POEMS AND OTHER VERSES 
 
J?OEMS 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 I 
 
 H. A. R. J. 
 
 ' The wind blows east, the wind blows west, 
 And there comes good luck and bad ; 
 The thriftiest man is the cheerfulest ; 
 Tis a thriftless thing to be sad, sad. 
 'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad." 
 
 lLon&on 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
[All rights reserved.] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 TO ALTHEA . ...... I 
 
 THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES ... 4 
 
 FAREWELL ....... l8 
 
 THE PRIVY COUNSELLOR .... IQ 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT . . . . . .21 
 
 A CHILD'S PLAINT . . . . 23 
 
 THE SALE OF THE FRENCH CROWN JEWELS . . 2Q 
 
 FOR A CHRISTMAS CARD ..... 31 
 
 TRANSLATION ...... 32 
 
 THE FIRST LOVE-SONG ..... 34 
 
 A JUBILEE SONG ...... 35 
 
 EPITAPH ..... .38 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. A. L. M. . 39 
 
 DEATH ..... .41 
 
 YOU AND I . . . . . -43 
 
 A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL . . 48 
 
 PULPIT RHETORIC ...... 54 
 
 TO D. M. J. . . . . . . 55 
 
 ORTHOGRAPHY ...... 58 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 MAGDALEN FANCIES . . . . -59 
 
 AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY IN A NUT-SHELL 62 
 
 "SIGNORA WRANGLER" .... .63 
 
 THE SEA-GULL ..... 65 
 
 MYSTERIES OF GRACE . .67 
 
 SONNET ...... 68 
 
 ICHABOD ..... -69 
 
 CHRISTMAS . . . . 71 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE .... -73 
 
 TO THE SWALLOWS ..... 75 
 
 TO ALTHEA : A WELCOME ..... 78 
 
 TO H. J. : A CHRISTMAS GREETING ... 79 
 
 ARMA VIRUMQUE CANO ! . . . . 80 
 
 A POSTSCRIPT ..... 83 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE 86 
 
 SPERO MELIORA ...... 88 
 
 TO MY DOG . . . . . . . 93 
 
 ON A SWALLOW'S NEST IN THE DOORWAY OF A VILLAGE 
 
 SCHOOL ...... 98 
 
 LINES FOR CHRISTMAS CARDS . . . . IOI 
 
 MATERNAL LOVE ..... IO3 
 
 YOU'RE ANOTHER . . . . . . 108 
 
 A GREETING ...... 109 
 
 POETRY ....... IIO 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE "VICTORIA" .... 115 
 
 "DEAMICITIA" ...... 119 
 
 ANALOGUE 122 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN . . ' . . 123 
 ALAS! A LOSS! AND A LASS! .... . . 126 
 
 SURSUM CORDA . . . . . I2Q 
 
 NOTA BENE . . . . . .131 
 
 CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY . . . 132 
 
 PER CRUCEM AD LUCEM . . . . -137 
 
 A SIGH OF THE UNEMPLOYED .... 138 
 
 MORS JANUA VITJE ...... 140 
 
 TO ALTHEA . . . . . .14! 
 
 'AIIOKAPAAOKIA ...... 143 
 
 LOST AND FOUND ..... 145 
 
 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL . . . .147 
 
 EPIGRAM ....... 148 
 
 TO R. VV. EMERSON ...... 149 
 
 SICK-LISTED ...... 150 
 
 TO V. F. S. . . . . . -153 
 
 FROM "THE ORDER OF THE BEAN" . . . 155 
 
 THE ORDER OF MELCHIZEDEC .... 156 
 
 TO A "BLACK-FELLOW" .... I$8 
 
 TO TENNYSON . . . . . 162 
 
 A NEW LITTLE WOMAN ..... 164 
 
 "AMOR DEI ET PROXIMI " ..... 165 
 
 HEINE'S GRAVE . ..... 166 
 
 RELIGION ....... 167 
 
 DIALOGUE. ...... 169 
 
 NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD . . 172 
 
 SPRING . ...... 174 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS . .176 
 
 DANTE ... *79 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHTS 180 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BILLY . l82 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM . . I&5 
 
 AD VERECUNDIAM . . J 86 
 
 FEAR NOT, LITTLE FLOCK 1^7 
 
 JAMESON'S RIDE . . J 88 
 
 IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD 19 
 
 DAVOS LAKE . .196 
 
TO ALTHEA. 
 
 TIME was when victors spread their spoils 
 From battlefield or racing-post 
 Before her feet who pleased them most, 
 
 And claimed her blessing on their toils. 
 
 I am no victor, spoils have none ; 
 But I have woven from my heart 
 Some webs of fancy, and my art 
 
 Invokes your blessing, dearest one. 
 
 A slight, grey-coloured, ragged thing, 
 Perchance 'twill sparkle in your sight 
 With dewdrops, in the morning light 
 
 Of quick-eyed girlhood's sunny spring ! 
 
TO ALTHEA. 
 
 A hovering thought that hurries by 
 No common flower, but bee-like seeks 
 Its hidden honey, thro' the weeks 
 
 That shame the idle butterfly, 
 
 Has gathered in a thirsty land 
 A little pollen here and there, 
 And you, who relish homely fare, 
 
 Now hold its measure in your hand. 
 
 Perchance some elder may be drawn 
 To follow thought but hinted here ; 
 And, from a glimmer faintly clear, 
 
 To read some promise of the dawn. 
 
 I cannot write the thing I see ; 
 For who could sweep from midnight skies 
 The northern lights, and flash his prize 
 
 To dazzle incredulity ? 
 
 I can but witness, " I have seen," 
 And bid the crowd of doubters climb 
 Where mists no longer dim, nor grime 
 
 Of their own chimneys comes between. 
 
TO ALTHEA. 
 
 Far be it from my hand to draw 
 
 Your lingering footsteps from the wall 
 Which you have learnt to love and call 
 
 The measure of eternal law. 
 
 God's spirit breathed the light and air 
 Which fill your garden ; nor will I 
 Protest you cannot see the sky 
 
 Because I wot it spreads elsewhere. 
 
 A tribute-wreath in earlier days, 
 
 The memory of our lost one claimed, 
 Whence I have gathered and re-named 
 
 Some fading flowerets and sprays ; 
 
 And those with these, the scant grain reapt 
 Of varying moods in barren years 
 That knew no watering but the tears 
 
 Of Sisyphean toil, accept ! 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 In the time of Homer, Venus was in low repute among the 
 Greeks. Throughout his books we do not meet with any allu- 
 sions to her worship. In fact he seems to take every oppor- 
 tunity of " snubbing " her, so to speak. Then, however, Greece 
 flourished. But when Aphrodite became the influential goddess 
 that we subsequently find her, then the woes of Greece began, 
 and when she finally asserted her supremacy, then Greece was 
 reduced to degradation : she was conquered by the Romans, but 
 her conquerors introduced into Rome the proud trophies of her 
 marvellous civilisation, and increased their own splendour by 
 her arts and sciences. But with Grecian culture came Grecian 
 vices, and we view the fall of Rome under circumstances sadly 
 similar to those attendant on the ruin of Greece. Such is, in 
 very digested form, the leading idea of the principal part of the 
 poem. The rest describes in brief the introduction of Literature 
 and Art into England, and the subsequent curious concentration 
 of one branch of them in the " Lake District." 
 
 WHEN as a warrior to the fight 
 Came Hellas forth to win a crown, 
 She turned her cow'ring foes to flight, 
 And decked herself with fair renown. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 With haughty hand and dauntless heart 
 She dared the world to do its worst ; 
 Pallas Invicta took her part, 
 And led her legions from the first. 
 
 Her hardy warriors loved to live 
 Encamped upon the martial plain ; 
 'Mid clashing arms their pride to strive, 
 Despising loss, ignoring pain. 
 
 'Twas theirs a soldier's life to spend, 
 Their canopy the open sky ; 
 Exulting ! free ! and this their end, 
 To dare, to conquer, or to die. 
 
 But when she laid aside her bow, 
 And sheathed the gory sword of Greece ; 
 When victory wreathed her maiden brow, 
 And lulled her into dreams of peace ; 
 
 To other humours then inclined, 
 Proud Hellas raised her laurelled head, 
 Predestined by the trio blind * 
 In works of peace to take the lead. 
 1 The Fates. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Then Pallas left the knightly field, 
 Hung in a fane her unstrung bow, 
 Laid by for aye her burnished shield, 
 Henceforth to tend the suppliants' vow. 
 
 Then thundering Neptune ceased to roar, 
 And chase the foe on crested waves, 
 To whisper with the Nymphs on shore, 
 And woo the Mermaids in the caves. 
 
 Then, hushed upon his placid breast, 
 The ships-of-battle gently swayed ; 
 Round keels which corpses lately prest 
 The wanton dolphins idly played. 
 
 Then skilled Apollo with his lyre 
 To teach the bards of Hellas came ; 
 And gods and goddesses conspire 
 To lead her on the path to fame. 
 
 A lovely spot the Muses chose, 
 Upon a verdant mountain-top 
 Where the sweet stream Cephisus flows, 
 Where Venus often loved to stop, 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 To lave her tresses in the streams, 
 Smile at her image in the pool, 
 And lose herself in fancy's dreams 
 Among the rushes' verdure cool. 
 
 There, where the weeping willows droop, 
 And lilies strew the shady bowers, 
 Fair Aphrodite loved to stoop 
 And bind her locks with varied flowers. 1 
 
 But Venus was a shameless maid, 
 Nor honour was among her train ; 
 And with whatever folk she stayed, 
 Her presence was a certain bane. 
 
 But she was apt-to-please, and fair, 
 Whole cities yielded to her sway 
 Tho' from the day they yielded, there 
 Commenced their downfall and decay. 
 
 1 TOV KaXXivaov T O.TTO KriQiaov podg 
 rdv Kvirptv icXriZovaiv aQvaoafiivav 
 \<j)pav KaraTTvevffai fifrpiag avtfiwv 
 I'ldvirvoovc; avpctQ' ad S' tTTi/3a\\ofisvav 
 Xairaiffiv eixaSt] poSewv TT\OKOV avQkwv 
 TO. ao<t>ia irapkSpovQ Tfk^nrtiv tpurag, 
 apera^ Zwepyovg' EURIP 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 But Venus, wandering 'mid the hills, 
 Spied Hellas at her work beneath, 
 And, tripping past the trickling rills, 
 Approached her with a rosy wreath. 
 
 Bright as the glancing sunbeams glow 
 At even, o'er the mountain peaks 
 She smiled, as if her love to show, 
 And kissed the maiden's blushing cheeks. 
 
 Quoth she, " Sweet maid, tho' lately met, 
 I as a sister love thee well ; 
 This of thy favours let me get 
 Within thy bulwarks leave to dwell ! 
 
 " Oft have I watched thee from the height, 
 And marked thy business in the dale ; 
 'Neath chaste Diana's favouring light 
 Strayed with thy subjects thro' the vale. 
 
 " O rear for me a comely pile, 
 Grant me to make with thee my home " 
 She paused : vain Hellas with a smile 
 The fatal answer rendered " Come ! 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 " Come, gentle Venus, dwell with me ! 
 Come ! in my cities found thy throne ! 
 Thy willing subjects will we be ; 
 Come, and claim all things for thine own ! 
 
 " Goddess, of all to men most kind, 
 
 We hail thine advent as a boon ; 
 
 A hearty welcome dost thou find, 
 
 Come, for thou canst not come too soon ! " 
 
 Thus Hellas spake, and thus declared 
 How mists of darkness dimmed her eyes ; 
 For flattery had her mind prepared 
 To yield herself a willing prize. 
 
 Ah ! little dreamt she of the net 
 She spread around her wily feet, 
 When Hellas Aphrodite met, 
 And with her charmer stayed to treat ! 
 
 O not the first, sweet Hellas, thou, 
 To yield thyself to Venus' sway ! 
 But where her former clients now ? 
 And where Oh ! where art thou to-day ? 
 
io THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Thus Eve, the mother of our race, 
 Fair words and promises ensnared, 
 Found speedy ruin, and disgrace 
 For all her progeny prepared. 
 
 So Venus held her court in Greece, 
 All offices her creatures filled ; 
 Lust, Luxury, and slothful Ease, 
 Enforced her edicts as she willed. 
 
 Rejected Virtue fled dismayed, 
 Ejected with a ruthless hand ; 
 Unkempt, in tattered garment strayed, 
 A houseless outlaw o'er the land. 
 
 The palaces she lately blest 
 Before her face their portals shut ; 
 Nor could she, weary, find a rest 
 Within the lowly shepherd's hut. 
 
 But were this lay designed to tell 
 The sorrows of unhappy Greece, 
 How step by step from fame she fell, 
 I know not when my song should cease. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 And tho' the Muses' ancient fire 
 Still burned as in the brighter days, 
 'Twas Venus tuned the poets' lyre, 
 And bade them only sing her praise. 
 
 When war's shrill clarion again 
 Bade Greece defend her wasting lands, 
 She drew her rusty sword in vain, 
 And fled before the hostile bands. 
 
 This then her end ! dishonoured, mean, 
 She drained her bitter cup of woe ; 
 And Hellas, who had lived a queen, 
 Became the bond-slave of a foe. 
 
 Then, from their grotto on the hill, 
 The conquerors take the Muses home, 
 And found for them, with hearty will, 
 A mansion on the hills of Rome. 
 
 The gods from Mount Olympus came, 
 Jove granted Zeus co-equal rights ; 
 They shared the sacrificial flame, 
 Co-partners in divine delights. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 They covenanted and decreed 
 That Rome should equal honours pay 
 To Greek and Roman gods ; agreed 
 To share their provinces of sway. 
 
 Then elocutionary art, 
 The Lord of Rhetoric, Hermes, taught ; 
 And for the harp with merry heart 
 The Romans blithe Apollo sought. 
 
 Then flourished Rome, as tho' the sun, 
 Bursting the clouds, shone brightly clear ; 
 And pausing in his course begun, 
 Prolonged the summer all the year. 
 
 Greece lay in ruins ! nothing left 
 But shattered traces of the past, 
 As towering cliffs by tempests reft, 
 Or oaks by ruthless lightning blast. 
 
 But lo ! upon the stones that erst 
 The bulwark stood of Athens' pride, 
 Sat she who had her patron curst, 
 Sat her misfortune to deride. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 13 
 
 Beneath her feet fair Hellas lay : 
 Fair Hellas ? she who once was fair, 
 But now ! mute be the word, nor say 
 How changed, how sadly changed her air. 
 
 But Aphrodite grimly smiles 
 Upon the ruin she hath wrought ; 
 On fallen glory's crumbling piles, 
 And crushes other realms in thought. 
 
 Then rising on the wings of night, 
 She soared to seek another home ; 
 Robed as a seraph of the light 
 She paused before the gates of Rome. 
 
 Gladly to her the Romans gave 
 The choicest honours of the gods ; 
 Rome was her self-delivered slave 
 Rome felt the smarting of her rods. 
 
 Yes ; fascinated, she endured 
 
 The bitter sweetness of her sway, 
 
 By dazzling vanities allured, 
 
 As serpents charm the trembling prey. 
 
I 4 THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Till Rome like Greece went down, down, down, 
 
 The mightier power harder dies ; 
 
 For the strong lion will not drown 
 
 In pools that drown the struggling flies. 
 
 Slowly but surely see her droop 
 She struggles but her foes deride 
 The foeman made but one fell swoop, 
 And scattered to the winds her pride. 
 
 She, who had ground beneath her heel 
 Vast nations, an unconquered queen, 
 'Twas hers the ruthless sword to feel ; 
 Her blood must fertilise the green ; 
 
 Her children feel the captor's might, 
 Her coffers fill the captor's store, 
 Her treasures be her foes' delight, 
 Herself her foes' for evermore. 
 
 The lingering Muses fail to find 
 A patron in the conqueror rude ; 
 Barbarians of uncultured mind 
 Leave them to pine in solitude. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 15 
 
 Full soon they leave the mossy cove, 
 And verdant dells they long had blest ; 
 And listless o'er the countries rove, 
 To seek where they may find a rest. 
 
 They paused in many a lovely place, 
 Of them did many a region boast, 
 Where still their footsteps we may trace 
 And reached at last bright Albion's coast. 
 
 Here, here they found a glad retreat, 
 Scattered their blessings far and wide ; 
 And gaily fixed their central seat 
 Upon Helvellyn's rugged side. 
 
 Skiddaw outstretched his sheltering arm, 
 Protection lent the gruff Scawfell ; 
 The Muses found a welcome warm 
 From mountain, plain, lake, tarn and dell. 
 
 The pastoral plains their music lent 
 To many an ardent poet's lyre ; 
 Unstintingly was fuel spent 
 To feed the re-enkindling fire. 
 
16 THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Historians sought the shady groves 
 And grassy slopes of Windermere, 
 Where, wrapt in meditation, roves 
 The manifold philosopher ! 
 
 The water-nymphs their forms survey 
 In canvas mirrors on the shore ; 
 And envious art would fain display 
 The thundering waters of Lodore. 
 
 Then hold ! it is not meet that I, 
 With halting verse, the theme expand ; 
 Such scenes as these for artists cry, 
 To copy with an abler hand. 
 
 Here roughly sketched you may behold 
 The paths of ruin and of fame ; 
 View Virtue spoiled of her gold, 
 And Vice triumphant in her shame. 
 
