LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Class 
 
MEDUSA 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY CHARLOTTE ELLIOT. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 
 
 1878. 
 
>: 
 
 (JTJie rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.) 
 
TO 
 
 MY HUSBAN D 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
 189216 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MEDUSA ... ... ... ... ... ... i 
 
 SONG TO THE SOUTH WIND ... ... ... 22 
 
 THE SON OF METANEIRA ... ... ... ... 26 
 
 A CALM DAY BY THE RIVER ... ... ... 46 
 
 CAPTIVES ... ... ... ... ... ... 51 
 
 THE PYTHONESS ... ... ... ... 53 
 
 THE WIFE OF LOKI ... ... ... ... 61 
 
 LOCH MAREE ... ... ... ... ... 63 
 
 A WINTER SONG ... ... ... ... ... 68 
 
 DREAMS AND WAKING ... ... ... ... 70 
 
 A FAREWELL ... ... ... ... ... 72 
 
 A DREAM OF LONG AGO ... ... ... 73 
 
 REST IN THE GRAVE ... ... ... ... 75 
 
 A WITHERED ROSEBUD ... ... ... 77 
 
 THE BURDEN OF THE WIND ... ... ... 78 
 
 UNDER THE SNOW 80 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 GLAMOUR ... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 81 
 
 SLEEPING LOVE 
 
 83 
 
 DEAD LOVE 
 
 84 
 
 ROSE AND RUE 
 
 85 
 
 WANDERING WISHES 
 
 87 
 
 GLEAMS OF LIGHT 
 
 ... ' ... 88 
 
 FAITH IN DOUBT ... 
 
 ... ..... ... 89 
 
 DISCORDS UNRESOLVED 
 
 ... 90 
 
 ROSEBUD AND RAGWEED 
 
 94 
 
 DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN 
 
 116 
 
 OLIVIA 
 
 126 
 
MEDUSA 
 
 AFAR from the gates of the morning, 'mid shadows that 
 
 fade not nor flee, 
 Hung over by wind-riven mist-wreaths, and washed by 
 
 the westernmost sea, 
 Lies the desolate land of the gloaming, where day is no 
 
 other than night, 
 For the eye of the sun hath not seen it, nor knows it the 
 
 smile of the light 
 When the dawn shakes the dew from her tresses ; but, 
 
 chilly and damp as the tomb, 
 
 The lurid, half-luminous vapours reveal the dread phan- 
 toms of gloom 
 Which wander and wail in its deserts, and lurk in its 
 
 fathomless caves, 
 And toss their wild arms in the twilight, and echo the 
 
 moan of the waves. 
 
 B 
 
Medusa. 
 
 Therein dwell the daughters of Phorkys, the deathless 
 
 and death-dealing forms 
 Who crouch in the rocky recesses, and slumber unseen, 
 
 till the storms 
 
 Burst forth from their caverns of darkness ; then, shriek- 
 ing, they leap from their lair, 
 And shake out the serpentine tangles, the coils of their 
 
 horrible hair, 
 And ride on the wrath of the tempest. Twain are they, 
 
 but once they were three, 
 For Medusa, the youngest and fairest, the loved of the 
 
 lord of the sea, 
 Was not as the others, but mortal; delight she had 
 
 known, and despair, * 
 And bore in her sorrowful bosom the burden that mortals 
 
 must bear 
 Who grieve for a gladness departed, a joy that endured 
 
 for a breath 
 The burden of fear and of longing, the hope and the 
 
 terror of Death. 
 Ah ! once she was fair as the moonlight, that rests on the 
 
 waters in love, 
 And white as the bell of a lily, and soft as the breast of a 
 
 dove, 
 
Medusa. 
 
 And mild were her eyes, and their glances were languid 
 
 and subtle and sweet 
 When they shone thro' the shade of her tresses that hung, 
 
 like a veil, to her feet ; 
 But whoso looked long at her beauty grew cold in its 
 
 perilous light, 
 For she knew the dark spells of aforetime, the secrets of 
 
 silence and night, 
 And she learnt of the lore of immortals, and heard the 
 
 discourse of a god, 
 When Poseidon, the lord of the ocean, came up from his 
 
 sunless abode 
 And wooed her, 'mid beautiful meadows, where mosses 
 
 were mingled with flowers, 
 While the moon in her splendour illumined the happy 
 
 and love-laden hours. 
 But the joys of the night were as shadows when day 
 
 brought its message of doom, 
 And the eyes of Athene beheld her, and withered her 
 
 delicate bloom ; 
 And she shrank from the gaze of the goddess, and shook 
 
 like a leaf in the gale, 
 For the power divine overwhelmed her; and nought 
 
 could her fairness avail, 
 
Medusa. 
 
 Nor her craft, nor the might of her magic, the daughter of 
 
 Zeus to withstand. 
 Sun-bright was the shield of Athene, clear gold was the 
 
 spear in her hand, 
 And her eyes, like the light of the morning, searched out 
 
 all the secrets that lurk 
 In the dreary abysses of darkness, where glamour and 
 
 guile are at work 
 Swift-weaving night's subtle deceptions ; soft dreams that 
 
 delude and decoy, 
 False phantoms of horror that madden, fair ^visions that 
 
 lure to destroy. 
 In the gleam of her gaze stood Medusa, all pallid and 
 
 shrunk as a flower 
 That shrivels and pales in the sunshine. Her form 
 
 seemed to quiver and cower 
 From the crystalline eyes that subdued her with steadfast, 
 
 resistless control, 
 And clave the disguise of her beauty, and stripped her 
 
 all bare to the soul. 
 Then clear rose the voice of Athene, and rang thro' the 
 
 vault of the sky : 
 " Be glad, O thou fair and false-hearted, that thou art of 
 
 those who can die, 
 
Medusa. 
 
 Since death is the healer of sorrow, and thine shall be 
 
 heavy and long ; 
 For the wrath of the sacred immortals, the righteous 
 
 avengers of wrong, 
 Shall cling like a curse to thy body, and hang like a stone 
 
 at thy heart, 
 And mortals shall name thee with loathing, and know thee 
 
 the thing that thou art. 
 No more shall the semblance of beauty lie soft as a 
 
 luminous cloud 
 Around the dark spirit within thee, its secrets of guile to 
 
 enshroud, 
 But thy form shall be fell as thy nature, thy face shall be 
 
 scored, as a scroll, 
 With the record of thoughts that have wandered unknown 
 
 in the night of thy soul. 
 Then woe be to those who come nigh thee; strange 
 
 horror shall smite them, and hold 
 Their shuddering limbs and their bodies, till senseless, 
 
 and rigid, and cold 
 They shall stand, and their forms that were fashioned of 
 
 flesh shall be hardened to stone, 
 And thro' the long darkness of ages, dim cycles of seasons 
 
 unknown, 
 
Medusa. 
 
 Death-stricken and yet undecaying, aghast on the deso- 
 late plain, 
 
 A marvel to men, and a terror, the bodies they wore shall 
 remain 
 
 Grey boulders of rock, that no summer shall crown with 
 the glory of leaves : 
 
 Lo, this is the curse of Athene." Sharp-edged, as a 
 weapon that cleaves 
 
 To the heart, were her words ; and Medusa, like one who 
 is wounded to death, 
 
 Stretched out her white arms to the heavens, and pain- 
 fully laboured for breath 
 
 In the throes of her anguish. Then, slowly, the beauty 
 died out of her face ; 
 
 And the locks which hung low on her shoulders in silken 
 and sinuous grace, 
 
 Rose up in a writhing confusion, and twined in strange 
 coils, overspread 
 
 With streakings of sulphurous yellow, and rust-coloured 
 patches of red 
 
 Like blood-drops grown dry, intermingled with luridly 
 luminous flakes, 
 
 Green, livid and grey ; and their tangles took form and 
 were changed into snakes, 
 
Medusa. 
 
 And a motion of life was among them ; and one after one 
 
 was upreared 
 Each horrible head fiery-crested, a venomous thing to be 
 
 feared. 
 They encircled the neck of Medusa, and knotted their 
 
 coils as a chain, 
 And basked in her soft chilly bosom, till, stung to a 
 
 madness of pain, 
 She mingled her shrieks with their hissing, and fled, like 
 
 a cloud on the blast, 
 O'er mountain and meadow and moorland, till morning 
 
 and noontide were past, 
 And evening lay dim on the desert that borders the 
 
 outermost land, 
 And the sun in the coolness of ocean was quenched, and 
 
 the night was at hand ; 
 
 Then she reached the wild region of darkness, the light- 
 bereft land of the west, 
 And, spent with the speed of her flying, sank down by 
 
 her sisters to rest. 
 So the seasonless years of her sorrow went past, and the 
 
 days of her shame, 
 Till her fate was fulfilled, and far-flashing athwart the dim 
 
 cloudland, there came 
 
8 Medusa. 
 
 The sword, and the hand that could wield it, the heart 
 
 that could dare and prevail, 
 The righter of wrong, the avenger, the bringer of blessing 
 
 and bale. 
 
 From the sands of the isle of Seriphos, which blue- 
 gleaming waters enfold 
 With a shimmering pearl-studded girdle, came Perseus, 
 
 the child oflhe gold, 
 The child of the life-giving radiance that glowed on the 
 
 tremulous air, 
 When the love of the lord of Olympus descended on 
 
 Danae fair. 
 O'er the foam of the perilous ocean, swift-flying came 
 
 Perseus, her son, 
 To the nameless abode of the Gorgo'ns, where noonday 
 
 and night are as one, 
 That a deed he might do, and, undaunted, obey an 
 
 immortal behest ; 
 For the power of the gods was upon him, the help of the 
 
 strongest and best. 
 
Medusa. 
 
 He was borne on the wings of the sandals that Hermes 
 
 had bound to his feet, 
 The sandals gold-feathered, ambrosial, as noiseless of 
 
 flight, and as fleet, 
 As the glittering sunbeams that hasten adown the blue 
 
 highway of heaven ; 
 And over his breast was a buckler, the boon that Athene 
 
 had given, 
 Smooth-polished and clear as a mirror j therein he might 
 
 gaze, and, unhurt, 
 
 Behold the wan face of Medusa. The weapon where- 
 with he was girt 
 Was forged by Hephaistos, and fashioned 'mid fires that 
 
 for ever are fed 
 By the earth's mighty heart-throbs, upheaving the land, 
 
 and the ocean's deep bed ; 
 It was pointed, and curved like a sickle, and shone as the 
 
 rainbows that play 
 Upon waters that laugh in the sunlight; and never it 
 
 smote but to slay. 
 And he carried the helmet of Hades, wherewith, at his 
 
 will, he might shroud 
 The beams of his beauty in darkness, and, dim as a 
 
 wandering cloud, 
 
io Medusa. 
 
 Pass through the pale spectres of twilight, and speed on 
 
 the pathway of doom, 
 Unseen of the eyes of the serpents that glitter and glare 
 
 in the gloom. 
 And the spirit within him was god-like, for when, in his 
 
 boyhood, he strayed 
 Alone in the isle of Seriphos, he talked with the glorious 
 
 Maid, 
 And he learnt the deep lore of Athene, and looked on 
 
 the light of her eyes, 
 And the breath of her beauty passed o'er him, and 
 
 brought him the strength of the wise. 
 Thro' the dun yellow twilight flew Perseus, light-poised 
 
 as a bird in the air, 
 But the helmet of darkness o'ershadowed his limbs and 
 
 the sheen of his hair, 
 As he sank to the earth like a vapour, and stood 'mid the 
 
 rocks on the strand. 
 Then the sound of a great lamentation rose up from that 
 
 dolorous land, 
 And the wail of a woman in anguish was wafted abroad on 
 
 the breeze, 
 And mixed with the moan of the surges that swell on those 
 
 sorrowful seas. 
 
Medusa. 1 1 
 
 And the rocks of the wilderness echoed, now loud, and 
 
 now broken and faint, 
 The voice of the woe of Medusa, the cry of her weary 
 
 complaint 
 
 " Ah, clear, cruel eyes of Athene ! ah, vengeful and piti- 
 less heart ! 
 Ah, the curse ! ah, the stings of the serpents, that cease 
 
 not to rankle and smart, 
 In my limbs, in my bosom ! ah, torture ! the horrors that 
 
 circle my head 
 Have their life in the life of my body, and out of my heart 
 
 they are fed ! 
 Athene 1 I mocked thee ; I feared not to fling the wild 
 
 words to the sky 
 That scoffed at thy strength and thy fairness, and lo ! 
 
 thou wert stronger than I, 
 And fairer, for thou art a goddess, and deathless j yet was 
 
 not I fair 
 Though dreamy and dark were the shadows that slept in 
 
 the folds of my hair, 
 While ruddy as gold in the furnace thy locks floated forth 
 
 to the light, 
 And thy cheek was a rose of the morning, while mine was 
 
 a flower of the night, 
 
1 2 Medusa. 
 
 A lily grown pale among shadows ? But oh ! the unbear- 
 able sheen 
 Of thine eyes ; oh ! those azure-grey glances, how calm 
 
 was their gaze, and how keen 
 Was the searching and terrible splendour, which smote on 
 
 my face, and displayed 
 Every fault, every flaw in its fairness, till, shrinking for 
 
 shame, and afraid, 
 I bent to thy beauty, and owned thee more lovely and 
 
 pure than the dawn ! 
 Yet thy wrath was not stayed, nor, in pity, the weight of 
 
 thy vengeance withdrawn, 
 When I bowed at thy feet and besought thee the bands 
 
 of thy curse to undo, 
 Since thy years of delight are eternal, and mine must be 
 
 fleeting and few. 
 Didst thou envy, oh ! adamant-hearted, a bliss that thou 
 
 never hast known, 
 The bliss that was mine, when, at midnight, I walked the 
 
 dim meadows alone, 
 And Poseidon came up thro' the waters, and followed the 
 
 track of my feet, 
 Yea, sought me, and followed and found me, and kind 
 
 were his kisses and sweet ? 
 
Medusa. 1 3 
 
 Ah me, for my beauty departed ! I dreamed that it made 
 
 me divine, 
 And worthy to mate with immortals; and, mocking, I 
 
 entered thy shrine, 
 O Athene, the pure, the unsullied, and stood in the 
 
 strength jof my pride 
 By thine altar, and said to Poseidon ; Lo, now thou hast 
 
 made me thy bride, 
 And I fear not the wrath of Athene. Then low laughed 
 
 the lord of the sea, 
 And he said, Fear her not, O Medusa, for thou art more 
 
 lovely than she, 
 And I love thee. But when in the heavens arose the 
 
 mild radiance of morn,, 
 He stole from my side and forsook me, and left me alone 
 
 and forlorn. 
 Then thou earnest, O queen, to thy temple, and there, like 
 
 a ghost from the tomb 
 That has strayed to the homes of the living, the land that 
 
 the sunbeams illume, 
 All quivering I crouched on the threshold ; the heavens 
 
 cared not, nor the earth ; 
 The gods sat at ease in Olympus, and feasted and made 
 
 themselves mirth, 
 
1 4 Medusa. 
 
 And mortals were busy and mournful, and heavy with 
 
 labour and care ; 
 And none heard my cry, nor the curses that rang thro' 
 
 each pause of my prayer ; 
 None heard me, none helped, none avenged me ; my 
 
 heart is consumed in the flame 
 Of a wrath that avails not ; and darkness has closed o'er 
 
 my grief and my shame. 
 Yet fear my despair, O thou ruthless ! lest vengeance be 
 
 wrought for my wrongs 
 On the mortals thou lovest, who praise thee, and circle 
 
 thine altar with songs, 
 Who bring thee fair garlands of olive, and pour thee 
 
 libations of wine, 
 And weave thee the sun-coloured tissue to veil the 
 
 inviolate shrine : 
 For whoso of these shall behold me must die of the 
 
 death that I bear 
 In my eyes ; yea, my anguish shall slay them, the chill of 
 
 my stony despair, 
 And then shall the curse thou hast spoken go forth in the 
 
 cry of their pain 
 And seek thee afar thro' the radiance that hides thee, and 
 
 find thee again ! 
 
Medusa. 1 5 
 
 Vain boast ! Who am I that would harm thee ? Thou 
 
 seest what is and shall be, 
 And whom thou wilt save cannot perish, and whom thou 
 
 wilt slay cannot flee. 
 In thy love, in thy hate, thou art strongest ; I strove, and 
 
 I sank in the strife ; 
 The drearness of death is my portion, and thine is the 
 
 rapture of life ; 
 Outworn is the might of my magic, the spells thou hast 
 
 wrought shall endure ; 
 More foul grows my face, and more fatal, as thine grows 
 
 more lovely and pure ; 
 I bow at thy feet ; thou hast conquered ; I yield ; thou 
 
 hast smitten me sore ; 
 Yet smite once again, that my curses may trouble thy 
 
 triumph no more ; 
 O thou pitiless, smite me in pity, and so shall I bless thee 
 
 at last, 
 And my shame shall depart as a shadow, my pain as a 
 
 night that is past, 
 Like my life, like my love ! I am weary my eyelids are 
 
 heavy with sleep ; 
 But oh ! for the slumber that ends not, the rest that is 
 
 dreamless and deep." 
 
1 6 Medusa. 
 
