THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 AND 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE POETS. 
 
 BY 
 
 M. T. DOWNING. 
 
 RYE HOMESTEAD, WESTCHESTER CO., N. Y. 
 1867.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1SG7, by 
 M. T. DOWXIXG, 
 
 In the Clei-U's Office of the District Court of the United States for tho 
 Southern District of New-York. 
 
 James Dickson, Printer, 1, 2, 3 & 4 Tryon Row. Xew.York.
 
 TS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 CRUCIFIXION 5 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS 7 
 
 EVENING PRAYER Q 
 
 MEMO-IKES 10 
 
 SCHILLER 12 
 
 TO M. A.D 47 
 
 DEDICATED TO FANNY 49 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR...... 51 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 9i 
 
 THE ANGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR 97 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL 90 
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE 101 
 
 TO J. C. G 103 
 
 SILVER LAKE, RYE 105 
 
 TO AN ABSENT CHILD 108 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM 110 
 
 ELIZABETH C. BROWNING 112 
 
 TO KITTIE B 154 
 
 NEW YEAR SONG 15G 
 
 MARY, THE IMMACULATE 158 
 
 ECCEHOMO... ..161 
 
 762949
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON 162 
 
 THE RELIC OF HAIR 202 
 
 DEAR MAMMA 204 
 
 TO T. H. D 206 
 
 PRETTY BIRDLING 208 
 
 JOHN KEATS 210 
 
 LA SOEUR DE CHARITE 251 
 
 IN MEMORIAM, G. C 258 
 
 NURSERY SONG 260 
 
 TO S. M. R 262 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 265 
 
 MOTHER WELL 29^ 
 
 AYE MARIA 302 
 
 TO AN ABSENT BROTHER 305 
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS 307 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. . . .< 311 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG 336 
 
 TO M. H 838 
 
 AUTUMN RAMBLE 339 
 
 DB. SAMUEL JOHNSON 341 
 
 AYE MARIA 365 
 
 HYMN OF THE NATIVITY 366 
 
 TO MY SISTER 3G8 
 
 AYE SANCTISSIMA 370 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORN 372 
 
 IN MEMORIAM-H. C 375 
 
 BEAUTIFUL RIYER 377 
 
 FARE\VELL .. , 379
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 MY DEAR CHILDREN : 
 
 At length I yield to your reiterated re 
 quests, and present in a compact form the 
 little breathings of affection with which 
 my heart has often beguiled itself in ad 
 dressing you. Valuable only as a proof of 
 maternal affection, they will remind you of 
 the past, while recalling scenes and cir 
 cumstances now passed away forever for 
 to each little poem there is a memory 
 known only to ourselves.
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 The Biographical Sketches," and " Notes, 
 on the Poets," while they were compiled 
 for your ultimate improvement, were thought 
 at the time too advanced for the capaci 
 ties of all our household band, as their 
 readings have been given to you at different 
 times. The pleasure of novelty is necessa 
 rily precluded by a former acquaintance; but 
 instead of this, you will find the tender in 
 terest of association, which to your minds 
 will supersede that of talent and ability. 
 
 Accept, my dear ones, in the repugnance 
 which I have conquered to comply with 
 your wishes, another evidence of my devoted 
 love. 
 
 YOUR MOTHER.
 
 CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 A beautiful picture of the Crucifixion 
 hangs over the altar of St. Mary's, where 
 from our earliest recollections we were used 
 to assemble for divine worship. So dear had 
 it become to us, that we often felt a longing 
 when absent to gaze upon the sad and beauti 
 ful lineaments there represented. 
 
 MY Jesus, I am sadly gazing, 
 Upon that still, pale form of Thine; 
 
 The thronged worshippers have left Thee, 
 And I alone bend at Thy shrine. 
 
 Nearer, still nearer, I approach Thee, 
 Nor pause, till prostrate at Thy feet; 
 
 Refuse me not, my Lord and Master, 
 This commune short, these moments brief.
 
 CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 Here ? ncath the shadow of Thy woes, 
 I learn the ransom paid for man; 
 
 Thine be the school, ray heart to teach 
 Thine be the rule, each act to scan. 
 
 And thou, sweet Mary, mother, mine, 
 On his cold brow thy lips are pressed; 
 
 Thy twining arms are 'round Him flung, 
 With more than human tenderness. 
 
 Oh ! by the love thou clid'st receive, 
 Oh ! by the love thou did'st impart, 
 
 Obtain for me, I ask no more, 
 A refuge in His bleeding heart
 
 TWLIGH1T MUSINGS. " 7 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS, 
 
 'Tis the hour my spirit loves 
 Twilight, with its robes of gray, 
 
 With the deeper shades of eve n, 
 Other thoughts and feelings play. 
 
 Now I close my eyes to outward. 
 
 Now my soul is turned within, 
 Welcome, memory, with my dear ones, 
 
 Lead them, softly, gently in. 
 
 Once again, those happy faces, 
 Sm iles and tender looks of love ; 
 
 Memory, thou hast holy power, 
 Traversing the realms above.
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 I lend me to the sweet delusion, 
 
 And I listen, mother dear, 
 For the prayers you taught my childhood 
 
 Seem to float upon my ear. 
 
 Sister! with the deep, dark eye, 
 
 Sister! with the poet brow, 
 Thy soft notes at eventide 
 
 Linger, oh! so fondly now. 
 
 Mother, sister, absent brother, 
 Parted by the deep, blue main, 
 
 Shall we ever clasp each other? 
 Shall we ever meet again ? 
 
 Though my present hath its gladness, 
 Though my steps are watched by lore, 
 
 Still I languish for the hour 
 When on memory's wings I rove. 
 
 Then I hail the pensive twilight, 
 And its mantling robes of gray, 
 
 With the deeper shades of even, 
 Other thoughts and feelings play.
 
 EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 EVENING PRAYER, 
 
 FATHER ! in this holy hour, 
 
 As the star of daylight fades, 
 Listen to my heart's low pleadings, 
 
 Grant me Thy support and aid. 
 Thou hast borne from earliest reason 
 
 With my weak, imperfect will; 
 Holy Father ! guide, sustain me, 
 
 Be my shield and succor still. 
 In Thy power no ill can reach me, 
 
 In Thy strength no harm befall; 
 Send Thy blessing to my pillow, 
 
 As I nightly on Thee call.
 
 10 MEMORIES. 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 What have I to do with by-gones, 
 In my cheerful home to-night, 
 
 With my children's happy faces, 
 Gleaming in their rosy light? 
 
 Why docs memory that has slumbered 
 Thro' long years of joy and pain, 
 
 Bring a presence long since vanished, 
 To my vision back again? 
 
 Why, when I would rest me quiet, 
 In a home replete with love, 
 
 Do those scenes so long forgotten,- 
 All my saddest feelings move?
 
 MEMORIES. 11 
 
 Who will tell me why I wander 
 
 In the weird land of the past, 
 Turning from the joy and sunshine, 
 
 Shadows o ? er my way to cast? 
 
 I mind me of a noble poet, 
 
 Who hath said a word, a tone, 
 Will recall through scenes dissonant, 
 
 Thoughts we deemed forever gone. 
 
 But, away ! I will not cherish 
 
 What I would not now recall; 
 Numberless the many blessings 
 
 Which are shed around us all. 
 
 I at least shall learn to prize them, 
 
 And shall praise my God alway, 
 For the many prayers unanswered, 
 
 That were breathed in life's young day. 
 
 So my dear ones, if I wandered, 
 
 For awhile on memory's sea, 
 Back ray little bark has drifted, 
 
 To the home prepared by thee.
 
 12 JOHANN CHPJSTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 JOHANN CfflllSTOPH FPJEDERICH SCHILLER 
 
 was Lorn November llth, 1759. Fortune 
 placed him in that condition of life which is 
 generally considered to be most conducive 
 to literary eminence between wealth and 
 penury, neither enervated by the one, nor 
 depressed by the other, the representative 
 of a station where genius often finds her most 
 favored sons. 
 
 His father, JOHANN CASPAR SCHILLER, was 
 a man of an adventurous character; stern, 
 exacting and fond of military glory. At the 
 time of our hero's birth, he held the situa 
 tion of ensign and- adjutant in the Wurtem- 
 burg army; still he was fond of his family,
 
 JOHANN CRISTOPII FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 13 
 
 and remarkable for the scrupulous integrity 
 of his character; but his mother, according 
 to biographers, was a woman of mild exterior, 
 with manners peculiarly sweet and gentle 
 somewhat grave and serious, perhaps. Her 
 favorite occupation was to amuse her chil 
 dren with tales calculated to instruct the 
 understanding or arouse the fancy; as they 
 grew older, she repeated to them verses, 
 which she herself loved and appreciated. In 
 this early school of maternal affection, the 
 imagination was developed, and tastes and 
 feelings awakened in unison with her own. 
 Like the mother of Lamartine, she early in 
 culcated a deep and fervent sense of religion, 
 by stories and passages from the life of the 
 Redeemer; often the tears of her little pupils 
 attested their sympathy and commisseration 
 and to this early training may be traced the
 
 14 JOHANN CPJSTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 religious bias which ever marked the charac 
 ter - of Schiller, and which showed itself in a 
 strong predilection for an ecclesastical pro 
 fession. This desire remained with him for 
 many years, and it was with extreme regret 
 he was obliged to give up what had been his 
 darling project. His father, however, had 
 made different arrangements for his son, and 
 by placing him in the millitary seminary of 
 the Grand Duke of Wurtemburg, he virtu 
 ally deprived him of the liberty of choice. 
 Benefits were showered upon his family; hia 
 father was raised to the rank of major, and 
 young Schiller was proroised an appointment 
 in the Royal service. 
 
 A desire from the Duke was equivalent to 
 a command, and Friederich complied with 
 the wishes of his father; already he was 
 learning to sacrifice his own wishes, but tho
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRJEDERICH SCHILLER. 15 
 
 obedience and affection of a child, Avhile it 
 softened his disinclination, could not entirely 
 smother the keen resentment which the re 
 nunciation of his early hopes produced. In 
 tellectual liberty had been his passion; all 
 books not included in the school routine were 
 denied to the students. This only served to 
 increase the desire, and the moments stolen 
 from- his severer studies, to be devoted to his 
 favorite authors, were the happiest of his 
 school life. If he had been charmed with 
 Klopstock, he was inspired with Goethe. 
 The teachings of this great master found an 
 echo in the hitherto slumbering thoughts of 
 Schiller, by maintaining that the classical 
 spirit of every nation must be found in the 
 genius of its own romance. This idea, so in 
 consonance with his own belief, formed for 
 him the determination to thoroughly acquaint
 
 16 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 himself with German literature before he 
 attempted the study of any other. Still the 
 desire to serve God in a religious profession 
 remained dominant in his heart, and he at 
 tempted once more to influence his masters 
 by assuring them he was not calculated for 
 the dry study of jurispudence he was suc 
 cessful only in obtaining as a compromise. 
 
 THE PERMISSION TO EXCHANGE MEDICINE 
 FOR LAW. 
 
 After passing through a strict course of 
 German poetry, he commenced a translation 
 of Shakspeare, by Wieland. 
 
 Hear what he says of the work: 
 " "When I first grew acquainted with this 
 poet, I was indignant with his coldness in 
 dignant with the insensibility which allowed
 
 JOHANX CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 17 
 
 him to jest and sport amid the highest pathos. 
 Led by my knowledge with more modern 
 poets to seek the poet in his works; to meet 
 and sympathize with his heart; to reflect 
 with him over his subject; it was insufferable 
 to me that this poet gave me nothing of him 
 self. Many years had he my entire rever 
 ence certainly my earnest study before I 
 could comprehend, as it were, his individuality. 
 I was not yet fit to comprehend nature at 
 first hand." Thus in study and cqntcmpla- 
 tion the man's mind developed; long before 
 the genius of the poet manifested itself. But 
 his mental thraldom irritated him; his proud 
 spirit chafed with indignation at the re 
 straints and conventionalities which surroun 
 ded him, and he longed to be free. 
 
 The elements by which he was surrounded 
 were favorable to the expansion of such an
 
 18 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 intellect; the time had come when the multi 
 tude, of which he was but one, desired most 
 earnestly a leading mind to take the initia 
 tive, and setting aside obsolete codes, address 
 himself to men. 
 
 In Friederich Schiller they had found such 
 a one, and can we wonder that whew the 
 Robbers appeared, by its wild extravagance, 
 its turbulent and mad upheavings, its in 
 tense earnestness, was stirred the depth of 
 the Gorman heart, and spreading through 
 inflammable France, rested not until it reach 
 ed the passionless shores of cold, immovable 
 England, and roused to thought men who had 
 been considered immobility itself? 
 
 They beheld in Karl Moor, (the hero of the 
 ploy,; one whose excess of virtue or exagge 
 rated nobleness, drives him from the habita 
 tion of men. His sympathy with the poor
 
 JOHANX CIIRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 19 
 
 and the oppressed renders him an outcast to 
 society; in fine he is the martyr of his own 
 perfections. While the popularity of this 
 work was dazzling with the masses, its rever 
 sion among another class was intense. The 
 Grand Duke forbade him to write any more po 
 etry, and attend to medicine, (he had recently 
 been appointed surgeon to a regiment,) or, if 
 he must write, submit his productions to the 
 revision of a critic. Imagine the indignation 
 of Schiller! He writes to a young friend, Karl 
 Moser: " So long as my spirit can raise itself 
 to be free, it shall bow to no yoke." Accord 
 ingly he wrote to Freiherr von Dalberg, a noble 
 man intrusted with the superintendence of the 
 theatre at Manheim, and the play was to be re 
 modelled for the stage. Some of hisfriends at 
 the same time assisted him in publishing a 
 volume of lyrics and minor poems, many of 
 which had been composed some time since.
 
 20 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 The success of the Robbers when it ap 
 peared on the stage was immense. The play 
 lasted five hours. His audience was drawn 
 from far. They gathered from distant cities, 
 for the fiery rebellion of thought had woke 
 an echo which could not be suppressed. By 
 stealth, in an obscure corner of the house, he 
 witnessed the living embodiment of his own 
 thoughts and passions, and from that time 
 was confirmed in his determination to adopt 
 the vocation to which his genius and his in 
 clinations pointed. Another severe repri 
 mand from the Duke determined him to leave 
 his home; to fly from Stuttgard and throw 
 himself on the world. He confided to his 
 mother the plans for his escape. Fortified by 
 her blessings and her prayers, accompanied 
 by one faithful friend, at the midnight hour 
 he fled from the Capital of Wurtemberg.
 
 .TOIIANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICII SCHILLER. 21 
 
 The city was illuminated, it was the eve of a 
 grand fete, and by the brilliancy he could 
 distinctly point out the home of his parents. 
 " 0, meine mutter ! " burst from his lips as they 
 wended their lonely way. From this time 
 forward his fame as a dramatic poet con 
 tinued to increase; he found many difficulties 
 in the way of his advancement, it is true ; for 
 some time the Grand Duke continued a shp\v 
 of hostility that prevented Dalberg from 
 affording him his patronage; but this at length 
 was conquered; his manly but respectful in 
 dependence, his growing fame, the sobering 
 influences of time secured for him an unmo 
 lested future. 
 
 He added to the Robbers, Fiesco, Cabal 
 and Love, Marie Stuart, Joan of Arc, and 
 other dramas of less thrilling interest. ITo 
 was received with much distinction at court,
 
 22 JOHANN CHRTSTOPH FRTEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 and the dignity of councillor was conferred 
 upon him by the Duke. At the early age 
 of twenty-six his name had become a house 
 hold word in Europe. The very misfortunes 
 of his early life had had an ennobling effect 
 upon his manhood, and had served to aug 
 ment the genius of his soul. In his fortunate 
 marriage with the beautiful Charlotte von 
 Lengefeld, every desire of his heart was 
 satisfied. To borrow her sister's pen, (Ma 
 dame von Wolzogen), " she was highly- pre 
 possessing, both in form and face, an expres 
 sion of the purest goodness of heart animated 
 her features, and her eye beamed only truth 
 and innocence." 
 
 A few months after his marriage, he des 
 cribes his happiness thus : " Life is quite a 
 different thing by the side of a beloved wife 
 than so forsaken and alone, even in summer
 
 JOHANN CIUlISTOPn FRIEDERICII SCHILLER. 23 
 
 I think my very youth will be renewed; an 
 inward poetic life will give it me again." At 
 this time, when he felt the pressing necessity 
 for renewed exertion, to enhance the comforts 
 of his beloved wife, and when his health 
 seemed unequal to the demands which he 
 made upon it, came a letter from Prince von 
 Augustenburg and Count Schimmelman, from 
 which the following is extracted : " We en- 
 
 f 
 
 treat you to receive for three years an annual 
 gift of a thousand dollars. We hear that 
 your health suffers from too severe an appli 
 cation. Do not grudge us the pleasure of 
 contributing to your relief." The effect of 
 this letter on the high-minded Schiller may 
 be imagined. The title of Hofrath, a distinc 
 tion much coveted, had been bestowed upon 
 him some time before. He was no longer the 
 friendless stripling the exiled wanderer.
 
 24 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 Present one evening at the representation of 
 the "Maid of Orleans," one of those signal 
 triumphs awaited him, which it is seldom the 
 fate of genius to receive. His biographer 
 describes it : " Scarce had the drop scene 
 fallen on the first act, than the house re 
 sounded with the cry, "Es libe Friedericli 
 Schiller ! " The cry was swelled by all the 
 force of the orchestra. After the perfor- 
 
 N 
 
 mance the whole crowd collected in the broad 
 place before the theatre to behold the poet. 
 Every head was bared as he passed along ; 
 while men lifted their children in their arms 
 to show the pride of Germany to the new 
 generation, crying out : " That is he ! that is 
 he ! " The Emperor of Austria acknowledged 
 his claims by conferring on him a title of 
 nobility. He was not elated with the honor, 
 and said to a friend who congratulated him :
 
 JOHAXN CHRTSTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 25 
 
 "It pleases Lolo and my children." His Wal- 
 lenstein, one of his later productions, bears 
 the impress of wonderful research and pro 
 found beauty. Goethe compares it to a wine 
 which wins the taste in proportion to its age. 
 Schiller had now become the national poet of 
 Germany. " The Lay of the Bell," one of 
 his beautiful descriptive poems, followed soon 
 after Wallenstein; in it he thus describes a 
 mother : 
 
 "Within sits another 
 
 The thrifty housewife, 
 The mild one, the mother; 
 
 Her home is her liie, 
 In its circle she rules, 
 And the daughters she schools; 
 
 And she cautions the boys 
 With a bustling command, 
 And a diligent hand 
 
 Employ'd she employs; 
 Gives orders to store, 
 And the much makes the more;"
 
 26 JOHAXN CHRISTOPII FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 Locks the chest, and the wardrobe with lavender smell 
 ing, 
 
 And the hum of the spindle goes quick through tho 
 dwelling; 
 
 And the hoards in the presses well polished and 
 full, 
 
 The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool, 
 
 Blends the sweet with the good, and from call and en 
 deavor, rests never ! 
 
 From this enchanting picture we turn to 
 another. The merry peal that anon ushered 
 in the happy bridal morn, is sadly changed, 
 and 
 
 From the Steeplo 
 Tolls the bell, 
 Deep and heavy 
 The death knell. 
 
 Guiding with dirge, note solemn, sad and slow, 
 To the last home eartlrs weary wanderers know. 
 It is that worshiped wife 
 It is that faithful mother !
 
 JOHANN OHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 27 
 
 Whom the dark prince of shadows leads benighted, 
 From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted; 
 Far from those blithe companions born 
 Of her and blooming in their morn; 
 On whom when couched the heart above> 
 So often looked the mother love I 
 
 Ah! rent the sweet home's union band, 
 
 And never, never more to come 
 She dwells within the shadowy land, 
 
 Who was the mother of that home; 
 How oft they miss that tender guide 
 
 The care, the watch, the face, the mother 
 And where she sat the babes beside. 
 
 Sits with unloving looks another ! 
 
 It was said that Schiller's career was one 
 education, and this is essentially true ; hence 
 the contrast between his early and his later 
 works, that wild revolutionary spirit became 
 moulded and subdued by the sagacious dic 
 tates of wisdom and experience.
 
 28 JOHANN CHEISTOPH FEIEDEEICH SCHILLER. 
 
 Friendship, love, assured sympathy all 
 served to enrich his mind and to mature into 
 perfection his wonderful gifts. As a histo 
 rian and philosophical writer he ranked high. 
 Hear what Carlyle says : " There never has 
 been in Europe another course of history 
 sketched out on principles so magnificent 
 and philosophical." He says again: "His 
 '^Esthetic Letters ' are the deepest and most 
 compact pieces of reasoning he is anywhere 
 acquainted with." But alas ! when the whole 
 of Europe rung with his fame, the seeds of 
 disease were shortening that precious life; 
 his intellectual activity admitted no repose, 
 while his body was worn to a shadow; his 
 mind grew more and more resolved on action, 
 to thwart him in this was to take away the 
 charm of his existence; as his life neared 
 its close, his meditations on life, nature and
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 29 
 
 eternal providence deepened. " Christian 
 ity," he said to his devoted sister-in-law, " has 
 stamped a new impression on humanity, 
 while it revealed a sublime prospect to the 
 soul." Schiller was stricken with his mortal 
 sickness on the 28th of April, 1805; he 
 lingered till the 8th of May, in that state of 
 exhaustion which seemed to preclude all hope. 
 In the decline of that day came on the last 
 struggle. His heart-broken wife knelt by his 
 side, he pressed her hand, when suddenly a 
 nervous tremor came over his frame, the 
 head fell back, a sweet smile lit up his pale 
 face, the world passed away, and in its place 
 was revealed to him the deep unfathomable 
 mysteries of another. 
 
 Of the poems of Schiller, those on the 
 elements rank among the first, perhaps equal 
 to them in beauty and perspecuity is Ru-
 
 30 JOIIANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 dolpli of Hapsburg. Its design is to depict 
 the virtue of humility. The story is taken 
 from an old Swiss chronicle, and Hienrich 
 says: "The poet has adhered with much 
 fidelity to the original narrative." 
 
 At Aachen in imperial state, 
 
 In that time-hallow'd hall renown'd, 
 
 At solemn feast King Rudolph sate, 
 The day that saw the hero crowned; 
 
 Bohemia and thy Palgrave Rhine, 
 Give this the feast, and that the wine 
 The arch electoral seven ! 
 
 Like choral stars around the sun, 
 
 Gird him whose hand a world has won 
 The anointed choice of heaven! 
 
 In galleries raised above the pomp, 
 Pressed crowd on crowd their panting way; 
 
 And with the joy resounding tromp, 
 Rang out the millions' loud huzza;
 
 JOE ANN CHEISTOPII FIUEDERIOH SCHILLER. 31 
 
 For closed at last the age oT slaughter, 
 "When human blood was pour'd as water, 
 
 Law dawns upon the world ! 
 Sharp force no more shall right the wrong, 
 And grind the weak to crown the strong 
 
 War's curnage flag is furled. 
 
 In Rudolph's hand the goblet shines, 
 
 And gayly round the board looked he, 
 And proud the feast and bright the wines, 
 
 My kingly heart feels glad to me; 
 Yet where the gladness-bringcr, blessed 
 In the sweet art which moves the breast, 
 
 With lyre a' .d verse divine. 
 Dear from my youth, the craft of song, 
 And what as knight I loved so long, 
 As Kaisar, still be mine ! 
 
 Lo ! from the circle bending there, 
 With sweeping robe the Card appears, 
 
 As silver white his gleaming hair. 
 Bleached by the many winds of years;
 
 32 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FPJEDEEICH SCHILLEE. 
 
 And music sleeps in golden strings, 
 Love's rich reward, the minstrel sings, 
 
 Well known to him the all! 
 High thoughts and ardent souls desire, 
 What would the Kaisar from the lyre, 
 
 Amid the banquet-hall? 
 
 The great one smiled, " not mine the sway 
 
 The minstrel owns a loftier power; 
 A mightier king inspires the lay 
 
 Its best the impulse of the hour ! 
 As through wide air the tempests sweep, 
 As gush the springs from mystic deep, 
 
 Or lone, untrodden glen; 
 So from dark, hidden fount within, 
 Comes song its own wild world to win 
 Amid the souls of men." 
 
 Swift with the fire the minstrel glowed, 
 And loud the music swept the ear; 
 
 Forth to the chase a hero rode, 
 To hunt the chamois deer.
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDEEICH SCHILLER. 33 
 
 With shaft aud horn, the squire behind, 
 Through greensward meads, the riders wind, 
 
 A small, sweet bell they hear. 
 Lo ! with the host, a holy man, 
 Before him strides the sacrestan, 
 
 And the bell sounds near and near. 
 
 The noble hunter, down inclined 
 His reverent head, and softened eye, 
 
 And honored with a Christian's mind 
 The Christ who loves humility. 
 
 Loud through the pasture brawls and raves 
 
 A brook the rains had fed the waves, 
 And torrents from the hill. 
 
 His sandal shoon the priest unbound, 
 
 And laid the host upon the ground, 
 And neared the swollen rill. 
 
 "What wouldst thou, priest?" the count began, 
 
 As marveling much, he halted there; 
 " Sir count, I seek a dying man, 
 
 Sore hungering for the heavenly fair. 
 
 8
 
 34 JOHANN CHRISTOPH PRIEDERICH SCHILLEB. 
 
 The bridge that once its safety gave, 
 Rent by the anger of the wave 
 
 Drifts down the tide below. 
 Yet barefoot now, I will not fear 
 (The soul that seeks its God to cheer) 
 
 Through the wild wave to go." 
 
 He gave that priest the knightly steed, 
 He reached that priest the lordly reins, 
 
 That he might serve the sick man's need. 
 Nor slight the task that Heaven ordains, 
 
 He took the horse the squire bestrode, 
 
 On to the chase the hunter rode, 
 On to the sick the priest; 
 
 And when the morrow's sun was red, 
 
 The servant of the Saviour led 
 Back to its lord the beast. 
 
 "_Now Heaven forefend ! " the hero cried, 
 " That ere to chase or battle more, 
 
 These limbs the sacred beast bestride 
 That once my Maker's image bore.
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 35 
 
 If not a boon allowed to thee, 
 Thy Lord and mine its master be 
 
 My tribute to the King ! 
 From whom I hold as fiefs since birth, 
 Honor, renown, the goods of earth 
 
 Life and each living thing. 
 
 "So may the God who faileth never 
 
 To hear the weak and guide the dim, 
 To thee give honor, here and ever, 
 As thou hast duly honored Him. 
 Far-famed e'en now through Swisserland, 
 Thy generous heart and dauntless hand, 
 
 And fair from thine embrace, 
 Six daughters bloom, six crowns to bring, 
 Blessed as the daughters of a king 
 
 The mothers of a race." 
 
 The mighty Kaiser heard amazed, 
 
 His heart was in the days of old, 
 Into the minstrel's heart he gazed, 
 
 That tale the Kaiser's own had told;
 
 36 JOHAKST CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 Yet in the bard, the priest he knew, 
 And in the purple veiled from view, 
 
 The gush of holy tears, 
 A thrill through that vast audience ran, 
 And every heart the God-like man 
 
 Revering God-reveres. 
 
 The "Diver," although one of his first 
 ballads, is said to be quite as grand and 
 artistic as those elaborated by his riper 
 genius. A critical writer calls it a lyrical 
 tragedy in two acts, the first act ending 
 with the disappearance of the hero amid 
 the whirlpool; and the conception of the 
 contest of man's will with physical nature, 
 together with the darkly hinted moral not 
 to stretch too far the mercy of Heaven, 
 belong in themselves to the design and 
 ethics of tragedy.
 
 JOHANN CHEISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 37 
 
 He says, according to the just theory, 
 the main ingredient of terror is the un 
 known. He here seeks to accomplish as a 
 poet what he before perceived as a critic, 
 and certainly the picture of the lonely 
 diver amid the horrors of the abyss, dwells 
 upon the memory among the sublimest con 
 ceptions of modern poetry. The line, "And 
 
 it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and 
 roars," struck Goethe in a particular man 
 ner, from the power evinced in reflecting 
 truth, though unfamiliar to experience. 
 Schiler had never seen a waterfall. 
 
 Bulwer tells us that Schiller modestly 
 owns his obligation to Homer's description 
 of Charybdis.
 
 38 JOHANN CHKISTOPH FKIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 THE DIVER. 
 
 " Oh ! where is the knight or the squire so bold, 
 As to dive to the howling Charybdis below? 
 
 I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, 
 And o'er it already the dark waters flow; 
 
 Whoever to me may the goblet bring, 
 
 Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king." 
 
 He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, 
 That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge 
 
 Of the endless and measureless world of the deep. 
 Twirl'd into the maelstrom that maddened the surge. 
 
 "And where is the diver so stout to go 
 
 I ask ye again to the deep below ? " 
 
 And the knights and the squires that gather'd around, 
 Stood silent, and fixed on the ocean their eyes;
 
 JOHANX CIIRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 39 
 
 They look'd on the dismal and savage profound, 
 
 And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize, 
 And thrice spoke the monarch, " The cup to win, 
 Is there never a wight who will venture in?" 
 
 And all as before heard in silence the king 
 Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing, but gentle, 
 
 Mid the tremulous squires, stepp'd out from the ring. 
 Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle; 
 
 And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, 
 
 On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. 
 
 As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gavo 
 One glance on the gulf of that merciless main; 
 
 Lo ! the wave that forever devours the wave, 
 Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again; 
 
 And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, 
 
 Rushes foamingly forth to the heart of the gloom. 
 
 And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, 
 As when fire is with water commix'd and contending;
 
 40 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, 
 And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending; 
 And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, 
 Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. 
 
 Yet at length comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion, 
 As the whirlpool sucks into black smoothness the swell 
 
 Of the white foaming breakers, and cleaves through the 
 ocean 
 
 A path that seems winding in darkness to Hell. 
 
 Round and round whirl'd the waves, deep and deeper 
 still driven, 
 
 Like a gorge through the mountainous main thunder- 
 riven ! 
 
 The youth gave his trust to his Maker ! before 
 That path through the riven abyss closed again 
 
 Hark ! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, 
 And behold ! he is whirl'd in the grasp of the main ! 
 