 Here heathen names one may detect, 
 And heathen imagery trace ; 
 Yet muddy waters may reflect 
 The image of a noble face. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF THE MUSES. 17 
 
 And from the realms of darkened thought, 
 And mazes of mythology, 
 Some straggling sunbeams may be sought 
 To sparkle in a brighter sky. 
 
 Greece ! where are now thy stately halls ? 
 Thy mansions towering to the sky ? 
 'Mid what were once rich temple walls 
 Resounds the bittern's mournful cry. 
 
 The storm-king roars on mountain-tops, 
 Does battle with the foaming wave ; 
 Then, sweeping onward see ! he stops 
 To sit and sigh upon thy grave. 
 
 Rome ! where art thou ? Thou answerest, " Lo ! 
 Where erst I stood." But where thy might ? 
 Gone, as before the sun the snow, 
 Thou, like one robbed of health's delight. 
 
 Then, Britons, be not tamely led, 
 When Vice would press deceptive suit ! 
 But, 'neath the centaur's human head, 
 Beware the body of a brute ! 
 3 
 
i8 FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 DEAR little aching heart, farewell ! 
 
 Thy patient sufferings o'er, 
 Henceforth with Christ 'tis thine to dwell, 
 
 And " thou shalt weep no more." 
 
 But O ! thy place of thee bereft, 
 
 Can filled be never more ; 
 To us this consolation left 
 
 " Not lost, but gone before ! " 
 
THE PRIVY COUNSELLOR. 19 
 
 THE PRIVY COUNSELLOR. 
 
 IT happened, as with interest I glanced 
 The pages of a lady's album o'er, 
 Upon a proverb written there I chanced 
 To let my eye fall, as on many more 
 
 " Doe ye nexte thinge." 
 
 Here where the wonted proverb meets the eye, 
 And apt quotations speak from every page, 
 Precept and sentiment together vie 
 'Twas here I met my friend the old adage, 
 " Do ye nexte thinge." 
 
 Yes ; he is old ! more to be prized for that, 
 Older mayhap than many a rival there ; 
 But seldom quoted he is never " flat," 
 And gives good counsel still to all who hear ; 
 " Doe ye nexte thinge." 
 
20 THE PRIVY COUNSELLOR. 
 
 I mark the difference in the line of thought, 
 That led the writers to select their themes ; 
 Some love, some truism, sentiment : a sort 
 Of picture gallery of hearts this seems 
 " Doe ye nexte thinge." 
 
 Ah ! this injunction, simple tho' it be, 
 In olden English, nor in flowery verse 
 Nor foreign garb, as many here I see, 
 Contains a sermon to the point and terse 
 " Doe ye nexte thinge." 
 
 Thanks, trusty counsellor ! thy word shall guide 
 My doubtful footsteps, when the mists of life 
 Obscure my vision, and the prospect hide ; 
 Then strong in faith, fain would I, bating strife, 
 " Doe ye nexte thinge." 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 THUS, as the blossoms of a promised crop, 
 Nipped by the frosts of winter loth to part, 
 Point to fair fruit, but in the pointing drop 
 So fail the expectations of my heart ! 
 
 Or, as when snowflakes carried by the breeze, 
 Glance for a moment on the thankless plain, 
 Then melting vanish, while succeeding these 
 Drop others softly where the first have lain ; 
 
 So 'tis with life ! one sinks, another springs 
 Into the gap ; the stream unchecked [flows by, 
 And countless lives upon its bosom brings, 
 Like racing straws with which young children vie 
 
22 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 On, whirling on ; and if one foul or sink, 
 
 Its heedless rivals past it hurry on ; 
 
 None, but its watcher from the streamlet's brink, 
 
 Dismayed perceives his little straw has gone ! 
 
A CHILD'S PLAINT. 23 
 
 A CHILD'S PLAINT. 
 
 O EDIE, how I miss thee ! 
 
 I miss thee every day, 
 In every occupation, 
 
 In all my work and play ! 
 
 Dear sister, can I ever 
 Forgetful prove of thee ? 
 
 O, not till time shall sever 
 The links of memory ! 
 
 My playmate from the cradle, 
 My comrade day by day, 
 
 A sharer in my studies, 
 A partner in my play. 
 
 What care I tho' the roses 
 Bloom sweetly on the wall, 
 
 Or that the fragrant posies 
 Well flourish in the hall ? 
 
24 A CHILD'S PLAINT. 
 
 For surely they, tho' gaily 
 Arrayed in living green, 
 
 Look down upon me daily, 
 And mourn the roses' queen. 
 
 And other hands must water 
 
 The plants that once were thine ; 
 
 But who shall pluck the blossoms, 
 And proudly call them " mine " ? 
 
 Thy garden still is blooming, 
 From weeds kept fairly free, 
 
 But now to pluck the flowers 
 Is plucking thorns for me ! 
 
 Thy rockery deserted, 
 No ferns or flowers grace ; 
 
 None yet so callous-hearted 
 To move it from its place. 
 
 O where the busy fingers 
 That bettered all around, 
 
 That scattered seeds of kindness 
 On every open ground ? 
 
A CHILD'S PLAINT. 25 
 
 O where thy buoyant laughter, 
 The eyes that brimmed with fun, 
 
 The limbs that loved to scramble, 
 The feet that loved to run ? 
 
 where but stop, the query 
 Re-echoes from the wall, 
 
 And never will my sister 
 Respond with cheery call. 
 
 In every thing around me 
 
 I find reflected thee ; 
 And every common object 
 
 Strikes chords of memory. 
 
 Thy corner of the table, 
 
 Thy seat at morning prayer, 
 Are vacant but they speak of 
 
 The time when thou wast there ! 
 
 The path we travelled daily 
 To lessons, you and I, 
 
 1 now alone must traverse 
 Alone alone for aye ! 
 
26 A CHILD'S PLAINT. 
 
 The old familiar lessons, 
 
 (Tho' never loved, you know) 
 
 Since I've not thee to share them, 
 Are far, far harder now. 
 
 And tho' I win my prizes, 
 Whom shall I show my toy, 
 
 And have its value doubled 
 By having shared the joy ? 
 
 Thy seat in church is empty, 
 And gaps are all around, 
 
 But O ! by far the deepest 
 Within my heart is found. 
 
 I love to trace thy fingers, 
 
 E'en where they made a stain ; 
 
 And mischief wrought by thee, dear, 
 Strange value seems to gain. 
 
 The hymns by thee beloved, 
 The texts that thou didst write, 
 
 For me have gained a lustre, 
 Like gems made triply bright. 
 
A CHILD'S PLAINT. 27 
 
 The plant that climbs the trellis 
 
 Around the entrance way, 
 Will ne'er to thee, its planter, 
 
 Thy careful skill repay. 
 
 In size and shade and verdure 
 
 Increasing more and more, 
 All eyes but thine it pleaseth 
 
 When entering by the door. 
 
 But O ! I am so lonely ; 
 
 I'll never, never be 
 Accustomed to thine absence, 
 
 My own dear darling E . 
 
 And tho' thou ne'er returnest, 
 
 I cannot call thee dead ; 
 I feel as tho' a journey 
 
 Were keeping thee instead. 
 
 But no ! thy journey's over 
 Lone journeying waits for me ; 
 
 And thou art lying sleeping 
 Beyond the deep blue sea ! 
 
28 A CHILD'S PLAINT. 
 
 Still tho' I'm very lonely, 
 I will not fret or cry, 
 
 For I shall meet my Edie 
 In heaven by and by. 
 
 I must be up and active, 
 And have a cheerful face, 
 
 For I must both be Allie, 
 And try take Edie's place. 
 
 Soon waiting will be over, 
 And then again we'll meet, 
 
 A family united, 
 
 Around the mercy-seat. 
 
 Then shall we know the reason 
 Why Edie went before ; 
 
 And I shall find my darling, 
 And never lose her more. 
 
THE SALE OF THE FRENCH CROWN JEWELS. 29 
 
 THE SALE OF THE FRENCH CROWN 
 JEWELS. 
 
 RELICS of a Regal sway ! 
 Relics of a better day ! 
 Relics of a country blest 
 In the bygone years with rest ! 
 Sad memorial of a time 
 Fraught with every kind of crime : 
 Murder, plunder, dire distress, 
 Money matters in a " mess " ; 
 Bankruptcy and discord rife, 
 Thousands yielding guiltless life ; 
 Strife within and strife without, 
 Cannons' roar and victors' shout ; 
 Till Napoleon, in command, 
 Kept in check with giant hand 
 Anarchy, and turned his arms 
 
30 THE SALE OF THE FRENCH CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 In pursuit of foreign palms ; 
 Ground beneath his iron sway, 
 Countries yielding to dismay, 
 Till he was himself checkmated 
 When at Waterloo defeated ! 
 
 All that speaks of better days 
 Will France sell to him who pays ? 
 
FOR A CHRISTMAS CARD. 31 
 
 FOR A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 
 " PEACE on the earth," 
 
 With holy mirth, 
 The heavenly anthem raise ; 
 
 Let earth rejoice 
 
 And lend her voice 
 The Saviour king to praise ; 
 And be the chorus loud as then, 
 When angels sang "Goodwill to men." 
 
32 TRANSLATION. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 WHILE none other lived by thee 
 More beloved, whose arms might be 
 Thrown around thy neck so white, 
 Passing kings' was my delight ! 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 While within thine ardent breast 
 Was no room for greater guest, 
 Chloe after Lydia came, 
 Mine was then as Ilia's fame. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 Thracian Chloe now me sways, 
 Skilled in dances, well she plays ; 
 For her I would gladly give 
 Even life, if she might live. 
 
TRANSLATION. 33 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 Calais now with mutual fires, 
 Son of Ornythus, me inspires, 
 For whom life I twice would give, 
 Would fate suffer him to live. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 What if Venus, passed away, 
 Bring us back beneath her sway ? 
 Chloe driven from the door, 
 Lydia be received once more ? 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 Be he brighter than a star, 
 Thou more wild than Hadria, 
 Lighter than a cork, yet I 
 Glad with thee will live and die ! 
 
34 THE FIRST LOVE-SONG. 
 
 THE FIRST LOVE-SONG. 
 
 COME into the garden, Eve, 
 
 Bone of my very bone ; 
 Joy doth my swelling heart upheave, 
 
 No longer now alone. 
 
 Better than all my ribs, 
 
 In this sequester'd nook, 
 Clad in our fig-leaf bibs 
 
 We'll feast, and you'll be cook. 
 
 Happy together thus 
 
 We'll pass a joyful life ; 
 Thou bearing all the fuss 
 
 And making none, my wife ! 
 
A JUBILEE SONG. 35 
 
 A JUBILEE SONG. 
 
 AIR : "Austria." 
 
 SOUND it loud throughout the kingdom 
 
 Which we boast of as our home, 
 Let the breezes sweep it swiftly 
 
 O'er the boundless ocean's foam, 
 To the countries of the tropics, 
 
 To the islands of the north ; 
 Yea, throughout the realm she governs 
 
 Let the joyful sound go forth 
 
 'Tis Victoria's Jubilee ! 
 
 Let the country where the Ganges 
 Pours its sacred floods along, 
 
 Join with hearty voice in singing 
 This our glad triumphant song ; 
 
36 A JUBILEE SONG. 
 
 Let the newly-added Burmah 
 With her conquerors compete, 
 
 For her victors brought her freedom, 
 So to hail their Queen 'tis meet, 
 'Tis Victoria's Jubilee ! 
 
 Let the lands the Queen has governed 
 
 Now for fifty years rejoice ; 
 Let New Zealand and Australia 
 
 With Tasmania lend their voice ; 
 Let the isles off Afric's coastline, 
 
 With the Southern isles as well, 
 Canada and Cape conspire 
 
 This our gladsome song to swell 
 'Tis Victoria's Jubilee ! 
 
 Let the creeds of every nation 
 
 That beneath her sceptre bend, 
 With a joyful mind, and hearty, 
 
 Their resounding voices lend. 
 Let the nations look in wonder 
 
 At the joy which we display ; 
 Tell them, as they stand and marvel, 
 
 Why our Fatherland's so gay 
 
 'Tis Victoria's Jubilee ! 
 
A JUBILEE SONG. 37 
 
 'Tis not she whom nature worships, 
 
 'Tis not she whom we proclaim, 
 'Tis the God who in His mercy 
 
 Made her symbol of our fame ; 
 Who for fifty years hath given 
 
 Peace with honour, under one 
 Whom He made the Queen of regions 
 
 Whereon never sets the sun 
 
 'Tis Victoria's Jubilee ! 
 
38 EPITAPH. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 HERE lieth one, tho' not long dead, 
 Was twenty years confined to bed ; 
 And all that time, O dire disgrace, 
 Was said to never wash her face ! 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 A. L. M. 
 
 A FRIEND, a counsellor, a trusty guide 
 Of youthful tourists on the mountain track, 
 Leading to knowledge ; well we might confide 
 To him the interests that we ne'er held back. 
 
 Genial, kindhearted, by his equals loved, 
 Respected by his juniors, with respect 
 Not born of mere formality, but moved 
 By admiration of his intellect. 
 
 A mind that, lightning-like, o'er storm-clouds dark, 
 Flash'd on its path of light from pole to pole 
 Yet stooped to kindle up the glimmering spark 
 To light the candle of a lesser soul. 
 
40 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 His spirit hath returned to God who gave, 
 Called higher in his half-completed race ; 
 Re-entering through the portals of the grave 
 We're thankful he was granted us a space ! 
 
 He rests ! he rests ! his knowledge is complete ; 
 Still up the steep our labouring footsteps tend ; 
 One lacks a guardian to direct his feet ; 
 One, guide ; one, teacher ; aye, and ALL a FRIEND. 
 
DEATH. 41 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 "We understand death for the first time when he puts his 
 hands upon one whom we love." Madame de Stacl. 
 
 No ! Death, we cannot understand thee so ! 
 'Tis then we know thy power, feel thy might, 
 When thou dost all our towers of hope o'erthrow, 
 And turn our noonday into blackest night. 
 
 O Death ! when thou dost wrench from bleeding 
 
 hearts 
 
 The tendrils that have clung to them so long, 
 Giving and taking strength which each imparts 
 Ah ! then we realise that thou art strong. 
 
 But still we do not understand thee ; while 
 We tremble at thy presence, we confess 
 We scarce know why we shudder, or recoil 
 To touch a body that is spiritless. 
 
42 DEATH. 
 
 Who art thou, Death, and wherefore come and 
 
 whence ? 
 
 Science is speechless can we nothing say 
 Of all the dear ones thou dost hurry hence ? 
 " In Heaven's keeping we are safe, and they." 
 
YOU AND I. 43 
 
 YOU AND I. 
 
 " JENNY, being New Year's Day, 
 
 You and I 
 
 Well may rest a-while, and stay 
 
 Peacefully ; 
 
 Take a holiday for both, 
 
 You, I'm sure, are nothing loth, 
 
 Nor am I. 
 
 We have trudged along together, 
 
 You and I ; 
 
 We have braved life's stormy weather, 
 You and I ; 
 
 Yes, for many and many a day 
 
 We have tramped our chequered way, 
 You and I. 
 
44 YOU AND I. 
 
 Tho' the way was often rough, 
 
 You and I 
 
 Were composed of sterner stuff 
 
 Than to cry ; 
 
 But when hardships thrown among, 
 
 We just fought our way along, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 When the tempest bellowed loud, 
 You and I 
 Saw the light behind the cloud 
 
 Constantly ; 
 
 Ah ! it soon came bursting thro', 
 And delightful days we knew, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 Yes, the sun shone brightly clear 
 Up on high, 
 
 And we'd nothing left to fear, 
 
 You and I ; 
 
 So we blithely tripped along, 
 
 Like the music of a song, 
 
 You and I. 
 
YOU AND I. 45 
 
 But the clouds grew thick again 
 
 Frequently, 
 
 And sent down the pelting rain 
 
 From the sky ; 
 
 Overhead the thunder clashed, 
 
 In our eyes the lightning flashed, 
 Fearfully. 
 
 But we did not sit and mope, 
 
 You and I ; 
 
 No, we trudged along in hope, 
 
 Patiently ; 
 
 'Till we saw the sun again, 
 
 Gleaming brightly thro' the rain, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 Folk were often good and kind, 
 
 Frequently ; 
 
 Often cruel, we didn't mind, 
 
 You and I ; 
 
 But we held on gaily yet, 
 
 Whatsoever sort we met, 
 
 You and I. 
 
46 YOU AND I. 
 
 Jenny, many a day has fled 
 
 Quickly by, 
 
 But we've never lacked for bread, 
 You and I. 
 
 We are older than we were, 
 
 But we still may do and dare, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 Tho' a mingled lot we've seen, 
 
 You and I, 
 
 This our watchword true has been, 
 
 ' Ne'er say die ' ; 
 
 So we little recked what came, 
 
 And we've won our share of fame, 
 You and I. 
 
 We have saved a little sum, 
 
 You and I, 
 
 Lest a rainy day should come, 
 
 By and by ; 
 
 We should grateful be, my pet, 
 
 We've no need to use it yet, 
 
 You and I. 
 
YOU AND I. 47 
 
 With our path before us clear 
 
 You and I 
 
 Thus commence another year 
 
 Hopefully ; 
 
 We will hold along our way, 
 
 Living on from day to day, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 So we'll never mind the weather, 
 You and I, 
 
 But we'll pull along together 
 
 Cheerfully, 
 
 Sure while we're both united, 
 
 At nought we need be frighted, 
 
 You and I. 
 
