 
 
 " If I had ask'd for twenty, 
 the fool had not said nay ! "
 
 122 Abdallah. 
 
 He said ; and, turning backward, 
 
 the dervish call'd again ; 
 Who stood, and waited for him 
 
 upon the desert plain. 
 
 " My brother, oh, my brother," — 
 
 'twas thus Abdallah cried — 
 " Thou canst not thirty camels 
 
 across this desert guide ! 
 Thou knowest not how vexing 
 
 these animals can be ! 
 Thou surely wouldst do wisely 
 
 to give ten more to me ! " 
 
 Then quickly to the merchant 
 
 the dervish thus replies : 
 " What thou hast said, my brother 
 
 I think is very wise. 
 Take of my thirty camels 
 
 ten most unto thy mind ; 
 I would not that my brother 
 
 should deem I am unkind." 
 
 But, when what scarce he hoped for 
 
 was gained with such speed, 
 The bosom of Abdallah 
 
 was filled with greater greed. 
 Without delay or scruple 
 
 for more he asked then ; — 
 First ten of the last twenty, 
 
 then nine of the last ten.
 
 Abdallah. 123 
 
 And now the merchant's bosom 
 
 with greed so fierce doth swell 
 He hasteneth to ask for 
 
 the last of all as well. 
 " The camel and its burthen, 
 
 what are they unto thee ? 
 Thou surely wouldst do wisely 
 
 to give them unto me ! " 
 
 " Take the camel and its burthen, 
 
 if so it please thy mind ; 
 I would not that my brother 
 
 should deem I am unkind. 
 Thou hast now such a treasure, 
 
 as man ne'er had before ; — 
 Depart in peace, and wisely 
 
 employ thy priceless store." 
 
 Abdallah took and thanked him, 
 
 but in his mind he thought : 
 " The dervish seems to value 
 
 these riches as if naught ! 
 'Tis sure the box of ointment 
 
 he beareth in his breast ! 
 How carefully he scanned it, 
 
 ere he hid it in his vest ! " 
 
 And again unto the dervish 
 the envious merchant spake :
 
 124 Abdallah. 
 
 "The little box of ointment, 
 say, wherefore didst thou take ? 
 
 What pleasure can a dervish 
 in such poor trumpery find ? " 
 
 " Take it," replied the dervish, 
 " if so it please thy mind ! " 
 
 And now a pleasing terror 
 
 the merchant's soul possess'd, 
 For the casket so mysterious 
 
 within his hand doth rest. 
 He thanks the holy dervish, 
 
 then asketh him again : 
 " What wondrous virtue is it 
 
 this ointment doth contain ? " 
 
 The dervish said : " This ointment, 
 
 if smeared on thy left eye, 
 Will all the wealth discover, 
 
 that hid in earth doth lie ; 
 But the right if thou besmearest, 
 
 so wondrous is its might, 
 Never again with either 
 
 shalt thou behold the lis^ht." 
 
 'O' 
 
 And now Abdallah burned 
 to test without delay 
 
 Upon himself the virtues 
 that in the ointment lay.
 
 Abdullah. 125 
 
 " Fain would I, oh, my brother, 
 earth's many treasures see, — 
 
 My left eye now, I pray thee, 
 quickly anoint for me." 
 
 'Tis done, and underneath him 
 
 he turns his wondering eye ; 
 And lo ! in veins and caverns 
 
 the yellow gold doth lie ; 
 The diamond, the ruby, 
 
 metal and precious stone, 
 With fascinating glitter 
 
 on every side they shone. 
 
 Abdallah stares astonished, 
 
 he sees the ghttering gold, 
 Cold runs his blood, the glamour 
 
 his very soul doth hold. 
 He thinks : " And if this ointment 
 
 besmeared the other eye. 
 Perchance then all these treasures 
 
 within my reach would lie.'' 
 
 " My brother, oh my brother, 
 hear me, I pray, once more ! 
 
 Anoint my right eye also, 
 as the left thou didst before. 
 
 To grant me this one favour, 
 I pray thee, be not loth, —
 
 126 Abdullah. 
 
 Then part we from each other, 
 and Allah bless us both ! " 
 
 Then said the holy dervish : 
 
 " I truthfully have told 
 The virtues that this ointment 
 
 doth in itself enfold ; 
 And wilt thou that the giver 
 
 of wealth so vast and rare 
 Shall be the being hapless, 
 
 who drives thee to despair ? " 
 
 But now the merchant's bosom 
 
 with envy glowed the more, 
 And he thought : " This holy dervish 
 
 for himself would keep the store ! " 
 He felt this one denial 
 
 as fuel to his fire, 
 And now he urged with anger 
 
 his covetous desire. 
 