 And o'er him the breakers mysteriously roll'd, 
 
 And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. 
 
 O'er the surface grim silence lay dark; but the crowd 
 Heard the wail from the deep murmer hollow and fell;
 
 JOHANN CHPJSTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 41 
 
 They iearken and shudder, lamenting aloud 
 
 " Gallant youth noble heart fare thee well, fare theo 
 well ! " 
 
 More hollow and more wails the deep on the car 
 More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear. 
 
 If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling, 
 And cry, "Who may find it shall win it and wear," 
 
 God wot, though the prize were the crown of a king 
 A crown at such hazard were valued too dear; 
 
 For never shall lips of the living reveal 
 
 What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. 
 
 Oh ! many a bark, to that breast grappled fast, 
 Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; 
 
 Again, crash'd together the keel and the mast, 
 To be seen, toss'd aloft, in the glee of the wave; 
 
 Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, 
 
 Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. 
 
 And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, 
 As when fire is with water commix'd and contending;
 
 42 JOHAXN CHEISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, 
 And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending; 
 And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, 
 Bushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 And lo ! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, 
 What gleams on the darkness so swan-like and white? 
 
 Lo ! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb ! 
 They battle the man's with the element's might. 
 
 It is he ! it is he ! in his left hand behold, 
 
 As a sign, as a joy, shines the goblet of gold! 
 
 And he breathed deep, and he breathed long, 
 And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day; 
 
 They gaze on each other they shout as they throng, 
 " He lives ! lo, the ocean has rendered its prey ! 
 
 And safe from the whirlpool, and free from the grave, 
 
 Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave ! " 
 
 And he comes with the crowd in the clamor and glee, 
 And the goblet his daring has won from the water,
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 43 
 
 Ho lifts to the king as lie sinks on his knee: 
 
 And the king from her maidens has beckon'd his 
 daughter; 
 
 She pours to the boy the bright wine which they bring, 
 And thus spake the Diver : " Long life to the king ! " 
 
 Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, 
 The air and the sky that to mortals are given; 
 
 May the horror below never more find a voice 
 Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! 
 
 Never more never more may he lift from the sight 
 
 The veil which is woven with Terror and Night ! 
 
 " Quick, brightening like lightening, it tore me along, 
 Down, down, till a gush of a torrent, at play 
 
 In the rocks of its wilderness, it caught me; and strong 
 As the wings of an eagle, it whirl'd me away. 
 
 Vain, vain was my struggle the circle had won me, 
 
 Round and round in its dance, the wild elements spun me. 
 
 "And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer, 
 In the strength of my neel, in the gasp of my breath,
 
 44 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 And show'd me a crag that rose up from the lair, 
 
 And I clung to it, nimbly, and baffled the death 1 
 And sale in the perils around me, behold 
 On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold. 
 
 "Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, 
 Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure ! 
 
 A silence of Horror that slept on the ear, 
 That the eye more appall'd might the hour endure! 
 
 Salamander, snake, dragon, vast reptiles that dwell 
 In the deep, coil'd about the grim jaws of their Hell. 
 
 "Dark, crawl 'd, glided the unspeakable swarms, 
 Clamp'd together in masses, misshapen and vast; 
 
 Here clung and here bristled the fathomless forms, 
 Here the dark, moving bulk of the hammer-fish passed; 
 
 And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, 
 
 Went the terrible shark the hyena of ocean. 
 
 "There I hung, and the awe gather'd icily o'er me, 
 So far from the earth, where man's help there was none; 
 
 The one human thing, with the goblins before me, 
 Alone, in a loneliness so ghastly alone!
 
 JOHANN CHEISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. 45 
 
 Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound, 
 Yvlth the death of the main and the monsters around. 
 
 "Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now 
 It saw the dread hundred-limbed creature its prey ! 
 
 And darted, O God! from the far-flaming bough 
 Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way; 
 
 And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar, 
 
 It seized me to save king, the danger is o'er! 
 
 On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvell'd; quoth he: 
 "Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine, 
 
 And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee 
 Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine; 
 
 If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, 
 
 To say what lies hid in the innermost main ! " 
 
 Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion: 
 " Ah ! father, my father, what more can there rest ? 
 
 Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean 
 He has served thec as none would, thyself hast confess'd; 
 
 If nothing can shake thy wild thirst of desire, 
 
 Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire ! "
 
 4.6 JOHANN CHRISTOPH PMEDERICH SCHILLER. 
 
 The king seized the goblet, he swung it on. high, 
 And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; 
 
 "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, 
 
 And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side; 
 
 And thine arms shall embrace, as thy bride, I decree, 
 
 The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thec." 
 
 In his heart, as he listened, there leap'd the wild joy, 
 And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, 
 
 On that bloom, on that blush, gazed delighted the boy; 
 The maiden, she faints at the feet of her sire ! 
 
 Here the guerdon divine, there the danger beneath; 
 
 He resolves ! to the strife with the life and the death 1 
 
 They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell. 
 
 Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along ! 
 Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell, 
 
 They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng; 
 Roaring up to the cliff, roaring back, as before, 
 But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore.
 
 TO M. A. D, 47 
 
 TO M. A. D. 
 
 Not wholly dark thy present lot, 
 
 Though joy her golden wing hath furled, 
 
 For where the present cannot reach, 
 Like radiance from another world, 
 
 A spirit guides of potent power, 
 That moulds each purpose of the heart 
 The memories of a bygone hour! 
 
 Thy bark may float on summer seas, 
 
 Or lashed by furious waves be driven; 
 Alike to thee, the whirling storm, 
 
 Or soft and gentle breeze of even; 
 Calmly amid the ills of life, 
 
 Nerved for the strife whate'er it be, 
 The venture lost, was vantage gained, 
 
 Though sad the dower it brought to thee.
 
 48 TO M. A. D. 
 
 Not wholly sad, for golden gleams 
 
 Like those that light the hills at eve, 
 The reflex of an early dream, 
 
 Which now no longer can deceive, 
 Illumes the page where time records 
 
 His measured worth of smiles and tearaj 
 For seen thro' his dissolving glass, 
 
 The sadness ever more endears. 
 
 Then let us gather up the shreds, 
 
 And garner up the golden sheaves, 
 For every blossom of the past, 
 
 A soul distilling fragrance leaves; 
 Not all bereft, for these are thine, 
 
 A measured boon to mortals given 
 To temper joy, to chasten woe, 
 
 And fit the wearied soul for Heaven.
 
 SONG DEDICATED TO FANNY. 49 
 
 SONG. 
 DEDICATED TO FANNY. 
 
 Oh ! say not that my heart forgets, 
 Though silent years have fled, 
 
 Since thou, my first and early love, 
 AVert numbered with the dead. 
 
 My soul has kept iir; vigils long, 
 Through scenes of joy and woe; 
 
 One yearning thought of other days, 
 Pursues where're I go. 
 
 To night the stars are looking down 
 
 Upon the summer sea, 
 And I am thinking of the time 
 
 I wandered, love, w'th thee.
 
 50 SONG DEDICATED TO FANNY. 
 
 Oh ! sacred past of buried hopes, 
 Your mournful memories sweep, 
 
 In tender echoes through my soul, 
 And lone aud sad I weep.
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, 51 
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, the daughter of 
 Barry Cornwall, of whom as yet the world 
 knows so little, sends us a memorial of her 
 life in a volume of poems, so exquisitely 
 tender, so filled with beautiful thoughts, 
 that it is a difficult task to select one 
 having a pre-eminence over another. Like 
 her father, she possessed an easy flow of 
 verse. But under the apparent unconscious 
 ness of critical barriers and rules of diction, 
 there is a flowery grace and a captivating 
 ease that charms and fascinates the reader; 
 her periods are so musical, her imagery so
 
 52 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, 
 
 fine. But transcending all this, her subli 
 mity of faith, her dependence on the Great 
 Father is so apparent that we seat ourselves 
 reverently at her young feet, and yield to 
 the inspiration which falls from her lips. 
 A few extracts from " The Parting " tells 
 her story (of a deceived but not broken 
 heart) so truthfully that it seems like a key 
 unlocking the innermost recesses of her 
 soul : 
 
 " "Without one bitter feeling let xis part; 
 And for the years in which your love has shed 
 A radiance like a glory round my head, 
 
 I thank you, yes, I thank you from my heart. 
 
 " I thank you, and no grief is in these tearsj 
 I thank you not in bitterness but truth; 
 For the fair vision that adorned my youth 
 
 And glorified so many happy years,
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 53 
 
 " I thank you that your hand dashed down the shrine 
 Wherein my idol worship I had paid, 
 Else had I never known a soul was made 
 
 To sorve and worship only the Divine. 
 
 " I thank you for a terrible awaking, 
 And if reproach seemed hidden in my pain, 
 And sorrow seemed to cry on your disdain, 
 
 Know that my blessing lay in your forsaking, 
 
 " Farewell forever ! now in peace we part, 
 And should an idle vision of my tears, 
 Arise before your soul in after years, 
 
 Remember that I thank you from my heart." 
 
 As sentiment is the characteristic of 
 Proctor, so it is remarkably developed in his 
 daughter, with this great difference : his 
 portraiture seems almost a deification of a 
 human passion ; hers are always held in 
 relationship to the Great Father. That 
 which was her greatest joy becomes her
 
 54 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 discipline. She bows in meek submission to 
 the chastening rod ; calmly and even hope 
 fully she takes up the cross, feeling and 
 knowing that " better than the seen lies 
 hid," she is repaid, a light, a new revela 
 tion of beauty breaks upon her soul, and 
 she says : 
 
 " I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept 
 
 The best in store. 
 To have enough, yet not too much 
 
 To long for more; 
 A yearning for a deeper peace, 
 
 Not known before. 
 
 "I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls, 
 
 Though amply blest, 
 Can never find, although they seek, 
 
 A perfect rest 
 Nor ever shall until they lean 
 
 On Jesus' breast."
 
 MISS A. ADELAIDE PROCTOR. 55 
 
 * 
 
 Poetry is said to be capricious in its alli 
 ances, giving herself alike to the grave and 
 gay, the gentle and the stern. Though this 
 is eminently true, yet she is ever constant 
 to the phases of her possessor. She echoes 
 in her mirth and mourns in her sorrow. 
 She weaves her fragments and conceits for 
 babyhood, and she mourns with us o'er " our 
 dead." Listen to the following : 
 
 "How the children leave us, and no traces 
 Linger of that smiling angel band; 
 
 Gone, forever gone, and in their places 
 Weary men and anxious women stand.- 
 
 "Yet we have some little ones still ours, 
 They have kept the baby smile we know, 
 
 Which we kissed one day and hid with flowers 
 On their dead white faces long ago.
 
 56 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 " Only the dead hearts forsake us never; 
 
 Death's last kiss has been the mystic sign, 
 Consecrating love cur own Ibrever, 
 
 Crowning it eternal and divine." 
 
 Again she gives us high and holy truth 
 in language of added efficacy and power. 
 The true philosophy of life is couched in 
 the following : 
 
 Sow and look onward, upward, 
 
 Where the starry light appears, 
 "Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, 
 
 Or your own heart's trembling fears, 
 You shall reap in joy the harvest 
 
 You have sown to day in tears." 
 
 * And again : 
 
 " Pray, though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears, 
 May never repay your pleadings, 
 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 57 
 
 And an answer not that you long for, 
 
 But diviner will come one day, 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it, 
 
 Yet strive to watch and pray." 
 
 " Learn that each duty makes its claim 
 
 Upon one soul: not each on all; 
 How, if God speaks thy brother's name, 
 
 Dare thou make answer to the call? 
 
 " The greater peril in the strife, 
 The less this evil should be done, 
 
 For as in battle so in life, 
 Danger and honor still are one." 
 
 Who would not learn from such an evan 
 gel ? It was said of Byron : " that in seek 
 ing an ocean for the river of his thoughts, 
 he bore all hearts along in the rash be 
 wildering emotion." Adelaide Proctor bears 
 us not along but upward. She nerves us
 
 58 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 for the battle of life with lessons wrung 
 from hor own heart's experience. She lays 
 bare the secret wounds of her soul, to show 
 us where light entered. If we saunter with 
 her through flowery dells and delicious 
 groves, she allows us not to be captivated 
 by the mere surroundings, beautiful as they 
 may be. Her mind evolves an idea, a com 
 parison or a moral. Showing these are but 
 the faintest corruscations of that light di 
 vine, and without which all- is nothing. 
 And yet in this relationship there is not 
 sadness, but holy and submissive faith. 
 
 'Twas hers 
 
 " To drink the golden spirit of the day 
 And triumph in existence." 
 
 Truly, did she not collect the shadows of
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 59 
 
 life into a portentous array? She might 
 have said 
 
 " Fresh hopes are hourly sown 
 la furrowed brows.' 7 
 
 But kindling aspirations they, that writo 
 no "wrinkles on the soul. 
 
 " The Requital," we call the joy of our 
 household : 
 
 "Loud roared the tempest, 
 Fast fell the sleet ; 
 
 A little child angel 
 Passed down the street, 
 
 With trailing pinions 
 And weary feet
 
 60 MISS ADELAIDE A. PEOCTOE. 
 
 "The moon was hidden, 
 No stars were bright, 
 
 So she could not shelter 
 In Heaven that night, 
 For the angel's ladders, 
 
 Are rays of light. 
 
 "She beat her wings 
 At each window pane, 
 
 And pleaded for shelter, 
 But all in vain. 
 
 Listen, they said, 
 To the pelting rain. 
 
 "She sobbed, as the laughter 
 And mirth grew higher, 
 
 Give me rest and shelter 
 Beside your fire, 
 
 And I will give you 
 Your heart's desire.
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 61 
 
 "The Dreamer sat watching 
 
 His embers gleam, 
 While his heart was floating 
 
 Down hope's bright stream, 
 So he wove her wailing 
 
 Into his dream. 
 
 "But fiercer the tempest 
 Rose than before, 
 
 When the angel paused 
 At an humble door, 
 
 And asked for shelter 
 And rest once more. 
 
 "A weary woman, 
 Pale, worn and thin, 
 
 With the brand upon her 
 Of want and sin, 
 
 Heard the child angel 
 And took her in.
 
 62 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 " Took her in gently, 
 
 And did her best 
 To dry her pinions, 
 
 And made her rest 
 "With tender pity, 
 
 Upon her breast. 
 
 "When the eastern morning 
 
 Grew bright and red, 
 Up the first sunbeam 
 
 The angel fled; 
 Having kissed the woman 
 
 And left her dead." 
 
 It might be thought a difficult task for 
 one of high and lofty aspirations to suit 
 herself to the capacity of childhood, but 
 such was the universality of Miss Proctor's 
 genius, that whether we consider her breath 
 ing strains for babyhood, or teaching les 
 sons of sublime endurance for poor, suffer
 
 MISS A. ADELAIDE PROCTOR. 63 
 
 ing humanity, we must still accord to her 
 the homage of our heartfelt admiration. 
 What a felicity of expression do we find 
 in the following sweet little fragments: 
 
 "Is my darling tired already, 
 
 Tired of her day of play ! 
 Draw your little stool beside me, 
 
 Smoothe the tangled hair away. 
 Can she put the logs together 
 
 Till they make a cheerful blaze? 
 Shall her blind old uncle tell her 
 
 Something of his youthful days?" 
 
 The story is continued with all the win 
 ning sweetness which the preface indicates. 
 Another : 
 
 "Will she come to me, little Effie, 
 Will she come, in my arms to rest, 
 
 And nestle her head on my shoulder 
 While the sun goes down in the west?
 
 64 MISS ADELAIDE A. PEOCTOK. 
 
 "I and Efiie will sit together, 
 All alone in this great arm-chair. 
 
 It is silly to mind it, darling, 
 When life is so hard to bear. 
 
 " While her little soft arms grow tighter 
 Round my neck in their clinging hold, 
 
 Well I must not cry on your hair, dear, 
 For my tears might tarnish the gold. 
 
 "But my Effie won't reason, will she, 
 
 Or endeavor to understand ? 
 Only holds up her mouth to kiss me, 
 
 As she strokes my face with her hand. 
 
 ''But hark! there is nurse calling Effie; 
 
 It is bed-time, so run away, 
 And I must go back, or the others 
 
 Will be wondering why I stay.
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. G5 
 
 "So good-night to ray darling Effie, 
 Be happy, sweetheart, and grow wise; 
 
 There's one kiss for her golden ringlets, 
 And two for her sleepy eyes." 
 
 The style of the above is very much like 
 Mary" Howitt's " My Little Minnie," only 
 immeasurably superior. That ' they have 
 a fascination for children I can answer, for 
 I have known little ones to perform disa 
 greeable duties with alacrity and pleasure 
 for the promise that mamma would read 
 them Miss Proctor, and in a little time, sc 
 much are those poems in consonance with 
 their tastes and feelings, they could repeal 
 them readily from memory. I think it was 
 Beranger who said: " I care not who writes 
 the sermons of a nation, so I may give 
 them their songs." But here is one whc 
 combines both. The poem of Fidelis con-
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 tains such loyalty to friendship and memory 
 that I cannot forbear inserting some pas 
 sages: 
 
 "You have taken back the promise 
 
 That you spoke so long ago 
 Takea back the heart you gave me, 
 
 I must even let it go. 
 Where Love once has breathed Pride dieth, 
 
 So I struggled but in vain, 
 First to keep the links together, 
 
 Then to piece the broken chain. 
 
 "But it might not be so freely 
 
 All your friendship I restore, 
 And the heart that I had taken 
 
 As my own forever more. 
 No shade of reproach shall touch you, 
 
 Dread no more a claim from me 
 But I will not have you fancy 
 
 That I count myself as free.
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, 67 
 
 " I am bound by the old promise 
 
 What can break that golden chain? 
 Not even the words that you have spoken, 
 
 Or the sharpness of my pain. 
 Do you think, because you fail me, 
 
 And draw back your hand to day, 
 That from out the heart I gave you, 
 
 My strong love can fade away? 
 
 "It will live. No eyes may see it 
 
 In my soul it will lie deep, 
 Hidden from all; but I shall feel it 
 
 Often stirring in its sleep. 
 So, remember, that the friendship 
 
 Which you now think poor and vain, 
 Will endure, in hope and patience, 
 
 Till you ask for it again." 
 
 To those who have compromised their 
 fidelity, these beautiful lines must be a 
 stinging remorse. The consciousness of
 
 68 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 wasted affection cannot overcome or sub 
 due the true and loyal heart. The line 
 
 "Where Love once has breathed Pride dieth," 
 
 reveals the source from whence magnan 
 imity draws its strength. 
 
 Theodore Tilton says, in speaking of Mrs. 
 Browning: "Her resemblance to other poets 
 in style and thought are not infrequent.'' 7 
 As one evidence he gives us a line from 
 "Lady Geraldine: " 
 
 " With a rushing stir uncertain, in the air, the purple 
 curta'n," 
 
 as like a line in " Foe's Raven: " 
 
 "And the silken, sad, uncertain rust' ing of each pur 
 ple curtain." 
 
 These duplicated thoughts we often find 
 among our classic writers. But we are now
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 69 
 
 going to consider a case where the analogy 
 is more complete where plan, incident, 
 and the expression of sentiment are almost 
 the same. I allude to the poem of ' Enoch 
 Arden," by Tennyson, and the " Homeward 
 Bound," by Adelaide Proctor. In both the 
 story is similar. The hero in each case 
 leaves wife and children to traverse the 
 trackless ocean one is cast away on a 
 desert island, the other off the "Red Al 
 giers," and becomes the slave of the "Black 
 Moses of Barbary." Enoch Arden, on his 
 lonely isle, dreams of 
 
 "The babies, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
 The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
 The peacock, yew tree, and the lonely hall, 
 The horse ho drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
 November dawns, and dewy glooming downs, 
 The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
 And the low moan" of leaden-colored seas. 1 '
 
 70 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 The hero in "Homeward Bound" sees 
 
 "A fair face, but pale with sorrow, 
 With blue eyes brimful of tears. 
 
 And the little red mouth quivering 
 With a smile to hide its fears. 
 
 "Then I saw, as night grew darker, 
 
 How she taught my child to pray* 
 Holding its small hands together, 
 
 For its father far away; 
 And I felt her sorrow weighing 
 
 Heavier on me than mine own, 
 Pitying her blighted spring-time 
 
 And her joy so early flown." 
 
 After many long and wearisome years both 
 are freed. They who had been accounted 
 dead return again to their native land. 
 One thus describes it:
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 71 
 
 "It was evening in late autumra, 
 
 And the gusty wind blew chill, 
 Autumn leaves were falling round me, 
 
 And the red sun lit the hill. 
 
 "She was seated by the fire, 
 
 In her arms she held a child, 
 Whispering baby words caressing, 
 
 And then looking up she smiled 
 Smiled on him who stood beside her, 
 
 Oh, the bitter truth was told! 
 In her look of trusting fondness 
 
 I had seen the look of old. 
 
 "Cut she rose and turned towards me, 
 
 (Cold and dumb I waited there,) 
 With a shriek of fear and terror, 
 
 And a white face of despair. 
 lie had been an ancient comrade. 
 
 Not a single word we said, 
 While wo gazed upon each other, 
 
 He the living : I the dead.
 
 72 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOE. 
 
 "Bitter tears that desolate moment, 
 
 Bitter tears we wept, 
 We three broken hearts together, 
 
 "While the baby smiled and slept. 
 
 " Then at last I rose, and turning, 
 
 Wrung his hand, but made no sign, 
 And I stooped and kissed her forehead, 
 
 Once more, as if she were mine, 
 Nothing of farewell I uttered, 
 
 Save in broken words to pray 
 That God would ever guard and bless her 
 
 Then in silence passed away." 
 
 Enoch Arden nears his home: 
 
 "His eyes upon the stone, he reached the home 
 Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes. 
 In those far seven happy years, were born; 
 Bnt finding neither light nor murmur there, 
 A bill of sale gleamed through the drizzle, crept 
 Still downward, thinking dead or dead to me ; 
 Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
 Seeking a tavern which of old he knew."
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 73 
 
 Here Miriam Lane, not knowing him, so 
 brown and bowed, tells him the story of 
 his house: 
 
 " How Philip (bis old friend) put his little ones to school, 
 
 And kept them in it his long wooing 
 
 Her slow consent, and marriage the birth 
 
 Of Philip's child; and o'er his countenance 
 
 No shadow past, nor motion; any one 
 
 Regarding well, had deemed he felt the tale 
 
 Less than the teller; only when she closed, 
 
 Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost; 
 
 He, shaking his grey head pathetically, 
 
 Repeated, muttering, cast away and lost; 
 
 Again, iu deeper inward whispers lost ! " 
 
 Here occurs a slight divergence in the 
 comparison. Enoch Arden "does not leave 
 forever," but forms the resolution in his 
 mind to remain near his wife and children 
 yet never let them know of his return,
 
 74 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 satisfied that those he loved were happy 
 in their ignorance of him: 
 
 " But Enoch yearned to see her face again. 
 If I might look on her sweet face again 
 And know that she is happy 1 " 
 
 The thought drives him forth. And Enoch 
 saw 
 
 "Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
 
 Stout, rosy, with his babe upon his knees. 
 
 And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
 
 A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
 
 Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand 
 
 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring, 
 
 To tempt the babe who reared its creasy arms, 
 
 Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed. 
 
 And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
 
 The mother, glancing often toward her babe, 
 
 But turning now and then to speak with him, 
 
 Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
 
 And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.
 
 HISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 75 
 
 " Then lie, though Miriam Lane had told him all, 
 Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
 Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared 
 To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry 
 Which in one moment like the blast of doom, 
 Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth, 
 Ann thus he passed and died unknown to all save 
 Miriam Lane." 
 
 "Whom he made promise never to divulge 
 until she saw him dead. 
 
 The similarity stops not here. "We find 
 even an expression analagous. Philip bears 
 a life-long hunger in his heart. In Home 
 ward Bound " the hungry longing " left me. 
 
 In a beautiful little poem, called " Links 
 with Heaven," Miss Proctor has given us 
 sentiments and ideas which betray a sym 
 pathy with the innate feelings, that are 
 difficult to conceive in one who could write
 
 76 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOK. 
 
 only from the experience of another. We 
 are inclined to ask with wonder, from what 
 hidden source has that knowledge been ob 
 tained, which enables her thus powerfully 
 to pierce the deepest chords within a 
 mother's heart? From her maternal tribu 
 lation she raises her to a contemplation of 
 her dear one, safely sheltered in the arms 
 of Jesus. She inspires her with a lofty 
 ambition to be worthy of her little child, 
 whose sublime destiny, now accomplished, 
 she regards only as a disenthralled, bea 
 tified spirit. She bids her listen to its 
 sweet, silver tones as they mingle in the 
 choir of angels; and from the picture 
 linned so faithfully to satisfy the mother 
 yearning, she rises strong in fortifying grace 
 to bear the will of heaven, even though it 
 decree the rupture of her dearest house-
 
 HISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 77 
 
 hold ties. But I will attempt 110 longer a 
 description so faint and imperfect, but give 
 my readers an opportunity of judging for 
 themselves: 
 
 LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 
 
 Our God in Heaven, from that holy place, 
 To each of us an angel guide has given; 
 
 But mothers of dead children have more grace 
 For they give angels to their God and Heaven. 
 
 How can a mother's heart feel cold or weary, 
 Knowing her dearer self safe, happy, warm? 
 
 How can she feel her road too dark or dreary, 
 Who knows her treasure sheltered from the storm ? 
 
 How can she sin? our hearts may be unheeding, 
 Our God forgot, our holy saints defied; 
 
 But can a mother hear her dead child pleading, 
 And thrust those little angel hands aside?
 
 78 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, 
 
 Those little hands stretched down to draw her ever 
 Nearer to God by mother love: we all 
 
 Are blind and weak, yet surely she can never, 
 With such a stake in heaven, fail or fall. 
 
 She knows that when the mighty angels raise 
 Chorus in Heaven, one little silver tone 
 
 Is hers forever, that one little praise, 
 One little happy voice, is all her own. 
 
 We may not see her sacred crown of honor, 
 But all the angels flitting to and fro, 
 
 Pause, smiling as they pass, they look upon her 
 As mother of an angel whom they know. 
 
 One whom they left nestled at Mary's feet, 
 The children's place in Heaven, who softly sings 
 
 A little chant to please them, slow and sweet, 
 Or smiling, strokes their little folded wings; 
 
 Or gives them Her white lilies or Her beads 
 To play with: yet, in spite of flower or song,
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 79 
 
 They often lift a wistful look that pleads 
 And asks Her why their mother stays so long. 
 
 Then our dear Queen makes answer, she will call 
 Her very soon; meanwhile they are beguiled 
 
 To wait and listen while She tells them all 
 A story of Her Jesus as a child. 
 
 Ah! saints in Heaven may pray with earnest will, 
 And pity for their weak and erring brothers; 
 
 Yet there is prayer in Heaven more tender still, 
 The little children pleading for their mothers. 
 
 Already we haye observed that deep 
 underlying religious sentiment which per 
 vades almost every emanation from Miss 
 Proctor's pen. Let her mood be ever so 
 joyous, her vein ever so cheerful, she never 
 descends to frivolity. Living as she did, 
 in strict conformity to the faith of her
 
 80 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 deepest and most fervent convictions, slio 
 experiences a sweet contentment a calm 
 submission among the many checkered 
 scenes she delineates. Her tone is always 
 healthy; if she describes a sorrow, she finds 
 a consolation. Never morbid, while admit 
 ting the ills of life, she often proves them 
 a very necessity to a fuller realization of 
 .happiness. Her sympathies are never bar 
 ren, and in this lies the secret of her suc 
 cess. She indeed was no theorist; by the 
 bed-side of the poor and desolate she learn 
 ed their woes and their afflictions. She 
 could relinquish hours of social enjoyment 
 to pass them in the haunts of poverty, 
 alleviating by her presence, as well as by 
 her purse, the hard condition of those 
 whom Jesus has called to suffer like unto 
 himself. Without this intimate acquaint-
 
 MISS A. ADELAIDE PROCTOR. 81 
 
 ance, with scenes described, could she ever 
 have penned the following : 
 
 " THE CRADLE SONG OF THE POOR." 
 
 Hush ! I cannot bear to see thce 
 
 Stretch thy tiny hands in vain; 
 Dear, I have no bread to give thee, 
 
 Nothing, child, to ease thy pain ! 
 When God sent thee first to bless me 
 
 Proud and thankful too was I; 
 Now, ray darling, I, thy mother, 
 
 Almost long to see thee die. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 I have watched thy beauty fading, 
 And thy strength sink day by day, 
 
 Soon I know will want and fever, 
 Take thy little life away. 
 
 Famine makes thy father reckless, 
 Hope has left both him and me;
 
 82 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 "We could suffer all, my baby, 
 Had we but a crust for thee. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 Better thou shouldst perish early, 
 
 Starve so soon, my darling one, 
 Than in helpless sin and sorrow 
 
 Vainly live as I have done. 
 Better that thy angel spirit, 
 
 "With my joy, my peace, were flown, 
 Than thy heart grow cold and careless, 
 
 Reckless, hopeless, like my own. 
 Sleep, my darling; thou art weary; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 I am wasted, dear, with hunger, 
 And my brain is all opprest, 
 
 I have scarcely strength to press thee, 
 "Wan and feeble, to my breast. 
 
 Patience, baby, God will help us, 
 Death will come to thee and me,
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 83 
 
 He will take us to His Heaven, 
 
 Where no want or pain can be. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 Such the plaint that, late r.nd early, 
 
 Did we listen, we might hear 
 Close beside us, but the thunder 
 
 Of a city dulls our ear. 
 Every heart, as God's bright angel, 
 
 Can bid one such sorrow cease; 
 God has glory when his children 
 
 Bring his poor ones joy and peace! 
 Listen ! nearer, while she sings, 
 Sounds the fluttering of wings ! 
 
