UC-NRLF 
 
 it. s aaa 
 
 POEMS 
 
X 
 
 [ LIBRARY 
 
 1 UNIVERSITY OF 
 \CALIFORNIA 
 
 
POEMS 
 
WORKS BY WILLIAM HARTPOLE LECKY. 
 
 HISTORY of ENGLAND in the EIGHTEENTH 
 CENTURY. 8vo. Vols. I. and II. 1700-1760. 36*. 
 Vols. III. and IV. 1760-1784. 36.?. Vols. V. and VI. 
 1784-1793. 36$. Vols. VII. and VIII. 1793-1800. 36*. 
 
 The HISTORY of EUROPEAN MORALS from 
 AUGUSTUS to CHARLEMAGNE. 2 vols. Crown 
 8vo. i6s. 
 
 HISTORY of the RISE and INFLUENCE of 
 the SPIRIT of RATIONALISM in EUROPE. 2 vols. 
 Crown 8vo. i6s. 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK : 15 EAST i6 th STREET 
 1891 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTWWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREBT SQUARE 
 LONDON 
 
mi 
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 
 THESE POEMS 
 WRITTEN IN MANY YEARS AND IN MANY MOODS 
 
 A KB 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 49,"? 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AN AUTUMN ODE I 
 
 THE DREAMER 4 
 
 SEASIDE 6 
 
 ' FAREWELL, MAIDEN, THOUGH THINE EYE ' . . 7 
 
 MEMORY 9 
 
 * IF DESOLATION REND THY HEART 5 . . . IO 
 
 BROKEN HEARTS II 
 
 EARLY THOUGHTS 12 
 
 THE SKATERS 13 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE 1 6 
 
 FOREBODINGS 2O 
 
 NEMESIS . 22 
 
 EVENING 24 
 
 A MISSED DESTINY 25 
 
 ON AN OLD SONG 26 
 
 VANITAS VANITATUM 30 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE* 
 
 VOICES OF THE EVENING 31 
 
 SONG 33 
 
 THE SOWER AND HIS SEED 35 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY 36 
 
 * I DREAMED A DREAM OF GLORY ' . .38 
 
 A WOMAN'S PORTRAIT 40 
 
 BIRTHDAYS \. . .42 
 
 THE DYING SEER . , .. , . , . 43 
 LIFE'S TRAGEDY . . . . ; ' . . 45 
 
 MOODS . . ... . . . . 48 
 
 ASSOCIATION . . . . . . .50 
 
 * SAIL ON, SAIL ON, THOU FRAGILE BARK' . . 51 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND 52 
 
 'FLOW ON, SWIFT STREAM* . V .- . . 57 
 A TALE OF MODERN ITALY . . . . .58 
 
 SPANISH SONG. *,..* . . . 69 
 
 ILLICIT LOVE ... . . .- .70 
 
 TWO FRIENDS . . . .V . . . . 71 
 
 THE WIDOW . . . . . . -73 
 
 SEVILLE . . , . V . . . . 74 
 
 MARRIED LIFE . . . . , . .76 
 
 PASSION AND MEMORY . . . ... 78 
 
 TO SO 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 8l 
 
 A BROKEN LIFE . 83 
 
CONTENTS ix 
 
 PAGE 
 LOVE AND SORROW 85 
 
 ' I CANNOT BOW BEFORE THE SHRINE ' .86 
 
 DEFLECTING INFLUENCES 87 
 
 THE LAST PARTING , 88 
 
 CHARACTER 90 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 93 
 
 UNDEVELOPED LIVES 95 
 
 OLD AGE -97 
 
 'HE FOUND HIS WORK, BUT COULD NOT FIND 3 . 99 
 
 FAME, LOVE, AND YOUTH IOO 
 
 THE DECLINE OF LOVE IOI 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION . . . .103 
 
 THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY . . . IO4 
 
AN AUTUMN ODE 
 
 Now Autumn paints the fading trees, 
 
 The mists obscure the plain, 
 The meanings of the fitful breeze, 
 
 The heavy falling rain, 
 Bewail the pride of Summer gone 
 And icy Winter pressing on 
 
 With unresisted tread. 
 At such a time we love to fly 
 On wings of thought through scenes gone by 
 
 To summon up the dead. 
 
 And first I saw a happy boy, 
 
 A mother's only child, 
 The foremost with ecstatic joy 
 
 To climb the mountain wild, 
 To chase the fox, to course the hare, 
 To cast the mimic fly or share 
 
 The passion of the game. 
 Fast sped the hours of work and play, 
 And every new succeeding day 
 
 Seemed sparkling as it came. 
 
AN AUTUMN ODE 
 
 Life opened out its scenes to him 
 
 One vision of delight, 
 No morbid care his eye to dim 
 
 No forecast to affright, 
 His heart was like the bursting flower 
 All filled with dew in morning's hour 
 
 And glittering in the sun 
 (A gladness too intense to last) 
 The joys of childhood had not past 
 
 Nor manhood's toils begun. 
 
 He vanished soon, and in his place 
 
 I saw a young man stand, 
 The shade of thought upon his face, 
 
 A volume in his hand. 
 He follows with a kindling gaze 
 The glorious deeds in other days, 
 
 In distant countries wrought. 
 Eager he rifles learning's stores, 
 But yet more eagerly explores 
 
 The Infinite of thought. 
 