 More broken and weak grew her wailing, as sleep stole 
 
 upon her, and dulled 
 The rage of her pangs, and more mildly she grieved, and 
 
 her moaning was lulled 
 Like the voice of the wind when, aweary, he folds his wild 
 
 wings for a space, 
 And sighingly sinks into silence. Then Perseus drew 
 
 near to the place 
 Where slept the two Gorgons,the deathless; they crouched 
 
 in a cleft of the rocks, 
 Their faces of horror were hidden, and still were their 
 
 serpentine locks. 
 
 But, in the dull glare of the twilight, Medusa was dream- 
 ing alone ; 
 Half-raised, half-reclining, she pillowed her curse-stricken 
 
 head on a stone ; 
 One bare, wasted arm spread its whiteness along the 
 
 cold rock by her side, 
 The other lay over her bosom, whereon, like a necklace, 
 
 were tied 
 The knots of the snakes, as they slumbered. But Perseus 
 
 had raised up his shield, 
 And, turning away from her presence, he gazed on her 
 
 image, revealed 
 
Medusa. 1 7 
 
 In the mirror-like metal, and, scatheless, beheld the sad 
 
 daughter of doom. 
 Her face, with a terrible lustre, gleamed out 'mid the 
 
 sulphurous gloom, 
 All pallid with passions long-perished, and guilt that no 
 
 pardon may win. 
 Her cheek, by the channels of sorrow deep-hollowed, was 
 
 sunken and thin, 
 And livid as death was her forehead, all traced with 
 
 strange lines intercrost, 
 Like a delicate marble discoloured, and worn by the 
 
 rain and the frost ; 
 Fast closed were her eyes, yet they quivered beneath the 
 
 large sweep of each lid, 
 As if in their darkened recesses some vision of horror lay 
 
 hid; 
 And the breath thro' her tremulous nostrils came pant- 
 
 ingly forth from her breast, 
 As it heaved when her heart-beats were hurried by fancies 
 
 of fear and unrest. 
 Her mouth was drawn downward with anguish, and dry 
 
 with the fever of pain, 
 Yet its sinuous outlines were lovely, a vision of beauty 
 
 and bane ; 
 
1 8 Medusa. 
 
 Her lips were pressed close as the petals a poppy enfolds 
 
 in its bud, 
 And their form seemed a magical symbol, a character 
 
 written in blood, 
 As if iri its curves was a secret, a mystery no man might 
 
 know, 
 The mark of the sin of Medusa, the sign of unspeakable 
 
 woe. 
 Long, long in the mirror looked Perseus, till pity awoke 
 
 in his heart, 
 For the grief that no gladness shall follow, the sorrow 
 
 that shall not depart ; 
 For the night that beholds not the morning, the darkness 
 
 that dies ere the day ; 
 For the beauty and horror he looked on, the love-bereft 
 
 form he must slay ; 
 And the strength of his sinews was slackened, his spirit 
 
 grew sluggish and chill, 
 As he gazed on the image of evil, and ever more weak 
 
 was his will 
 To work on that sorrowful sleeper the doom that the 
 
 gods had decreed, 
 For the spell of her presence was on him, and hindered 
 
 his hands from the deed. 
 
Medusa. 1 9 
 
 Then, o'er the grey shades of the cloudland, a glimmer 
 
 of brightness was cast, 
 And, parting the pestilent vapours, a fragrance ambrosial 
 
 went past, 
 For the heavy and sulphurous stillness was stirred by an 
 
 air from on high, 
 And the spirit of Perseus awakened, and knew that 
 
 Athene was nigh. 
 He heard not her voice, nor beheld her, but viewless she 
 
 stood by his side, 
 And the strength that had ebbed from his body came 
 
 back as the flow of the tide, 
 And his heart was filled full of the goddess, and faltered 
 
 no longer for ruth 
 When he looked on Medusa, remembering the love and 
 
 the grief of her youth. 
 Low moaned the wan sleeper and started, and murmured 
 
 as one that awakes, 
 And hissing uprose from her bosom the venomous heads 
 
 of the snakes, 
 And they fastened upon her in fury, and spat out their 
 
 poison abhorred. 
 Then Perseus drew forth from the scabbard the god-given 
 
 sickle-shaped sword, 
 
2o Medusa. 
 
 And raised it aloft, and its radiance laughed out, as it 
 
 rushed thro' the air, 
 And smote on the neck of Medusa, and ended her days 
 
 of despair. 
 Then the folds of the mantle of Perseus fell dark on the 
 
 face of the dead, 
 And he gathered its fringes together, and took up the 
 
 terror-fraught head, 
 And slung the dread spoil on his shoulder, and lightly 
 
 arose from the ground 
 On the wings of the sandals of Hermes. Then, out of 
 
 the silence, a sound 
 Burst forth, and the caverns re-echoed a cry from the 
 
 rock-girdled shore, 
 Like the shout of the rage of the storm-clouds that rise 
 
 from their prison and roar, 
 As they dart out their death-bearing lightnings ; and, 
 
 swift as a bolt from the skies, 
 Forth rushed the avengers, the Gorgons. Red flared the 
 
 fell fire in their eyes 
 As they stretched their vast pinions for flying, and rose 
 
 in the strength of their wrath, 
 And pressed after Perseus, and followed his form on the 
 
 shadowy path, 
 
Medusa. 2 1 
 
 While he sped thro' the cloudland, and hastened to reach 
 
 the fair dwellings of day. 
 Hate-hungry, they hooked their fierce talons, and panted 
 
 and howled for their prey, 
 Their hands touched the hem of his garment, their 
 
 breath stirred the waves of his hair, 
 In his ear was the hiss of their serpents that quivered and 
 
 strained thro' the air ; 
 But, before they could harm him or hold him, he crossed 
 
 their dark borders, and passed 
 From the mirk to the morning, and left them to shake 
 
 their dread locks in the blast, 
 And wail their wild woes to the ocean. But lightly he 
 
 sped on his way 
 Till a beautiful land lay before him, all bright with the 
 
 blossoms of May. 
 There, swift as a dream, he alighted ; and lo, from the 
 
 ocean's dark bed 
 The sun, in the youth of his splendour, uplifted his 
 
 glorious head. 
 
SONG TO THE SOUTH WIND. 
 
 BLOW, sweet south wind, and let me hear thy singing, 
 
 Bring me the music of the days of old ; 
 Come, with warm vapours round thy pinions clinging, 
 
 All glorious with the glow of tropic gold. 
 Sing of the land of mango groves and palms, 
 
 Where strange, sweet fruits grow ripe for lips athirst, 
 Where wounded trees weep rare and fragrant balms, 
 
 And flowers like flame from bud to blossom burst ; 
 Where all the days are dreams, and all the nights 
 
 Are full of soft delights. 
 Sing me the ancient tales of mystery 
 
 Told by the southern sea, 
 The endless tales of magic and of love, 
 Low-chanted to a drowsy, changeless tune, 
 
 Beneath the full-orbed moon, 
 And the large, lucid stars that westward move, 
 
Song to the South Wind. 23 
 
 While the warm hours from eve to morn are winging; 
 Blow, sweet south wind, and let me hear thy singing. 
 
 Sing, gentle wind, of lovely isles elysian, 
 
 Green gardens, girdled by the peaceful waves, 
 Till o'er my slumb'rous fancy floats a vision 
 
 Of white-armed Sirens in their secret caves. 
 Oh ! bring me from that fair and fatal shore 
 
 The maddening sweetness of those songs of doom 
 Which lured the listening sailor from his oar, 
 
 And softly wooed him to a watery tomb ! 
 Then, let that dreamful melody of death 
 
 Faint on thy fleeting breath, 
 And sing the nobler song that pealed afar, 
 
 And woke the morning star, 
 When Orpheus stood upon the Argo's prow, 
 With floating locks of gold and eyes of fire, 
 
 And struck his sacred lyre, 
 Until the vanquished Sirens wept for woe, 
 Their cruel hands in fruitless anguish wringing ; 
 Blow, sweet south wind, and let me hear thy singing. 
 
24 Song to the South Wind. 
 
 Bear, thou soft wind, from fair Arcadian valleys 
 
 Great Pan's aerial music wildly sweet, 
 And echo from the flowery forest alleys 
 
 The joyous tripping of the wood-nymphs' feet. 
 Oh ! let me catch the Mcenad's frenzied cry 
 
 As, whirling, thro' the mystic dance she speeds ; 
 Or hear the prisoned soul of Syrinx sigh 
 
 Melodiously among the moving reeds ; 
 Bring, bring the voices of those vanished dreams 
 
 Which filled the woods and streams, 
 The hill-tops and the fountains and the trees 
 
 With charmed melodies, 
 When kindly forest fauns came forth to play 
 Upon their pastoral pipes at eventide, 
 
 By the cool riverside, 
 While from afar some listening Oread, 
 
 With lovely limbs unclad, 
 Stole from her grotto down the grassy way, 
 Where mountain myrtles round her steps were springing - 
 Blow, sweet south wind, and let me hear thy singing. 
 
 Alas ! sad wind, thy languid wings are weary, 
 They bear such music hitherward no more ; 
 
Song to the South Wind. 25 
 
 But woeful dirges from the woodlands dreary, 
 And moanings from the melancholy shore. 
 Sadly thou sing'st how heedless hands uproot 
 
 The vocal groves, and lop each sacred bough, 
 While the dull echo of some faithless foot 
 
 Disturbs the mountain's consecrated brow, 
 And all the fair divinities around 
 
 Fly, weeping, at the sound. 
 They weep, they fly, they hide their youthful grace 
 
 From our stern-hearted race ; 
 We have no ears to hear their lovely song, 
 Made for the children of the world's young day, 
 
 For we are old and grey. 
 Blow, weary wind, the withered leaves along, 
 And the pale mists like shrouds about thee clinging ; 
 Grieve me no longer with thy mournful singing. 
 
THE SON OF METANEIRA* 
 
 DEMETER, the giver of harvests, the mother of plenty and 
 
 peace, 
 Who quickens the life in the seed-corn to ripeness and 
 
 joyful increase, 
 Who sits in the light of Olympus, and 'mid the high gods 
 
 had her birth, 
 Came down to the dwellings of mortals, and wandered 
 
 alone on the earth. 
 The beams of her beauty were darkened, and crownless 
 
 her head, for she bowed 
 Borne down by the burden of sorrow, enwrapped by 
 
 despair as a cloud, 
 And she felt the deep pain of the mighty, and mourned 
 
 with a measureless woe, 
 The hope-bereft, infinite anguish that none but immortals 
 
 may know ; 
 
 * It will be evident to many readers that a great part of this 
 poem closely follows the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 27 
 
 For the motherly heart in her bosom, left desolate, 
 yearned unconsoled, 
 
 And her eyes, ever sleepless, searched aching for one 
 whom they might not behold, 
 
 For the child of her love, at whose presence fled back- 
 wards the shadows of night, 
 
 Persephone, bringer of blossoms, Persephone, lady of 
 light, 
 
 Whose beautiful feet on the meadows the flowers from 
 their slumber awoke, 
 
 Till narcissus and crocus and iris like flames 'mid the 
 grasses outbroke. 
 
 Alas ! for the valleys deserted, alas ! for the desolate 
 glades ; 
 
 Strong Hades, who rules in the darkness the under- 
 world peopled with shades, 
 
 Beheld the bright maiden, and loved her, with love that 
 was weighty with doom, 
 
 And swift were the wheels of his chariot to speed to the 
 dwellings of gloom, 
 
 As with pitiless gladness he grasped her, and bore her, 
 unwilling, away 
 
 From the joy of the spring and the sunshine, the radiant 
 delights of the day. 
 
28 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 So the heart of Demeter was heavy ; forsaken and empty 
 
 was left 
 Her life, and fierce anguish possessed her, the wrath of a 
 
 mother bereft, 
 And, fasting, she wandered unwearied through deserts and 
 
 populous lands, 
 Through vineyards and cities and orchards ; a torch she 
 
 upbore in her hands, 
 And her locks, in her speed, were blown backwards, and 
 
 gleamed in the blaze of the fire. 
 At last, as black night after tempest, despair took the 
 
 place of desire, 
 And silent and hopeless she journeyed, enshrouded in 
 
 pitiful weeds ; 
 Nor paused she to rest, till her footsteps fell soft on the 
 
 flowery meads 
 Of fragrant Eleusis. Unclouded, the sun in the heavens 
 
 rode high, 
 And she sat by a well at the wayside, and heard the cool 
 
 water go by. 
 Then thither there came, in the noontide, the sisters, the 
 
 beautiful four 
 Who were daughters of Keleos the mighty when sway in 
 
 Eleusis he bore ; 
 
The daneira. 29 
 
 They came to the clear-flowing water that sparkled and 
 
 sang 'mid the grass, 
 And the sunlight shone warm on their garments, and 
 
 gleamed on their pitchers of brass ; 
 Their feet through the tender green meadows moved light 
 
 as the feet of the fawn, 
 Their cheeks had the sweetness of spring-time, their eyes 
 
 had the beauty of dawn. 
 They came to the well with their pitchers ; an olive-tree 
 
 grew by the way, 
 Its leaves made a screen o'er the water of silver and glim- 
 
 mering grey, 
 And lo ! in its shade sat a woman, a wayfarer aged and 
 
 poor, 
 Sore burdened with years and long labour, and sorrows 
 
 that no man might cure. 
 Then spake the young maidens : " Oh ! mother, what 
 
 fortune hath led thee afar 
 From the sheltering roofs of the city, where men kind and 
 
 pitiful are, 
 Who in their abodes would receive thee, and thou with the 
 
 women shouldst dwell, 
 With the old and the young of the household in safety, 
 
 and all should be well." 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 Thus spake the fair daughters of Keleos, and knew not 
 
 that she in whose eyes 
 Was the shadow of sorrow undying, who sat by the well in 
 
 the guise 
 Of a woman grown old in long service, was Queen of the 
 
 fruits of the field, 
 And the gifts and the gladness of harvest were hers to 
 
 refuse or to yield. 
 But such was the will of the goddess, and lowly she sat 
 
 in the shade, 
 And, hiding tKfe truth from the maidens, she heard them, 
 
 and answer she made : 
 " Fair children, ye question me kindly, and that which ye 
 
 ask ye shall know; 
 But dark is the goal of my journey, and strange is the way 
 
 that I go ; 
 For not of my choice came I hither, nor willingly crossed 
 
 I the sea, 
 But captive to pirates, and subtly I stole from their band, 
 
 and was free 
 While they feasted on shore in the evening : no profit 
 
 from me did they win. 
 But I know not the name of this country, nor know I the 
 
 dwellers therein, 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 3 1 
 
 And therefore I crave of your pity, sweet maidens, since 
 
 gentle ye seem 
 And all bountiful blessings of marriage that mothers for 
 
 daughters can dream 
 Be yours from the gods that ye tell me if any there be in 
 
 this land 
 Who have rieed of the work of a woman, the help of a 
 
 housewifely hand, 
 For well could I nurse a young infant, and tend him, and 
 
 duly fulfil 
 The tasks of a household, and order the labours of 
 
 womanly skill." 
 Then lovely Kallidice answered, of all the fair sisters most 
 
 fair, 
 " Very great are thy griefs, yet, though mourning, the will 
 
 of the gods we must bear, 
 And truly, O nurse, there are many brave leaders and 
 
 counsellors wise 
 Whose wives would receive thee with gladness, and none 
 
 would refuse or despise 
 Thy service ; for smooth are thy sayings, and noble of 
 
 aspect thou art. 
 But first let us ask of our mother, if thereto inclineth thy 
 
 heart, 
 
32 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 That thou mayst abide in our household, for there doth 
 
 she nurture her boy, 
 
 And thou in thine arms shouldst enfold him, and care- 
 fully tend him, and joy 
 Should be hers in beholding his beauty and valour increase 
 
 with his days ; 
 Nor for this shouldst thou find us unthankful, but gifts 
 
 should reward thee and praise, 
 
 For he is the loved of his mother, her boy, and her latest- 
 born child." 
 Kallidice spoke, and, assenting, her sisters stood round 
 
 her, and smiled. 
 Well pleased with their words was Demeter; she hearkened 
 
 and said them not nay, 
 But arose and made ready to follow their steps on the 
 
 wain-furrowed way. 
 Above their slim ankles they lifted their delicate robes, 
 
 and their hair 
 Shone bright as the flower of the crocus, and sportively 
 
 danced on the air, 
 While, lightsome as hinds in the spring-time, and joyous 
 
 of spirit, they went 
 
 Through the beautiful fields of Eleusis, the valleys with 
 blossoms besprent. 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 33 
 
 But sad were the steps of Demeter, and heavy and dark 
 
 was the veil 
 Which covered her head, and o'ershadowed her face, by 
 
 long pining made pale; 
 She was wrapt in the folds of her mantle, loose flowing 
 
 and shapeless and dim, 
 Which hung o'er her feet and enshrouded the form of 
 
 each glorious limb. 
 They reached the high dwelling of Keleos, and there, on 
 
 the threshold, they saw 
 The house-mother, wise Metaneira ; and wonder fell on 
 
 her, and awe 
 Beholding Demeter, for truly her stature was godlike, and 
 
 none 
 Could look on her eyes unrevering, such homage from 
 
 mortals she won 
 Though shrouded in humble apparel, and bowed by the 
 
 burden of pain. 
 With fear in her heart, Metaneira to welcome the stranger 
 
 was fain, 
 
 And into the chamber she led her, and gave her the good- 
 liest seat, 
 
 And filled a fair cup for her drinking with wine that was 
 ruddy and sweet. 
 
