\ LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ] CAUFO*NIA/ VERSES AND VERSIONS BY GEORGE MURRAY, B.A., A.K.C., F.R.S.C., FORMERLY SENIOR CLASSICAL SCHOLAR OF KING'S COLLEGE, LONDON; LATH LUSBY SCHOLAR AND LUCY EXHIBITIONER OF THE VNIYHRSITY OF OXFORD. MONTREAL : W. FOSTER BROWN & CO. 1891. Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-one, by George Murray, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. mi TO SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, M.A., K.C.I.E., C.S.I., EQUALLY DISTINGUISHED AS A CLASSICAL AND AN ORIENTAL SCHOLAR, A JOURNALIST AND A POET | MY DEAREST COMPANION FOR MANY YEARS, BOTH AT KING'S COLLEGE, LONDON, AND AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, THESE VERSES AND VERSIONS ARE DEDICATED WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION. 460 CONTENTS. PAGE. How Canada was Saved ...... i Grace Connell n Willie the Miner ....... 28 To a Humming Bird in a Garden .... 38 The Lake 42 The Pardoned Sin 47 The Thistle 50 The Sower 57 God's Heroo 59 A Parable 61 The Lamp of Hero 64 An Eastern Judge . 67 The Test of Love 70 A Legend of the Child Jesus 73 The Time will Come 78 The Funeral of a Village Girl So Brotherly Love 82 The Flowers and the Soul 88 The Days that are No More 90 Song 98 The Keeper's Son , 100 Iphigenia at Aulis ' . 105 After the Battle 108 The Madonna's Isle 112 Melancholia . 117 A Wild Flower 120 vi . CONTENTS. PAGE. Bid Me not Forget . . . . . . . 123 A Woman's Dream . . . . . . .125 The Story of St. Arnulph 127 The Dead Girl 130 Remembrance 133 Perhaps . 139 The Neapolitans to Mozart ..... 143 The New Year's Night of an Unhappy Man . . 147 If, Darling, with Melodious Lay . . . . 151 The Lily and the Rose 153 Sonnet ... ...... 156 The Chapel of the Dead Monks .... 157 A Week in a Boy's Life 162 The Order of Release 172 A Fantasy ......... 176 Forget Me Not 178 The Solitary Guest 180 Jacques 184 The Maiden of Otaheite 186 A Woman 190 A Dream about the Aspen ..... 193 A Lesson of Mercy . . . . . . 200 The Evangelist 201 The Flight 204 The King and the Peasant ..... 207 Delivered . . . . . . . . .210 To Ninon 213 In Futuro 217 The Story of Brother Paul 220 Genius 227 A Dead Woman 229 CONTENTS. vii. PAGE. An Evening Scene ....... 232 A Spanish Girl's Lament ..... 235 Christmas 236 Memories 238 Tit-For-Tat 240 Barcarolle ......... 242 Song 244 Love and Death . . . . . . . 246 The Flower and the Butterfly 247 The Entreaty 250 To My Old Coat 252 Cruel Spring ........ 254 A Ballad 256 To the Evening Star 258 Madeleine . . . . . . . . 260 Rondeau 264 The Grave and the Rose 265 Waiting for her Lover 266 Robert Burns 268 Ultima Spes Mortuorum 275 A Memento ......... 281 The Terrors of Death 284 The Swiss Deserter 288 The Grandmother 291 The Diamond Necklace ...... 294 The Redbreast 297 The Angel and the Child 299 What the Swallows Say 302 An Appeal for the Deaf and Dumb .... 307 Pepita . . . 310 'The Pity of It" 312 CONTENTS. PAGE. The Favourite Sultana 315 Gondolied 3 2 The Stranger 322 The Old Year 325 The Horoscope . . 329 The Hare and the Tortoise 331 A Letter to the Dead . 332 Cupid's Metamorphoses ...... 336 Gone . 338 A Wish 344 Natale Sol urn ... .... 348 Song 349 Rosette 351 Beauty and the Beast 354 Prologue to the ' Merchant of Venice" . . . 356 l 'Vilikins." English and Latin .... 360 A Farewell to the "Guards" ..... 364 The Silken Sashes 368 Romance . . . . . . . ' . 371 Desolation ......... 373 A Pauper Poet ....... 374 A Ballad for Christmas-Tide . . . . . 377 The Ballad of the Hopeless Man .... 380 Mummy Wheat ........ 384 A Story of King David . . . . . 387 At Lake Mahole ........ 391 For a Blind Beggar 393 Beneath a Crucifix ....... 393 Lines to Sir Edwin Arnold 394 Notes and Illustrations 395 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. TIME : MAY. 1660 " II faut ici dormer la gloire a ces dix-sept Frangais de Montreal, et honorer leurs cendres d'un eloge qui leur est deu avec justice, et que nous ne pouvons leur refuser sans ingratitude. Tout estait perdu, s'ils n'eussent peri, et leur malheur a sauve" ce pais." Relations des Je- suites, 1660, p. 17. Beside the dark Utawa's * stream two hundred years ago, A wondrous feat of arms was wrought, which all the world should know ; 'Tis hard to read with tearless eyes that record of the past It stirs the blood and fires the soul as with a clarion's blast. What though no blazoned cenotaph, no sculptured columns tell Where the stern heroes of my song in death triumph- ant, fell -, 2 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. What though beside the foaming flood untombed their ashes lie All earth 2 becomes the monument of men who nobly die. A score of troublous years had passed since on'Mount Royal's crest 3 The gallant Maisonneuve up reared the Cross devoutly bless'd, And many of the saintly Guild that founded Ville-Marie With patriot pride had fought and died, determined to be free. Fiercely the Iroquois had sworn to sweep, like grains of sand, 4 The Sons of France from off the face of their adopted land, When, like the steel that oft disarms the lightning of its power, A fearless few their country saved in danger's darkest hour. HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. 3 Daulac, the Captain of the Fort in manhood's fiery prime Hath sworn by some immortal deed to make his name sublime," And sixteen " Soldiers of the Cross," his comrades true and tried, Have pledged their faith for life and death all kneel- ing side by side : And this their oath on flood or field, to challenge face to face The ruthless hordes of Iroquois, the scourges of their race No quarter to accept or grant, and, loyal to the grave, To die like martyrs for the land they shed their blood to save. Shrived by the Priest, within the Church where oft they had adored, With solemn fervour they partake the Supper of the Lord : And now those self-devoted youths from weeping friends have passed, 4 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. And on the Fort of Ville-Marie each fondly looks his last. Unskilled to steer the frail canoe or stem the rushing tide, On through a virgin wilderness o'er stream and lake they glide, Till, weary of the paddle's dip, they moor their barques below A rapid of Utawa's flood, the turbulent Long-Sault. 6 There, where a grove of gloomy pines sloped gently to the shore, A moss-grown palisade was seen a fort in days of yore Fenced by its circle they encamped and on the listen- ing air, Before those staunch Crusaders slept, arose the voice of prayer. Sentry and scout kept watch and ward ; and soon, with glad surprise, HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. 5 They welcomed to their roofless hold a band of dark allies- Two stalwart chiefs and forty braves all sworn to strike a blow In one great battle for their lives against the common foe. Soft was the breath of balmy spring in that fair month of May, The wild flower bloomed, the wild bird sang on many a budding spray, A tender blue was in the sky, on earth a tender green, And Peace seemed brooding like a dove o'er all the sylvan scene ; When loud and high, a thrilling cry dispelled the magic charm And scouts came hurrying from the woods to bid their comrades arm. And bark canoes skimmed lightly down the torrent of the Sault Manned by three hundred dusky forms the long- expected foe. 6 HOW CAXADA WAS SAVED. They spring to land a wilder brood hath ne'er ap- palled the sight With carbines, 7 tomahawks, and knives that gleam with baleful light ; Dark plumes of eagles crest their chiefs and broi- dered deerskins hide The blood-red war-paint that shall soon a bloodier red be dyed. Hark! to the death-song that they chant behold them as they bound, With flashing eyes and vaunting tongues, defiantly around ; Then, swifter than the wind, they fly the barrier to invest, Like hornet-swarms that heedless boys have startled from a nest. As Ocean's tempest-driven waves dash forward on a rock And madly break in seething foam hurled backward by the shock, HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. 7 So onward dashed that surging throng, so backward were they hurled, When, from the loopholes of the fort, flame burst, and vapour curled. Each bullet aimed by bold Daulac went crashing through the brain, Or pierced the bounding heart of one who never stirred again ; The trampled turf was drenched with blood, blood stained the passing wave, It seemed a carnival of death, the harvest of the grave. The sun went down the fight was o'er but sleep was not for those Who pent within that frail redoubt sighed vainly for repose ; The shots that hissed above their heads, the Mohawks' taunting cries, Warned them that never more on earth must slumber seal their eyes. In that same hour their swart allies, o'erwhelmed by craven dread, 8 8 HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. Leaped o'er the parapet like deer and traitorously fled; And when the darkness of the night had vanished like a ghost, Twenty and two were left of all to brave a madden- ed host. Foiled for a time, the subtle foes have summoned to their aid 9 Five hundred kinsmen from the Isles to storm the palisade ; And panting for revenge they speed, impatient for the fray, Like birds of carnage from their homes allured by scent of prey. With scalp-locks streaming in the breeze they charge, but never yet Have legions in the storm of fight a bloodier welcome met Than those doomed warriors, as they faced the deso- lating breath HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. 9 Of wide-mouthed musketoons that poured hot cataracts of death. T0 Eight days. of varied horror passed ! What boots it now to tell How the pale tenants of the fort heroically fell ? Hunger and thirst and sleeplessness, Death's ghastly aids, at length Marred and defaced their comely forms, and quelled their giant strength. The end draws nigh, they yearn to die, one glorious rally more For the dear sake of Ville-Marie and all will soon be o'er; Sure of the Martyr's golden Crown, they shrink not from the Cross, Life yielded for the land they love, they scorn to reckon loss ! The fort is fired and through the flames, with slippery, splashing tread TO HOW CANADA WAS SAVED. The Redmen stumble to the camp o'er ramparts of the dead ; TI There with set teeth and nostril wide, Daulac the dauntless, stood And dealt his foes remorseless blows 'mid blinding smoke and blood, Till hacked and hewn, he reeled to earth, with proud uuconquered glance, Dead but immortalized by death Leonidas of France ! True to their oath, that glorious band no quarter basely craved; So died the peerless Twenty-two So Canada was saved ! 12 II GRACE CONNELL. AN IRISH IDYLL. A simple story of a woman's love : 'Twas told by one whose voice is silent now. Grace Connell, not unfittingly she bore The name of Grace, was scarcely five years old When death bereaved her of a mother's care. A dismal time ! At length, her father, vexed With countless nothings that recalled his wife, And all her sweetness, said : " My little Grace, We will away, and leave this desolate house, And spend our lives among the fisher-folk Where I was born and learnt to sail a boat. I will go first and find some dwelling-place And take thee hence." He went and soon returned. 12 GRACE CONNELL. Then, aided by a kinsman of his wife, Whose kindness claimed it as a privilege To drive the wanderers to their future home, He packed, it did not take them long to pack, His humble stock of household furniture, And with wet eyelids travelled leagues away. The simple fisher-folk, who know so well How heavily loss of mother and of wife Falls on survivors, warmly welcomed him Back to his native place and did their best To make the truant feel once more at home. A nest-like cottage, that had been for sale On his first visit he had bought, and there They settled down. It stood aloof from storms, Backed by precipitous cliffs and faced the green Atlantic waves that wash the southern coast Of that fair island, for which God hath done So much and man so little. Grace was glad And loved to ramble on the shore in quest GRACE CONNELL. 13 Of shells and shining pebbles or, from rocks Draped with long wreaths of dripping weeds, to watch Wave following wave, first swelling up and poised, Then toppling over with a booming fall In sheets of foam that quivered on the sand. Still she grew lonesome, and the boundless sea Made her more lonesome, till her father missed The smiles that once lent sunshine to her eyes. " She wants a woman in the house," he said, " While I am gone. To fishers like myself The houseless ocean seems perforce, a home, But she, poor child, sits brooding here alone With no companions but the tumbling waves." And thus, in time, he wooed a second wife. She, with soft, winning ways, soon brought the smiles Back to the eyes of Grace and when she gave Birth to a daughter, Grace, to shew the love She bore the woman of her father's choice, Was never tired of nursing baby Nell. And now two years, two happy years, had flown 14 GRACE CONNELL. Winged with God's blessings, when a cruel chill Caught while half-drowned by floods of drenching rain And lashed by hissing spray, she paced at night The windy, weed-strewn, breaker-beaten shore And watched the trawlers plunging through the foam, Brought the young mother to the bed of death. Holding her husband's hand within her own She passed away, with prayers upon her lips For both the children, prized with equal love. Forthwith a younger mother took her place, A sister and a mother two in one While Nellie played, scarce conscious of the loss. And so they grew together, like two buds Heralds of dainty blossom, day by day Unfolding all the fragrance of their youth, But with contrasting natures. Grace was grave ; Graver by far than maidens of her age, But Nellie seemed a waif from Fairyland, A tricksy sprite, a butterfly or bird, So swift her movements and so sweet her song. A fisher's wife, whose girlhood had been passed GRACE CONNELL. 15 In cities, taught the pretty maids to read, Lent them good books, and to the subtle art Of making lace their lissom fingers trained. And thus the years, like summer birds, flew by. Their kindly neighbour, when she sold her lace At market, sold theirs also ; and this gain Joined to their father's earnings, brought them in A modest competence that met their needs. So, in a changeless round of household work, Mending of nets and patching up of sails, With books and lace, and pleasant strolls at eve On the warm sands, or bathings in the surf, Their maiden lives were innocently passed, Till Grace had reached the age of twenty-one, Six years forerunning Nellie. Folk around Vowed she must marry some tall fisher lad : " Sure 'twas a shame," they said, " to balk the lad, Who waited only for a smile to woo." But Grace said, blushing, " That could never be Till Nell had grown a woman and was wed." In after days she called her words to mind. 1 6 GRACE CONNELL. Meanwhile, no cloud obscured their sunny sky And all was peace and harmony and love. But the night cometh when no man can work. One eve their father, with persistent heart The fish, he said, of late had been bewitched Sailed forth to reap the harvest of the sea. As night came on, the turbulent winds awoke And roused confederate billows from their sleep, Like ruthless felons that abhor the light, Bound on some errand of appalling crime. Then through the hurricane at midnight's hour, While thunder with reverberating peals Crashed, the two sisters draped in heavy cloaks, Roamed the wet shingle where the breakers roared, And through the veil of darkness dimly scanned The awful ocean's tempest-wrinkled face. The lightning's glare, intolerably bright, Flashed like a fiery serpent from the clouds With lurid gleams on black, tumultuous waves Crested with foam, and on the while-winged gulls That fluttering inland eddied round and shrieked GRACE CONNELL. 17 With mocking cries like demons of the storm. Fair rose the day, as on Creation's dawn ; The sea still trembled like a sentient thing, And all the sands were fringed with curdled foam And strewn with .tackling, spars, and rents of sail, Spurned by the deep's annihilating wrath. At noon, two mates of Connell were at work Caulking a coble, when the helpless limbs Of a drowned fisherman were tossed ashore The toil-worn sire of Nellie and of Grace. Grim was the human wreck no sight, they said, For orphans' eyes as on some stranded deals They bore the dead man to a vacant hut. There, when in strips of canvas they had swathed The corpse to hide its ghastliness, they framed A rough-hewn shell from planks of sturdy pine That once had lined the carcass of a ship, And through the hamlet spread the sorry news. So, when the curtain of the night had dropped And womanfolk and children were asleep, c 1 8 GRACE CONNELL. The fishers, gathering from each cottage, met Hard by the hut. Thence six broad-shouldered men Bore forth the coffin shrouded in a sail, And raised it tenderly, and led the way, While a long line of mourners, two by two, Followed in slow procession, by the glare Of torches, to the village burial-ground. Bareheaded, silent, while the hungry sea That slew their comrade in the distance moaned, Sorrowing they stood. The patriarch of the crowd Poured forth an unpremeditated prayer In tremulous tones and many tears were shed Both for the dead and living. Then a grave Received the coffin and the sandy earth Was shovelled o'er it, trampled down, and smoothed, And the mute object of their care was left Safe in God's acre where alone is peace. Two mothers and a father thus were lost From earth for ever, in a few short years, To one brave girl ; but, undespairing still, GRACE CONNELL. 