 Ambition swept her sounding lyre, 
 
 Her music thrilled his breast, 
 She touched his veins with heav'n-born fire, 
 
 He could not pause or rest. 
 She whispered, with a voice sublime, 
 ' On, on, thy fearless steps may climb 
 
 The pinnacles on high, 
 To blazon there thy deeds, thy name, 
 To link thy life with living fame, 
 
 Be this thy destiny.' 
 
AN AUTUMN ODE 
 
 Love touched her tender lute, her strain 
 
 Fell softly on his ear, 
 He felt a new, absorbing pain, 
 
 How poignant, yet how dear ! 
 The restlessness of thought has gone, 
 Fame, wealth, and power no longer shone 
 
 Before his dazzled eye. 
 Drawn from all grosser things afar 
 He hung on beauty like a star 
 
 That hangs upon the sky. 
 
 A shadow on that love was cast, 
 
 Life took a lower tone, 
 Ideals now are fading fast 
 
 And selfishness has grown. 
 Ambition blighted or decayed, 
 High hopes by vulgar cares o'erlaid, 
 
 Ignoble sin and strife, 
 And then the last, the saddest stage. 
 The slow corroding touch of age, 
 
 The lethargy of life. 
 
 Ah spendthrift Life ! how fast she drains 
 
 The cup of joy to mortals given, 
 Till nothing but the dregs remains 
 
 To cool her parching lips at even ! 
 The power to breast the adverse stream, 
 The power to hope, to love, to dream, 
 
 The strength of thought and will, 
 All that is best must die before 
 Our steps have touched the silent shore 
 
 Where the last wave is still. 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 A YOUNG man wandered alone by the shore, 
 
 And he said as he gazed on the sea, 
 
 c Be the life of the fetterless dreamer mine, 
 
 No home and no friend for me : 
 
 From sea to sea, and from land to land, 
 
 Be it mine for ever to roam, 
 
 Bright thoughts they are better than earthly 
 
 friends, 
 And the mind creates its home.' 
 
 The ripples of evening quivered below, 
 
 And the sky was cloudless above ; 
 
 And the breeze came as soft on the listening ear, 
 
 As the whisper of one we love ; 
 
 And the sea-bird hung poised upon motionless 
 
 wing, 
 
 Ere it glided in light along ; 
 And the thoughts that passed through that young 
 
 man's brain, 
 Were turned into waves of song. 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 But a cloud pass'd over the minstrel's soul 
 
 As he gazed on the watery gleam ; 
 
 The hopes and the cares and the joys of men, 
 
 Became like a fading dream. 
 
 His heart soon lost the power to love, 
 
 And his eye the power to weep ; 
 
 And the bloom of his fancy withered away, 
 
 And his mind was locked in sleep. 
 
 Winter may darken the glittering sea, 
 
 And summer return again ; 
 
 But no pulse can throb in that young man's heart, 
 
 No pulse of joy or of pain. 
 
 And the ripple breaks with a sadder sound, 
 
 Where he lies on the lonely shore, 
 
 With folded arms and a dreamless brain, 
 
 For ever and evermore. 
 
SEASIDE 
 
 How pleasing to the beauty-loving eye 
 
 That long, low line where land and ocean meet : 
 
 The one as still and silent as the tomb, 
 
 The other with a gentle rise and fall, 
 
 And with a heavy, breathing sound it seems 
 
 Like Sleep embracing her sad sister Death, 
 
 Or like a terrified and panting mother 
 
 Stroking the temples of her swooning child, 
 
 And sighing as she sees her toil in vain. 
 
 In such a scene fond memories weave their spell, 
 
 And hopes grow high, and Fancy seeks and finds 
 
 The far horizon of her noblest dreams, 
 
 Till like the sea our thoughts stretch on to heaven. 
 
< FARE WELL, MAIDEN, THOUGH 
 THINE EYE* 
 
 FAREWELL, maiden, though thine eye 
 With youth's brightest sunshine glows, 
 
 Though thy mantling blushes vie 
 With the splendour of the rose, 
 
 Beauty's flush must pass away, 
 Fleeting like a summer day. 
 
 Can the angel face alone 
 
 Make the happiness of life ? 
 Are no hues of deeper tone 
 
 Needed for the perfect wife ? 
 Stronger, softer, and more pure 
 
 Only moral tints endure. 
 
 Time will lend another hue 
 To what now attracts so much, 
 
 Come to me, and come to you 
 With a sadd'ning with'ring touch ; 
 
 And a love song soon will wear 
 Something of archaic air. 
 
FAREWELL, MAIDEN* 
 
 Sadly, sadly must we part, 
 
 Long for thee my thoughts will pine, 
 Why was such a shallow heart 
 
 Linked with such a face as thine? 
 Yet were life a dream to me, 
 
 How gladly would I dream with thee ! 
 
 Life is three-score years and ten, 
 Passion scarce as many days, 
 
 Broken hearts may rise again, 
 Other lights may pierce the haze, 
 
 Not so bright but steadier far, 
 Not the meteor but the star. 
 
MEMORY 
 
 'TIS a memory twined with the years gone by, 
 
 A young and beautiful child, 
 With a heart that no pang of remorse had wrung, 
 
 And a brow that no care defiled. 
 