 In the autumn of 1860, the idea was con 
 ceived by the Rev. Dr. Gilbert of opening 
 a night refuge in his parish. This great 
 charity won the entire sympathy of Miss 
 Proctor. She published, for the benefit of
 
 84. MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 this much needed institution, a collection 
 of her religious and other poems. She 
 appeals to the public in her preface most 
 touchingly : 
 
 " A shelter through the bleak winter 
 nights leave to rest in some poor shed in 
 stead of wandering through the pitiless 
 streets, is a boon we could hardly deny to 
 a starving dog; and yet we have all known 
 that in this country, in this town, many 
 of our miserable fellow - creatures were 
 pacing the streets through the long weary 
 nights, without a roof to shelter them, with 
 out food to eat, with their poor rags soaked 
 in rain, and only the bitter winds of 
 Heaven for companions; women and child 
 ren utterly forlorn and helpless, either 
 wandering about all night or crouching
 
 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 85 
 
 under a miserable archway, or, worst of 
 all, seeking in death or sin the refuge denied 
 them elsewhere. It is a marvel that we 
 could sleep in peace in our warm, comfort 
 able homes with this horror at our very 
 door." 
 
 After describing quite minutely the rules 
 of the institution, Avhich are conceived in 
 the widest spirit of charity, she concludes 
 as follows : 
 
 "We all meditate long and often on the 
 many kinds of sufferings borne for us by 
 our Blessed Redeemer; but, perhaps, if we 
 consider a moment, we shall most of us 
 confess that the one we think of least 
 often the one we compassionate least of 
 all is the only one of which he deigned 
 to tell us himse'f, and for which he himself
 
 86 MISS ADELAIDE A. PROCTOE. 
 
 appealed to our pity in the Divine com 
 plaint, 'the foxes have holes, and the 
 birds of the air have nests, but the Son 
 of Man has not where to lay His head.' " 
 
 From the publication above referred to 
 but two poems are selected, from the very 
 fact that each alike possesses the claim of 
 intrinsic beauty and merit. A Pagan aph 
 orism says : " Those whom the Gods love, 
 die young." Christian experience is the 
 same; how often our dear Lord calls, in 
 their extreme youth, the beautiful, the 
 gifted, the sunlight of our homes, they who 
 have been with us so short a time, and yet 
 have left a life-long record. Miss Proctor 
 was surely one of these; long and tenderly will 
 she be mourned by her many friends and ad 
 mirers, Avhile in heart-felt sorrow they deplore 
 the void occasioned by her early death.
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 87 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BIDDING. 
 
 Not a sound is heard in the Convent 
 
 The Vesper Chant is sung, 
 The sick have all been tended, 
 The poor nun's toils are ended 
 
 Till the Matin bell has rung. 
 All is still, save the clock that is ticking 
 
 So loud in the frosty air, 
 And the soft snow falling as gently 
 
 As an answer to a prayer. 
 
 But an angel whispers, "O sister, 
 
 You must rise from your bed to pray- 
 In the silent deserted chapel, 
 You must kneel till the dawn of day;
 
 88 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 For, far on the desolate moorland, 
 So dreary, and bleak, and white, 
 
 There is one, all alone and helpless, 
 In peril of death to-night. 
 
 ''No sound on the moorland to guide him, 
 
 No star in the murky air; 
 And he thinks of his home and his loved ones 
 
 With the tenderness of despair; 
 He has wandered for hours in the snow-drift, 
 
 And he strives to stand in vain, 
 And so lies down to dream of his children, 
 
 And never to rise again. 
 
 " Then kneel in the silent chapel 
 
 Till the dawn of to-morrow's sun, 
 And ask of the Lord you worship 
 
 For the life of that desolate one; 
 And the smiling eyes of his children 
 
 Will gladden his heart again, 
 And the grateful tears of God's poor ones 
 
 Will fall on your soul like rain !
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 89 
 
 "Yet leave him alone to perish, 
 
 And the grace of your God implore, 
 With all the strength of your spirit, 
 
 For one who needs it more. 
 Far away, in the gleaming city, 
 
 Amid perfume, and song, and light, 
 A soul that Jesus has ransomed 
 
 Is in peril of sin to-night. 
 
 " The temper is close beside him, 
 
 And his danger is all forgot. 
 And the far-off voices of childhood 
 
 Call aloud, but he hears them not; 
 He sayeth no prayer, and his mother 
 
 He thinks not of her to-day, 
 And he will not look up to Heaven, 
 
 And his angel is turning away. 
 
 "Then pray for a soul in peril 
 
 A soul for which Jesus died: 
 Ask by the cross that bore Him, 
 
 And by her who stood beside;
 
 90 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 And the angels of God will thank you, 
 And bend from their thrones of light, 
 
 To tell you that Heaven rejoices, 
 At the deed you have done to-night."
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.. 
 
 91 
 
 OUR TITLES. 
 
 Are we not Nobles we who trace 
 
 Our pedigree so high, 
 That God, for us and for our race, 
 
 Created Earth and Sky, . 
 And Light, and Air, and Time, and Space, 
 
 To save us and then die? 
 
 Are we not Princes we who stand 
 
 As heirs beside the Throne; 
 We who can call the promised land 
 
 Our Heritage, our own; 
 And answer to no less command,- 
 
 Than God's, and His alone? 
 
 Are we not Kings ? both night and day, 
 From early until late,
 
 92 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 About our bed, about our way, 
 
 A guard of Angels wait; 
 And so we watch, and work, and pray, 
 
 In more than royal state. 
 
 'Are we not holy? Do not start; 
 
 It is God's sacred will, 
 To call us temples set apart, 
 
 His Holy Ghost may fill 
 Our very food hush ! my heart, 
 
 Adore it -and be still! 
 
 Are we not more? our life shall be 
 
 Immortal and divine, 
 The nature Mary gave to Thee, 
 
 Dear Jesus, still is thine; 
 Adoring in thy heart I see 
 
 Such blood as beats in mine. 
 
 O God, that we can dare to fail, 
 And dare to say we must; 
 
 God, that we can ever trail 
 Such banners in the dust;
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCIOR. 93 
 
 Can let such starry honors pale, 
 And such a blazon rust! 
 
 Shall we upon such titles bring 
 
 The taint of sin and shame? 
 Shall we the children of the King, 
 
 Who hold so grand a claim, 
 Tarnish by any meaner thing 
 
 The glory of our name ?
 
 94 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 They are not dead my darlinga- 
 They meet me at the door, 
 
 The patter of their little feet 
 Is sounding from the floor. 
 
 The rustle of their garments soft, 
 The tones that murmuring fell, 
 
 In cadence sweet, upon my ear, 
 Forbid a last farewell. 
 
 Oh! many are the fancies 
 That still my heart beguile, 
 
 While reason sleeps, they enter, 
 And cheat iny love the while.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 95 
 
 Sometimes I am returning 
 
 From a little absence long 
 To the dear ones who are watching 
 
 For their mother's safe return. 
 
 I see them far off, coming, 
 
 And half I bend to meet; 
 The Welcome, soft and tender, 
 
 That was ever mine to greet. 
 
 First of all, my darling Mary, 
 With her bright and happy brow; 
 
 The sunlight of her beauty 
 Is beaming on me now. 
 
 And by her side another, 
 
 With his wealth of golden hair; 
 I can see his sunny ringlets 
 
 Tossing wildly ia the air. 
 
 Alas! it is but dreaming, 
 My darlings are at rest;
 
 96 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 But the mother-heart is yearning 
 To fold them to her breast. 
 
 Oh ! my heart is full of memories, 
 Mine eyes are full of tears; 
 
 God only knows the anguish, 
 'Mid the calmness which appeara.
 
 THE AXGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR. 97 
 
 THE ANGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR. 
 
 TO SARAH MARIE. 
 
 4 
 
 An angel strayed from Eden's bowers, 
 Nor found again its home so dear; 
 
 For wandering near this world of ours, 
 With trembling wing and heart of fear 
 
 It chanced upon our parent cot, 
 At the sweet hour of eventide; 
 
 Our little ones a circle sweet 
 Were gathered to the mother side. 
 
 With raised eyes and clasped hands, 
 Their hearts went in one choral strain, 
 
 Oh! God protect our father dear, 
 And bring him safely back again.
 
 98 THE ANGEL OP MY WEARY HOUR. 
 
 Then as that prayer of love went up, 
 Like incense on the floating air, 
 
 The angel downward bent his wing, 
 And found a home amid them there. 
 
 Now closely folded to mj? breast, 
 From morn till evening's dewy hcur, 
 
 I clasp this solace, warm and close, 
 The angel of my weary hour.
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL, 99 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 The beautiful is round us, where'er we chance to stray, 
 
 By nature's silvery fountain, where its gleaming waters 
 play; 
 
 In the rustling of the forest leaf, in the flower lips of 
 
 the sod, 
 In all the speech-like eloquence that telleth us of God. 
 
 The beautiful is round us in the morning's early beam, 
 
 When it lifts the shadowy mantle from the hill-tops lone 
 and green; 
 
 And when the night unfoldeth its glories to our view, 
 The beautiful comes mingled with the infinite and true. 
 
 In the spring-time's early breath, in the summer's fer 
 vid beam, 
 
 In the dancing of the zephyrs, the sparkle on the 
 stream,
 
 100 THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 In the russet robe of autumn, its crimson and its gold, 
 In the jewels icy winter hangs on her forehead old. 
 
 The beautiful, the beautiful comes with its promptings 
 pure, 
 
 And telleth us of glories which ever shall endure; 
 
 For it whispers, as it passes, earth's brightest trea 
 sure known 
 
 Is but a shado-w faint and weak from God's celestial 
 throne.
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE. 101 
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE 
 
 DEDICATED TO L. K. 
 
 Beneath the ancient roof-tree, beneath these lowly walls, 
 What recollections of the past my memory recalls; 
 
 The bounding step of childhood, its wild and merry 
 glee, 
 
 The sobered tread of manhood, all found a home in 
 thee 
 
 The holy joy of motherhood, the pang of parting breath, 
 
 The farewell sad, the meeting fond, and tha bitter wail 
 of death, 
 
 Have each been felt and known here, in days now past 
 and gone; 
 
 But their memory is recorded in the old hearth stone.
 
 102 THE OLD COTTAGE. 
 
 Oh! many a fervid blessing from mother's lips were 
 shed, 
 
 As heart to hsart in fervent love the dear good night 
 was said; 
 
 Those lingering voices of the past once in this quaint 
 old room 
 
 Discoursed their tones of joyful love, a soul-dispelling 
 gloom. 
 
 In other homes we find them, this once dear household 
 band, 
 
 While she, the fond and loving, " a mother in the land," 
 Renews the love of olden time as every added face 
 
 Bespeaks a well-accorded claim, the children of her 
 race. 
 
 Then sacred be the memories of this old cottage home, 
 
 Her sons will not forget them, though distant far they 
 roam; 
 
 For when the soul grows weary with the changeful and 
 
 the new, 
 Here shall they find those golden links, the faithful and 
 
 the true.
 
 TO J. C. G. 103 
 
 TO J. C. G. 
 
 I know you in your halt' disguise, 
 And J. C. G. will ever blend 
 
 With those dear memories of the past 
 That bind me to my absent friend. 
 
 I greet you with my pen and ink, 
 And say a loving " How d'ye do ? " 
 
 And wish that you with me could look 
 Upon the Sound so clear and blue. 
 
 The white sails o ? er the waters bend, 
 The swallows skim along the sea; 
 
 The air is trembling with the sound 
 Of nature's gushing melody.
 
 104: TO J. C. G. 
 
 Familiar grown, the robins come 
 To pick the crumbs close by the door, 
 
 Then with their trilling roundelay 
 They thank us for the daily store. 
 
 'Mid scenes like these the heart grows young, 
 Renews its youth from nature's spring, 
 
 Nor craves one other wish beyond 
 The simple pleasures which she brings. 
 
 A poet* that I like to con, 
 Who in his day won much renown, 
 
 Proclaimed aloud the simple truth: 
 "God made the country man the town." 
 
 Here come the children from the woods, 
 (The angel band you used to say,) 
 
 Whose kindling smiles and merry moods 
 Could fill your heart with love alway. 
 
 With their return, I say farewell ! 
 My busy pen can chat no more; 
 I must away, but ere I go, 
 
 Believe me, yours for ever more. 
 *Cowper.
 
 SILVER LAKE RYE. 105 
 
 SILVER LAKE RYE. 
 
 Silver Lake, in thy calm beauty, 
 Dewy twilight spreads her glow; 
 
 Crimson tipped, her pencil lingers 
 For the moon's effulgent flow. 
 
 In thy depths and on thy bosom 
 Softened shadows sweetly lie, 
 
 Circling shore, fair verdant islets, 
 And the Heaven-reflected sky. 
 
 On thy waves, in sportive beauty, 
 Sails the swan in queenly pride, 
 
 Dipping now her graceful plumage, 
 Breasting then a rushing tide.
 
 106 SILVER LAKE RYE. 
 
 Deeper, duskier grow the shadows, 
 Limned against the evening sky; 
 
 Dome-like towers and slender spires 
 Seem to meet the charmed eye. 
 
 While our boat is swiftly gliding 
 O'er the waters soft and clear, 
 
 Music, with its softened cadence, 
 Floats upon the listening ear. 
 
 By the silver chime of waters, 
 We are near the quaint old mill; 
 
 While I tell you of its story, 
 Let our boat float at its will. 
 
 Years ago, perchance one hundred, 
 Three men, crippled, so they say, 
 
 Built these sides, so old and hoary, 
 Which you look on every day. 
 
 But the autumn mists are falling, 
 And tbe moon is riding high,
 
 SILVER LAKE RYE. 107 
 
 Glimmering lights amid the foliage 
 Tell me that our home is nigh. 
 
 
 So farewell! sweet lake of beauty, 
 
 I would ever, ever glide 
 On thy pure, translucant bosom, 
 With my dear ones at my side.
 
 108 TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 
 
 TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 
 
 "Good night! God bless you mammal 
 Good night! my mamma dear!" 
 
 Those oft-repeated tender worda 
 Still linger on my ear. 
 
 And for one moment I forget 
 My darling is away, 
 
 Nor heeds the mother longing 
 That fills my heart to-day. 
 
 How oft my book was laid aside, 
 My work flung from my knee. 
 
 While with a bounding step I flew, 
 At anxious call from thee.
 
 TO AN ABSENT CHILD. 109 
 
 Ah ! then I learnt the pretext 
 
 That brought me to your door, 
 As half in fear and all in love 
 
 I heard the " one kiss more ! " 
 
 You cannot know, my dear one, 
 
 How deep this heart of mine, 
 With anxious hopes and tender fears, 
 
 Responds the love of thine. 
 
 And often, very often, 
 
 When sleep hath bowed your head, 
 I kneel in lonely vigil 
 
 And pray beside your bed, 
 
 That you may be, not great but good 
 
 A higher, loftier aim, 
 As heavenly meed is better far 
 
 Than earth's ephemeral fame. 
 
 Co gay, be happy, darling, 
 
 But still where'er you roam, 
 Do not forgot that spot, so sweet 
 
 We call our cottage home.
 
 110 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 A memory sweet for a fair young bride, 
 
 But what shall the offering be? 
 Shall it come from the golden mines of earth, 
 
 Or the depths of the sounding sea? 
 
 Shall its sheen be that of the ruby gleam, 
 
 Or the amethyst's paler hue? 
 Shall its light be that of the emerald beam, 
 
 Or the turquoise's softer blue. 
 
 Oh no! for already upon her brow 
 
 She weareth, in golden youth, 
 A crown that would pale all lesser ones 
 
 "Tis woven of love and truth.
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. Ill 
 
 Then take from my heart, oh, gentle bride, 
 
 A hope and a trusting prayer, 
 That sunbeams ever upon thy way 
 
 Their golden hues may wear. 
 
 And still, as now, may bliss be thine, 
 
 While days glide sweetly on, 
 With memories dear of a happy past, 
 
 And hope in the yet to come.
 
 112 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING is conceded 
 to be the poetess of our age. The preco 
 cious pupil of her learned and distin 
 guished father, she translated, at an in 
 credibly early age, the grand old Greek, 
 and Latin masters, wrote poetry at ten, 
 more than well at fifteen. Miss Mitford, 
 in her extreme old age, thought nothing 
 of riding forty-five miles, and returning in 
 the evening of the same day, simply for 
 the pleasure which her friendship gave 
 her. She describes her at the age of six-
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 113 
 
 teen, as follows : " She was the most in 
 teresting person I had ever seen, of a 
 slight, delicate figure, with a shower of 
 delicate curls falling on either side of a 
 most expressive face, large tender eyes, 
 richly fringed by dark eye-lashes, a smile 
 like a sunbeam, and such a look of youth- 
 fulness that I could scarcely persuade a 
 friend who saw her at this period that she 
 was the translatress of the ' Prometheus of 
 /Eschylus/ the authoress of the ' Essay 
 on Mind.' " Her writings are frequently 
 marked with an intense feeling of humanity 
 and of womanhood, but not until the sor 
 row of her life fell upon her, not until 
 those sad, deep fountains of her heart 
 were stirred by the weight of a stun 
 ning blow, do we observe that hue of 
 thought and feeling, especially that devo-
 
 114 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 tlonal feeling, which characterized her 
 later Avorks. This sad event, which nearly 
 killed Elizabeth Barrett, was the sudden 
 and untimely death of her beloved brother. 
 Her health was rendered, precarious by the 
 bursting of a blood vessel, and the phy 
 sicians ordered her, on the approach of 
 winter, to a milder climate. Thither, ac 
 companied by this dear and devoted rela 
 tive, she departed. She derived much bene 
 fit from the change, until One fine summer 
 morning he, accompanied by a few friends, 
 left her for a pleasure excursion of some 
 hours. By an accident the boat upset, 
 and all on board perished even their 
 bodies were never found. It was not until 
 the following year she could be removed 
 to her home, so utterly prostrated was she 
 by the horror of this bereavement. Then
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 115 
 
 the sole diversion of her thoughts was in 
 tellectual pursuits. Here she studied and 
 wrought, and found her consolation either 
 in the flowery walks of literature or the 
 rugged paths of science. Imagine this 
 delicate woman confined to one large and 
 darkened chamber for hours in every day> 
 reading books in almost every language 
 worth reading, giving her heart and soul 
 to those occupations which seemed to have 
 become the very aliment of her existence. 
 It has sometimes been regretted that her 
 theology, which was of a peculiar charac 
 ter, should have infused itself so largely 
 into her works ; and it is very remarkable 
 that with her profound scholarship, lofty 
 spirit, and often noble appreciation of the 
 great and good of past ages, she should 
 have permitted herself to give utterance
 
 116 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 to expressions and sentiments that not only 
 grate harshly on the feelings of many, but 
 are in themselves as illiberal as falsely 
 conceived. Unfortunately, in this respect, 
 she is no exception to the generality of 
 writers. But from the wide range of mat 
 ter which is indubitably her own, we can 
 select sufficient to enable us to leave out 
 what would give neither pleasure nor pro 
 fit. Almost through her entire works we 
 miss the exquisite tenderness, the child 
 like play of emotion, that is so beautiful a 
 concomitant of poetry. Her way to the 
 heart seems so cold and stately, her sen 
 tences so profound, nature is overlayed, as 
 it were, by the process, and while we 
 wonder at her erudition, our sympathies 
 are uninfluenced by her cold but correct 
 process of reasoning. But there are times
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 117 
 
 when her heart can speak its grief in tones 
 of winning tenderness. Witness the prayer 
 in "Isobel's Child," how the mother speaks 
 in every word. Her pleadings are irre 
 sistible: 
 
 " Oh ! take not, Lord, my child away, 
 
 Oh ! take not to thy songful Heaven, 
 
 The pretty babe that thou hast given, 
 
 Or ere that I have seen him play, 
 
 Around his father's knees, and known 
 
 That he knew how my love has gone 
 
 From all the world to him: 
 
 Think, God, among the cherubin, 
 
 How I shall shiver every day 
 
 In thy pure sunshine, knowing where 
 
 The grave-grass keeps it from his fair, 
 
 Still checks, and feet at every tread 
 
 His little body which is dead, 
 
 And hidden in the turfy fold, 
 
 Doth make thy whole warm earth a-cold.
 
 118 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 God, I am so young, so young, 
 
 1 am not used to tears at nights 
 Instead of slumber, nor to prayer 
 With sobering lips and heart outwrung; 
 Thou knowest all my prayings were 
 
 I bless thee, God, for past delights: 
 
 Thank God, I am not used to bear 
 
 Hard thoughts of death; the earth doth cover 
 
 No face from me of friend and lover, 
 
 And must the first who teaches me 
 
 The form of shrouds and funerals be 
 
 Mine own first-bora beloved ? he 
 
 Who taught me first this mother-love. 
 
 Dear Lord who spreadeth out above 
 
 Thy loving transpierced hands to meet, 
 
 All lifted, hearts with blessings sweet, 
 
 Pierce not my heart, my tender heart, 
 
 Thou madest tender. Thou who art 
 
 So happy in thy heaven alway, 
 
 Take not mine only bliss away."
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 119 
 
 Could anything reveal more perfectly 
 the struggle of a mother's heart ? and yet 
 the prayer is enhanced by the beauty of 
 the calm resignation which concludes the 
 picture : 
 
 " I changed the cruel prayer I made, 
 
 And bowed my meekened face and prayed 
 
 That God would do His will; and thus 
 
 He did it nurse. He parted us, 
 
 And his sun shows victorious 
 
 The dead calm, and I am calm; 
 
 And heaven is hearkening a new psalm." 
 
 
 
 This exquisite poem would seem to re 
 fute the idea that her way to the heart 
 was circuitous; but like all children of 
 genius she had her meteoric flashes, her 
 dazzling gleams, though her bent seemed 
 philosophical, satirical, nay, even political.
 
 120 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 Her facility as a writer is wonderfully proved 
 in the shortness of time in which was put 
 into form her "Lady Geraldine's Court 
 ship.' 7 It is certainly one of the most 
 charming love stories of any language 
 contains one hundred and three stanzas, and 
 was written in twelve hours. Surely it 
 must have been lying in her head and 
 heart, says Miss Mitford. Mrs. Browning's 
 "biographers delight in a little incident con 
 nected therewith. They say her allusion 
 to a poem of Browning's led to an intro 
 duction, and marriage followed soon after. 
 Let this be as it will, never was a union 
 more replete with happiness. Hilliard, in 
 his "Six Months in Italy," says a more 
 perfect bliss is difficult to imagine, and this 
 completeness arises not only from the rare 
 qualities which each possesses, but from
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 121 
 
 their perfect adaptation to each other. As 
 he is full of manly power, so she is a type 
 of the most delicate and sensitive woman 
 hood. I have never seen a human frame 
 which seemed so nearly a transcript of a 
 celestial and immortal spirit. She is a soul 
 of fire inclosed in a shell of pearl, nor is she 
 more remarkable for genius and learning, 
 than for her gentleness and docility of charac 
 ter. It is a privilege to know such beings 
 singly and separate!}-, but to see their powers 
 quickened and their happiness rounded by 
 the sacred tie of marriage is a cause for 
 peculiar and lasting gratitude. A union so 
 complete as theirs, in which the mind has 
 nothing to crave, nor the heart to sigh for, 
 is cordial to behold and soothing to remem 
 ber. In her sonnets from the Portugese, 
 which might have been called leaves from
 
 122 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 her own hca?'t, she writes thus on love: 
 
 " Yes, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed, 
 
 And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, 
 
 Let temple burn or flax, an equal light 
 
 Leaps in the flame from cedar plant or weed, 
 
 And love is fire and when I say it,, need 
 
 I love thee? Mark; I love thee! in thy sight 
 
 I stand transfigured, glorified aught 
 
 With conscience of the sun-rays that proceed 
 
 Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low 
 
 In love, when love the lowest, meanest creatures 
 
 Who love God, God accepts while loving so, 
 
 And what I feel across the inferior features 
 
 Of'what I am doth flash itself, and show 
 
 How that great work of love enhances nature's." 
 
 The graceful pen of the gifted Tucker- 
 man was the first American who gave to 
 Mrs. Browning her just meed of praise. 
 While he does justice to her genius, ho
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 123 
 
 shrinks not from her faults, but with a 
 discrimination and honesty which is the 
 charm of a biogropher, he presents her 
 fairly and impartially to the reader. Ho 
 says she is often Dantesque and Miltonic. 
 As an evidence, the following. Lucifer nar 
 rates an incident in the drama of Adam 
 and Eve: 
 
 "Dost thou remember, Adam, when the curse 
 Took us from Eden. On a mountain peak, 
 Half sheathed in prismal woods, and glittering 
 In spasms of awful sunshine at that hour, 
 A lion crouched part raised from his paws, 
 With his calm, massive face turned full on thine, 
 And his mane listening. When the ended curse 
 Left silence to the world right suddenly, 
 He sprang up rampant and stood straight and stiff, 
 
 As if the new reality of death were dashed against his 
 eyes, 
 
 And roared so fierce such thick, carniverous passion in 
 his throat,
 
 124 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear, 
 And roared so wild, and smote from all the hills 
 Such fast, keen echoes, crumbling down the oaks 
 
 To distant silence, that the forest beasts, 
 
 x 
 One after one, did mutter a response 
 
 In savage and in sorrowful complaint, 
 Which trailed along the gorges. Then at ones 
 He fell back and rolled crashing from the height, 
 Hid by the dark-orbed pines." 
 
 As an evidence of versatility of talent, 
 read the following, taken from "Aurora 
 Leigh:" 
 
 "By the way, the works of women are symbolical, 
 We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, 
 Producing what ? A pair of slippers, sir, 
 To put on when you're weary; or a stool 
 To tumble over and vex you * * * 
 Or else, at best, a cushion where you lean 
 And sleep, and dream of something we are not, 
 But would be for your sake."
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 125 
 
 She makes Romney Leigh criticise her 
 \vorks, and give us a specimen of satire: 
 
 'Oh excellent! what grace! what facile turns! 
 What fluent sweeps ! what delicate discernment 
 Almost thought! The book does honor to the sex 
 We hold. Among our female writers we make room 
 For this fair author, and congratulate the country 
 That produces, in these times, such women competent 
 To spell 
 
 Another possesses a bitterness almost un 
 exampled: 
 
 I perceive 
 
 The headache is too noble for my sex. 
 You think the heartache would sound decenter, 
 Since that's the woman's special, proper ache, 
 And altogether tolerable except 
 To a woman.
 
 126 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING, 
 
 What a volume of hopes and fears are 
 conveyed in the following expressions: 
 
 My Father Thou hast knowledge, 
 
 Only Thou. How dreary 'tis for women t sit still 
 
 On winter nights, by solitary fires, 
 
 And hear the nations praising them far off. 
 
 To have our books 
 
 Appraised by love associated with love, 
 While we sit loveless; it is hard, you think? 
 At least, 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 'twas said, 
 Means simply love. It was a man said that. 
 
 Happy for her, the song teachings of her 
 muse found a blissful experience in the 
 practical relations of life. I feel constrained 
 to prove this by the words of Robert Brown 
 ing to his wife, in his poem entitled " One 
 Word More:"
 
 ELIZABETH BABBET BROWNING. 127 
 
 " God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 
 Boasts two souls sides one to" face the world with, 
 One to show a woman when he loves her. 
 " This to you yourself, my moon of poets. 
 Ah, but that's the world side there's the wonder; 
 Thus they see you ; praise you, think they know you. 
 There in turn I stand with them and praise you 
 Out of my own self. I dare to phrase it, 
 But the best is when I glide from out them, 
 Cross a step or two of dnbious twilight. 
 Come out on the other side. The novel 
 Silver, silent lights and darks undreamed of, 
 "Where I hush and bless myself with silence.'' 
 
 Immediately after their marriage the 
 Brownings removed to Italy. This became 
 their permanent home. It has been asked 
 by one of her biographers, might not the 
 poetic bays of the laureate of England have 
 been disputed if they had remained there? 
 It is now a fact uncontroverted that no
 
 12o ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 writers since the days of Shakspeare have 
 written liner poetry than that which is 
 now under consideration. Mrs. Browning 
 always doubted her own originality. She 
 had a perfect scorn for her earlier produc 
 tions, and yet her power over language was 
 so wonderful, so enlarged, so varied, she 
 possessed such a vocabulary for her own 
 choice, that she at least Avas independent 
 of all others. "With a skill peculiarly her 
 own, she knew how to select those which 
 give a charm to the idea and beauty to the 
 imagery a strength to the whole. "Words 
 are instruments of music." Who can fail 
 to observe this in the Iliad of Homer, and 
 the poems of Walter Scott? You can almost 
 hear the tramp of the steed, the clash of 
 the steel, the rush of the hosts, the onset, 
 the clamor, the dinj and this not by tho
 
 ELIZABEni BARRET BROWNING. 129 
 
 power of the idea more than the words 
 which clothe it. 
 
 Some of Mrs. Browning's translations from 
 the Greek Christian poets are very fine, 
 The following is from " John of Damascene," 
 she says herself, the tears seem to trickle 
 audibly: 
 
 "From my lips in their defilement, 
 From my heart in its bcguilement, 
 From my tongue which speaks not fair, 
 From my soul, stained everywhere, 
 O, my Jesus, take my prayer. 
 
 I have sinned- more than she, 
 Who learning where to meet with Thee, 
 And bringing myrrh the highest priced, 
 Anointed bravely, from her knee, 
 Thy blessed feet accordingly, 
 
 My God, my Lord, my Christ, 
 
 9
 
 130 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNINO. 
 
 As Thou saidst not depart 
 
 To that suppliant from her heart, 
 
 Scorn me not, O Word that art 
 
 The gentlest Words of all words said, 
 
 But give Thy feet to me instead, 
 
 That tenderly I may them kiss, 
 
 And clasp them close and never miss. 
 
 With overdropp'ng tears, as free 
 
 And precious as that myrrh could be, 
 
 T' anoint Thee bravely from my knee, 
 
 Wash them wilh my tears." 
 