19 She fought life's battle for the sake of Nell The giddy trifler, whom she fondly loved. The neighbours watched her efforts to be gay With wondering pity and each vied with each, By gracious acts and kindly offices To shed some warmth upon her cold, bleak life. More than all others there was one who yearned To change each tear of Grace's to a smile. Young Ned Adair, a sailor's only son. Who in the neighbouring seaport served his time To a skilled carpenter, would oft at eve (His plane and saw and chisel laid aside) , Stray to the cots that clustered by the sea, Drawn thither by the yet unconscious Grace. At last he spoke : " Sweet Grace, you must have seen,- You, who are so quick-sighted, that I love The very ground you tread on that I long To chase each shadow from your life and pass My days in happy labour for your sake. The years of my apprenticeship are o'er, Though still I work for Master and my pay 20 GRACE CONNELL Will more than furnish all our simple needs. Trust me my love is truthful be my wife. My father and my mother will be glad, They know you well, and all the fisher-folk, Here in my native place, well pleased will see The grave Grace Connell wife of Ned Adair." She heard, but spoke not ; she had learned to look On Edward's coming as a kind of charm That laid the ghost of sorrow for a time Nay, more, unknowingly she loved the lad But when she thought of Nellie, the bequest Of a dead mother, Grace, whose loyal soul Had seemed throughout her lover's speech to hear The still small voice of duty interdict All thought of marriage, faltered timidly Some inarticulate words, in which " dear Nell " Alone could be distinguished. Then the lad Replied ; " My darling ! think not I would part Sister from sister. Nell shall still be yours, And till she weds shall call our home her own." GRACE CONNELL. 21 The lover's pleading won the girl's consent : His father and his mother were well pleased, And the kind gossips looked ere long to hail The grave Grace Connell wife of Ned Adair. Alas, for woman's love ! How oft it seems To waste its wealth on some ungrateful heart, Like precious seed that falls on stony ground ! Grace, by some subtle instinct that detects Each lurking symptom of capricious change, Felt, and half blamed herself because she felt, That he who held her captive to his will Was, like a caged bird, pining to be free ; Free, but if free, freed only from herself, Slave to the beauty of her sister Nell. The boding gaze of sad, mistrustful love Could not be blinded, and, resigning hope, Grace sighed, " O God '. my life's short dream is o'er ! " Yes ! it was true. With every passing hour Doubt grew to full conviction, and the date Fixed for her wedding-day was close at hand. At hand ! Grace shivered . Will no pitying power 22 GRACE CONNELL. Unravel deftly this entangled skein, And save three lives from life-long wretchedness ? Mere chance it seemed C4race said the hand of God Cut the coiled knot. One eve at set of sun, She, with her wayward lover, strayed along A narrow path that bordered on the sea. Light-hearted Nell, above them on a cliff, Was gathering sea-pinks, and with warning cries They strove to check her daring, but the girl Who knew no fear, scarce heeded them, until, With venturous arm outstretched to cull a flower, She fell head foremost from the crumbling ledge Sheer to the waves, and, grazing with her brow A smooth-worn boulder, floated out to sea Crying, " Dear Edward, save me ! " He, half crazed, Plunged in and swimming with victorious stroke Caught the frail form and bore it to the beach. In madness o'er the senseless maid he hung, Called her "Sweet Nell," and sobbed "Come back to me I cannot live without you, sweetest Nell ! " GRACE CONNELL. 23 And Grace with breaking heart was looking on. In aftertimes she told the fisher-folk, u I did not marvel could not think it strange That the light fancy of the lad had veered From me to her ; for, when that night I scanned My own grave features, and then looked upon That fair young blossom as she lay at rest Like a bruised lily on her little bed, I thought how sweet she was, compared with me, And felt no touch of anger that the child Had twined round Edward's fickle heart, when well I knew how closely she had twined round mine. And so, next day, I said to Edward, * Dear ! I think you will not blame me when I say, Take back your vows and pledges, for I feel I am too sad a woman for your wife, Nor shall I marry any man on earth. Take Nellie for she loves you well, I know.' So, when in time the colour had come back 24 GRACE CONNELL. To Nellie's cheek the three were of accord That the gay madcap should be Edward's wife. Fresh plans were formed. Said Edward : " I will go To a new world beyond Australian seas And seek my fortune. I am strong of arm And cannot fail where there is work for men ; And, when my life has prospered, I will send Home for sweet Nellie, and you, too, must come, Dear Grace, and live with us where'er we be." " Nay, brother, nay," Grace answered, with a sigh, (Such sighs are breathed by broken-hearted maids), " That cannot be. My home is here, alone, Here, by my father's grave, until I die." Thus the stern sacrifice of self was made For two, whose shallow natures failed to gauge The deep devotedness of woman's love. Adair had sailed, and Nell, betrothed, was left To bide the summons from beyond the sea, Watched o'er, like some inestimable gem, By her whose heart was bleeding all the while. GRACE CONNELL. 25 Grace toiled ahd saved and lived for Nell alone, Training her tenderly to be the wife Of one whom still she cherished in her dreams As the sole star that once had lit the gloom Of her young life and then had faded out. The end drew near : a letter came at last, Nell's first love-letter. How the fairy smiled And blushed to read the golden words of love That Erin's sons coin best of all mankind ! It told of Ned's prosperity and health, Of solid wages paid for solid work, Of town and country, climate and the rest. There was a draft, too, on the seaport bank, Made out in favour of the careful Grace, To pay Nell's passage, buy the wedding-dress And all things fitted for a lovely bride ; And last, not least, within the letter's folds Close muffled in some silken floss, Nell found A tiny ring of Australasian gold, Fit for the finger of the Fairy Queen. All soon was ready. Morn and noon and eve 26 GRACE CONNELL. Grace, with a self-denying love that seemed Too strong for nature, too sublime for earth, Yielded sweet service to the restless girl, Who hourly chid the leaden-footed hours And sighed for wings to waft her o'er the main. The day of parting came ; beside the quay A giant steamer lay, prepared to house The thousand emigrants who thronged the decks. Oh ! sad the sights, unutterably sad, That met the gaze upon that crowded wharf Fond mothers folding in their arms the necks Of stalwart sons grey-haired, decrepit sires Invoking blessings on the heads of those They could not hope to meet again on earth And tearful lovers, parted for a time. There, too, were Grace and Nellie. From the huts Of the poor hamlet, tender-hearted dames Had joined the sisters, wistful to assuage The bitter anguish of the last farewell. Grace scarce could speak ; with deep convulsive sobs GRACE CONNELL. 27 She strained weak Nellie to her throbbing heart And murmured, " Nellie, love, God bless you both !" The deck was cleared of strangers ; then a band Struck up " St. Patrick's Day," to drown the noise Of groans and prayers and blessings and laments ; Back surged the crowd-the gangways were withdrawn- And the huge steamer, with its joyless freight Of Erin's exiles, slowly moved away. An hour went by ; Grace still was standing there, Still gazing o'er the green Atlantic waves, Rapt in deep thought. Softly the women came And touched her, saying, " Dearest Grace come home." She answered meekly } in pathetic tones : " Kind friends, I ask your pardon, leave me here. Pray, be not vexed I fain would be alone. Grant me this favour, for I am not well, My heart is aching. When the night has come, Perhaps I shall be better. God is good ! " 28 WILLIE THE MINER. n Ghastly and strange was the relic found By swarthy pitmen below the ground : They were hard rough men, but each heart beat quick, Each voice with horror was hoarse and thick, For never perchance since the world began, Had sight so solemn been seen by man ! The pitman foremost to see the sight Had shrieked out wildly and swooned with fright ; His comrades heard, for the shrill scared cry Rang through each gallery, low and high, WILLIE THE MINER. 29 So they clutched their picks and they clustered round And gazed with awe at the thing they found, For never perchance since the world began, Had sight so solemn been seen by man ! It lay alone in a dark recess ; How long it had lain there, none might guess. They held above it a gleaming lamp, But the air of the cavern was chill and damp, So they carried it up to the blaze of day And set the thing in the sun's bright ray. 'Twas the corpse of a miner in manhood's bloom, An image, dismal in glare or gloom. Awful it seemed in its stillness there, With its calm wide eyes and its jet-black hair, 30 WILLIE THE MINER. Cold as some effigy carved in stone And clad in raiment that matched their own ; But none of the miners who looked could trace Friend, son, or brother in that pale face. What marvel ? a century's half had rolled Since that strong body grew stiff and cold, In youth's blithe summer-time robbed of breath By vapors winged with electric death. Many, who felt that their mate was slain, Probed earth's deep heart for his corpse, in vain, And when naught was found, after years had fled, Few still shed tears for the stripling dead, Save one true maiden, who kept the vows Pledged oft to Willie, her promised spouse. WILLIE THE MINER. 31 Now cold he lieth, for whom she pined, A soulless body, deaf, dumb, and blind, But still untainted, with flesh all firm, Untravelled o'er by the charnel-worm. 'Twas as though some treacherous element Had strangled a life, and then, ill-content, Had, pitying sorely the poor dead clay, Embalmed the body to balk decay, Striving to keep, when the breath was o'er, A semblance of that which had been before. So it came to pass, that there lay in the sun, Stared at by many but claimed by none, A corpse, unsullied and life-like still, Though its heart, years fifty since, was chill. 32 WILLIE THE MINER. But ho ! ye miners, call forth your old, Let men and matrons the corpse behold, Before the hour cometh, as come it must, When the flesh shall crumble and fall to dust ; Some dame or grey-beard may chance to know This lad, who perished so long ago. The summons sped like a wind-blown flame, From cot and cabin each inmate came. Veteran miners, a white-haired crew, Limped, crawled, and tottered the dead to view, (Some supporting companions sick, Leaning themselves upon crutch or stick,) AVith wrinkled groups of decrepit crones, Wearily dragging their palsied bones. WILLIE THE MINER. 33 Twas a quaint, sad sight to see, that day, A crowd so withered, and gaunt, and grey. And now they are gathered in groups around The dead man delved from the under-ground, And each stoops downward in turn, and pries Into its visage with purblind eyes ; Mind and memory from some are gone, Aghast and silent, they all look on. But lo ! there cometh a dark-robed dame, With careworn features and age-bowed frame, Bearing dim traces of beauty yet, As light still lingers when day has set. She nears the corpse and the crowd give way, For, " 'Tis her lover," some old men say, D 34 WILLIE THE MINER. Her lover Willie, who, while his bride Decked the white robe for her wedding, died Died at his work in the coal-seam, smit By fumes that poisoned the baleful pit ! One piercing shriek ! she has seen the face And clings to the body with strict embrace. * Tis he, to whose pleading in by-gone years She yielded her heart, while she wept glad tears, The same brave Willie, that once she knew, To whom she was ever, and still is, true, Unchanged each feature, undimmed each tress, He is clasped, as of old, in a close caress. Many an eye in that throng was wet, The pitmen say, they can ne'er forget WILLIE THE MINER. 35 The wild deep sorrow, and yearning love Of her who lay moaning that corpse above. She smoothed his hair and she stroked his cheek, She half forgot that he could not speak ; And fondly whispered endearing words In murmurs sweet as the song of birds : " Willie, O Willie, my bonny lad, Was ever meeting so strange and sad ? Four and fifty lone years have passed Since i' the flesh I beheld thee last, Thou art comely still, as i' days o' yore, And the girl-love wells i' my heart once more. I thank thee, Lord, that thy tender ruth Suffers mine arms to enfold this youth, 36 WILLIE THE MINER. For I loved him much ... I am now on the brink O' the cold, cold grave, and I didna think, When the lad so long i' the pit had lain, These lips would ever press his again ! Willie, strange thoughts i' my soul arise While thus I caress thee wi' loving eyes ; We meet, one lifeless, one living yet, As lovers ne'er i' this world have met, We are both well-nigh of one age but thou Hast coal-black curls and a smooth fair brow, While I thy chosen beside thee lie, Greyhaired and wrinkled and fain to die ! " So sobbed the woman ; and all the crowd Lifted their voices and wept aloud, WILLIE THE MINER. 37 Wept to behold her, as there she clung, One so aged, to one so young. And surely pathos more deep or keen In earthly contrast was never seen. Both had been youthful, long years ago, When neither dreamed of the coming woe, But time with the maiden had onward sped, Standing still with her lover dead ! TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN. BLITHE playmate of the Summer time, Admiringly I greet thee ; Born in old England's misty clime, I scarcely hoped to meet thee. Com'st thou from forests of Peru, Or from Brazil's savannahs, Where flowers of every dazzling hue Flaunt, gorgeous as Sultanas ? Thou scannest me with doubtful gaze, Suspicious little stranger ! Fear not, thy burnished wings may blaze Secure from harm or danger, TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN. 39 Now here, now there, thy flash is seen, Like some stray sunbeam darting, With scarce a second's space between Its coming and departing. Mate of the bird that lives sublime In Pat's immortal blunder, Spied in two places at a time, Thou challengest our wonder. Suspended by thy slender bill, Sweet blooms thou lov'st to rifle, The subtle perfumes they distil Might well thy being stifle. Surely the honey-dew of flowers Is slightly alcoholic, Or why, through burning August hours, Dost thou pursue thy frolic ? 40 TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN. What though thy throatlet never rings With music soft or stirring ; Still, like a spinning-wheel, thy wings Incessantly are whirring. How dearly I would love to see Thy tiny car a sposa, As full of sensibility As any coy mimosa ! They say, when hunters track her nest Where two warm pearls are lying, She boldly rights, though sore distrest, And sends the brigands flying. What dainty epithets thy tribes Have won from men of science ! Pedantic and poetic scribes For once are in alliance. TO A HUMMING-BIRD IN A GARDEN. 41 Crested Coquette, and Azure Crown, Sun Jewel, Ruby-Throated, With Flaming Topaz, Crimson Down, Are names that may be quoted. Such titles aim to paint the hues That on the darlings glitter, And were we for a week to muse We scarce could light on fitter. Farewell bright bird ! I envy thee, Gay rainbow-tinted rover ; Would that my life, like thine, were free From care till all is over ! THE LAKE. (FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.) Must we for ever to some distant clime Drift through the night despairingly away ? And can we never on the sea of Time Cast anchor for a day ? O Lake ! a year hath past with all its pain, And, by the waves she hoped once more to see, Here, on this stone, I seat myself again, But ask not where is she ? Thus didst thou murmur in thy rocky caves, On their torn flanks thy waters thus did beat, While the gay Zephyr flung thy foaming waves Around her fairy feet. THE LAKE. 43 One summer eve we floated from thy shores, Dost thou recall it ? Not a sound was heard, Save when the measured cadence of our oars The dreamy silence stirred. Then tones more sweet than earth shall ever hear, Sweet tones that never will be heard again, Woke slumbering echoes round the haunted mere That listened to the strain, "O blissful Time ! suspend thy flight, Dear hours, prolong your stay, And let us taste the fleet delight Of this enchanting day. Alas ! too many filled with woe Thy tardiness regret ; For these, outstrip the winds, but oh ! Earth's happy ones forget ! 44 THE LAKE. I ask some moments more, in vain - Time's wings more swiftly fly : ' O rapturous eve/ I sigh, ' remain/- Lo ! night is in the sky. Come, let us love the minutes flee- Love may not long abide ; Time's river knows no ebb, and we Drift onward with the tide." O jealous Time, say, why must hours like these. That thrill the heart with youthful passion's glow, Take wing more quickly on the summer breeze Than dismal hours of woe ? Can we not fix one joyous moment's trace, Must it from earth be cancelled evermore Shall Time each record of our love efface, Refusing to restore ? THE LAKE. 45 O grand Eternity ! O solemn Past ! Ye, whose abyss engulfs our little day, Speak, will ye grant again the bliss, at last, That once ye snatched away ? O Lake beloved, mute caves, and forest green, Whose beauty Time ne'er suffers to depart, Keep fresh the memory of that evening scene, Fair Nature, in thy heart ! Keep it, dear Lake, in sunshine and in storm, In all the varied aspects of thy shore In these dark pines, and rocks of savage form That round thy waters soar. Still let it live in every breeze that sighs, In each soft echo that the hills repeat, In every star that on thy bosom lies With lustre, calm and sweet. 46 THE LAKE. Let night-winds murmur to the reeds her name, Let the faint fragrance that embalms each glade, Let every sound and sight and scent proclaim, " Here, two fond lovers strayed." 47 THE PARDONED SIN. Up the worn steps and through the ivied porch That screened the entrance to an ancient church, A gentle school-boy passed, in earnest thought. His heart was throbbing and his eyes were filled With tears that trembled. Pausing in the nave, He looked around with timid glance and gazed On windows lustrous with the blazoned forms Of saints and martyrs and angelic hosts, And on a priceless miracle of art That o'er the altar hung with mute appeal Christ, bowed to earth beneath a weighty Cross. He sighed; "I also have my Cross to bear," And to the dim confessional drew nigh. 48 THE PARDONED SIN. A white-haired priest, with mild benignant eyes, Beheld him coming, and in gracious tones That oft had wooed the sinner from his sin, Exclaimed : " My son ! if thou dost seek mine aid It waits thine asking. Weep not but lay bare The secret sorrows of thine inmost soul." The boy replied : " My Father ! I have sinned, And am not worthy to be called thy son. Still, if thou wilt, my sad confession hear And grant forgiveness in the name of God." He knelt : with sobs of inarticulate woe He faltered unintelligible words In broken accents, so that he who heard Failed to interpret their significance. In vain he listened patiently ; at length, Loath to confuse the boy, " Dear child," he said, My ears are dull, for I am frail and old, I cannot glean the purport of thy speech : Write it, I pray thee. In the scholar's bag Slung from thy shoulder, there are, doubtless, stored THE PARDONED SIN. 49 A tablet and a pencil. Write I pray." The boy obeyed : and, weeping while he wrote, Traced the brief record of his self-reproach, And meekly gave the tablet to the priest. But lo ! in token that his angel watched ; The simple child's innumerable tears Had blurred and blotted each remorseful line : The words were visible to God alone ! With tears of sympathy, the white-haired priest Perused the baffling and bewildering signs, That told more plainly than the plainest speech The sad, sweet anguish of a contrite heart. Then with a grateful smile, he blessed the Lord, And softly murmured: " Child ! depart in peace. God pardons thee thy penitential tears Have washed away all record of thy sin ! " THE THISTLE. ' A LEGENDARY BALLAD. " Le cceur de V histoire est dans la tradition." 