 And the past unfolds to my view whene'er 
 
 Her image before me flies 
 The scenes of our childhood appear again, 
 
 And the friends that we loved arise. 
 
 Fond hopes that had withered expand once more 
 
 And visions of truths sublime, 
 As she floats in the light of her loveliness 
 
 O'er the dark'ning waves of time. 
 
LINES 
 
 IF desolation rend thy heart, 
 Or sin pollute thy spotless name, 
 
 Forbid not that the tear should start, 
 Nor check the rising blush of shame. 
 
 The thunder-cloud that o'er thee lowers 
 In gentle rain will pass away, 
 
 The winter ends with April showers, 
 The night by blushing turns to day. 
 
BROKEN HEARTS 
 
 I SEE thy cheek grow deadly pale 
 (Let no one tell the mournful tale) : 
 Was the fault in you or me 
 That led us both to misery, 
 Bitter words in anger spoken, 
 Loving hearts too lightly broken, 
 Foolish pride and hasty blame, 
 Deep but unacknowledged shame, 
 Love in one to hatred turned, 
 Remorse in both too fully earned ? 
 Let no man judge between us two, 
 God only seeth through and through. 
 
 Soon, too soon, I plainly see, 
 The world will be no more to thee, 
 The many thoughts and ways of men 
 Will never stir thy mind again, 
 Thy dreams and hopes will soon be o'er 
 And love and hate and grief no more, 
 And those dear lips for me so chill 
 Must know a touch more loathsome still- 
 The hungry earthworms wait for thee, 
 Despair and agony for me. 
 Let no man judge between us two, 
 God only seeth through and through. 
 
12 
 
 EARLY THOUGHTS 
 
 OH gather the thoughts of your early years, 
 
 Gather them as they flow, 
 For all unmarked in those thoughts appears 
 
 The path where you soon must go. 
 
 Full many a dream will wither away, 
 
 And Springtide hues are brief, 
 But the lines are there of the autumn day, 
 
 Like the skeleton in the leaf. 
 
 The husbandman knows not the worth of his seed 
 
 Until the flower be sprung, 
 And only in age can we rightly read 
 
 The thoughts that we thought when young. 
 
THE SKATERS 
 
 Now the ice is smooth and strong, 
 Hasten, hasten, ladies gay, 
 
 Join the undulating throng, 
 Tis the skater's holiday ; 
 
 Youth, with Pleasure in her train, 
 
 Lightly skims the glittering plain. 
 
 Lovely cheeks will soon be brighter 
 With the ever-deepening rose, 
 
 Happy hearts will beat yet lighter 
 As the blood more quickly flows. 
 
 Seize, oh, seize the flying hours, 
 
 Present joys alone are ours. 
 
 Eagle speed and swanlike grace, 
 Swiftly glides each happy pair, 
 
 Half a dance and half a chase, 
 And the joy of both is there. 
 
 Still the skaters gather fast, 
 
 Though the day be well-nigh past. 
 
14 THE SKATERS 
 
 See them meeting, interlacing, 
 Spreading far along the ice, 
 
 Now in mazy circles tracing 
 Lines of intricate device ; 
 
 Curving, wheeling, to and fro, 
 
 Weaving beauty as they go. 
 
 Now again they crowd together 
 As the eager race is run, 
 
 Yet by riband, scarf, or feather, 
 You can track them one by one. 
 
 Beauty, skill, or inborn grace, 
 
 Which will win the foremost place ? 
 
 Friends and lovers gaily mingle 
 Yonder in the tangled throng ; 
 
 Here, some little skater single 
 All demurely glides along, 
 
 Full as fair and skilled as they, 
 
 On her solitary way. 
 
 Slowly sinks the setting sun, 
 Red and misty in the west, 
 
 Only when the day is done 
 Comes the scene we love the best, 
 
 When a hundred torches blaze, 
 
 Dance and tremble through the haze. 
 
 Like the flakes of drifting snow, 
 In a dim and fitful light, 
 
 Like the forms that come and go 
 In the visions of the night ; 
 
THE SKATERS 15 
 
 Shadowy figures gleam and quiver 
 All along the frozen river. 
 
 Gaily rings the sounding steel 
 Through the keen and frosty air ; 
 
 Oh, the rapture skaters feel ; 
 Yet move lightly, and beware, 
 
 For the stream flows on beneath, 
 
 Sullen, cold, and dark as death. 
 
i6 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE 
 
 'Tis night the warrior chiefs have met, 
 The tent is filled, the banquet set, 
 The wine cups gaily circle round, 
 The bard with wreath of laurel crown'd 
 Bends o'er the vocal strings. 
 
 And as the martial notes resound 
 Each chief in chorus sings, 
 
 And eyes grow bright, and spirits bound, 
 And every eager warrior flings 
 
 His soul into the theme. 
 Now high the minstrel's notes are borne 
 In martial ire, in lofty scorn ; 
 He tells of men of old who spurned 
 The wealth by base subjection earned, 
 Who drew the sword in Freedom's cause, 
 And fell amidst a world's applause, 
 The foremost in the battle's van, 
 Where clashing hosts meet man to man, 
 And war's red lightnings gleam. 
 