 Then we'll let the rain come down 
 Till i't soak, 
 
 And we'll trudge along the town 
 
 In a cloak ; 
 
 We'll never lack nor hunger." 
 
 Thus spake the costermonger 
 
 To his " moke.' 
 
48 A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 THE time was long, the room was cold, 
 The Lecturer was infirm and old ; 
 His bristling cheek, and ragged hair, 
 Proved he had little time to spare 
 From the perusal of his books 
 To add improvement to his looks. 
 His notes, his sole remaining joy, 
 Were made when Merlin was a boy. 
 The first of all professors he, 
 Of logical anatomy ; 
 And, well-a-day ! his compeers said, 
 What should we do if he were dead ? 
 No more on prancing hunter borne, 
 He revelled in the echoing horn ; 
 
A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 49 
 
 No longer jovially as once, 
 High placed in hall, he swiped the sconce, 
 Or at the " Smoker " blithely sang 
 The deeds of Pyramus O'Bang ; 
 No longer, on the water's edge, 
 He coursed the rats among the sedge. 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone, 
 A stranger filled the Vice's throne : 
 The Proctors of that iron time 
 Had called this harmless art a crime ! 
 No more, by strenuous use of " crams," 
 He came out well in all exams. 
 A toiling Fellow, proudly poor, 
 He sat behind his double door, 
 And hammered into brains amazed 
 The lore examiners had praised. 
 He lived hard by, where old Tom Tower 
 Looks out upon the River Lower, 
 And proudly sloped about the town 
 Bedizened in an M.A. gown. 
 At length approached his dallying fame, 
 He an Examiner became, 
 And with determined step at last 
 The em&fl/fe/ed portal arch he passed, 
 5 
 
50 A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Whose massy bar and poderous grate 
 Had oft repulsed the candidate ; 
 And oft had closed the panels wide 
 Against an onset three times tried. 
 The Clerk had marked the weary pace, 
 The time-worn warrior's long-drawn face, 
 And on his page would sadly tell 
 The shillings he had lost as well ! 
 Ah ! well he knew adversity 
 Attended on a " high degree ; " 
 And fallen pride had shed her tear 
 On the Testamur's frequent bier. 
 
 When fees our hero's purse supplied, 
 
 Then, with his pocket, grew his pride ; 
 
 And he began to talk anon 
 
 Of shining as a greater don ! 
 
 Fain a professor would he be, 
 
 So ran the signal up" D.D." 
 
 A braver ne'er essayed the post, 
 
 He was the noblest of the host 
 
 Of those who tried to split the hairs 
 
 Of prae-historical affairs. 
 
 His pen would many a tale employ 
 
A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 51 
 
 Of the old warriors of Troy ; 
 And he could cite each point where B 
 With codex A did disagree. 
 No problem could his soul perplex, 
 For should it try, he called it " X " ; 
 And sooner than it takes to write, 
 'Twas all as clear as black and white. 
 The humble boon was soon obtained ; 
 The new Professor audience gained. 
 But, when he reached the lecture hall, 
 Where were his hearers mustered all, 
 Perchance they wished his boon denied, 
 For when he exegesis tried, 
 His trembling voice had lost the ease 
 Which marks security to please ; 
 And undergraduates strove in vain 
 To catch the dribblings of his brain ; 
 And waited, yawning, till the chime 
 Should tell the close of lecture time. 
 And then said he, full fain he would 
 They'd hearken to his notes so good. 
 For undergrads they were not framed, 
 But for high scholars widely famed : 
 He'd printed extracts in reviews, 
 
52 A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 And other literary news. 
 
 Among the notes his ringers strayed, 
 
 And an unwise selection made ! 
 
 And oft he shook his hoary head, 
 
 And quoth, "We'll take this one instead." 
 
 But when he came to plv and Be 
 
 The old man raised his face with glee, 
 
 And lighted up his faded eye 
 
 With all a scholar's ecstasy. 
 
 With varying cadence, soft or strong, 
 
 He told the graces that belong, 
 
 The power latent, nobly grand, 
 
 " On this " and " on the other hand." 
 
 The present scene, the future lot, 
 
 His " hums " and " haws " were all forgot ; 
 
 His stammering tongue, and age's frost 
 
 In the full tide of speech were lost. 
 
 " Each blank in human works," said he, 
 
 " Is well supplied with fj.lv and 5t 
 
 If any passage be abstruse, 
 
 You'll easily solve it by their use ; 
 
 MEN by itself is useless quite, 
 
 But add a AE, and all is right. 
 
 Like Eve, A* is a good helpmeet 
 
A PLAY ON THE LAST MINSTREL. 53 
 
 To aid the men, else incomplete ; 
 What if for long you've sought in vain 
 The drift of some stiff clause to gain ! 
 Try this, you'll conquer in the end r 
 For " it is never too late to 
 
54 PULPIT RHETORIC. 
 
 PULPIT RHETORIC. 
 
 HE preached not Christ ; 
 
 He preached with eloquence, and knew it well ; 
 
 He preached of Christ, 
 
 But tried to hold us with the magic spell 
 
 Of his own oratory : 
 
 With a useless skill 
 
 Touched up the picture he presented, till 
 Its sweet sublimity was nigh concealed. 
 Would he had left the paint and brush alone, 
 Drawn back the curtain o'er the portrait thrown, 
 The speaking picture self-complete revealed ! 
 
TO D. M. J. 55 
 
 TO D. M. J. 
 
 THOU that art brightest, 
 
 Dearest and lightest, 
 Skipping so softly o'er life's rugged way ; 
 
 Fearing no sorrow, 
 
 Dreading no morrow, 
 Joyfully grasping the joys of to-day ; 
 
 Thou, like a butterfly, 
 
 Gaily dost flutter by 
 Brambles and thistles that grow by the way ; 
 
 Eagerly sighting, 
 
 Daintily lighting 
 On every floweret smiling and gay. 
 
 Gladly they wait for thee, 
 Decked out in state for thee, 
 Nodding a welcome, they bid thee approach ; 
 
56 TO D. M. J. 
 
 Blushing in varied charms, 
 Waving their leafy arms 
 " Come, little wanderer, come and encroach." 
 
 Lightly the Zephyrs play 
 
 Dance with the flowerets gay 
 Dance to the music which breathes thro' the trees; 
 
 Hush ! whispering ! down the lane, 
 
 See ! they whirl off again, 
 Bow to their partners, and flit on the breeze. 
 
 Come, little maiden gay, 
 
 Gather them while you may, 
 Gather the flowers that bloom at your feet ; 
 
 Day is but dawning yet 
 
 Who can tell, little pet, 
 Who knows what later wayfarers you'll meet ? 
 
 See, they are smiling, 
 
 Nodding, beguiling, 
 Bidding thee pluck them and wear next thy heart ; 
 
 Flowers may soon be past, 
 
 Briars may spring up fast, 
 Thorns on thy pathway before thee may start. 
 
TO D. M. J. 57 
 
 Pluck them ; but even so 
 
 Soon they will fade, I know, 
 Yet you'll remember that once they were sweet ; 
 
 Flowers that never die 
 
 You'll gather by and by, 
 Flowers that angels shall heap at your feet ! 
 
 But as you upward move, 
 
 Think of this, little love, 
 Flowers will often be found upon weeds ; 
 
 Don't pass them idly by, 
 
 Gather them tenderly, 
 Bijt, dear, be careful don't scatter the seeds. 
 
 Sow, as you upward move, 
 
 Sow little seeds of love, 
 Plant little plantlets for others to find ; 
 
 Sowing for others, 
 
 Sisters and brothers, 
 Double you'll learn is the joy of the kind ! 
 
58 ORTHOGRAPHY. 
 
 ORTHOGRAPHY. 
 
 THE worldling views his shattered hopes 
 
 Fall crumbling to the ground, 
 Writes " disappointment " on the heap, 
 
 And in the waves is drown'd. 
 The Christian sees the angry floods 
 
 His darling schemes immerge, 
 Sighs " His appointment ! " and refreshed, 
 
 Arises from the surge. 
 
MAGDALEN FANCIES. 59 
 
 MAGDALEN FANCIES. 
 
 IN the chill hour of early dawn, 
 When night her mantle had withdrawn 
 But scarcely from the sleeping town, 
 I stood on Magdalen's hoary crown. 
 
 The morning mists enveloped still 
 The little ridge of distant hill ; 
 But as I gazed they rolled away 
 Before the sun's returning sway. 
 
 The city, slumbering at my feet, 
 Arose returning day to greet, 
 Fresh from the haziness of night, 
 Appeared to blink before the light. 
 
 Ere Orient portals opening wide, 
 Emit Aurora's gorgeous pride, 
 The morning star had sunk to rest 
 Upon the bosom of the West. 
 
60 MAGDALEN FANCIES. 
 
 Now signs of life salute mine eyes, 
 And sounds of movement upward rise ; 
 And the calm, peaceful dream of morn 
 Is broken by the May- Day horn. 
 
 Hark ! one ! two ! three ! four ! five ! the hour, 
 Tolled from the venerable tower, 
 Recalls me from my reverie 
 To undefined expectancy. 
 
 Then, as the last stroke's quivering tones 
 Are whispered by the embattled stones 
 To the hushed Zephyrs passing by, 
 Ascends an anthem to the sky. 
 
 Boy-voices raise a glad refrain, 
 The passing breezes catch the strain, 
 And bear the sweet, expiring breath 
 To the expectant crowd beneath. 
 
 They cease ! but on the stillness swells 
 The grander music of the bells : 
 From side to side the belfry rocks 
 Beneath the thrice-repeated shocks. 
 
MAGDALEN FANCIES. 61 
 
 Silence again ; all's over now, 
 And I descend once more below ; 
 Into the prosy paths of life, 
 Into the world's reopening strife. 
 
 But, Magdalen, can I ever be 
 Forgetful of this hour on thee ; 
 Blest from thy summit to survey 
 The waking of the " First of May ! " 
 
62 AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY IN A NUT-SHELL. 
 
 AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY IN A NUT-SHELL. 
 
 A BOAT, a sailor, the sea ; 
 A gust, a billow, where's he ? 
 A corpse, a lantern, the lea ; 
 A parting, a weeping, a she ; 
 A coroner <( Fell o' de sea." 
 
SIGNORA WRANGLER. 63 
 
 "SIGNORA WRANGLER." 
 I. 
 
 Mtv. 
 
 MAN, on his pinnacle of pride, 
 Indulged in Fancy's sweetest dream ; 
 There sat no woman by his side 
 Who might dispute his sway supreme. 
 
 He watched them climbing saw them stop 
 Half-way while still he held the lead ; 
 But thou hast scaled the veriest top, 
 And snatched the laurels from his head ! 
 
 Lady, well done ! 'tis not the last 
 Or fairest triumph of your brain ; 
 But oh ! beware ye do not cast 
 Too much aside such spoils to gain ! 
 
64 "SIGNORA WRANGLER." 
 
 For what are learning, old and new, 
 And lists of honours nobly won, 
 Unless the heart be light and true ? 
 We warn, as we repeat " WELL DONE ! " 
 
 ii. 
 
 At. 
 
 O Amazonian female thou ! 
 You beat the senior wrangler ! how ? 
 Pray was it with the " wooden spoon " 
 You mashed the poor unlucky coon ? 
 Say, who the quarrelling began, 
 And what annoyed you in the man ? 
 Women were wranglers since the Fall, 
 But thou art champion of them all ! 
 
THE SEA-GULL. 65 
 
 THE SEA-GULL. 
 
 HAPPY and careless, blythe and free, 
 Skimming along on the rolling sea, 
 Riding secure on the crested wave, 
 Bird of the foam, what a life you have ! 
 
 Diving below for your finny prey, 
 Snatching it up then away, away, 
 Off to the home in the fortress-rock, 
 Nestled secure from the tempest shock. 
 
 Wandering over the main by night, 
 Screeching and fluttering round the light, 
 High on the beacon's quivering mast, 
 Whence are the signals of danger cast. 
 
66 THE SEA-GULL. 
 
 Hovering low where the hurricane lowers, 
 Scorning the storm-king's terrible powers, 
 Floating on foam-topped mountain seas, 
 Breasting the gale to the cliffs with ease. 
 
 Gathering food on the wrinkled sand, 
 Whirling aloft o'er the sun-dried strand, 
 Now on the billow again, and now 
 Dashing ashore on thy wings of snow ! 
 
 Rollicking child of the ocean, say 
 Whether is this thy work or play ? 
 Hast thou ever a pang of care 
 Spinning about in the limpid air ? 
 
 Bird of the ocean, wild and free, 
 Hast thou a little word for me ? 
 Aye, 'tis this Whatever the sky, 
 Ever go forward never say " Die ! " 
 
MYSTERIES OF GRACE. 67 
 
 MYSTERIES OF GRACE. 
 
 ALMIGHTY Father, shall I seek 
 
 To quibble at Thy will ? 
 No ! make me faithful, silent, meek, 
 
 To wonder and be still. 
 
 Some awful secret underlies 
 Thy dealings with mankind ; 
 
 A mystery that, unsolved, defies 
 Our straining powers of mind. 
 
 But ever clearer grows the light 
 
 As upward still we move ; 
 Till " fear " dissolves within the bright 
 
 Refulgency of " love." 
 
68 SONNET. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 YOUTH, in life's poppy-gardens walks in dreams, 
 Bright airy fancies of abstracted bliss, 
 Visions of joy it would not wake to miss ; 
 While vacancy with speculation teems. 
 Before the curtained future stands " It seems," 
 Forecasting possibilities behind ; 
 Uprearing spectre-castles, which the wind 
 Serves as foundation, till the gilded beams 
 Fall with a silent crash, swept by the fold 
 Of the uplifting curtain ; now displayed 
 Range life's realities, pale, stark, and cold ; 
 And youth, awakening, starts aghast, dismayed. 
 Yet, face to face with Truth, how hard it seems 
 To look on such fair wrecks and call them dreams ! 
 
ICHABOD. 69 
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 POOR droning mortal ! dare I call you man ? 
 I scarce know whether laughter or compassion 
 
 You mostly merit ; and I hardly can 
 
 Dream you are serious, writing in such fashion. 
 
 Yet here's your poem clear in black and white : 
 And is that your philosophy of life ? 
 
 Such yawning drivel, since it sees the light, 
 Is worthy less the critic than the knife. 
 
 So Nature furnished you with no ideal 
 Above the colouring of a meerschaum pipe ! 
 
 Of life's realities is none so real 
 
 As listless dozing on perpetual " swipe " ! 
 
70 ICHABOD. 
 
 And this while fellow-mortal's cries are sounding 
 For every effort every hand can give, 
 
 You think your energy almost astounding 
 Because you even " take the fag " to live ! 
 
 Considering the uninteresting confusion 
 Of such a soulless mass of human delft, 
 
 I scarcely marvel at your nai've allusion 
 To feeling little interest in yourself ! 
 
 You'd " be an oyster " ! well, I wish you might be : 
 Thus your disease at least might breed a pearl ; 
 
 Earth has no room for idlers and would lightly 
 Watch the wild billows o'er your slumbers swirl. 
 
 You think it is a pity you were born ? 
 
 Bah ! so do I, and all the British nation ; 
 And may that life whose privileges you scorn 
 
 Haste on your glorious prize "Annihilation." 
 
CHRISTMAS. 71 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 MOTHER, listen ! far away 
 
 Throb the sounds of Christmas bells ; 
 Joy to many a heart to-day 
 
 From the tower his message tells ! 
 
 Homes are bright with homely joys ; 
 
 Friends long sundered meet once more ; 
 Reunited girls and boys 
 
 Enter the paternal door. 
 
 And my homing spirit flits 
 Through the mazes of the past, 
 
 To alight where memory sits, 
 Faded garlands round her cast. 
 
 'Tis the time I love to rove 
 
 'Mid the tombstones of dead years, 
 
72 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Wondering, as I pensive move, 
 I can read and shed no tears ! 
 
 Life gives little heed to death ; 
 
 Life gives little space for woe ; 
 Just to twine a hasty wreath, 
 
 Cast it on a grave and go ! 
 
 Sorrows, strengthened by belief 
 That veiled angels ye are sent, 
 
 I am happier for my grief, 
 Rising peacefully content. 
 
 Mother, listen ! clearer now, 
 
 Nearer clash the Christmas bells ; 
 
 Joy to many a heart to-day, 
 Joy to us his message tells ! 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 73 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 THINKING, thinking, thinking, 
 
 In a cosy little room ; 
 With the sleepy fire blinking 
 
 Thro' the spectre-shadowed gloom. 
 
 Dozing, dozing, dozing, 
 
 Dimly conscious being where ? 
 Christmas Eve, and I reposing 
 
 In a loving old armchair. 
 
 Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming 
 Of the days that used to be ; 
 
 And departed faces gleaming 
 Thro' the chinks of memory. 
 
74 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Waking, waking, waking 
 To the thunder of the blast, 
 
 And this motto, Fancy's making, 
 "To the Future ! Quit the Past ! 
 
TO THE SWALLOWS. 75 
 
 TO THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 ON the roof-slating, 
 
 Patiently waiting, 
 
 Six little swallows at spring of the day ; 
 
 Two chirps, and another 
 
 Look ! there's the " mother," 
 
 A flashing of winglets and all are away ! 
 
 Each with a bright gleam 
 Glints like a sunbeam, 
 
 Scatters the light from his silk-feathered vest ; 
 Sails round the chimney-stack, 
 Whirls to the clouds and back, 
 Proud to have passed from the bonds of the 
 nest ! 
 