 D 
 
34 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 But speechless and still sat the goddess, and drank not 
 
 the heart-cheering wine, 
 For she brooded on grief unforgotten, nor ceased for her 
 
 lost one to pine. 
 Then spoke Metaneira, " I hail thee, O guest, who art 
 
 noble of birth, 
 For vainly thy coarse-woven raiment would hide thy 
 
 true greatness and worth 
 ut Fate hath pursued thee with sorrows, and who with 
 
 the gods may contend ? 
 And now, to my house be thou welcome, as friend to the 
 
 house of a friend ; 
 And nurse thou my boy, whom, unhoped for, the gods in 
 
 my bosom have laid, 
 And e'en as his growth shall thy guerdon increase and thy 
 
 care be repaid, 
 
 And thou shalt be glad of his glory, and joy in his pros- 
 perous years, 
 For deep in my heart is he cherished, the child I have 
 
 longed for with tears." 
 Then Demeter made answer : " My greeting O wife of 
 
 great Keleos, to thee 
 
 I give ; may much good be thy portion, and graced by 
 the gods mayst thou be. 
 
The Son of Metandra. 35 
 
 Now gladly thy boy will I nurture, and lull him to sleep 
 
 on my arm, 
 Nor fear thou the might of false magic, nor dream of the 
 
 dark-woven charm, 
 The evil that stealeth in secret to slay the sweet blossom 
 
 unblown ; 
 For not unregardful of danger am I, nor to me are 
 
 unknown 
 The word and the sign that have power, the mightier 
 
 magic to quell 
 
 The force of each evil endeavour, and baffle each bale- 
 bearing spell." 
 Thus spoke great Demeter, and, yearning, she stretched 
 
 forth her arms for the child, 
 And lo ! as he lay in her bosom, the storm of her sorrow 
 
 grew mild. 
 
 Now fair was the babe that to Keleos his wife Metaneira 
 
 had borne, 
 And strong were his limbs and his body, and white as the 
 
 flower of the thorn, 
 And day after day with his beauty the heart of his mother 
 
 was blest, 
 
36 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 As he smiled on the knees of Demeter, or slept in the 
 
 warmth of her breast. 
 No food of the earth did she give him, nor milk of the 
 
 goat or the ewe, 
 
 But like to a child of immortals she reared him, and god- 
 like he grew, 
 Nor for anger or terror or hunger he wept, but was 
 
 happy and calm, 
 For the touch of her hands gave him comfort, the kiss of 
 
 her lips was as balm, 
 And lovely and dreadful and glorious shone o'er him the 
 
 light of her eyes, 
 As a purpose took shape in her spirit, by heavenly wisdom 
 
 made wise. 
 
 Night lay on the dwelling of Keleos, a night that was 
 moonless and deep ; 
 
 The men and the maids and the matrons were bound in 
 the meshes of sleep. 
 
 1 hen up rose the nurse with her nursling, Demeter arose 
 from her bed, 
 
 And, clasping the babe to her bosom, amid the still dark- 
 ness she sped 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 37 
 
 To the banqueting hall of the palace, and there, like an 
 eye in the dark, 
 
 There gleamed on the hearth 'mid the ashes a ruddy and 
 vigilant spark. 
 
 Fresh fuel she cast on the embers, the life that was in 
 them she fanned, 
 
 Till high leapt the blaze in its fervour, and fed on the 
 heart of the brand; 
 
 Then low by the side of the hearthstone she sat with the 
 babe on her knee, 
 
 And he watched the gay sparks dancing upwards, and 
 pointed and laughed in his glee. 
 
 Then swiftly she loosened his garments, and bared his 
 sweet limbs to the light ; 
 
 And soft as a flower was his body, and fair as a star in 
 the night, 
 
 Amid the dim shadowy chamber, high-vaulted and empty 
 and vast, 
 
 It shone, rosy red with the radiance that over its white- 
 ness was cast. 
 
 With tender and motherly touches the hands of the god- 
 dess fell soft 
 
 On his form, and an exquisite fragrance breathed round 
 him, and floated aloft 
 
3 3 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 Thro' the chill midnight air, as she chafed him, and 
 
 soothed him with slow-moving palm 
 Made moist with the mystic ambrosia, the sacred and 
 
 life-giving balm. 
 And she sang ; to her hands' even motion her voice in 
 
 low music kept time, 
 And her song was the world's ancient secret of love and 
 
 of life in its prime, 
 E'en the song of the earth and the heavens, which no man 
 
 hath heard or may hear, 
 When they meet and rejoice in the season that crowns the 
 
 long hopes of the year ; 
 It was like the warm wind in the autumn astir in the 
 
 leaves of the trees, 
 Or the deep multitudinous murmur that swells from the 
 
 soul of the seas, 
 Or the sound of the corn when at noontide it warms 
 
 into ripeness and grows, 
 Or the voice of a beautiful garden when sun-cherished 
 
 blossoms unclose. 
 Still singing she rose, and bent over the brands on the 
 
 hearth as they blazed 
 Glowing red ; and the babe from her bosom she took in 
 
 her hands, and upraised 
 
The Son of Metaneira, 39 
 
 O'er the crests of the flames which curled round him, and 
 
 clasped him with cruel desire, 
 And she gave them her nursling, and plunged him, all 
 
 naked and white, in the fire. 
 There, flushed as a cloudlet at sunrise, vermilion and 
 
 lovely he lay 
 In the midst of the brands, and around him the bright 
 
 fiery tongues were at play. 
 And they kissed his fair cheek and his forehead, his head 
 
 as with sun-rays they fringed ; 
 Yet his delicate flesh was unshrivelled, his glittering locks 
 
 were unsinged, 
 And he smiled in his terrible cradle, and feared not the 
 
 withering breath 
 That blew on his form, which lay pillowed alive on the 
 
 bosom of Death. 
 
 Alas ! for the love without knowledge, the mother-love 
 
 foolish and blind, 
 That thwarts the high purpose of Heaven, and, strong in 
 
 its weakness, would bind 
 A soul that the gods have unfettered and winged for the 
 
 perilous flight 
 
40 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 To regions divine, where, god-guided, unscathed it may 
 
 gaze on the light ! 
 In haste from her shadowy chamber came forth Metaneira, 
 
 aroused 
 By a fear without name for her infant, a fear lest the 
 
 stranger she housed 
 As a guest highly favoured, the woman mysterious of 
 
 look and of word, 
 Should wrong him by arts of false magic ; for 'mid the 
 
 night-silence she heard 
 The voice of Demeter, and followed the sound thro' the 
 
 darkness, and lo ! 
 She saw, as she stood on the threshold ah, vision of 
 
 horror and woe ! 
 The blaze of the terrible furnace, the babe in the midst 
 
 of the brands. 
 She shrieked, in the madness of terror, with raving and 
 
 wringing of hands : 
 " Oh ! child of my heart j oh ! unhappy ; by murderous 
 
 hands thou art nursed ; 
 Thou art slain by the craft of the stranger, the wiles of 
 
 the woman accursed ; 
 Woe, woe for the good turned to evil, the gift that was 
 
 given in scorn ; 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 4 1 
 
 Oh ! my babe that so early must perish, I would thou 
 
 hadst never been born." 
 But over the flames bent Demeter, and, plunging her 
 
 hands in their heat, 
 She plucked forth the child from the embers, and laid 
 
 him unhurt at her feet. 
 Then swiftly uprising, she loosened her mantle and cast 
 
 back her hood, 
 As clouds from the sun they fell from her, and in the 
 
 dim chamber she stood, 
 Unveiled in her splendour immortal, divinely majestic in 
 
 size. 
 Far flashed, like the blue summer lightning, her wrathful 
 
 and beautiful eyes, 
 And her hair floated free on her shoulders, and filled 
 
 all the dwelling with light, 
 And her garments breathed odours elysian ; and strong 
 
 as a god in his might, 
 Yet more fair than the fairest of women she seemed ; as, 
 
 with spirit afraid, 
 Low bent Metaneira before her, and trembled. "Vain 
 
 mortals," she said, 
 And her voice was divine in its anger " Vain mortals, 
 
 'who see not the end, 
 
42 The Son of Metaneira. 
 
 Be it evil or good, yet endeavour the work of the gods to 
 
 amend 
 With the haste of the feeble and faithless, and mar what 
 
 ye cannot renew, 
 Too late must ye weep your unwisdom 'mid ills that no 
 
 tears may undo ! 
 Yea, weep for thy son, Metaneira, that sickness must seize 
 
 him, and age, 
 And the shadow of death hover o'er him, and ills that 
 
 thou canst not assuage 
 Devour the ripe strength of his manhood j yea, weep for 
 
 the deed of to-night, 
 For the cowardly heart unbelieving, the weakness made 
 
 rash by affright 
 For I am Demeter, the mother of seasons, the giver of 
 
 joy, 
 
 And lo ! for the love that I bore him, a boon I prepared 
 
 for thy boy, 
 And his weak human frame I refashioned, to share in 
 
 the nature divine 
 Which knoweth not death, neither sickness, nor pallid 
 
 decay, nor shall pine 
 In the languor of age, but, immortal, renew its fresh 
 
 youth as the sun ; 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 43 
 
 But the voice of thy fear snapt asunder the spell that 
 
 was wisely begun. 
 And now must the doom come upon him ; the curse of 
 
 the sons of the earth j 
 As a blight in the bud, deeply hidden, lurked Death in his 
 
 frame at his birth, 
 And e'en in the might of his manhood, the noon of his 
 
 glorious day, 
 Unfelt, he must bear in his body the sure-growing seeds 
 
 of decay, 
 He must fail, he must fade, and for beauty unsightliness, 
 
 weakness for strength, 
 Must be his in the years that come after ; till weary of 
 
 living, at length 
 He shall love what he loathed, and with longing prepare 
 
 to lie down in the grave, 
 For thy fear plucked him forth from the furnace, the 
 
 Heav'n-kindled fire that could save. 
 And ever his eyes shall reproach thee as sorrow grows 
 
 round him, and strife, 
 
 And the evils that mortals must suffer oppress and em- 
 bitter his life, 
 As the lessening years stretch before him, and he to his 
 
 end hastens on, 
 
44 TJie Son of Metaneira. 
 
 He shall mourn for the, deed uncompleted, the gift and 
 
 the glory foregone ! 
 Yet great shall he be among mortals, and praised 'mid the 
 
 bravest and best, 
 Because on my knees he hath slumbered, and loved me, 
 
 and lain in my breast." 
 All night wept the babe, though his sisters had lifted him 
 
 up from the ground, 
 And one clasped him close, and the others, light-footed. 
 
 were hovering around 
 To soothe him with gentle caresses, and tend him with 
 
 sisterly care ; 
 Yet vainly they strove to console him, the heart of the 
 
 babe was aware 
 That the hands which now held him were mortal, and, 
 
 wailing, he longed for the face 
 And the comforting touch of Demeter, the warmth of her 
 
 hallowed embrace. 
 And as years passed away, and the goddess rejoiced with 
 
 her daughter, restored 
 To her motherly breast, and the temple where darkly her 
 
 name was adored 
 Shone fair on the heights at Eleusis, the boy she had 
 
 nursed on her knee 
 
The Son of Metaneira. 45 
 
 Was haunted by things half-remembered, like dreams 
 
 when the night-shadows flee, 
 And oft in his youth and his manhood, in glad and in 
 
 sorrowful years, 
 The mystical song of Demeter ran soothingly sweet in his 
 
 ears, 
 And her breath stirred the hair on his forehead, and 
 
 strangely his spirit was filled 
 With a dimly mysterious remembrance, a yearning that 
 
 could not be stilled. 
 For those whom the gods in their cradles have visited, 
 
 mingling their dreams 
 With murmurs of marvellous music, and glimpses of 
 
 beauty, and gleams 
 Of glories untold ; when youth passes, and noon follows 
 
 fast on the dawn, 
 Still remember, forget, and remember, and sigh for the 
 
 vision withdrawn, 
 And they stretch out their hands in the darkness, and 
 
 listen and look for a sign 
 From the closed doors of Heav'n, to betoken a power and 
 
 a presence divine. 
 
A CALM DAY BY THE RIVER. 
 
 WHAT murmurs of a waking dream 
 Are in thy voice, mysterious stream ? 
 Learnest thou from thy natal rills 
 The ancient secrets of the hills ? 
 Or dost thou hear the far-off roar 
 Which woos thee from thy sheltering shore, 
 And art thou yearning for the sea 
 Whose mingled waters call to thee ? 
 
 Ah, love ! what matters this to us 
 Who rest beside the river thus, 
 And hear, while wave on wave departs, 
 The love-beats of each others' hearts ? 
 Nay, ask not whither, ask not why, 
 The full, fair stream flows swiftly by, 
 
A Calm Day by the River. 47 
 
 But lie and watch the lovely scene 
 
 As if no past had ever been, 
 
 Nor any future should destroy 
 
 The continuity of joy. 
 
 Here heavy-foliaged boughs are bent 
 
 To breathe the water's faint, fresh scent, 
 
 And taste, like us, the fleeting bliss 
 
 Exhaled by such an hour as this. 
 
 Here languid water-lilies lie 
 
 Snow-pale beneath the glowing sky, 
 
 While, Danae-like, their bosoms hold 
 
 A splendid shower of amorous gold. 
 
 Warm breezes, trembling down the tide, 
 
 The feathery fronds of ferns divide, 
 
 And bless us with their breath, which yields 
 
 The fragrance of the summer fields 
 
 Soft breath, where mingled memories meet 
 
 Of clover, and mild meadow-sweet. 
 
 Lie still, beloved ; in such an hour 
 We live the life of fern and flower, 
 Forgetting all that underlies 
 The subtle smile in Nature's eyes, 
 
48 A Calm Day by the River. 
 
 The woes, the sins that shame the sun, 
 
 The mournful wisdom slowly won 
 
 As year by year the brown leaves fall, 
 
 And youth slips past ; forgetting all 
 
 Save only that the world is bright, 
 
 And love envelops us like light. 
 
 The whispers of our joy alone 
 
 Disturb the water's monotone, 
 
 The soft, swift rush of silver sound 
 
 Wherein sad fantasies are drowned. 
 
 Lulled by that music, watch the dream 
 
 That hovers o'er the slumbering stream. 
 
 What exquisite illusions lie 
 
 Amid its ripples sapphire sky 
 
 And golden foliage ! need we know 
 
 The secrets of the soil below, 
 
 Or strive to find the chilly bed 
 
 Where last year's ferns and flowers lie dead ? 
 
 Nay ; souls grow faint with brooding still 
 
 On mysteries of death and ill, 
 
 Stirring, 'mid vapours poison-rife, 
 
 The turbid sediment of life. 
 
 On this sweet day, by this clear stream, 
 
 Believe that things are as they seem ; 
 
A Calm Day by the River. 49 
 
 Adore the fairer face of truth. 
 The rapture of immortal youth 
 Lives on, though lovely forms decay, 
 In new-born beauty day by day. 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! love doth not die, 
 There is no death ! Behol4 the sky 
 Shine glorious in the stream, behold 
 The purple shadows flecked with gold ; 
 Watch the swift dragon-flies at play 
 Bright jewels, which the summer day 
 Strews o'er her raiment ; see yon stone 
 With curious lichens overgrown, 
 Scarlet and ash and yellow ; trace 
 The silvery ripples round its base, 
 Which slowly seek the restful pool 
 Beneath the bank, where, damp and cool, 
 Hang hidden tufts of maiden-hair ; 
 Or watch the mild, voluptuous air 
 Drop idly on the water's breast 
 A leaflet severed from the rest, 
 Or leave among the tangled weed 
 A fluttering plume of snowy seed. 
 
A Calm Day by the River. 
 
 O lovely stream ! O lovely shore ! 
 As fair as in old years, before 
 We looked upon you, so, in days 
 When we can neither see nor praise, 
 The living light of summer hours 
 Shall rest upon your new-born flowers ; 
 Unchanged, the splendour of the sky 
 Shall still within your bosom lie ; 
 For love, in youth perpetual, reigns 
 O'er each glad pulse of nature's veins, 
 And all the tears of human woe 
 Can never quench its deathless glow, 
 Nor all the ills that men have done 
 Dim the clear shining of the sun. 
 
CAPTIVES. 
 
 / 
 
 WHY doth the caged bird sing 
 In the dull city, where the gloomy hours 
 
 No gleam of sunshine bring ? 
 How can he feel the rapture of the spring 
 
 So far from all its flowers ? 
 
 Though he be captive-born, 
 Yet his free spirit seeks the forest glade, 
 
 And in his home forlorn 
 He trills, as if he saw the tender morn 
 
 Smile through the young leaves' shade. 
 
 A mate he never knew, 
 Yet hath he learnt the very note of love, 
 
 And softly seems to woo, 
 As if his gentle bride before him flew 
 
 To nestle in the grove. 
 
52 Captives. 
 
 We too, imprisoned souls, 
 Can sing of lovely lands that none have seen 
 
 Or sought betwixt the poles, 
 Round whose fair shores a magic ocean rolls 
 
 Its waves of sapphire sheen. 
 
 And yet we know not whence 
 Comes the dream-light that warms that visioned earth 
 
 To beauty more intense ; 
 Unless from some sweet realm unknown to sense, 
 
 Wherein we had our birth. 
 