BEFORE THE BATTLE 17 
 
 Now changed and mournful is his strain 
 
 Sad as the music of the surge, 
 When sweeping o'er the answering main, 
 The storm's first fitful blasts complain, 
 
 He chaunts the warrior's dirge. 
 He paints the scene when sad and slow, 
 With muffled drums and standards low, 
 Some youthful leader of the brave 
 Is borne to his early grave, 
 Wrapped in a banner for a shroud, 
 Attended by the martial crowd, 
 W T hile Beauty's eye is dim with tears, 
 And Valour's cheek with sorrow pale, 
 For old in deeds though young in years, 
 No other chief like him appears 
 To dissipate his nation's fears, 
 
 And make her tyrants quail. 
 Gone in the flush of youthful pride, 
 Gone from the mountain's tented side, 
 Gone from the field where oft his sword 
 The fortune of the day restored. 
 But no ; his presence still is there, 
 Inspiring hope, dispelling fear ; 
 His memory nerves the boldest heart, 
 His glory wings the fleetest dart, 
 The halo of eternal fame 
 Is brightening round his honoured name. 
 
 The minstrel sung, and clear and high 
 Shines many a spirit-flashing eye, 
 And many a chieftain glances proudly 
 At his gleaming falchion's blade, 
 
 c 
 
1 8 BEFORE THE BATTLE 
 
 As the funereal music loudly 
 Tells of those who low are laid ; 
 
 And many a warrior now may borrow 
 From the records of the past, 
 
 That courage needed on the morrow, 
 His day of glory and his last. 
 
 'Tis night the moon is riding high 
 
 Along the clear, untroubled sky, 
 
 And tinging with a pallid beam, 
 
 The yellow copse, the glitt' ring' stream ; 
 
 O'erflooded by the lustre shed 
 
 Around her path the stars have fled, 
 
 And not a cloud obscures the night, 
 
 And not a vapour dims the sight, 
 
 And not a sound invades the ear 
 
 But the tramp of the sentinel pacing near ; 
 
 But the thrilling song of the lone night bird, 
 
 Like a spirit's voice through the silence heard, 
 
 But the fitful breeze that is murmuring 
 
 As light as the wave of an angel's wing ; 
 
 And the firefly floats through the summer air, 
 
 And the bat is wheeling listlessly there, 
 
 And a moonbeam plays on the tents of the foe, 
 
 Till they gleam in its light like untrodden snow, 
 
 And a spell seems binding with cords of love 
 
 The earth below and the heaven above. 
 
 All seems in a mystical life to share, 
 
 The quivering stream and the throbbing air, 
 
 The glow-worm that fires the tufted sod, 
 
 And the moon that rides like a conquering god ; 
 
BEFORE THE BATTLE 19 
 
 For the spirit of Beauty waves her wand, 
 And earth and sky to its touch respond. 
 
 I gazed enraptured on the scene 
 
 Before my view in beauty spread, 
 As hushed, unruffled, and serene, 
 
 As though each taint of ill had fled 
 As though the clash of angry foes 
 Could never break its deep repose. 
 Who in an hour so calm, so still, 
 Oppressed by no overwhelming ill, 
 In health's full flush, could bear to leave 
 A world so fair as this, nor grieve ? 
 Oh, never is a home so dear 
 As when the parting hour is near ; 
 A maiden's voice has no such spell 
 As when its music breathes farewell ; 
 The sun reserves the softest ray 
 To flush the parting steps of day ; 
 And never seem the earth and sky 
 So lovely as to him whose eye 
 Looks upon death approaching nigh, 
 As on the battle's eve. 
 
 c 2 
 
FOREBODINGS 
 
 THE sun was fading in the west, 
 A flush was on the ocean's breast, 
 And, feebly bright'ning, Dian's crest 
 Ascended in the sky. 
 
 A maiden stood upon the shore, 
 She marked the storm grow more and more, 
 And to the angry billow's roar 
 Responded with a sigh. 
 
 4 Speak, speak, tumultuous wave, 5 she cried, 
 ' Say where is he whose joy and pride 
 Was on thy foaming crest to ride, 
 When tempests raged above ? 
 
 ' Slowly the weary hours move on, 
 Thrice garish day has come and gone, 
 Thrice have the stars grown pale and wan, 
 In waiting for my love.' 
 
FOREBODINGS 21 
 
 The storm unfurled its cloudy wing, 
 The surge grew black and threatening, 
 The lightning like a living thing 
 Throbbed wildly on the wave. 
 
 And in the darkness of my dream, 
 I saw the ghastly corpselight gleam, 
 I heard a loud despairing scream, 
 And none was near to save. 
 
NEMESIS 
 
 THE voice of the afflicted is rising to the sun, 
 The thousands who have perished for the selfishness 
 
 of one, 
 
 The judgment seat polluted, the altar overthrown, 
 The sighing of the exile, the tortured captive's 
 
 groan, 
 The many crushed and plundered to gratify the 
 
 few, 
 The hounds of hate pursuing the noble and the 
 
 true ; 
 But vengeance follows surely, and her strokes are 
 
 fierce and wild, 
 For the storm-cloud was in labour, and the lightning 
 
 was its child. 
 