76 TO THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 Soon you'll be flying off, 
 Or you'd be dying off, 
 Should you delay till the cold winter wind ; 
 But you are training now 
 For your long flight, and know 
 When you must leave by some hint in your 
 mind ! 
 
 Thus it is everything 
 
 Earthly and perishing 
 
 Finds to the future its present referr'd ; 
 
 Learning to chirp and fly 
 
 Only in time to die, 
 
 Only in time to migrate like a bird ! 
 
 There you go ! dash away ! 
 
 Chirrup and flash away, 
 
 Tho' every chirp brings us nearer the end ; 
 
 Play-fields of brighter sky 
 
 You'll sweep through by and by, 
 
 'Till once again you shall hitherward tend ! 
 
TO THE SWALLOWS. 77 
 
 Well, my love be with you ! 
 Over the sea with you ! 
 Visiting climes I know only in dreams ; 
 And may such pleasure flow 
 To all, where'er you go, 
 
 As shall move me when I hear your next 
 screams ! 
 
78 TO ALTHEA : A WELCOME. 
 
 TO ALTHEA: A WELCOME. 
 
 THE dear little den you've deserted so long 
 
 Rejoices to have you again ; 
 So do I, as I'd tell, had I time, in a song ; 
 
 But I haven't, and therefore refrain : 
 So just one wee message before you arrive, 
 
 Hurrah ! for a happy return ! 
 Must hurry, because you are nearing the " drive." 
 
 Take this paper kiss, and then burn. 
 
TO H. J. : A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 79 
 
 TO H. J. : A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 As clouds distil in falling rain 
 But to return in rising dew ; 
 So 'tis but yours come back again 
 When I bestow a gift on you. 
 
 They can no better ; nor can I ; 
 All things return to whence they fall, 
 Till in the mystic by and by 
 We rise to God who giveth all ! 
 
 This book, a symbol, not a prize, 
 Accept and use or toss on shelf, 
 Until I may, should Fortune rise, 
 Attain to give a gift myself ! 
 
8o ARM A VIRUMQUE CANO ! 
 
 ARMA VIRUMQUE CANO! 
 
 AVAUNT, Black Pride, too vilely base, 
 
 That lovest listlessly to trace 
 
 A lengthy pedigree, and stand 
 
 In bloated sloth on claims of race ! 
 
 Down with that low-souled thought, that can 
 Place God-sent heroes under ban 
 As sons of sires of horny hand, 
 Nor owns the brother in the man ! 
 
 That base life-blasting taste which would 
 Prefer to honest hardihood 
 And unpretentious manliness 
 A Bar-sinister claim to Blood ! 
 
ARMA VIRUMQUE CANO ! 81 
 
 But those who trace unsullied name 
 Thro' bygone centuries of fame 
 Their ancestors arightly bless, 
 Nor can their pride be worthy blame ! 
 
 But that is ripe for blame which takes 
 Unearned distinctions' mask, and makes 
 Its bland and specious features hide 
 A face that pitying scorn awakes. 
 
 And though my Crest shall never speak 
 The title of a visor'd cheek 
 My shield no arrows glint aside, 
 Therefrom the memories I'll not break ! 
 
 These olden signs may be revealed 
 On many a hard-fought battle-field, 
 When 'mid the din of arms and men 
 My sword shall clash upon my shield. 
 
 For battles there are yet to fight ; 
 The war of wrong against the right 
 Is waxing keener now than then 
 When my name's -founder saw the light ! 
 
 7 
 
82 ARMA VIRUMQUE CANO ! 
 
 Then forward on a nobler quest 
 Than that whereon our ancient crest 
 Moved in firm phalanx out of camp 
 At beckoning Duty's first behest ! 
 
 So shall my scutcheoned Fleurs de lys 
 Maintain their symbol'd purity ; 
 My Royal Lion proudly ramp 
 O'er broken ranks of villainy ! 
 
A POSTSCRIPT. 83 
 
 A POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 SUGARED with many a sentiment sweet, 
 Scattered at least over more than one sheet, 
 Filled to the edges, signed and complete ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 * 
 
 Sealed and addressed, on the chimney-piece laid, 
 Majesty's phiz in the corner displayed, 
 Waiting the hand of man, master, or maid. 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 Gripped with a fist-full of others at last, 
 Some one is taking it somewhither fast, 
 Into the post office letter-box cast ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
84 A POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Pitched on the counter-board flat on its back, 
 Dated officially terrible whack ! 
 Tossed with the multitude into a sack ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 In a cart bumped along many a mile 
 Whisked in a sorting-room under a pile, 
 Soon to proceed by a different style 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 Whirled in a railway-truck, tearing through space, 
 Minutes and miles in a neck-to-neck race 
 Flopped on a platform with scantiest grace ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 Swung by a crane creaking under its toil 
 [Bah ! what a powerful perfume of oil !] 
 Dumped in a steamer-hold full of such spoil 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 Fancy depicts it not crossing the sea ! 
 That is too much for my fancy and me 
 Soon it is lying once more on the quay ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
A POSTSCRIPT. 85 
 
 Miles more of shaking and churning and jar, 
 Jolted on joggily ever so far ; 
 Firmer than mine your insides, letters, are ! 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 " Changez pour everywhere, here, si vous plait." 
 Out again, in again bang and away ! 
 " * je ne puis pas dicere mais." 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 What is that tinkling borne to my ear, 
 Louder and louder, clear and more clear ? 
 Yes, 'tis the diligence bells that I hear ; 
 A letter is coming for me ! 
 
 Wait : a few minutes' suspense, one or two ; 
 Eyes on the door-handle (what else to do ?) 
 Enter a servant-maid, " Monsieur, pour vous." 
 A letter has come for me ! 
 
86 DUKE OF CLARENCE AND A VON DALE. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF CLARENCE 
 AND AVONDALE. 
 
 THERE are times when silence speaks 
 
 With more eloquence than words ; 
 
 Sympathy magnetic thrills 
 
 Through the heart's o'er-straining chords. 
 
 Silence is the term of woe ; 
 
 Can we utter this our grief ? 
 
 Is it not in silent tears 
 
 That the mourner finds relief ? 
 
 Yet a nation while it strews 
 Round a tomb the bridal flowers, 
 Can but murmur faltering words, 
 Conscious of their feeble powers. 
 
DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE. 87 
 
 She who lately ruled a heart 
 That should gain an empire's love, 
 Not alone beside the grave 
 Weeps a consort's sad remove. 
 Hurrying time will spread his veil 
 All too shortly o'er the scene ; 
 But the veil shall hide the grief 
 Of a nation with its Queen ! 
 
88 SPERO MELIORA. 
 
 SPERO MELIORA. 
 
 SHALL I send it ? shall I send it ? 
 
 Or destroy it ere it go ? 
 Once despatched I cannot mend it ; 
 
 Answer, Shall I send it ? No ! 
 
 Shall I stop it, shall I stop it, 
 Ere my sorrows I confess ? 
 
 Shall I in the post-box drop it ? 
 Answer, Shall I send it ? Yes ! 
 
 Yes, I'll send it ; no, I'll keep it ; 
 
 It can't go : yet, go it must : 
 One more night I'll oversleep it 
 
 And to morning judgment trust. 
 
SPERO MELIORA. 
 
 I'm afraid lest by this letter 
 I should make her sad again ; 
 
 Yet, if I should write much better 
 It might give but double pain. 
 
 Sad, perhaps, to know my sadness, 
 Which, she says, she cannot heal ; 
 
 Sadder, thinking nought but gladness, 
 And forgetfulness I feel ! 
 
 If I only knew the motions 
 
 Of her mind, perchance, I might 
 
 Glean a few faint scattered notions 
 Of the way I ought to write. 
 
 If I knew that she would gladly 
 Think me happy, careless, then 
 
 Then I'd try, however sadly, 
 To seem cheerful by my pen. 
 
 But I half believe the chances 
 Are she'd really like to know 
 
 What my thoughts are, not the fancies 
 Which from any head might flow. 
 
90 SPERO MELIORA. 
 
 So I fear that I should grieve her 
 By my silence or my speech ; 
 
 And I fainly would relieve her 
 Of the trouble due to each. 
 
 She's so young, and I've upset her 
 Far too much by what I've said ; 
 
 And I feel this luckless letter 
 Must not go, but burn instead. 
 
 Yet she'll think, if I write gaily, 
 I've forgotten ; can she know 
 
 Of the dreams that haunt me daily 
 And why should she ? better so ? 
 
 Wait till she's a little older, 
 
 School-work now should fill her mind ; 
 What I have already told her 
 
 Peradventure was unkind. 
 
 Yet, I hoped it would be giving, 
 
 For herself as well as me, 
 Some clear plans for present living 
 
 Training for futurity. 
 
SPERO MELIORA. 91 
 
 That we'd take a mutual pleasure 
 
 In each other's every state 
 Reading, working, times of leisure, 
 
 In the years we had to wait. 
 
 Drawing to each other nearer 
 As our common interests grew ; 
 
 Growing to each other dearer 
 As the season closer drew. 
 
 I could see that she was laying 
 
 Other plans than mine ahead : 
 How could I refrain from saying 
 
 That she must take mine instead ? 
 
 But she only answered slightly, 
 For her heart was full of home ; 
 
 And I felt that it was rightly 
 That her thoughts refused to roam. 
 
 Let her love her home ! I would not 
 Lure her from that sacred shrine ; 
 
 But I don't see why she could not 
 To its other names add mine ! 
 
9 2 SPERO MELIORA. 
 
 Till the time came to forsake it, 
 And to make a home with me, 
 
 Surely I would have her make it 
 Centre of life's energy. 
 
 And if, at the stated season, 
 
 Duty keep her overlate, 
 What could be sufficient reason 
 
 Why I should not longer wait ? 
 
 Now, mayhap, the thoughts are banished 
 From her mind, and wisely so ; 
 
 But my patient hopes unvanished 
 Boldly to the future go : 
 
 And I'm thinking, while combining 
 Shredded memory's patch-work scraps, 
 
 Thinking of a light that's shining 
 On " the better side of P'R'APS." 
 
TO MY DOG. 93 
 
 TO MY DOG. 
 
 No reason ? Whence and what is that which I 
 
 Cannot express by any other term 
 
 Innate within thee ? " Instinct " fails to give 
 
 Full comprehension to the multiplex 
 
 And many-sided motions of thy brain. 
 
 Why should that which in a child were reason, 
 Though mere faint glimmerings of an embryo mind, 
 In thee, a dog, be labelled something less ? 
 Not that its signs are less, mayhap far more, 
 But a priori, since thou art a dog. 
 
 Could it dishonour God that we should grant 
 That lower creatures may possess with man 
 Far more in common than our fathers thought ? 
 
94 TO MY DOG. 
 
 Nay ; rather, 'twere dishonour to deny 
 
 To those who hold the substance those same terms 
 
 That may express the self-same gifts in both, 
 
 The difference rather of degree than kind, 
 
 And man is raised, not lowered ; for the higher 
 
 We shall upraise the lower, still more highly 
 
 Shall we exalt the higher ; truth is truth, 
 
 But hidden, it is only darkened truth, 
 
 Yet truth the same, and works unrecognised, 
 
 The loser for his blindness, only man. 
 
 No soul ? Instinctively I answer, " No ! " 
 Yet what is that some inarticulate 
 Sympathetic sense that seems in thee 
 To hold communion with my unseen self ? 
 What is that common element that gives 
 Such mutual understanding resting-place ? 
 'Tis there, I know, but what it is know not. 
 
 None can as yet define the soul, nor fix 
 The limits or the intervals that bound 
 Intercommunications of the mind ; 
 Or what is mind ; or where the mind and soul 
 Diverge ; what reason is, or limited 
 
TO MY DOG. 95 
 
 To whom, by what ; how sympathy's expressed ; 
 
 What life implies, or magnetism means ; 
 
 Or what the confines of the natural. 
 
 So much unknown ; and yet, my dog, I feel 
 
 (Feeling may be but knowledge learnt untaught) 
 
 There is a deeper, higher part of me 
 
 Wherewith thou hast no power to sympathise, 
 
 No capability to harmonise, 
 
 No faculty for even guessing at, 
 
 And no innate criteria to gauge : 
 
 Albeit, were I sad in brooding o'er 
 
 The trackless vastness of the dark unknown, 
 
 Eternal transcendental mysteries 
 
 Whose shadowy outlines catch our eyeless sight, 
 
 Thou mightest lie by pensively and seem 
 
 As sharing just those dreams that weigh me down, 
 
 Yet w r ert thou saddened, 'twould be but because 
 
 I was so too, not feeling in thyself 
 
 A common interest in a common grief. 
 
 Nor would the joy that sometimes stirs my soul 
 In dwelling on the wondrous works of God 
 Stir up in thee a joy beyond that felt 
 In feeling I was happy ; yet at times 
 
96 TO MY DOG. 
 
 Thy yearning, wistful eyes turned up to mine, 
 Seeming to plead with silent questioning 
 For explanations that I cannot give, 
 Draw me the nearer while I feel most far. 
 
 For is't not thus we turn our questioning 
 
 And yearning glances heavenward to Him 
 
 Who knoweth all ; while we know nought but that 
 
 He hath already taught us ; know He loves, 
 
 And trust Him for His knowledge and His love ? 
 
 Oh, fools and blind ! 'tis not despising us 
 
 Or in the lofty scorn of majesty 
 
 Heedlessly inattentive to our plea, 
 
 He grants not satisfaction instantly. 
 
 Should I attempt in simplest chosen words 
 
 To teach my dog the solar-system's laws, 
 
 The changing phases of the moon he bays 
 
 Or unseen causes 'neath phenomena, 
 
 Those pleading eyes would never brighten up 
 
 With apprehensive intellectual light, 
 
 Showing some long- worked problem solved at last. 
 
 Knowing I cannot thus explain, I lay 
 
 My hand upon his shaggy head, and stroke 
 
TO MY DOG. 97 
 
 And pat him lovingly, and say, " Good dog ! " 
 He, bounding off in happy confidence, 
 Content to know how much he cannot know 
 And trusting in his master's character. 
 
 Thus God with us, while as our finite sense 
 
 Is still incapable to bear the whole, 
 
 The fullest revelation of Himself 
 
 And of eternal verities : Him we trust, 
 
 To whom all contradictions, reconciled, 
 
 Form one harmonious whole, which He will teach 
 
 As we to bear are able. Oh, forgive, 
 
 Great God, the cavillings of our ignorance, 
 
 And fit us daily more and more to learn 
 
 The lessons that Thy providence would teach ; 
 
 Till through imperfect to more perfect grown 
 
 We may at last to full perfection come. 
 
98 ON A SWALLOW'S NEST IN 
 
 ON A SWALLOW'S NEST IN THE DOOR- 
 WAY OF A VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 SCORN not to learn although, perchance, 
 The teacher be not great or wise ; 
 
 The seeming meanness may enhance 
 The lesson's value in our eyes. 
 
 The builder of some glorious pile, 
 That rears aloft its shimmering cone, 
 
 Must use the gimlet and the file 
 As well as monster quarried stone. 
 
 Nor does our God disdain to take 
 For instruments the " weak " and " small," 
 
 By them Himself to work, and make 
 His message echo through them all. 
 
THE DOORWAY OF A VILLAGE SCHOOL. 99 
 
 There's not a flower too small to add 
 
 Its answer to the stars above, 
 To cheer some heart, forlorn and sad, 
 
 Who trembling questions, " Is God Love ? " 
 
 And, little swallow, who didst set 
 Thy wattled hut amid these beams, 
 
 From thee a lesson we may get 
 A lesson greater than it seems. 
 
 Of quietness and confidence, 
 
 And daily duties daily done, 
 Instinctive trust transcending sense, 
 
 Of steady purpose, dreading none. 
 
 Such lessons learning we shall give 
 Our thanks to thee for building here ; 
 
 And acting on them daily live 
 
 More nobly till you come next year ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 O foolish impulse, false to thought ! 
 
 " Instinctive trust ! " an idle phrase ! 
 A reasoned doubt, tho' dearly bought, 
 
 Were worthier of a reasoned praise. 
 
ioo ON A SWALLOW'S NEST. 
 
 O swallow, blindly led by sense 
 
 Of outward things thro' wonted skies ; 
 
 And yearly hurried here and hence 
 By carnal need of sun and flies ! 
 
 False is the fancy that would find 
 Faith's symbol in a sinless hen ; 
 
 Far nobler to the thoughtful mind 
 Is man with all the faults of men. 
 
LINES FOR CHRISTMAS CARDS. 101 
 
 LINES FOR CHRISTMAS CARDS. 
 
 SYMBOL'D by a tiny flower, 
 
 See my Christmas greetings sent ; 
 
 I remember thee this hour ; 
 Think of me, and I'm content. 
 
 Forget thee ! Life's joys are so mingled with sorrow, 
 
 Bitter and sweet are so mixed in the cup, 
 Little we guess what's in store for to-morrow, 
 
 Woes we may gain or delights render up. 
 Nay ; in the midst of this coming and going, 
 
 Ebbing and flowing of Time's changeful sea, 
 Oh ! there is comfort, real comfort in knowing, 
 
 I can find friendship unchanging in thee ! 
 
102 LINES FOR CHRISTMAS CARDS. 
 
 Make the best of everything, 
 Tho' 'tis often trying ; 
 
 If you've spent your time in vain, 
 Waste no more in sighing : 
 
 Troubles may be manifold ; 
 
 Keep a cheery heart and bold ; 
 What's the use of crying ! 
 