 And there we learnt of yore, 
 Perchance, to pine for love that cannot die, 
 
 Untold in human lore ; 
 Oh ! shall we find our by-gone bliss once more, 
 
 Or only sing and sigh ? 
 
THE PYTHONESS. 
 
 " BIND up her loose hair in the fillet, and wipe the cold 
 
 dew from her cheek, 
 For the force of the spirit has left her outwearied, and 
 
 nerveless, and weak." 
 So murmured the pitying maidens, and soothed me, and 
 
 laid me to rest, 
 
 And lightly the leopard-skin mantle drew over my shiver- 
 ing breast ; 
 Then bent their warm faces to kiss me, with tenderness 
 
 mingled with awe, 
 Revering the god in his priestess, whose word is obeyed 
 
 as a law 
 By the tyrant, the terror of nations. A word from my 
 
 lips, and the land 
 Shall have rest, and the weapon uplifted shall fall from 
 
 the threatening hand ; 
 
54 The Pythoness. 
 
 Though gifts may be heaped on the altar, rich goblet and 
 
 gold-embossed shield, 
 The gods give no promise of favour, and keep what they 
 
 will unrevealed. 
 Shall I glory in this, that decreeing the close or beginning 
 
 of strife, 
 I, who speak what I know not, am chosen controller of 
 
 death and of life ? 
 Nay; I, who was voiceless, am fated to be as a flute 
 
 which is blown 
 By the powerful breath of immortals, to music which is 
 
 not its own : 
 Soon, soon, strained to tones superhuman, unfitted for 
 
 use or delight, 
 The tremulous flute will lie shattered, cast out from 
 
 remembrance and sight. 
 My maidens have left me to slumber ; but tears scorch 
 
 my eyelids instead 
 Tears, bitter with passionate envy of those either living 
 
 or dead ; 
 Not as I, who exist in illusion, with body and soul rent 
 
 apart, 
 Possessed by a terrible spirit, pierced through by a fiery 
 
 dart, 
 
The Pythoness. 
 
 Caught up by a whirlwind, tormented with light too 
 
 intense for my brain, 
 Till the vision is past, and I waken remembering nought 
 
 but the pain. 
 O mighty and cruel Apollo, thy gift is despair and the 
 
 grave ! 
 My life, like a wreck on the ocean, is tossed to and fro 
 
 by the wave. 
 
 O fair, pleasant home of my childhood ! dear valley, 
 thy shadows are cool ; 
 
 All pale in the languor of noontide the lily bends over 
 the pool, 
 
 The laurel and cistus are fettered by tangles of blossom- 
 ing weeds, 
 
 The rose leans her cheek to the ivy, the asphodel shines 
 through the reeds ; 
 
 Wild bees, with low rapturous murmurs, drink deep at the 
 hyacinth's heart, 
 
 And over the mystical lotus bright legions of dragon-flies 
 dart. 
 
 And there dwelt my woodland companions, my tender- 
 voiced soft-breasted dove, 
 
56 The Pythoness. 
 
 Which perched on my shoulder, with flutterings and 
 
 murmurs of pleasure and love ; 
 And my gentle white fawn, the fleet-footed, whose breath 
 
 was so wondrously sweet, 
 For he fed upon rose-leaves, and ever he lay on the moss 
 
 at my feet, 
 And his wild, wistful eyes shone like jewels, as if he 
 
 delighted to hear 
 The dream-woven songs which I fashioned and sang 
 
 when no other was near. 
 
 I pine for the breeze of the forest, I thirst for the spring 
 
 cold as ice, 
 Instead of these fumes of rich incense, this draught mixed 
 
 with dream-giving spice j 
 I long for my infancy's slumber, untroubled by phantoms 
 
 of dread ; 
 I long for cool dews of the morning, to drop on my 
 
 fever-hot head ; 
 I long how I long to be cradled once more in the 
 
 valley's soft breast, 
 And, lulled by my childhood's lost music, to sink like a 
 
 babe into rest. 
 
The Pythoness. 57 
 
 The day died in flames on the mountains, and stealthily, 
 
 hiding the skies 
 With a film of thick-gathering darkness, night fell on the 
 
 earth by surprise ; 
 But flashes of wild summer lightning played over the tops 
 
 of the pines, 
 And glanced on the streams which meandered in 
 
 slender and silvery lines, 
 'Mid alder, and willow, and hazel and shone in my 
 
 face, as I fled 
 Alone through the depths of the forest, all panting and 
 
 trembling with dread. 
 Astray in the darkness, I threaded the briery paths of 
 
 the wood, 
 Then burst through the thicket. Before me, terrific and 
 
 glorious, stood 
 Oh horror ! the oak of Apollo the haunted, the fearful, 
 
 the vast ; 
 Whose roots search the earth's deep foundations, whose 
 
 limbs are as steel in the blast : 
 Pale visions that may not be uttered, dwell under its 
 
 branches at night, 
 And strike the beholder with madness, and wither his 
 
 limbs and his sight. 
 
58 The Pythoness. 
 
 The hand of the god was upon me, the power that is 
 
 mighty to form 
 My life at his will, as the cloud-wreaths are shaped by the 
 
 power of the storm ; 
 And my heart fainted in me for terror, since nowhere 
 
 unmarked could I flee 
 From the doom that pursued me. Then, dimly, I saw 
 
 in the shade of the tree 
 The priest of the temple ; and onward he came, and drew 
 
 near, and his gaze 
 Sought me out and subdued and enthralled me, and 
 
 pierced me with glittering rays, 
 Which drew forth my soul from my body, with force that 
 
 I could not resist, 
 Then grew into flames, and enwound me in meshes of 
 
 fiery mist ; 
 
 My eyelids drooped under the pressure, a shock of un- 
 bearable pain 
 'Thrilled through me, as keen as a sword-thrust; then 
 
 darkness fell over my brain. 
 
The Pythoness. 59 
 
 Great Delphi ! in desolate grandeur thy cliffs stand all 
 bare to the sky, 
 
 As barren of beauty and freshness, as lonely and mourn- 
 ful as I. 
 
 The scream of the wandering eagle rings over thy echoing 
 rocks ; 
 
 The vultures flock hitherward, scenting the flesh of the 
 sacrificed ox ; 
 
 But the murmurous voice of the woodland shall never 
 more breathe in my ear, 
 
 Nor Philomel's passionate music melt stones into tender- 
 ness here ; 
 
 My soul has resigned its communion with all that it 
 cherished and loved ; 
 
 From dreams of a happier future, for ever and ever 
 removed. 
 
 No love-lay shall thrill with my praises the balmy and 
 sensitive air, 
 
 No hand shall twine garlands of jasmine to star the deep 
 night of my hair, 
 
 No eye shall grow soft at my presence, nor watch me 
 with rapturous glance, 
 
 Amid the bright circle of maidens move swift through the 
 rhythmical dance, 
 
60 The Pythoness. 
 
 No bridegroom shall woo me, no taper of marriage be 
 
 lighted for me, 
 No children with flower-like faces shall smile away care 
 
 at my knee. 
 
 But surely the night will bring slumber, and surely the 
 
 grave will bring rest, 
 And my spirit be lapped in Elysium in balm-breathing 
 
 isles of the blest ; 
 And as summer, and sunshine, and beauty are born of 
 
 the elements' strife, 
 My life, which brought death, be transmuted at last into 
 
 death which brings life. 
 For luminous visions surround me, and exquisite forms 
 
 hover near, 
 Caress me with soft spirit-touches, and murmur strange 
 
 words in my ear : 
 
 Through air which seems empty to others, bright spirit- 
 shapes cluster and throng : 
 Already I mix with their essence, already I join in their 
 
 song. 
 
THE WIFE OF LOKI. 
 
 CURSED by the gods and crowned with shame, 
 
 Fell father of a direful brood, 
 Whose crimes have filled the heaven with flame 
 
 And drenched the earth with blood, 
 
 Loki, the guileful Loki, stands 
 
 Within a rocky mountain-gorge ; 
 Chains gird his body, feet, and hands, 
 
 Wrought in no mortal forge. 
 
 Coiled on the rock, a mighty snake 
 Above him, day and night, is hung, 
 
 With dull, malignant eyes awake, 
 And poison-dropping tongue. 
 
62 The Wife of Loki. 
 
 Drop follows drop in ceaseless flow, 
 Each falling where the other fell, 
 
 To lay upon his blistered brow 
 The liquid fire of hell. 
 
 But lo, beside the howling wretch 
 A woman stands, devoid of dread, 
 
 And one pale arm is seen to stretch 
 Above his tortured head. 
 
 All through the day is lifted up, 
 
 And all the weary night-time through, 
 
 One patient hand that holds a cup 
 To catch the poison-dew. 
 
 Sometimes the venom overfills 
 
 The cup, and she must pour it forth ; 
 
 With Loki's curses then the hills 
 Are rent from south to north. 
 
 But she, in answer, only sighs, 
 And lays her lips upon his face, 
 
 And, with love's anguish in her eyes, 
 Resumes her constant place. 
 
LOCH MAREE. 
 
 THE heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 How fair is the bloom of the beautiful heather 
 That reddens the hills in the August weather, 
 
 Far, far away from here ; 
 Where the clouds are like fairy fleeces, spun 
 From golden rays of the setting sun, 
 And mists lie light on the mountain-side, 
 Like garments of gauze in a rainbow dyed, 
 
 And the evening glow shines clear 
 In the crystal waters quiet and cool 
 That are set in the depths of each rock-girt pool 
 
 Like diamonds fair to see ; 
 And, bright as the glorious floor of Heaven, 
 The floor of the city with jewels paven, 
 
 Lies lovely Loch Maree ! 
 
64 Loch Maree. 
 
 The heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 Long years ago, 'mid the blooming heather 
 My brother and sisters and I together 
 
 Were happy all the day ; 
 With bonnetless heads and with shoeless feet, 
 We sought the ripe blaeberries sourly sweet, 
 Or splashed in the burn, or waded across, 
 Or twined the long trails of the stagVhorn moss, 
 
 Till, tired of quiet play, 
 We ran down the hill in a merry race, 
 My brother Hugh and my sister Grace 
 
 And I, and Kate my twin ; 
 And when evening fell, by the loch's dim shore 
 We watched for the sound of the splashing oar 
 
 When father's boat came in. 
 
 The heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 Far, far from the sight of the blooming heather 
 I was borne away, like a wind-blown feather, 
 
 To the dark and dreary town ; 
 For sickness and woe to our home came nigh, 
 And Katie and Grace in the kirkyard lie, 
 And my father went out with my brother Hugh 
 On the stormy loch when the fierce winds blew, 
 
Loch Maree. 65 
 
 And we saw them sink and drown ; 
 So now I must work for my mother and me, 
 And the fatherless baby that lies on her knee, 
 
 And I sew, and sew, and sew, 
 
 Till my breath comes short with the pain at my heart, 
 And my ringers are sore, and my eyelids smart 
 
 With tears that dare not flow. 
 
 The heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 I dreamed a dream of the blooming heather; 
 It came in the night, but I know not whether 
 
 I was indeed asleep. 
 Methought that my body upon my bed 
 Lay quiet and chilly and white and dead, 
 But three fair angels were bearing me 
 Far over the land, far over the sea, 
 
 Far over the mountains steep ; 
 The clouds flew past us, fleecy and fleet, 
 And oh ! the wild wind from the hills was sweet 
 
 Through swaying fir-tops driven. 
 " Oh ! tell me," I said, " to what land we go ; " 
 And the angels made answer in murmurs low, 
 
 " We bear your soul to Heaven." 
 
66 Loch Maree. 
 
 The heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 The sun shone warm on the blooming heather, 
 And the glittering rocks in the golden weather 
 
 Strange glories seemed to win ; 
 For the angels had laid me down to rest 
 'Mid the fragrant firs on the mountain's breast, 
 And I knew, as I looked on each shining face, 
 My brother Hugh, and my sister Grace, 
 
 And little Kate, my twin ; 
 And they kissed my brow with a gentle kiss, 
 And I, in my dream, was a soul in bliss, 
 
 Beside the crystal sea ; 
 For there, like the glorious floor of Heaven, 
 The floor of the city with jewels paven, 
 
 Lay lovely Loch Maree ! 
 
 The heather, oh ! the heather ! 
 All pale grew the light on the blooming heather, 
 And I saw the dull mists of the city gather 
 
 Around me, as I woke ; 
 
 And I heard, through the silence, the heavy chime 
 From the steeple, to warn me of working-time. 
 On my mother's bosom her baby slept, 
 I kissed them softly, and forth I crept 
 
 To toil 'mid gloom and smoke : 
 
Loch Maree. 67 
 
 But all day long, at my weary task, 
 
 In the sweet dream-sunshine I seemed to bask, 
 
 My heart felt light and free; 
 The loved lost voices were in my ear, 
 And the eyes of my soul saw, bright and clear, 
 
 My lovely Loch Maree. 
 
A WINTER SONG. 
 
 ALAS ! cold earth, dost thou forget 
 The scent of April's violet ? 
 Do wailing winds bemoan the death 
 Of youth and joy and odorous breath? 
 Are all these shrivelled leaves that fall 
 Heaped up for beauty's burial ? 
 
 Ah ! no, no, no. The careful year 
 Prepares a bed, and not a bier ; 
 Though beauty's trance be long and deep, 
 Her heart still quivers in her sleep ; 
 Then leave her place of slumber bare, 
 Let the loved sunlight enter there. 
 
 Alas ! cold heart, hast thou foregone 
 The bliss that o'er thy spring-time shone ? 
 
A Winter Song. 69 
 
 Has all the winter of thy woe 
 Congealed thy weeping into snow, 
 And in that long and bitter frost 
 Has the sweet life of love been lost ? 
 
 Ah ! no, no, no. Love wakes again, 
 Though faint and pale it long hath lain 
 And chilly was its place of rest ; 
 Then warm it, dearest, on thy breast, 
 Revive it with thy voice divine 
 It wakens to no touch but thine ! 
 
DREAMS AND WAKING. 
 
 OFT in my slumber have I seemed to rove 
 Through the dim mazes of a magic grove, 
 Where, faint and light, the leafy shadows lay 
 Upon the tender grasses, fair and fine, 
 Of long green alleys, stretching far away ; 
 And there, between the twilight and the day, 
 I saw a face of heavenly beauty shine ; 
 And ever, in my dream, the face was thine. 
 
 Oft in my slumber have I seemed to sail 
 
 On waters trembling in the moonbeams pale, 
 
 And listen to the music of the night ; 
 
 The sobbing waves, the winds that gently pine 
 
 Round dusky creeks and glimmering headlands white. 
 
 Then, suddenly, I heard, with strange delight, 
 
 The far-off singing of a voice divine ; 
 
 And ever, in my dream, the voice was thine. 
 
Dreams and Waking. 71- 
 
 I dream no more, but in a garden fair, 
 Waking, I breathe the mild and balmy air ; 
 And there, amid a bower of greenery, 
 Where honeysuckle clasps the eglantine, 
 The dear dream-face so long desired I see, 
 I hear the sweet dream-voice that sang to me 
 Soft words with softer melodies combine ; 
 Thine is the face, the lovely voice is thine. 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 WHEN darkness hides me, dearest, 
 And when this face, now daily in thy sight, 
 Becomes a dream to haunt the silent night, 
 And vanish when the busy noon is clearest ; 
 
 Then, dear, the love I gave thee, 
 Which ever for thy coming lay in wait, 
 Exacting often and importunate, 
 Shall be a memory to bless and save thee. 
 
 Some little foolish saying 
 Will wander back unto thee from the past, 
 Like a stray rose-branch o'er thy pathway cast, 
 With flowers and thorns thy careless steps waylaying. 
 
 June roses in December ! 
 Dream-roses, yet their phantom thorns give pain. 
 Somewhere, somehow, when we two meet again, 
 How much must we forget, how much remember ! 
 
A DREAM OF LONG AGO. 
 
 IN the silence of the night, 
 
 While I slept, my heart awoke, 
 And a face long lost to sight 
 
 Like a star the darkness broke ; 
 Then I felt her love enfold me 
 
 In the bliss I used to know, 
 When her eyes and lips consoled me 
 
 With the smile of long ago. 
 
 As her gaze grew more intense 
 
 All the past was mine once more, 
 Calling back to soul and sense 
 
 Love's so long forgotten lore ; 
 Vanished memories came thronging 
 
 Warm and sweet as youth's first glow, 
 Till my life dissolved in longing 
 
 For the kiss of long ago. 
 
74 A Dream of Long Ago. 
 
 But I sighed and strove in vain, 
 
 For her face grew far away, 
 And I wakened in my pain 
 
 To the cold unhappy day ; 
 Then I rose like one still dreaming, 
 
 Weary with a weight of woe, 
 Through my heavy eyelids streaming 
 
 Flowed the tears of long ago. 
 
REST IN THE GRAVE. 
 
 REST in the grave ! but rest is for the weary, 
 And her slight limbs were hardly girt for toil \ 
 
 Rest is for lives worn out, deserted, dreary, 
 Which have no sweetness left for death to spoil. 
 
 We yearn for death when power and passion wasted 
 Have left to memory nothing but regret ; 
 
 She sleeps, while life's best pleasures, all untasted, 
 Had scarce approached her rosy lips as yet. 
 