 When the tyrants are all buried and the evil laws 
 
 repealed, 
 When upright men are ruling and every wrong 
 
 seems healed, 
 Then the ancient feud reopens and the tardy bolt 
 
 is cast, 
 And the land is filled with bloodshed for the evils 
 
 of the past, 
 
NEMESIS 23 
 
 And men will talk of justice as the storm of carnage 
 
 raves, 
 And the innocent are murdered for the guilty in 
 
 their graves ! 
 Oh God ! what sights are witnessed upon this 
 
 earthly ball, 
 And the things that men call justice are often 
 
 worst of all. 
 
 The servitude of ages leaves its impress on a race, 
 Because the fathers suffered, the children's hearts 
 
 are base, 
 You cannot win by kindness, in vain you break the 
 
 chain ; 
 The hatred and the impotence and the slavish type 
 
 remain. 
 The dead are still our masters, and a power from 
 
 the tomb 
 Can shape the characters of men, their conduct 
 
 and their doom. 
 
EVENING 
 
 'TIS evening the sun is cleaving 
 
 The dim horizon line, 
 And the western clouds upheaving 
 
 Like a sea of glory shine. 
 
 And a beam of departing splendour 
 
 Illumines the sea below 
 With a flush as soft and as tender 
 
 As a sleeping infant's glow. 
 
 And the evening star is quivering 
 On the verge of that sea above, 
 
 Like Hope standing pale and shivering 
 As she looks upon dying Love. 
 
A MISSED DESTINY 
 
 WEARY of life, but yet afraid to die, 
 Sated and soured too, he slowly sinks, 
 With genius, knowledge, eloquence and wit, 
 And all the gifts of fortune vainly given ; 
 Some morbid ply that flaws the heart or brain, 
 Some strange infirmity of thought or will, 
 Has marred them all ; nothing remains behind 
 But fragmentary thoughts and broken schemes, 
 Some brilliant sayings and a social fame 
 Already fading ; but his mind is yet 
 Keen, clear, and vivid, though his nerveless will 
 Can never rise to action ; so he ends 
 The eagle's eye without the eagle's wing. 
 
26 
 
 ON AN OLD SONG 
 
 LITTLE snatch of ancient song, 
 What has made thee live so long ? 
 Flying on thy wings of rhyme 
 Lightly down the depths of time, 
 Telling nothing strange or rare, 
 Scarce a thought or image there, 
 Nothing but the old, old tale 
 Of a hapless lover's wail ; 
 Offspring of an idle hour, 
 Whence has come thy lasting power ? 
 By what turn of rhythm or phrase, 
 By what subtle careless grace, 
 Can thy music charm our ears 
 After full three hundred years ? 
 
 Little song, since thou wert bonv, 
 In the Reformation morn, 
 How much great has passed away, 
 Shattered or by slow decay, 
 Stately piles in ruins crumbled, 
 Lordly houses lost and humbled, 
 Thrones and realms in darkness hurled, 
 Noble flags for ever furled, 
 
ON AN OLD SONG 27 
 
 Wisest schemes by statesmen spun, 
 Time has seen them one by one 
 Like the leaves of Autumn fall 
 A little song outlives them all. 
 
 There were mighty scholars then, 
 With the slow, laborious pen, 
 Piling up their works of learning, 
 Men of solid, deep discerning, 
 Widely famous as they taught 
 Systems of connected thought, 
 Destined for all future ages ; 
 Now the cobweb binds their pages ; 
 All unread their volumes lie 
 Mouldering so peaceably, 
 Coffined thoughts of coffined men, 
 Never more to stir again 
 In the passion and the strife, 
 In the fleeting forms of life, 
 All their force and meaning gone, 
 As the stream of thought flows on. 
 
 Art thou weary, little song, 
 Flying through the world so long ? 
 Canst thou, on thy fairy pinions, 
 Cleave the future's dark dominions, 
 And with music soft and clear 
 Charm the yet unfashioned ear, 
 Mingling with the things unborn, 
 When perchance another morn, 
 Great as that which gave thee birth, 
 Dawns upon the changing earth ? 
 
28 ON AN OLD SONG 
 
 It may be so, for all around, 
 With a heavy, crashing sound, 
 Like the ice of polar seas 
 Melting in the summer breeze, 
 Signs of change are gathering fast, 
 Nations breaking with their past. 
 
 The pulse of thought is beating quicker, 
 The lamp of faith begins to flicker, 
 The ancient reverence decays 
 With forms and types of other days, 
 And old beliefs grow faint and few 
 As knowledge moulds the world anew, 
 And scatters far and wide the seeds 
 Of other hopes and other creeds ; 
 And all in vain we seek to trace 
 The fortunes of the coming race, 
 Some with fear and some with hope 
 None can cast its horoscope. 
 Vap'rous lamp or rising star, 
 Many a light is seen afar, 
 And dim shapeless figures loom 
 All around us in the gloom 
 Forces that may rise and reign 
 As the old ideals wane. 
 