 Who can say one word to this wail of a 
 contrite heart? Our hearts bow to the 
 anguish depicted, and yield their simple, 
 silent tribute of acknowledgment. She 
 speaks thus of St. Gregory of jSTazianxon: 
 "A noble and tender man was this Gregory, 
 and so tender because so noble, a man to lose 
 no cubit of his stature for being looked at
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNIXG. 131 
 
 steadfastly or struck at reproachfully. You 
 may cast me down, he said, from my Bishop's 
 throne, but you cannot banish me from be 
 fore God's. And Bishop he was, his saintly 
 crown stood higher than his tiara, and his 
 loving martyr-smile, the crown of a nature 
 more benign than his fortune, shone up 
 toward both. The desire of his soul being 
 for solitude, quietude and that silent religion 
 which should rather 'be than seem.' But 
 his father's head bent whitely before him, 
 even in the chamber of his brother's death, 
 and Basil, his beloved friend, the ' half of 
 his sonl,' pressed on him with the weight of 
 love, and Gregory feeling their tears upon 
 his cheeks did not count his own, but took 
 up the priestly office. Little did he care 
 for Bishoprics or high places of any kind, 
 but he yielded. His student days at Athens,
 
 132 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 where he and Basil read together poems 
 and philosophies, and holier things, were 
 the happiest of his life. He says of himself: 
 'As "many stones were thrown at me as 
 other men had flowers/ nor was persecution 
 the worst evil, for friend after friend, be 
 loved after beloved, passed away from be 
 fore his face, and the voice which charmed 
 them living spoke brokenly beside their 
 graves, his funeral orations marked sever 
 ally the wounds of his heart. The follow 
 ing extract is a Avail of grief: 
 
 Where are my winged words? Dissolved in air. 
 Where is my flower of youth? All withered. Where 
 My glory? Vanished. Where the strength I knew 
 From comely limbs ? Disease hath changed it too, 
 And bent. them. Where the riches and the lands? 
 God hath them, yea and sinner's snatching hands 
 Have grudged the rest. Where is my father, mother,
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 133 
 
 And where my blessed sister, my sweet brother ? 
 Gone to the grave ! There did remain for me 
 Alone my Fatherland, till destiny, 
 Malignly stirring a black tempest, drove 
 My foot from that last rest. And now I rove 
 Estranged and desolate a foreign shore, 
 And drag my mournful life and age all o'er 
 Throneless and cityless, and childless, save 
 This father-care for children which I have, 
 Living from day to day on wandering feet. 
 Where shall I cast this body ? What will greet 
 My sorrows with an end ? What geutle ground 
 And hospitable grave will wrap me round? 
 Who last my dying eyelids stoop to close? 
 Some saint, the Saviour's friend, or one of those 
 Who do not know him. The air interpose 
 And scatter these words too, 
 
 In the Cry of the Children, Mrs. Brown 
 ing expresses her intense sympathy with 
 the woes of the desolate and the unfortu-
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 natc; it has been called a twin poem with 
 " Hood's Song of the Shirt." How feelingly 
 she pleads their sufferings the blank hope 
 lessness of their condition. The opening is 
 particularly fine. 
 
 "Do you question the young children in their sorrow, 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 
 
 Which is lost in long ago; 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest, 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost, 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost; 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, 
 
 In our happy Fatherland. 
 
 " They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 
 And their looks are sad to see,
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 135 
 
 For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 
 
 Down the cheeks of infancy. 
 'Your old earth,' they say, 'is very dreary; 
 
 Our young feet,' they say, ' are very weak ; 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek.' 
 Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children : 
 
 For the outside earth is cold; 
 And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, 
 
 And the graves are for the old." 
 
 Remarkable for its beautiful figures and 
 sweet fancies, is the following extract taken 
 from 
 
 THE POET'S VOW: 
 
 "Eve is a two-fold mystery, 
 
 The stillness earth doth keep, 
 The motion wherewith human hearts 
 
 Do each to either leap;
 
 136 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 As if all souls between the poles 
 Felt parting comes in sleep. 
 
 The rowers lift their oars to view 
 
 Each other in the sea; 
 The landsmen watch the rocking boats 
 
 In a pleasant company; 
 While up the hill go gladlier still 
 
 Dear friends by two and three 
 
 " The peasant's wife hath looked without 
 
 Her cottage door and smiled, 
 For there the peasant drops his spada 
 
 To clasp his yonngest child; 
 Which hath no speech, but its hands can reach, 
 
 And stroke his forehead mild." 
 
 The following poem illustrates a remark 
 ably fine conception of the tender loving 
 ness of the Great Creator. The conclud 
 ing verse is remarkably touching:
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROW1TIXG. 137 
 
 HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 " Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 .Borne inward unto souls afar, 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
 Now tell me if that any is 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this 
 'He giveth His beloved sleep.' 
 
 What would we give to our beloved, 
 The hero's heart to be unmoved, 
 The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, 
 The patriot's voice to teach and rouse 
 The monarch's crown to light the brows? 
 He giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 "What do we give to our beloved? 
 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep; 
 
 And bitter memories to make 
 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep.
 
 138 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 " ' Sleep soft, beloved ! ' we sometimes say, 
 
 Cut have no tune to charm away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep, 
 
 But never doleful dream again 
 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 "O earth, so full of dreary noises, 
 O men, with wailing in your voices, 
 O delved gold, the wailer's heap, 
 O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 And Giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 " His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap, 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 He giveth His beloved sleep
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 139 
 
 "Aye men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep; 
 But angels say and through the word 
 I think their happy smile is heard 
 lie giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 " For me my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 That sees through tears the mummers leap, 
 Would now its wearied vision close, 
 Would child-like on His love repose, 
 Who giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 "And friends, dear friends, when it shall bo 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye como to weep, 
 Let one most loving of you all, 
 Say ' not a tear must o'er her fall,' 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Theodore Tilton says the poem of the 
 "Virgin Mary and Child Jesus," has mani-
 
 140 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 festly followed Milton's style. It is given 
 entire : 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD 
 
 JESUS. 
 
 "But sec the Virgin blest. 
 Hath laid her babe to rest." 
 
 Milton's Hymn on the Nativi'y. 
 
 " Sleep, sleep mine holy one ! 
 
 My flesh, my lord, what name I do not know, 
 
 A name that seemeth not too high or low, 
 
 Too far from me or heaven, 
 
 My Jesus that is blest, that word being given, 
 
 By the majestic angel, whose command 
 
 Was softly as a man's beseeching said, 
 
 When I and all the earth appeared to stand 
 
 In the great overflow 
 
 Of light celestial, from his wings and head, 
 
 Sleep, sleep my saving One!
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 141 
 
 "Perchance this sleep, that shutteth out the dreaxy 
 
 Earth-sounds and motions, opens on thy soul; 
 High dreams on fire with God, 
 
 High songs that make the pathway where they rolJ 
 More bright than stars do theirs : and visions new 
 Of Thine eternal nattvre's old abode. 
 
 Suffer this mother's kiss, 
 
 Best thing that earthly is, 
 To glide the music and the glory through, 
 Nor Narrow in thy dream the broad upliftings 
 
 Of any seraph wing, 
 Thus Noiseless, thus sleep, sleep, my dreaming One. 
 
 " The slumber of His lips mesecms to run 
 Through my lips to mine heart to all its shiftings 
 Of sensual life bringing contrariousncss 
 In a great calm. I feel I could lie down, 
 As Moses did, and die and then live most. 
 I am 'ware of you Heavenly Presences, 
 That stand with your peculiar light unlost, 
 Each forehead with a high thought for a crown, 
 Unsunned i' the sunshine! I am 'ware ye throw
 
 142 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 No shade against the wall! how motionless 
 
 Ye round me with your living statuary, 
 
 While through your Avhiteness, in and outwardly, 
 
 Continual thoughts of God appear to go 
 
 Like light's soul in itself. I bear, I bear 
 
 To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes, 
 
 Though their external shining testifies 
 
 To that beatitude, within which were 
 
 Enough to blast an eagle at his sun, 
 
 I fall not on my sad, clay face before ye 
 
 I look on His. I know 
 My spirit which dilateth with the woo 
 
 Of his mortality, 
 
 May well contain your glory, 
 
 Yea, drop your lids more low, 
 Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me! 
 Sleep, sleep my Worshipped One! 
 
 " We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem, 
 
 The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, 
 
 Softened their horned faces 
 
 To almost human gazes
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 Toward the newly born. 
 The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks 
 
 Brought visionary looks, 
 As yet in their astonished hearing rung 
 
 The strange, sweet angel-tongue. 
 The magi of the East, in sandals worn, 
 
 Knelt reverent, sweeping round, 
 With long, pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, 
 
 The incense, myrrh and gold 
 These baby hands were impotent to hold. 
 So let all earthlies and celestials wait 
 
 Upon thy royal state. 
 
 Sleep, sleep uiy Kingly One! 
 
 " I am not proud meek angels ye invest 
 New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest 
 On mortal's lips I am not proud not proud! 
 Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, 
 Albeit over Him my head is bowed 
 As others bow before Him, still mine heart 
 Bows lower than their knees. centuries 
 That roll in visions, your futurities
 
 144 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 My future grave athwart 
 Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I kaep 
 
 Watch o'er this sleep. 
 Say of me as the heavenly said thou art 
 The blessedest of women ! blessedest, 
 Not holiest, not noblest no high name, 
 Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, 
 When I sit meek in Heaven ! 
 
 For me, for me, 
 
 God knows that I am feeble like the rest! 
 I often wandered forth, more child than maiden, 
 Among the midnight hills of Galilee, 
 
 Whose summits looked heaven laden, 
 Listening to silence as it seemed to be 
 God's voice, so soft, yet strong so fair to press' 
 Upon my heart as Heaven did on the height, 
 And waken up its shadows by a light, 
 And show its vileness by a holiness. 
 Then I knelt down, most silent like the night, 
 
 Too self-renounced for fears, 
 Raising my small face to the boundless blue, 
 Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears, 
 God heard them falling after with the dew,
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 145 
 
 " So, seeing my corruption, can I see 
 
 This incorruptible now born of me, 
 
 This fair new innocence no sun did chance 
 
 To shine on, (for even Adani was no child,) 
 
 Created from my nature all defiled, 
 
 This mystery, from out mine ignorance., 
 
 Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more 
 
 Than others do, or I did heretofore ? 
 
 Can hands wherein such burden pure has been, 
 
 Not open with the cry 'unclean, unclean/ 
 
 More oft than else beneath the skies? 
 
 Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son ! 
 The kine, the shepherds, the abase'd wise, 
 
 Must all less lowly wait 
 
 Than I, upon Thy state, 
 
 Sleep, sleep my Kingly One 1 
 
 Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe 
 
 Come, crown me Him a King ! 
 
 Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling 
 
 Their light where fell a curse, 
 
 And make a crowning for his kingly brow! 
 
 10
 
 146 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 What is my word ? Each empyreal star 
 Sits in a sphere afar 
 In shining ambuscade, 
 The child-brow crowned by none, 
 Keeps its unchildlike shade, 
 Sleep, sleep my crownless One! 
 
 " Unchildlike shade ! No other babe doth wear 
 
 An aspect very sorrowful as thou. 
 
 No small babe smiles, my watching heart has seen 
 
 To float like speech the speechless lips between; 
 
 No dove-like cooing in the golden air, 
 
 No quick, short joys, leaping babyhood. 
 
 Alas! our earthly good 
 In Heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee, 
 
 Yet sleep , my weary One ! 
 
 And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy, 
 With the drear sense of things which shall be done, 
 Doth smite me inly, like a sword ! a sword ! 
 (That ' smites the shepherd,') then I think aloud 
 The words ' despised,' ' rejected,' every word
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 Recoiling into darkness as I view 
 
 The darling on my knee. 
 
 Bright angels, move not ! lest ye stir the cloui 
 Betwixt my soul and His futurity! 
 I must not die with mother's work to do, 
 
 And could not live and see. 
 
 " It is enough to bear 
 This image still and fair 
 This holier in sleep, 
 Than a saint at prayer; 
 This aspect of a child 
 Who never sinned or smiled, 
 This presence in an infant's face, 
 This sadness most like love; 
 This love than love more deep, 
 This weakness like omnipotence, 
 It is so strong to move. 
 Awful is this watching place, 
 Awful what I see from hence 
 A king, without regalia.
 
 148 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 A God, without the thunder. 
 
 A child without the heart for play; 
 
 .Aye, a Creator, rent asunder 
 
 From his first glory and cast away 
 
 On his own world, for me alone 
 
 To hold in hands created, crying Son! 
 
 "That tear fell not on thee, 
 Beloved, yet thou stirrest in thy slumber! 
 Then stirring not for glad sounds out of number, 
 Which through the vibratory palm-trees runs 
 
 From summer wind and bird, 
 
 So quickly hast thou heard 
 
 A tear fall silently ? 
 
 Wak'st thou, O loving One ? " 
 
 Sufficient poems and extracts have been 
 given to render my readers familiar with 
 the style of Mrs Browning, and yet they 
 are almost as nothing to the vast store 
 from which they are taken. Robert Brown-
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 149 
 
 ing, the happy partner of her too short 
 married life, although possessing large claims 
 to our consideration, is not equally known 
 with his wife as connected with her, and 
 out of justice to a fine poet, I quote some 
 of the recollections of a celebrated English 
 writer, who thus speaks of him : " It was 
 at the close of an entertainment, graced by 
 "Wordsworth, Landor, Talfourd and many 
 other celebrities of the day, that the (then) 
 young author of ' Paracelsus ' was called 
 upon to respond to the toast ' The Poets 
 of England.' That he performed the task 
 with grace and modesty, and that he looked 
 still younger than he was, I well remember. 
 And," she continues, " I never see his books 
 nor read his plays without wishing that we 
 had actors and a stage to represent them; 
 his 'Blot on the Scutcheon,' ' Colombo's Birth-
 
 150 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 
 
 day ' and ' Lucia, 7 are evidences of his 
 dramatic ability." A little extract from the 
 ' Englishman in Italy/ the same writer says, 
 appeared to her like a picture by Rubens, 
 pulpy, juicy, full of bright color and rich 
 in detail; to know that Ruskin thought it 
 remarkably fine is no mean praise." 
 
 But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, 
 
 S back to a man 
 Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards 
 
 Grape-harvest began ; 
 In the vat half way up on our house-side, 
 
 Like blood the juice spins, 
 While your brother all bare-legged is dancing, 
 
 Till breathless he grins; 
 Dead beaten in effort on effort, 
 
 To keep the grapes under, 
 Since still when he seems all but master, 
 
 In pours the fresh plunder
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 151 
 
 From girls who keep coming and going 
 With basket on shoulder 
 
 Meanwhile see the grape-bimch they've brought you, 
 
 The rain-water slips 
 O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe, 
 
 Which the wasp on your lips 
 Still follows with fretful persistence 
 
 Nay, taste while awake, 
 This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball, 
 
 That peals flake by flake 
 Like an onion's, each smoother and whiter; 
 
 Next sip this weak wine 
 From the thin green flask with its stopper 
 
 A leaf of the vine, 
 And end with the prickly pear's red flesh, 
 
 That leaves through its juice 
 The stony black seeds on your pearl teeth 
 
 And so on. 
 
 A poem of his, which is very popular
 
 152 ELIZABETH BAERET BROWNING. 
 
 having the rather long title: " How they 
 brought the good news from Ghent to 
 A.ix," contains life-like descriptions and ex 
 hibits the peculiar style of the writer. The 
 first and last verses are here given: 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joies, and he, 
 I galloped, Dick galloped, we galloped all three, 
 Good speed ! cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, 
 Speed! echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
 Behind shut the postern, the light sank to rest, 
 And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each other, we kept the great pace, 
 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place. 
 I turned in my saddle and made the girths tight, 
 Then shortened the stirrup and sst the pique right, 
 Rebuckled the check strap, chained slacker the bit, 
 Nor galloped less steadily, Roland, a whit.
 
 ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. 153 
 
 Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 
 Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
 Called my Ronald ! his pet-name, my horse, without peer, 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed *aad sang, any noise bad 
 or good, 
 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 
 
 And all I remember is friends flocking round, 
 As I sate with his head twixt my knees to the ground, 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
 As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
 Which (the Burgesses voted by common consent,) 
 
 'Was no more than his due who brought good news 
 from Ghent. 
 
 The compass of this little work admits 
 of no more borrowings, or we might still 
 go on to an infinitude; after all, a life is told 
 chiefly in its beginning and its close. Mrs. 
 Browning's then is told in these brief words: 
 She was born in 1809, died June 29, 1861.
 
 154 SOXG. TO KITTLE B. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 TO KITTIE B. 
 
 Autumn winds are wailing, 
 Lone stars arc paling, 
 Over the distant sea. 
 
 While my heart prayeth, 
 List what it sayeth, 
 Dearest to thee. 
 
 Child so loved and treasured, 
 Fondly and unmeasured, 
 Long, long may it be.
 
 SONG. TO KITTIE B. 155 
 
 Golden each morrow, 
 Freed from all sorrow, 
 Guarded so tenderly. 
 
 Thus ever be thy way, 
 'Till God's supernal ray 
 Enfold thee eternally
 
 156 NEW YEAR SOXG. 
 
 NEW YEAR SONG OF 1867. 
 
 Tripping along, tripping along, 
 With tones of gladness and words of song, 
 A beautiful maid with dancing feet, 
 Hark to her words as she bends to greet 
 
 A Happy New Year to All! 
 
 Shining amid her golden hair, 
 Are buds of promise and flowerets rare, 
 For each and all she has words of cheer, 
 Softly they fall on the listening ear 
 
 A Happy New Year to All ! 
 
 From her sister lone, now stark and cold, 
 With a burthened year on her forehead old,
 
 NEW YEAR SONG. 157 
 
 Quickly she (urns on her mission away, 
 The time is pressing, she may not stay. 
 
 A Happy New Year to All! 
 
 Tender I mingle in her refrain, 
 The wish of my heart again and again, 
 And oh! let me ask that your thoughts incline 
 To the same sweet wish for me and mine 
 A Happy New Year to Alll
 
 158 MARY THE IMMACULATE. 
 
 MARY THE IMMACULATE. 
 
 Oh holy Mary ! mother mine, 
 
 Here at thy feet my votive gifts I lay; 
 Inspire my soul, oh! nerve my trembling hand, 
 
 A worthier offering of my heart to pay. 
 
 Angelic maiden ! thou wert chosen 
 Coeval with the ransom God decreed; 
 
 To angel lips thy sweet consent was given, 
 And man was from his long probation freed. 
 
 Immaculate ; no stain of sin might dwell, 
 Within that shrine which God selected best; 
 
 Pure as the lily in its earliest dawn, 
 That form of beauty where his son should res
 
 MARY THE IMMACULATE. 159 
 
 Most lowly daughter of a kingly line, 
 No eloquence inspired guslied from thy tongue ; 
 
 No -warblings from an unseen lyre, 
 Floated thy sunny vales among. 
 
 Patient and humble, gentle and serene, 
 
 Deep in thy heart each virtue found its rest ; 
 Thy life was hidden in a lowly cot. 
 While God alone inspired thy holy breast. 
 
 Yet in the dimness of prophetic lore, 
 Poets of old sang of that maiden pure, 
 
 Whose lofty mission and whose medium sweet, 
 In humble greatness should for aye endure. 
 
 And to thy shrine, the child of genius comes, 
 Basks in the sunshine of thy presence rare, 
 
 And while his canvass glows with added light, 
 His soul invigorates itself in prayer.
 
 160 
 
 MARY THE IMMACULATE. 
 
 Mother, sweet mother, previous to each call, 
 No child of sorrow ever pleads in vain; 
 
 Our Saviour God will not refuse the prayer 
 Of her, where on his infant head hath lain.
 
 ECCE HOMO. 161 
 
 ECCE HOMO. 
 
 Behold the man in passive woe, 
 
 A willing victim at command; 
 
 Look at His meekly upturned face, 
 
 His streaming brow, His pinioned hands, 
 
 The garment vile around Him thrown 
 
 The sceptred reed base mockery all! 
 
 Vainly ye gaze, insensate crowd! 
 
 From His pale lip no murmurs fall; 
 
 No plaint, no tone save words of love, 
 
 From that poor bruised and bleeding heart ; 
 
 "Father, forgive this dire offence, 
 
 They know not yet their guilty part." 
 
 In memory of that love divine, 
 
 The Cross, the Thorn, the Sweat, the Spear, 
 
 Grant us to dwell within thy love 
 
 And live in endless hope and fear. 
 
 11
 
 162 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON impresses us as a man 
 of genius, high and lofty in his concep 
 tions, notwithstanding the many crudities 
 and verbosities, which his warmest friends 
 will not attempt to deny. It might be 
 thought almost excusable for one who owes 
 his high position to court favor, a certain bias 
 or leaning to the eccentricities or foibles 
 of the great, but it is scarcely to be found 
 in all his works. He has discovered that 
 virtue in lowly places which stamps its 
 possessor noble 
 
 "A simple maiden in her flower 
 "Were worth a hundred coat* of arms."
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 163 
 
 Is an eloquent exposition of his sentiments. 
 Again in the same poem : 
 
 "Howe'cr it be it seems to rnc 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good, 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 He inveighs against pride of birth also, 
 in " The Lord of Binieigh," where a simple 
 village maiden is wooed and won by one 
 whom she conceives to be of her own sta 
 tion, but who is " Lord of Burleigh, fair and 
 free." Wearied with stateliness, and pining, 
 for the simple lowliness of her former con 
 dition, she nevertheless 
 
 " Shaped her heart with woman's meekness, 
 
 To all duties of her rank, 
 
 But a trouble weighed upon her,
 
 164 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 And perplexed her night and morn, 
 With the burthen of an honor, 
 Unto which she was not born, 
 And she murmured, ' Oh that he 
 "Were once more that landscape painter 
 Which did win my heart from me 1 ' " 
 
 But his loyalty to merit alone is still 
 more strictly defined in his exposition of 
 a gentleman. What a manly independence 
 breathes in every line. The true estimate 
 of worth is not in the accidental gifts of 
 wealth and power it is discovered only in 
 the gentle refinement the high and manly 
 principle of a well-ordered mind. 
 
 "The churl in spirit, np or down, 
 Along the scale of ranks, through all 
 To who may grasp a golden ball, 
 
 By blood a king, at heart a clown.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 165 
 
 " The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
 His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
 Will let his coltish nature break 
 
 At seasons, through the gilded pale ; 
 
 "For who can always act? but he 
 To whom a thousand memories call, 
 Not being less, but more than all, 
 
 The gentleness he seemed to be. 
 
 " So wore his outward best and joined 
 Each office of the social hour 
 To noble manners as the flower, 
 
 And native growth of noble mind. 
 
 "Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
 Or villian fancy fleeting by, 
 Drew in the expression of an eye, 
 
 When God in nature met in light.
 
 166 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 "And thus he bore, without abuse, 
 The grand old name of gentleman, 
 Defamed by every charlatan 
 
 And soiled with all ignoble use." 
 
 Tennyson eulogizes a simple life, of which 
 Wordsworth says: "That happy state when 
 the heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones." 
 
 " Who makes it seem more sweet to be 
 The little life of bank and brier, 
 The bird that pipes his lone desire 
 
 And dies unheard within his tree. 
 
 "Than he that warbles long and loud, 
 And drops at glory's temple gates, 
 For whom the carrion vulture waits 
 
 To tear his heart before the crowd."
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 167 
 
 This little fragment gives one a fine 
 idea of the appropriateness in which our 
 poet clothes his thoughts. They come to 
 us first in the expression of a simple descrip 
 tion arrayed in russet robes, but when by 
 comparison he gives us another view of 
 humanity, we almost quail before the pic 
 ture which he draws so fearfully vivid. If 
 it be true that Tennyson is sometimes gro 
 tesque and occasionally morbid, may it not 
 be forgiven to one who so often touches 
 the lyre with such mastery of skill, and 
 who will deny that even in his vagueness 
 he has power to charm. We frequently 
 find a sentiment developed through the sur 
 roundings or atmosphere which he creates; 
 and while his physical descriptions make 
 us sensible of the outward world, they are 
 but the pencil in the hand of the limner,
 
 168 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 marking the sadness, the desolation, or the 
 joy and comfort which he designs to illus 
 trate ; as an instance the following poem, 
 which is given entire. Tuckerman says 
 of it : " These images, so full of graphic 
 meaning, give us the lonely sensation that 
 belongs to the deserted mansion ; and when 
 at the close of each stanza the melancholy 
 words of Mariana, bewailing her abandon 
 ment, fall on the ear with their sad cadence, 
 we take in as completely the whole sense 
 and sentiment, as if identified with it : " 
 
 MARIANA. 
 
 "With blackest moss the flower-plots 
 "Were thickly crusted, one and all; 
 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 
 That held the peach to the garden-wall ;
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 169 
 
 The broken sheds looked sad aiid strange; 
 
 Uplifted was the clinking latch ; 
 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 Upon the lonely, moated grange. 
 She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
 
 He comcth not,' she said ; 
 She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 " Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
 She could not look on the sweet Heaven, 
 
 Either at morn or eventide. 
 After the flittering of the bats, 
 
 When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
 
 She drew her casement curtain by, 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats, 
 She only said, 'The night is dreary, 
 
 He comtth not,' she said; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! '
 
 170 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 "Upon the middle of the night, 
 Waking, she heard the night-fowl erow; 
 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light ; 
 From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 
 Came to her; without hope of change, 
 In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 
 Till cold winds broke the grey-eyed morn 
 
 About the lonely, moated grange. 
 
 She only said, ' The day is dreary, 
 He cometh* not,' she said; 
 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead I ' 
 
 "About a stone-cast from the wall, 
 A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
 
 And o'er it many, round and small, 
 The clustered niarish mosses crept. 
 
 Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
 All silver green with gnarled bark, 
 For leagues no other tree did mark 
 
 The level waste, the rounding grey.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 171 
 
 She only said, 'My life is dreary, 
 
 He cometh not, 1 she said ; 
 She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 "And ever when the morn was low, 
 
 And the shrill winds were up and away, 
 In the white curtain, to and fro, 
 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway; 
 But when the moon was very low, 
 
 And wild winds bound within their call, 
 
 The shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across her brow. 
 She only said, ' The night is dreary, 
 
 He cometh not,' she said; 
 She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead 1 ' 
 
 "All day within the dreamy house, 
 The doors upon their hinges creaked;
 
 172 ALFRED TEXXYSOX. 
 
 The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouse 
 
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, 
 Or from the crevice peered about; 
 
 Old faces glimmered through the doors; 
 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors ; 
 Old voices called her from without. 
 She only said, 'My life is dreary, 
 
 He cometh not,' she said; 
 She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead 1 ' 
 
 The sparrows chirrup on the roof, 
 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 
 Which to the wooing wind aloof 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 
 Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 
 When the thick moated sunbeam lay 
 Athwart the chambers, and the day 
 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 
 Then, said she, 'I am very dreary, 
 He will not come,' she said;
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 173 
 
 She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 O God ! that I were der.d ! ' " 
 
 That Tennyson assimilates to the great 
 word painter, Crabbe, I quote from both a3 
 proof, in his Day Dream he describes 
 
 " The butler with a flask 
 
 Between his knees, half drained ; and there 
 The wrinkled steward at his task ; 
 
 The maid of honor blooming fair ; 
 The page has caught her hand in his; 
 
 Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
 His own are pouted to a kiss ; 
 
 The blush is fixed upon her cheek." 
 
 Crabbe paints a character thus : 
 
 " Fresh were his features, Lis attire was new, 
 Clean Avas his linen, and his jacket blue, 
 Of finest jean his trowsers tight and trim, 
 Brushed the large buckles at the silver rim."
 
 174 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 The little extract which follows is as gos 
 samer-like as if taken from the " Culprit 
 Fay" itself: 
 
 "See what a lovely shell, 
 Small and pure as a pearl, 
 Lying close to my foot, 
 Frail, but a work divine, 
 Made so fairly well 
 With delicate spire and whorl, 
 How exquisitely minute, 
 A miracle of design ? 
 
 " What is it ? a learned man 
 Could give it a clumsy name. 
 Let him name it who can, 
 The beauty would be the same. 
 
 " The tiny cell is forlorn, 
 Void of the little living will 
 That made it stir on the shore. 
 Did he stand at the diamond door 
 OS his house in a rainbow frill?
 
 ALFRED TfcNNYSOX. 175 
 
 Did he push, when he was uncurled, 
 A golden foot or a iairy horn, 
 Thro' his dim water-world?" 
 
 Tennyson's portraiture of a wife is per 
 fect, if not too perfect for imitation : 
 
 "The intuitive decision of a bright 
 And thorough-edged intellect, to part 
 Error from crime; a precedence to withhold; 
 The laws of marriage charactered in gold, 
 Upon the blanched tablets of her heart, 
 A love still burning upward, giving light 
 To read those laws; an accent very low 
 In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
 
 Of subtle faced counsel ia distress, 
 Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
 Through all the outworks of suspicion's pride, 
 A courage to endure and to obey, 
 A hate of gossip, parlance, and of sway, 
 Crowned Isabel through all her placid life, 
 The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife."
 
 176 ALFRED TENNYSOX. 
 
 In the trust reposed in Tennyson, we 
 find the truest acknowledgment of his supe 
 riority. His characteristics are universal; 
 sometimes " moving us through our deepest 
 sympathies,'' he melts us with a kind cf 
 pleading love, as in " King Arthur " and 
 " Guinevere." Again, in some grand truth, 
 relating to human nature, he becomes Shaks- 
 perian : 
 
 " O purblind race of miserable men, 
 How many among us at this very hour 
 Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves 
 By taking true for false, or false for true ; 
 Here through the feeble twilight of this world 
 Groping, Low many until we pass and reach 
 That other, where we see as we are seen." 
 
 And again where the "Lissome Vivien"
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 177 
 
 attemps to slander the blameless king, Mer 
 lin exclaims : 
 
 " O, my liege and king 1 
 O, sinless man and stainless gentlemaiii 
 Wlio would'st against their own eye-witness fain 
 Have all men true and leal, all women pure; 
 How in the mouth of base interpreters, 
 From over-fineness not intelligible, 
 To things with every sense as false and foul 
 As the poached fiU.li that floods the middle street, 
 Is thy white blarudessness accounted blame?" 
 
 The desertion of false friends in the hour 
 of need is portrayed in the same style 
 The prince Geraint encounters and vanishes 
 the wild count Limours. His followers, 
 seeing him stunned or dead, " rush on or 
 
 follow with the route behind:" 
 
 12
 
 178 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 "But at the flash and motion of the man 
 They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal 
 Of darting fish that on a summer morn 
 Adown the crystal docks at Camelot 
 Come slipping o'er the shadows on the sand, 
 But if a man who stands upon the brink 
 But lift a shining hand against the sup, 
 There is not left a twinkle of a fin 
 Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; 
 So scared but at the motions of the man, 
 Fled all the boon companions of the earl, 
 And left him lying in the public way; 
 So vanish friendships only made in wine. 
 