 What shall I wish my friend this Christmastide ? 
 
 I'll wish twelve months of busy, joyous hours, 
 O'er which the thoughts that retrospective glide 
 
 Be but as sighs breathed over faded flowers. 
 
MATERNAL LOVE. 103 
 
 MATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 POETS may sing of lovers' love, 
 
 And tune the ancient lyre 
 To ceaseless rounds of plaintive song, 
 
 Whereof men never tire ! 
 
 A rarer subject, bolder I, 
 
 My votive numbers move, 
 To sing in soft soliloquy 
 
 A mother's tender love ! 
 
 A mother's heart ! Oh, who can know 
 The depths unfathomed there : 
 
 Depths far too sanctified to show 
 The treasures none may share. 
 
104 MATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 A mother's heart ! forgive me mine 
 
 For that I dare to hope 
 My filial breast may half divine 
 
 Some measure of its scope. 
 
 Maternal love begins to spring 
 None knoweth how or when ; 
 
 But when maternal cares begin 
 Maternal love is then. 
 
 Then what a happy doting stage 
 In anxious love creeps by, 
 
 Until the sweetest, childhood age, 
 Has joined eternity. 
 
 Boyhood succeeds ; oh, mother's heart, 
 
 A trying time for thee ; 
 Keen pangs and many a bitter smart 
 
 Are now thy destiny ! 
 
 How anxious is the parent bird 
 When, on its new-found wings, 
 
 The nestling first essays to try 
 The strength its nature brings. 
 
MATERNAL LOVE. 105 
 
 Who knows but that some wanton shot 
 May check its quivering flight ; 
 
 Some snare embroil its guileless feet, 
 Or pounce on it some kite ? 
 
 Divided in her anxious mind 
 
 The old bird flutters by- 
 Fear for the little fledgling's flight, 
 
 And joy that it can fly. 
 
 'Tis thus a mother's yearning fears 
 
 Hover around her boy, 
 When first he leaves the sheltering nest 
 
 To enter life's employ. 
 
 Yet was it not for this, for this 
 
 Her tender, nurturing care 
 Had trained his pliant infancy 
 
 And hallowed him with prayer ? 
 
 The time has come, and he must taste 
 
 The tree of knowledge, too, 
 Must know 'twixt good and ill to choose 
 
 But which will he pursue ? 
 
io6 MATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 O do not slight a mother's love, 
 Or think it " common-place " ; 
 
 The world knows no affection more 
 Majestic or less base. 
 
 Death cannot slay a mother's love, 
 It overleaps the tomb ; 
 
 And to its object snatched away 
 Bursts thro' the encircling gloom. 
 
 Forgotten words, forgotten deeds, 
 Forgotten ways and looks, 
 
 Forgot by all but mother's heart, 
 Are treasured in its nooks. 
 
 And oft how oft she only knows, 
 A mother's self bereaved 
 
 Over the promise-breaking past 
 Her lonely sighs are heaved. 
 
 And tho' the callous calls of life 
 Forbid such pleasant pain, 
 
 Her thoughts a moment left alone 
 Will flutter back again. 
 
MATERNAL LOVE. 107 
 
 Night after night her spirit sleeps 
 
 Upon some far-off grave ; 
 While ever round her chilly sweeps 
 
 Wild Fancy's phantom wave. 
 
 How oft to some light-spoken word, 
 
 Or look, or touch, or sound, 
 The stricken heart-chords all vibrate 
 
 And quivering rebound ! 
 
 Shame, tenfold shame that sons should be 
 
 To mock such tenderness, 
 And turn to curses on themselves 
 
 A love that will but bless. 
 
 O mother's love, O love divine, 
 
 Unselfish, constant, free, 
 How can thy sunbeams strike my soul 
 
 And not reflected be ? 
 
io8 YOU'RE ANOTHER. 
 
 YOU'RE ANOTHER. 
 
 I LAUGH at thee, 
 
 You laugh at me, 
 We both laugh at our brother ; 
 
 He laughs at us both, 
 
 And neither is loth 
 To join his laugh at t'other ! 
 
A GREETING. 109 
 
 A GREETING. 
 
 ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. 
 
 I HAVE no special wish to tell 
 I wish you all and every good ; 
 
 So write the alphabet to spell 
 Whene'er you will whate'er you would ! 
 
no POETRY. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 WHY do I read poetry ? 
 
 Everything is poetry : 
 
 Those who have but eyes to see 
 
 Find in all things poetry. 
 
 Why read books of measured rhyme 
 
 While all Nature is sublime 
 
 Unbefettered poetry ? 
 
 Sunset sky and evening star 
 
 Tell more thrilling poems far 
 
 To the hearts of listening men 
 
 Than was ever writ by pen ; 
 
 All is full of poetry : 
 
 Tinkling of the sheepfold bell, 
 
 Twinkling glowworms in the dell, 
 
 Sprinkling dews on heathery fell 
 
 All is full of poetry. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 Lying on the flowery grass 
 Watching swallows flickering by, 
 While the trailing cloudlets pass 
 In a variegated sky ; 
 Listening to the rippling stream 
 Prattling on its seaward way, 
 While the nodding rushes seem 
 Pleased with what the waters say 
 What is this but poetry ? 
 Cataracts that loudly roaring 
 O'er the crags their deluge pouring 
 Lash the pools to tiny billows 
 Sputtering round the solemn willows, 
 Are heroic poetry. 
 Poetry in every measure 
 For all moods of grief or pleasure, 
 Nature keeps among her treasure. 
 Oh ! we need no books to read it, 
 All we need is eyes to heed it. 
 He that loved to say that poet 
 Was a synonym for " maker " 
 Libelled nature, tho' I know it, 
 Loved that lusty idol-breaker, 
 j/," said the Greeks, " 
 
112 POETRY. 
 
 Definition more complete I 
 
 Can't desire : for the muses 
 
 Are but Nature's several voices, 
 
 Which at various times she uses, 
 
 Whispering those on whom her choice is. 
 
 Poets do not make, they merely 
 
 Write at Nature's own dictation 
 
 For the deaf who cannot clearly 
 
 Apprehend her intonation : 
 
 To the blind the poet sings 
 
 All the myriad mystic things 
 
 'Neath the veil of Nature latent 
 
 To his clearer eyesight patent ; 
 
 He who hears the silent voices 
 
 Thrilling thro' his soul, rejoices 
 
 If he can but give expression 
 
 To one word of their confession. 
 
 He that hears the music soundless 
 
 Echoing thro' his spirit, tries 
 
 From a harmony so boundless 
 
 Just to seize, before it dies, 
 
 Here a bar, and here a line 
 
 Of a concert so divine ; 
 
 Hearing write, and written show it 
 
POETRY. 113 
 
 To the world, which names him " poet." 
 Ah ! no poet ever sings us 
 Half the message Nature brings us, 
 Half the smiling springtime glories, 
 Half-stern winter's kindly stories ; 
 Never sings us, paints us, spells us, 
 Half each cycling season tells us : 
 Ne'er reflects one-half the light 
 That has made his own soul bright. 
 Words are feeble ; men are weak ; 
 Only half who feel can speak, 
 Less than half who speak can show 
 Nearly half of that they know. 
 All is full of poetry. 
 If you seek good poetry, 
 Leave the house and shut your book up, 
 Wander thro' the fields and look up ; 
 Look behind, before, about you, 
 Look within and look without you 
 Look and listen ; listen gently, 
 Look not hardly but intently : 
 Thus you'll hear, and thus you'll see 
 Wheresoever you may be 
 On the mountains, by the sea, 
 9 
 
114 POETRY. 
 
 In the city's squalid gloom, 
 
 'Mid sweet dells of heath and broom, 
 
 In the garden, in the park, 
 
 In broad daylight, after dark, 
 
 Anywhere, at every time, 
 
 Poems, music, more sublime 
 
 Than was ever writ in rhyme, 
 
 Or than any could rehearse, 
 
 Or has prisoned in blank-verse ; 
 
 Try, and you will sing with me 
 
 All is full of poetry, 
 
 Everything is poetry. 
 
THE LOSS OF THE " VICTORIA." 115 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE VICTORIA. 
 
 THE Spirit of War was sporting 
 On the surging, sunlit sea, 
 As he scattered the scampering waters 
 In rollicking, reckless glee. 
 
 In the stately pomp of battle 
 He strode o'er the crested waves, 
 Who bow their proud heads, 
 As he lightly treads 
 O'er myriad nameless graves. 
 
 Then a war dance wild and weird, 
 
 He is mazed in a frenzied rage, 
 
 And he gloats o'er the glories attained in the past, 
 
 The trophies of every age. 
 
 His gorgeous bravery flits, 
 In the peace-breathing breeze from the shore, 
 As he whirls in a dazed, delirious delight, 
 In a dream of fresh glories in store. 
 
n6 THE LOSS OF THE " VICTORIA." 
 
 O terrible Spirit of War ! 
 O terrible even in play ! 
 For you claimed for your sport 
 More lives than were sought 
 For a Roman Holiday. 
 
 Our brothers, husbands, sons, 
 Their life-blood spilled in vain ; 
 Not in the din of a foeman's guns, 
 They sank in a blood-stained main. 
 
 O what did you win ? Nought ! Nought ! 
 No records for history's pen ; 
 Applause of no people or court, 
 No heroes to add amongst men. 
 
 No heroes ? Ah yes, they were there 
 But in death not in life they were proved ; 
 For you strangled them e'er they could share 
 The contests you taught them to love. 
 
 Far down 'neath the gurgling deep, 
 Lie the stern sons of duty, thy slain ; 
 And the nations they cheer not, but weep, 
 And sympathy trembles with pain. 
 
THE LOSS OF THE "VICTORIA." 117 
 
 Yet had you not wrought this in play, 
 
 In such an unfortunate way, 
 
 But in grim earnest purpose intent 
 
 Had you marshalled your troops, 
 
 'Mid yelling war-whoops, 
 
 On vengeance or plundering bent : 
 
 Had the roar of your thundering shaken 
 
 The walls of an alien town : 
 
 Had you clattered her stones 
 
 On enemies' bones 
 
 Mid hell-fire rattling down : 
 
 Had your sulphurous smoky pall 
 
 Drooped over the death-doomed site, 
 
 Where the blood of the dying and dead 
 
 Steamed up in the murky light ; 
 
 Where groans are lost in the roar that sped 
 
 The whistling cannon ball ; 
 
 The nation would view it with sparkling eyes, 
 
 And roar its delight to the echoing skies 
 
 " Hurrah ! for the city is taken ! " 
 
 Had you foundered an enemy's ship, 
 
 And throttled a thousand men, 
 
 Your hand had been wrung in a friendly grip, 
 
n8 THE LOSS OF THE " VICTORIA." 
 
 You had worn fresh laurels then ! 
 Those mouldering forms 'neath the sea 
 Would be titles to honour, each one ; 
 And all would an exquisite monument be 
 Of the glorious victory won ! 
 
 O God ! is this our creed ? 
 Does brotherhood mean no more 
 For us than a common lust of greed 
 
 
 
 On a common native shore ? 
 
 O when shall we toss aside 
 
 This envy of race and clan, 
 
 And limit our " brothers " to nought less wide 
 
 Than the common rights of man ? 
 
 O God ! we are dull to learn ; 
 We are fools and slow of heart ; 
 And yet I wot we often yearn 
 To play a nobler part ! 
 
 Can man be and not fight ? 
 But he was not born for this ! 
 Is war his paragon bliss ? 
 More light, my God, more light ! 
 
DE AMICITIA." 119 
 
 DE AMICITIA." 
 
 CRUEL is the thought that the friends I am loving, 
 Friends I have loved in the years passed away, 
 
 May in the future whereto we are moving 
 Meet me a stranger as strangers some day ! 
 
 Friends that I meet with, and laugh with, and talk 
 with, 
 
 Open my mind with, familiar and true, 
 Meeting again one that now I so walk with, 
 
 Such should bow stiffly and say, " How d'ye do ? " 
 
 Yet, looking back on the past, I see clearly 
 
 Shadows of friends I'm in touch with no more ; 
 
 Friends long ago that I loved very dearly 
 Who have forgot the affection I bore. 
 
120 " DE AMICITIA." 
 
 I can see back through life's pathway in fancies 
 Many a spot, where a hasty " Good-bye " 
 
 Left me without some companion, the chances 
 Of some new bend in the roadway to try. 
 
 Shortly I joined some one else, and we started, 
 Arm linked in arm a few miles on the way ; 
 
 Till we encountered more cross-roads and parted 
 Almost before we could think what to say. 
 
 Yet, after all, 'tisn't friends that forsake us ; 
 
 Friends, if worth keeping, will hold to us fast : 
 Ay, and the longer they stay, they will make us 
 
 Love them the more for the love of the past. 
 
 Passing acquaintances we can dispense with ; 
 
 We may have liked them or loved them, no doubt ; 
 But they were people we seldom talked sense with ; 
 
 We feel their loss, but can manage without. 
 
 Just as a traveller, missing the pleasures 
 
 Of a companionship lasting a week, 
 Soon from the midst of more durable treasures 
 
 Can of his loss quite emotionless speak. 
 
" DE AMICITIA." 121 
 
 What is there dearer than friendship restraintless ? 
 
 Should it wane, moon-like, each year that it lives ? 
 Love that is real, unaffected, and paintless 
 
 Ought it to feel any chill that time gives ? 
 
 No ! I don't fear any backbiting schemers, 
 
 Envy, or other, co-partners in crime ; 
 They may yell under their draggling streamers ; 
 
 The only real foe I'm in dread of is Time. 
 
 Friends I have loved in the past and am loving, 
 Friends who to me are now loyal and true, 
 
 Say, when we meet whither now we are moving, 
 Will ye bow stiffly and say, " How d'ye do ? " 
 
122 ANALOGUE. 
 
 ANALOGUE. 
 
 HEARTS are like the tent that Moses 
 Pitches for the Lord in Zin ; 
 
 Where the outer wall encloses 
 Space that all may enter in. 
 
 Then a court for Israel's nation ; 
 
 Last, the holiest of all, 
 Where one yearly makes oblation 
 
 At the stated season's call. 
 
 So with us ; the outer veiling 
 Of our nature may be pass'd 
 
 By the many : but the second 
 By a few : by none the last. 
 
 There alone the spirit pleading 
 Stands before the mercy- seat ; 
 
 Seeking strength for all its needing, 
 For the claims it fails to meet ! 
 
TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 123 
 
 TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 
 
 YES ; you have suffered, none denies ; 
 
 But now a truce to weeping. 
 Why, what's the use of all these sighs, 
 
 And all this vigil-keeping ? 
 
 Come, plunge into the teeming world 
 And bear your part in action ; 
 
 The work will bring a joy you'll find, 
 To cure your soul's distraction ! 
 
 We've something else to do below 
 
 Than mourn the petty causes 
 Of all our woes ; our hurried lives 
 ' Can't spare such lengthy pauses. 
 
 Pent in his narrow bounds of flesh, 
 
 Six feet or so in stature, 
 Each deems his microcosmic sphere 
 
 Is half the realm of Nature ! 
 
I2 4 TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 
 
 And thus he hugs his petty gains 
 And mourns his trivial crosses, 
 
 As if the universe itself 
 Were partner in his losses. 
 
 Go, count the stars, deluded fool ! 
 
 How many worlds gyrating 
 Around how many suns, and what 
 
 Their speculated dating ? 
 
 Is this too much for heart and brain ? 
 
 Then scale some City Steeple, 
 Or, say, the London Monument, 
 
 And count the crawling people. 
 
 The swarming herds of men below, 
 Like insect armies creeping, 
 
 With your self-bounded views of life 
 Are strangely out of keeping. 
 
 Learn that the secret bands which knit 
 
 Your life in that relation, 
 Which binds all units into one 
 
 Vast Cosmos of creation, 
 
TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 125 
 
 Are rooted in the deeps below 
 
 The glistening surface bubbles 
 Which swell, and flash, and fly, and burst, 
 
 And fill your heart with troubles. 
 
126 ALAS! A LOSS! AND A LASS! 
 
 ALAS! A LOSS! AND A LASS! 
 
 WHERE the rocks run out to meet the hustling billows 
 
 on the strand, 
 Where the ever-present gum-tree drives gnarled feet 
 
 beneath the sand : 
 
 Stretching out gaunt arms to seaward, owning with a 
 
 meagre grace, 
 Haughty deference to Nature, who forbids to claim 
 
 that space. 
 
 Stretched upon a sea- worn block, among the boulders 
 
 on the lea 
 Lie two human forms enveloped in a rug and reverie ; 
 
 In a peaceful meditation, cruising round the coasts of 
 
 sleep, 
 Tuning pensive thoughts to rhythm with the pulses 
 
 of the deep : 
 
ALAS! A LOSS! AND A LASS! 127 
 
 Gliding far away in spirit, leave their bodies on the 
 
 shore, 
 Beckon old familiar friends and haunt the dreamy 
 
 scenes of yore. 
 
 But a creaking on the shingle is it fancy ? no, 
 
 again ! 
 Nearer, listen, creaking, creeping something coming, 
 
 that is plain. 
 
 What ? a snake ? some vicious monster ? One form 
 
 rises on an arm, 
 Then the other, see them, turning, eye the causes of 
 
 alarm. 
 
 Fell the query from the spectre, " Are you going to 
 
 bathe ? if not 
 We are, if you'll have the kindness to remove beyond 
 
 this spot." 
 