 Landmarks of the human mind 
 One by one are left behind, 
 And a subtle change is wrought 
 In the mould and cast of thought ; 
 Modes of reasoning pass away, 
 Types of beauty lose their sway, 
 
ON AN OLD SONG 29 
 
 Creeds and causes that have made 
 
 Many noble lives must fade, 
 
 And the words that thrilled of old 
 
 Now seem hueless, dead, and cold ; 
 
 Fancy's rainbow tints are flying, 
 
 Thoughts like men are slowly dying ; 
 
 All things perish, and the strongest 
 
 Often do not last the longest ; 
 
 The stately ship is seen no more, 
 
 The fragile skiff attains the shore ; 
 
 And while the great and wise decay, 
 
 And all their trophies pass away, 
 
 Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme, 
 
 Still floats above the wrecks of Time. 
 
V A NIT AS VANITATUM 
 
 WITH baubles and phantoms and nicknames we 
 
 end as we began, 
 But the doll gives more joy to the child than the 
 
 Garter can give to the man, 
 And the dreams of our youth are better tha all 
 
 the wisdom of age, 
 And the heart of the schoolgirl beats happier than 
 
 the heart of the king or the sage, 
 And the silliest charm gives more comfort to thou- 
 sands in sorrow and pain 
 Than they ever will get from the knowledge that 
 
 proves it so foolish and vain. 
 If the measure of worth be but happiness, if this be 
 
 the keynote of life, 
 Illusion is better than knowledge, as slumber is 
 
 better than strife ; 
 For we know not where we come from, and we 
 
 know not whither we go ; 
 And the best of all our knowledge is how little we 
 
 can know. 
 
VOICES OF THE EVENING 
 
 THE sailors were chaunting their measured songs 
 
 To the throb of the glittering oar, 
 And each ripple seemed laden with melody, 
 
 As it broke on the silent shore. 
 
 And the sun went down in the burning sky, 
 And the western wave grew bright, 
 
 As the day, like a dream of loveliness, 
 Melted in misty light. 
 
 And a spirit within me seemed to say 
 
 Farewell to the paths of toil, 
 Farewell to the strife of the labouring pen, 
 
 The strife of the barren soil. 
 
 I ask not the will that can hew its way 
 
 Where the battles of life are fought, 
 Or the mind that can melt down the world of dreams 
 
 In the fire of searching thought. 
 
32 VOICES OF THE EVENING 
 
 No lovelier light adorns the sky 
 Than the trembling light of the star, 
 
 And the mind that shines with a wavering beam 
 Is the best and the loveliest far. 
 
 I ask, not to climb to Wealth's glittering heights, 
 Or to stand where Fame's sunflush glows, 
 
 But the twilight calm and the valley's shade, 
 And the violet more than the rose. 
 
 But the sun sank down, and a keen, fresh breeze 
 
 Renerved my spirit again, 
 And a voice came floating over the waves, 
 
 And it told of strife with men. 
 
 For life is a struggle and not a dream, 
 
 And ambition's power must last, 
 Till the first fresh strength of the mind be gone, 
 
 Till the fire of youth be past. 
 
33 
 
 SONG 
 
 ONCE more, once more returning Spring 
 
 Makes field and forest gay, 
 And overhead on spangled wing 
 
 The newborn insects play ; 
 A gleam is on the bending grass, 
 
 A glitter on the sea, 
 And o'er its waves in thought I pass 
 
 To thee, dear maid, to thee. 
 
 Oh, wearily I count the hours 
 
 That slowly ebb away, 
 And weary through the springtide flowers 
 
 My languid footsteps stray. 
 The light that streams on hill and glade 
 
 Brings little joy to me, 
 My heart but casts a darker shade 
 
 When I am not with thee. 
 
 The lover's seasons come and go 
 
 With no celestial sphere, 
 The lover's sun is here below, 
 
 His light to guide and cheer ; 
 
34 SONG 
 
 All nature seems to droop and wane 
 When thou art far from me, 
 
 And all the world grows bright again 
 With thee, dear maid, with thee. 
 
35 
 
 THE SOWER AND HIS SEED 
 
 HE planted an oak in his father's park 
 
 And a thought in the minds of men, 
 And he bade farewell to his native shore, 
 
 Which he never will see again. 
 Oh, merrily streams the tourist throng 
 
 To the glow of the Southern sky ; 
 A vision of pleasure beckons them on, 
 
 But he went there to die. 
 
 The oak will grow and its boughs will spread, 
 
 And many rejoice in its shade, 
 But none will visit the distant grave 
 
 Where a stranger youth is laid ; 
 And the thought will live when the oak has died 
 
 And quicken the minds of men, 
 But the name of the thinker has vanished away, 
 
 And will never be heard again. 
 
TO WN AND CO UNTR Y 
 
 How calm the life of mortals flows 
 
 In its secluded course, 
 Where nature's influence gives repose 
 
 And habit keeps its force. 
 
 Where ancient memories linger long, 
 And friends are few and fast ; 
 
 And hearts are simple, pure and strong, 
 Deep-rooted in the past. 
 
 Here in this fev'rish city strife 
 Each day new int'rests brings, 
 
 And countless feelings quicken life, 
 But all of them have wings. 
 
 And endless forms of joy and pain, 
 Of knowledge, thought, and speech, 
 
 Incessant break on heart and brain, 
 Like waves upon the beach. 
 
TOWN AND COUNTRY 37 
 
 Too many figures crowd the scene, 
 
 And, as they hurry by, 
 How few will pause on what has been, 
 
 Or miss the forms that fly ! 
 
 So fast each imprint fades away, 
 So transient love and sorrow, 
 
 The grave that closed but yesterday 
 Is half-forgot to-morrow. 
 