'Twas night ! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall, Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines, a fortress grim and tall. The moon and stars were veiled in clouds and from the Castle's height No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night ; Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round. THE THISTLE. 5 1 The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear ; The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch to cheer; Knight, squire and page, on rush-strewn floors were stretched in sound repose, While spears and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows, And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dream- ing lay, Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray. But in that hour, when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep, In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep, A ghost-like multitude defiled, in silence, from the wood That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood, 52 THE THISTLE. The banner of that spectral host is soiled with mur- derous stains They are the " Tigers of the Sea," 13 the cruel-hearted Danes ! Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand, They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand, Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with carnage strewn, For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known. And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins ! Onward they creep with noiseless tread their treach- erous feet are bare, Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should scare. THE THISTLE. 53 ".Yon moat," they vow, " shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be scaled, And all who hunger for the spoil, with spoil shall be regaled. Press on press on and high in air the Raven Stan- dard wave ; Those drowsy Scots, this night, shall end their sleep within the grave ! " Silent as shadows, on they glide, the gloomy fosse is nigh, " Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord ! its shelving depths are dry. Speed, warriors, speed," but, hark ! a shriek of agonizing pain Bursts from a hundred Danish throats again it rings, again ! Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat, And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet ! 54 THE THISTLE. That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling soul, And, shouting " Arms ! to arms ! " he sped the Castle bell to toll. But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night, Each clansman started from his couch, and armed him for the fight ; The draw -bridge falls, and, side by side, the banded heroes fly To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die ! As eagles on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lo- mond'^ crest Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest ; As lions bound upon their prey or, as the burning tide Sweeps onward with resistless might from some vol- cano's side ; THE THISTLE. 55 So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines, Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes. The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes, They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless blows, Claymore, and battle-axe, and spear were steeped in slaughter's flood, While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood ; And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines ! Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave of Time, Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their crime. 56 THE THISTLE. In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's 1G dauntless race ; And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea, Hath Scotland's honour tarnished been God grant it ne'er may be ! 57 THE SOWER. (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) Peaceful and cool, the twilight grey Draws a dim curtain o'er the day, While in my cottage-porch I lurk And watch the last lone hour of work. The fields around are bathed in dew, And, with emotion filled, I view An old man clothed in rags, who throws The seed amid the channeled rows. His shadowy form % is looming now High o'er the furrows of the plough ; Each motion of his arm betrays A boundless faith in future days. 58 THE SOWER. He stalks along the ample plain, Comes, goes, and flings abroad the grain Unnoted, through the dreamy haze With meditative soul I gaze. At last, the vapours of the night Dilate to heav'n the old man's height, Till every gesture of his hand Seems to my eyes sublimely grand 1 59 GOD'S HEROES. Once, at a battle's close, a soldier met A youthful comrade whom his eyes had missed Amid the dust and tumult of the strife. Flushed with the glow of victory, and proud Of wounds receivecLJn presence of his Chief, He spake in tones of triumph to the boy ; " I did not see thee in the battle's flame ; " The stripling answered : " I was in the smoke.' r Then, with his hand upon his bleeding heart, He closed his eyes, and suddenly fell dead ! So, countless heroes, oft unheeded, fight In Life's grim battle, hidden by the smoke. With patient martyrdom they ply the tasks That God assigns them. Words of sympathy From human lips too seldom cheer their toil, 6o GOD'S HEROES. Or help them to be victors over pain. Few mark their struggles in the crowded world- Few sooth their anguish while they inly bleed And, when they answer to the call of Death, Their names are syllabled on earth no more. 6i A PARABLE. 17 With limbs at rest on the earth's green breast In a dim and solemn wood, A proud form lay, on a summer day, In listless, dreaming mood. A streamlet slow in the brake below Went sadly wailing on, With murmurs wild, like a restless child That seeketh something gone. The Dreamer rose from his vain repose With stern and sullen look, And scornful ire blazed forth like fire, As he cursed the simple brook ; 62 A PARABLE. a Thy murmurs deep disturb my sleep Be still, thou streamlet hoarse ! Small right hast thou of voice, I trow, To tell thy foolish course." The waters stirred, for a spirit heard The spirit of the streams And a voice replied, that softly sighed Like a voice we hear in dreams. " If the sleeper fear my voice to hear, Let him stir each rocky stone, Whose cruel force impedes my course And makes my waters moan." Oft in my heart strange fancies start And a voice in plaintive strain Sings, sadly sings, that earthly things Were shadowed in my brain ; A PARABLE. 6| That wealth and birth on God's free earth, Oft curse the noise and strife Which poor men make, as they strive to break Through the rugged ways of life. The sad voice sings, that ermined kings Dream on in stately halls, With curses deep for their broken sleep When an anguished people calls ; And when sharp stones wake human moans, They hear, but never move, .Nor lend men strength to win at length The liberty they love. THE LAMP OF HERO. (FROM THE FRENCH OF LOUISE ACKERMANN.) When Hero's lover, reckless of the storm, Each night more hungry for his stealthy bliss, Swam the swift channel to the trembling form That waited with a kiss ; Aiamp, with rays that welcomed from afar, Streamed through the darkness, vigilant and bright, As though in Heav'n some large, immortal star Unveiled its throbbing light. The scourging billows strove to blind his eyes, The winds let loose their fury on the air, And the scared sea-gulls shrieked discordant cries, Foreboding death's despair ; THE LAMP OF HERO. 65 But from the summit of the lonely tower The Lamp still streamed above the waters dim And the bold swimmer felt redoubled power Nerve each exhausted limb. As the dark billows and the winds at strife Whelmed in their wrath the love-sick boy of old, So, round humanity the storms of life Since Time was born have rolled. But while each lightning-flash reveals a tomb Which yawns insatiate for each wretch that co wers, In the same dangers, and the same dense gloom The same true Lamp is ours. Through the dull haze it glimmers, dim and pale, The winds and waters struggle but in vain, In clouds of foam the guiding star to veil, For still it gleams again. F 66 THE LAMP OF HERO. And we, with faces lifted to the sky, Filled with fresh hopes, the raging billows cleave, Faint but encouraged by the light on high Our venture to achieve. Pharos of Love ! that in the blackest night Dost guide our course amid the rocks and shoals, O Lamp of Hero ! fail not with thy light To cheer our sinking souls ! AN EASTERN JUDGE. Before a Judge two Arabs came, One to deny and one to claim : And one was young and one was old They differed, like the tales they told. The young man spake : " Nine days have flown, Since the hot sands I crossed alone. My gold meanwhile I left in trust With yon old man, reputed just. My journey o'er, his tent I sought ; He swears I trusted him with naught ! " 68 AN EASTERN JUDGE. " Name," said the Judge, "the sum of gold: And where, I pray thee, was it told ? " "Four score gold pieces did I tell, Beneath a palm-tree, by a well." Then spake the Judge : " Go seek that tree, And hither bid him come to me; But take my seal, that he may know To whom thou biddest him to go." The youth went out into the plain The old man and the Judge remain. An hour passed by and not a word From either of the twain was heard. At length the Judge ; " He cometh not : Dost think the lad hath reached the spot?" AN EASTERN JUDGE. 69 The old man, startled, answered : " No Far o'er the sands the tree doth grow." The Judge spake sternly, like a King; " How know'st where that palm doth spring? For in the desert, near and far, I trow that many palm-trees are." The youth came back and said: " The tree Returned answer none to me." "He hath been here," the Judge did say, "The gold is thine: go now thy way." THE TEST OF LOVE. (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) Be what you may young, old, or rich, or wise If you have never watched with eager eyes An airy footfall on a summer's eve, Or a white veil, perchance, that glimmers by, And, like a meteor in a sombre sky, Seems a bright furrow in your heart to leave ; If it be only from the amorous lay Of some fond bard, who sighs his soul away, You know the summit of all human bliss ; To feel one heart is yours, and yours alone, And, for your sun and moon and stars, to own Two loving eyes that close beneath your kiss ; THE TEST OF LOVE. 7! If you have never waited, sunk in gloom, Beneath the windows of a festal room, When the gay guests were streaming from the ball, To see your idol, brilliant as a star, Blue-eyed and golden-haired, the fairest far, Pass decked with roses from the lamp-lit hall ; If you have never felt a wild distress When hands, not yours, your darling's fingers press, And her heart throbs upon another's breast ; If you have never watched with jealous gaze The wanton licence of the dance's maze And loathed to see her flattered and carressed ; Entranced with ecstasy before unknown If you have never strayed but not alone O'er silent hills, beneath the lime-trees' shade, While countless stars were glowing in the sky And save the birds no living thing was nigh To hear the vows you murmured to a maid ; 72 THE TEST OF LOVE. If some soft hand your hand has never thrilled, If the three words, " I love you," have not filled Your heart with floods of rapture for a day ; If you have ne'er compassionated kings Who deem their crowns and sceptres precious things, While you have love that cannot pass away ; If you have ne'er, when daylight's hours are fled And dreams are floating round your dear one's head, Wept like a child from feeling's fond excess, And called so often on her cherished name That you would scarcely marvel if she came, Like some kind angel, your despair to bless ; If you have never known a woman's glance Stir your dull spirit from its soulless trance Till earth seemed changed to Paradise above ; If you have never felt 'twere sweet to die For the fair child who mocks each pleading sigh You have not drunk the bitter wine of love ! 73 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. (WRITTEN FOR A CHILD.) You ask a story, dearest. Here is one Heard oft amid the peasant homes of France. It was the time when Jesus was a child, And, with the Baptist and his cherished lamb, He wandered forth among the hills and dales In the calm hours that closed a summer eve. And they were glad : the lambkin frisked and played, Or cropped green herbage with its milk-white teeth, While the two cousins gathered wilding flowers, Dipped their bare feet in limpid streams, or culled Ripe crimson berries from full-laden boughs. As thus they rambled peacefully it chanced Two. rustic children met them. These were wroth 74 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. Each with the other, and the stronger held Bound by the feet a white and innocent dove That strove to soar and ever as she strove Was balked and baffled by a spiteful cord. Out spake the weaker lad : " The bird is mine. Why hast thou robbed me ? It was I that snared The silly pigeon and thou hast no right To filch my plaything. Give me back my own." Thereat, his comrade stormed a wilful " No ! Thou shalt not have it ; I will keep the bird." Then the meek Jesus sorrowfully spake : " Lo ! with red blood her slender legs are stained, Her eyes are dim and she is sick to death : How wilt thou find thy pleasure in her pain ? I cannot think thou hast a cruel heart, For thou, like me, art still of tender years ; Too thoughtless, may be. Wherefore loose, I pray, This chafing cord and let the captive fly Home to her callow nestlings that await Her coming and are all agape for food." A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. 75 Then the boy's heart was softened and he said : " Well hast thou spoken and thy pitying tones Have moved my pity more than I can tell. Thy pleading shames me ; I will loose the dove. Would I were like thee ; but whate'er I am, Thou must not think that I am void of ruth." So saying, he unloosed the cord that bound The victim's feet, and " Pretty sufferer, fly," He cried, " fly homeward to thy downy nest In the green woods and feed thy gaping chicks." But, when the other saw the harmless bird Freed from her bonds, he stooped and snatched a stone Up from the roadside, and with deadly aim And fury, hurled it at the joyous dove Which dropped to earth, as lifeless as the stone Her slim throat mangled by the ragged flint. Then, with keen taunts, he flung her at the feet Of Jesus, hissing : " Meddler ! take thy prize And grant the darling leave to soar again I " But the- meek Jesus sadly from the ground 76 A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. Raised the dead bird, and said : " Alas ! poor boy, Thou dost not know the evil thou hast wrought By thy brief passion. God himself alone Can to a lifeless creature life recall." Then, kneeling down, he humbly joined his hands In prayer, and, looking up to heaven with eyes That swam in tears, sighed, " O ! that I were God ! " And once again, " Ah ! would that I were God ! " Scarce had his prayer upfloated, when the dove, Kissed by his hallowed lips, unclosed her eyes, Oped her light wings and clove the liquid air. Awestruck, the children watched ; then, he whose hand Had freed the captive, whispered : " Art thou God ? " And Jesus answered him : " I cannot tell." Then suddenly a rush of nimble wings Whirred, and descending in a golden beam, The dove returned and settled on the brow Of the meek Jesus. While it lingered there, The spell-bound children heard a solemn voice That fell like music on their ears, and cried : A LEGEND OF THE CHILD JESUS. 