 So we learnt 'twas maiden footsteps that alarmed our 
 
 reverie, 
 And we rose in grim obedience to the laws of 
 
 chivalry. 
 
128 ALAS ! A LOSS ! AND A LASS ! 
 
 Vos valete ! O ! puellae ; tho' you counterplayed 
 
 our will, 
 Yet we joy to find such simple unaffected girlhood 
 
 still. 
 
 And we'd sacrifice not only midday slumbers now 
 and then, 
 
 Could we multiply such proofs to reassure despond- 
 ing men. 
 
SURSUM CORD A. 129 
 
 SURSUM CORDA. 
 
 I FAIN would sing to a humble heart the song of a 
 
 trustful hope ; 
 And what care I if others part the prize of a world's 
 
 applause ! 
 The cultured crowd in the covered stands, the mob 
 
 that seethes at the rope, 
 May munch their sandwiches, clap their hands, or 
 
 swear till the night give pause. 
 
 The air is thick with the noisy din of the rush and 
 
 the scuffle of life, 
 And many are trampled by those who win a higher 
 
 place than they ; 
 Till the cry goes up from the weary earth, from out 
 
 the maddening strife, 
 That death is better for man than birth, and progress 
 
 is but decay. 
 
 10 
 
i 3 o SURSUM CORD A. 
 
 But I shout, " O man in the dust, take heart ! do all 
 
 you can, and die ; 
 Nor fear that dying you miss your part ; fulfilment is 
 
 elsewhere ; 
 For who can gauge success but He who knows all 
 
 reasons why ? 
 Be faithful, let the issues be:" I cry, but who will 
 
 hear? 
 
NOTA BENE. 131 
 
 NOTA BENE. 
 
 SHE had sold her soul for bread 
 
 Her soul for her body's life ; 
 
 But the life she had bought was a living death, 
 
 So she buried its shame by a plunge beneath, 
 
 And a moment's drowning strife : 
 
 And Heaven shall judge the dead. 
 
 He had sold his soul for bread 
 
 His soul for his stomach's lust ; 
 And the life he had bought was pampered and gay, 
 So he scribbled men's virtue and honour away, 
 A journalist traitor to trust : 
 And Heaven shall judge what he said. 
 
132 CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 
 
 CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 TAKEN away my Lord, and I know not where they 
 
 have laid Him ! 
 Taken away my life, and quenched the light of my 
 
 spirit ! 
 Life ! it was only to sit at the tomb of my blessed 
 
 Redeemer ; 
 Only to mark where His feet had trodden the ways 
 
 of the city ; 
 Only to dwell in the words the lips of my Saviour 
 
 had spoken ; 
 Only to visit His grave with spices and flowers at 
 
 daybreak. 
 There at the evening to kneel and pour out my spirit 
 
 within me; 
 Thence to go forth thro' the world to carry the balm 
 
 of His teaching ; 
 
CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 133 
 
 Succouring those that He loved and whispering 
 words He had uttered. 
 
 Him they have taken away, the Mainspring of all 
 my existence ; 
 
 Him they have taken away, and I know not where 
 they have laid Him. 
 
 Dark, dark is my life, I tremble to move in the dark- 
 ness; 
 
 Dark, darker is death, and eternity yawns to engulph 
 me ; 
 
 Fathomless, drear, and too vast for the thought of a 
 quivering mortal ; 
 
 Everywhere empty and dark and barren its depth 
 and its vastness. 
 
 Ah ! the ineffable horror, the dread of that limitless 
 vastness ; 
 
 Horror that broods in the gulph of that deep un- 
 limited darkness. 
 
 He, the light of my life and the light of my death is 
 departed ; 
 
 Him they have taken away, and I know not where 
 they have laid Him, 
 
 Taken my Master away, and I know not where they 
 have laid Him. 
 
134 CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Wherefore seekest thou here among the dead for the 
 
 living ? 
 Hearken, He is not here ! He is not here ! He is 
 
 risen ! 
 Weep not thou for the dead, but joy and rejoice for 
 
 the living. 
 Rise, arise from the tomb, the empty tomb that they 
 
 made Him. 
 Here they thought to have kept His body for ever 
 
 imprisoned ; 
 Here, in the narrow cell that human chisels had 
 
 fashioned, 
 Would they have kept Him confined and honoured 
 
 Him after their manner. 
 Therefore rolled they a stone exceeding great on the 
 
 portal, 
 Therefore sealed it with seals by the hand of the 
 
 fathers and elders. 
 Him, the Lord of all life, they thought to enchain 
 
 with a signet, 
 Him with a boulder of rock they fondly conceived to 
 
 imprison. 
 
CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 135 
 
 Gone is the boulder of rock and broken the seals of 
 
 the elders. 
 Seek not here 'mid the dead ; He is not here, He is 
 
 risen. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 Who as speaking in dreams deceives with the cry, 
 
 " He is risen " ? 
 Him they have taken away, and I know not where 
 
 they have laid Him ! 
 Taken away my Lord, and I know not where they 
 
 have laid Him ! 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Up and begone from the tomb, and go to tell His 
 
 disciples, 
 Tell that He is not here ! He is not here, He is 
 
 risen ! 
 Rise and follow Him forth, and see Him and hear 
 
 Him and ponder, 
 Not on the words that He spake before He was 
 
 murdered and buried, 
 Not upon these alone, but also on those He is 
 
 speaking ; 
 
136 CHRIST IN MODERN THEOLOGY. 
 
 Not on the works that He wrought before His 
 
 betrayal by Judas, 
 Not upon these alone, but also on those He is 
 
 working : 
 Slow of heart to believe He is not here, He is risen ! 
 
PER CRUCEM AD LUCEM. 137 
 
 PER CRUCEM AD LUCEM. 
 
 WERE body's good our highest good, 
 Then pleasure were our guiding star, 
 And sense true index of its course ; 
 But we have also souls whereby 
 We are communicant with God ; 
 In Him consists our highest good. 
 True Spirit of our spirit, Him 
 We are unswervingly to love ; 
 Not blindly, with instinctive drift ; 
 But freely, with clear inward sight 
 And conscious interchange of thought. 
 To this no antecedent wave 
 Of nervous feeling draws by sense 
 Of pleasure ; but, defying pain, 
 We reach pure joy unknown to sense, 
 And win our true inheritance. 
 
138 A SIGH OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 
 
 A SIGH OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 
 
 THE past cut off and the future blank, 
 The present lonely, waiting ; 
 Waiting, ill, fallen out of the rank, 
 Waiting, empty in pocket and bank, 
 Expense accelerating ! 
 
 Happy, happy days that are gone ; 
 Happiness bitterness also : 
 They have departed, one by one, 
 Bitter and sweet they have left me none, 
 111 and alone ! to fall so ! 
 
 
 Ill and alone in the midst of a crowd, 
 
 Money nearly departed ; 
 
 Borrow or beg ? Am I too proud 
 
 To blazon my helplessness out so loud ? 
 
 Work ! give work ! if work's allow'd ! 
 
 O ! I am weary-hearted ! 
 
 Work flows by in a given stream 
 Some can reach it only ; 
 
A SIGH OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 139 
 
 Others stand by to shout and scream, 
 Wander about in an aimless dream, 
 " Out of the running" ; so I seem, 
 Hankering and lonely. 
 
 Waiting like the man at the pool ; 
 
 Angel troubles the waters ; 
 
 In steps another that's the rule, 
 
 One at a time so I, poor fool, 
 
 Lie down again in Patience's school 
 
 With Misery's sons and daughters ! 
 
 " Lord, I have no man," so he spake, 
 
 " By whom to be directed ; 
 
 Others have friends whose hand they take 
 
 To lift them into the healing lake, 
 
 But I, so soon as the waters wake, 
 
 In going am intersected." 
 
 Courage ! courage ! desponding man ; 
 Darker days have broken ; 
 Cease the book of the fates to scan, 
 Banish to-morrows out of your plan, 
 To-day with enough for to-day began ; 
 The past shall be your token ! 
 
140 MORS JANUA VIT&. 
 
 MORS JANUA 
 
 O PARROT ! flashing in the sun, 
 
 Whose life is but a toy, 
 A sportive wheel of radiant fun 
 
 All circumscribed with joy, 
 For you a hundred years may run, 
 
 While I must die a boy ! 
 
 O Parrot ! with but half your days 
 What might I do and be ; 
 
 While you will flutter in the sprays 
 Of this and yonder tree, 
 
 And scream and twitter in the praise 
 Of long inanity ! 
 
 O Parrot ! flashing in the sun, 
 
 I envy not, not I, 
 The days so lavished on your fun 
 
 God's laws to me deny ; 
 For you a hundred years may run, 
 
 But I shall never die ! 
 
TO ALTHEA. 141 
 
 TO ALTHEA. 
 
 O ! LOVE may often painful be 
 
 A mockery of pleasure, 
 When lavished unreservedly 
 
 In unbegrudging measure, 
 On one who deems such tribute vain, 
 And merely flings it back again, 
 
 My Allie ! 
 
 O ! love is full of life and hope, 
 All interfused with pleasure, 
 
 Where he can find the fullest scope 
 To spread his growing treasure ; 
 
 And ever richer grows and still 
 
 More rich the more remains to fill, 
 
 My Allie ! 
 
142 TO ALTHEA. 
 
 O ! love must take as well as give, 
 And gives the more for taking ; 
 
 Love hungers, but he cannot live 
 On simpers and phrase-making ; 
 
 O ! love can live on scanty fare, 
 
 But thrives not when the table's bare, 
 
 My Allie ! 
 
 O ! love is mine, and mine is thine, 
 
 For you and I, we tally, 
 And there is nothing so divine 
 
 On earth as love, my Allie ! 
 We'll give and take, and give the more, 
 And thus grow richer than before, 
 
 My Allie ! 
 
'AIIOKAPAAOKIA. H3 
 
 'ADOKAPAAOKIA. 
 
 AT times upon my soul there gleams 
 A glimmer as of rising day ; 
 And through the lessening darkness beams 
 Of flickering sunlight slope their way ; 
 And I, lone watcher of the night, 
 Shout, straining dawnwards weary sight, 
 " The Light ! the Light ! "but it is gone ! 
 
 At times a spirit moves among 
 
 The dead bones of my common themes, 
 
 Wakes them to life and I am stung 
 
 With shame of all my aimless dreams : 
 
 I watch each gathering to his post, 
 
 And cry, as one who finds the lost, 
 
 " My Host ! my Host ! " but they are gone ! 
 
144 'AnOKAPAAOKIA. 
 
 At times I hear a voice within, 
 In tones my spirit leaps to hear ; 
 And hushed are all the sounds that win 
 The usual audience of mine ear ; 
 While every throbbing sense is strained, 
 I trembling whisper, pleasure-pained, 
 " The Truth ! the Truth ! "but it is gone ! 
 
 O ! weary soul, the Day shall rise ; 
 The Hosts of God shall triumph still ; 
 Truth shall be clear as summer skies, 
 And Flesh to Spirit yield its will ; 
 Fear not ! be faithful to thy part, 
 'Tis all concerns thee ; cries my heart, 
 
 "My Hopes! my Hopes ! they are not gone." 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 145 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 THE SONG OF A MAIDEN ALL FORLORN. 
 
 I LOST my heart, I know not when, 
 And wandered heartless weary days 
 To blame inured, unknown to praise, 
 
 Amid the lives of fellow men, 
 
 A homeless stranger-citizen. 
 
 My careless comrades called me proud 
 And cold and stiff ; and turned aside 
 To criticise the latest bride 
 And sift the gossip of the crowd 
 With empty jest, and laughter loud. 
 
 From face to face I sought in vain 
 For latent friendship's waking glance ; 
 And if to theatre or dance 
 
 I went, return was always pain ; 
 
 Nor friend nor interest did I gain, 
 n 
 
146 LOS! AND FOUND. 
 
 I lived an alien to their joys, 
 
 A partner only in their grief ; 
 
 While all my own, past all relief 
 They scoffed at, glorying in the toys 
 That please such grown-up girls and boys. 
 
 And thus my heart was ground away, 
 
 And died myself, myself within ; 
 
 Till all the clamour and the din 
 
 Of quarrels, merriment, display, 
 
 Passed heedless by me, day by day ! 
 
 Until a voice within me spoke 
 
 In tones my spirit heard and leapt 
 From out the chamber where she slept ; 
 And all the spells of habit broke, 
 Before affection's master-stroke ! 
 
 No longer now I live alone ; 
 
 Strength is increased with fellowship ; 
 
 Love smoothed the hardness from my lip 
 And turned my voice to purer tone ; 
 For in your heart I found my own ! 
 
THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 147 
 
 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 
 
 You tell me that one's character is known 
 
 In choice of books their number and their kind ; 
 
 And thus conclude that mine is clearly shown, 
 By these few various volumes that you find ! 
 
 You say his garments are an index clear 
 To any man's innate good taste or bad ; 
 
 And you would judge me by the clothes I wear, 
 And label me with some one else's fad ! 
 
 You view a man's companions and you pass 
 Your inward judgment on his spirit's height ; 
 
 And judging thus you ticket me an ass, 
 
 Because my comrades are so coarse and light ! 
 
 If by his flight an eagle's strength you'd gauge, 
 Or by his leap wouldst mete the kangaroo ; 
 
 You peer but idly in the cramping cage 
 Fling wide the barriers and let them go ! 
 
148 EPIGRAM. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 'Tis said, " When soothsayers meet they smile " ; 
 
 But when two sages meet they weep ; 
 For men pay any price for guile, 
 
 But buy their wisdom " on the cheap ! " 
 
TO R. W. EMERSON. 149 
 
 TO R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 GOOD Friend, whose voice hath spurred and cheered 
 
 My flagging spirit on its way ; 
 When, like a wilderness appeared 
 
 My life to stretch a boundless grey 
 
 And barren landscape to the day ; 
 
 When weakness raised its bitter cry 
 For help, unheard of kith or kin ; 
 
 And sank in voiceless agony 
 Beneath the load of others' sin 
 Thy whisper reached it, " Look within ! " 
 
 How oft the rocks, beneath thy rod, 
 Their streams of quickening hope have shed, 
 
 Where fainting hearts drank deep and trod, 
 With strength renewed, where Duty led ; 
 And Faith restored gleaned heavenly bread ! 
 
 Good Friend ! if few have paused to bless 
 
 For help received the helping hand ; 
 Accept as theirs than mine no less 
 
 A stranger's tribute scratched in sand 
 
 Upon a dry and thirsty land ! 
 
150 SICK-LISTED. 
 
 SICK-LISTED. 
 
 HA ! my friend, so we are comrades in the Red 
 
 Cross tents of life, 
 Wounded each by wandering missiles in the maniac 
 
 battle-strife ; 
 Well, a fig for all that turmoil ! and a fig for all that 
 
 din! 
 Let them stew in smoke and carnage ; what care I 
 
 which side may win ! 
 We'll be pensioned off as wounded ; and our days 
 
 to ease may give. 
 How say you, my wounded messmate ? Is it not 
 
 enough to live ? 
 
 But I turned my aching temples from his vacant 
 
 sordid stare, 
 And my scanty pulses swelling, throbbed to heaven 
 
 in voiceless prayer ; 
 
SICK-LISTED. 151 
 
 For my soul was longing, burning, to be out amongst 
 
 the foe, 
 Cheering on my faltering comrades, parrying thrust 
 
 and dealing blow ! 
 
 All my eager spirit panted for the wildest of the fray, 
 For the place where I was fighting when I fell and 
 
 swooned away. 
 
 And to hear this skulking scoundrel bless his soul 
 that he was spared 
 
 Spared for what ? to swill his belly at his ease, who 
 never cared 
 
 Aught for cause or aught for service, aught for aught 
 but food and pay, 
 
 Just to hear this base-born hireling bid me be con- 
 tent to stay, 
 
 Nodding in a pensioned sunshine years that others 
 give to strife 
 
 Thus this sordid cur-souled creature bids me be 
 content with life ! 
 
 No ! my heart is in the battle ! It is marching with 
 
 the flag ; 
 It is cheering on the valiant, it is rallying those who 
 
 lag! 
 
152 SICK-LISTED. 
 
 And it shouts with those whose voices rend the clouds 
 
 with cries of hope ; 
 It is charging thro' the trenches ; rushing up the 
 
 fortress-slope ; 
 Ever foremost of the foremost, it is pressing thro' 
 
 the strife, 
 While I lie and hear this traitor chuckling o'ei his 
 
 scheme of life ! 
 
 If I must resign my weapons, if I cannot fight again, 
 Not with self-congratulation, but with bitterest par.gs 
 
 of pain, 
 I will lay them on the altar in the temple of ray 
 
 God, 
 Where I girded them upon me e'er the battle-field 
 
 I trod ; 
 And I'll stand among the servants arming warriors 
 
 for the strife, 
 And invoking all their courage till they glow with 
 
 half my life ! 
 
TO V. F. S. 153 
 
 TO V. F. S. 
 
 A DIVER from the murky bed 
 
 Of life's dark ocean, hails the care 
 Of him above who pumps the air 
 
 Adown the pipe whence life is fed. 
 
 Good friend, who in the upper light 
 
 Canst draw free breath and scan glad skies, 
 Not thoughtless of the toil which plies 
 
 Where one dim lantern copes with night, 
 
 I thank thee. Sitting far remote 
 I keep thee near by mutual signs ; 
 And from the straining of the lines 
 
 I learn the tossing of thy boat. 
 