 But ah, the wounds that cannot heal ! 
 
 The hearts that fester there ! 
 The keenest pang that mortals feel 
 
 Is grief that none will share. 
 
'/ DREAMED A DREAM OF GLORY' 
 
 I DREAMED a dream of glory, 
 
 I dreamed I saw thee rise, 
 In all thy passing loveliness, 
 
 Before my dazzled eyes ; 
 Thy cheek was flushed with pleasure, 
 
 And beaming was thine eye, 
 As when we roamed together, 
 
 As in the days gone by. 
 
 A voice that long was silent 
 
 Seemed wafted to my ear, 
 It told of many a struggle, 
 
 Of many a triumph near ; 
 But, better far, it told me 
 
 That days of peace were nigh, 
 When we may roam together 
 
 As in the days gone by. 
 
 It told me oh, how softly ! 
 
 And was it but a dream ? 
 That earth's most bitter partings 
 
 Are not the things they seem, 
 
</ DREAMED A DREAM OF GLORY* 39 
 
 That severed hearts are blended 
 
 In some dim world on high, 
 Where spirits roam together 
 
 As in the days gone by. 
 
 Though soon that vision vanished, 
 
 Its traces still remain, 
 Its glory streams across my life 
 
 Through sorrow and through pain ; 
 The shadows gather round me, 
 
 Yet still my thoughts can fly, 
 Where we may roam together 
 
 As in the days gone by. 
 
A WOMAN'S PORTRAIT 
 
 SHE was fair, but not so fair 
 That others were not lovelier there ; 
 Hers was not the fleeting power 
 Of a brief impassioned hour, 
 But the charm that grows more dear 
 With each slow revolving year. 
 In her eye of cloudless blue, 
 In her smile so sweet and true, 
 You might read a spirit made 
 For the sunshine and the shade ; 
 Keen alike in work and pleasure, 
 Yet with self-control and measure ; 
 Brave and buoyant, wise and gay, 
 On the smooth or rugged way ; 
 'Tis the type that wears the best, 
 Made for sympathy and rest. 
 
 Finings for unreal things, 
 Morbid doubts and questionings, 
 All the weakness and the pain 
 Of the fever-stricken brain, 
 
A WOMAN'S PORTRAIT 41 
 
 Turning from the things we see 
 To the things that cannot be, 
 Vanished in the healthy hue 
 Which around my path she threw, 
 And the sting of settled care 
 Passed away when she was there ; 
 For my life grew strong and brave 
 With the courage that she gave, 
 And the night at last has flown :, 
 Hers the praise and hers alone. 
 
BIRTHDA YS 
 
 c TIME is the stuff of life ' l then spend not thy days 
 
 while they last 
 In dreams of an idle future, regrets for a vanished 
 
 past; 
 The tombstones lie thickly behind thee, but the 
 
 stream still hurries thee on, 
 New worlds of thought to be traversed, new fields 
 
 to be fought and won. 
 Let work be thy measure of life then only the end 
 
 is well 
 The birthdays we hail so blithely are strokes of the 
 
 passing bell 
 
 1 ' You value life Take care of your time, for Time is the stuff 
 of life.' FRANKLIN. 
 
43 
 
 THE DYING SEER 
 
 CLOSE the book the task is over, 
 
 Toil and triumph both are done ; 
 Weary, way-worn, restless rover, 
 
 Now thy devious course is run ; 
 Worlds of fancy, thought, and learning, 
 
 All the tracts thy mind has spanned, 
 All grow dim, thy steps are turning 
 
 Onwards to the shadow land. 
 
 Many a hope thy genius kindled, 
 
 In the splendour of its morn, 
 Ere the evening came had dwindled, 
 
 Turned to doubt or grief or scorn. 
 Too much dross alloys the treasure, 
 
 Wayward flights and passion stains, 
 Only now we learn to measure 
 
 How much noble still remains. 
 
 Close the book the words are written, 
 They will stand for good or ill ; 
 
 True, the stately palm is smitten, 
 But its seeds are living still ; 
 
44 THE DYING SEER 
 
 Darkness gathers round the writer, 
 Envious murmurs greet his name, 
 
 But his thoughts will shine the brighter 
 In the after-glow of fame. 
 
45 
 
 LIFE'S TRAGEDY 
 
 THE flowers of spring-time blossom on the tomb, 
 But cannot reach the corpse that lies beneath, 
 
 And while the hopes of youth most gaily bloom 
 The heart still feels the irony of death ; 
 
 The aimlessness of life, its broken lines, 
 Its boundless longings and its rapid flight, 
 
 The noble promise that a moment shines 
 Then sinks for ever in eternal night. 
 
 Oh strange unrest ! that makes our pleasures cloy, 
 Till life and all that life can give seems vain ; 
 
 The passing bell is heard amid our joy, 
 
 And sin and shame are mingled with our pain . 
 
 Remembered love, how fond, how deep its thrill, 
 When all is dark and envious Death devours ! 
 
 The echo murmurs though the harp is still, 
 
 The fragrance lingers from our vanished flowers. 
 
46 LIFERS TRAGEDY 
 
 Whence have they come, and whither do they move, 
 Those lives so strangely void or strangely crost : 
 
 The life of thought without the life of love, 
 The life of love, when what we love is lost ? 
 