77 " I am the God of Heaven and He who woke Life from death's sleep is my beloved Son." Then first the Baptist by these tokens knew That the meek Jesus was the Son of God ; And gazing on the twice-born dove, he saw A brown half-circle on her snowy neck Marked newly there, in memory of the wound Healed by the kisses of the Holy Child. THE TIME WILL COME. RONDEAU. The time will come, when thou and I Shall meet once more before we die ; The links of passion's broken chain Shall be united once again, In coming days for which we sigh. And thus the sorrows I defy That cloud the sunshine of our sky, For Hope still sings her sweet refrain, The time will come. O that the hours which loiter by Would match my swift desire, and fly : THE TIME WILL COME. 79 But fond impatience I restrain, Sure that Love's trust is not in vain, And that in answer to my cry, The time will come. 8o THE FUNERAL OF A VILLAGE GIRL. (FROM THE FRENCH OF JULIEN-AUGUSTE BRIZEUX.) * When fair Louise, half child, half woman, died Like some frail blossom crushed by wind and rain r Her bier was followed by no mourning train. One priest alone accompanied, who sighed Brief prayers, to which in accents soft and low, A boy-attendant answered, full of woe. Louise was poor : in death, our common lot, The rich have honours which the poor have not. A simple cross of wood, a faded pall, These were her funeral honours, this was all ; And when the sexton from the cottage room Conveyed her light young body to the tomb, A bell tolled faintly, as if loath to say So sweet a maiden had been called away. THE FUNERAL OF A VILLAGE GIRL. 8 1 'Twas thus she died and thus, by hill and dale, 'Mid broom whose fragrance floated on the gale, And past green cornfields, at the dawn of day, The scant procession humbly took its way. April had lately burst upon the earth In all the glory that attends her birth, And tenderly upon the passing bier She snowed her blossoms and she dropped her tear. Flowers, pink and white, arrayed the hawthorn now, While starry buds were trembling on each bough, Sweet scents and harmonies the air caressed And every bird was warbling in its nest. 82 BROTHERLY LOVE ; OR, THE SITE OF KING SOLOMON'S TEMPLE. There is a sweet traditionary tale, (Dear to each brother of the Mystic Tie) Which, though recording but a simple deed, A simple deed and yet how full of love I would that men might hear and take to heart. That tale's clear echo, like some lute that thrills 'Mid lordlier instruments, hath floated down Borne, like a perfume, on the breath of Time, Prom the dim age of Solomon the King. And even now its music is not dead, Nor can it die, so long as human hearts Feel the quick pulse of brotherhood leap high. BROTHERLY LOVE. 83 The harvest moon was shining on the grain That waved all golden in the fields around The stately city of Jerusalem. There a few acres all the wealth they owned Two brothers dwelt together, most unlike In outward form and aspect, but the same In deep unfailing tenderness of soul. Stalwart and strong, one brother drove the plough, Or plied the sickle with untiring arm. The while his fragile comrade seemed to droop Beneath the heat and burden of the day As one not fitted for the toils of life. Well knowing this, the elder brother rose At dead of night and woke his sleeping wife And said : " Dear heart, my brother is not strong : 111 hath he borne the burden of the day, Reaped the full grain, and bound the yellow sheaves. I will arise and while my brother sleeps Will of my shocks take here and there a sheaf 84 BROTHERLY LOVE. At randomthat he may not note the loss And add the grain, thus pilfered, to his store ; And God well knoweth that we shall not miss The sheaves devoted to a brother's need." So, the man rose up in the dead of night And, as his great heart prompted, so he did. Now, while the younger pondered on his bed, Unwitting of his brother's gracious deed, Kind thoughts, like Angels, visited his soul And thus he spake, communing with himself, " Scant is my harvest but I am alone, And thus it haps my harvest is not scant, Nor have I need to lay up store on earth, For death treads closely on the heels of life ! Seeing that these things are so, let me do What good I may, before I travel hence And be no more. My brother has a wife And babes to work for and he is not rich From sunrise unto sunset though he toils. BROTHERLY LOVE. 85 I will arise and while my brother sleeps, Will of my shocks take here and there a sheaf, And add the grain, thus pilfered, to his store ', For 'tis not fitting that my share should be Equal to his, who hath more need than I." So he, too, rose up in the dead of night And, as his great heart prompted, so he did. But all the time he wrought that loving deed, He trod the field with feather-footed care, And paused at times, and listened while the sheaves Shook in his arms and every grain that dropped Left his face pallid as the moon's white ray. So, like a man with guilt upon his soul, Full of vain fears he wrought his task, and then Stole, like a shadow, to his lonely bed, And slept the sleep that cometh to the good. And thus these two, moved by the self-same love, Each on the other nightly did bestow 86 BROTHERLY LOVE. The kindly boon, much wondering that his shocks Did shew no loss, though robbed of many sheaves. At length one night while tenderly the Moon Looked down from Heav'n on their unselfish love The brothers met ; the arms of both were filled With golden sheaves and then they understood The riddle that they could not read before. The simple tale, (for, to the neighbors round Each brother fondly told his brother's deed), Soon through the garrulous streets was noised abroad Until 'twas whispered in the Royal Court And reached the ears of Solomon the King. Its pathos stole, like music, to his heart And stirred the fountain of delicious tears And thus he spake : " The ground whereon that deed Was wrought, henceforth is consecrated earth ; BROTHERLY LOVE. 87 For, surely, it is sanctified by love, The love that loveth to do good by stealth. I, therefore, leagued with Hiram, King of Tyre, Who hews me cedar-trees on Lebanon And aided also by the Widow's Son, Cunning to work in silver and in gold, Will on that field erect the House of God Exceedingly magnifical TS and high Because I ween that nowhere in the world A site more holy shall I ever find." So it was done according to his word : And God's own House was builded on the spot Where those two brothers in the moonlight met, Each with the golden sheaves within his arms. 88 THE FLOWERS AND THE SOUL, (IN ANSWER TO A POEM BY MlSS CHRISTINA RoSS*ETTI, ENTITLED " "BEAUTY is VAIN.") The lily is tall and stately, A peerless flower of light, And the rose enthralls our senses With blossoms of red and white ; But I turn from both to a maiden, Who daily and hourly grows Fairer than any lily And sweeter than any rose. Alas ! for the rose and the lily, Their bloom and their fragrant breath ! Both flower and leaf shall moulder In dust and eternal death : THE FLOWERS AND THE SOUL. 89 But when earth hath shrouded in darkness The body of her I love, Her soul shall live with the angels In Paradise above. 9 o THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. " 0, call back yesterday, bid time return" SHAKESPEARE. Poor faded flower, Thy pale dead form hath caused the tears to start And stirred the waters of my lonely heart With strange angelic power. Long years ago Ere life's glad sunshine languished into shade, Thou wast the fragrant offering of a maid Fair as the world can show. Let me call up The Past's dim ghost by memory's potent spell : One pearl at least is left, for which 'tis well To drain grief's bitter cup ! THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 9! 'Twas summer eve, And she and I, fair maiden and fond boy, Together wandered full of such deep joy As age can ne'er retrieve. The cherished scene Gleams through a mist of tears and memory sees The velvet turf, the patriarchal trees, The woodland cool and green. A silver lake Before us slumbered ; herds of timid deer With horns thrown back, came trooping to the mere From many a leafy brake : With large bright eyes And ears erect, they marked our coming feet, One moment paused, then vanished in retreat Swift as a falcon flies. 9 2 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. A fairy boat Rocked on the ripples, captive to a bough ; I loosed its chain and oared the shallop's prow Through lily-leaves afloat. Eve's golden rays Streamed o'er our path; my sweet companion steered Straight for a greenly-wooded isle that peered Dimly through crimson haze. We did not speak : When bliss is infinite, what need of speech ? Our keel soon grated on the pebbly beach That fringed a sheltered creek. So strayed we on, Through shadowy aisles of close- embracing trees Whose restless foliage murmured like the seas, A slumberous monotone. THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 93 Green twinkling leaves Lit by slant sunbeams tremulously made Quaint shifting arabesques of light and shade Such as nought earthly weaves. The Zephyr's sigh And hum of insect-swarms alone were heard, Save when some squirrel leapt, or nestling bird Sang vespers from on high. With silent joy We stood and gazed and listened. There was nought To mar the spell by one intrusive thought That might our dreams annoy. Each sense seemed drowned In waves of happiness ; I turned to tell My soul's deep bliss to her who knew it well Her looks perused the ground : 94 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. There, flowering wild 'Mid emerald leaves and buds with ruby tips, Crimson and dewy as her own sweet lips, A fragrant blossom smiled. With loving heed I stooped to pluck it from its verdant nook, When she, with playfully capricious look. Stooped and forestalled the deed Then, arch coquette, She flashed upon me her bewildering eyes In saucy triumph and displayed the prize, And then our fingers met : Her soft white hand Sent a keen shiver through my tingling frame Each vein seemed glowing with a subtle flame That each pulsation fanned. THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 95 I took the flower, I caught her hand and clasped it in my own And murmured vows in fond impassioned tone, Accordant with the hour. She did not check The heaving tides of passion's fiery flood, But the quick current of her tell-tale blood Rushed over face and neck : The faint pink flush Of dainty sea-shell, or deep-bosomed rose, Rich sunset hues asleep on virgin snows Scarce typify her blush. And then she sighed ; The small white teeth within her lips apart Gleamed like the rain-drops that some bud's red heart Caressing, half doth hide. 96 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. She did not move, Her eyes half closed in languor's dim eclipse I pressed upon the blossom of her lips The first sweet kiss of love. Ah ! me ! Ah ! me ! Our fondest j oys endure but for a day, While pains make nest-homes of our hearts and stay. And so 'twill ever be. That maid is gone ! She, whose rare nature formed my soul's delight, Long since to kindred angels took her flight And I am left alone ! But there is balm Still for my woe ; the memory of her smiles Back to youth's morning-land my heart beguiles And brings elysian calm. THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 97 And thus I vow, Though colour, beauty, fragrance, all are fled From the pale flower that lies before me dead, I hold it sacred now : And I would fling The queenliest blooms aside that scent the breeze In odorous isles of blue Pacific seas, For this poor withered thing ! H 9 8 SONG. (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.) If you have really nought to say, Why come so often in my way ? Or why those smiles upon me shed Smiles that would turn a monarch's head ? If you have really nought to say, Why come so often in my way ? If you would have me understand No secret, wherefore press my hand ? I know that as you hither strayed, Sweet dreams about your fancy played : Why therefore clasp my hand, unless Some riddle you would have me guess ? SONG. 99 If you would really have me go Far from your sight, why tempt me so ? Filled with both rapture and despair, I tremble when I see you there : Then prythee, cease to tempt me so, If you would really have me go ! IOO THE KEEPER'S SON. (FROM THE FRENCH OF ANDR THKURIET.) Black is the night and as though in fight Their arms the trees of the forest wave, And not a sound can be heard around, But rain that rushes and winds that rave. The doors are shut in yon woodland hut : An aged sire and his fearless sons, Three poachers keen, with a bloodhound lean Crouch in the thicket and load their guns. Within the gloom of that hut's low room An infant sleeps by the grandam's bed, While a maiden fair near the slumbering pair Sits at a spindle with drooping head. THE KEEPER'S SON. 101 A flickering lamp through the midnight damp Illumes her cheek with a feeble light, Aiding to trace a sweet flower-like face And curls that stray o'er a neck snow-white. Fair is her form, but her bosom warm Fitfully heaves like the ocean's breast : Is it fright or care, or the stifling air, Or waiting, that causes her wild unrest ? The hinges weak of the frail door creak And a rainy squall from the outer gloom Driveth a boy, the fair maiden's joy, Into the shadowy silent room. Clasped in her arms, he rebukes alarms, And cries : " Sweet Alice, what need of fright ? " She pleadeth, " Oh ! speak soft and low: My grandam's slumber is ever light ! " 102 THE KEEPER'S SON. Their hearts beat high with ecstasy And the maiden wipes, while she softly speaks, The raindrops cold that like tears have rolled Down her boy-lover's white brow and cheeks. " My love is wild for thee, sweet child ! " He cried. She murmurs, " Eve, morn and noon For thee I sigh ; but, my darling, why Wast thou the son of the Keeper born ? For, higher far than our forests are, A barrier rises to part us twain : And I dread his ire should my jealous sire Learn that I love and am loved again." He soothed her fears and he kissed the tears That overflowed from her soft brown eyes ; But while deep joy thrilleth maid and boy Day swiftly follows the night that flies. THE KEEPER S SON. IO3 Far off they hear shrill chanticleer " Bird, if I owned thee, thou soon hadst died," The lover speaks, while the morning breaks, And the maiden opens the casement wide. The storm is o'er and the blythe larks soar Aloft like specks in the clear blue sky : One more sweet kiss full of passion's bliss, Now till eve cometh again, li Good-bye." Swift as a deer, with no sense of fear, The youthful lover then lightly broke Through the moorland's maze, over which thick haze Swam like a quivering wreath of smoke. But the poachers bold, wet, famished, cold, With empty game-bags behind their backs, Were homeward beating a slow retreat Fur and feather alike each lacks. 104 THE KEEPER'S SON. A light branch stirred and their quick ears heard ; " Shoot ! " the same instant exclaimed the sire : Three shots ring out and three voices shout : "The game has fallen before our fire." Deep bayed the hound with a doleful sound, The sire pressed onward, then shrank aghast 'Mid the brushwood dyed with a crimson tide The son of the Keeper had breathed his last ! IPHIGENIA AT AULIS. (EURIPIDES.) " The speech of Iphigenia is remarkable for its pathos; and we seem to feel now at least that we are certainly reading the very words of Eu- ripides, free from any interpolations." Paley's Euripides, vol. III., p. 443. Had I the voice of Orpheus, O my Sire, And could I charm the stones to follow me, Beguiling hearers sweetly to my will, Words I would use but now my only spell Lies in my tears, for tears are all I have ! I hold no suppliant bough, but touch thy knees With this frail body which she bore for thee : I pray thee, slay me not before my time, For sweet it is to look upon the light, But thou wouldst thrust me down to nether gloom. I was the first to call thee Father : thou 106 IPHIGENIA AT AULIS. Didst call me first thy child and I did cling First to thy knees and shower upon thy lips Sweet, loving kisses which thy lips returned. And thou wouldst say, " My darling, shall I live To see thee blooming in some chieftain's halls A joyous bride, an honour to thy sire ? " And I would answer, toying with thy beard, Which now my hand doth fondly still caress : " My Father, shall it be, when thou art old That I shall cherish thee within my home, Repaying thus the nurture of my youth ? " I do remember me of all these words, But thou forgetting them, dost seek my death. Spare me I pray, by Pelops, by thy sire, And by my mother too, who at my birth Felt pangs less keen than those my death will cause What part or lot have I in Helen's loves, Or why should Paris ruin also me ? Look on me, Father ! grant one look, one kiss, That if I fail to move thee by my words, I may in death, at least remember these. IPHIGENIA AT AULIS. 107 My brother ! weak I fear me, is thine aid Still, weep with me, with me beseech our sire To spare thy sister there may be a sense Of sorrow even in an infant's mind. Behold, how silently he prays to thee, My Father. Pity me and spare my life. Two beings dear to thee are at thy feet, He, still a nursling I, a maiden grown. One last brief plea [ urge 'tis very sweet To live and look upon the light ; but death Is darkness they are mad who pray to die. Life is more precious than the noblest death ! io8 AFTER THE BATTLE. 19 Once on a time, it matters little when On English ground, it matters little where A fight was fought upon a summer day When skies were blue and waving grass was green. The wild flower, fashioned by the Almighty Hand To be a perfumed goblet for the dew, Felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood And shrinking from the horror, drooped and died. Many an insect that derives its hue From harmless leaves and tender-bladed herbs Was stained anew that day by dying men And marked its wanderings with unnatural track. The painted butterfly that soared from earth Bore blood upon the edges of its wings. AFTER THE BATTLE. I 09 The stream ran red. The trampled soil became A quagmire whence from sullen pools that formed In prints of human feet and horses' hoofs The one prevailing hue of stagnant blood Still lowered and glimmered at the cloudless sun. The lonely moon upon the battle-ground Shone brightly oft, while stars kept mournful watch, And winds from every quarter of the earth Blew o'er it, ere the traces of the fight Were worn away. They lurked and lingered long In trivial signs surviving. Nature far Above the evil passions of mankind, Her old serenity recovered soon And smiled upon the guilty battle-ground As she had done when it was innocent. The lark sang high above it ; swallows skimmed And dipped and flitted gaily to and fro. The shadows of the flying clouds pursued Each other swiftly over grass and corn And field and woodland, over roof and spire Of peaceful towns embosomed among trees, 110 AFTER THE BATTLE. Into the glowing distance, far away Upon the borders of the earth and sky Where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown And reaped and harvested ; the restless stream That once was red with carnage, turned a mill ; Men whistled at the plough, or tossed the hay, And bands of gleaners gathered up the grain. In sunny pastures sheep and oxen browsed ; Boys whooped and called to scare the pilfering birds ; Smoke rose from cottage chimneys ; Sabbath bells Rang with sweet chimes ; old people lived and died ; The timid creatures of the field and grove, The simple blossoms of the garden-plot, Grew up and perished in their destined terms And all amid the blood-steeped battle-ground Where thousands upon thousands had been slain. But there were deep green patches in the corn, That peasants gazed upon at first with awe. Year after year those patches reappeared And children knew that men and horses lay In mouldering heaps beneath each fertile spot. AFTER THE BATTLE. Ill The village hind who ploughed that teeming soil Shrank from the large worms that abounded there ; The bounteous sheaves it never failed to yield Were called the " Battle Sheaves " and set apart : And no one knew a " Battle Sheaf" to be Borne in the last load at a Harvest Home. For many a year each furrow that was turned Revealed some crumbling record of the fight, And by the roadside there were wounded trees And scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall Where deadly struggles erst had taken place, And trampled spots, where not a blade would grow. For many a year, no smiling village girl Would dress her bosom or adorn her hair With fragrant blossoms from that Field of Death : And, when the seasons oft had come and gone, The crimson berries growing there were thought To leave too deep a stain upon the hands Of those that plucked them. TI2 THE MADONNA'S ISLE. Embosomed on the deep there lay A green Elysian isle, With curving shore and crystal bay Whose waters glowed awhile, Crimson and golden, as the day Sent down a parting smile. It seemed to sleep, a holy spot Amid the sleepless sea, Where guilt and grief might be forgot, And man from passion free Might cease the sole, black, sullying blot On God's fair earth to be. THE MADONNA'S ISLE. 113 There, like some phantom that we meet In visions of the night, The tenant of that calm retreat, Arrayed in stainless white, Strayed, lost in meditation sweet, A virgin pure and bright : Bright as the dreams of childhood's sleep Which waft the soul to Heaven, Pure as the tears that angels weep When man with God hath striven And sinned dread sins, perchance too deep, Too dark to be forgiven ! She knelt immaculately fair, With love-illumined face, And like some lute the voice of prayer Breathed spells around the place, Up floating through the summer air To reach the throne of grace, i H4 THE MADONNA'S ISLE. But hark ! hoarse shouts her prayer arrest, Her piteous face is pale ! For lo ! to that green Eden-nest A boat with sun-lit sail Airily skims o'er ocean's breast, Like sea-bird in the gale. Its crew are rovers bold and free, Men stained with human gore, And when they marked with savage glee The Presence on the shore, They bounded madly o'er the sea With lengthened sweep of oar. Rude threats they mutter as they row Against that Hallowed One ; They scoff and jeer, they do not know The Mother of God's Son. Heaven shield their helpless prey, for oh ! Compassion they have none. With eyes upraised, that maiden mild In speechless woe implored Quick succour from a sinless Child. Her offspring, but her Lord : It came and shrieks of terror wild Burst from the pirate horde ! Fiercely, Euroclydon awoke And lashed each angry wave, Far-echoing peals of thunder spoke In tones that shook the brave, While shadowy depths asunder broke In many a yawning grave. Men struggled with unearthly might And gasped with gurgling breath, And when the lightning in its flight Glared on the wreck beneath, Just God ! it was a ghastly sight To see their ghastly death ! 