 The descriptions that follow in this noble 
 poem, one of " The Idyls of a king/'' are so 
 fine, and many of them so applicable to 
 the comparison above made, that it may be 
 interesting to insert them. But
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 179 
 
 " Geraint being pricked 
 In combat with the followers of Liinours 
 Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
 And Eniel heard the clashing of his fall, 
 Suddenly came and at his side all pale, 
 Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, 
 Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
 Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, 
 And tearing off her veil of faded silk, 
 And bared her forehead to the blistering sun, 
 Ajid swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's 
 
 life. 
 
 Then after all was done that hand could do 
 6he rested, and her desolation came 
 Ufun her, and she wept beside the way. 
 
 Now while she watched and prayed for 
 his swoon to pass, the huge and brutal earl 
 of Doorm 
 
 " Broad-fcwed with under face of russet beard, 
 Bound on a foray, rolling eyes oi prey,
 
 180 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Came riding with a hundred lances up 
 But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, 
 Cried out with a big voice, " What, is he dead ! " 
 
 He commands Geraint to be carried to 
 his hall. The earl of Doorm 
 
 " Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, 
 And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
 And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, 
 And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh; 
 And none spake a word, but all sat down at once, 
 And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 
 Feeding like horses, when you hear them feed. 
 "He spoice. the brawny spearman let his cheek 
 Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning, 
 stared.' 
 
 Eniei scorns his proffered courtesies, and 
 maddened with his rage, he cries:
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 181 
 
 " I count it of no more avail. 
 Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; 
 Take my salute. Unkniglitly with flat hand, 
 However lightly smote her on the check. 
 
 "This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword 
 (It lay beside him in the hollow shield.) 
 Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 
 Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball, 
 The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor." 
 
 Then in the confusion and the din of 
 men and women flying from before the face 
 of him, wnom they accounted dead, Geraint 
 and Eniel passed from out that baleful 
 place: 
 
 " He mounted on a horse, reached a hand, and on 
 
 his foot 
 
 She set her own and climbed ; he turned his face 
 A.nd kissed her climbing, and she cast her arm.3 
 A-bout him, and at once they rode away."
 
 182 ALFKED TENNYSON. 
 
 If, as has been said, Tennyson nursed 
 his muse at the pure fount of Shakspeare 
 and of Dante, were it not wise to add the 
 whole world of poesy was his mother, for 
 in himself he so often seems to reproduce 
 each different poet in his happiest mood. 
 What follows is as strictly Homeric as if 
 found in the pages of the Iliad: 
 
 "The new sun 
 
 Beat through the Mindless-casement of the room, 
 And heated the strong warrior in his dreams, 
 Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
 And bared the knoted column of his throat, 
 The massive square of his heroic breast, 
 And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, 
 As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, 
 Running too vehemently to break upon it." 
 
 Another:
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 183 
 
 "He dragged his eye-brow bushes down, and mado 
 A snowy pent-house for his eyes." 
 
 Our own Bryant, in the full burst of his 
 gleeful heart, when escaping from the tur 
 moil and drudgery of his outAvard active 
 life, he found himself reveling in the world 
 of nature, never uttered sentences more 
 deliciously sweet than the following: 
 
 " From the woods 
 
 Came voices of the well-contented doves; 
 The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 
 But shook his song together as he neared 
 His happy home, the ground. To left and right 
 The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 
 TLe mellow owzel fluted in the elm; 
 The red-cap whistled; and the nightingale 
 Sang loud as though he were the bird of day."
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 This simple advocacy of the natural and 
 the true must find admirers wherever the 
 imagination of the heart is not vitiated by 
 the unhealthy and flashy literature which, 
 unfortunately for our day, is such a popular 
 and current commodity. "It is calculated to 
 cool the fevered blood and lead us to the 
 fountains that go softly." This and more 
 the simple and eloquent bard of " Ryclal 
 Mount" did in his day for English litera 
 ture. This mysterious and wonderful flow 
 of versification, when it takes simply the 
 idiosyncracies of the poet, induces elements 
 of expression peculiar to its possessor. This 
 is particularly remarkable in Mrs. Brown 
 ing and Tennyson. It is the quality which 
 oftens earns for him the appellation of 
 wordy. A cursory observer would almost 
 be sure to pass this verdict. But will not
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 185 
 
 the few extracts culled from a garden rich 
 in poetic wealth, serve in part to refute the 
 imputation. In the descriptions of the dif 
 ferent styles of beauty there occurs a 
 wonderful variety in the mode of delivery. 
 " Eleanor, the beauty of thought;" 
 
 " Sometimes with most intensity 
 
 Gazing, I seem to see 
 
 Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
 
 Slowly awakened, grow so large and deep 
 
 In thy large eyes that, overpowered quite, 
 
 I cannot veil or droop my sight, 
 
 But am as nothing in its light; 
 
 As though a star in inmost heaven set, 
 
 Even Avhile we gaze on it, 
 
 Should slowly round the earth, and slowly grow, 
 
 To a full face, there like a sun remain 
 
 Fixed then as slowly fade again, 
 
 And draw itself to what it was before; 
 
 So full, so deep, so slow,
 
 186 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Thought seems to come and go 
 
 In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore." 
 
 " Madeline, the ever varying: " 
 
 " Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
 
 Light-glooming over eyes swim, 
 
 Like little clouds sun-fringed are thine, 
 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 Thy smiles and frowns are not aloof 
 
 From one another 
 Each to each is dearest brother; 
 Thus of the silken sheeny woof 
 Momently shot into each other, 
 
 All the mystery is thine; 
 Smiling, frowning evermore, 
 Thou art perfect in love lore, 
 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 
 "The sleeping beauty: 
 
 "Year after year unto her ieet, 
 She lying on her couch alone,
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 187 
 
 Across the purple coverlet 
 
 The maiden's jet black hair has grown. 
 On either side her tranced form 
 
 Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; 
 The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
 
 And moves not on the rounded curl. 
 
 " She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard, 
 
 In palace chamber far apart, 
 The fragrant tresses arc not stirred 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart ; 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest." 
 
 In the heart struggle depicted so glowingly 
 in the poem of " Love and Duty," there are 
 passages of tenderness and strength, hope 
 and despair, that one cannot read unmoved, 
 or without yielding his meed of admiration 
 and sympathy,
 
 188 ALFRED TJENNYSOX. 
 
 " Of love that never found its earthly close 
 
 What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? 
 
 Or all the same as if it had not been? 
 
 " "Will some one say, then why not ill for good ? 
 
 Why took ye not your pastime? To that man 
 
 My work shall answer, since I knew the right ? 
 
 And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
 
 But then most Godlike being most a man. 
 
 So let me think 'tis well for thee and me 
 
 Ill-fated that I am, what love is mine, 
 
 Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
 
 To feel it. For how hard it seemed to me 
 
 When eyes love languid through half tears would 
 
 dwell 
 
 One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
 111 the wheels of time 
 Spun. round in station, but the end had come. 
 
 " O then, like those who clench their nerves to 
 
 rush 
 Upon this dissolution we two rose,
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 189 
 
 There closing like an individual life 
 In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
 Like bitter accusation even to death, 
 Caught up the whole of love and uttered it, 
 And bade adieu forever." 
 
 Some passages in the " Talking Oak," 
 arc very beautiful, he makes the old tree 
 "garrulously given," speaks thus of Olivia, 
 when Walter asks : 
 
 " If ever maid or spouse, 
 As fair as my Olivia, came 
 To rest beneath thy boughs." 
 
 After saying sho is three times worth 
 the all who flourished in times of hood 
 and hoop, or while the patch was worn. 
 He thus runs on : 
 
 "The day was warm, 
 At last, tired out with play,
 
 190 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 She sank her head upon my arm, 
 And at my feet she lay. 
 
 " Her eyelids dropped their silken eaves, 
 
 I breathed upon her eyes, 
 Through all the summer of my leaves 
 
 A welcome mixed with sighs. 
 
 "1 took the swarming sound of life 
 The music from the town 
 
 The whispers of the drum and fife, 
 And lulled them in my own. 
 
 "Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip 
 
 To light her shaded eye; 
 A second fluttered round her lip, 
 
 Like a golden butterfly. 
 
 A third would glimmer on her neck, 
 To make the necklace shine, 
 
 Another slid a sunny fleck, 
 From head to ankle fine.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 191 
 
 Then close and ck;'t my arms I spread, 
 
 And shadowed all her rest ; 
 Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
 
 An acorn in her breast. 
 
 The poem of " St. Agnes " gives us another 
 distinct style of composition, and from all 
 we know of the sweet saint, is a faithful 
 portraiture : 
 
 ST. AGNES. 
 
 Deep on the convent roof the snows, 
 
 Are sparkling to the moon ; 
 My breath to Heaven like vapor goes, 
 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 The shadows of the convent towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to mv Lord-
 
 192 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snow-drop of the year 
 
 That in my bosoin lies. 
 As these white robes are soiled and dark, 
 
 To yonder shining ground, 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round; 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee; 
 So in mine earthly house I am 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 Creak up the Heavens, O Lord! and far 
 
 Through all yon starlight keen, 
 ~Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star, 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors, 
 
 The flashes come and go; 
 All Heaven bursts her starry floors, 
 
 "And strews her lights below;
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 193 
 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly bridegroom waits, 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The Sabbaths of eternity, 
 
 One Sabbath deep and wide, 
 A light upon the shining sea 
 
 The bridegroom with his bride ! " 
 
 The following is from Ulysses : 
 
 "I am a part of all that I have met; 
 
 Yet all experience is an arch where through 
 
 Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades 
 
 Forever and forever when I move. 
 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
 
 To rest unburnished not to shine in use ! 
 
 As though to breathe were life. Life piled on lifo 
 
 "Were all too little and of one to me 
 
 Little remains; but every hour is saved 
 
 From that eternal silence something more, 
 13
 
 194 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 A bringer of new things, and vile it were 
 For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
 And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
 So follow knowledge like a shining star 
 Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
 
 We sometimes find sly veins of humor in 
 Tennyson, a sort of facetiousness that re 
 minds us of Hood. In Will Waterproof's 
 Lyrical monologue we find the following: 
 
 " Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 
 
 To which I most resort, 
 I too must part: I hold thee dear 
 
 For this good pint of port. 
 For this, thou shalt from all things suck 
 
 Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
 And, wheresoever thou move, good luck 
 
 Shall fling her old shoe after.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 195 
 
 "But thou wilt never movo from hence, 
 
 The sphere thy fate allots: 
 Thy latter days increased with pence, 
 
 Go down among the pots: 
 Thou batteuest by the greasy gleam 
 
 In haunts of hungry sinners, 
 Old boxes, larded with the steam 
 
 Of thirty thousand dinners. 
 
 "We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, 
 
 Would quarrel with our lot ; 
 Thy care is, under polished tins, 
 
 To serve the hot-and-hot; 
 To come and go, and come again, 
 
 Returning like the pewit, 
 And watched by silent gentlemen, 
 
 That trifle with the cruet. 
 
 " Live long, e're from thy topmost head 
 
 The thick-set hazel dies; 
 Long, 'ere the hateful crow shall tread 
 The corners of thine eyes;
 
 196 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Nor feel in head or chest 
 
 Our changeful equinoxes, 
 Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 
 
 Shall call thee from the boxes. 
 
 "But when he calls, and thou shall cease 
 
 To pace the gritted floor, 
 And, laying down an unctuous lease 
 
 Of life, shall earn no more. 
 No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 
 
 Shall show thee past to Heaven ; 
 But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 
 
 A pint-pot, neatly graven." 
 
 In "Maud," he gives us the picture of a 
 nonchalant gentleman : 
 
 " But while I passed he was humming an air, 
 Stopt, and then with a riding-whip 
 Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
 And curving a contumelious lip,
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 197 
 
 Gorgonized me from head to foot 
 With a <stony British stare." 
 
 He gives us the worth of a vote in the 
 same poem : 
 
 " What, if he had told her ycster morn, 
 How prettily for his own sweet sake, 
 A face of tenderness might be feigned, 
 And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
 That so, when the rotton hustings shake, 
 In another month, to his brazen lies 
 A wretched vote may be gained." 
 
 In " Aubrey Court " we have a descrip' 
 tive feast in the pic-nic style : 
 
 "There on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
 A damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound, 
 Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
 And, half cut down, a pasty, costly made,
 
 198 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Where quail and pigeon, lark and hornet lay, 
 Like fossils of the rock, with golden, yolks 
 Imbedded and injellied; last, with these 
 A flask of cider from his father's vats, 
 Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat, 
 And talked old matters over." 
 
 Among Tennyson's poems, " In Memoriam/ 
 I find a beautiful epithalamium, supposed 
 to be inscribed to his daughter, a copious 
 extract must supply the place of the entire 
 poem, it being too long for insertion. 
 
 "Regret is dead, but love is more 
 
 Than in the summers that are flown, 
 For I myself with these have grown 
 To something greater than before ; 
 
 "Which makes appear the songs I made 
 As echoes out of weaker times, 
 As half but idij brawling rhymes, 
 The sport of random sun and shade.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 199 
 
 "But where is she, the bridal flower, 
 That must be made a wife 'ere noon ? 
 She enters, glowing with the moon 
 Of Eden on its bridal bower. 
 
 "On me she bends her blissful eyes 
 
 And then on thee; they meet thy look, 
 And brighten like the star that shook 
 Betwixt the palms of paradise. 
 
 "Oh! when her life was yet in bud, 
 He too foretold the perfect rose. 
 For thee she grew, for thee she grows, 
 Forever, and is fair as good. 
 
 "And thou art worthy, full of power; 
 As gentle, liberal-minded, great, 
 Consistent, wearing all that weight 
 Or leaning lightly like a flower. 
 
 "But now set out : the noon is near, 
 And I must give away the bride,
 
 200 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 She fears not, or with thee beside 
 And me behind her, will not fear. 
 
 "For I that danced her on iny knee, 
 That watched her on her nurse's arm, 
 That shielded all her life from harm, 
 At last must part with her to thee; 
 
 " Now waiting to be made a wife, 
 Her feet, my darling, on the dead; 
 Their pensive tablets 'round her head, 
 And the most living words of life 
 
 "Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
 The 'wilt thou' answered, and again 
 The 'wilt thou' asked, till out of twain, 
 Her sweet 'I will' has made ye one. 
 
 "Now sign your names, which shall be read, 
 Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
 By village eyes as yet unborn; 
 The names are signed and overhead
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 201 
 
 " Begins the clash and clang that tells 
 The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
 The blind wall rocks, and on the* trees 
 The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 
 
 "O! happy hour! behold the bride 
 
 With him to whom her hand I gave. 
 They leave the porch, they pass the grave 
 That has to-day its sunny side.''^
 
 202 THE RELIC OF HAIR. 
 
 THE RELIC OF HAIR. 
 
 This golden link of sunny hair 
 
 Is all that's left of one, 
 That, like some bright and shining star, 
 
 Around our pathway shone; 
 'Twas parted from her fair young brow, 
 
 Ere death had set his seal 
 On all the bright and happy flow 
 
 Which love and hope reveal. 
 
 Years in their silent course have fled 
 Since in thy youth and bloom, 
 
 With all our love around thee flung, 
 They laid thee in the tomb; 
 
 But still thy laugh trills on my ear, 
 Thy form goes floating by
 
 THE GELIC OF HAIR. 203 
 
 As vividly in memory 
 As when it met my eye. 
 
 Oh golden tress ! that wakes the past, 
 
 Too life-like in my heart, 
 Where are those sister ringlets now, 
 
 Of which thou formed a part ? 
 Time hath not dimmed its lustrous sheen, 
 
 Though death has robbed the form 
 Of all the graces which it wore 
 
 In life's bewitching morn? 
 
 But though thy tones no more may fall, 
 
 Like music, on my ear, 
 This golden link shall bid the heart 
 
 Forever hold thee dear. 
 For, oh ! it is a part of thce, 
 
 And well recalls the spell 
 Whose vivid power on my heart 
 
 Denies a last farewell.
 
 204 "DEAR MAMMA," ETC. 
 
 "DEAR MAMMA, I AM NEVER AFRAID 
 IN THE DARK ; ANGELS ARE IN 
 THE DARK." 
 
 Yes, when the shadow falleth, 
 An angels hovers near, 
 
 To guard thy little footsteps, 
 So Maggie need not fear. 
 
 And watching o'er her pillow, 
 And by her cradled bed, 
 
 From silent morn till even, 
 His wings are ever spread. 
 
 You do not know his coming, 
 You do not feel him near,
 
 "DEAR MAMMA," ETC. 205 
 
 But 'tis he, my little darling, 
 That wipes away the tear. 
 
 By whispering words of comfort, 
 
 By urging some redress, 
 He heals the little sorrow 
 
 That fills my Maggie's breast. 
 
 Then love your guardian angel, 
 
 As God's especial friend, 
 He comes, a special messenger, 
 
 Your footsteps to attend.
 
 206 TO T. H. D. 
 
 TO T. H. D. 
 
 My husband, take this little flower, 
 And fold him to thy breast, 
 
 Look on his baby face and see 
 Thy lineaments imprest. 
 
 Oh ! smile upon our little child, 
 He comes to comfort thee, 
 
 To fill a void within thy heart, 
 God's blessing on him be. 
 
 I ask for this last precious one 
 No wreath or titled fame, 
 
 But that he bear in noble worth 
 Thy dear and honored name,
 
 TO T. IT. D. 207 
 
 Oh! for this last best benison, 
 Which God to us hath given, 
 
 May plenitude of grace be sent, 
 To tit his soul lor Heaven.
 
 208 PRETTY BIRDLIXG. 
 
 PRETTY BIRDLING. 
 
 Little bird, so blithe and gay, 
 Tilting on the slender spray, 
 Who so happy, free as you, 
 Sipping pearls of morning dew? 
 
 Tell ine, pretty birdie, why 
 You have left your home so high, 
 In yon spreading apple tree 
 And are here so close to me. 
 
 So near I watch the expanding throat, 
 Almost bursting with its note, 
 Praising Him who rules alway, 
 For thy short-lived summer day.
 
 PRETTY BIRDLING. 209 
 
 Grateful for thy little store, 
 Never murmuring thou for more, 
 Yet some wanton, cruel boy 
 In a moment may destroy. 
 
 All thy joys, and scatter wide 
 The home which love and skill provide, 
 And thou to fill the bag of game, 
 Fall victim to the sportsman's aim. 
 
 Let man, endowed, with reason sense, 
 Likened to omnipotence, 
 Murmuring e'er at God's decree, 
 Learn the lesson taught by thee!
 
 210 JOHN KEAT3. 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 All that the imagination can conceive of 
 a poet is to be found in the beautiful por 
 trait of Keats. The high, intellectual fore 
 head, with its clustering curls, those dreamy 
 eyes, the saddened expression which appears 
 to premise a future, ever casting its shadow 
 before, would seem to excite the sympathy 
 as well as admiration of the beholder. Born 
 in obscurity, with surroundings that would 
 vulgarize an ordinary mind, he, by the 
 force of the " divine within him," raised 
 himself above all obstacles to a recognition 
 high, even among the gifted of the land.
 
 JOHN KEATS. 211 
 
 Those impediments or barriers which might 
 deter one less earnest were to him incen 
 tives. He felt himself to be the arbiter 
 of his own destiny, and he labored with 
 a manly independence and a lofty deter 
 mination to win for himself the glory of 
 the poet's bay. His life was circled in 
 the short span of twenty-four years. The 
 seeds of disease were sown in his in 
 fancy. His days were a struggle between 
 weakness of body and vigor of intellect 
 (averse as this may be to the popular idea 
 of corporeal sympathy, it was in his case 
 nevertheless true), and yet he determined 
 to follow the path of his choice, to Avin for 
 himself that position from which his lowly 
 lot would seem to debar him. 
 
 Keats is best known to us as the author 
 of " Endyrnion " and " St. Agnes' Eve;" either
 
 212 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 one is an immortality. The opening of 
 " Endymion " is an earnest of the whole. 
 As a proof of its beauty, the first line is a 
 popular quotation : 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever : 
 
 Its loveliness increases, it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness, but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing." 
 
 The pleasure of his muse is told in what 
 follows : 
 
 " Therefore, ? tis with full happiness that I 
 Will trace the story of Endymion. 
 The very music of the name has gone 
 Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
 Is growing fresh before me as the green 
 Of our own valleys ; so I will begin
 
 JOHN KEATS. 213 
 
 Now, while I cannot hear the city's din; 
 Now while the early budders are just new, 
 And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
 About old forests; while the willow trails 
 In delicate ambers, and the dairy pails 
 Bring home increase of milk. And as the year 
 Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
 My little boat for many quiet hours, 
 With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
 Many and many a verse I hope to write 
 Before the daisies, vermeil riniui'd and white, 
 Hide in deep herbage, and ere yet the bees 
 Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
 I must be near the middle of my story. 
 O, may no wintry season bare and hoary 
 See it half finished ; but let autumn bold, 
 With universal tinge of sober gold, 
 Be all about me when I make an end. 
 And now at once adventuresome I send 
 My herald thoughts into a wilderness; 
 There let its trumpet blow and quickly dress
 
 214 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
 Easily onward through flowers and weed." 
 
 The muse of Keats found a convenient 
 outpouring in the broad field of Grecian my 
 thology. Here he felt free to give utterance 
 to his thoughts. He need not conform to 
 aught but the ideal, and he reveled in the 
 beauties which his own warm fancy and 
 imagination could create. This Avas his bias. 
 But as a profound thinker on this subject has 
 asserted, "To every poetical mind there 
 seems to be a peculiar nucleus for thought. 
 The sympathies flow in some particular direc 
 tion ; and the glow and imagery of song are 
 excited in a certain manner, according to indi 
 vidual taste and character. To Scott chival 
 ry and all its associations were inspiring ; 
 to Wordsworth abstract nature. Cowper
 
 jonx REALS. 215 
 
 loved to group his feelings and fancies round 
 some moral truth ; and Pope to weave 
 into verse the phenomena of social life," to 
 Keats we must assign the empire of Grecian 
 mythology. From the world of ideality he 
 gives us the most beautiful sentiments, 
 
 There are 
 
 Richer entanglements, enthrallments far 
 More self destroying, leading by degrees 
 To the chief intensity; the crown of these 
 Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 
 Upon the forehead of humanity. 
 All its more ponderous and bulky worth 
 Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 
 A steady splendor; but at the tip-top 
 There hangs, by unseen film, an orbed drop 
 Of light, and that is love ; its influence 
 Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense, 
 At which we start and fret, till in the end
 
 216 JOHN KEATS: 
 
 Melting, into its radiance we blend, 
 Mingle and so become a part of it. 
 Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 
 So wingedly; when we combine therewith 
 Life's self is nurtured by its proper pith, 
 And AVC are nurtured like a pelican brood. 
 
 Endymion in his wandering meets a Naiad, 
 who guides him on his way, and leaving 
 him, says : 
 
 Could I weed 
 
 Thy soul of care, by heavens ! I would offer 
 All the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
 To Amphetrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 
 Golden or rainbow-sided or purplish, 
 Vermillion. tail'd or finn'd with silvery gauze 
 Yea, or my varied pebbled floor that draws 
 A virgin light to the deep ^ my grotto sands, 
 Tawny and gold oozed slowly from far lands 
 By my diligent springs ; my level lilies, shells, 
 My charming rod, my potent river spells.
 
 JOHN KEATS. 217 
 
 Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup 
 
 Meander gave me; for I bubbled up 
 
 To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 
 
 But wo is me, I am but as a child 
 
 To gladden thee, and all I dare to say 
 
 Is that I pity thee, that on this day 
 
 I've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far 
 
 In other regions, past the scanty bar 
 
 To mortal steps, betore thou canst be ta'en 
 
 From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
 
 Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 
 
 Why it is thus, one knows ia Heaven above, 
 
 But a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell! 
 
 I have a ditty for my hollow cell. 
 
 Imagination is lavish of her wealth in 
 this as in all the works of Keats. In his 
 preface to Endyrnion, he says, after depre 
 cating the attempt to forestall criticism : 
 " The imagination of a boy is healthy, and
 
 218 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 the mature imagination of a man is healthy; 
 but there is a space of life between in 
 which the soul is in a ferment, the charac 
 ter undecided, the way of life uncertain, 
 the ambition thick-sighted; thence proceeds 
 mawkishness and all the thousand bitters 
 which those men I speak of must neces-. 
 sarily taste in going over the following 
 pages. I hope I have not in too late a 
 day touched the beautiful mythology of 
 Greece, and dulled its brightness, for I 
 wish to try once more before I bid it fare- 
 
 The critic of the day, Gifford, declared 
 his intention of attacking Endymion, even 
 before it appeared in print. The effect of 
 this unsparing vituperation upon a morbid 
 state of body may easily be imagined. His 
 being bom in a livery stable, and the hum-
 
 JOHN KEATS. 219 
 
 ble nature of his early antecedents, were 
 crimes too great to be overlooked by lordly 
 rhymers and lofty reverencers. His spirit 
 was gentle, although his soul was strong, 
 and he bore within himself, quietly and 
 uncomplainingly, the obloquies and ridicule 
 which they attempted to cast upon his 
 name. It is true, his education, so far as 
 scholastic teaching Avas concerned, was con 
 fined to a plain, unpretending school at 
 Enfield ; but nature compensated with her 
 gratuitous gifts for want of fortune, and it 
 was conceded by unprejudiced minds that 
 he possessed more exhuberance of fancy, 
 more facility of description, than many of 
 the best English poets of his day. 
 
 They must indeed be insensible who feel 
 not the poetic excellence and beauty of 
 some of the following extracts, selected at 
 hatfnrd :
 
 220 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Time, that aged muse, 
 
 Rocked me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven, 
 The things, with all their conifortings, are given 
 To my down-sunken hours ; and with thee, 
 Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing" sea 
 Of weary life. 
 
 O ! magic sleep ! O ! comfortable bird, 
 That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
 Till it is hushed and smooth ! O ! unconfined, 
 Restraint, imprisoned liberty, great key 
 To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
 Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
 Echoing grottoes, fall of tumbling waves, 
 And moonlight; ay, to all the mazy world 
 Of silvery enchantment; who unfurled 
 Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, 
 But renovates and lives.
 
 JOHN KEATS. 221 
 
 oudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
 Flushed his brow, and in his pained heart 
 Made purple riot. 
 
 Now, indeed, 
 
 His senses had swooned off; he did not heed 
 The sudden silence or the whispers low, 
 O- the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 
 Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, 
 Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms. 
 
 Do not all charms fly 
 At the mere touch of cold philosophy? 
 There was an awful rainbow once in heaven ; 
 "We know her woof, her texture; she is given 
 In the dull catalogue of common things. 
 Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, 
 Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
 Empty the haunted air, the gnomed mine.
 
 222 JOHN KEAT3. 
 
 Of wealthy lustre was the banquet room, 
 Filled with pervading brilliance and perfnme; 
 Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
 A censor, fed with myrrh and spiced wood, 
 Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
 Whose slender feet wide swerved upon the soft 
 Wool woofed carpets. Fifty wreaths of smoke 
 From fifty censors their light voyage took, 
 To the high roof, still mimicked as they rose 
 Along the mirror'd walls, by twin clouds odorous. 
 Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats ensphered, 
 High as the level of a man's breast, reared 
 On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
 Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
 Of Ceres horn, and in huge vessels wine 
 Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
 
 What is there in thee, Moon, that thou shouldst move 
 
 My heart so potently ? When yet a child 
 
 I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled.
 
 JOHN KEATS. 223 
 
 Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went 
 From eve to morn across the firmament. 
 No apples would I gather from the tree 
 
 Till thou had'st cooled their cheeks deliciously: 
 
 No tumbling water ever spake romance 
 
 But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance ; 
 
 No woods were green enough, no bower divine 
 Until thou lifted'st up thine eyeslids fine ; 
 In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, 
 Or drop a seed till thou wast wide awake; 
 And in the summer-tide of blossoming 
 No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing, 
 And mesh my dewy flowers all the night ; 
 No melody was like a passing sprite 
 It I went not to solemnize thy reign. 
 Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 
 By thee were fashion'd to the self-same aim ; 
 As I grew in years, still did'st thou blend 
 With all my ardors: thou wast the deep glen;
 
 224 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Thou wast the mountain-top the sage's pen 
 
 The poet's harp the voice of friends the sun, 
 
 Thou wast the river thou wast glory won; 
 
 Thou wast rny clarion's blast thou wast my steed 
 
 My goblet full of wine my topmost deed; 
 
 Thou wast the charm of woman, lovely Moon, 
 
 O, what a wild and harmonized tune 
 
 My spirit struck from all the beautiful! 
 
 On some bright essence could I lean and lull 
 
 Myself to immortality. 
 
 Milne tells us that while at Enfield, Keats' 
 translations, during the last two years of his 
 stay, were astonishing. The twelve books of 
 the Eneid were a portion of it. To Tooke's 
 Pantheon, Spence's Polymetis and Sem- 
 priese's Dictionary, we are indebted, for 
 his deep and extended knowledge of myth 
 ology. Of the Hyperion, a poem full of the 
 " large utterance of the early gods," Shelley
 
 JOHN KEATS. 225 
 
 has said, that the scenery and drawing of 
 Saturn dethroned by the fallen Titans, sur 
 passed those of Satan and his rebellious 
 angels in Paradise Lost. Keats thought 
 lightly of many of his own finest produc 
 tions. His " Ode to a Nightingale," which 
 was first published in the "Annals of Fine 
 Arts," he thrust aside as waste paper, and 
 some difficulty occurred in arranging, from 
 the often mutilated fragments, the stanzas 
 in anything like order. He frequently would 
 chant, in a sort of recitative, those that 
 most suited his fancy, and the impression of 
 his enthusiasm and manner were afterwards 
 never forgotten by those who were privi 
 leged to listen to him. Of his " St. Agnes' 
 Eve," he thus writes to his brother : " I took 
 down some thin paper, and wrote on it 
 
 wrote a little poem called St. Agnes' Evo 
 
 15
 
 220 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 which you will have as it is, when I 
 have finished the blank part of the rest 
 for you." 
 