 Her childlike eyes still lacked the crowning sweetness, 
 Her form was ripening to more perfect grace ; 
 
 She died, with the pathetic incompleteness 
 Of beauty's promise on her pallid face. 
 
 What undeveloped gifts, what powers untested, 
 Perchance with her have passed away from earth ; 
 
 What germs of thought in that young brain arrested 
 Shall never grow and quicken and have birth. 
 
76 Rest in the Grave. 
 
 She never loved, who might have loved so truly, 
 Though love-dreams stirred her fancy, faint and fleet ; 
 
 Her soul's ethereal wings were budding newly, 
 Her woman's heart had scarce begun to beat. 
 
 We drank the sweets of life, we drink the bitter, 
 And death to us would almost seem a boon ; 
 
 But why to her, for whom glad life were fitter, 
 Should darkness come ere day had reached its noon? 
 
 No answer ; save the echo of our weeping, 
 
 Which from the woodland and the moor is heard, 
 
 Where, in the spring-time, ruthless storm-winds sweeping 
 Have slain the unblown flower and new-fledged bird. 
 
A WITHERED ROSEBUD. 
 
 IN the early spring, when blossoms were rare, 
 
 There grew in my garden a rosebud fair, 
 
 And I loved it and blessed it for blooming there. 
 
 The wild north wind came over the snows 
 And pierced the heart of my opening rose, 
 And the life within it shrivelled and froze. 
 
 Yellow and withered and dead it lay. 
 
 The north wind whistled and went his way, 
 
 The sun shone out and the earth was gay. 
 
 Now all the roses of summer are here, 
 
 Fragrant and lovely but none so dear 
 
 As my rosebud that died in the dawning year. 
 
THE BURDEN OF THE WIND. 
 
 O WIND, fresh wind of spring-time ! 
 
 What hast thou borne away ? 
 A burden of light-winged moments 
 
 Too tenderly bright to stay ; 
 The music of children's laughter 
 
 From meadows all dewy and sweet, 
 Where primrose-buds and cowslips 
 
 Are trodden by joyous feet. 
 
 O wind, soft wind of summer ! 
 
 What hast thou borne away ? 
 A burden of love and longing, 
 
 The dream of a golden day ; 
 The murmur of passionate voices, 
 
 The exquisite perfume pressed 
 From the heart of the rose that nestled 
 
 In the beloved one's breast. 
 
The Burden of the Wind. 79 
 
 O wind, wild wind of winter ! 
 
 What hast thou borne away ? 
 A burden of mournful remembrance, 
 
 The sigh of the year's decay ; 
 The skeleton leaves of the forest, 
 
 The drift from the chill snow-wreath, 
 And the prayer of a soul that is passing 
 
 Into the shadow of death. 
 
UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 LIE light, O gentle snow ! 
 
 Above the valleys green ; 
 Beneath thy vesture let the flow'rets grow 
 
 That may not yet be seen. 
 
 Soft wrapt in dreamless night 
 
 They rest, and cannot tell 
 What eyes shall in their beauty take delight, 
 
 What heart shall love them well. 
 
 O unblown flowers of love ! 
 
 The fated time abide, 
 The pale cold snow lies softly wreathed above, 
 
 Your tender growth to hide. 
 
 But when the sun shall shine 
 
 Each bud will blossom fair, 
 And flower with flower in fragrant beauty twine, 
 
 For one alone to wear. 
 
GLAMOUR. 
 
 THE breath of flowers was on the breeze, 
 
 And all the odours of the spring ; 
 Amid the gently budding trees 
 
 We heard the throstle sing ; 
 We watched the tender leaflets curled, 
 
 No green seemed half so gay before ; 
 A hundred springs may deck the world, 
 
 But those green leaves no more 
 No, never, never more. 
 
 The sun drank up the tears of night, 
 The happy tears of early dew ; 
 
 Each drop became a globe of light 
 With golden green shot through. 
 
82 Glamour. 
 
 We shook them off the primrose flowers, 
 No dew seemed half so bright before ; 
 
 Now winter rain may fall in showers, 
 But those bright drops no more 
 No, never, never more. 
 
 Within the blue, unblemished skies 
 
 The infant cloudlets cradled lay, 
 Like new-born souls in Paradise, 
 
 All clad in white array ; 
 And in our happy eyes that met 
 
 There shone a light unknown before ; 
 Now suns may rise, and suns may set, 
 
 But that love-light no more 
 
 No> never, never more. 
 
SLEEPING LOVE. 
 
 I WALKED among the pine-trees with my friend, 
 
 And all at once we came upon a place 
 
 Where Love lay sleeping with half-hidden face ; 
 The parted branches let the light descend, 
 Fine, flickering rays amid his locks to blend, 
 
 But shadows veiled his limbs of perfect grace, 
 
 And clasped his body in a soft embrace, 
 As gentle dreams o'er restful spirits bend. 
 " His sleep is sweet," I said ; " awake him not :" 
 
 Love turned his face in slumber as I spoke. 
 
 Then from my friend's encircling arm I broke, 
 And strove in new-born fear to flee the spot ; 
 Yet on Love's face, too fair to be forgot, 
 
 I looked once more, and sighed. Then Love awoke. 
 
DEAD LOVE. 
 
 I SAT among the pine-trees all alone ; 
 
 And there, where living Love lay warm before, 
 
 The corpse of Love was lying, fair no more. 
 I heard the wind-vext branches creak and groan, 
 And cold rain drip upon the colder stone ; 
 
 My ears grew weary of the far-off roar 
 
 Of waters, from the solitary shore 
 Drawn backwards, with a hoarse and sullen moan. 
 "Love sleeps," I said, "and will awake again, " 
 
 And on my lonely breast I laid his head, 
 
 And kissed his ashen lips that once were red, 
 And clasped and cherished him, but all in vain ; 
 Henceforth for my delight or for my pain 
 
 Love never more shall wake, for Love is dead. 
 
ROSE AND RUE. 
 
 IT was the pleasant summer time, 
 
 When birds and flowers were blithe ; 
 I slept amid the cool green grass, 
 
 Fresh from the mower's scythe ; 
 And in a dream I saw my love, 
 
 So radiant and so fair, 
 She seemed a white and golden flower, 
 
 Born of the sunlit air. 
 The gentle breeze that kissed her brow 
 
 And stirred her locks of light, 
 Bore all the music of the past 
 
 Upon its pinions bright. 
 She smiled on me a strange, sweet smile, 
 
 And soft, low words she said, 
 And in my breast she laid a rose 
 
 That glowed with heavenly red. 
 
86 Rose and Rue. 
 
 I wakened in the fragrant field, 
 
 Soft fell the purple eve, 
 But in my heart I felt the pain 
 
 That dreams of rapture leave. 
 The summer woods seemed bare and brown, 
 
 And cold the breath of June, 
 And harshly fell upon my ear 
 
 The blackbird's dulcet tune ; 
 The lovely light of dreams was gone ; 
 
 The breeze that wandered by 
 Bore sadly on its weary wings 
 
 The echo of a sigh. 
 I sought the crimson rose she gave, 
 
 All pearled with odorous dew ; 
 But in my breast I only found 
 
 A spray of withered rue. 
 
WANDERING WISHES. 
 
 OH, that I were a ripple on the stream 
 
 That glides and murmurs past thy garden bower ! 
 
 Among the ferns and mosses I would gleam, 
 
 And leave a jewel on each gentle flower ; 
 
 And thou shouldst see them look so fresh and fair 
 
 That thy dear eyes would love to linger there. 
 
 Oh, that I were a rose-leaf on the gale, 
 The happy southern gale that flies to thee ! 
 Upon its viewless pinions I would sail, 
 And haunt thee like a summer memory, 
 And bring thee roseate odours, faint and sweet, 
 And fan thy brow, and flutter to thy feet. 
 
 Oh, that I were the echo of a song, 
 
 A soft and tender song of endless love ! 
 
 And I would come, when evening shadows throng, 
 
 And none behold thee save the stars above, 
 
 And through thy dreamful fancy I would glide, 
 
 And creep into thy heart, and there abide. 
 
GLEAMS OF LIGHT. 
 
 MORE sweet than smiles are tears which rise unbidden 
 When some fair scene first dawns upon our eyes, 
 
 A gift of joy, by Nature long kept hidden, 
 That thrills us with the rapture of surprise. 
 
 But dearer yet and deeper is our feeling 
 When some fair deed by one we love is wrought, 
 
 Some unexpected grace of soul revealing, 
 The lovely blossom of some secret thought. 
 
 Oh ! in those moments of divine emotion 
 The darkening veil of doubt is rent apart ; 
 
 More near us seems the God of our devotion, 
 The heaven we hope for dwells within our heart. 
 
FAITH IN DOUBT. 
 
 I SOUGHT to keep the way of life 'twas hard ; 
 Beneath me yawned the darkness, wide and deep, 
 I saw the blinding mists around me sweep, 
 
 And spectral forms of fear the pathway barred, 
 
 My footsteps to bewilder and retard. 
 No help was left, save on my knees to creep 
 Close to the crumbling edge, and cling and weep, 
 
 With weary limbs, and hands all bruised and scarred. 
 
 For this, methought, was faith with desperate trust 
 To grasp the worn-out relics of a creed : 
 
 Beneath the strain they shivered into dust. 
 
 I reeled and fell oh, where ? upon the breast 
 Of Love divine, and there, at peace indeed, 
 
 My soul in heavenly darkness lies at rest. 
 
DISCORDS UNRESOLVED. 
 
 SWEET dreams and mournful wakings; delights that 
 
 close in anguish ; 
 Soft-seeming loves that scorch thee, or chill like cruel 
 
 frost ; 
 Fair flowers of bitter fruitage j bright buds that pine and 
 
 languish ; 
 A maze of whirling discords, whereof the clue is lost ; 
 
 Of these, O restless spirit, thy life on earth is fashioned, 
 
 And darkness lies around thee, and hides thy further 
 way, 
 
 And vainly rise unceasing to Heav'n thy cries impas- 
 sioned, 
 
 Brief storm-gleams mock thy fancy with hopes of dawning 
 day. 
 
Discords Unresolved. 91 
 
 soul, be strong, strive upwards; in the ethereal 
 
 distance, 
 Somewhere, oh ! surely somewhere, the light eternal 
 
 glows ; 
 
 Unwind the tangled music, by patience and persistence 
 Thou shalt find the perfect concord, the long-forgotten 
 
 close. 
 ****** 
 
 1 strive ! my soul strives upwards, till strength and 
 
 courage fail me 
 In the fervour of my straining to the light that shines 
 
 afar ; 
 I sink ; the darkness deepens, and stormy doubts assail 
 
 me 
 Lest I seek a thing that is not the phantom of a star. 
 
 The earth's delights are surer : though tears may follow 
 
 laughter, 
 The brief, bright bubbles sparkle ere their light in dust 
 
 expires ; 
 The draught is rich in sweetness though the wormwood 
 
 taste come after, 
 And peace is for the spirit that strives not nor aspires. 
 
92 Discords Unresolved. 
 
 Vain hope ! for thus peace comes not ; the spirit's rest- 
 less pinions 
 
 Still ache to bear it upwards to the region of its dreams, 
 To the glory and the wonder of those mystical dominions 
 Whence truth and love and beauty flow forth in ceaseless 
 streams. 
 
 I strive ! I rise yet higher ! I almost catch the voices, 
 The harmonies unfolding of the hidden sacred song ; 
 My spirit strives in anguish ; it trembles and rejoices 
 To see the faint, far radiance that may be light ere long. 
 
 Oh, fiery pain ! oh, rapture ! my soul and body rending ! 
 The chains are burst that bound me to silence and to 
 
 night ; 
 Oh, the discords ! oh, the shadows into glorious beauty 
 
 blending ! 
 I hear, I hear the music ; I see, I see the light ! 
 
 **** 
 
 Gone ! with a cry of triumph and we, who cannot follow, 
 Left with the cast-oif body that hath not speech nor 
 
 breath, 
 
 Ask vainly if that rapture be but a mockery hollow, 
 A fever-born illusion that haunts the brain ere death. 
 
Discords Unresolved. 93 
 
 Was it truth, that beauteous vision ? were they real, those 
 
 tones angelic ? 
 Doth such welcome wake the spirit to a nobler life 
 
 divine ? 
 
 None knoweth ; of that glory remains to us no relic, 
 Save the smile that on the features of the dead is wont 
 
 to shine. 
 
ROSEBUD AND RAGWEED. 
 
 A LITTLE girl, with eyes 
 
 As clear as morning skies, 
 And cheeks of softest rose, and locks of gold, 
 
 Went bounding forth to play 
 
 One happy summer day, 
 The joyous day when she was six years old. 
 
 She came of noble race, 
 
 Her blooming baby face 
 The youngest bud upon an ancient tree ; 
 
 So, reared with tenderest care 
 
 And guarded everywhere, 
 Close-watched by Argus eyes of love was she. 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 95 
 
 With mirthful thoughts elate, 
 
 She could not keep sedate 
 Her dancing limbs, alive with merriment ; 
 
 Swift as a roe, she flew 
 
 Down the long avenue 
 Where tall horse-chestnuts shed abroad their scent' 
 
 Then, forth into the park, 
 
 All chequered light and dark 
 By changeful shades of mighty forest trees ; 
 
 The town below it lay, 
 
 Where smoke made dim the day, 
 And want and drudgery served wealth and ease. 
 
 Oh, what a world of light 
 
 The sunbeams broad and bright 
 Pour forth upon the boughs of ash and oak ! 
 
 Oh, what a world of gloom 
 
 The lurid fires illume, 
 Where yonder town lies smothered in its smoke ! 
 
 The little maiden ran, 
 As youthful creatures can 
 When neither care nor weariness they know, 
 
96 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 And after her there came 
 A grave attendant dame 
 Mature of age, with measured steps and slow. 
 
 Again and yet again 
 
 She cried, but all in vain, 
 " Walk slower stay beside me, Rosalind ! " 
 
 Ever more far and fleet 
 
 The little lightsome feet 
 Flew gaily onward, heedless as the wind. 
 
 How sweet is liberty, 
 
 Since even to be free- 
 From fetters linked by love is sometimes good ! 
 
 The little wilful maid, 
 
 With conscience half afraid, 
 Rejoiced in her unwonted solitude. 
 
 Full well the haunts she knew 
 
 Where tufted cowslips grew, 
 Like golden brooches dropped upon the sward ; 
 
 Above the flowers she bent, 
 
 A busy bee, intent 
 On gathering up a honey-fragrant hoard. 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 97 
 
 She filled her lap with flowers, 
 
 Until in golden showers 
 They fell, and overflowed her lifted skirt ; 
 
 Then, sitting on the ground, 
 
 The stems together bound 
 With tiny fingers, weak and inexpert. 
 
 Soon, tired with fruitless toil, 
 
 She flung away her spoil, 
 And, looking up, she started with surprise, 
 
 For lo ! another child, 
 
 Ragged, unkempt, and wild, 
 Stood watching her with keen and curious eyes. 
 
 A little child, and thin, 
 
 With yellow, sickly skin, 
 So pinched and wan, her age were hard to guess ; 
 
 Through her torn petticoat 
 
 The searching sunbeams smote 
 Frail, puny limbs, unwashed and stockingless. 
 
 The children gazed and gazed 
 With shining eyes amazed, 
 Eyes bold and black, eyes innocent and blue ; 
 
 H 
 
98 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 All unabashed they seek, 
 As plain as eyes can speak, 
 An answer to the question, Who are you ? 
 
 But, as the moments passed, 
 
 Sweet Rosalind at last 
 Grew half-familiar through this mute discourse, 
 
 And brightly blushed, and smiled 
 
 Upon the ragged child, 
 Though shyness checked her laughter at its source. 
 
 The child of graver mood 
 
 In watchful silence stood, 
 While round her bare brown feet the blossoms lay, 
 
 Till Rosalind, grown bold, 
 
 Picked up her scattered gold, 
 And murmured shyly, "Won't you come and play? " 
 
 The other child drew near, 
 
 But slowly, half in fear, 
 And sat by Rosalind upon the grass ; 
 
 The sun shone mildly down 
 
 On golden head and brown, 
 Fair cheek and dusky felt the soft air pass : 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 99 
 
 Beneath the shady tree 
 
 Those children seemed to be 
 Two diverse flowers that chance had planted there, 
 
 Which grew in strange accord 
 
 Upon the summer sward, 
 A starveling ragweed, and a rosebud fair. 
 
 Then Rosalind, with eyes 
 
 Still widened by surprise, 
 Said, " Tell what is your name, and where your home ? " 
 
 And, now no more afraid, 
 
 The other answer made, 
 " My name is Nell, and from the town I come." 
 
 To the dim city's smoke 
 
 She pointed as she spoke. 
 " My mother lives," she said, "in Dragon Lane, 
 
 But she got drunk to-day 
 
 And so I ran away " 
 
 She paused, and drew her breath like one in pain. 
 
 But soon she raised her head, 
 And, looking round her, said, 
 " I never saw a field like this before, 
 
ioo Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 So large and green and bright ; 
 The day seems twice as light 
 As in the town, the sun shines so much more. 
 
 " I like to rest my feet, 
 
 So tired from the street, 
 On this soft grass. I wish that I were you 
 
 To see the flowers and trees 
 
 As often as you please, 
 And not feel hot and hungry as I do." 
 