1 1 6 THE MADONNA'S ISLE. The gentle moon hath charms to still The murmurs of the main, As mothers at their own sweet will Can soothe an infant's pain ; That night she hushed them not until That ruthless band was slain : And when the billows' vengeful might Had swept those sinners o'er, Oh ! calmly then her cloudless light The gentle moon did pour Upon the Virgin clothed in white Still kneeling on the shore ! MELANCHOLIA. (From the French of Victor Hugo.) Listen ! A woman with a wasted face, Thin, wan, a wond'ring infant in her arms, Is sobbing in the middle of the street. A mob, intent on hearing, crowds around ; Her children's mouths are hungry, she has nought, No bread, no money, scarce a bed of straw. Her husband drinks the income of her toil ; She weeps and passes. When this spectre flits, Tell me, my brothers, who among the crowd Has seen the bottom of her aching heart ? What hear ye always ? Peals of laughter loud. Yon sweet-browed girl perchance once dared to claim Some right to happiness and joy and love, Il8 MELANCHOLIA. But ah ! poor orphan maid, she is alone. Alone ! What matters it ? Her heart is brave, She has a needle and with that she gains, (Working the live-long day, the live-long night) A little bread, a lodging, and some clothes. At eve she dreamily beholds the stars, And in the summer near the housetop sings : But winter comes, in truth 'tis very cold In her bare garret, up those broken stairs. The days are short, her labour needs a lamp, But oil is dear, like coal and wood and bread. Oh ! Youth, Life's spring and morning, winter's prey ! Soon Hunger thrusts his paw within her room, Unhooks a faded mantle, pawns her watch, And the small ring that once her mother owned. Now all is sold, the struggling child still toils With honest hands ; but, when she lies awake, Want, tempting demon, whispers in her ear. Work fails. Alas ! how often this is seen. What now is left ? One day, oh ! fatal hour, MELANCHOLIA. 119 She sells her mother's picture and she weeps. She coughs, she shivers, must she die, O God, At sixteen years ? Behold to baffle Death, It came to pass one morning that the maid Plunged in the gulf, and now her cheek is red Not with the blush of modesty, but shame. Alas ! her life henceforward must be tears, And children, cruel in their innocence, With joyous cries pursue her in the street. Poor wretched girl ! she trails a silken robe ; She sings, she laughs, oh ! hapless soul at bay ! And the harsh world, with its denouncing voice, Which blasts a woman and bows down a man, Shrieks loudly : " Is it thou ? Vile wretch, begone I " I2O A WILD FLOWER. (From the French of Gustave Lemoine.) A gleaner brown, a rustic flower, Loved a rich peasant's only son ; But she could bring no other dower Than the fond heart that he had won. She wept. The father said at last : " Go, reap yon barley field of mine If, when three days from now have passed The task is done, my boy is thine. Come, listen to my mournful strain, A simple story, sweet and sad, This tale of one who loved in vain Was told me by a harvest lad. A WILD FLOWER. 121 The father spoke, the listening maid With joy and love nigh swooned away : Forthwith she seized a reaper's blade And deftly plied it, night and day. When, faint and wearied, in despair, She felt her yearning strength depart She drew fresh courage from her prayer. And prayer was prompted by her heart. Come, listen to my mournful strain, A simple story, sweet and sad, This tale of one who loved in vain Was told me by a harvest lad. A daisy in her path delays The tender glances of her eye : "Price of my happiness," she says, " Poor harmless blossom, thou must die ! " But while it perished in its youth, It looked so pitifully mild, 122 A WILD FLOWER. That the fond maiden wept for ruth She, too, was but a blossom wild. Come, listen to my mournful strain, A simple story, sweet and sad, This tale of one who loved in vain Was told me by a harvest lad. The third day passed, with twilight shade The rich man to his barley came ; Breathless and pale, there stood the maid, Her eyes triumphantly aflame ! 11 1 did but jest, my girl," he cried, "Ten crowns thy toil will amply pay." Alas ! one more frail blossom died, Cut to the heart, ere close of day ! Such is the story, sad and sweet, I heard amid the golden grain : The maidens sing it when they meet, And mingle weeping with the strain. I2 3 BID ME NOT FORGET. Forget thee ! Can I fail to prize The purity and grace That tempt me still to idolize Thy perfect form and face ? No ! though thou biddest me depart In mute despair to pine, My faithful and forgiving heart Thine image shall enshrine. When other smiling lips are nigh, I dream of thine alone ; I hear thy murmur in each sigh, Thy music in each tone. I seem to love thee more and more Each hour since last we met 124 BID ME NOT FORGET. Forbid me longer to adore. But bid me not forget ! In vain I struggle to conceal My secret from each eye ; The hopeless passion that I feel Alas ! can never die. Farewell ! thou hast no cause to fear That, in the coming days, My lips shall vex thy timid ear With love's too glowing phrase. I2 5 A WOMAN'S DREAM. (From the French of Madame Desbordes-Valmore.) " Wilt thou begin thy life once more, Woman, whose hair will soon be white ? Would'st thou thy childhood, as of yore Flushed by its guardian angel's light ? Rocked in a cradle to repose. Wilt thou thy mother's kisses greet ? " " Yes ! my lost Eden's gates unclose ! Ah yes, my God ! It was so sweet ! " " Trained by thy father's tender care, Will thou love purity and truth, Diffusing round thee everywhere The fragrant innocence of youth ? Wilt thou to life's enchanting prime Fly back with joy on pinion fleet? " 126 A WOMAN'S DREAM. "Would it might last a longer time ! Ah yes, my God ! It was so sweet ! " " Wilt thou thine ignorance resume, And spell life's alphabet anew? When hopes, like stars, thy path illume. Canst thou forget the storms that blew? Wouldst thou have back thy blossoms gay, The doves that fluttered to thy call ? " "All but the gravestones by the way O gracious God ! restore them all ! " " Have then whate'er thy heart may crave- Thy doves, thy blossoms, and thy song Time's stream with melancholy wave Will reach the Vale of Tears ere long ! Love thou hast felt to Love return Too frail its madness to defy." " Must I again with passion burn ? Nay ! pitying Saviour ! let me die." 127 THE STORY OF ST. ARNULPH. Matt. xxii. 37-39. " Thou sha.lt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it. Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." An earnest man, in long-forgotten years, Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears Of pining multitudes who sought his aid When death their homesteads threatened to invade, Blest with one only son, a gentle youth, Trained in the fear of God and love of Truth, He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire Disease and death to baffle like his sire. But the boy musing gloomily apart. Avowed at length the impulse of his heart : 128 THE STORY OF ST. ARNULPH. " To some calm cloister, father, I would go,. And there serve God," His father answered, " No Thou doest well to wish to seive the Lord By thine whole life imperfectly adored ; But choose thy work amid the world and then Thou canst serve God and bless thy fellow-men." The boy still yearning to achieve his plan, Spake " It were better to serve God than man." " Pray God for help," the father said, " and He Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee." So Arnulph to his chamber went and prayed That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid ; And in a vision of the silent night, A phantom stood before him clothed in white A form for earth too beautiful and grand, With crimson roses blooming in each hand. And Arnulph asked the Angel, " Are these flowers Fresh culled from Eden's amaranthine bowers?" He answered, " Nay : these offerings are from all THE STORY OF ST. ARNULPH* 129 Whom God the doers of His will doth call." 11 And can I offer nothing ? " sighed the boy ; " May I not also serve the Lord with joy ? " " Surely thou mayst," replied that Seraph fair, " In my left hand, behold thy gift I bear." Then Arnulph said, " I pray thee tell me why In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie, But in thy right they breathe a gracious smell That long within the haunted sense doth dwell? " The angel answered with pathetic tone, " In my left hand I bear the gifts alone Of those who worship God the Sire above, But for His children testify no love ; While these sweet roses which shall ne'er grow wan, Come from the lovers of both God and man." The vision faded. Arnulph cried, " Alas ! My soul was blind ! " And so it came to pass That the changed boy a cloister entered not, But with God's working-men took part and lot. 130 THE DEAF GIRL. When childhood's laughing tones reveal Deep blessedness of heart, I feign the joy I long to feel And check the sobs that start ; Shrouding the agony that lies Within my dim, tear-blinded eyes, Because on earth eternally The door of sound is closed for me, And man man knoweth not the key ! .In solitude I love to dream Of what I may not hear, And muse how sweet a sound must seem, A human voice, how dear ! THE HEAP GIRL. 131 Alas ! that dreams which soothe and bless Should be so full of nothingness ! I wake and all is mystery : The door of sound is closed for me, And man man knoweth not the key ! I shall not long be here on earth, My mother's eyes are wet : She felt, e'en when she gave me birth, My star would quickly set. I grow less earthly day by day, Then tell me why should death delay ? God calls me home, God sets me free : The door of sound is closed for me, But oh ! it shall not always be. My form is frail, my sight is dim, Life's tide is ebbing fast : My failing senses seem to swim And all will soon be past ! 132 THE DEAF GIRL. Peace, peace ! I hear sweet angel-tones Singing in Heaven round the thrones ; One last brief prayer on bended knee The door of sound is oped for me, But God, God only, held the key ! 133 REMEMBRANCE. (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) " It was in the beginning of this period of silence that he wrote one of the most beautiful of his poems, 'Le Souvenir.' He had visited the forest of Fontainebleau in the month of September, 1840, and a few months later he put into verse the reminiscences which were recalled by the scene of his old love for George Sand. The whole poem is most touching. But after it was published, he was filled with regret that he had given it to the world." North American Review, Septem- ber, 1878. sacred ground, in wandering back to thee I thought to suffer though I hoped to weep ; Thou dearest grave unhonoured save by me, Where hallowed memories sleep. What find ye in this solitude to dread, My friends ? Why draw me by the hand away ? When habit grown so old and sweet, hath led My footsteps here to stray. 134 REMEMBRANCE. I see the uplands and the blooming heath, The silvery pathway o'er the noiseless sand, The walks still redolent of lovers' breath, Where hand was clasped in hand. The mountain gorge's careless tracks I mark, Familiar murmurs once again I hear From ancient pine trees, crowned with verdure dark, That soothed my boyhood's ear. Here is the greenwood where my youth once more Sings like a choir of birds upon a tree ; Fair moorland where my mistress strayed of yore Didst thou not look for me ? Nay let them flow, these welcome, blissful tears, That from a heart still bleeding take their rise, And let the mist that veils long-buried years Eefresh my aching eyes. REMEMBRANCE. 135 These woods are witness that I once was blest, Through them no echoes of a dirge shall roll ; Proud is this forest in its peaceful rest And proud too is my soul. With bitter cries let some bereaved one rave. Who kneels despairing by a comrade's tomb, Here all breathes life the flowerets of the grave Here cannot bud or bloom. Behold ! the moon is rising o'er the glade : Thy glance still trembles, lovely queen of night ! But soon, dispelling the horizon's shade, Thine orb shall glow with light. As all the perfumes of the vanished day Rise from the earth still moistened with the dew, So from my chastened soul beneath thy ray Old love is born anew. 136 REMEMBRANCE. Where are the sorrows gone that made me pale And left me prematurely old with pain ? I grow, while gazing on this friendly vale, A joyous child again. Oh ! tender might of Time oh ! fleeting hours, Ye stanch each tear and stifle each regret, And, in your pity, on our faded flowers Your feet'are never set. I bless thee Time, kind angel of relief ; I had not thought love's wound could e'er conceal Anguish so keen, or that a victim's grief Could be so sweet to feel. Far be from me each time-worn thought and phrase That oft in heartless epitaphs are read, Wherewith the man who never loved, displays His feelings for the dead. REMEMBRANCE. 137 Dante, thou saidst that in the hour of woe Remembered happiness is sorrow's curse ; What grief was thine that thus could overflow In that embittered verse ? Must we forget that ever in the skies, E'en when our night is darkest, light appears ? Didst thou spurn sorrow, thou, whose mournful eyes Poured forth immortal tears ? No ! by yon moon whose beams illume my glance, That vaunted blasphemy was not thy creed ; Remembered happiness on earth perchance May happiness exceed. Heaven on my head its lightnings now may fling, This memory cannot from my heart be torn ; To this, though wrecked by tempests, I will cling Like mariner forlorn. 138 REMEMBRANCE. And oft I murmur : " At this time and place I loved one day and I was loved again ; Time has no power the picture to efface, While life and thought remain." 139 PERHAPS. (From the French of Gustave Nadaud.) To horse ! To horse ! I mount with speed, For we must travel far, my steed, To find repose : Thy master's brain is crazed with care And we must gallop apace, but where ? Who knows ? Oh ! how that golden-haired coquette Dreamed she had caught me in the net Of her disdain ! The Siren is so fair, so cold, That the same kingdom cannot hold TJs twain. I4O PERHAPS. Around her castle- walls each day My steed and I with spirits gay Were wont to roam : Yon path familiar grown to each We now must shun or we should reach Her home. Those faithless gods to which I bowed, Her charms that lured me made her proud ; Her hair, her eyes Blue as the cloudless heaven above, Her lips, that seemed to breathe of love In sighs. At length my heart hath burst its chain, And as my freedom I regain I curse her pride, And to my lips, that day by day Murmured " I love thee," now I say, " Ye lied." PERHAPS. 141 Shame on the heartless wayward elf Who will not tenderly herself My passion share, But jealously refuses still To let me wander at my will Elsewhere ! On, on, my steed ! 'tis just the hour That, in the gloaming, to her bower i Her slave would bring : Now from the hateful spot I fly, And with no tear-drop in my eye, I sing. But what is here ? The velvet lawn, Her home, amid the shade withdrawn It must be so O thoughtless man ! O heedless brute ! That failed to recognize which route To go! 142 PERHAPS. Turn back ! but no stand still ! for she Is smiling at the casement. See ! Her finger taps. 'Twere churlish not to say " Good-bye ; " When daylight dawns, my steed and I Afar from Circe's bower will fly, Perhaps. 143 THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART. " In Italy they told little Mozart that it was his bewitched ring that accomplished all his feats on the piano, until he took off the ring and quietly put it on the desk." Temple Bar, for May, 1886, p. 50. " We remember Mozart's being obliged to take off his ring, while performing at Naples. The poetical and music-loving public of that land of song could only account for his divine genius by the belief that a spirit inhabited the jewel on his finger." Foreign Review, No. VII. Strange musical wizard ! the spells of thine art Can ne'er but with life from our memory depart ; The notes are now hushed, but their echo still rolls, Like a slow-ebbing tide, o'er our passionate souls. Fair Naples, thou know'st, is the home of sweet song, And thither earth's minstrels all lovingly throng ; Inspired are the pilgrims who visit this shrine, But when have we known inspiration like thine ? 