154 TO V. F. S. 
 
 I, seeking pearls, find empty shells 
 And tangled weed and barren stones, 
 And stumble over dead men's bones 
 
 And wrecks of ancient diving-bells. 
 
 Thy senses roam at liberty 
 
 Thro' scenes that I would gladly know ; 
 
 Yet I have seen strange things below 
 And wonders only divers see ! 
 
 Thy labour brings its daily prize ; 
 
 I little gain with much ado ; 
 
 But if I find a pearl or two 
 I'll share them with thee, when I rise. 
 
 Condemn not that its metre lends 
 My verse its beauty, since I sought 
 To wake an echo in the thought 
 
 Of him whose friendship made us friends ! 
 
FROM " THE ORDER OF THE BEAN." 155 
 
 FROM "THE ORDER OF THE BEAN." 
 
 (Specially inspired by the ghost of an idea of antique etymological 
 aspect.) 
 
 PERCHANCE this serious trifle, borne 
 Of couplit thought and spritelie iest, 
 
 Maye gayne thye eare, and clepe thy scorne 
 On al y e follies y' infeste 
 Ovre lyttle lyves, y e vvorste, y e beste. 
 
 Bot, an it preve off power to drawe 
 To larger loue, to wyder thought 
 
 For Beavtie in y e formes of Lawe 
 
 For Lawe as Heauen, not Costome, taught, 
 Not whollie is myne Travayle nought ! 
 
 Still miscotente, I fai would se 
 
 In hem who stryue, ne stryue in vayne, 
 
 Mo' mockle-hearted charitee 
 Toward those who ever fayle agayne ; 
 For Oh ! y e worlde ben farsed wid payne ! 
 
156 THE ORDER OF MELCHIZEDEC. 
 
 THE ORDER OF MELCHIZEDEC. 
 
 A MOUNTAIN and a multitude that climb : 
 
 A deep, dense mass of upward striving men, 
 
 Led by a band of heroes proved and loved 
 
 By all the following legions ; these again 
 
 By valiant leaders headed, this or that, 
 
 For he is leader for the time who leads. 
 
 These guide the course, and with their vanguard 
 
 clear 
 
 Thro' rocks and thickets, over and around 
 All threatening barriers, roadway for the crowd 
 Of following pilgrims ; pressing restless on, 
 Upward and onward. And I saw the men 
 Were sons of Science and Philosophy, 
 Broad-browed, dispassionate and purposeful. 
 But ever up the rugged steep a cry 
 Far from the rearward struggled to the front : 
 " We are your leaders, Pilgrims ; wait for us ! " 
 
THE ORDER OF MELCHIZEDEC. 157 
 
 Till he who led, unpausing, raised his voice : 
 
 " If ye indeed be leaders, come and lead ! " 
 
 " Nay ; follow ye behind us ! " moaned the voice. 
 
 Whereat the leader laughed a bitter laugh 
 
 Of angry sorrow ; crying to the rear, 
 
 " If ye be leaders, lead us, and we follow." 
 
 Then they whose clamorous protest broke the peace 
 
 Of all those striving myriads came in sight 
 
 A band of clergy toiling at the heels 
 
 Of that procession, in the beaten track 
 
 Smoothed by the tramping of uncounted feet. 
 
 While some indeed, misliking not to lead, 
 
 Since powerless to lead upward, called upon 
 
 The multitudes to turn and follow down 
 
 The backward trail to old-time camping grounds ; 
 
 Yet ever from the vanguard rose the cry 
 
 Of men still striving upward ; and the cheer 
 
 That woke a thousand echoes greeted each 
 
 Discovery of new bypath, or the crash 
 
 Of battered rocks and falling forest trees. 
 
 And still the cry wailed ever, u Wait for us !" 
 
 While down the backward gorges whence it rose 
 
 The answer pealed, " If ye be leaders, lead ! " 
 
158 TO A "BLACK-FELLOW." 
 
 TO A "BLACK-FELLOW." 
 
 DIRT, disease, and degradation, seal you of a dying 
 
 race ; 
 Dim despondency has graven reckless lust upon your 
 
 face, 
 Where the play of transient feeling marks the range 
 
 of appetite, 
 As the scowl of rage alternates with the leer of coarse 
 
 delight. 
 
 We who boast an age of progress, prate of science, 
 
 ethics, art, 
 Can we strike a single keynote that will vibrate in 
 
 your heart ? 
 Have you aught in common with us that we share not 
 
 with the beasts ? 
 Could you be a saint or hero if we gave you books 
 
 and priests ? 
 
TO A " BLACK-FELLOW r 159 
 
 Children we of common parents, infusoria and apes ; 
 You stagnated somewhat lower in the intermediate 
 
 shapes 
 Of transition ; and we clambered, age by age, from 
 
 high to higher, 
 Learnt to set the curb of reason in the jaws of wild 
 
 desire. 
 
 But the white-skinned scoundrels, boasting birthright 
 of a nobler name, 
 
 Have belied their higher nature, damned their souls 
 in deeds of shame ; 
 
 While the cry of vanquished weakness claimed pro- 
 tection of the strong 
 
 They have swamped the plea for justice in a slough 
 of hellish wrong ! 
 
 In the sordid greed of plunder and the vileness of 
 brute-lust 
 
 They have trampled half thy kindred in their out- 
 raged native dust ; 
 
 Swept the shuddering remnant backward to the lairs 
 of dogs and swine, 
 
 Or degraded to the baseness of a nature such as thine. 
 
160 TO A "BLACK-FELLOW." 
 
 Not a man of all these myriads, babbling of " superior 
 
 right," 
 Dares to plead for common justice 'twixt the black 
 
 man and the white ; 
 Men of science with false logic soothe to sleep our 
 
 conscience-qualms, 
 Preachers find excuses for us in the hexateuch and 
 
 psalms. 
 
 Those who hold our England's audience jingle purses 
 
 in her ear, 
 Feed her fancy with smooth phrases in set speeches 
 
 year by year : 
 Who will scourge these shallow flatterers from her 
 
 councils, with the cry 
 That shall wake her to do penance for her shameless 
 
 perfidy ? 
 
 Thou I care not if our Science bracket thee with 
 
 wallabies, 
 If it teach he is but thwarting natural Law whoever 
 
 tries 
 To protect the type that, aidless, must evaporate in 
 
 death, 
 Let the God who made thee slay thee, I'll be guiltless 
 
 of thy breath ! 
 
TO A " BLACK-FELLOW." 161 
 
 And if worthier champions fail thee, and all abler 
 
 tongues are mute 
 At the clamorous bar of Justice I will plead your 
 
 righteous suit ; 
 Thou and I are fellow-subjects, and the law which 
 
 shelters me 
 Shall be thundered in defiance of the crimes which 
 
 outlaw thee ! 
 
 12 
 
162 TO TENNYSON. 
 
 TO TENNYSON. 
 
 GREAT singer, we who hear thy song 
 Still resonant with timeless thought 
 
 Thro' life's dim highways press along 
 
 In clamorous crowds ; and there is nought 
 
 But memory of thy voice to cheer 
 
 Our faltering footsteps marching here ! 
 
 New needs arise with every day, 
 And none isiound to fill thy place, 
 
 To cheer us on the onward way, 
 
 As thou the past, with words of grace. 
 
 We miss the strong, deep-natured man 
 
 Who marched so bravely in our van. 
 
 Meanwhile a band of Pipers shrills 
 Thin airs to keep our feet in time ; 
 
TO TENNYSON. 163 
 
 And weary heart with languor fills 
 
 At jinglings of unmeaning rhyme, 
 Which wakes no echo in the skies 
 Where thrilled thy rolling symphonies. 
 
 We pipe resettings of thy notes, 
 
 And little ditties of our own ; 
 And some have given reluctant votes 
 
 To set another on thy throne ; 
 But none can crown Occasion's brow 
 With such a comely wreath as thou ! 
 
 Our Poet ; dear to every heart 
 
 Which found its utterance in thine own, 
 If thou canst hear us where thou art, 
 
 And shudderest not through every bone, 
 From all these Pipers take, thro' me, 
 This tribute to thy memory ! 
 
164 A NEW LITTLE WOMAN. 
 
 A NEW LITTLE WOMAN. 
 
 SAID a winsome maid of eight 
 Nothing could be prettier 
 " Which do you the higher rate, 
 Longfellow or Whittier ? " 
 
 Swallowing down a mild surprise 
 I replied, " With deference 
 To your wishes, I surmise, 
 Madam, you've a preference ; 
 
 " And I beg you'll kindly say " 
 
 "Yes," she blushed, "it's Whittier !" 
 In her knowing little way 
 Nothing could be prettier ! 
 
 " I presume, then, that you know " 
 
 " Blacksmith ? Yes ; and bother it ! 
 I forget its name, altho' 
 I have read another bit ! " 
 
AMOR DEI ET PROXIMI." 165 
 
 "AMOR DEI ET PROXIMI." 
 
 TO A. N. D. 
 
 To him who first upon his bloody shield 
 
 This legend of your ancient house engraved, 
 
 The love of neighbour meant the love of kin, 
 
 The love of nation and the love of friends. 
 
 Thus bearing thro' fierce times a zeal misled, 
 
 Dissundering God and friends, from devil and foes, 
 
 He thought he did God service with his sword. 
 
 But you have learnt the fatherhood of God 
 
 Unlimited by politics or creed ; 
 
 And in this wider sense of fatherhood 
 
 Have learnt a wider meaning in the term 
 
 Of neighbour ; and for generous acts, the fruit 
 
 Of large-souled kindness, take a neighbour's thanks 
 
166 HEINE'S GRAVE. 
 
 HEINE'S GRAVE. 
 
 MAN of sovereign worth was he, 
 Rich in all philanthropy ; 
 Reverence marked him for her own, 
 And Religion called him son. 
 Full of gentle sympathy ; 
 Rich in large-souled charity ; 
 Ever serving humankind 
 With the products of his mind. 
 Pure in thought, in diction chaste ; 
 Every noble impulse graced 
 Him whose fame can never die. 
 Here he lies and so do I ! 
 
RELIGION. 167 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 SINCE God is All in All, and all things tend 
 
 To God and find their being in His life, 
 
 The laws of their relations with themselves 
 
 Have all their final reference to Himself. 
 
 And in this reference of all law to God 
 
 We metaphrase Religion ; and in this 
 
 That man should live conformably to law 
 
 And school rebellious passions into line 
 
 Is human duty. All the lower forms 
 
 Of inorganic and organic life, 
 
 Unconscious of the goal to which they tend, 
 
 And serving blind sensation, worked the will, 
 
 Unconsciously, of Heaven ; till the dawn 
 
 Of that mysterious faculty whereby 
 
 From brutes rose men ; who, conscious of themselves, 
 
 And conscious of that other than themselves, 
 
i68 RELIGION. 
 
 Spelt out the laws of Nature, and henceforth 
 Adjusted reasoned means to conscious ends. 
 
 The power of choice is ours : to sink in low, 
 Ignoble ends of self-aggrandisement ; 
 Or, rising to the fulness of our height 
 As free-born rulers, to subdue the world 
 Each in the sphere of his own influence, 
 To higher and to ever higher law ; 
 Till this material chaos be reduced, 
 From anarchy, confusion, and despair, 
 To symmetry, consistency, and peace ! 
 
DIALOGUE. 169 
 
 DIALOGUE. 
 
 'AIZGHSIS 
 
 You see the toils these athletes undergo 
 In training for their contest, three weeks hence : 
 Methinks so much good labour is misspent 
 Upon such slight returns, such trivial ends ! 
 
 AOSA. 
 
 Your shallow judgment misconstructs the theme 
 This spectacle should offer to your thought ; 
 You see but athletes training for their games ; 
 Are they not soldiers toughening for war ? 
 Statesmen, upstoring elements of strength ? 
 Divines out-sweating morbid monkish thought ? 
 Men who shall some day bear in wider spheres 
 A nobler part in action for the toil 
 You reprimand as squandered on their sport ? 
 
170 DIALOGUE. 
 
 Deduct our athletes from the empire's roll 
 Of mighty men of valour, in those deeds 
 Which raised us to the headship of this globe 
 And wield the widening influence of our race, 
 And who is left ? 
 
 EHISTHMH. 
 
 So far, I grant, so good ; 
 
 You pause too soon ; the trail of flitting thought 
 Perchance too slight to draw your flurried sense 
 To its last issue in that trackless waste 
 Of speculation, whence Experience turns 
 Her ever-baffled footsteps back to earth. 
 These athletes, training, as we see, for sport, 
 Are training, as you taught us, for an age 
 Of nobler purpose and more worthy ends. 
 But in the larger training-ground of life 
 I think of those at war with circumstance ; 
 Whose days consume in profitless attempt 
 To do what, done, were little in itself 
 To grace the doing ; ever bending vast 
 And well- concerted energies to cope 
 With some inevitable pettiness ; 
 
DIALOGUE. 171 
 
 All greatest qualities of heart and mind 
 
 Lavished on trifles, as spectators deem, 
 
 In some such shallow verdict as our friend's. 
 
 Are there not wider spheres for later days, 
 
 And nobler uses for such qualities ? 
 
 For spiritual muscle, so to say, 
 
 Is trained like his who yonder thumps that bag 
 
 Of senseless sand ; he trains for worthier foes, 
 
 Nor do we find life's issue in its close. 
 
172 NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD. 
 
 NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL 
 WORLD. 
 
 CASES of fruit, of quality and size 
 
 Most various, piled by hurrying crowds of men 
 
 In the broad entrance of a packing-house. 
 
 'Tis thus, me-thought, that Genius pours her wealth 
 
 Of learning, wisdom, and inventiveness 
 
 Upon the threshold of succeeding years. 
 
 The piling ceased ; and in the further halls 
 The hands of busy hundreds sort the fruit, 
 Range it in various classes, kind with kind ; 
 And all are tested by a practised skill 
 That noted every blemish, and the bad 
 Rejected. And I thought 'tis even so 
 With fruits of human wisdom : here a man 
 Pours all the contents of his ripened thought ; 
 And others sort it, criticise, compare, 
 
NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD. 173. 
 
 Reject the bad and classify the good. 
 
 The men who bring the harvest from the fields, 
 
 Not these are they who scrutinise the load ; 
 
 Nor are the critics those most rich in thought ; 
 
 Nor yet an analytic epoch rich 
 
 In new inventions : but its work is vast. 
 
i?4 SPRING. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN.) 
 
 WHEN the Springtime upward scales, 
 And in sunshine melts the snow, 
 Round the tree fresh greenery trails, 
 In the grass first flowerets glow : 
 
 When pass away 
 
 The dreary day 
 
 And long, dull winter nights ; 
 
 The heights proclaim 
 
 To the valleys wide 
 
 Thy wonderful name, 
 
 O sweet Springtide ! 
 When the ice the sunshine licks, 
 From the mount the streamlet springs, 
 
SPRING. 175 
 
 With young green each object decks, 
 And with joy the forest rings : 
 
 The flowering leas 
 
 Perfume the breeze, 
 
 And heaven smiles clear and blue ; 
 
 The heights proclaim 
 
 To the valleys wide 
 
 Thy wonderful name, 
 
 O sweet Springtide ! 
 
176 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 THIS solitude ! this solitude ! Oh, heart, 
 
 How long, how long unbreaking canst thou beat 
 
 Time to the leaden moments of these hours, 
 
 Which drag thro' sullen weeks and months unlit 
 
 By any joy of living, or by hope 
 
 Of any brightening prospect ? Day by day 
 
 I nerve me to fresh effort, and again 
 
 Sink fainting 'neath the self-inflicted spur ; 
 
 While all my social nature cries for some 
 
 Strong word of human fellowship in vain. 
 
 Alone I ride these dreary leagues of bush, 
 
 Alone I track the mountains, and alone 
 
 In pain and weakness lie long hungering days 
 
 Dazing a fevered brain with unshed tears ; 
 
 Or forcing mirthless laughter at forced thoughts 
 
 That simulate a spectral cheerfulness 
 
DE PROFUNDIS. 177 
 
 From sense of duty, and relentless need 
 Of gayer moments to defeat despair. 
 Myself, myself ! I come to dread myself, 
 And too self-conscious shrink from thought of self, 
 And thro' too much familiarity 
 Have lost the clue to self-hood, being now 
 One man, now two ; not knowing which is I, 
 Which my companion alter ego, born 
 Of self-reflection he whose image gleams 
 In horror at me from my looking-glass, 
 Reflecting mine own horror. In mine ears, 
 Strained in the silence of this solitude, 
 I hear the whirring pulses as I sit 
 Alone, in this vast wilderness of trees ; 
 Snatching a glad relief in distant screams 
 Of fighting parrots ; or the choric laugh 
 Of Cuckooburroughs ; sounds we set to thoughts 
 Of any burden of familiar moods, 
 Cheering the cheerful, saddening the sad. 
 This solitude ! this solitude ! Oh, heart, 
 Braced by the strength of mutual fellowship, 
 Thou too hast known the impulse of brave thought, 
 Nor from stern duties shrunk in other days. 
 But here how long, unbreaking, canst thou beat 
 
 13 
 
178 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 A muffled drum to actions void of use 
 
 That perish in the doing ? I had friends 
 
 In summer hours, and in lesser need, 
 
 Whose merest word of confidence and love 
 
 Would pour new life thro' every scanty vein ; 
 
 But such words come not ! Otherwise there come 
 
 Cold hints of cruel suspicions and hard thoughts 
 
 That shame the name of friendship. Of the rest 
 
 Scarce one who spends a casual postage-stamp 
 
 To ask how fares it with the absent one. 
 