 Jeffrey thus criticises this gem of Eng 
 lish literature : " The glory and charm 
 of the poem is the description of the fair 
 maiden's antique chamber, and of all that 
 passes in that sweet and angel guarded 
 sanctuary, every part of which is touched 
 with colors at once high and delicate, and 
 the whole chastened and harmonized in the 
 midst of its gorgeous distinctness, by a 
 pervading grace and purity that indicate 
 not less clearly the exaltation than the 
 refinement of the author's fancy." The 
 poem, though long, is given entire:
 
 JOHN KEATS. 227 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 
 The owl, for all his leathers was a-cold ; 
 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
 
 And silent was the (lock in woolly fold ; 
 
 Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 
 Seemed taking flight for Heaven without a death, 
 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 
 
 His prayer he faith, this patient, holy man; 
 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 
 
 The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, 
 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails ; 
 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails
 
 228 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little door, 
 
 And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 
 But no, already had his death-bell rung ; 
 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 
 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft' 
 And so it chanced for many a door was wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
 The silver, snarling trumpets ? gan to chide , 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
 
 With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their 
 breast. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 With plumes, tiara, and all rich array,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 229 
 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 
 The brain, new stuff 'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 
 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
 
 "Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
 
 On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
 
 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
 
 And soft adornings from their loves vcceive 
 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 
 As supperlcss to bed they must retire, 
 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
 
 Nor look behin'l, nor sideways, but require 
 
 Of Heaven, with upward eyes, for all that they desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
 
 230 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Pass by she heeded not at all ; in vain 
 
 Came many a tip-toe, amorous cavalier, 
 
 And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain, 
 
 But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
 
 She sigh-'d for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 
 
 She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short, 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand; she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy ; all amost, 
 Save to St. Agues and her lambs unshorn, 
 And all the bliss to be before the morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire. 
 She linger'd still. Meantime across the moors, 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
 AH saints to give him sight of Madeline,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 231 
 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 
 
 Perchance, speak, kneel, touch, kiss in sooth such things 
 have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzz'd whispers tell* 
 All eyes be muffled or a hundred swords 
 AVill storm his heart, love's feverous citadel 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl, 
 Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
 Save one old beldixme, weak in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far bsyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland; 
 He startled her; but soon she knew his face, 
 And grasp % d his fingers in her palsied hand,
 
 232 JOHN KEATS, 
 
 Saying, " Mercy, Prophyro ! Me thee from this place, 
 They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! 
 
 "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 
 
 lie had a fever late, and in the fit, 
 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land; 
 
 Then there's that old lord Maurice, not a whit 
 
 More tame for his grey hairs alas me! flit! 
 
 Flit like a ghost away." "Ah, Gossip dear, 
 
 We're safe enough! here in this arm-chair sit, 
 
 And tell me how." " Good saints ! not here, not here, 
 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 
 
 He followed through a lowly arched way, 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 
 And as she mutter'd " Well, a-well-a-day," 
 He found him in a little moonlight room, 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
 " Oh tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but sacred sisterhood may see, 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."
 
 JOHN KEATS. 233 
 
 "St. Agnes! ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve 
 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days ; 
 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays. 
 
 To venture so ; it fills me with amaze 
 
 To see thee, Porphyro! St. Agnes' Eve! 
 
 God's help! my lady fair, the conjuror plays, 
 
 This very night good angels her deceive ! 
 
 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laughed in the languid moon, 
 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
 Flushing his brow, and his pained heart
 
 234 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Made purple riot ; then doth he propose 
 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldams start : 
 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art ; 
 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream, 
 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
 
 Thou canst not surely be same that thou didst seem/' 
 
 {'I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
 Quoth Porphyro ; " may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face. 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
 Awake with horrid shout my foeman's ears, 
 
 And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
 wolves and bears." 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ;
 
 JOHN KEATS. 235 
 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 Were never miss'd.'' Thus plaining does she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
 That Angela gives promise that she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or wo. 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrscy, 
 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hido 
 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 
 That he might see her beauty unespied, 
 
 And win, perhaps, that night a peerless bride, 
 
 While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, 
 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 
 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame; 
 "All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 Quickly on the feast-night: by the tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
 
 236 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience, kneel in prayer 
 The while: Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear, 
 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
 
 The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
 
 To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
 
 From fright of dim especial. Safe at last, 
 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; 
 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain 
 
 Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 231 
 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and 
 fled. 
 
 Out went the taper, as she hurried in ; 
 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; 
 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
 
 No utter'd syllable, or, wo betide! 
 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 
 
 A casement high and triple-arched there was, 
 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 
 Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep damask'd wings ; 
 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 
 A childlike scutcheon blush'd with blood of kings and 
 queens,
 
 238 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 She secm'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done, 
 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees : 
 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awako ; and sees, 
 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 239 
 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown, like a thought until the morrow-day ; 
 Blissfully haveird both from joy and pain; 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced; 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
 And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 Which, when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
 And breathed himself; then from the closet crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wilderness, 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! how fast 
 she slept. 
 
 Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
 
 240 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson gold, and jet : 
 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
 With jellies smoother than the creamy curd, 
 And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one,, 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 241 
 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 
 
 "And now, my love / my seraph fair, awake! 
 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.'' 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
 By the dusk curtains : 't was a midnight charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
 Broad golden, fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, 
 Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest be, 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
 In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans merci," 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; 
 Wherewith disturb M, she utter 'd a soft moan ; 
 
 16
 
 242 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 He ceased she panted quick and suddenly 
 Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
 stone. 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
 
 There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, 
 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 
 
 'Ah, Porphyro!" said she, ''but even now 
 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow, 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear; 
 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dearl
 
 JOHN KEATS. 243 
 
 Oh, leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 
 For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man, impassioned far 
 
 At these volumptuous accents, he arose, 
 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
 
 Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet, 
 
 Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind blows 
 
 Like Love's alarm pattering the sharp sleet 
 
 Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' noon hath set. 
 
 "Tis dark ; quick pattereth the daw-blown sleet ; 
 " This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline !" 
 'Tis dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat. 
 " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. 
 Gruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."
 
 244 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 
 A famished pilgrim saved by miracle. 
 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self, if thou think'st well 
 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude inflde J." 
 
 " Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy land, 
 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed ; 
 
 Arise ! arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed. 
 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see. 
 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead ; 
 
 Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 
 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all around,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 245 
 
 r 
 
 At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears 
 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, 
 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 
 A chain-droop 'd lamp was flickering by each door ; 
 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk and hound, 
 
 FlutterM in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 
 Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
 
 "With a huge empty flagon by hig side ; 
 
 The wakeful blood-hound rose, and shook his hide, 
 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
 
 The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones; 
 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 
 
 And they are gone ; ay, ages long ago, 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a wo, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
 
 246 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 
 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela, the old, 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform ; 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 A biographer says : " It was the inten 
 tion of Keats to diffuse the coloring of 'St. 
 Agnes' Eve ' throughout a poem in which 
 character and sentiment would be the figures 
 to such drapery." He did not live to carry 
 out this plan. The quantity of his writ 
 ings is very remarkable, when we consider 
 how short a life was vouchsafed him. 
 
 Often melancholy from his failing health, 
 he was not to be persuaded from the 
 thought of an early death. He possessed 
 in a remarkable degree that self-prescience 
 of disease which stopped for days together
 
 JOHN KEATS. 247 
 
 the rich stream of fancy and the glowing 
 imagery of thought. He said once to his 
 friend, Mr. Brown : " Flatter me with a hope 
 of happiness when I shall be well, for I am. 
 now so weak that I can be flattered into 
 hope." 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Bailey, he says : " I 
 have written fifteen hundred lines in two 
 months, most of which, besides many more 
 of prior composition, you will probably see 
 by next winter. One of my ambitions is 
 to make as great a revolution in modern 
 dramatic writing as Kean has done in act 
 ing. I am convinced every day that (ex 
 cepting the human-friend philosopher,) a fine 
 writer is the most genuine being in the 
 world. Shakspeare and the ' Paradise Lost ' 
 every day become greater wonders to me. 
 I look upon fine phrases like a lover."
 
 248 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 When we consider what this noble and 
 gifted son of poetry might have been had 
 he possessed the bodily strength so neces 
 sary for any excellence or preferment, we 
 feel still more the almost fiendish injustice 
 of his persecutors, who, with insatiable mo 
 tive, would deprive him of his peace of 
 mind and discourage all attempts at future 
 excellence. Before considering their at 
 tacks, it is almost a comfort to know the 
 character of his enemies, the following from 
 a reliable source : " The reviewers of Black- 
 wood and the Quarterly were persons evi 
 dently destitute of all poetic perception, di 
 recting an unrefined and unscrupulous satire 
 against political opponents, whose intellect 
 ual merits they had no means of under 
 standing. The Quarterly admits that he had 
 not read, or could not read the work he
 
 JOHN KEATS. 249 
 
 undertook to criticise. This impertinence 
 should have prevented the article from 
 having any weight. The Blackwood sought 
 to be facetious, and tells Keats, " It is a 
 better and wiser thing to be a starved 
 apothecary, (alluding to the time he spent 
 with a surgeon,) than a starved poet," and 
 he bids him "back to his gallipot." How 
 bright and beautiful by contrast shine 
 forth the remarks of Jeffreys, who, after 
 pointing out the great excellences of Endy- 
 mion, finishes by saying we do not know 
 any book which we would sooner employ 
 as a test to ascertain whether any one had 
 in him a native relish for poetry and a 
 genuine sensibility to its intrinsic charm. 
 Byron regarded this praise with jealous 
 discontent at first, but afterwards says, 
 "This (Keats') fragment of Hyperion seems
 
 250 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 actually inspired by the Titians, and is sub 
 lime as Eschylus." Shelley, who loved 
 Keats as a brother, was indignant with the 
 Quarterly, and says the Endymion should 
 not have been noticed at all, except for the 
 purpose of bringing its excellences into 
 notice, and continues: " I speak impartially, 
 for the canons of taste to which Keats has 
 conformed in his other compositions, are the 
 very reverse of my own." He describes the 
 agony of the poet upon reading the article 
 in question, and adds: "It has induced a 
 disease from the recovery of which there is 
 but little hope." Many of the friends of 
 Keats denied such effects upon his mind 
 and system, and in justification quote let 
 ters from him written at this time. 
 
 He says in one of these : " I have read 
 the papers, and feel indebted to those gen-
 
 JOHN KEATS. 251 
 
 tlemen who have taken my part. I will 
 write independently. I have done so per 
 haps without judgment. Hereafter I will 
 write independently, with judgment. I was 
 never afraid of failure, for I would sooner 
 fail than not to be among the greatest." 
 This certainly does not sound like one who 
 takes the subject much to heart ; but his 
 brother tells us : " After all, Blackwood and 
 the Quarterly, associated with our family 
 disease, consumption, were ministers of death 
 sufficiently venomous, cruel and deadly to 
 have consigned one of less sensibility to a 
 premature grave." 
 
 In the hope of prolonging a life which 
 was consuming itself by its own ardent 
 longings, Keats embarked for Italy. A dear 
 and tender friend accompanied him. Soothed 
 and cheered by his gentle ministrations, his
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 life ebbed slowly away. When vitality 
 seemed exhausted, his spirit appeared to 
 rally again and again the dying energy of 
 his nature, and re-animate itself in death. 
 Gentleness and submission, patience and 
 resignation, were his crowning virtues, and 
 as the death damps were gathering on his 
 brow he whispered to his friend his epi 
 taph : " My name was writ in water." A 
 plain white stone marks the last resting 
 place of this young and gifted son of 
 poetry. Thither has many a pilgrimage 
 been taken. The last recognition has "been 
 freely given when he could no longer be 
 soothed by caresses or stimulated by ap 
 proval, and now 
 
 " He has outsoared the shadow of our night, 
 Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
 
 JOHN KEATS. 253 
 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
 Can touch him not and torture not again. 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain. 
 Nor when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 
 With sparkless ashes load ail unlanaented urn."
 
 254 LA SOEUR DE CHARITE. 
 
 LA SOEUR DE CHARITE. 
 
 Whence art thou> being of seraphic mould, 
 With thy calm brow and deep religious eye, 
 And arms thus folded on thy breast, 
 Thy mission truly coineth from the sky 
 
 What love divine, what charity sublime, 
 
 Didst nerve thy purpose and inflame thy will, 
 
 The high resolves borne in that sainted face, 
 An added zeal in every breast instil ? 
 
 Did'st thou not leave in some bright happy home, 
 A father's blessing and a mother's voice, 
 
 A sister's twining arms, a brother's love, 
 Whose coming made thy heart rejoice?
 
 LA SOEUB DE CHARITE. 
 
 Do not dear memories of that happy band, 
 Darken the sunshine of thy placid brow, 
 
 Those gentle visitants of by-gone hours, 
 
 With their soft pleadings, musical and low? 
 
 I know thou'rt human, for I've seen thee weep, 
 When bending o'er the sufferer's couch of pain, 
 
 Until thy pity waked some gentle chord, 
 Soft tuned with confidence and trust again. 
 
 I know thou'rt loving, for I've seen thee fold 
 The helpless orphan in thy shielding arm, 
 
 Hush her low sobbings into peaceful rest, 
 
 And shield her innocence from guilt or harm. 
 
 But some there are who knew thee when 
 Genius and fortune bent the knee, 
 
 And worshipped at thy beauty's shrine, 
 With love, almost idolatry.
 
 LA SOEUR DE CHARITE. 
 
 In scenes of pleasure, pomp and pride, 
 Thy gentle spirit could not rest, 
 
 For thoughts of Jesus crucified, 
 "Were ever burning in thy breast. 
 
 And when the tones of inirth flashed high, 
 And music thrilled its sweetest lay, 
 
 A whisper low had pierced thy heart, 
 Which called thee hence, away ! away I 
 
 Responsive to that holy call, 
 
 All lesser love is now forgot, 
 The world may deem it strange and wild, 
 
 Her prayers are heard, she recks it not. 
 
 The costly gem is laid aside, 
 
 The curls are severed from her brow, 
 Madonna-like, a simple veil, 
 
 Half hides its classic beauty now.
 
 LA SOEUR DE CHARITE. 257 
 
 Let's follow her to scenes of woe, 
 The hireling nurse has fled with fear, 
 
 But still her place is not bereft, 
 A gentler form is hovering near. 
 
 Oh ! listen, listen to her prayer, 
 
 Can Heaven withstand that sweet appeal? 
 Oh! no, for down those faded cheeks, 
 
 The thickly coursing tear-drops steal 1 
 
 And here we leave her 'mid those scenes, 
 And dangers which might well appal, 
 
 With angels for her guardian shield, 
 The dauntless child of Vincent Paul. 
 
 17
 
 258 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Clasped within, our heart of hearts, 
 
 As the petals of the rose 
 Fold the golden pollen close, 
 
 Tender in its warm repose. 
 
 So our Grace,* our household treasure, 
 Fonder loved from day to day, 
 
 Till our Father saw the measure, 
 Stole from Him our hearts away. 
 
 Then when day was closing o'er us, 
 
 In the shadowy evenfall, 
 When the heart with love is tender, 
 
 When she dearest seemed to all 
 
 *"0ur Grace" died April 9, 1861.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 259 
 
 Game a youth with noiseless footsteps; 
 
 Ambient shone his floating hair, 
 And upon her pale, pale forehead 
 
 Laid the crown which seraphs wear. 
 
 "Earth's no longer ours forever!" 
 
 Sang he this exulting strain, 
 And our darling's tiny numbers 
 
 Mingled with the sweet refrain. 
 
 How each heart is bowed in anguish, 
 But amid the sorrow dim , 
 
 Feel they that our Lord hath spoken, 
 And they yield her back to Him.
 
 260 NURSERY SONG. 
 
 NURSERY SONG. 
 
 Sleep, gently sleep, my baby boy, 
 For happy dreams are thine; 
 
 I know it by the token old. 
 Then sleep, sweet baby mine. 
 
 Thy head is pillowed on my breast, 
 In passive slumbering it lies: 
 
 The shadow of an angel's wing 
 Enfolds thy dreamy eyes. 
 
 'Tis sweet to press thee closely thus, 
 And note the beating time 
 
 With which thy little throbbing heart 
 Responds each pulse of mine.
 
 NURSERY SONG. . 261 
 
 Then gently sleep, my baby boy, 
 
 In happy visions blest. 
 While softly rests thy golden head 
 
 Upon a mother's breast.
 
 262 TO S. M. R. 
 
 TO S. M. R. 
 
 My sister friend, 'tis joy to think 
 
 That in thy far off city home 
 These simple lines may -\vake a thought, 
 
 A memory of your absent one. 
 
 And when you read, perchance will say 
 Ah me! I wish that, as in days of yore, 
 
 I could by glancing o'er the street, 
 Just see her standing at the door. 
 
 How often, just as day-light closed, 
 We met for converse grave and gay, 
 
 My children playing at your feet, 
 We passed a happy hour away.
 
 TO s. xi. n. 263 
 
 I always met a welcome kind, 
 
 I always felt your clasped hand, 
 Your love and time hath proved it well, 
 
 Was ever free at my command. 
 
 We reveled with the poets old, 
 
 Roamed in their dreamland far away, 
 
 Then laughed and said, the brow may sero 
 And yet the heart be young alway. 
 
 Another one, I mind me well, 
 With soul from all but us apart, 
 
 Is fanning now through time and space, 
 The smouldering embers of my heart. 
 
 Our past hath had its sombre clouds, 
 But oftentimes the glorious blue, 
 
 With silver lining, would shine out, 
 And burst the murky darkness through.
 
 264 TO S. M. E. 
 
 Then in this view let's be content, 
 Nor willingly admit the ill, 
 
 That better in the plan of life 
 We may our Maker's hest fulfil.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 265 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS was born on the 29th of 
 September, 1759, in a cottage (or what was 
 more frequently called a "clay bigging") 
 about two miles from the city of Ayr, in 
 Scotland. He was a peasant and the son 
 of a peasant. As early as his sixth year 
 he betrayed a fondness for books ; although 
 his supply was scanty, he seemed ever en 
 gaged in his favorite occupation of reading, 
 and it is probable he read and digested 
 again and again until he made the limited 
 matter his own. At the age of thirteen he 
 was sent to a rather advanced school, where
 
 266 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 he acquired some French and a little Latin, 
 but the pecuniary difficulties 'of his father, 
 who in attempting to better his condition 
 had involved himself in speculations ruin 
 ous to his family, obliged our poet to 
 leave school at an early age and employ 
 himself in the occupation of husbandry. He 
 seems to have felt acutely the troubles of 
 the family, and the depression of spirits 
 which affected him at this time appears to 
 have impressed his future career, for he 
 was ever after subject to moods of de 
 pression. He had the misfortune to lose 
 his good father at an early age, and the 
 future maintenance of the family became 
 almost exclusively his sole charge. His 
 beautiful tribute of affection for that revered 
 parent, for whom he always entertained' 
 the most honorable respect and filial piety,
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 267 
 
 conve}~s the grateful testimony of a devoted 
 child : 
 
 O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
 
 Draw near with pious reverence and attend. 
 Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
 
 The tender father and the generous friend, 
 The pitying heart that felt for hurnaii woe, 
 
 The dauntless heart that feared no human pride, 
 The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, 
 
 "For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 
 
 As he expresses it : "I first committed 
 the sin of rhyming at the age of fifteen." 
 A young female who assisted him in the 
 labors of the field having inspired a boyish 
 affection, he composed a song descriptive 
 of her charms. Even in this, his first at 
 tempt, the poet seems older than the boy, 
 for he w.as then but an ungainly, awkward
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 boy, entirely unacquainted with men and 
 the manners of the world, but yet so bent 
 on the prosecution of his fancy, combined 
 with a desire for improvement, that from 
 his seventeenth to his twenty-first year 
 he made considerable literary attainment. 
 Burns was distinguished by a strong and 
 vigorous mind, a spirit untamable, a re 
 sentment quick, and a perception of right 
 which, if ever invaded, roused him to the 
 most scathing and violent vituperation. 
 He possessed a perfect scorn for deceit or 
 dissimulation, and his muse was ever the 
 friend of the oppressed. How beautifully 
 he asks the charitable sympathy of tho 
 world on the unfortunate: 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 Still gentler sister woman;
 
 ROBEET BURNS. 269 
 
 Tho' they may gang a kennin wra^g, 
 
 To step aside is human; 
 One point must still be greatly dark, 
 
 The moving why they do it ; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us ; 
 He knows each chord its various tone, 
 
 Each spring, its various bias ; 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 
 We never can adjust it; 
 What's done we partly may compute, 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 No more touching advocacy could bo 
 found than the above, joined as it is with 
 a simplicity so refreshing and beautiful. 
 To the preservation of this his rustic life
 
 270 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 was eminently favorable, and as generosity 
 and benevolence form the sentiment of 
 Burns' muse, so entire truthfulness consti 
 tutes the charm .which demands our appro 
 bation. A child could not speak more 
 frankly of his feelings than the following : 
 
 Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
 My Barnie noddle's working prime, 
 My fancy yerkit up sublime 
 
 Wi' hasty summon ; 
 Hae ye a leisure -moment's tinio 
 
 To- hear what's comin' 
 
 Yet with all his simplicity, nay, even rus 
 ticity, he maintained his position with dig 
 nity, even among the polished circles of 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Unfortunately, it must be acknowledged 
 he sometimes permitted his social habits to
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 271 
 
 
 
 overstep the bounds of prudence, and al 
 lowed himself to be seduced, by pressing 
 invitations, into the society of those whose 
 conviviality, without being gross, was too 
 free to be considerate. The indulgences 
 of his festive companions were exhilara 
 tions of pleasure at his success, and a gen 
 erous mind has often found it difficult to 
 resist a temptation under such circum 
 stances. His appearance at this time is 
 described as remarkably interesting. His 
 form was finely developed, and indicated 
 masculine vigor and agility ; his ample 
 forehead was shaded with a profusion of 
 curls ; his eyes were large, dark and full; 
 his face was well-formed, and his whole 
 countenance extremely pleasing ; his con 
 versation was fascinating ; his sallies of wit 
 and humor irresistible. But these qualities
 
 272 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 * 
 
 left him often a prey to a certain class ot 
 persons, who sought his genius as a sanc 
 tion to their excessive indulgences. Yet 
 no man ever felt his own imperfections 
 more than Burns. He knew and lamented 
 them ; while the spirit of independence 
 which he maintained prevented him from 
 ever being the tool of the politician^ or the 
 toady of the great. He had a desire to 
 raise his family from their condition, which, 
 though it was elevated by the genius of 
 the father, often felt the inconveniences of 
 a limited income. To one who befriended 
 him in this laudable desire, he has addressed 
 himself in terms of undying gratitude. 
 The concluding verses of his poem, " The 
 Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," (his 
 benefactor), are particularly fine :
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 273 
 
 In poverty's low barren vale, 
 
 Thick mists obscure involve me round, 
 Though oft I turned the wistful eye, 
 
 Nae ray of fame was to be found. 
 Thou foundst me, like the morning sun 
 
 That melts the fogs in limped air, 
 The friendless bard and rustic song, 
 
 Became alike thy fostering care. 
 
 O why has worth so short a date, 
 
 While vilians ripen gray with time ; 
 Must thou, the noble, generous, great, 
 
 Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime. 
 Why did I live to see that day, 
 
 A day to me so full of woe ; 
 O, had I met the mortal shaft 
 
 Which laid my benefactor low. 
 
 The bridegroom may forget the bride, 
 
 Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 
 
 IK
 
 274 EGBERT BURNS. 
 
 The monarch rnay forget the crown 
 That on his head an hour hath been ; 
 
 The mother may forget the child 
 That smiles sac sweetly on her knee; 
 
 But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 
 And a' that thou hast done for me. 
 
 Truly has Robert Burns been called "the 
 heir of fame, but the child of sorrow." 
 After the public and universal recognition 
 of his genius, it might be expected that an 
 attempt would at least be made to place him 
 in circumstances favorable to its further de 
 velopment ; but in this he was most wofully 
 disappointed. His expectations were not 
 very extravagant. He only asked a situa 
 tion where his exertions might be uninter 
 rupted by the fatigues of labor and the 
 calls of want; and he said "a life of literary
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 275 
 
 leisure, with a decent competence, is the 
 summit of my wishes." ''The happiest, in 
 deed, are they of whom Fame speaks not 
 with her clarion voice." The humble labors 
 of a farm, the monotonous serenity of an 
 agricultural life, became weary to the er 
 ratic fancies and the poetic temperament 
 of Burns. Then his utter ignorance of 
 management, his Avant of tact and skill in 
 the little requisites necessary to success, 
 were a constant source of trouble and em- 
 barassment to him. Under the pressure 
 of such circumstances he sought and ob 
 tained the humble position of gauger or 
 exciseman of the district in which he lived. 
 Dr. Currie, his biographer, describes his 
 farm as in a great measure abandoned to 
 his servants, while he betook himself to the 
 duties of his new appointment. He might
 
 276 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 still, indeed, be seen in the spring, direct 
 ing his plow, a labor in which he excelled ; 
 or with a white sheet containing his seed 
 corn slung across his shoulders, striding 
 with measured steps along his turned up 
 furrows, and scattering the grain in the 
 earth. But the farm no longer occupied 
 the principal part of his care or of his 
 thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he 
 was now in general to be found. Mounted 
 on horseback, this high-minded poet was 
 pursuing the defaulters of the revenue 
 among the hills and vales of Nithsdale, his 
 roving eye wandering over the charms of 
 nature, and muttering his wayward fancies 
 as he moved along. But oh, how sadly 
 does his new career at Dumfries contrast 
 with the inspired peasant and faithful lim 
 ner of an humble lot. His temptations
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 277 
 
 were too strong for his weak purposes, and 
 his resolutions were constantly overcome 
 by the " killing kindness of his friends." 
 In moments of quiet and thought he how 
 ever produced some admirable compositions, 
 and still went on advancing his poetic fame. 
 His own description of a poet's fate is no 
 inapt illustration of his own : 
 
 Creatures though oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
 When blest to-day unmindful of to morrow ; 
 A being formed t' amuse his graver friends, 
 Admired and praised and there the homage ends? 
 A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
 Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
 Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
 Yet happy wanting wherewithal to live, 
 Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
 Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
 
 278 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 In his poem of "The Twa Dogs," what a 
 line picture he draws of the different states 
 of society. As each is a representative of 
 his class, they must be introduced to the 
 reader : 
 
 The first I'll name they ca'd him Caesar 
 Was keepit for his Honor's pleasure; 
 His haii-, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
 Shew'd he was nane of Scotland's dogs, 
 But whalpct some place far abroad, 
 "Where sailors gang to fish for cod, 
 His lock lettered bran brass collar 
 Showed him a gentleman and scholar. 
 
 The tither was a plowman's collie, 
 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
 
 Wha ior his Mends e'er comrade had him, 
 
 And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
 
 After some dog in Highland sang, 
 
 Was made lang syne Lord knows how lang 
 
 Whvles scoured awa in lanst excursion
 
 ROBERT BURNS 279 
 
 An worried ither in diversion, 
 Until wi' daffin weary grown 
 Upon a knowl they sat them down, 
 And there began a lang digression 
 About the lords of the creation. 
 
 CAESAR : 
 
 I've often wondered, honest Luath, 
 What sort of life poor dogs like you have- 
 An' when tne gentry's life I saw, 
 What way poor bodies lived ava. 
 
 LUATH : 
 
 There nae sae wretched ane wud think, 
 Tho' constantly on povetith's brink, 
 There sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
 The view o't give them little fright. 
 
 As bleak-faced Hailornas returns, 
 They get the jovial ranting kirns,
 
 280 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 When rural life o' ev'ry station 
 Unite in common recreation, 
 Love blinks, wit slaps, an social mirth 
 Forgets there's care upon the earth, 
 That merry clay the year begins, 
 They bar the door on frosty winds, 
 The happy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
 And sheds a heart inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin pipe and sneeshin mill 
 Are handed round wi' right good will; 
 The cantic old folks crackin' crouse, 
 The young ones ranting thro' the house 
 My heart has been so fain to see them 
 That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 
 But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
 Sure great folks live a life of pleasure? 
 Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
 The very thought o't need na fear them. 
 
 L'd man, but were ye wyles where I am,
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 281 
 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them; 
 It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
 Thro' winter's cauld or summer's heat, 
 They've nae sair work to craze their banes, 
 An fill auld age wi' grips an' granes, 
 But human bodies are sic fools, 
 For a' their colleges and schools, 
 That when their real ills perplex them, 
 They make enow themselves to vex them, 
 An ay, the less they hae to sturt them, 
 In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
 Their days insipid dull and tasteless, 
 Their nights unquiet, lang and restless, 
 The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
 As great and gracious a' as sisters; 
 But hear their absent thoughts of ither, 
 They're a run deils an gods thegither. 
 Whyles o'er the wic bit cup and platie, 
 They sip the scandal potion pretty, 
 Or lie lang nights wi crabbit leuka, 
 Pore owre the deil's pictured beuks,
 
 282 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Stake on a chance the farmer's stack-yard 
 An cheat like any unhanged blackguard. 
 There's some exception, man and woman, 
 But this is gentry's life in common. 
 
 Burns was a being of the strongest and 
 most intense passion. For pretention and 
 insincerity, bigotry and assumption, his muse 
 had ever a scathing denunciation : 
 
 God knows I'm not the thing I should be, 
 Nor am I even the thing I could be 
 But twenty times I rather would be 
 
 An athiest clean, 
 Than under gospel colors hid be 
 
 Just for a screen. 
 
 Another extract from a poem, the title 
 of which is inadmissable to ears polite, is 
 often quoted:
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 283 
 
 O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
 . To see oursels as others see us ! 
 It wad frae moiiie a blunder free us, 
 
 And foolish notion. 
 What airs in dress and gait wad Ica'e U3, 
 
 And e'en devotion. 
 
 On diversity of condition, he says : 
 
 Some lucky find a flowing spot, 
 
 For which they never toiled nor swat; 
 
 They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 
 
 But care or pain, 
 And happly eye the barren hut, 
 
 With high disdain. 
 