 " But are you hungry now ? " 
 
 Asked Rosalind, her brow 
 Clouded with pity. " I'm too tired to eat 
 
 Just now," said little Nell. 
 
 " Last night I wasn't well, 
 I couldn't sleep in all the noise and heat. 
 
 " Besides, I went to bed 
 
 Without a crust of bread, 
 For mother dances at the music-hall j 
 
 She sleeps through half the day, 
 
 And often stops away 
 All night, and leaves me with no food at all." 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 101 
 
 Her voice was thick and hoarse, 
 
 Her accent broad and coarse ; 
 She talked of things to Rosalind unknown ; 
 
 Haggard and wild and weird 
 
 Her glittering eyes appeared, 
 Amid the tangled locks across them blown. 
 
 A flickering fever-streak 
 
 Burned on her hollow cheek, 
 Where ghastly pallor strove with hectic red ; 
 
 And, as she flushed and paled, 
 
 " My head ! " she feebly wailed, 
 " A dreadful burning pain is in my head ! " 
 
 She shivered as she spoke, 
 
 And on her brow outbroke 
 Cold drops, and all her face was drawn with pain ; 
 
 Her wild black eyes shone bright 
 
 With strange and fitful light, 
 Like signal-fires upon a stormy main. 
 
 Help, help they mutely craved : 
 Alas ! unhelped, unsaved, 
 She needs must battle with the sea of death ; 
 
1O2 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 For fever thrilled her frame 
 With gusts of ice and flame, 
 And racked her limbs, and caught her labouring breath. 
 
 And Rosalind looked on 
 
 With anxious eyes that shone 
 All moist and radiant with a gathering tear ; 
 
 By all she saw and heard 
 
 Her childish heart was stirred 
 With gentle pity, and with wondering fear. 
 
 At last she murmured low, 
 
 " Perhaps we ought to go 
 And tell your mother that you are not well." 
 
 " My mother ! " with that name 
 
 In mocking accents came 
 The shrill, unchildlike laugh of little Nell. 
 
 A mother, to her ear, 
 
 Meant memories of fear, 
 And cruel blows by cruel words made worse ; 
 
 It meant a hardened heart 
 
 Where pity had no part, 
 Which deemed a child a burden and a curse. 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 103 
 
 " I'm better now," she said, 
 
 " Except my aching head ; 
 Perhaps I've got the fever and shall die 
 
 Like Bessie. She had hair 
 
 Wavy like yours, and fair ; 
 We often played together, she and I." 
 
 Approaching as she spoke, 
 
 She stretched her hand to stroke 
 Bright Rosalind's fair dress, all dainty clean ; 
 
 A little smear of dirt 
 
 Upon the snowy skirt 
 Was left by her poor fingers, brown and lean. 
 
 " I'm glad I came to-day," 
 
 She said. " I ran away 
 Clear out of mother's reach, and in the road 
 
 I saw a cart piled high 
 
 With hay, and standing by 
 Old Jacob's donkey, nibbling at the load. 
 
 " Among the hay I crept, 
 And there I hid, and slept 
 I cannot tell how long ; but when at last 
 
IO4 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 I woke, the cart had gone 
 Beyond the town, and on 
 It jolted, and through country fields it passed. 
 
 " I saw the tall green trees, 
 
 For, scrambling to my knees, 
 I made a little window in the hay ; 
 
 But when your gate shut tight, 
 
 It gave me such a fright 
 I clambered down, and softly crept away. 
 
 " But oh ! if I could stay 
 
 Here on the grass all day, 
 And smell the flowers and feel the pleasant air, 
 
 I'd soon get well, I think ; 
 
 I'd crawl away and drink 
 The water sparkling through the bushes there. 
 
 " Close to the edge I'd creep, 
 
 And drink, and go to sleep, 
 A long, long sleep, then wake and drink again ; 
 
 I'd dream a happy dream 
 
 Beside that shining stream, 
 And when I woke I shouldn't feel the pain. 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 105 
 
 " But in our lane, you know, 
 
 No yellow flowers grow, 
 And no green grass upon the dusty ground ; 
 
 The water in our well 
 
 Is bad to taste and smell, 
 Not like your stream that makes a pretty sound." 
 
 " Oh ! what a dreadful place ! " 
 
 Said Rosebud, and her face 
 Grew pale ; " how dull and ugly it must be ! 
 
 I wish that you might come 
 
 And see me in my home, 
 And run about the park, and play with me." 
 
 Nell gave a wistful look, 
 
 Then sighed, and sadly shook 
 Her head : " No, that I'm sure would never do ; 
 
 For I'm so black and rough, 
 
 Not clean or neat enough 
 To be fit company for such as you. 
 
 " I must go back again, 
 Back to the noisy lane, 
 Where drunken people fight, and children steal ; 
 
io6 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 Though I should like far best 
 To lie down here and rest, 
 So sick and sore and tired as I feel ! " 
 
 In Rosalind's blue eyes 
 
 The tears began to rise 
 To hear her new-found friend so sadly speak ; 
 
 By love and pity swayed, 
 
 Her little arms she laid 
 Round Nell's brown neck, and kissed her burning cheek. 
 
 The kiss was scarce impressed 
 
 When each, with beating breast, 
 Heard hasty footsteps 'mid the rustling grass, 
 
 And, through a wavy screen 
 
 Of woven branches green, 
 They saw a gleam of silken garments pass. 
 
 Up started Nell and fled. 
 
 Through bush and bramble sped 
 Her feeble feet, by terror winged for flight ; 
 
 Her tangled dusky hair 
 
 Streamed wildly on the air, 
 And then among the trees was lost to sight. 
 
OF THE 
 
 f UNIVERSITY ) 
 
 OF 
 
 Rosebud and Ragweed. 107 
 
 Within a narrow room, 
 
 Made loathsome by the fume 
 Of all foul things decaying in the street, 
 
 Till Heaven's own blessed air 
 
 Was changed to poison there, 
 And death was gendered by sweet summer's heat, 
 
 A fever-stricken child, 
 
 With bloodshot eyes and wild, 
 With scarlet cheeks and tangled locks astray, 
 
 Hard straw beneath her head, 
 . Old rags above her spread, 
 Lay moaning all the long and weary day. 
 
 No mother's face bent near, 
 
 No mother's loving tear 
 Fell gently on her parched and burning skin ; 
 
 Her mother's eye was bright 
 
 With red and evil light, 
 Lit by the fires of soul-destroying gin. 
 
 The child lay all alone, 
 And moaned her weary moan, 
 And tossed upon her hard, unrestful bed, 
 
io8 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 Seeking, but all in vain, 
 A moment's ease from pain, 
 Or some cool spot whereon to rest her head. 
 
 None heard her feeble cry ; 
 
 " My throat is hot and dry, 
 Oh ! for a drink of water from the stream 
 
 There's poison in our well ! " 
 
 Alas ! for little Nell, 
 Half waking from her troubled fever-dream, 
 
 None answered to her call. 
 
 She saw the blackened wall, 
 The dull, disordered room, the hearth unswept, 
 
 And still she rambled on, 
 
 " How bright the water shone 
 Which through the grass, and past the bushes crept ! 
 
 " So soft beneath my feet, 
 
 So green and cool and sweet, 
 That great field was, it almost made me cry ; 
 
 And everywhere about 
 
 Some little flower peeped out, 
 And watched me with its pretty yellow eye. 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 109 
 
 " Far up above my head 
 
 The leaves were thickly spread, 
 The birds were fluttering from bough to bough ; 
 
 Oh ! if I were but laid 
 
 Under that quiet shade 
 With all those happy sights around me now ! 
 
 " I'm black and rough, I know, 
 
 Not clean enough to go 
 Among the flowers, unless I'm tidied first ; 
 
 But in the stream I'd lie, 
 
 And feel it flowing by 
 To wash me white, and quench this dreadful thirst." 
 
 She dozed again, and lay 
 
 Quite still. A pallid ray 
 Of fading light illumed the dying child. 
 
 At last, she slowly raised 
 
 Her languid lids, and gazed 
 With dark and dreamful eyes, no longer wild. 
 
 What could they gaze upon, 
 Those eyes that strangely shone 
 Like flickering lamps in twilight's ghostly gloom ? 
 
1 10 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 Watched they the sick flies crawl 
 Along the mouldering wall, 
 Where soot-wreathed cobwebs spanned the squalid room ? 
 
 Nay ; but her fevered dreams 
 
 Of sunlit summer streams, 
 And grassy fields where flowers were blooming fair, 
 
 Before her longing eyes 
 
 As visions seemed to rise, 
 Which filled with loveliness the empty air. 
 
 " The sky so bright and blue, 
 
 The shady trees that grew 
 So high, I see them all ! " she said. " I see 
 
 A garden green and gay, 
 
 Where many children play, 
 Just like the little girl who played with me. 
 
 " They laugh and leap and run, 
 
 And brightly in the sun 
 Shine their white dresses and their yellow hair ; 
 
 ' Come, Nell ! ' I hear them call, 
 
 ' Come up amongst us all ; ' 
 I wonder if that little girl is there ! " 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 1 1 1 
 
 Her voice grew faint, and ceased. 
 
 Her infant soul released 
 Flew up to God. The night came on apace ; 
 
 And there was none to close 
 
 The eyelids, and compose 
 The dark entangled tresses round the face. 
 
 While Nell lay white and still, 
 
 Rigid in death's last chill, 
 Pillowed on rags, with rags to cover her ; 
 
 Another childish head 
 
 Lay in a curtained bed 
 'Mid snowy linen, sweet with lavender. 
 
 Bright Rosalind ! must this 
 Repay thy gentle kiss 
 
 This heavy languor, and this hot unrest ? 
 What gift of pain and woe 
 Did that wan cheek bestow, 
 
 That cheek thy little lips in pity pressed ? 
 
1 1 2 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 Oh ! recompense unkind 
 
 It seemed ; yet haply blind 
 Are we ; and, through the lovely morn to live 
 
 And die ere toilsome noon, 
 
 May be the sweetest boon 
 All-seeing Love to sinless souls can give. 
 
 Soft faces, pale with love, 
 
 Flitted like dreams above 
 The child's white bed, and gentle hands were near, 
 
 And lightly falling feet, 
 
 And voices low and sweet 
 Which breathed love's broken music in her ear. 
 
 Cool grapes were by her side, 
 
 Fresh gathered, purple-dyed, 
 And peaches, crimson where the light had lain ; 
 
 The air that came and went 
 
 Was sweetened by the scent 
 Of roses, nodding at her window-pane. 
 
 But nothing fair or bright 
 Could give the child delight, 
 To her sick senses outward scenes were dim ; 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 1 1 3 
 
 Her spirit's weary wing 
 Went sadly wandering 
 Through endless streets, unlovely, dark and grim. 
 
 " No air," she sighed, " no air, 
 
 No sunshine anywhere ! 
 Long dusty lanes, and houses in a row 
 
 Black houses side by side ; 
 
 The doors are opened wide, 
 And through the streets the ragged children go. 
 
 " How dark it is, and dull ! 
 
 Why is the air so full 
 Of strange white faces, shining in the shade 
 
 Like faces in a glass ? 
 
 And always, as they pass, 
 They look at me, and make me feel afraid ! " 
 
 " My Rosebud ! I am near : 
 
 I hold you, have no fear," 
 The mournful mother said, and closer clasped 
 
 Her darling to her breast ; 
 
 But still, in wild unrest, 
 The child with pain and terror moaned and gasped. 
 
1 1 4 Rosebud and Ragweed. 
 
 Out of her soul's despair 
 
 The mother's silent prayer 
 Was rising up continually to God : 
 
 The air was strangely stilled, 
 
 As if its void were filled 
 By some mysterious influence shed abroad. 
 
 Then Rosalind's blue eyes 
 
 Grew soft as evening skies, 
 Her cheek with fever was more faintly flushed, 
 
 And with a gentler swell 
 
 Her breast arose and fell, 
 Like troubled waters when the winds are hushed. 
 
 Thus, all the summer day 
 
 And all night long, she lay 
 As in a dreamless trance more soft than sleep, 
 
 Until the birds awoke, 
 
 And through the darkness broke 
 The dawn, and up the sky began to creep. 
 
 So gently came her breath 
 Her slumber seemed like death ; 
 But still her little tender hand was warm, 
 
Rosebud and Ragweed. 1 1 5 
 
 When, like a splendid ray 
 Of Heaven's eternal day, 
 The earliest sunbeam kissed her tranquil form. 
 
 E'en at its touch, her eyes 
 
 Unclosed, and glad surprise 
 Shone in their depths, and, rising in her bed, 
 
 She pointed to the light ; 
 
 " See, mother, see how bright 
 And beautiful it is in Heaven ! " she said. 
 
 Then, like an April rose 
 
 'Mid winter's lingering snows, 
 Her sweet pale face upon the pillow fell ; 
 
 And, with a happy smile 
 
 Upon her lips the while, 
 She murmured low, " I'm coming, little Nell ! " 
 
 Now years have come and gone, 
 
 And all around the stone 
 
 Which marks where Rosebud sleeps, bright blossoms 
 wave; 
 
 But nettles flourish rank 
 
 About the churchyard dank 
 Where Ragweed lies in her neglected grave. 
 
DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN. 
 
 A LONDON REVERIE. 
 
 THE night is softer than the sound of singing, 
 When distant voices chant a solemn strain ; 
 
 Pale opal vapours round the moon are clinging, 
 But in the depths of heaven the stars are plain. 
 
 Far, far away from here the wood reposes, 
 
 And, robed in moonlit green and shimmering grey, 
 
 A weird, capricious loveliness discloses, 
 Undreamt of by the denizens of day. 
 
 Lone on some wave-tormented promontory, 
 
 Perchance the lighthouse watchers gaze may be 
 
 Fixed on the long and rippled line of glory 
 That lies across the solitary sea. 
 
Darkness before Dawn. 117 
 
 But here, where day by day the crowd grows thicker, 
 And breath and dust and smoke obscure the skies, 
 
 We see reflections of the gas-lamps flicker, 
 Instead of starlight, in each other's eyes. 
 
 In vain the marvels of the night allure us, 
 
 We have not time, nor heart, nor brain to spare 
 
 To watch the rising splendour of Arcturus, 
 Or count the gems in Berenice's hair. 
 
 The crowd constrains us with a mightier magic 
 That bids us own our throbbing hearts akin 
 
 To all this teeming life, grotesque or tragic, 
 To all its pathos, and to all its sin. 
 
 Through the dim streets they swarm, the motley masses, 
 Who never met till now may meet no more ; 
 
 Yet, 'mid the rest, some stranger-face that passes 
 May half reveal a world unknown before. 
 
 They pass and pass ; bright youths, alert and eager 
 To seek and seize the best that life can give ; 
 
 And toil-worn men and women, grey and meagre, 
 Whose work has hardly left them time to live. 
 
1 1 8 Darkness before Dawn. 
 
 A lovely girl, her home's best-guarded jewel, 
 
 Goes smiling to her carriage, passing by 
 One scarce less fair, to whom the Fates are cruel, 
 
 Who fears to live, yet hardly dares to die. 
 
 Sleek loungers, 'mid the crowded path delaying, 
 Give place to one who passes, scant of breath, 
 
 A watcher of the sick, a call obeying 
 To soothe the anguish of a bed of death. 
 
 They pass ; some rich in youth and flushed with pleasure, 
 Yet fain to speed the laggard feet of time ; 
 
 Some who have tasted joy in scanty measure, 
 Yet fear the echo of their death-bells' chime. 
 
 And 'mid the throng gleam out those poor, fair faces 
 Wan flowers, once fresh, by city waysides cast 
 
 Whose cheeks are yet too young to bear the traces 
 That sordid thoughts shall sear them with at last. 
 
 Oh ! surely yet some sweetness worth the winning 
 Is left them ; if their hearts were truly seen, 
 
 They were not yet so deeply stained with sinning 
 But tears of generous love might wash them clean. 
 
Darkness before Dawn. 119 
 
 So frail, so hardly pressed ! what dim suggestion 
 Of baby brows sin-branded from their birth 
 
 Comes to our thoughts, and haunts us with the question 
 " What then is calm, fair-seeming goodness worth ? " 
 
 Amid the crash of turbulent existence, 
 
 Amid the groans of wounded life down-trod, 
 
 One cry is heard, with terrible persistence 
 For ever ringing in the ears of God : 
 
 Why are these mournful multitudes created, 
 
 Whose birthright is despair, whose hope is death ? 
 
 Why are our brothers and our sisters fated 
 To feed on evil from their earliest breath ? 
 
 Tis the old question, and there comes no answer, 
 No help from any heavenly dwelling-place ; . 
 
 And yet more widely spreads the cureless cancer 
 That taints the life-blood of our wretched race. 
 
 Deep is the gulf wherein our brethren languish, 
 And we, who see the light in fitful gleams, 
 
 Dare not behold the horror of their anguish, 
 Lest it should darken all our hopeful dreams. 
 
I2O Darkness before Dawn. 
 
 We veil our faces, turn aside, dissemble, 
 Build dainty bridges o'er the seething pit ; 
 
 Yet now and then the upper earth will tremble, 
 When some fierce cry arises out of it. 
 
 Ah ! then we hasten to invent devices 
 
 To drive the brood of demons from their nest, 
 
 And sweeten with our essences and spices 
 The fumes wherewith our nostrils are opprest. 
 