144 THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART. The kings of this world never heard on their thrones Such rare modulations, such jubilant tones ; The music of dreams is less marvellous far Than the chords of thy ravishing harmonies are. With thy nostrils dilated, and tremulous lips, Thine eyes lit with glory that nought can eclipse, Thou seemest some Angel, and multitudes trace God's breath passing shadow-like over thy face. Where learnt thy weird fingers each exquisite strain That floods our quick spirits with pleasure or pain ? Who taught thee to wake from mute ivory keys Low moans like deep thunder, sighs soft as the breeze ? Our poets have chronicled oft in their rhyme Fantastic old legends of madness and crime, Of human souls bartered for gold, might, or fame, In compact with One whom we shudder to name. THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART. 145 Is it thus thou hast gained supernatural skill ? Hast thou mortgaged thy soul to the Spirit of 111 ? Away with thy harmony, Wizard but no Those tones are seraphic, it cannot be so. There are beings we know of celestial birth, Commissioned to haunt this dim planet of earth , Their silver-winged legions float ever in air, Our eyes may not see them, but still they are there Perchance some bright minister, now at thy side, To music's keen pathos thy fingers may guide ; For, oh ! thy rapt strains in their tenderness seem Like snatches of angel-song heard in a dream. See ! see ! on thy finger there flashes a gem Its radiance is fit for a king's diadem : Cast off that ring, Wizard ! Some musical sprite Dwells shrined in that jewel's ineffable light. L 146 THE NEAPOLITANS TO MOZART. Now, strike the still chords ! Sweeter murmurs are heard Like the whispers of love, or the song of a bird. Our tears fall, like rain, Stranger, give us thy prayers Men have entertained Angels ere now unawares ! THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. (FROM THE PROSE OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER.) Once on a time, it was the New Year's Night, An old man at his window stood and gazed Upon the myriad-eyed and changeless Heaven, And on the pure white earth whereon there sighed No human soul so hopeless as his own. In mute despair he gazed upon his grave ! The snows of age and not the green of youth Shrouded its blackness : and that woeful man Out of his whole rich life now thither brought Nought but a load of follies, sins, and cares ; A wasted frame, a desolated heart, And lone old age embittered with remorse. 148 THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. And now like ghosts the bright days of his youth Hovered about him : and he stood once more At Life's dread cross-road by his father's side. Its right-hand pathway led by sunny tracks Of virtue to a Paradise of peace Full of glad harvests and of glorious light ; But the left strayed, through labyrinths of vice, Down to a dismal, poison-dropping cave, Where serpents darted mid the dark damp night. Ah ! now those serpents writhed about his breast, Those poisoned droppings paralyzed his tongue, He learnt the error of his choice too late ! Crushed by despair he sobbed aloud to Heaven " Give back my youth, O God ! and oh ! my Sire, Place me once more upon that branching road, That once again my pathway I may choose." In vain his father and his youth were gone ! THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. 149 He saw strange lights that danced above the marsh And died within the grave-yard and he sighed, t( Those were my sinful days." He watched a star Shoot from the skies and glimmer to its fall To be extinguished on the gloomy earth ; " That star is I," he groaned, and fell Remorse Gnawed at his wounds again with serpent-fangs. Suddenly, music for the new-born year Like distant church-song floated from a tower. His soul was stirred he gazed around the earth And mused upon the playmates of his youth, Who, happier now and holier far than he, Were teachers of the world, world-honoured men, Fathers of loving children and he cried : " I too, my Sire, might now have happy been, Thy NEW YEAR'S bidding had I erst fulfilled ! " He bowed his head hot, penitential tears Streamed on the snow again he softly sighed, Hopeless, unconscious almost, " Come again ! O my lost Youth, come back ! " 150 THE NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. It came again For on that strange and solemn New Year's Night He had but dreamed. His youth was left him still His errors only had not been a dream. With grateful soul he poured his thanks to God, That he was spared still young to turn aside From Sin's foul ways and follow the fair track That leads the pilgrim to a land of peace. Turn then aside with him, thou wayward youth, Who standest doubting on the road of Life ! This ghastly dream was pictured for thy sake. If e'er, grown old, in anguish thou shouldst cry, " Come back once more O vanished Youth, come back ! " The golden years can never more return. IF, DARLING, WITH MELODIOUS LAY. (From the French of Victor Wilder.) If, darling, with melodious lay In woodlands depths thou wert a bird, I fain would be the slender spray That thrills where'er thy voice is heard. Or if thou wert a crimson flower That bares its heart to heav'n above, Then, like a golden bee each hour I'd sip the honey of thy love. Wert thou, my love, a stately swan That floats upon some glassy lake, I'd be the waveless mere whereon No breeze thy cradled calm should break. Wert thou some star, when clouds are dark, A sentry o'er the world asleep, I then would be a poor frail bark For thee to pilot o'er the deep. '52 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. (From the French of Victorien Sardou.) A secret I wish to disclose, A mystery's heart to lay bare : We will take for example a Rose And a Lily with virginal air. The Lily said : " Exquisite Rose ! If I dared, but I fear to propose," Then the Rose murmured, " Pray do not fear ; One must dare, a little, my dear ! " And this is the way that the Rose And the Lily their feelings disclose : The Lily and Rose in this way A subtle discretion display. The Lily then said, " I suppose, LE MUGUET ET LA ROSE. (Par Victorian Sordou.) Je vais vous debrouiller la chose, Et devoiler ce grand secret. Voici, par exemple, une rose ; Une rose et un muguet. Le muguet ditj " O belle rose, Si j'osais parler, mais je n'ose ! " La rose dit tout bas : " Mon Dieu ! II faut pourtant oser un peu ! " Voila la faon dont on cause Entre le muguet et la rose, Et dont on joue an plus discret Entre la rose et le muguet. Le muguet poursuit, je suppose, 154 THE LILY AND T HE ROSE. Her speech is abridged by design, " I would love, O most exquisite Rose, To mingle my perfume with thine ! " The Rose answered, ll Nobody knows Good reason your wish to oppose ; But if such a wish is sincere, Come closer, a little, my dear ! " Thus matters soon came to a close Between the coy Lily and Hose : The Rose and the Lily this way United to form a bouquet. LE MUQUET ET LA ROSE. 155 Pour abreger les entretiens ; " Que j'aimerais, charmante rose, A mler mes parfums aux tiens ! " La rose dit : " C'est une chose A laquelle rien ne s'oppose ! Mais, pour satisfaire a ce voeu, II faut vous rapprocher un peu ! " Et viola comment tout chose, Entre le muguet et la rose, Finit par un joli bouquet Fait de la rose et du muguet. '56 SONNET. (From the French of Fdlix Arvers.) m There is a secret shrined within my soul, A deathless love, in one brief moment born, A hopeless passion that I must control And hide from her to whom its vows are sworn. Yes ! I must pass unnoticed by her eyes, Close by her side, consumed by lonely thought, And shrouding still my secret I shall die, By naught rewarded having sued for naught. But she though God has dower'd her with a sweet And tender nature knows not that her feet Lure me to follow her where'er they stray : Too pure to dream her love can be desired Were she to read these lines she has inspired, 11 Who is this lady ? " she would calmly say ! '57 THE CHAPEL OF THE DEAD MONKS. A Capuchin convent, Near Nineveh's mound, Stands high o'er a chapel Scooped out underground. Wax tapers illume it By night and by day ; Dead monks are its tenants, In ghastly array. Erect in tall niches The grave they survive, Each robed in the habit He wore when alive. 158 THE CHAPEL OF THE DEAD MONKS. They stand there like spectres Gaunt statues of flesh, That cunning embalmers Have toiled to keep fresh. Each monk, young or old, has A scroll in his hand With red-lettered legend That all understand : " I whom thou beholdest, Was once like to thee, And such as I am, thou Hereafter shalt be." One night at refection The monks sat around, And talked of pale ghosts in The crypt underground. THE CHAPEL OF THE DEAD MONKS, 159 Outspake a young brother, And deeply he sighed, 11 I will seek our loved Prior, Who recently died. And kneeling before him, Confessing each sin, Christ's pardon through faith from His lips I may win." " Oh ! go not ! " his comrades Besought in alarm ; " The Spirits of Evil Are plotting thy harm ! " " I fear not," he answered, " God's arm will control The fiends that oft harass A penitent soul." l6o THE CHAPEL OF THE DEAD MONKS. He went and they listened With feelings of dread, His footsteps descended The stair to the dead. They heard a door open, They heard a door close, And trembled like leaves at The thoughts that arose. Soon, piercing abruptly The tremulous air, A shriek of wild terror Rang up from the stair : The monks hurried downwards With tapers alight, And found their young brother Convulsed with affright. THE CHAPEL OF THE DEAD MONKS. l6l Quick climbing the steps while He felt for the rail, The hem of his long robe Had caught by a nail. Then, terror of darkness The victim misled To deem he was clutched in The grasp of the Dead. He died on the morrow Secure from decay, His corpse fills a niche in The chapel to-day. 162 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. (From the Provencal of Jasmin.) I. Chill was our sky : the swallows all had fled, A feeble glimmer by the sun was shed, The silent fields were lying bleak and bare, When All Saints' Day drew nigh : And from each palsied bough on high The yellow leaves condemned to die Dropped, eddying slowly through the air. II. One evening from our peaceful town, While countless stars were gazing down, A brother and a sister strayed A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. 163 In melancholy mood, And when before a Cross they stood They innocently prayed. Bathed in the moonlight's purity Abel and Rose long bent the knee ; Then like some organ in a fane The mournful voices of the twain Poured forth two prayers that blent in one And soared to Heaven in unison : " Mother of Christ ! benignant Maid ! Father at home lies sick with pain : Oh ! send thine angel to his aid, So shall our mother smile again And we thy children, will adore And love thee, sweetest Virgin, more and more." The Virgin could not slight the prayer: Scarce had they reached their home, When from a door that opened there, A woman, youthful still and fair, With joy beheld them come : " Poor darlings ! Death hath turned aside 164 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. The fever is subdued And since your father hath not died, Show God, dear lambs ! your gratitude." So kneeling on the bare, rude planks Of a poor garret they gave thanks, Beside a bed, with serge o'erspread, Whereon with cool and painless brow, Hilaire, the honest father lay A soldier in his youthful day, A humble mason now. III. The morrow dawned with smiling gleam, The sunlight once again Was soon illuming with its beam Each patched-up window pane, When Abel came with noiseless tread, Stole forward to his father's bed And oped the curtain by his head. He newly waked beheld his son with joy A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. 165 And cried : "I looked for thee remain, my boy. Our home is poor : my toil procures us food : God for your sakes has spared me. God is good. For thou art young, not fifteen quite, Thou knowest how to read and write, But thou art coy and grave and prone to dream : Still life has work for everyone I deem. I know that thou art delicate and frail, Less strong than comely ; and thine arms would fail To smite the stone with sinews hale : But our Collector wise and kind, Notes that thy manners are refined, And to befriend thee seems inclined. Go then and do his bidding ; but no sloth And no conceit, my boy, leave that to fools, Writer and artisan are workmen, both Pens, hammers are their tools. Mind like the body, wears our life away Enough, dear child ! I trust that thou, Dressed in black cloth, wilt ne'er allow False pride to scorn thy father's mean array." 1 66 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. Abel's blue eyes were lifted up with joy Fond kisses passed between the man and boy, Mother and sister also had their share : Next morn the stripling to his patron went And for four days that followed, their content Was boundless as the air. IV. Alas ! the pleasures of the poor are brief! The Sabbath morning brought a mandate stern : " Hilaire to-morrow must to work return. If he be absent, in that case Another hand will take his place. By order of the Chief." The volley from a cannon fired No deeper anguish doles Than by this message was inspired Within four wretched souls. " I'm cured," the father cries, And struggles hard to rise A WEEK IN A BOY ? S LIFE. 167 But falls back feebly if he works, he dies ! A week of rest is wanted : ah ! poor friend ! Thy life and death upon thy toil depend. All four were mute through Abel's heart A thought like lightning seemed to dart. It dried the tears within his eyes And lent the boy a nobler mien : Strength in each muscle seemed to rise, While blushes on his cheek were seen. Then forth he fared, and quickly went To the rough foreman's tenement. Soon he returned : his heart no more By sore distress was wrung. Ne'er had he looked so gay before, Smiles in his eyes and honey on his tongue. " Rest, father rest ! Thou hast a week of grace. Rest from thy toil thy wonted vigour gain A friend that loves thee will supply the place Which thou may'st still retain." l68 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. V. Saved by a friend ! So, friends still love and feel ! Would this were certain in our world of woes : To-morrow's light the secret will reveal ; Good sons exist but friends ? alas ! who knows ? 'Tis Monday morn : our Abel drudges hard Not at the desk but in the builder's yard. His sire was wrong : for though he seems to be So frail, his work is as the work of three : Deftly he crumbles up the lime And kneads the mortar for each wall, Light as a bird, he loves to climb, Till the pale workmen tremble for his fall. He walks a dizzy platform with the best, Smiles as he mounts and smiles when he alights : Here, there and everywhere no task he slights, But toils to save his father and is blest. And thus his honest comrades there, Who guessed the secret of the boy, Watched while the sweat uncurled his sunny hair And clapped their hands with tearful joy. A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. 169 VI. What bliss for Abel when at close of day The workmen homeward press : He quickly doffs his spattered dress And dons his black array. Then, three fond traitors all conspire To cheat the unsuspecting sire, Who hails his son's arrival from the desk : Abe prates of bills and contracts, in burlesque, And with an artful wink replies When'er his conscious mother winks her eyes ! So passed three days : the patient quits his bed : Life seems more sweet an unfamiliar boon Thursday, his malady has fled : Friday, he gaily quits the house at noon. But Friday ! God created thee for woe ! Cheered by the sunshine's welcome heat, Hilaire speeds onward, vexed at seeming slow : He yearns his friend and substitute to greet He longs his name to know. 1 70 A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. VII. And now, the house is nigh : but no one stands on high r And yet the bell for dinner has not rung : Great Heaven ! what crowds are at the building's base Foreman, mechanics, neighbours, old and young, But why ? A man has fall'n : Oh ! piteous case ! His friend, perchance : his soul is on the rack. He runs the workmen shudder at the sight And strive to keep him back. He elbows through, with frenzied might : Oh ! helpless sire oh ! horror wild The friend that saved him is his darling child ! He finds him toppled from a scaffold's height, Stretched, almost dead, upon the bloody ground : And while the father shrieks for fright, To aid his son all sadly cluster round. Alas ! the boy who dies, Past aiding, only sighs : " Master ! I could not quite work out my week One day is lost but in poor mother's name A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE. 171 Thy pity for my father I bespeak." Men wept to hear the fond pathetic claim. At length the sufferer turns his eyes Upon his father, bends his face Towards him for a moment's space, Petitioning a last embrace ; Fondles his hand and smiling softly, dies ! VIII. They kept his place for lone Hilaire- They proffered goodly pay, Alas ! too late ! his only care Was soon to pass away. No gold his sorrow could efface No skill his life could save He went, to take another place, Beside his darling's grave. 172 THE ORDER OF RELEASE." Suggested by the picture of John Everett Millais, R.A.) Thanks for thy picture, Millais, thanks ! It stirs each feeling heart And as a perfect idyl ranks, A master-piece of art. A youthful Highlander, who fought On red Culloden's field And deeds of noble daring wrought, Was forced at length to yield : And now within a lonesome cell The wounded captive lies, Doomed, he forebodes, for long to dwell Afar from dearest ties. Hark ! 'tis the Warder's measured stride : He halts, and turns a key, The ponderous oak door backward glides, What shall the captive see ? He lifts his head, prepared for death, Half weary of his life, The sight that greets him chokes his breath, It is his brave young wife ! One moment and two hearts have met That scarce had hoped to meet : The Clansman's eyes with tears are wet, Unutterably sweet. Barefooted with an infant child Now slumb'ring on her breast, O'er hill and dale, through wood and wild, That wife hath onward press'd. 174 "THE ORDER OF RELEASE." Bright blossoms gathered by the way To charm her bairnie's eye, Down from his slackened fingers stray And on the pavement lie. Their dog has travelled by her side With grave, unwonted pace, And oft inquisitively eyed The woman's earnest face. But now her toilsome tramp is o'er, Her sorrows all are past ; She clasps her Allan safe once more- And triumph comes at last : For the same arm that closely folds The wounded form in peace, Forth to the soldier-jailor holds The " Order of Release." "THE ORDER OF RELEASE." 