 The susceptibility of Burns to female 
 attraction, made him a popular songster, 
 but to only one is there any true or poet 
 ical sentiment inscribed. To all except
 
 284 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Highland Mary it was a simple description 
 of the charms of rural beauty. In her 
 early death and their solemn parting on the 
 banks of the Ayr, the poet seems to have 
 expressed the deepest feelings of which his 
 nature was capable, in language so chaste 
 and beautiful that it is almost impossible to 
 read them without a corresponding sym 
 pathy. 
 
 There is a beautiful little incident re 
 corded of Burns' first introduction to Walter 
 Scott, which should be perpetuated: Our 
 poet was dining with some literary people, 
 and observing some fine poetry written un 
 derneath a picture on the wall, he inquired 
 the author. No one could answer, until at 
 length a modest, fair-haired youth of fifteen, 
 with a high intellectual forehead, and 
 thoughtful expression of face, gave the name
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 285 
 
 of Langehorne as the writer. Burns turned 
 and smiled upon the lad with a look which 
 he never forgot. That boy was Walter 
 
 Scott. 
 
 It has been regretted that he wrote so 
 much in a language adapted to the pea 
 santry. It must not be forgotten that his 
 muse was of the clay-built cottage, and not 
 of lordly halls. Had his descent or lineage 
 been higher, had he not been the noble 
 brother of the poor and lowly, so great 
 would not have been their consolation and 
 their pride. If his friends or favorites were 
 of the humbler walks of life they did not 
 long remain there he elevated them, says 
 a biographer to " Lauras and Saccharissas," 
 and not only them, but their accessories 
 shone anew, gilded by the poet's power..
 
 236 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 His description of the "Cotter's Saturday 
 Night " is a beautiful exmplification : . 
 
 The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary o'er the moor his course does homeward 
 bend. 
 
 At length his lowly cot appears in view 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree, 
 
 The expectant wee things toddlin stacher thro 1 , 
 
 To meet their dad wi' flechterin' noise and glee, 
 
 His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnily. 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftier wine's smile, 
 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 
 An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 287 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 
 And each for other's welfare kindly speirs, 
 The social hours swift-winged unnotic'd fleet, 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears, 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother wi' her needle an' her shears, 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new, 
 The father mixes a wi' admonition true. 
 But hark! a rap comes gently at the door, 
 Jenny, what kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor 
 To do some errands and convey her hame, 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e and flush her cheek, 
 With heart-struck anxions cafss, inquires his name, 
 While Jenny bafflin's is afraid to speak, 
 Weel pleased the mother hears its nae wild worth 
 less rake.
 
 88 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 There is a pleasing little incident told 
 of Burns in connection with this poem. 
 It is said that, with his manuscript in his 
 hand, he went into a cottage where the 
 gude wife was plying her wheel. He bade 
 her stop and hearken while he read his 
 story. She listened very patiently to the 
 reading, and then exclaimed : " Hoot, awee, 
 Bobbie, is not that what we all know?" 
 The proof of its naturalness was complete 
 it was all he desired. 
 
 From the frequent recurrence of many 
 biographers to the want of conjugal happi 
 ness in the household of Burns, we are apt 
 to get the idea that his home life was 
 clouded. This was only so when poverty, 
 with its inconveniences, intervened. He 
 himself says : " I have never seen where I 
 could make a better choice of a wife." Her
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 280 
 
 devotion as wife and mother appears de 
 serving of every praise. It was thought 
 the death of his child, a lovely girl of tender 
 years, hastened his own. Almost his last 
 effort was the letter he wrote his brother. 
 He said: <r l am dangerously ill, and not 
 likely to get better. God keep my wife 
 and children." His premonitions were cor 
 rect. Fever, delirium and debility finished 
 a life which had rapidly decayed beneath 
 the delicate peculiarities that belong to the 
 temperament of genius, and accordingly, at 
 the early age of thirty-eight, Scotland 
 mourned her brilliant and gifted son. 
 
 A few lines expressive of his affection 
 for his wife also shows his devotional 
 tendency : 
 
 19
 
 290 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O all ye powers who rule above, 
 O Thou whose very self art love, 
 
 Thou know'st my words sincere; 
 The life-blood streaming through my heart, 
 Or my more dear immortal part, 
 
 Is not more fondly dear. 
 When heart-corroding care and grief 
 
 Deprive my soul of rest, 
 Her doar idea brings relief 
 And solace to my breast. 
 Thou Being all-seeing, 
 O hear my fervent prayer, 
 Still take her and make her 
 Thy most peculiar care. 
 
 Another evidence that- he still in his 
 better moods remembered the religious 
 training of his youth, and wearied with 
 the disappointments and false promises of 
 friends, his spirit longed for rest, is given 
 in the annexed beautiful poem :
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 291 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 I'm wearin' awa', Jeaa 
 Like sma' wraiths in tha', Jean, 
 I'm wearin' awa' 
 
 To the Land o' the .Leal. 
 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's nither could mair care, Jean, 
 The days are a' fair 
 
 I' the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 O dry your gistening e'c, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels beckon me 
 
 To the Land o' the LeaL 
 
 Ye have been gude an' true, Jean, 
 Your task's near ended noo, Jean, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Our bonny bairn's there, Jean, 
 
 She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 
 
 And we grudged her sair 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal.
 
 292 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 If William Motherwell had never written 
 but the poem of Jeanie Morrison, it would 
 have gained for him an immortality. Ho 
 has been compared to Burns in his exqui 
 site tenderness and pathos. Like him, he 
 was at one time a violent partizan and an 
 uncompromising politician; but when years 
 have passed away the petty interests of a 
 local sphere are lost, with all their elements 
 of bitterness and hatred. The beautiful 
 sentiments of Jeanie Morrison will weave 
 an imperishable chaplet for the brow of 
 him who lives in this touching and pure
 
 MOTHERWELL. 293 
 
 record of a faithful heart. Of this poem it 
 has been said " that while the charming 
 song appears like an irrepressible gush of 
 feeling that would find vent, yet its finish 
 was the result not of a curious felicity, but 
 of the nicest elaboration." By touching and 
 retouching during many years, did Jeanie 
 Morrison attain her perfection. If the 
 reader will but have patience with the 
 peculiar dialect, he will find himself amply 
 repaid in its perusal: 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve o' life's young day; 
 The fire that's blown on Beltan's e'en 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule, 
 But blacker fa awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows culo.
 
 294 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
 And blend my e'en wi' tears; 
 
 They blind my e'en wi' saut, saut tears, 
 And sair and sick I pine, 
 
 As memory idly summons up 
 The blithe blinks o' lang syne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither wee! 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part, 
 Sweet time, sad time, twa bairns at schule, 
 
 Twa bairns and but ae heart. 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To lui ilk ither lear, 
 And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
 
 Remembered eyer mair. 
 
 1 wonder, Jeanie, often yet, 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loop locked in loop, 
 What our wee heads could think;
 
 MOTHERWELL. 295 
 
 When baith ben down, ower ae braid page, 
 
 Wi' ae bulk on our knee ; 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh, mind ye how we. hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the schule weans laughin' said 
 
 We decked thegither hanie 
 And mind ye o' the (Saturdays 
 
 (The schule then skaill at noon), 
 When we ran off to speel the braes, 
 
 The broorny braes o' June. 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by ane the thochts rush back, 
 
 O' schule time and o' thee. 
 O mornin' life! O mornin' luvc! 
 
 O lichsome days and lang, 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
 
 Like simmer blossoms, sprang !
 
 296 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 O mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its water croon? 
 The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wud 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wud, 
 
 The burn sung to the trees, 
 And we with Nature's heart in time, 
 
 Concerted harmonies; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn, 
 
 For hours thegithcr sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' vera gladness grat ! 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 Had ony power to speak !
 
 MOTHERWELL. 297 
 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 
 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 Unsyllabled unsung ; 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye hae been to me ? 
 Oh ! tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine; 
 Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' lang syne ? > 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart, 
 
 Still travels on its way; 
 And channels deeper as it rins, 
 
 The luve o' life's young day.
 
 298 MOTHERWELL. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sundered young, 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music of your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 O' bygane days and me! 
 
 Another Scotch poem of striking beauty 
 of description is " Cumnor Hall," doubly in 
 teresting from the impression which it 
 made on Walter Scott. He says " the first 
 stanza especially had a peculiar charm to 
 my fancy, and I found myself repeating it 
 again and again." To it the world is pro 
 bably indebted for Kenilworth. Although 
 too long to be inserted in full, it is too 
 fine a specimen of its author's style to be 
 lightly regarded. Walter Scott found it in
 
 MOTHEinVELL. 299 
 
 "Evan's Ancient Ballads," and ascribed it 
 to Mickle : 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall, 
 The moon (sweet regent of the sky) 
 
 Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now nought was heard beneath the skies 
 (The sounds of busy life wers still), 
 
 Save an vmlucky lady's sighs, 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love 
 That thou so oft has sworn to me, 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove, 
 Immured in shameful privacy ? 
 
 No more thou com'st with lover's speed, 
 
 Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
 But be she alive, or be she dead, 
 
 1 fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
 
 300 MOTHERWELL, 
 
 Not so the usage I received 
 
 "When happy in my father's hall; 
 
 No faithless husband then me grieved, 
 No chilling fears did me appal. 
 
 I rose up with the cheerful morn, 
 No lark so blithe, no flower so gay ; 
 
 And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
 So merrily sung the live-long day. 
 
 If that my beauty is but small, 
 Among court ladies all despised, 
 
 Why did'st thou rend it from that hall, 
 Where, scornful Earl, 'it well was prized. 
 
 And when you first to me made suit, 
 How fair I was, you oft would say! 
 
 And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, 
 Then left the blossom to decay.
 
 MOTHERWELL. 301 
 
 Thus lone and sad that lady grieved 
 In Cuinnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appeared, 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And many a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 Full many a traveller has sighed, 
 And pensive wept the Countess' fall, 
 
 As wandering onwards they've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor HalL
 
 AVE MAEIA. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY PAYNE'S PICTURE OF " THE 
 AVE MAEIA." 
 
 Ave Maria, from yon convent gray 
 
 The evening bell is calling us to prayer, 
 Its mellowed chimes in distance fade away, 
 
 Parting the stillness of the summer air. 
 Ave Maria at this holy hour, 
 
 When the deep fountains of the heart are stirred, 
 Tis sweet to feel the plentitude of power, 
 
 Which God on thee conferred. 
 
 Oh holy mother, by thy blessed aid, 
 
 We hope on earth to do our Saviour's will, 
 Oh light the shadows on our path-way laid, 
 
 And holy confidence with peace instil ; 
 Then shall that watchful care, that brooding love, 
 
 Prevail to save us when the tempter's nigh, 
 Blessed in thy guidance ne'er again we'll rove, 
 
 But mount successive to thy throne on high.
 
 AYE MARIA. 803 
 
 That bell hath warned us like some gentle tone, 
 
 A voice of pleading ne'er to be forgot, 
 Resistless monitor, can there be one 
 
 Who to thy summons answers not ? 
 Yon gentle maid, Italia's dark-eyed child, 
 
 Has laid aside the swift propelling oar, 
 Her boat lies moveless on the sunny wave, 
 
 To heaven and thee her orisons now soar. 
 
 Oh favored land, no Protean faith is thine, 
 
 No symbol veering with the summer air, 
 The holy type, the true suggestive sign 
 
 That tells of Calvary alone is there. 
 And now, though parted from thy deep blue main, 
 
 Thy sun-lit hills, thy far-off sounding sea, 
 Visions are flitting through my busy brain, 
 
 Which stir the magic chords of memory. 
 
 The spells of home are deep within my heart, 
 Its haunting memories, and its whispering tones 
 
 Of my lone life, they are the only part 
 O'er which a sunbeam glimmers on.
 
 304 AVE MARIA. 
 
 Ave Maria, bless that hallowed spot, 
 My vine-wreathed home, her smiling olive plains 
 
 Oh look with pity on my lonely lot, 
 And bring the exile to his home again.
 
 i'O AN ABSENT BROTHER. 305 
 
 TO AN ABSENT BROTHER. 
 
 My brother, thou'rt a wanderer now, 
 The deep blue sea our path divides, 
 
 But still our love shall follow thee, 
 Whatever weal or woe betide. 
 
 The memories of our early days, 
 
 Our mother's look, her tones of love, 
 
 Those gentle teachings ever blent, 
 With holy themes of earth above. 
 
 These yearning thoughts oft bring thee back, 
 
 For wert thou not a sharer too, 
 In many a low-breathed pray'r that fell 
 
 Upon our paths like glistening dew. 
 
 20
 
 806 TO AN ABSENT BROTHER. 
 
 That mother's form hath passed away, 
 But not the memories which endear, 
 
 Or else when but her name is spoke, 
 Why thickly course the blinding tears. 
 
 Then think be thine a sunny path, 
 Or one of dangers lone and wild, 
 
 That from the heaven her love hath won, 
 Our mother bends to bless her child. 

 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS. 307 
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " Merry Christmas ! Merry Christmas 1" 
 How sweetly sounds the old time-honored 
 salutation, bringing us back to days of yore, 
 when the fondest dream of our juvenility 
 was to anticipate the good old Santa Claus. 
 How often we wondered at his magical 
 ubiquity, yet never for one moment doubt 
 ing the tales of our good old nurse, of the 
 ponies prancing down the chimney, of the 
 stockings being filled in a trice, of the 
 justly proportioned rewards to each and 
 all. Happy, happy days of innocent child 
 hood after years, with their more refined 
 pleasures, can never compensate for the 
 sweet delusions of youth.
 
 308 MERRY CHRISTMAS.: 
 
 Beautifully has one of our own poets de 
 scribed this festival in the days of " Merry 
 England," in those days " when nature gave 
 her ample store." In " this wise sang he:" 
 
 "Within the halls are song and laughter, 
 The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 With the lightsome green of ivy and holly. 
 
 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
 
 Wallows the yule-log's roaring tide." 
 
 I question much if the iconoclastic march 
 of progress can make up for what we have 
 lost in the genial heartiness of the Anglo- 
 Saxon's mode of celebration. May we 
 never grow too wise for Merry Christmas ; 
 and though often, very often in the vicisr. 
 situdes of life, it brings to us Avith tenfold 
 bitterness the memory of the loved and
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS. 309 
 
 lost, for at such times the heart ever goes 
 back to renew alike its grief and love, on 
 the altar of affection. Still must we say : 
 
 " Hail to thec ! season of joy and festivity, 
 Social pleasures and innocent mirth, 
 
 Which smooth the path of age's declivity, 
 And render to infancy Eden on earth." 
 
 Ring, ring the bells a merry peal, 
 
 Let loud hosannas fill the air, 
 This day is born our Saviour king, 
 
 Then banish every grief and care. 
 
 This day from Heaven's bright throne He came, 
 To dwell on earth a simple babe, 
 
 His mother's arms are round Him thrown, 
 And on her breast His head is laid.
 
 810 MERRY CHRISTMAS, 
 
 His rosy lips are joining hers 
 In many a holy, fervent kiss, 
 
 The tears of love are on His cheek, 
 Her heart is filled with rapturous bliss. 
 
 Then trim the halls with ivy green, 
 
 And let the yule log away. 
 Be blithe and happy every one, 
 
 To welQome iu the Christinas day.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 311 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, although he ranks as 
 an English poet, was born at a place called 
 Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. 
 His father was an humble curate, and 
 "passing rich, with forty pounds a year." 
 Although in humble circumstances, the fami 
 ly had their share of ancestral pride, and 
 boasted not a little of an honorable Spanish 
 descent. The name of Goldsmith was 
 adopted in the sixteenth century, and was 
 derived from the mother's side. It is said 
 much of the romantic and wandering char 
 acter which distinguished Goldsmith's after 
 years was imbibed from the early teaching
 
 312 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 of his school-master, who had been an offi 
 cer in the wars of Queen Anne, and who. 
 finding in his young charge a ready listener, 
 poured into his willing ears the wild and 
 thrilling adventures of which he was often 
 the hero. Oliver's talents having attracted 
 the notice of some relatives of the 
 family, who, knowing the narrow circum 
 stances of his father offered to send him 
 to school, now commenced the troubles of 
 his life. Being naturally sprightly and gay, 
 he upon one occasion imprudently invited 
 some persons of both sexes to his rooms for 
 a little entertainment. His tutor, who was 
 a man of choleric temperament, chastised 
 young Goldsmith in the presence of his 
 friends. This disgrace drove him for a timo 
 from the university, but, matters being ami 
 cably arranged, he returned afterwards, and
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 813 
 
 finished his course ; but it was remarkable 
 that he did not fulfill the expectations of his 
 friends, nor develop the promise of his boy 
 hood. From his first situation as tutor he 
 saved about 30, with which he bought a 
 horse and commenced his rambles through 
 the country. After some weeks he returned 
 home with a miserable nag, which he called 
 Fiddleback. His story was, he had sold his 
 first horse to pay his passage for America, 
 but while he was viewing the curiosities 
 of the town the ship sailed, and he had just 
 sufficient left to purchase the wretched 
 animal he bestrode. His uncle, who was 
 always kind and lenient to his faults, sent 
 him to the temple. On his way to London 
 he was fleeced by some gamesters and re 
 turned shortly, in disgrace, to his mother. 
 Again his friends assist him. Next we find
 
 314 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 him in Edinburgh studying medicine. After 
 attending several courses he started for 
 Leyden, where, with his usual improvidence, 
 we discover him spending the last farthing 
 in purchasing some costly roots for a friend. 
 He set out now on the tour of Europe, 
 without money; but with his flute he won 
 the hearts of the peasantry, for their hos 
 pitality followed, as he says in The Traveler, 
 which is a description of his journey : 
 
 "How often have I led thy sportive choir 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
 And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew ; 
 And haply though my harsh touch, faltering still, 
 But mocked all tune and marred the dancer's skill, 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power 
 And clance forgetful of the noontide hour. 
 Alike all ages; dames of ancient days
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 315 
 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze 
 And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of three score." 
 
 The employments of Goldsmith were as 
 various as his writings. He was usher in 
 an academy, a journeyman chemist, a con 
 tributor to Dr. Griffith's Monthly Review, 
 and a conductor of the Lady's Magazine. 
 As a writer, he was historian, essayist, phil 
 osopher and poet. His fortunes were as 
 various as his occupations. The sad descrip 
 tion which he gives of An Author's Bed 
 chamber was no doubt drawn from his own 
 life experience : 
 
 " The inuse found Scraggon stretched beneath a rug; 
 A window patched \vith paper lent a ray 
 That dimly showed the state in which he lay ; 
 The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ;
 
 316 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; 
 The royal game of Goose was there in view, 
 And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 
 The seasons framed with listing found a place, 
 And brave Prince William showed his lamp black 
 
 face; 
 
 The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 
 The rusty gate unconscious of a fire ; 
 With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored 
 And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney board ; 
 A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, 
 A cap by night a stocking all the day!" 
 
 When hard at work earning the scanty 
 pittance which furnished this wretched life, 
 he spent every spare penny on the poor 
 children who were his neighbors, and as 
 one of his biographers tells us, " taught 
 them dancing by way of cheering their 
 poverty." He was known far and near by
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 317 
 
 the poor, who regarded him as their own, 
 and many an interesting and noble trait of 
 his generous character is recorded in the 
 fond appellation which they familliarly be 
 stowed upon him of "our doctor." In his 
 Deserted Village, which is considered his 
 best work, how feelingly he portrays the 
 sad condition of the poor : 
 
 "She, wretched matron, forced in age for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain." 
 
 There is a quiet beauty, an intellectual 
 composure blending with the chaste simpli 
 city of Goldsmith, and wo feel often, after 
 reading his descriptions and observations,
 
 318 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 no one else could have written so well. 
 Kead his indignant exclamation against 
 lordly luxury and monotonous pleasure, 
 which, as Campbell observes, " aped the 
 grandeur of the feudal ages, without its 
 hospitality," and indignantly spurned the 
 cottage from the green. Hear his descrip 
 tion of the migration to a distant shore : 
 
 "And sorrows deep that gloomed tlie parting day 
 "Which called them from their native walks away; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 Hung round the bowers and fondly looked their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For scenes like these beyond the western mam; 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
 But for himself in conscious virtue brave,
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 319 
 
 lie only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 
 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 
 
 And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear 
 
 And clasped them close in sorrow doubly dear; 
 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 
 In all the silent manliness of grief." 
 
 HOAV little does the poet draw from fancy 
 that can pen such a picture. How closely 
 has he confined himself to realities. There 
 is a true pathos, a tender lament, in the 
 sympathy which he expresses that our own 
 heart, echoes, and the poet commands us at 
 his will. The Traveller was Goldsmith's 
 first successful attempt in the world of
 
 320 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 letters. It passed rapidly through several 
 editions. Dr. Johnson has declared it too 
 discursive ; but it was a simple sketch of 
 his itinerant life, and his descriptions vary 
 with the countries which he describes. The 
 superior results of his mode of observing 
 men and manners is evidenced by the suc 
 cess of his work : 
 
 " From that land where Prance displays her bright 
 
 domain 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
 Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
 And sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward niethinks and diligently slow, 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 321 
 
 Scoops out an empire and usurps the shore : 
 While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile, 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign." 
 
 In a letter of dedication to his brother 
 
 > 
 
 Goldsmith says : " I have endeavored to 
 
 
 
 show that there may be equal happiness in 
 States that are differently governed from 
 our own : that every State has a particular 
 principle of happiness, and that this prin 
 ciple in each may be carried to a mischievous 
 excess, there are few can judge better than 
 yourself." The Traveller is dedicated to 
 this, his favorite brother, of whom he says : 
 
 "Where'er 1 roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart untraveli'd fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 1 ' 
 
 21
 
 322 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The " Amor Patriae " was never more fitly 
 described than in the following, taken from 
 the same poem : 
 
 "But where to find the happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct when all pretend to know? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease; 
 The naked negro panting at the line 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave, 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave 
 Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
 His first best country ever is at home." 
 
 The steady popularity of Goldsmith in 
 that era of literature when pretension was 
 easily unmasked, and when the standard was
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 323 
 
 supported by men of genius and scholar 
 ship, is indeed a consideration not to be 
 overlooked. When the mind is bewildered, 
 when the brain aches by the sensation im 
 probabilities, the startling incidents, the 
 terrific disclosures of our every day fictions, 
 our highly wrought pictures of fashionable 
 and false life, turn to the " Vicar of Wake- 
 field." It appears, indeed, like the record 
 (as it truly is) of another age. Its lessons 
 of rural life and humble virtue, its simple 
 credulity and unsophisticated innocence are 
 charming in their very freshness. There 
 is not even an attempt at mystery, except 
 in one character. Goldsmith did not cater 
 to that taste which is only satisfied by 
 something out of the entire order of natural 
 events, and which make vice not the mon 
 ster of hideous mien, but a poor suffering
 
 324 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 martyr to circumstances, while honest, plain 
 homespun virtue is simply tolerated, seldom 
 reverenced and honored. 
 
 The sale of the Vicar of Wakefield brought 
 our poet 60. It came most opportunely 
 just at that time when he was immured 
 within by bailiffs, and threatened to be 
 driven out by his long-suffering landlady. 
 Shortly after this publication he became 
 recognized in good society, and was the re 
 cipient of much literary distinction. He 
 also became a member of some clubs only 
 frequented by men of genius, and many a 
 pungent witticism and brilliant sally is re 
 corded of those convivial reunions. Many! 
 forgotten (save at the passing moment) havo 
 passed silently away into the oblivion ol 
 time, others found their way out, and live 
 as pictures of the past. It was proposed
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 325 
 
 one evening, when Goldsmith happened to 
 be absent, to write his epitaph. It was ac 
 cordingly done, aud he was called upon for 
 an answer. This is the history of his some 
 what celebrated poem "Retaliation." 
 
 At the next meeting he sent in the fol 
 lowing : 
 
 Of old when Scarron his companions invited, 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. 
 If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish. 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 
 
 dish : 
 
 Our Dean shall be veu'son just fresh from the plains, 
 Our Burke shall be tongue with a garnish of brains, 
 Our Will shall be wild fowl of excellent flavor, 
 And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savor, 
 
 Our Cumberland's sweet bread its place shall obtain 
 
 i 
 And Douglas is pudding substantial and plain ; 
 
 Our Garrick's a salad, for in him, we see, 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar and saltness agree ;
 
 326 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 To make out the dinner full certain I am 
 That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb, 
 That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a goosberry fool. 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
 Who'd not be a glutton and stick to the last ? 
 Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then with chaos and blunder encircling my head 
 Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead. 
 Here lies the good Dean reunited to earth, 
 Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 
 
 mirth. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund whose genius was such 
 We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Here lies David Garrick describe him who can; 
 An abridgement of all that was pleasant ia man ; 
 As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 327 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most pleasant, blunt creature, 
 And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
 He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper, 
 Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper! 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ; 
 I answer no, no; for he always was wiser; 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that; 
 Perhaps he has confided in men as they go, 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no. 
 Then what was his failing? come, tell it and burn ye; 
 He was could he help it ? a " special attorney." 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 lie has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless and grand; 
 His manners were gentle, complying and bland ; 
 Still born to improve us in every part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart; 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judgxl without skill he was still hard of 
 hearing,
 
 328 OLIOEB GOLDSMITH. 
 
 When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios and 
 
 stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet* and only took snuff. 
 
 Strange with all his originality and re 
 finement of mind, Goldsmith should have 
 been the subject of witticism. His country 
 dialect and person were kept in view by 
 ignorant witlings, while his noble qualities 
 were often overlooked. He was almost ever 
 a loser in conversation, and Johnson re 
 marked of him, " no man was more foolish 
 when he had not a pen in his hand, or more 
 wise when he had," and he further observes 
 "whatever he composed he did it better 
 than any other man could, and whether we 
 consider him as a poet, a comic writer, or a 
 historian, (so far as regards his powers of 
 
 *Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under iho 
 necessity of using an ear trumpet in company.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 329 
 
 composition,) he was one of the first writers 
 of his time, and will ever stand in the fore 
 most class." Strange indeed with such rare 
 endowments there should be joined such un- 
 perverted simplicity, such delight in the 
 delineation of humble life. He could write 
 Roman and English histories, biographies 
 and introductions to books, a history of the 
 earth and animated nature, and 
 
 he could stoop to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that place ; 
 The white washed wall, the sanded floor, 
 The varnish'd clock that clicked behind the door ; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose, 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, 
 While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
 'Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
 
 330 OLINER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The very truthfulness of Goldsmith's 
 character, which prevented him from dis 
 sembling or hiding his emotions, led to many 
 a rebuke from the stately and pedantic 
 Johnson. At one time when complaining of 
 the unjustness of some epithet which had 
 been bestowed upon him, Johnson exclaimed, 
 " poh ! poh ! doctor ; let them call you Holo- 
 fernes if they like, what matters it ?" and . 
 when he experienced some chagrin at the 
 reception which his " Man in Black " re 
 ceived, he showed the most unmitigated 
 contempt for " poor Goldy," as he styled 
 him in derision, that he should feel or care. 
 The truth is, although Goldsmith had known 
 and suffered much, he had not lived so long- 
 in poverty as his great contemporary, " nor 
 suffered so long from hope deferred." John 
 son was over fifty when he was first known
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 331 
 
 to the public ; Goldsmith only forty-six when 
 he died. 
 
 As mannerism makes the identity of dis 
 tinguished individuals, so, although often 
 times odd and even offensive, we learn to 
 regard it as sacred, being a part of them 
 selves. Milton, Burke, and Johnson most of 
 all was remarkable for this. Goldsmith said 
 to him one day, "If you were to write a fable 
 about little fishes, Doctor, you would make 
 the little fishes talk like whales." A lite 
 rary discussion with Johnson was delightful; 
 yet so was a chat with the watch-maker in 
 Gun Arbor Court, and the tailor who 
 patched his only velvet coat so nicely. He 
 sympathized with the wrongs of all classes ; 
 perhaps it was not his particular merit ; his 
 heart was naturally feeling, and it was in 
 voluntary. But we must love the man who
 
 332 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 
 
 could leave a convivial party to search for 
 some poor woman whose tones, as she chanted 
 a ditty in passing by, indicated distress ; 
 and he rejoiced more in the exercise of 
 those tender and noble sentiments than in 
 the highest triumphs of scholarship and 
 renown. He never made use of stratagem 
 to compass a favor. At one time his 
 friends were anxious that he should procure 
 some patronage from the Earl of Bute. He 
 undertook to prepare an introduction. Meet 
 ing the upper steward, he mistook him for 
 " my lord," and gave him the benefit of 
 what had been prepared for ears polite. 
 He retrieved his error in his usual way, by 
 telling the nobleman that he had no confi 
 dence in the patronage of the great, but 
 would rather rely on the booksellers. 
 In judging of the sentiments of poets,
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 333 
 
 we usually allow them so much of what is 
 called " poetic license" that a strict and 
 logical interpretation is scarcely ever in 
 dulged in. With Goldsmith it is quite dif 
 ferent. He keeps so close to realities, and 
 draws certain conclusions respecting the 
 destiny and happiness of mankind so accu 
 rately and pointedly that we judge him by 
 a different standard, although this may be 
 complimentary to him as a philosopher, by 
 the same rule we may misjudge him as a 
 poet. 
 
 It has been said his theory is averse 
 to trade and wealth and arts. He delineates 
 their evils, and disdains their vaunted bene 
 fits, as in the following extract: 
 
 O luxury, thou curs'd by heaven's decree, 
 How do thy potions with insidious joy 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy;
 
 334 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown, 
 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldly woe, 
 
 Till sapped their strength and every part unsound, 
 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 'round. 
 
 Goldsmith vindicates his own expressed 
 views in a letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 He says : " For twenty or thirty years past, 
 it has been the fashion to consider luxury 
 as one of the greatest national advantages ; 
 and all the wisdom of antiquity in that par 
 ticular as erroneous. Still, however, I must 
 remain a professed ancient on that head, 
 and continue to think those luxuries preju 
 dicial to states by which so many vices are 
 introduced, and so many kingdoms have 
 been undone. Indeed, so much has been 
 poured out of late on the other side of the
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 335 
 
 question, that, merely for the sake of novelty, 
 and variety, one would sometimes wish to 
 be right." "Truth is an endearing quality;" 
 perhaps it was this spell that brought so 
 many hearts to his shrine. Certain it is, 
 he was loved while living, and mourned 
 when dead. 
 