 Still standing on our vantage ground, we sprinkle 
 Pure holy water on the depths below, 
 
 Our consecrated silver bells we tinkle, 
 And set our sacred tapers in a row. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! We scatter light and sweetness, 
 Yet on the deepening gloom we gaze surprised ; 
 
 For something in our efforts lacks completeness, 
 And Satan will not thus be exorcised. 
 
 Shuddering we say, with heart and courage failing : 
 This is the open mouth of hell on earth ; 
 
 We hear the ceaseless weeping and the wailing, 
 The gnashing teeth of rage and horrid mirth. 
 
Darkness before Dawn. 121 
 
 And, dreading lest those sounds of fear betoken 
 For wrong and woe an endless victory, 
 
 We ask, amid tumultuous thoughts unspoken, 
 " Is there a God, since things like these can be?" 
 
 " There is ! " reply those pioneers undaunted, 
 Who, fearing not the blackness of the porch, 
 
 Have dared to search the gulf with horror haunted ; 
 The flaming zeal of love their only torch. 
 
 The bravest and the strongest are the calmest ; 
 
 They, smiling at our cries of weak despair, 
 Reiterate the saying of the Psalmist, 
 
 And, going down to hell, have found God there. 
 
 God ; not 'mid cloven clouds and pealing thunders, 
 Nor trailing light the outward heavens to span ; 
 
 But deep within that wonder of all wonders, 
 The sanctuary of the heart of man. 
 
 Choke up the temple-gate with dust and ashes, 
 With all pollution make the windows dark j 
 
 Yet, through some unexpected crevice, flashes 
 The feeble glimmer of the deathless spark. 
 
122 Darkness before Dawn. 
 
 As springs lie hidden in their secret chamber 
 Still lacking force to burst the rock's control ; 
 
 As power electric sleeps within the amber, 
 So lies the life of God within the soul. 
 
 In the dark spirits of our hapless brothers 
 
 Faint gleams are kindled from the central sun, 
 
 The same warm light that makes the joy of others, 
 For fire and life and love and God are one. 
 
 This is our answer, this our hope of healing, 
 The lovely truth that Love incarnate tells ; 
 
 No far-off, cloud-encompassed God revealing, 
 But Him who in the human spirit dwells. 
 
 For thus no soul is separate and single, 
 But each is of the Life Divine a part ; 
 
 In flames of sacred love they meet and mingle, 
 And feel the throbbing of the Central Heart. 
 
 Ah ! never may that heavenly fire be kindled 
 To purge and cheer the dwellers in the dark, 
 
 While in each narrow soul the light has dwindled 
 To an imprisoned, self-revolving spark. 
 
Darkness before Dawn. 123 
 
 It faints and pales in joyless isolation, 
 
 Kept down and fettered from its free desire 
 
 To renovate in endless generation 
 The fire-enkindled, fire-enkindling fire. 
 
 Let the glad flame burst forth in radiant splendour, 
 And spread from soul to soul its waves of light ! 
 
 Love shall reveal life's secret, love shall render 
 The foul and dark abysses clear and bright. 
 
 For, by the light of love, we learn with wonder 
 The lesson that the wrongs of ages teach 
 
 To men, by selfish contests rent asunder ; 
 The good of all must be the good of each. 
 
 Yea, surely for the loveless past we suffer, 
 The burden of an ancient curse we bear, 
 
 And roads for harmless feet are rendered rougher 
 By stones that perished hands have scattered there. 
 
 Your graves are green, luxurious transgressors, 
 
 Yet, through your crimes, our children sin and die ; 
 
 We groan beneath the yoke of dead oppressors, 
 And bear the stripes of tyrannies gone by. 
 
124 Darkness before Dawn. 
 
 And, in our present, lies the future folded ; 
 
 Ours is the fate of man, to make or mar ; 
 Oh ! thought of joy and fear ; by us are moulded 
 
 Lives yet to be, in centuries afar. 
 
 Day after day, in action or quiescence, 
 
 The offspring of our weakness or our strength, 
 
 Fly forth the thoughts, born of our spirits' essence, 
 To germinate in other lives at length. 
 
 And thus each spirit to all spirits cleaveth, 
 Life-threads that meet and part and meet again, 
 
 To form one web which God for ever weaveth, 
 The use whereof is not as yet made plain ; 
 
 But thread by thread in wondrous dyes is steeping, 
 Crushed blood-red from the burning fruits of guilt, 
 
 Or washed to paleness in the founts of weeping, 
 Or bright with drops from rapture's rainbow spilt. 
 
 And each life-story, there depicted truly, 
 
 Amid the rest shall take its destined place ; 
 
 A touch of light or shade, completing duly 
 The lofty vision of the human race. 
 
Darkness before Dawn. 125 
 
 Therein the mighty sorrow of all ages, 
 The longing of all nations, is expressed ; 
 
 The deep desire that no delight assuages, 
 The surging passion that can find no rest. 
 
 Long weeps the spirit of earth, as wept the maiden, 
 Love's bride, bereft of Love, and left forlorn, 
 
 Her weary limbs with shameful fetters laden, 
 
 Her drooping wings dust-soiled, untrimmed, and torn. 
 
 Yet hope is in the anguish of her passion, 
 And joy is in the wildness of her woes ; 
 
 For, as she waxes pale and wan and ashen, 
 A stronger life within her throbs and grows. 
 
 Her old self dies ; but re-awakens glorious 
 In her own offspring, beautiful and free, 
 
 For, from the heart of Death, shall rise victorious 
 The young and vigorous Life that is to be. 
 
OLIVIA. 
 
 THE STORY OF A SINGER. 
 
 WHO hath not heard the melodies which float 
 From those dim regions, shadowy and remote, 
 Where linger phantoms of delights gone by ? 
 There, voices that in silence seemed to die 
 Awake again and sing the songs of old ; 
 There, perished loves rise from their ashes cold 
 And smile like living loves ; and through the air 
 Is breathed the scent of flowers that once were fresh and 
 fair. 
 
 There is a village 'mid the Apennines, 
 Deep-nestled in a valley ; terraced vines 
 Grow on the sunlit slopes, and there outspread 
 The clustered plumes that deck the palm-tree's head, 
 The shimmering olive shakes its foliage light, 
 And the ripe orange glitters fiery bright 
 
Olivia. 127 
 
 Amid its burnished leaves and ivory flowers ; 
 
 But, chill and bare, above the woodland towers 
 
 The mountain-range, white-crowned with wintry snow 
 
 Or black against the summer sunset's glow. 
 
 In that fair valley lived a peasant child, 
 
 A child of sorrow, for no mother smiled 
 
 Upon her cradle ; she was born of one 
 
 Whose woeful eyes were weary of the sun, 
 
 From whose cold lips she drew their latest breath 
 
 In the last kiss of love at strife with death. 
 
 But where her father wandered none could tell ; 
 
 He was a strolling player, and full well 
 
 Could sing a joyous or a tender stave, 
 
 Roaming, as fancy led, from gay to grave 
 
 In ready rhyme ; the flashes of his wit 
 
 Were clustered thick as fire-flies, when they flit 
 
 About the orange groves at close of day. 
 
 He came one springtide, and he went his way 
 
 Ere the first grapes had ripened ; but he left 
 
 A gentle heart of all its joy bereft. 
 
 Yet the frail orphan found a love-warmed nest, 
 
 And softly slept upon a woman's breast 
 
 Beneath the shelter of a lowly roof; 
 
 And kindly hands toiled hard for her behoof, 
 
128 Olivia. 
 
 And honest hearts, from selfish forecasts free, 
 
 Loved her for her dead mother's memory, 
 
 And, for sweet charity and pity true, 
 
 Gave the fond care to helpless creatures due. 
 
 The babe forlorn, the child of grief and wrong, 
 
 Had music for her dower ; the love of song 
 
 Was born within her. Wrapt in still delight 
 
 She lay and listened when the waning night 
 
 Yielded to morning, and the skylark's lay 
 
 First led the choral song of opening day, 
 
 Till all the drowsy birds from bush and tree 
 
 Mingled their notes in full-voiced harmony, 
 
 And soon the happy herd-boy's carol shrill 
 
 Made answer from the pastures on the hill. 
 
 Her foster-mother's gentle lullabies 
 
 Woke a strange gladness in her wondering eyes ; 
 
 With arms outstretched, she strove to reach the sound 
 
 Which in her baby heart an echo found. 
 
 And, older grown, amid a listening band 
 
 Of peasant children, with her small brown hand 
 
 Beating the time, she warbled sweet and true 
 
 The wild unwritten songs the village knew, 
 
 And in melodious changes soft or gay 
 
 From tune to tune her artless voice would stray. 
 
Olivia. 129 
 
 Year after year, each peaceful as the last, 
 Slid by, and slowly dropped into the past ; 
 And every season left its tender trace 
 In some new beauty on the maiden's face. 
 Like stars that one by one their light disclose, 
 The dawning thoughts within her soul arose, 
 And, rising, lit new radiance in her eyes, 
 Which shone with sudden gleams of glad surprise, 
 Then softly drooped, as if each shadowy lid 
 Some lovely secret in sweet darkness hid. 
 At last her voice, a nightingale full-grown, 
 From childish silvery shrillness changed its tone 
 To golden roundness, and her mellow notes, 
 Now soft as summer air that idly floats 
 'Mid full-blown flowers, yet makes no leaflet fall, 
 Now clear and ringing as a clarion call, 
 Breathed forth each light-winged fancy as it woke, 
 Till all her soul in changeful music spoke. 
 
 It was an April evening; soon to die, 
 The sun yet lingered, and the limpid sky 
 Faded to pearly paleness overhead, 
 But burned above the mountains, rosy red. 
 
 K 
 
1 30 Olivia. 
 
 The glowing twilight brought a happy close 
 To a bright day of gladness and repose 
 And mirth that sped the flying hours along 
 A festal day, a day of dance and song, 
 When all the village girls were wont to wear 
 Their best attire, with linen lily-fair 
 Drawn round the throat in many a graceful fold 
 Above the bodice, and a glimpse of gold 
 Perchance in hair or bosom. Thus arrayed, 
 With her young comrades went the orphan maid 
 In joyous converse, through the quiet wood. 
 At length beside a lofty pine they stood, 
 And on its age-scarred trunk the maiden leant. 
 The low, red sun between the branches sent 
 Upon her upturned face a fervid ray, 
 Which flushed it faintly, like the dawn of day 
 Beneath her midnight hair, and rested warm 
 Upon her snowy sleeve and soft brown arm. 
 Then, all at once, a rapture seemed to rise 
 In the deep darkness of her dreamful eyes ; 
 A golden heart that lay upon her breast 
 Gleamed, as it rose and fell in swift unrest ; 
 Then, clear and low, she tuned her voice to sing. 
 E'en as a bird first tries his quivering wing, 
 
Olivia. 1 3 r 
 
 Slow-circling near the earth, and then takes flight 
 With sudden impulse, soaring to the light ; 
 So first the pent-up music in her heart 
 Was breathed so gently from her lips apart 
 That the mild air scarce bore the notes along ; 
 Then, all at once, leapt upwards, full and strong, 
 A rush of glorious sound, which cleft the air 
 Upborne on steadfast pinions fleet and fair, 
 Until it seemed to pass beyond the skies, 
 And, trembling, touch the verge of Paradise ; 
 And then it sank, but not through weariness, 
 With long-drawn pauses, and with tender stress 
 Of sweet complaining in its lingering fall ; 
 But when it ceased the woods were silent all, 
 And the first star shone tremulous on the night 
 As if the song had changed itself to light. 
 The listening village maidens stood around 
 The singer, till the last melodious sound 
 Had melted on the darkness ; then they turned 
 With dewy eyes, to ask her whence she learned 
 Those lovely lays which none could sing but she, 
 Which were not like the village minstrelsy, 
 Yet made the hearers weep. She smiled and said, 
 " A song shall be my answer." Then she led 
 
Olivia. 
 
 The maiden group along their homeward way 
 Amid the woodland shadows dim and grey, 
 And ever with her steps her voice kept time, 
 Blending soft music with a measured rhyme. 
 
 From my full heart outflow 
 The sweetest songs I know, 
 But first they have their birth 
 In heaven and in earth ; 
 For all things bright and fair 
 With music fill the air 
 Into my heart it floats, 
 My voice but echoes back the wandering notes. 
 
 The glory of the rose, 
 The lily's virgin snows, 
 The violet's dim attire, 
 The tulip's crown of fire, 
 All beauty, all delight 
 Enchanting sense or sight, 
 Is fraught with melody, 
 And all the earth seems musical to me. 
 
Olivia. 133 
 
 When first the morning breaks 
 A song of joy awakes, 
 And when the noon is high 
 Glad anthems fill the sky, 
 The balmy evening falls 
 'Mid murmured madrigals, 
 And when the night is deep 
 Mysterious music lulls the world to sleep. 
 
 The tender buds of spring 
 Like linnets pipe and sing ; 
 The rosy flowers of June 
 Are voices all in tune ; 
 The joyful autumn's strain 
 Thrills through her golden grain ; 
 'the winter, chill and white, 
 Moans foVfe-lorn lays through all the lingering night. 
 
 It could not be such golden gifts of song 
 Should dower a lonely mountain village long, 
 Nor such fair throat contain so rich a voice 
 Only to make the twilight woods rejoice, 
 
134 Olivia. 
 
 And hold the simple souls of peasant-folk 
 In the sweet bondage of its gentle yoke. 
 It could not be ; a rumour spread afar 
 That, 'mid the Tuscan Apennines, a star 
 Of purest light had dawned, and soon should rise 
 Full-orbed, to bless the world's enchanted eyes. 
 And one there was to whom this rumour brought 
 Strange memories, and half-remorseful thought 
 Of one beloved and wronged in by-gone years, 
 Whose dark reproachful eyes, with burning tears, 
 Mourned her lost peace and joy for ever gone ; 
 And of the child he ne'er had looked upon, 
 Her child of sorrow, who should bear his name 
 Henceforth, and in whose promised future fame 
 His own should shine more fair. For now no more 
 He wandered, scant of coin, as heretofore ; 
 The strolling singer, who in earlier times 
 Stood, cap in hand, and wove his ready rhymes 
 For gaping rustics in the market-place, 
 Now pleased the court, as then the populace, 
 And, thick as stars upon a summer night, 
 The diamonds on fair bosoms flashed delight 
 In swift pulsations, while his singing stirred 
 Soft longings in the souls of those who heard.. 
 
Olivia. 135 
 
 He sought and claimed his child : he found her fair, 
 
 Like, yet not like her mother, for her hair 
 
 Shaded a broader brow, and in her eyes 
 
 There shone a clearer light, which seemed to rise 
 
 From some pure flame that burned within her soul, 
 
 Some fervent longing for a far-off goal 
 
 As yet unknown, a hope half understood, 
 
 Fed by dim fancies. For the thing she would, 
 
 Her conscious thought had never yet expressed 
 
 Until the day she heard, with heaving breast, 
 
 Her new-found father's soft persuasive voice, 
 
 Which urged with glowing promises her choice 
 
 To live for music only. At that word 
 
 Her heart leapt upward, like a captive bird 
 
 Set free to breathe the fresh and fragrant scent 
 
 Of the free air, his native element. 
 
 To live for music only ! oh delight ! 
 
 Her being's inmost chords were tuned aright 
 
 For that life and no other, and they thrilled 
 
 E'en at the thought, till all her soul was rilled 
 
 With happy harmonies. Her father told 
 
 Of earthlier joys, of praise and fame and gold ; 
 
 She heeded not, but murmured o'er and o'er, 
 
 "To live for music;" and she asked no more. 
 
136 Olivia. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell/' her foster-mother said, 
 Resting her hands in blessing on the head 
 Whose earliest pillow was her gentle breast. 
 " Ay, gold and fame are good, but not the best/' 
 She sighed, amid a tender rain of tears ; 
 " God prosper thee through many joyful years, 
 Child of my heart ; but whatsoe'er befall, 
 Remember, love and truth are best of all." 
 
 One summer evening, as the daylight paled, 
 The maiden looked on Florence, softly veiled 
 In floating folds of soft translucent mist, 
 Shot through with gold and rose and amethyst. 
 Into her soul that glowing radiance shone, 
 And like a dream of beauty lured her on, 
 Until, like one whom unknown joys await, 
 With throbbing heart, she passed the city gate. 
 Three years she dwelt upon the Arno's bank. 
 Her father held a favoured artist's rank. 
 In an art-loving city. He was rich 
 With the quick gains of one who can bewitch 
 
Olivia. 1 3 7 
 
 The round bright coins to dance into his purse, 
 
 Tinkling in pleasant concord with the verse 
 
 Which flows, entangled in light melodies, 
 
 From his trained throat, with seeming careless ease. 
 
 Meanwhile she dwelt in studious solitude, 
 
 So that no tone untrained, no accent crude, 
 
 Might mar the sweetness of her song, when fame 
 
 Should bear afar her tuneful southern name, 
 
 Olivia, to be praised in many lands 
 
 With fervent voices and applauding hands. 
 
 Full many a summer night she watched the skies 
 Grow dark, and open all their starry eyes, 
 And the warm southern moon of softest glow 
 Make the pale marble shine like stainless snow, 
 And shed her tender light on dome and tower ; 
 Till, in the hush of that enchanted hour, 
 The maiden felt the beauty that she saw 
 Enter her soul, and, by her being's law, 
 Express itself in music. Thus her song 
 Grew ever, day by day, more sweet and strong, 
 Fed by fair memories and visions bright, 
 As flowers grow lovely, fed by dew and light. 
 