175 Poor Allan on her bosom weeps, Well nigh too weak to stand ; The faithful collie upward leaps And licks his master's hand. And soon those four shall quit the cell Together, free to roam O'er flood and fell, again to dwell Within their Highland home. Thanks for thy picture, Millais, thanks ! It stirs each feeling heart, And as a perfect idyl ranks, A miracle of art ! i 7 6 A FANTASY. (From the French of Gdrard de Nerval.) There is an air that haunts me till I slight The witching strains of Weber and Mozart ; An air that floods with languorous delight The secret chambers of my lonely heart. Each time I listen to that music old I seem to live two hundred years ago, 'Tis Louis Treize who reigns, and I behold Green uplands golden in the sunset's glow. Then, a tall palace, grey with granite towers And countless window-panes that redly glare, Girt by broad parks through which 'mid bloom of flowers A glassy river wanders here and there. A FANTASY. 177 And then, a lady opes a casement high Pale, with dark eyes, in antique robes arrayed, One whom I loved in centuries gone by Whose image never from my soul can fade ! i 7 8 FORGET ME NOT. (From the French of Alfred de Musset.) Remember me, when Morn with trembling light Opes her enchanted palace to the Sun ; Remember me, when silver-mantled Night In silence passes like a pensive nun. Whene'er with ecstasy thy bosom heaves, Or dreams beguile thee in the summer eves, Then from the woodland lone Hear a low-whispered tone, Forget me not ! Remember me, when unrelenting Fate Hath forced us two for evermore to part, When years of exile leave me desolate, And sorrow blights this fond despairing heart FORGET ME NOT. 179 Think of my hapless love, my last farewell : Absence and time true passion cannot quell, And while my heart still beats, Each throb for thee repeats, Forget me not ! Remember me, when 'neath the chilly tomb My weary heart is wrapt in slumber deep ; Remember me, when pale blue flowerets bloom O'er the green turf that shrouds my dreamless sleep. I shall not see thee, but from realms above My soul shall watch thee with a sister's love, And oft when none are nigh, A voice at night shall sigh, Forget me not ! iSo THE SOLITAKY GUEST. " A curious dinner was lately given at one of the principal Parisian restaurants. Thirteen covers had been laid ; but, to the surprise of the waiters, a single guest made his appearance. The mystery was after- wards explained. Many years before, thirteen friends (amongst whom were Alfred de Musset and Th^ophile Gautier), met at the restaurant in question, and agreed to dine together every year, on the same day and in the same place. The solitary guest present was M. Rubelles, a painter of some repute, aged 84." Canadian Illustrated Neios, Dec. 6, At Paris in a sumptuous room The lamps were lit one Autumn night ; The air was fragrant with perfume And all was luxury and light. A princely feast the table graced, Rich wines flashed eager to be poured, And velvet-cushioned seats were placed For thirteen guests around the board. A liveried crowd, with noiseless foot, Like shadows flitted to and fro, THE SOLITARY GUEST. l8l Just touched a flower or turned a fruit, Each to the other whispering low, il Est-ce que ces messieurs vont venir ? Tis time the banquet should begin." Hush ! The door opens : they are here ! An old man feebly totters in. He took his place and bowed his face In mute but reverential prayer ; Then glanced all round as though he found A phantom in each vacant chair. The lackeys gazed appalled, amazed With awe, that momently increased They could not guess the wretchedness That racked the Master of the Feast. Full forty years have passed away, Since in that same luxurious shrine Poets and painters young and gay, Thirteen in number, met to dine ; 1 82 THE SOLITARY GUEST. And when the festal hours had sped, They vowed each coming year to meet, And, as each brother joined the dead, Still to retain his ghost a seat. Here sat de Musset, Murger there, And here Sainte-Beuve, but wherefor dwell On the great names of those who were ? Whose names are still a potent spell. Last year, two met to meet no more Since then, bright Theophile has gone ; Eubelles, whose years are eighty-four, Survives the last, and dines alone ! He sits and dreams ; his eyes are blind To flowers and fruits and dainty fare ; His soul is with the Twelve his mind Is busied with each empty chair. Once, only once, he called for wine : They filled his glass and then he said THE SOLITARY GUEST. 183 In hollow tones, " O comrades mine, I drink the memory of the Dead ! " Ah ! who can tell the thoughts that thronged The lonely chambers of his brain, As gazing round he almost longed His final home at once to gain. Enough, my friends ! The heaviest stone Fate flings at Man's devoted head Is, when grey-haired he sits alone, And dreams of all his comrades dead ! i8 4 JACQUES. In Paris at the dawn of light, To work two masons hied ; And mounting to a scaffold's height, Their labour briskly plied. Soon their frail foothold in the air Cracked, threatening to give way ; Too weak the weight of two to bear- For one a trembling stay. "Jacques," cried his mate, "I have a wife And children three alive." " Farewell ! " said Jacques, and gave his life A sacrifice for. five. JACQUES. 185 O hero ! known as " Jacques " to Fame, That deed's unselfish love In full, we trust, shall cause thy name To be inscribed Above ! i86 THE MAIDEN OF OTAHEITE. (Suggested by a poem of Victor Hugo's.) " And wilt thou fly me ? Must thy fickle sail Soon waft thee hence before the favouring gale ? From my quick senses I would fain conceal The nameless trifles which the truth reveal ; My jealous eyes confirm my boding heart I cannot doubt that thou wilt soon depart ! This very eve while roaming o'er the wet And shell-strewn beach, where we so oft have met, (Thou dost remember well the Giant Cave There we would sit and hear old Ocean rave) I saw thy ship, at anchor in the bay, Clean bright and trim, as for some holiday ; I watched thy sailors folding many a tent, THE MAIDEN OF OTAHEITE. 187 I heard their shouts with songs and laughter blent, I guessed the cause of all their glee and crept Within our cave, where bitterly I wept ! Why quit our isle ? Around thine island home Doth Ocean more magnificently foam ? Are the blue skies more exquisitely clear. Is there less sorrow in thy clime than here ? Are the flowers fairer, or the trees more grand, Do brighter shells and pebbles deck the strand, Or if by sickness thou shouldst stricken be, Will far-off friends more fondly wait on thee ? Hast thou forgotten when the zephyr bore Thy weary vessel to our welcome shore ? I gazed upon thee as upon some star And thou didst call me to the woods afar ; 'Twas the first time I saw thy smiling eyes, And yet I came obedient to thy cries. Then I was beautiful but beauty's flower Fades, droops and withers in one stormy hour, And so with me salt bitter tears, in truth, 1 88 THE MAIDEN OF OTAHEITE. Have marred my comeliness, O stranger youth ! But if thou stayest, I will bloom again, As flowers revive in sunshine after rain. Stay then, sweet stranger bid me not farewell Tales of thy tender mother thou shalt tell, And sing the ballads of thy native land That thou hast taught me half to understand. To thee I yield myself to thee who art My being's breath, the life-blood of my heart Who fillest all my days whose form of light Haunts my rapt soul in visions of the night Whose very life is so involved with mine That my last hour must be the same as thine ! Alas ! Thou goest ; on thy natal hills Perchance some virgin for thy coming thrills ; 'Tis well : still deign, O master, deign to take Thy slave along with thee ; for thy dear sake E'en to thy bride I will submissive prove, If thy delight be centred in her love. THE MAIDEN OF OTAHEITE. 189 Far from my birthplace and my parents old, Whose fond affection never can be told ; Far from the woods where scared by no alarms, When thou didst call, I sank into thy arms ; Far from my flowers and palm-trees I may sigh, But here, by thee deserted, I shall die ! If ever thou didst love me in the past, Hear now my prayer it is the first and last Frown not upon me thou wast wont to smile Fly not without me to thy cherished isle, Lest my sad ghost,^when death hath stilled my he art, Should hover round thee, wheresoe'er thou art ! " Day dawned and reddened the receding sails Of a great ship, far distant out at sea. Her playmates sought the maiden in her tent, But never more beneath the forest boughs, Or on the shore of ocean was she seen. The gentle girl no longer wept but still She was not with the stranger, out at sea I UNE FEMME. (Translated from the German of Heine by Gerard de Nerval.) Us s'aimaient tous deux tendrement ; elle etait vol- euse, et lui filon. Lorsqu'il cornmettait quelque coup de main, elle se j etait sur le lit, et riait. Le jour se passait en joies et en bombances, la nuit elle^reposait sur sa poitrine. Lorsqu'on le mena en prison, elle se mit a la fentre, et riait. II lui ecrit : " Oh ! reviens a moi, je soupire apres ta presence, je t'appelle du fond du coeur et je languis." Lorsqu' elle re^ut la lettre, elle secoua la tte, et riait, Vers six heures du matin il fut pendu, a sept heures on le jeta dans la fosse; mais elle, une heure apres, buvait du vin rouge, et riait. A WOMAN. (Translated from the French of Gerard de Nerval.) They loved each other, in joy or grief : He was a sharper, and she, a thief. At each new tale of her lover's craft She fell on her pillow and gaily laughed. All day, they revelled with mirth and jest ; All night, she slumbered upon his breast. They dragged him to jail like a creature daft She stood at the window and gaily laughed. He wrote her a letter : " Oh ! come to me : I sigh for thy presence ; I pine for thee." She read each word of the ill-scrawled draft Then shook her head and still gaily laughed. 192 A WOMAN. At six, he was hanged in the sight of Heaven His body was flung in a ditch, at seven And at eight in the morning, his mistress quaffed A bumper of wine and still gaily laughed. 193 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. Oh ! know ye why the aspen leaves so tremulously sigh When through the burning summer noon no breeze is heard on high, When the green canopies that crown the woodlands are at rest, And gladden faint wayfaring men with shadows calm and blest ? In the dread hour when God's own Son upon the Cross was nailed, The fierce red splendour of the sun in midnight gloom was veiled, Earth's bosom heaved, and girt around with darkness deep and still 194 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. Men bowed, like frail wind-shaken reeds, before God's mighty will. With dim presentiment of woe, each beast concealed his form, And shrank within his cavern-home, as though beneath a storm ; No bird-wing fluttered in the grove, or floated through the air, And Nature's heart had ceased to beat, wrung deeply by despair, Save that the shrouded trees and flowers still mur- mured low in thought, And wailing told of deeds of blood and justice set at nought, Of bigot priests and traitor hearts and faith for silver bought. The cedar groves on Lebanon a dirge- like music made, And dark as night athwart the hills was flung their giant shade ; While softly from a weeping tree, the tree of Babylon, A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. 195 A voice in lonely whisper sighed, " 'Tis finished He is gone ! " Then deeply down she hung her boughs within Euphrates' stream And ever dreameth of His death a life-enduring dream. Calmly beneath the eye of heaven the glowing vine- yards slept, The vintner watched the big bright tears that from the branches wept, And when the purple clusters dropped and the new wine was prest, Mindful he named it " Tears of Christ," and still that name is blest. But soon a vapour round the Mount arose with frag- grant flow, Breathed from the very soul of Love compassionating Woe, 196 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. By the night-blooming violet to cool the burning brain Of Him whose thorn-encircled brow throbbed wildly in its pain. Mournfully spake the cypress then, " My branches I tUldi will wave In memory of this awful hour for ever by the grave ; " And through the sultry dimness passed a gently-wafted breath, As to the Cross an Angel moved, stern messenger of death ; A sad voice groaned : " My God ! my God ! why hast thou me forsaken ? " And all the trees and flowers with fear and agony were shaken. The Aspen shook not : she alone, a proud unpitying tree, Stood tearless, motionless beside the Mount of Cal- vary, A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. 197 And thus outspake that haughty one : " What reck we of thy pain ? Why should we weep ? We trees and flowers are free from sinful stain : Soon will my sisters cease to pine this hour will soon be o'er A bright epiphany of joy shall beam for evermore." Then Death's dark Angel took the cup, red with the Saviour's blood, And at the cold proud Aspen's root poured forth the mystic flood, And spake strange words, and by those words the miserable tree Was cursed, and every leaf was doomed a quivering leaf to be ; And till that old, old curse be dead, her branches cannot rest, But still she feareth, trembleth still, when all is calm and blest. 198 A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. Scorn not the tale ! Those thoughts were born within a child-like heart, E'en as the tears that in our eyes so oft unbidden start Born like the strains that gush from out the forest- warbler's breast, That soft or shrill are bird-song still and may not be represt. Then scoff not at the simple tale, nor deem the legend wild, It was not woven that the ears of men might be be- guiled, But that men's eyes might trace the form of Truth in Fiction's stream And read a world-old, God-framed law foreshadowed in a dream. Slowly ' tis learnt by heart, although by memory quickly caught Faintly 'tis writ in tears upon the tablets of the thought A DREAM ABOUT THE ASPEN. 199 Still, still that law of exile lives the ban of Heaven above That " they who shut Love out shall be in turn shut out from Love." 200 A LESSON OF MERCY. Beneath a palm-tree by a clear cool spring God's Prophet, Mahomet, lay slumbering, Till roused by chance, he saw before him stand A foeman, Durther scimitar in hand. The chieftain bade the startled sleeper rise ; And with a flame of triumph in his eyes, 4 { Who now can save thee, Mahomet ? " he cried. " God," said the Prophet, " God, my friend and guide." Awe-struck the Arab dropped his naked sword, Which, grasped by Mahomet, defied its lord : And, " Who can save thee now thy blade is won ? " Exclaimed the Prophet. Durther answered, " None ! " Then spake the victor : " Though thy hands are red With guiltless blood unmercifully shed, I spare thy life, I give thee back thy steel, Henceforth, compassion for the helpless feel." And thus the twain, unyielding foes of yore, Clasped hands in token that their feud was o'er. 201 THE EVANGELIST. (From the French of Francois Coppe"e.) Alone with Peter, Jesus chanced to stray Near to Gennesaret one summer day, 'Twas noon : the 'sun was blazing in the sky, When at a wretched cabin's door hard by, They saw the widow of a fisherman Draped in dark robes, with features pale and wan Checking the teardrops (that she fain would weep), To spin her flax and rock her babe asleep. Not far away, concealed by fig-trees green The Master and His friend beheld, unseen. A poor old man, soon destined for the dead. Poising an earthen pitcher on his head, Passed by the hut and spake to her who span ; 2O2 THE EVANGELIST. " Woman ! I now am bearing to a man Who lives in yonder hamlet, distant far For me so old, the milk within this jar : But, without aid, I fear me that to-day I am too weak to earn my scanty pay." The widow rose, without a word or sigh, And in a moment laid her distaff by, Left the babe wailing in her poor abode And with the beggar's pitcher took the road. Then Peter murmured, " Master it is true That good to others all who can should do. But is she right to leave her child and task, For the first comer who her aid may ask ? That beggar, doubtless, could have found elsewhere Some idle passer-by his jar to bear." But Jesus answered, c> Of this truth be sure, That when the poor take pity on the poor, THE EVANGELIST. 203 My Father guards the cots wherein they dwell : I trow the fisher's widow hath done well." When he had borne his witness thus, the Lord Sat humbly down upon a bench of board : Then, with blest hands and looks divinely mild, He plied the distaff and he rocked the child ; And when at last the infant's eyes were shut, He signed to Peter and they left the hut. The widow, tired and heated with the glare. Came home, and knew an angel had been there : For, though she failed to guess by whom 'twas done, Her babe was lulled to rest, her flax was spun ! 204 THE FLIGHT. (From the French of Th^ophile Gautier.) KADIDJA The glimmer of the moonbeams pale Fades in the starless sky ; Secure beneath night's gloomy veil, Come, let us fly ! AHMED. Dost dare thy brothers thus deceive, Nor dread their ruthless ire ? Canst thou for me thus tearless leave Thy hoary-headed sire ? KADIDJA. What matters scorn or curse to me ? All dangers I defy ! THE FLIGHT. 205 My soul doth draw its life from thee Come, let us fly ! AHMED. A ghastly sweat bedews my brow Forebodingly I feel In my pierced bosom even now Their sabres' icy steel. KADIDJA. My mare, amidst the desert born, With winds in speed can vie ; O'er sandy plains and fields of corn, Come, let us fly ! AHMED. There is no shade of tent or tree Within this scorching land ; Where'er I turn my gaze I see Illimitable sand. 2O6 THE FLIGHT. KADIDJA. Fear not, thy Bride is provident, When weary, thou shalt lie Beneath her tresses' dusky tent Come, let us fly ! AHMED. What if we wander from the track, By false mirage beguiled ; The well's sweet water we shall lack, And perish in the wild ! KADIDJA. Mine eyes are filled with tears of bliss : When every well is dry, Tears from mine eyelids thou shalt kiss- Come, let us fly ! 