 When Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in 
 the full tide of success, threw his pencil 
 aside in sorrow, and Burke turned from 
 the fast brightening vision of renown to 
 weep. No obituary more sincere or more 
 heartfelt could be desired than this.
 
 336 CHRISTMAS SOXO 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG 1866. 
 
 An anthem of joy, an anthem of love, 
 
 'For another Christmas day ; 
 Let the earth rejoice, the Heavens be glad 
 
 While we our offerings pay. 
 
 We come with lowly, reverent hearts, 
 To that crib and manger old, 
 
 But not with gems and settings rare, 
 Of diamond and of gold. 
 
 Oh no, not these, for the earth is His, 
 The stars and the boundless sea, 
 
 The moon that gems the vaulted dome, 
 In her silvery canopy.
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG. 337 
 
 An angel band at His behest, 
 
 The couriers of His will, 
 Await the mandate which shall bid 
 
 The unceasing world bo still. 
 
 On earth so weak, in Heaven so strong, 
 
 A mortal yet divine, 
 I ask not, for I may not know 
 
 This mystery of thine. 
 
 Then an anthem of love, an anthem of joy, 
 
 For our Saviour's natal day, 
 With the angel choir exulting join, 
 
 The sweet attesting lay.
 
 338 TO M. H. 
 
 TO M. H 
 
 Dear friend, dear friend, my heart to day 
 Renews its youth from memory's spring, 
 
 And as its rolling "waters play, 
 
 One gift to you it fain would bring. 
 
 My mother's friend ! That name alone 
 Must bind thee ever to my heart ; 
 
 My guide through many a dreary waste 
 Such thou hast been, and still thou art. 
 
 My wilful pride, my wayward youth, 
 Defied reproof from all but thee ; 
 
 Thy soothing love, thy kindly blame, 
 Hath made whatever good there be. 
 
 Then as ye cluster round the board, 
 And as ye quaff the goodly cheer, 
 
 Oh take my love, my fondest wish, 
 For blessings on the coming year.
 
 THE AUTUMN BAUBLE. 839 
 
 THE AUTUMN RAMBLE. 
 
 Come my darlings for a ramble, 
 To the woods so dun and sere, 
 
 Don your cloaks and tie your bonnets, 
 For the inorn is cold and clear. 
 
 Glows each face with expectation, 
 For the treasures to be found, 
 
 Nuts and cones, with pretty acorns, 
 Strewed upon the leafy ground. 
 
 Don and Dash are on before us, 
 Bounding merrily up the hill, 
 
 Looking back with furtive glances 
 Barking their impatient will.
 
 340 THE AUTUMN BA.MDLE. 
 
 i 
 Shall we to the grove of cedars, 
 
 Winter there is ever green, 
 Aud the sun with side-king glances 
 Flings to earth a paler sheeu. 
 
 Nay, reluctant, you would rather 
 
 To the beechen woods below, 
 Where we found the dark green fern leaves 
 
 Only a few days ago. 
 
 Now with little hands close pressing, 
 Tender palms love-linked in mine, 
 
 Pattering feet to laughing measure, 
 Happy glides the merry time.
 
 D2. JOHNSON. 341 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON was born on the 
 18th of September, 1709, at Lichfield, in 
 Staffordshire. From neither father nor mother 
 had he any great amount of intellect to 
 inherit. Their extraction was obscure. His 
 father is represented as being an unwaver 
 ing devotee to the house of Stuart, and 
 strongly prejudiced in favor of their cause. 
 He was a bookseller and stationer in Der 
 byshire. His mother, with a mind unim 
 proved by education, was nevertheless a 
 woman of good natural understandiDg, 
 eminently pious and conscientious according 
 to her standard of religious faith, and her
 
 342 DR. JOHNSON 
 
 son in after years acknowledged, with 
 gratitude and almost veneration, the bene 
 fits of her early instruction. The effects 
 of the many castigations Johnson received 
 at school from his severe but attentive 
 teacher, influenced him in favor of a free 
 use of the rod, and in all his conversations 
 on the subject he declared strenuously in 
 favor of the same. He commanded respect 
 from his school-fellows by his remarkable 
 proficiency and aptitude ; it always ex 
 ceeded his apparent diligence, but, in truth, 
 when he seemed idle he was often laboring. 
 Dr. Adams said of him : " No young man 
 ever entered the university better qualified." 
 In order to defray his expenses there he be 
 came companion to a gentleman of Shrop 
 shire. Avho spontaneously undertook to sup 
 port him. Among his companions he was
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 343 
 
 looked up to as a man of wit and spirit, 
 but he was always subject to fits of melan 
 choly (which he inherited from his father), 
 accompanied by alternate irritation and 
 languor. From nature he had received an 
 uncouth figure and diseased constitution, as 
 a kind of detraction, perhaps, for his great 
 mental abilities, for after all our common 
 mother is not as partial in her gifts as we 
 are apt to consider her, and her doctrine 
 of compensation very often comes in most 
 opportunely as an offset to repress our pre 
 sumption or save us from despair. At Mr. 
 Jordan's (his teacher's) request, he translated 
 Pope's Messiah into Latin verse as a Christ 
 mas exercise. Shortly after leaving college 
 his father died. The means he left were 
 scarcely sufficient to afford a temporary 
 support to his mother, and in the following
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 year he accepted a situation as usher in a 
 school ; but that was rendered irksome to 
 him from the pride and pomposity of its 
 patron, Sir Wolstun Dixie. He finally 
 threw up his situation in disgust, and be 
 coming the guest of Mr. Hector (an eminent 
 surgeon), embarked in the uncertainties of 
 authorship. But even in these, his first 
 works, may be observed the energetic and 
 manly style (notwithstanding the manner 
 isms) which he is said to have initiated and 
 taught his countrymen. His labors at this 
 time were principally translations, dedica 
 tions and essays. Having suggested some 
 improvements in the management of the 
 Gentleman's Magazine, its editor employed 
 him as a contributor, and Johnson entered 
 into an agreement to furnish those articles 
 which he himself had the privilege of se-
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 345 
 
 lecting. In the following year he married 
 the widow of Mr. Porter, a mercer of Bir 
 mingham, a lady who, although twenty years 
 his senior, is said to have been the object 
 of his first passion. From this disparity, 
 joined to a peculiar temper, their conjugal 
 happiness was not uninterrupted. But he al 
 ways spoke of her respectfully, and mourned 
 her loss with unfeigned sorrow. With the 
 fortune which she brought him ho fitted up 
 an academy. Three pupils only rewarded 
 his endeavors. One of these was the cele 
 brated David Garrick, who remained ever 
 the devoted friend of Johnson. Their for 
 tunes were as different as their peculiar 
 abilities Garrick, as is well known, devoted 
 himself to the stage, and receiving its 
 highest honors, retired on a fortune splen 
 did beyond all precedent for an actor ;
 
 346 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 while Johnson struggled on, in poverty and 
 comparative obscurity, for many a weary 
 year. At the end of six months the school 
 was declared a failure, and given up. His 
 " London," an imitation of the third satire 
 of Juvenal, won for Dr. Johnson the fame 
 and respect of his contemporaries, and it 
 was said, "the writer of so fine a poem 
 cannot long remain unknown." He com 
 pares and contrasts the pleasures of a rural 
 life with that of a city. 
 
 There none are swept by sudden fate away, 
 But all whom hunger spares, with age decay; 
 Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire, 
 And now a rabble rages, now a fire; 
 Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, 
 And here the fell attorney prowls for prey; 
 Here falling houses thunder on your head, 
 And here a female atheist talks you dead.
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 347 
 
 His prejudice against France and Spain 
 finds here a convenient outlet, and he de 
 plores the introduction of those manners 
 and occupations which might effeminate or 
 degrade the more manly Briton. Imagining 
 the effects he fears, he says : 
 
 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, 
 
 The rustic grandeur or the surly grace, 
 
 But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, 
 
 Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; 
 
 Sense, freedom, piety, refined away, 
 
 Of France the mirror and of Spain the prey; 
 
 All that at home no more can beg or steal, 
 
 Or like a gibbet better than a wheel, 
 
 Hissed from the stage or hooted from the court, 
 
 Their air, their dress, their politics import; 
 
 Obsequious, artful, voluble and gay, 
 
 On Britain's fond credulity they prey,
 
 348 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Turn from this to the description of 
 character. It would seem as if all the 
 acerbity of Johnson was excited against 
 
 The supple Gaul who, born a parasite, 
 Still to his interest true where'er he goes, 
 Wit, bravery, worth his lavish tongue bestows; 
 In every face a thousand graces shine, 
 From every tongue flows harmony divine, 
 These arts in vain our rugged natives try, 
 Strain out with faltering diffidence a lie, 
 And gain a kick for awkward flattery. 
 Well may they venture on the mimic's art, 
 Who play from morn to night a borrowed part, 
 Practis'd their masters' notions to embrace, 
 Repeat his maxims and reflect his face, 
 With every wild absurdity comply, 
 And view each object with another's eye : 
 To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 
 To pour at will the counterfeited tear, 
 And as their patron hints the cold or heat, 
 To shake in dog-days, in December sweat,
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 349 
 
 How, when competitors like these contend, 
 Can surly virtue hope to find a friend ? 
 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, 
 And lie without a blush, without a smile. 
 
 He who for nearly all his life had tasted 
 poverty to its bitter dreg, had looked from 
 its sad and lonely contemplations on the 
 means and ends by which men " raise a 
 palace and a manor buy," might well ex 
 claim : 
 
 This mournful truth is everywhere confessed, 
 Slow rises worth by poverty oppressed. 
 
 Johnson, Collins, Fielding and Thomson, 
 names the most celebrated during the eigh 
 teenth century, were all four at different 
 times arrested for debt. The supreme 
 power, after the accession of the house of
 
 350 DE. JOHNSON. 
 
 Hanover, passed into the hands of Sir Hor 
 ace Walpole, who, whatever his talents for 
 government and debate, had but little taste 
 for authors, and that fund which, under 
 Bolingbroke, had fostered men of letters, 
 was now employed in bartering for par 
 liamentary support. Macauley says, " the 
 coarse joke of his friend, Sir Charles Kan- 
 bury Williams, was more pleasing to Wal 
 pole than Thomson's Seasons or Richardson's 
 Pamela." Thus at the time when Johnson 
 commenced his literary career, a writer had 
 little to hope from the patronage of the 
 great. The season of rich harvest had 
 passed away, and famine now desolated the 
 land. All that was despicable and wretched 
 might be summed up in one word poet. 
 In calamities and miseries such as these, 
 Johnson embarked in his twenty-eighth
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 351 
 
 year, and the information respecting him 
 from that period until he came before the 
 world with a fame established, and a pen 
 sion confessed, is little indeed for the giant 
 of English literature. He who had so often 
 experienced the delusive promises of the 
 great might well describe, in his "Vanity 
 of Human Wishes," the 
 
 Unnumbered suppliants who crowd Preferment's gate, 
 Athirst for wealth and burning to be great 
 Delusive fortune hears the incessant call, 
 They mount, they shine, evaporate and falL 
 On every stage the foes of peace attend, 
 Hate dogs their flight and insult marks their end. 
 Love ends with hope ; the sinking statesman's door 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies; 
 From every room descends the painted face 
 That hung the bright Palladium of the place,
 
 352 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 And smoked in kitchens or in auctiors sold; 
 To better features yields the frame of gold, 
 For now no more we trace in every lino 
 Heroic worth, benevolence divine, 
 The form distorted justifies the fall, 
 And detestation, rids the indignant wall. 
 
 In comparison with the great attributes 
 of Dr. Johnson, poetry seems quite subsi- 
 dary ; yet his verification was ready and 
 free. The following, to a young lady on 
 her birth-day, was almost impromptu, in 
 the presence of Mr. Hector: 
 
 This tributary verse receive my fair, 
 Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer, 
 May this returning day forever find 
 Thy form more lovely, more adorned thy mind j 
 All pa'ns, a.l cares, may favoring heaven remove, 
 All but the sweet solicitude of love- 
 May powerful nature join with grateiul art,
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 353 
 
 To point each glance, and force it to the heart; 
 Oh then, when conquered crowds confess thy sway, 
 When e'en proud wealth and prouder wit obey, 
 My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust, 
 Alas ! 'tis hard for beauty to be just. 
 Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ, 
 Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy; 
 "With his own form acquaint the forward fool, 
 Shown in tho mimic glass of ridicule ; 
 Teach mimic censure her own faults to find, 
 No more let coquettes to themselves be blind, 
 So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind. 
 
 If politeness is benevolence in small 
 things, then indeed Dr. Johnson's benevo 
 lence was confined to great things. He 
 wanted sympathy with the common ills 
 which generally afflict mankind. Even a 
 great pecuniary loss failed to affect him, 
 unless the loser were reduced to beggary. 
 
 Small things appeared to him contemptible, 
 
 23
 
 354 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 and yet he was the slave of little habits, 
 little tastes, little customs. Boswell tells us 
 of his insatiable taste for tea, his extreme 
 fondness for fish-sauce and veal-pie with 
 plums, his trick of touching the posts as he 
 walked, his mysterious practice of treasuring 
 up scraps of orange peel, his morning slunr 
 bers, his midnight disputations, etc., etc., 
 until we are able to say, with Macauley, he 
 is better known to us than any man in his 
 tory. And yet he was not wanting in 
 affection. His beautiful poem of Easselas 
 was written to defray the expenses of his 
 mother's funeral; and incredible as it may 
 seem, Walsh tells us the whole of this 
 elegant and philosophical fiction was pre 
 pared for press in one week, and sent in 
 portions, as it was written. He loved his 
 mother with the most anxious affection, and 
 often from his scanty hoards contributed to
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 355 
 
 her relief. His ''Yours, without a dinner," 
 to his bookseller, Cave, tells most powerfully 
 the state of his impoverished finances. In 
 a letter, to Lord Chesterfield, which is con 
 sidered a model of " dignified contempt," 
 his allusion to the loss of his wife and to 
 his present situation is exquisitely beautiful. 
 11 The notice you have been pleased to take 
 of my labors, had it been early, had been 
 kind, but it has been delayed until I am 
 indifferent and cannot enjoy it; until I am 
 solitary and cannot impart it; until I am 
 known and do not want it." Lord Chester 
 field, whom Johnson regarded at one time 
 as a liberal patron, had neglected him, but 
 being anxious to have the dictionary, which 
 was just finished, dedicated to him, sought 
 to soothe him by ingenious compliments; 
 but Johnson was indignant that his lordship 
 would even suppose for a moment he could
 
 356 DR. JOHNSON, 
 
 bo reconciled by his flattery and artificial 
 compliments. His dictionary was published 
 in two large volumes folio. It is much to 
 say of this work, it outlives its age, without 
 appearance of decrepitude or decay. He 
 issued proposals for an edition of Shakspeare, 
 and while he was proceeding with it he was 
 informed that the king had granted him a 
 ^tension of three hundred pounds a year, 
 lie took a better house, and allotted an apart 
 ment to Mrs. Williams, a daughter of Zachary 
 Williams, who was possessed of considerable 
 poetic talent, but who was totally blind. Her 
 temper was perverse and irritable, yet noth 
 ing could induce him to withdraw the charity 
 he had once assumed. His home was often 
 rendered unpleasant by dependents who fat 
 tened on his bounty, and yet he often said, 
 " If I dismiss them, who will take care of 
 them!" He was consoled for these annoy-
 
 DK. JOHNSON. 357 
 
 ances by the friendship of the Thrale family, 
 whose hospitality afforded him the comforts 
 of an elegant and substantial home. An im 
 promptu to Mrs. Thrale on the completion 
 of her 35th year is another proof of his 
 ready versification : 
 
 Oft in danger, yet alive, 
 
 "We are come to thirty-five ; 
 
 Long may better years arrive, 
 
 Better years than thirty-five. 
 
 Could philosophers contrive, 
 
 Life to stop at thirty-five, 
 
 Time his hours should never drive 
 
 O'er the bounds cf thirty-five. 
 
 High to soar and deep to dive, 
 
 Nature gives at thirty-five. 
 
 Ladies, stock and tend your hive, 
 
 Trifle not at thirty-five. 
 
 For however we boast and strive, 
 
 Life declines at thirty-five.
 
 258 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 He that ever hopes to thrive 
 Must begin at thirty-five, 
 And all who wisely wish to wive 
 Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. 
 
 Some of the bagatelles published in 1775 
 are sufficiently ridiculous, but as they afford 
 us a vein of Johnson in a merry mood, they 
 impart an interest, Some were written in 
 burlesque of modern versification of ancient 
 legendary tales, as follows : 
 
 The tender infant, meek and mild, 
 
 Fell down upon the stone ; 
 The nurse took up the squealing child, 
 
 But still the child squealed on. 
 
 Another of the same kind : 
 
 Where'er I turn my view, 
 All is strange, yet nothing new, 
 . Endless labor all along, 
 Endless labor to be wrong,
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 359 
 
 Phrase that time has flung away, 
 Uncouth words in disarray, 
 Tricked in antique ruff and bonnet, 
 Ode, and elegy and sonnet 
 
 One more, a parody from the translation 
 of the Medea of Euripides : 
 
 Err snail they not, who resolute explore 
 Time's g'oomy backward with judicious eyes; 
 
 And scanning right the practises of yore, 
 Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise. 
 
 They to the dome where smoke with curling play 
 Announced the dinner to the regions round, 
 
 Summoned the singer blithe and harper gay, 
 And aided wine with dulcet streaming sound. 
 
 The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill, 
 By quivering string or modulated wind, 
 
 Trumpet or lyre to their harsh bosoms chill, 
 Admission ne'er had sought or could not find.
 
 360 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Oh, send them to the sullen mansions dun, 
 Her baleful eyes where sorrow rolls around, 
 
 Where, gloom enamored, mischief loves to dwell, 
 And murder, all blood boltered, schemes the wound. 
 
 Where cates the luxuriant pile the spacious dish, 
 And purple nectar glads the festive hour, 
 
 The guest without a want, without a wish, 
 Can yield no room to music's soothing power. 
 
 Although the success of Dr. Johnson's 
 Shakspeare was not great at first, it in 
 creased the respect for his ability, and his 
 talents were fully recognized by Trinity 
 College, Dublin, from which institution he 
 received the title of Doctor of Laws. He was 
 in the following year admitted to a personal 
 interview with the king, in the library of the 
 queen's palace, and soon after was appointed 
 professor of ancient literature. Many of
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 361 
 
 Johnson's friends, and among them Mr. Stra- 
 han, the king's printer, were anxious to pro 
 cure him a seat in parliament. His biogra 
 phers have made themselves merry and 
 amused their readers not a little with conjec 
 tures as to the ridiculous figure he would 
 have made there. His sense of right would 
 have prevented him from being a mere party 
 man. He very much opposed the principle 
 that " a man should go with his party, right 
 or wrong." " This," he once said, " is so re 
 mote from national virtue, from scholastic 
 virtue, that a good man must have under 
 gone a great change before he can reconcile 
 himself to such a doctrine. It is maintaining 
 that you may lie to the public, for you do 
 lie when you call that right which you think 
 wrong, or the reverse." In his "Taxation 
 no Tyranny," he endeavored to show that 
 distant colonies which had in their assemblies
 
 '3G2 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 a legislature of their own, were still liable 
 to be taxed in a British parliament, where 
 they had no representatives, and he^thought 
 Britain was strong enough to force obedience. 
 He afterwards felt keenly the unpopularity 
 of his views, but would not permit himself 
 to acknowledge the force and strength that 
 were brought against him. At a meeting 
 of a great number of the most respectable 
 booksellers of London, it was unanimously 
 agreed that an elegant and uniform edition of 
 the English poets should be printed, with 
 an account of the life of each author, by 
 Dr. Samuel Johnson; and a committee ac 
 cordingly waited upon him with proposals. 
 He entered upon the task with avidity. All 
 that was expected from him would have been 
 embraced in a concise and succinct account 
 of each poet, but he continued to expatiate 
 and criticise, until at last he presented to
 
 DR. JOHNSON 363 
 
 tlie world a work which could scarcely be 
 credited as emanating from the pen of a man 
 bordering on seventy. He enjoyed all the 
 triumphs of success in the avidity with 
 which his "Lives of the Poets" were read 
 and praised, and he did not fail to enjoy 
 another satisfaction, which he had always 
 contended a writer must expect. He was 
 attacked on all sides by friends of the dif 
 ferent poets. Some contended he had said 
 too little, while others contended he had 
 said too much, as both quantity and quality 
 were disagreeable. During his life his oppo 
 nents were sufficiently busy, but it was 
 astonishing how they increased in malignity 
 and force after his death. Concealed hostility 
 now showed itself even from those who had 
 but a short time since been voluble in his 
 praise. But it was his fate to receive the 
 just reward of his transendent genius, re-
 
 364 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 verecl by the \vhoie Englisli world. His 
 name is honored in the catalogue of her 
 most gifted sons. 
 
 He was solemnly interred in Westminster 
 Abbey, close by the grave of Garrick, his 
 pupil and his friend.
 
 AVB MARIA. 365 
 
 AVE MARIA. 
 
 Ave Maria, the shadows arc stealing, 
 
 Ave Marin, sweet anthems are pealing, 
 
 Soft while they're falling o'er earth and o'er sea, 
 
 Sweet Mary, my mother, I turn unto thee. 
 
 The zephyr is stealing ere daylight reposes, 
 The breath of the lily, the scent of the roses, 
 The birdling is hushing his gay woodlaad strain, 
 But the night-bird is chanting a sweeter refrain. 
 
 The earth is all beauty, all gladness and love, 
 From the world at our feet to the bright stars above, 
 My heart is elated such brightness to see, 
 And it turns in devotion, sweet mother, to thee.
 
 >66 HYMN OP THE NATIVITY. 
 
 HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 
 
 Alone on Bethlehem's wooded heights 
 
 They watched, that shepherd band of old, 
 
 Thro' the long wastes of dreary night, 
 Guarding their fleecy fold. 
 
 Simple and poor, of patient faith, 
 Perchance they knew not that the signs, 
 
 Long typified by prophets old, 
 The ransom sprung from David's line 
 
 Were all accomplished and the hour, 
 The blissful hour at length was here, 
 
 When attestations of the truth, 
 With words of promise laden cheer,
 
 HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 367 
 
 Were even now, from 'angel's lips, 
 
 Vibrating on the midnight air, 
 But suddenly a brightness shone, 
 
 And thro' the waves of glory there. 
 
 In sounds of softest dulcet tone, 
 These words fell on the 'frighted ear, 
 
 Be not afraid, oh shepherd men, 
 I bring you tidings glad to cheer. 
 
 "Good will to all and peace to men," 
 
 A Saviour King this day is born, 
 Oh, ne'er was sung so sweet a lay, 
 
 To usher in a gladsome morn.
 
 368 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 TO MY SISTER, 
 
 ON ENTERING A RELIGIOUS STATE. 
 
 And thou wilt go, my sister, 
 
 From home, dear home, to dwell, 
 And leave those scenes of early youth 
 
 "We both have loved so well. 
 Thy place will soon be vacant, 
 
 I feel it even now, 
 When I gaze upon thy placid face, 
 
 Thy meek, religious brow. 
 
 I shall miss thy tender greeting, 
 
 Thy pleasant cheerful tone, 
 The bounding step, the dear embrace, 
 
 The arm around me thrown; 
 I shall listen for thy coming, 
 
 Scarce believing thou art gone, 
 'Till grief and sadness like a pall, 
 
 Are 'round my pathway thrown.
 
 TO MY SISTER. 3G9 
 
 The future, how its shadows fall 
 
 Upon my sinking heart, 
 Each passing murmur seems to breathe, 
 
 Soon, soon, she will depart. 
 How lonely, oh, how lonely, 
 
 Our father's hearth will be, 
 For every memory, as it floats, 
 
 Will bring back thoughts of thee. 
 
 But it is worse than useless, 
 
 These fond but vain regrets, 
 Why should my spirit anguish, 
 
 That thine hath found its rest. 
 Then go, sweet sister, word of mine 
 
 Shall never bid thee stay, 
 When God hath whispered to the heart, 
 
 Its mandate is obey. 
 
 We yield thee, Lord, our treasure, 
 
 But let this hope remain, 
 That in a world of changeless love, 
 
 Our souls shall meet again. 
 
 24
 
 370 AYE SANCTISSIMA. 
 
 AYE SANCTISSIMA. 
 
 Mater celorum, sweet virgin ever blest, 
 Ave sanctissima, oh, hear a heart oppressed; 
 
 Guide thou thy pleading child, 
 
 Wandering on life's stormy sea, 
 Shield her with thy saving love, 
 
 And bring her safe to thee. 
 Bend down thy loving eye, 
 
 Grant her thy pitying ear 
 To thee in hope we fly, 
 
 Oh, virgin mother hear. 
 
 Ave mater ave, 
 Hear our lonely cry, 
 
 Sancte Mater Dei, 
 Mother ever nigh.
 
 AYE SANCTISSIMA. 371 
 
 Sancte Maria, to thee it hath been given, 
 Aid to lead the recreant thro' mercy's gate to 
 Heaven ; 
 
 By that holy grace conferred, 
 
 Thro' that glorious son adored, 
 
 Hear thou our fervent prayer. 
 
 Mother of our Lord. 
 
 Through the darkness of the night. 
 Pray that calin our slumbers be, 
 Fill our hearts with holy love, 
 For Jesus and for thee. 
 
 Avc mater ave, 
 Hear our lonely cry, 
 Sancte Mater Dei, 
 Mother ever uigh.
 
 372 CHRISTMAS MORN. 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORN. 
 
 "In some parts of Germany it is a 
 custom for aged men enveloped in long 
 cloaks to go from house to house on Christ 
 mas morn, and announce the birth of Christ. 
 They remind one in their appearance of 
 the description of Palmer's, from the Holy 
 Land." They are regarded as such in the 
 following : 
 
 Ho, Christian knights and gentlemen, I pray yo 
 
 listen well, 
 For I have traveled many a league, a story strange 
 
 to tell, 
 Of one who left His Father's hall, his home and 
 
 high estate, 
 The glory and the honor which no tongue could 
 
 e'er relate.
 
 CHRISTMAS MORN. 373 
 
 To be an humble babe, with scarce a shelter old, 
 To shield his tender helplessness from misery and 
 
 cold, 
 No trappings He of costly silk, no bed of eider 
 
 down, 
 His cradle crib a manger, upon His head no crown. 
 
 Yet monarch He of Heaven and earth, for on this 
 
 happy day, 
 An angel baud with joy elate, proclaims the attesting 
 
 lay, 
 And still the burden of their song from glowing 
 
 eve till morn, 
 Is glory be to God on high, for Christ our King 13 
 
 born. 
 
 And from a far off distant land, skilled in prophetic 
 
 lore, 
 "With sandal shoon and scallop shell placed in each 
 
 hat before,
 
 374 CHRISTMAS MORN. 
 
 Three hoary men are journeying, though wearied 
 
 they and old, 
 To place their treasures at His feet, of frankinseuce 
 
 and gold. 
 
 Now all good Christian people, I pray ye quick repair, 
 To Bethlehem, in Juda, for Christ our King is there. 
 Come hasten, quickly hasten, in lowliness adore, 
 This wondrous King and Saviour, ours for evermore.
 
 IN MEMORUM. 375 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO H. C. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, 'ere Time with iron band hath 
 Plowed its furrows deep upon thy brow. 
 With eyes undimmed by tears, with heart, untouched 
 By sorrow's deadly blight, Death called thes hence, 
 And now no more at that soft hour, when love 
 Unites her dear ones at the household hearth, 
 May we greet again thy gentle presence, 
 "Vfhich often with its kindness bland beguil'd 
 The clouded brow and wearied heart to peace. 
 Yet faithful love is lingering still to catch, 
 Thro' gathering gloom, thy gladsome step and note, 
 So sweet of song dear, herald of our own. 
 Oh, sad to think it never more may be. 
 The vacant chair, the missing love, too truly 
 Tell the home's bereavement; yet haply thou 
 I last never known the weary ways of life,
 
 376 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Ne'er felt the anxious insecurity, 
 
 The hope deferred, nor slaked thy thirst 
 
 At Marah's fount, gathered golden hopes, 
 
 Like Dead Sea fruit, to find them ashes at 
 
 The core ; and now with all the memory 
 
 Of thy early days still lingering here, 
 
 We give thee to thy God. Oh, slight the tie, 
 
 Which severs Life from Death, and flings o'er all 
 
 The sunny loveliness of youth the shadows of 
 
 The grave.
 
 BEAUTIFUL RIYER. 377 
 
 BEAUTIFUL RIVER. 
 
 Beautiful river, flowing river, 
 Ever onward to the sea, 
 
 Bear on thy foaming bosom, 
 The message I fling to thee. 
 
 On, on to the trackless ocean, 
 On, on to the sounding main, 
 
 Where one we love in exile 
 Pines for his home again. 
 
 Tell him the silver streamlet 
 From its icy bond made free, 
 
 Dances in rippling measure 
 To its own sweet melody.
 
 3T8 BEAUTIFUL RIVER. 
 
 Tell him the clover springeth, 
 The robin weaves his nest, 
 
 The tender grass is springing 
 From its cold and wiutry rest. 
 
 And we are wearily watching 
 Adown the winding lane, 
 
 For the quickened tread, the footstep 
 That cometh not again. 
 
 . Now speed thee, beautiful river, 
 
 Nor linger on thy way, 
 The gladness of reunion 
 Brings sunshine to our day.
 
 FAEEWELL. 379 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 And now, Farewell ; my pleasant task is o'er, 
 And. dear beguilemeiits from old memory's store, 
 "Which solaced oftentimes a wearied hour, 
 Though told in simple rhymes and lacking power, 
 Have spoke a language which, albeit the dress, 
 Your gentle hearts and partial love confess, 
 Yet, oh, how faint, how puerile, how weak 
 These timid numbers which essay to speak; 
 The tender love, the fond desire to sec, 
 All that a parent's heart could ask in thee. 
 If in the lives which I have sought to trace, 
 Your eyes may scan a fault which might deface, 
 Remember truth has bid record it all, 
 The genius fame and sadly oft the fall. 
 And now with blessings on each fair young head, 
 My last Farewell in fondest love is said. 
 
 FINIS.
 
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