Olivia. 
 
 Her day of triumph came. Her soul set free 
 Flew forth upon the wings of melody j 
 Hers was the joy to let the music float 
 Upwards, or softly fall, nor fear one note 
 Should fail from perfect sweetness j hers to give 
 A voice to thoughts divine, and make them live, 
 And tell, in language lovelier than speech, 
 Their mystic message, which has power to reach 
 Our being's inmost shrine, where soul and sense 
 Are blended into one ; and more intense 
 Became the life within her as she sang, 
 And in her voice a thrill of passion rang 
 Which drew forth all its sweetness, like a breeze 
 That trembles through the odorous orange-trees. 
 
 She loved all music purely beautiful ; 
 The stately measures of the ancient school, 
 In simple dignity of classic phrase ; 
 The fitful fancies of more restless days 
 Which yearn in wailing discords, and prolong 
 The notes of doubt and sorrow, till the song 
 Goes sighing to its close ; the strains that flow, 
 Fresh as the springs that taste of Alpine snow, 
 
Olivia. 139 
 
 From rustic lips untaught, yet find their way, 
 In sweet pathetic changes, sad or gay, 
 To every gentle heart ; all these she loved, 
 But not for gain or praises could be moved 
 To sing the trivial songs that catch the ear 
 But for the soul no subtle meaning bear, 
 For, by the instinct of her heart controlled, 
 She strove her gift divine of song to hold 
 For noblest uses only ; to reveal 
 The mystery of beauty, and unseal 
 The founts of lofty passion ; to awake 
 High aspirations in the souls that ache 
 For weariness of longings unfulfilled, 
 Till, in each pause of life, by music filled, 
 A cry of love should rise to realms afar 
 Where love and loveliness immortal are. 
 
 Fair was the noontide of her youthful fame, 
 Hers was no measured greeting calm and tame, 
 For all who saw her owned the blended grace, 
 The harmony of voice and form and face, 
 Which made it seem, in each impassioned part 
 She sang, as if the impulse of her heart 
 
140 Olivia. 
 
 Throbbed through the tuneful phrases, and she chose 
 Song for her language, that she might disclose 
 Her inmost soul, in every varying strain 
 Touching the chords of rapture or of pain 
 More subtly than by any spoken word ; 
 For all her thoughts were melodies unheard. 
 
 Olivia sang of love, Vet never knew 
 
 The flavour of the honey and the rue 
 
 That mingle in love's cup ; such souls as hers 
 
 By their own insight are interpreters 
 
 Of passion, though within them yet its power 
 
 Lies folded, as the fruit within the flower. 
 
 A dream of love, more beautiful than aught 
 
 That earth can yield, a dream to fancy taught 
 
 By lofty musings, through her tender lays 
 
 Shone, like the lovely light of vernal days. 
 
 Therefore, though many wooed her, none could win 
 
 The treasures of her heart ; love crept not in 
 
 Amid the thoughts of music, which possessed 
 
 Alone the kingdom of her quiet breast. 
 
 Yet sometimes 'mid the passion of her song 
 
 A note of sadness seemed to pine and long 
 
Olivia. 1 4 1 
 
 For joys unknown, as if her soul was stirred 
 By some deep wave of feeling, faintly heard 
 As in a sigh, amid the swelling sea 
 Of full and ever-flowing melody. 
 
 It is a thing to weep for, when the great, 
 The souls divinely born, are bound by fate 
 To serve the base. Olivia, in the pride 
 Of her young triumph, knew no other guide 
 Than Art ; she sang the music that she loved, 
 The noblest, nor by praise or gold was moved 
 To lend her voice to strains of lower aim ; 
 And in the flush and freshness of her fame 
 Her watchful father left her free, and smiled 
 To see her, like a winsome wilful child, 
 Please but the more for all her wilfulness. 
 But when the harvest of her gains grew less, 
 And newer voices caught the fickle ears 
 Of listening idlers, cold and selfish fears 
 Were wakened in his heart, and he became 
 His daughter's tyrant ; for a quenchless flame 
 
142 Olivia. 
 
 Withered each nobler impulse, and controlled 
 His soul's desires a gambler's greed for gold. 
 Toil without rest was now Olivia's lot ; 
 And ceaseless fretting cares, that ended not 
 With the day's labour, wore her life away ; 
 For her the morning light was changed to grey 
 Long ere the evening fell. Alas ! how blest 
 Are they who live and love and sink to rest 
 Ere the long weariness is yet begun 
 Of lingering years, when life and love are done. 
 
 Gold, gold, more gold, was still the gambler's cry ; 
 
 And still his daughter laboured, though her eye 
 
 Had lost its starry light, and, week by week, 
 
 Her voice grew feebler. Yet she dared not seek 
 
 The rest she craved ; her weary lot was toil 
 
 Without its joy, for now she must despoil 
 
 Herself of all the royal robes she wore, 
 
 And be as one of those who may not soar 
 
 To Art's high peaks with glory's light aglow, 
 
 But labour in the shadowed vales below. 
 
 No longer did melodious phrases twine 
 
 Round all her thoughts, and make her dreams divine ; 
 
Olivia. 143 
 
 New cares, unmusical and full of pain, 
 Came trooping through her worn and fevered brain ; 
 Her life dragged on, by griefs and fears opprest ; 
 The heart of music died within her breast. 
 
 It was a mournful thing to look upon 
 Her faded beauty. All the splendour gone 
 From brow and bearing, lowly and discrowned 
 She stood, and yet her queenly soul had found 
 Strength to endure ; her face was strangely calm, 
 Though sad beyond all speech. The martyr's palm, 
 And not the laurel, now seemed meet for her ; 
 Since all her triumphs of the days that were, 
 Lived but as snake-like memories, and stung 
 The crushed and bleeding heart to which they clung. 
 Pain's cruel circles darkened round her eyes, 
 Which shone, like meteors set in starless skies, 
 With weird yet splendid lustre ; and her cheek 
 Was waxen white, save for a hectic streak 
 Above the hollows worn by wasting grief. 
 Yet she could smile. The heart may find relief 
 
144 Olivia. 
 
 In tears that quicken sorrow as they flow, 
 
 But in that smile forlorn a buried woe 
 
 Looked forth ; the dead, cold, heavy woe, which clings 
 
 About the heart's root, poisoning the springs 
 
 Of youth and joy. Her smile was like her voice. 
 
 Lost were the tones that made the woods rejoice 
 
 And pealed among the mountains, till they rang 
 
 WitrTrapture, and a hundred echoes sang ; 
 
 But the faint spectres of the songs which thrilled 
 
 The souls of multitudes, arose, and filled 
 
 Kind hearts with pity, as they feebly strained 
 
 Upward with trembling tones, which scarce attained 
 
 The height they sought, nor lingered there to swell 
 
 The closing phrase, but harsh and broken fell 
 
 In a brief cadence, poor and incomplete. 
 
 Yet, 'mid those mournful songs, how strangely sweet, 
 
 How wildly sad and sweet, some sudden tone 
 
 Among the jangled strings would seem to moan, 
 
 In softest sorrow music e'er expressed, 
 
 Over the wreck and ruin of the rest ! 
 
 Men heard her now with cold and listless mien, 
 
 Remembering nought of that which once had been, 
 
 The beauty and the melody which dwelt 
 
 In those lost strains of hers, which once could melt 
 
Olivia. 145 
 
 To rapture, like some rich ambrosial wine 
 
 That wrought in soul and sense. And now no sign 
 
 Was left of all the radiance passed away 
 
 From the pale mortal frame, which dull decay 
 
 Had worn and spoilt. She stood before them there 
 
 No longer famous, and no longer fair ; 
 
 A foil to younger singers of their choice, 
 
 A faded woman, with a broken voice. 
 
 The long night comes, when daylight's sorrows cease. 
 Olivia's sunless evening closed in peace ; 
 The glorious morn, the noontide overcast, 
 The hours of storm, went by ; the bitter blast 
 Grew mild ere nightfall, and the air was sweet 
 With dewy freshness, when her weary feet 
 Ended at last their mournful pilgrimage. 
 As a long-captive bird, whose open cage 
 Holds him no more, flies forth and finds his way 
 To the dear woods where first he saw the day, 
 
 L 
 
146 Olivia. 
 
 So she, her years of toilsome bondage done, 
 Sought the soft valley where the Tuscan sun 
 First shed its blessing on her baby brow. 
 Death came and took her father. Lonely now, 
 Weak and outworn with grief, her steps she turned 
 To Italy, and all her spirit yearned 
 After her foster-mother, and the breast 
 Where first her orphan head was laid to rest. 
 
 Oh ! fair familiar scenes, beheld again 
 After long years of passion and of pain, 
 How strangely dear and beautiful ye seem, 
 Like a glad wakening from a direful dream ! 
 Olivia, when she saw the ancient pines 
 Climb the rough ridges of the Apennines, 
 And the gaunt mountain forms her childhood knew, 
 Dark-outlined on the noontide's burning blue ; 
 And when mild wafts of forest fragrance came, 
 Bearing the breath of budding flowers, the same 
 As those which blossomed round her infant feet ; 
 And when the wild birds, hidden from the heat 
 Among the leaves, began to chirp and sing, 
 It seemed to her that Time on backward wing 
 
Olivia. 147 
 
 Had flown, and brought again some vanished day 
 When childhood's heaven of peace around her lay. 
 
 " My mother, oh ! my mother ; let me lie 
 Here, in your arms. Oft have I longed to die, 
 To sleep, and find forgetfulness of woe, 
 But here I feel such health and healing flow 
 Out of your heart of love whereon I rest 
 Into my own, that now not all unblest 
 Seems life, and I would live." With tender tears 
 Soft falling, spoke Olivia. All the years 
 Of good and evil which had passed away, 
 And brought her fame's fruition and decay, 
 Had held no comfort like the faithful love 
 Which now, with mother-soothings, gently strove 
 To fill the wanderer's heart with rest and peace, 
 The weary heart whose woes were soon to cease. 
 
 It was a mild and tearful autumn day ; 
 
 All ivory-pale upon her couch she lay 
 
 In troubled slumber. At her feet there knelt 
 
 Her peasant mother, weeping, as she felt 
 
 The small uneven pulse that, hurrying, pressed 
 
 To end its race, impatient for its rest. 
 
148 Olivia. 
 
 When the slow hours brought round the eventide, 
 
 Olivia stirred and spoke : "Alas !" she sighed, 
 
 " My voice has failed. No more for joy of song 
 
 I sing. This tedious part is all too long ; 
 
 Both heart and voice are weary let me go. 
 
 There is no help ; I sing for gold yet no, 
 
 I sing for duty, though my aching heart 
 
 Faints in my breast. It were no daughter's part 
 
 To let a father suffer that her pride 
 
 Might feel no hurt. Methinks my spirit died 
 
 Before my body sickened. Yet to-night 
 
 Comes a renewal of my lost delight ; 
 
 'Tis strange ; I feel no weakness and no pain. 
 
 Bring me the music ; I can sing again. 
 
 Play the soft prelude to the lovely theme 
 
 I learnt last night nay, hush, I do but dream ; 
 
 I am at peace at peace my soul set free 
 
 Lies floating on a sea of melody ; 
 
 How beautiful, how rich and sweet and strong, 
 
 Flow the full waves of that mysterious song ! 
 
 Ye wild and woeful discords of despair, 
 
 What were ye but the prelude, to prepare 
 
 My spirit to endure the glorious sound 
 
 Which rolls from sphere to sphere, and circles round 
 
Olivia. 149 
 
 The throne of God? No song is sung in vain, 
 
 But all earth's music swells the splendid strain 
 
 That fills the universe. How strangely dear 
 
 My songs of old would seem, if I could hear 
 
 Their echo ; and they say no sound can die, 
 
 But vibrates evermore from sky to sky, 
 
 And circles on through space. If this be truth 
 
 Perchance the vanished music of my youth 
 
 Is not all lost, but, echoing onwards still, 
 
 Some listening spirit with delight may fill 
 
 Long ages hence." She ceased, and lay awhile 
 
 In silence, and the shadow of a smile 
 
 Played round her mouth. But soon she moved again, 
 
 And moaned, like one in sorrow or in pain, 
 
 And murmured mournfully, " My fault was pride ; 
 
 I scorned the humble toilers at my side, 
 
 Who sang for daily bread. I thought that Art 
 
 Should be a mystic worship, set apart 
 
 For chosen souls ; and, though my thought was true, 
 
 Yet loving human hearts make music too, 
 
 Though gain, not beauty, be their daily care, 
 
 While by their toil they render life more fair 
 
 For those they love. A holier place was mine 
 
 Methought, as priestess in the secret shrine 
 
1 50 Olivia. 
 
 Of Art, for high and mystic service sealed ; 
 
 Since, by my voice, I hoped should be revealed 
 
 Some heavenly message. But the temple door 
 
 Was closed, and shut me out for evermore \ 
 
 And so, of pride came weakness and disgrace, 
 
 And, mournfully, I took the lowest place 
 
 Among the throng who crowd the outer court. 
 
 Alas ! my days of joy were few and short, 
 
 Long is my penance. Music pines and cries 
 
 Within me, like the voiceless love that lies 
 
 Imprisoned in my worn and weary breast, 
 
 Love unbestowed, and music unexpressed. 
 
 O music ! my delight and my despair ! 
 
 How dost thou torture me ! Alas ! I bear 
 
 The fire divine that daring mortals stole 
 
 From heaven's own glory, in my struggling soul ; 
 
 It burns, it strives ; would that its fervid flame 
 
 Might utterly consume this feeble frame, 
 
 And force its way to freedom ! Oh ! how long 
 
 Must this endure ? Ye fettered wings of song, 
 
 Burst, burst the bonds of flesh that hold you fast, 
 
 For this keen flame must burn them through at last ! a 
 
Olivia. 151 
 
 The gentle breeze that stirred the evening air 
 
 Wafted to heaven the weeping voice of prayer ; 
 
 The prayer that rose from a fond heart and true, 
 
 The prayer of faith and, like a healing dew, 
 
 Came peace and stillness to the striving soul 
 
 Escaping from the worn-out frame's control. 
 
 Her broken murmurs, pitiful and wild, 
 
 Sank into silence ; and she softly smiled 
 
 On the kind eyes that watched her. Then she took 
 
 The rough brown hand in hers, and with a look 
 
 Of happy calm, she laid it on her breast. 
 
 " Yes ; love is best," she murmured, " love is best ; 
 
 Love is God's music." As she spoke, the clouds, 
 
 Which all day long had hung like white wet shrouds 
 
 Across the heavenly blue, asunder rolled, 
 
 And the great setting sun with flames of gold 
 
 Scattered the earth-born mists, and o'er them shed 
 
 A splendid halo of celestial red. 
 
 And on Olivia's face a radiance gleamed, 
 
 And o'er her snowy dress a glory streamed, 
 
 And in her folded fingers, wan and white, 
 
 Shone the faint life-blood, warm with rosy light. 
 
 The pain-lines on her brow were smoothed to rest, 
 
 More gently rose and fell her panting breast, 
 
152 Olivia. 
 
 And round her pale, sweet, parted lips a smile 
 
 Crept softly. Thus she lay a little while, 
 
 Breathing the sunshine. Then, she raised her head 
 
 And sat up straight, and both her arms outspread 
 
 As if in welcome of some friend most dear ; 
 
 And with wide-op'ened eyes, divinely clear, 
 
 She gazed, like one who listens. Low she spoke, 
 
 But in her voice the tender tones awoke, 
 
 The long-lost, lovely tones of happier days. 
 
 " I hear the song ; the sacred song of praise ; 
 
 The happy birth-song of a soul set free. 
 
 It is for me ! glad spirits sing for me ! 
 
 A beautiful, innumerable throng 
 
 Pour out their being in a mighty song. 
 
 The blended voices rise ; they swell ; ' Rejoice ! ' 
 
 They cry ; 'a soul is born ! ' But yet one vdice, 
 
 One voice is wanting in that choir divine 
 
 To fill the perfect harmony. 'Tis mine ! 
 
 They call me ; hark ! they call me. I am here, 
 
 Spirits of music ! Nay ; I feel no fear. 
 
 My voice shall no more falter and grow dumb ; 
 
 My soul flies forth in music. Lo ! I come ! " 
 
Olivia. 153 
 
 Ah ! whither, whither goes 
 
 The spirit of the rose, 
 So sweet and fair when first her buds unclose ? 
 
 Now, dead since yesterday, 
 
 She lies, in dim decay, 
 Her pallid petals strew the common way. 
 
 Ah ! where shall live again 
 
 That rich, melodious strain, 
 Which, dying, made the silence seem like pain ? 
 
 In what far-distant spheres, 
 
 After long lapse of years, 
 Shall its faint echoes reach immortal ears ? 
 
 Say ; to what realm of light 
 
 Did deathless Love take flight 
 While his lorn bride lay weeping in the night ? 
 
 Sad Psyche ! on what shore, 
 
 With amaranths strewn o'er, 
 Shalt thou embrace thy lord for evermore ? 
 
 PKINTED AT THE CAXTON PRESS, BECCLES. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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