20 7 THE KING AND THE PEASANT. " Verily I say unto you, that a rich man shall hardly enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God." Neic Testament. Once, at the self-same point of time, Two mortals passed from earth : One was a King of caste sublime, But base the other's birth : And each had led a stainless life Amid this sinful planet's strife. Upward the spirits took their flight Enfranchised and elate, Till soon they reached the realms of light And paused at Eden's gate, Where, waiting them, with joy they see The Fisherman of Galilee. 208 THE KING AND THE PEASANT. He oped the Gate, one lustrous stone, And ushered in the King, While the poor peasant, left alone, Heard songs of welcoming And strains of harps, divinely sweet, Poured forth the Royal Guest to greet. The music ceased, the Heavenly Guide Flung back the Gate again And bade the peasant at his side Join the seraphic train ; But, strange to say, no Angels sang, No harps through Heaven symphonious rang ! " O Saint revered ! " the peasant cried, " Why chant no choirs for me As for yon Monarch in his pride ? Am I less dear than he ? Can aught but equity have birth Here, in high Heaven, as on the earth ? " THE KING AND THE PEASANT. 209 11 My Son," the Saint replied, " thou art As dear as kingly clay ; But men like thee, of lowly heart, Come hither every day While Dives at the Gate appears Once only in a hundred years ! " 210 DELIVERED. (From the Swedish of A. A. Grafstrom.) The night was chilly home Gunnar sped With bark from the pine-trees torn : Fain would he mix it with flour for bread, But flour there is none in his lowly shed, In his barn not a grain of corn. Two pale thin children, with looks of woe, To welcome their father run : " Some bread, dear Father, we hunger so, A crumb or two in thy love bestow." "God pity you I have none." " When Mother was borne on the rude black bier, And her coffin was downward cast DELIVERED. 211 Into a pit in the churchyard drear, A loaf you gave us, 'twas wet with a tear, Say, Father, was that the last ? " " My Children ! to-day I can give you nought, But God will allay your sorrow ; In calm meek trust should His grace be sought, He will soon send aid of His kind forethought, Perhaps we will bake to-morrow ! " He snatched his harp from the mossy wall What magic is in its strains ! For bread those starved ones no longer call, And tears from their pale cheeks cease to fall As the melody soothes their pains. He turned his face that would else betray The tokens of anguish deep, And he played them some music so wildly gay That the children danced and night wore away, Till wearied they fell asleep. 212 DELIVERED. Then he prayed by the pallet, whereon the twain Lay sleeping with tranquil breath : u Save them, O Friend of the Poor, from pain ! " God listened, they never awoke again, The Deliverer came it was Death ! 213 TO NINON. (FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.) "J'aientendu vanter, et par de iemmes de beaucoup d'esprit, une piece du recueil de M. Alfred de Musset intitule ; A Ninon. Cette piece eneffetest un chef-d'oeuvre de subtilite sentimentale." Cuvil- lier-Fleury Etudes Litttraires. If I should dare my passion to reveal, What would your answer be, blue eyed brunette ? You know what pain Love's victims ever feel ; E'en you your pity cannot all conceal Still, you would doubtless make me feel regret . Were I to say that silent I have pined Six weary months with all a lover's woe, Ninon, your careless subtlety of mind May, like a witch, my secret have divined, And you, perchance would answer me, " I know." 214 TO NINON. Were I the pleasing madness to confess That makes me, shadow-like, your steps pursue, (A look of sweet incredulous distress Ninon you know enhances loveliness), Your lips perchance would murmur, " Is it true ? " Were I to tell you that my tongue can name Each airy syllable you spoke last night, (Ninon, you know your glances, when they blame, Change eyes of azure into eyes of flame), Your wrath perchance would drive me from your sight. Were I to tell you that on bended knee Each night I pray, despairing all the while, (Ninon, you know that when you smile, a bee In your red lips a blossom well might see), Were I to tell you, you perchance would smile. TO NINON. 215 But I refrain ; in silence seated near Your beauty by the lamplight, I adore I breathe your fragrance and your voice I hear, But you will find no cause to be severe, Though all my looks you doubtingly explore. I dwell within a region of romance At eve, your songs are all on earth I heed ; Your hands with harmony my soul entrance, Or in the joyous whirlwind of the dance I feel your lithe form tremble like a. reed. When envious night has forced me to depart And all your charms are ravished from my view, Quick through my brain a thousand memories dart And like some miser, I unlock my heart, A treasured casket filled alone for you. I love but coldly I can still reply ; I love the secret I alone can tell ; 2l6 TO NINON. Sweet is the secret, dear each stifled sigh, For I have sworn to love, though hopelessly, Not without bliss I see you : it is well. I was not born for happiness supreme, With you to live and in your arms to die, E'en my despair to teach me this would seem ; Still, if I told you of my passion's dream, Who knows, adored one, what you might reply ? 217 IN FUTURO. ) " The Dutch traders at Fort Orange, now Albany, had supplied the Iroquois with firearms." Parkman's Jesuits in North America, p. 211. ( 8 ) " Enfin ces ames laches au lieu de se sacrifier en braves soldats de J.C., abandonnerent nos 17 Francois, sautant qui d'un cote", qui de 1'autre par- dessus les mechanics pallissades.'' Dollier de Casson, p. 147. (') " Ils avoient beau enrager ; il ne pouvoient se venger; c'est pourquoi ils ddputerent un canot pour aller querir 500 Guerriers qui e'toient aux Isles de Richelieu, et qui les attendoient, afin d'emporter tout d'un coup cequ'il y avail de Fran$ois dans le Canada, et de les abolir, ainsi qu'il en avoient con- jure la ruine." Dollier de Casson, p. 146. ( 10 ) Besides muskets, the French had heavy musketoons of large calibre, which, scattering scraps of lead and iron among the throng of savages, often maimed several of them at one discharge." Parkman's Old Regime in Canada, p. 79- (11) < u n d e ces 40 hurons nomme' Louis arriva ici le se juin tout effare", et dit que nos 17 Francois e"taient morts,mais qu'ils avoient tant tue de gens que les ennemis se servoient de leurs corps pour monter et passer par-dessus les palissades du Fort oti ils etaient." Dollier de Casson, p. 150. ( 12 ) " On peut dire que ce grand combat a sauve le pays, qui sans cela etoit rafle et perdu, suivant la creance commune." Dollier de Casson, p . 151 . " To the colony this glorious disaster proved a salvation. The Iroquois had had fighting enongh. If seventeen Frenchmen, four Algonquins, and one Huron, behind a picket fence, could hold seven hundred warriors at bay so long, what might they expect from many such, fighting behind walls of stone ?" Parkman's Old R6gimein Canada, p. 82. " The self-devotedness of Daulac and his brave men was equal to a vic- tory in its effect ; for the Savages, struck by the stout resistance they had met with, gave up all thought of making an attack they had planned on Que- bec." Gar neau's History of Canada, vol. i, p. 156 (Bell's Edit.) " The Colony, in fact, was saved." Miles' History of Canada, P- 53- It may here be mentioned that in 1874 the Montreal Witness offered a prize of fifty dollars for the best ballad on any subject in Canadian history. NOTES. 399 The verses entitled " How Canada was Saved" were selected for the prize out of 291 contributions. The judges appointed by the Witness were the late Rev. J. Frederick Stevenson, D.D. : the Rev. James Carmichael : and S. E. Dawson, Esq. (13) Founded on an incident related in Fraser's Magazine- (U) Lady Wilkinson in one of her books entitled " Weeds and Wild Flowers " writes : " There can be no good reason for rejecting in default of all other credible testimony the old legendary tale of the Danes who stole by night into the camp of the sleeping Scotch, but were defeated in their in- tention by the chance occurrence of their having trodden with naked feet upon the sharp spines of some thistles, which made them cry out, &c." See, also, Notes and Queries of March 20, 1852, p. 281, and Chambers' Journal, Vol. xx, 1853, P- *%9- My verses, founded on these references, obtained the gold medal offered by the St. Andrew's Society of Ottawa, in 1869, for " the best poem on the subject of The Thistle.' " (i) In Turner's " Anglo-Saxons," Book IV, Chap. VI, the Danes are called the " Tigers of the Baltic." (i) Albin the ancient name of Scotland. See Campbell's poem," Lochiel's Warning." (!") These verses, written at Oxford, were given by me to Sir Edwin Arnold, and served to fill two pages in his first published volume, entitled " Poems: Narrative and Lyrical." (18) * The house that is to be builded for the Lord must be exceedingly magnifical." i Chronicles, xx, 5. (19) These lines are printed as a " Curiosity of Literature." The reader who refers to the first chapter of " The Battle of Life " by Charles Dickens, will find that, by the mere addition or omission of a few words, the novelist's graphic description of the scene where once a great battle had been fought is here turned into unrhymed metre. The late R. H. Home pointed out in " A New Spirit of the Age," that the account of the funeral of "Little Nell," falls, with slight alteration, into blank verse of irregular rhythm, such as Southey, Shelley, and other poets have occasionally adopted. The following verses from the French are subjoined as bearing a consi- derable resemblance to the description by Dickens. They were written subse- quently to " The Battle ot Life," which the French author must apparently have read. 4OO NOTES. AFTER THE BATTLE. (From the French of Camille Andre Lemoyne ) There, where the cornfields mingle with the sky, Where flocks and herds at twilight's hour have sought The languid stream that wanders idly by A ghastly battle long ago was fought. The Spring was joyous as she is to-day, And 'mid the carnage many a wilding bud That else might soon have blossomed on its spray, Blent its faint fragrance with the fumes of blood. From morn to eve the combat did not slack, Swarms of bright insects dropped to earth in showers, Great golden butterflies with streaks of black Dragged themselves, dying, to the dying flowers. The stream ran red a lurid crimson smirch Soiled with deep stain the blue kingfisher's plume, The pendent willow and the trembling birch Mixed their clear shadows in the river's gloom. The rushing miil-dam long was choked with mud, Wide ruts were furrowed in the reeking clay, And there were pools of pestilential blood Where trampled squadrons perished in the fray. But when the tempest of the fight was still, And jaded legions brief repose had sought, The moon slow rising from behind a hill Marked the wild havoc that a day had wrought. There, hurled together in a tangled heap 'Mid black artillery and standards torn, Horseman and horse lay wrapped in dreamless sleep, With eyes wide open, sightless and forlorn. Vast graves were dug at random for the slain ; The stars, those peaceful warders of the sky, Looked down with pity on the ravaged plain, And bathed its turf with radiance from on high. The youthful peasant, when his glance would note Rank pasture tinted with too bright a green, Checked the gay carol in his bird-like throat And drove his oxen with a graver mien ! NOTES. 401 ( 2l> ) Page 156. M. Frederic Godefroid in his " Histoire de la Literature Franqaise," Tome II, p. 419, writes : '* Un sonnet sauva le nom de F6lix Arverp, Quelgues fins lettrts avaient yard6 le. souvenir de cette piece de " Mes Jieures perdues," writhe de I'italien, elon Vauteur, mais dont Mme Victor Hugo avait tie", dit-on, ci son insu, Vinspiratrice. ' Dites-moi,' demandait Janin, 's'il n'estpus dommage que ces choses-la se perdent et dispamissent ainsi gu'un article de journal ? ' " ( 21 ) Page 162. This poem by Jacques Jasmin, the barber-poet of Agen on the Garonne, has never before, I believe, been translated, probably on account of its homely simplicity which in passages may seem too prosaic for the pub- lic tasle. Longfellow, in his translation of" The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille," had to fight against the same difficulty. " A Week in a Son's Life '' is said by the author to have been founded on fact. (~) Page 184. These few simple lines record an actual incident. The self-slain victim was know n to his fellow- work men in Paris by ihe name of " Jacques " only. ( 23 ) Page 193. " The legend frequently assigned to the Aspen that it was used for the Cross of our Lord, and that its leaves have shivered ever since is, we believe, of no great antiquity. The shivering of the leaves is said, in some parts of Germany, to have been a punishment for the great pride of the tree, which refused to bow its head when the Saviour passed through the forests of the North, and all the other trees bent lowly before him." London Quarterly Review, July, 1863. Art ' " Sacred Trees and Flowers." I have adopted a variation of this legend. (-*) Page 268. Part of this poem on Burns was written by William Allan Russell, M.A., of Hertford College, my immedi ate predecessor in the Lusby Scholarship at Oxford. (25) Page 270. " Why should we speak of Scots wna hae wi' Wallace bled since all know of it, from the King to the meanest of his subjects? This dithyrambic was composed on horseback, in riding, in the middle of tempests, over the wildest Galloway Moor, in company with a Mr. Syme, who, observing the poet's looks, forbore to speak judiciously enough, for a man composing Bruce' s Address might be unsafe to trifle with." Carlyle on Burns, Edinburgh Review, No. 96. See also Currie's Life of Burns, vol. i, p. 211. (26) Page 297. " ' Jean le gorge-rouge,' as the robin is called in Brittany, is there said to have plucked a thorn from the crown of the Saviour, in the vain attempt to remove it, and to have been marked ever since by its red 2C 402 NOTES. breast." London Quarterly Review of July, 1863. Art : "Sacred Trees and Flowers." " The Legend of the Redbreast " forms the subject of an article of eight pages in the Gentleman s Magazine of October, 1885. ( 2 ~) Page 307. "AN APPEAL FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB" appeared in Diogenes, February 19, 1869, and is here reprinted, not on account of any supposed poetical merit, but because it met the warm approval of those in whose interest it was written. The following letter from Mr. Widd needs no comment : THE DEAF AND DUMB. (To the Editor of the Montreal Witness.) SIR, The public have heard so much through your columns about the deaf and dumb, and what is intended to be done for them ; but so very few are able adequately to understand this unfortunate class that anything contribut- ing to their enlightenment on this point must be very acceptable. We have to thank your comic contemporary Diogenes, for the accompanying lines, which art the most truthful and vivid 1 have ever met with, so much so, that I am almost inclined to think the writer must have experienced the " crush- ing calamity" himself, or that some ministering angel has portrayed the deaf-mute's condition in all its reality to the writer. Of all the numerous attempts to describe this misfortune that I have met with, this piece of poetry is far the best, for even the great literary genius Ben Jonson -gave it up with a single sentence ; " Of all human calamities, that of the deaf and dumb is the most crushing," and England's greatest living author, Charles Dickens, failed to produce anything like it in the feeble attempt in one of his late Christmas stories, in All the Year Round. Surely you will agree with me in saying that this beautiful and truthful poem deserves a wider circula- tion than can be attained by a Montreal comic paper. The lines referred to are here subjoined. Yours respectfully, THOS. WIDD, Montreal, Feb. 21, 1869. A Deaf-Mute. ( 28 ) Page 312. "THE PITY OF IT" was published in the first number of Diogenes, November 13, 1868, and was founded on the following newspaper paragraph : "At the Recorder's Court this morning, the name of Margaret Dagenais, aged 18, was called. About two weeks ago she was enticed from her home in the'country by a villain, who brought her here, and after effect- ing her ruin deserted her. Being homeless and friendless, she obtained shelter at the Central Station for several nights in succession. Since she was first observed by the police she has been fast growing ill, and yesterday appeared partially deranged. No one has been able to obtain from her the name of her seducer, and she seems to prefer death among strangers rather than that her parents should learn her shame." Montreal Witness, Nov. 6th, 1868. NOTES. 403 ( 29 ) Page 320. "I sat upon the right side of the ship, and looked out across the blue, billowy sea ; a lad sat not far from me, and sang a Venetian song about the bliss of love, and the shortness of life." Hans Andersen's Improvisator e, chap. xxiv. (30) Page 331. The idea of "The Hare and the Tortoise" (originally published in the Montreal Spectator) was suggested to me by the late George T. Lanigan. Long after my lines had appeared, some verses were published in Punch, with the same motif. I pointed out in the Star the dates of the two sets of verses, having previously acknowledged that the new dress of the old fable belonged to my lamented friend alone. (3!) Page 384. In the Illustrated London News for September 22, 1849, is a description (with an engraving) of mummy wheat raised by R. Enoch, of Stow-on-the-Wold, from grains brought from Thebes by the family of Sir William Symonds. See Notes and Queries for July 17, 1852. Compare the following passage at pp. 83-4 of " The Philosophy of Disenchantment," by Edgar Everston Saltus, (Boston; Houghton, Miffin Co., 1887): "The London Times, 2 ist September, 1840, contained a notice to the effect that at a lecture delivered by Mr. Pettigrew, at the Literary and Scientific Institute, the lecturer showed some grains of wheat which Sir G. Wilkinson had foand in a grave at Thebes, where they must have lain for 3,000 years. They were found in an hermetically sealed vase. Mr. Petti- grew sowed twelve grains, and obtained a plant which grew five feet high, and the seeds of which were then quite ripe." ERRATUM. Page 318, line 5. For " Gecian " read " Grecian." YB 13556