 He said : " What to the one eye 
 
 hath given a greater light, 
 Cannot, upon the other, 
 
 deprive them both of sight. 
 Anoint the right eye also, 
 
 as the left thou didst before, 
 Then go upon thy journey, 
 
 for I shall ask no more."
 
 Abdallah. 127 
 
 The merchant now prepared him 
 
 by force to gain his will, 
 And the holy man consented 
 
 his wishes to fulfil. 
 As the left he hath anointed, 
 
 anoints he now the right ; 
 And lo ! Abdallah's vision 
 
 is quenched in endless night ! 
 
 '* Oh, dervish, crafty dervish, 
 
 thou saidst the truth," he cries ; 
 " Now heal, I pray, the mischief ; 
 
 restore to me mine eyes." 
 But the holy dervish answered : 
 
 *' Thou hast what thou hast sought ; 
 Go, suffer now with patience 
 
 the sorrow thou hast wrought." 
 
 Upon the sand he wallowed ; 
 
 he prayed, he cried, in vain ; 
 The dervish turned from him, 
 
 and heeded not his pain ; 
 He took the fourscore camels, 
 
 and went upon his way, 
 And by the desert fountain 
 
 the wretched merchant lay. 
 
 Night came, and morning followed ; 
 he lay in death-like swoon,
 
 128 The Song of the Sword. 
 
 Nor felt the chill of evening, 
 nor burning heat of noon ; 
 
 Three days had passed ; a pilgrim 
 the desert fountain sought, 
 
 And with him unto Bagdad 
 the sightless beggar brought. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF KCERNER. 
 
 Y sword, what may I deem 
 Doth mean that gladsome gleam ? 
 So fond thou smil'st on me, 
 My heart beats joyously ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " A vahant knight art thou, — 
 Hence I with gladness glow ! 
 The weapon of the free 
 The sword hath joy to be. 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 Free am I, trusty sword ; 
 And for that noble word 
 I love thee like a bride, 
 Brave weapon by my side, — 
 
 Hunah !
 
 The Song of the Sword. 129 
 
 " My life I give to thee. 
 Thy bride I long to be. 
 Oh ! for the happy tide ! 
 When takest thou thy bride ? 
 
 Hurrah!" 
 
 The trumpet's voice shall say 
 When comes the bridal day, 
 When loud the cannons roar, 
 I wed thee, — not before. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " Would that the day were mine ! 
 With eagerness fierce I pine. 
 Bridegroom, hasten for me, — 
 My bridal-wreath's for thee. 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 Within thy sheath I feel 
 Thee clang, my noble steel. 
 What is it stirreth thee? 
 Thou clang'st impatiently. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " Oh for the battle day ! 
 Oh for the fierce affray ! 
 A soldier's bride to be 
 1 clang impatiently. 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 I
 
 1 30 The Song of the Sword. 
 
 Be still, brave sword, be still ! 
 Beloved, what is thy will ? 
 Within thy sheath abide, — 
 Soon comes our marriage-tide. 
 
 Hurrah 
 
 " Oh how I long to come 
 Unto my garden home. 
 With roses bloody red 
 And with the scattered dead ! 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 Come forth unto the sky, 
 Thou apple of mine eye ! 
 Forth from thy chamber come, 
 Unto my father's home ! 
 
 Hurrah! 
 
 'Tis glorious to be here. 
 With such wild wedding cheer I 
 How in the sun's red beams 
 The beauteous bride-steel gleams ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Rise, noble Teutons, rise ! 
 Rise, hardy warriors, rise ! 
 Do not your bosoms glow ? 
 Your sword-brides spurn not now ! 
 
 Hurrah !
 
 The Song of the Sword. 1 3 1 
 
 Before, your left upon, 
 With stolen glance she shone ; 
 Now at your right, a bride, 
 In God she doth confide. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Press now the glowing steel 
 Upon your lips, and feel 
 Her kisses burning tide. 
 Curse him who leaves his bride ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Sing, my beloved, sing ; 
 Spring, glowing fire-sparks, sprin: 
 Now 'tis our marriage tide ! 
 Hurrah ! my iron bride, 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 S. Coumn cC Co., Printers, Perth.
 

 
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