 I have no heart to blame them ; and, please God, 
 
 If happier days shall ever dawn again, 
 
 I'll walk with them in sunshine, as before, 
 
 Who feared to walk in darkness with their friend. 
 
DANTE. 179 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 GREAT Dante, hadst thou lived in Virgil's days 
 Thou hadst o'ertopped thy Virgil in the ranks 
 Of world-famed poets ; or in Milton's age, 
 Hadst rivalled our strong Milton ; but, as they 
 Who held Thought's mirror to the face of Time 
 Showed each the symptoms of his time's decay, 
 So thou, whose age was sickening unto death, 
 Showed Death's cachectic features in thy glass ; 
 And we who read there praise the poet's skill, 
 But loving not Death's features turn away ! 
 
i8o WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 
 
 You wish you were a man, my dear, 
 
 For men have wider lives, 
 And less restricted liberties, 
 
 Than sisters, daughters, wives ? 
 
 And so you think a woman's life 
 
 Too petty, narrow, small ; 
 Indeed, you hold a woman's life 
 
 Is scarcely life at all. 
 
 I grant you, in the race for fun, 
 Which sometimes is called life, 
 
 A youth or husband has more chance 
 Than has a maid or wife. 
 
 But I would change a hundred men 
 For one such girl as you ; 
 
 And I would fain my manhood held 
 Your power's mystic clue. 
 
WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 181 
 
 Beyond the tasks of daily life, 
 
 Beyond its outer show, 
 There is a joy for womanhood 
 
 That manhood cannot know. 
 
 I saw you with that weeping girl 
 
 Clasped gently to your breast ; 
 I saw you kiss her tears away, 
 
 And soothe her heart to rest ; 
 
 I could but speak a kindly word, 
 
 So commonplace ! so cold ! 
 While you can share your very heart 
 
 With her your arms enfold. 
 
 The world is full of saddened hearts 
 
 No man has power to cheer ; 
 And for this gift of womanhood 
 
 I envy you, my dear ! 
 
 O cast no idle blame on Fate 
 
 That you are not a man ; 
 But use a woman's privilege 
 
 As only woman can ! 
 
182 THE SONG OF THE BILLY. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BILLY. 
 
 WE have no Follies here to put the kettles on for tea ; 
 We have no kettles in this land of gum and wallaby ; 
 But we've strong hands and cheerful hearts ; the 
 
 bread and mutton's good ; 
 
 And we've a Billy boiling on a pile of blazing wood. 
 Hurrah ! then, for the Billy, boys, 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 Let others prate of kettles, boys, 
 We're better as we are ! 
 Australia for Australians ! and the Billy, boys, 
 
 for me ! 
 
 Hurrah, boys, for the Billy ! and hurrah for 
 Billy tea ! 
 
 We live the life of Freemen in this country of the 
 
 Free ; 
 We clear the path to empire for a nation yet to be : 
 
THE SONG OF THE BILLY. 183 
 
 It's not an easy life, you bet, to be a pioneer ; 
 
 It's not a bit romantic when you come to see it near. 
 
 But the Billy cheers our spirits, boys, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Let others prate of tea-pots, boys, 
 
 We're better as we are ! 
 
 Australia for Australians ! and the Billy, boys, 
 for me ! 
 
 Hurrah, boys, for the Billy ! and hurrah for 
 Billy tea ! 
 
 I own eternal living in an atmosphere of sheep, 
 Makes mutton rather wearisome and pastoral poems 
 
 cheap ; 
 
 But a gallop after emus, or a mob of kangaroos, 
 Gives monotony the go-by, and is patent for "the 
 blues." 
 
 Hurrah ! then, for the Billy, boys, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Let others prate of coffee-pots, 
 
 We're better as we are ! 
 
 Australia for Australians ! and the Billy, boys, 
 
 for me ! 
 
 Hurrah, boys, for the Billy ! and hurrah for 
 Billy tea ! 
 
184 THE SONG OF THE BILLY. 
 
 The're some of us are jackeroos, and some are swag- 
 men grey ; 
 And some are boundary-riders, some troopers, some 
 
 survey ; 
 Selectors, miners, pastoralists whatever we may 
 
 be, 
 
 Our saddles carry Billies, and we swear by Billy 
 tea. 
 
 Hurrah ! then, for the Billy, boys, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Let others prate of beer- jugs, boys, 
 
 We're better as we are ! 
 
 Australia for Australians ! and the Billy, boys, 
 
 for me ! 
 
 Hurrah, boys, for the Billy ! and hurrah for 
 Billy tea ! 
 
EPITHALAMIUM. 185 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 SWEET Bride, on this your wedding-day, 
 My heart rejoices in your bliss, 
 And blesses you and him whose kiss 
 
 Has sealed what love has vowed away. 
 
 My gift is poor ; for scant my purse ; 
 
 I have no gold, no pearls to send ; 
 
 But what I have I freely spend 
 To buy this greeting strung in verse. 
 
 My gift is poor ; despise not such ! 
 Perchance the crowded tables bear 
 No gift midst those that glisten there, 
 
 That cost the giver half so much ! 
 
i86 AD VERECUNDIAM. 
 
 AD VERECUNDIAM. 
 
 I CANNOT blame thee, oh ! my friend, 
 
 I have no heart to chide ; 
 Remonstrance ? Shall I plead with thee, 
 
 And swallow down my pride ? 
 
 That pride which placed thee high above 
 
 All rivals far apart ! 
 That pride which found an anchorage 
 
 For faith within thy heart ! 
 
 If all the years we lived and loved 
 
 Convince not I am true, 
 Then go on hooting with the crowd 
 
 I will not plead with you ! 
 
FEAR NOT, LITTLE FLOCK. 187 
 
 FEAR NOT, LITTLE FLOCK. 
 
 I GRANT you the world would revolve as before, 
 With little of difference to praise or deplore, 
 If the faith of the gospel were swept from its sky 
 And Time took no thought of an Eternity. 
 For the maxims of conduct, which govern the race, 
 Were never the maxims of Him they disgrace. 
 
 The man in the street, be he Christian or Turk, 
 Buddhist, Pagan, or Jew, he will live in his work ; 
 And the god of his worship, whatever his creed, 
 Is the thing that will pander to sensuous need. 
 
 One man in ten thousand, perchance, may be known, 
 Who lives by the faith he professes to own : 
 But not all the wisdom of Science can say 
 The worth of that man in the world of his day ; 
 And the worth of such men, two or three, here and 
 
 there, 
 In the lapse of long ages, what sage will declare ? 
 
i88 JAMESON'S RIDE. 
 
 JAMESON'S RIDE. 
 
 LET silly girls and hare-brained lads 
 
 Applaud the plucky action ; 
 Thank Heaven, we are not ruled by " fads," 
 
 Or by caprice of faction : 
 A thousand interests clash and shake 
 Blind Reason with the din they make ! 
 
 Let those bepraise such giants' play, 
 Who lack what we are made of ; 
 
 We have a million brave as they 
 Who are no Boers afraid of ; 
 
 Too brave, too noble, and too wise 
 
 To move till Duty bids them rise ! 
 
 Let brigands through their country's shame 
 Hew out a road to glory ; 
 
JAMESON'S RIDE. 189 
 
 But there are other roads to fame 
 
 In our Old England's story ; 
 And men content to toil unknown 
 Have spread the empire of her throne ! 
 
 Let hare-brained lads and silly girls 
 
 Applaud the shameful action ; 
 Thank Heaven, our judges shake their curls, 
 
 At " personal attraction" ; 
 And reckless knights who ride too fast, 
 In " Black Maria " ride at last ! 
 
190 IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 
 
 IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 
 
 A VILLAGE of one street ; and scattered huts 
 Upon the gently-climbing mountain slope ; 
 A hostel, and a school-house, and a church ; 
 A wind-wall of steep hill tops ; and afar 
 Low thunder of wild waters in the vale, 
 And rhythmic murmur of funereal pines. 
 
 A narrow life within a narrow sphere, 
 
 Some scores of souls wear daily towards its close ; 
 
 Like prisoned birds content to hop their cage, 
 
 And, ever hopping where they hopped before, 
 
 Conceiving of no ampler life than theirs ; 
 
 And, having seed and water, ask no more. 
 
 The village church, where he who preaches lends 
 
 The colour of his fancy to the thoughts 
 
 Of those who listen ; and the small churchyard, 
 
IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 191 
 
 Where he has laid their dead ; and with them made 
 
 The last still resting-place of one not theirs. 
 
 After long wanderings over weary years, 
 
 I come, sweet child, to greet your resting-place. 
 
 I knew you not while living here, nor knew 
 
 The scenes of your last daylight ; now, long dead, 
 
 I gather flowers on your little grave, 
 
 And lose you once again in thinking o'er 
 
 The distant days of sadness when you died, 
 
 And all the dream-like memories of your life ! 
 
 Death ? I know not what is Death. 
 
 Life ? what is it that departs 
 With the last expiring breath, 
 
 And the throbbing of our hearts ? 
 
 Can a soulless body live ? 
 
 No ; then bodies cannot die ; 
 And the spirit we believe 
 
 Heir of immortality. 
 
 Matter is but gas condensed, 
 And the loveliest human shape 
 
 May be otherwise dispensed, 
 As the body of an ape. 
 
192 IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Countless myriads of worms, 
 Regimented and controlled 
 
 By a higher soul, that forms 
 Them within its plastic mould, 
 
 Make the bodies which we have, 
 Till at death the spirit's sway 
 
 Is withdrawn ; and, in the grave, 
 Back they go to worms and clay ! 
 
 Matter in a given mass, 
 
 Interfused with that which gives 
 Typal being, brings to pass 
 
 Life in everything that lives ! 
 
 Thro' all life's ascending course 
 Matter, trained to use of soul, 
 
 Gains, at every death, new force 
 For the service of the whole ! 
 
 And the whole, as recomposed 
 In new bodies brings a skill 
 
 Of expression to be used, 
 Yet unknown, by living will. 
 
IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 193 
 
 Thus, the individual life 
 
 Of the spirit in flesh- thrall, 
 By its ceaseless inward strife 
 
 Ministers to that of all ! 
 
 Yet, I find not in the flowers 
 
 Which I gather on thy grave, 
 Any trace of higher powers 
 
 Than more common grasses have ! 
 
 Foolish protest ! Should one make, 
 
 With a microscope and knife, 
 Search for forces which can wake 
 
 Only in a human life ? 
 
 Thus of body : what of soul ? 
 
 Is its future as its past ? 
 Does it live a conscious whole ? 
 
 Or subserve a whole more vast ? 
 
 And of those who pass away 
 In the spring-time of their life ; 
 
 Are we better off than they, 
 Who are left to longer strife ? 
 
194 IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Are they better off than we, 
 
 Called away while we fight here ? 
 
 Sons of immortality, 
 
 Can it matter, here or there ? 
 
 There is no death, but changing modes of life. 
 
 Then do we make that man responsible 
 
 To untold ages of eternity 
 
 For every soul he couples with the form 
 
 Of human body ? and does chance decide 
 
 By casual meetings of young men and maids 
 
 The type of an hereditary soul 
 
 That knows no dissolution like its dust ? 
 
 Or are all souls potentially alike 
 
 In power and goodness, limited by force 
 
 Of bodily inheritance till then, 
 
 When Death gives freer scope to each, elsewhere, 
 
 To move unfettered in a wider life ? 
 
 And she, the sweet young sister buried here 
 
 Are we but Chance's debtors that she lived ? 
 
 Or was the freedom of her parents mocked 
 
 By fixed decrees of Heaven ? Then the sin 
 
 Which placed a Norman monarch on our throne 
 
 And tinged our dynasties with Tanner's blood 
 
IN A SWISS CHURCHYARD. 195 
 
 Was sinless, being helpless. Whence souls 
 
 come, 
 
 And with what stamp of character ; or how 
 Befettered by ancestral sinfulness, 
 It boots us not to question : that they live 
 In consciousness of duty and in hope 
 Of higher service, will suffice to guide 
 Our life's brief action, knowing Whom we serve. 
 
 Dear child, whom we, while year succeeds to 
 
 year, 
 
 Miss ever from our lives, our hearts, our home, 
 We laid thy weary body down to rest 
 In this lone grave among the Rhetian Alps ; 
 And with thee buried all we knew of life, 
 Of death, of this world and the next, save this 
 That our blind souls bear witness to a hope 
 Which baffles words' expression ; and we trust 
 That He who gave the love which mourns thy 
 
 loss 
 Will give that love fulfilment : thus farewell ! 
 
196 DAVOS LAKE. 
 
 DAVOS LAKE. 
 
 REST rest in peace ! the last strong prayer of 
 
 faith, 
 
 Wherewith we lay our loved ones down to sleep 
 Their last long sleep in death's dark, narrow bed. 
 Rest rest in peace ! aye, peace is for the dead ; 
 Who knows ? perchance new conflicts meet the 
 
 soul 
 
 Beyond the portals of its earthly life. 
 Peace rest and peace ! Who is it sighs for 
 
 peace ? 
 
 Who dreams a blank eternity of rest ? 
 Rest is a means to labour, not its end. 
 But there are restful labours, weary heart. 
 Yea, I am weary of a ceaseless strife 
 Within without ; here will I rest in peace, 
 Here, on the margin of a mountain lake, 
 
DAVOS LAKE. 197 
 
 Among dark pines and many-flowered grass, 
 
 Here still the echoes of those jangling notes 
 
 Which vibrate from the haunts of fellow-men. 
 
 Here for a moment will I rest in peace. 
 
 There is a power in Nature like to hers 
 
 Whose touch and word could soothe the fluttering 
 
 pulse 
 
 Of first conflicting passions : less perhaps 
 This power is a semblance than the same ; 
 For Nature is the mother of us all. 
 The gentle plashing of this mountain lake, 
 The play of sunlight on its mimic waves, 
 The rustling of the larches in the breeze, 
 The chirping of young sparrows overhead 
 These calm to rest. Do these, then, rest in 
 
 peace ? 
 
 No ; all is active where all seems so still. 
 The very beetle crawling through the grass 
 Works out some scheme of beetle hope or fear, 
 Works out some larger purpose than he knows ; 
 Those scintillating sunbeams on the lake, 
 That seem ensymboled freedom of delight, 
 Are drawing water skywards. Strange that all 
 Work with delight and find such joy in work, 
 
198 DAVOS LAKE. 
 
 While man, the noblest, does despite to joy 
 In following duty ! There be some who teach 
 All joy is duty ; some, all duty joy. 
 God grant I pray my blessing curse them not 
 God grant them joyful duties ! but, for me, 
 I pray new strength for duties void of joy ! 
 
 clear, deep, plashing waters of the lake ! 
 Folk say your depths are soundless ; and therein 
 
 1 bury all the restless, fretful thoughts 
 That drove me weary to your sylvan banks. 
 
 Beyond the lake the Shiahorn and the Berg 
 Of Dorfli, and the ragged cliffs erstwhile 
 Rough-hewn by glaciers. Why do all men love 
 To gaze on mountains ? Cramped in little spheres, 
 Where little acts wear out their little lives, 
 They love the mountains for their very size, 
 And read a fuller meaning into life 
 From those huge, mystic symbols of a time 
 And space unbounded by the wonted course 
 Of daily nothings that employ their souls. 
 We need such special symbols, like a child 
 Who needs italics, CAPITALS, and marks 
 
DAVOS LAKE. 199 
 
 Of exclamation in his lesson-book 
 
 To emphasise the phrases. Slow of heart ! 
 
 There's not a pebble in the crowded street 
 
 But antedates the Pharaohs ; not a star 
 
 But saw the building of those mountains there, 
 
 And soon will see them crumble ; for the hills 
 
 Are but as earth-waves, and the earth itself 
 
 A passing meteor ; and the thoughts of God 
 
 Are graven in our science ; and we read, 
 
 Yet scorn to claim our birthright, bargaining still 
 
 For every mess of potage that we see, 
 
 And wrangling o'er them, like a mass of flies 
 
 That buzz and struggle in a honey-pot. 
 
 Here, stranded on the mountains, crippled lives 
 
 Creep to the grave, or struggle back to health 
 
 Thro' tedious years of hope deferred by hope. 
 
 Ambitions thwarted snarl themselves to sleep ; 
 
 And passions stayed from freedom vent mean spite 
 
 In petty malice ; and the practised strength 
 
 Of nobler spirits trained in earlier strife 
 
 Grows feeble fighting midgets. Is such life 
 
 Worth living ? Foolish doubt of faithless heart ! 
 
 If life be but the destined path to goals 
 
 Of our own marking, then self-chosen aims 
 
200 DAVOS LAKE. 
 
 In failing thwart the purpose of our lives, 
 
 And death were our best wisdom. But we live 
 
 To rear no cenotaph of toil-won gold, 
 
 To win no title to regard of men, 
 
 To do no deeds of generous-hearted strength, 
 
 Else were all merit but a synonym 
 
 For opportunity ; we live to do 
 
 Each duty in its hour ; and, perchance, 
 
 If petty duties for their pettiness 
 
 Are harder doing than more worthy deeds, 
 
 There may be nobler Service in the faith 
 
 That shrinks not from them. Thus reflection climbs 
 
 Through thoughts of human nature to the laws 
 
 Of that wide Nature wherein man has part, 
 
 And thence to Him, both man's and Nature's God, 
 
 In whom alone our souls can rest in peace. 
 
 UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON. 
 
FEB 3 1986 
 
A 000 561 084 5