 H ow fast they fly ! the moments will not stay, 
 Though past and future blend their influence 
 there, 
 
 Deep roots of flowers that withered in a day, 
 Dim shadows falling from we know not where. 
 
 Weak, blind, and helpless, from the depths we cry, 
 Spirit of Nature, wilt thou hear our call ? 
 
 Behold our wanderings with a pitying eye, 
 And garner up our loved ones as they fall ? 
 
 Thou who hast planted in the heart its needs, 
 Its ceaseless cravings for some nobler sphere, 
 
 Mid changing forms and swiftly fading creeds 
 We fain would trust that thou at least art near. 
 
 Our little tapers tremble in the gloom, 
 Our boasted systems wither in a span, 
 
 And none can pierce the secret of the tomb 
 Or read the riddle of the life of man. 
 
 Vain hopes and fears, ambition, strife, and sin ! 
 
 Thus idly glide our brightest years away, 
 Until at length the evening shade draws in, 
 
 The early evening of our winter day. 
 
LIFE'S TRAGEDY 47 
 
 Until the time when every power wanes, 
 When all the hues that brightened life have fled. 
 
 The world grows dim, one only thought remains- 
 How hard to die, how blessed to be dead ! 
 
MOODS 
 
 OH happy the hour when morning breaks 
 And the spirit of man refreshed awakes, 
 Eager and strong for its daily strife, 
 Too busy to think of the ills of life ; 
 And happy the hour of the setting sun, 
 When the battle is over, the labour is done, 
 And the weary fly home, like the bird to the nest, 
 And the voice of the loved one is calling to rest ! 
 'Tis the hour of peace when our troubles depart, 
 And the calm of the evening is felt in the heart. 
 
 But laden with care move the hours of the night, 
 When sleepless, yet weary, we measure their flight, 
 When the darkness around us has thrown its hue 
 On all we think and on all we do ; 
 And the heart grows chill with a sudden fear, 
 And the things that we dread the most seem near,' 
 And we think of the dead who lie sleeping below, 
 And of those whom we love who may soon be so ; 
 Of age and of weakness, of sickness and pain, 
 And all our lives seem hollow and vain, 
 
MOODS 49 
 
 So fast they fly, and the long grass waves 
 
 Tangled and dank on our lonely graves ; 
 
 And the steps of the last of the mourners have 
 
 gone, 
 
 And we are forgot, while the world rolls on. 
 For the hearts we love and the things we prize, 
 They pass like the swarms of the summer flies, 
 Or the clouds that float on an idle wind, 
 And leave not a trace in the world behind. 
 
ASSOCIATION 
 
 'TWAS scarcely Love not Love full blown, 
 For where she reigns, she reigns alone, 
 And rising up at Memory's call 
 Subdues, absorbs, eclipses all ; 
 Hers rather was the light that flings 
 Its radiance on surrounding things, 
 And in the retrospect of years 
 Entwined with other forms appears, 
 Brings back the half-forgotten scene 
 And makes the fading outlines keen ; 
 The sunlight gleam, the living touch 
 By which the landscape charms so much. 
 
'SAIL ON, SAIL ON, THOU 
 FRAGILE BARK' 
 
 SAIL on, sail on, thou fragile bark, 
 
 Across the raging sea, 
 The waves run high, the night is dark, 
 
 The Heavens seem closed to thee, 
 The guiding stars are seen no more 
 And cloud banks veil the distant shore. 
 
 Oh life of man, so fiercely tost 
 By passion, doubt, and pain, 
 
 Thy chart is torn, thy compass lost, 
 The lights of childhood wane. 
 
 How frail the bark, how vast the sea ! 
 
 May God in mercy look on thee ! 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 COLD, dark, and drear the winter eve draws in, 
 The nipping frost is in the air, the hills 
 Are white with recent snow, the leafless boughs 
 Arrayed in panoply of ice gleam forth ; 
 Amid th' ascending mists, in heaven appear 
 A few faint stars like snow-flakes of the sky; 
 And not a motion stirs the freezing air, 
 And not a murmur breaks upon the ear 
 Save that, with gentle sound, old ocean's lip 
 Kisses the rocky shore ; a ship lay there 
 Moored to the land, but soon about to sail 
 With some few passengers, and on the beach, 
 Waiting the signal bell, a man and wife 
 Stood gazing on the sea she young and fair, 
 But he more old, though rather thought than age 
 Furrowed his brow ; and in his eyes there shone 
 A strange, sad lustre as of one who sought 
 To pierce the veil and gather more from life 
 Than life can give. Silent and close they stood, 
 As those whom love's sweet sympathy had joined 
 And kindred thoughts had moulded into one, 
 And watched the crescent moon that slowly rose, 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 53 
 
 Feeble and white above a snow-clad hill, 
 Half lost amid the mist ; and now at length 
 With half-abstracted air the traveller spoke : 
 
 * 'Tis o'er at last, that lengthened wandering 
 
 Through many nations and through many climes ; 
 
 When next the lid of night uncloses o'er 
 
 The burning orb of day, my native land 
 
 Once more will lie unfolded to the view, 
 
 Deep rock-bound bays, calm vales and mountain 
 
 peaks, 
 
 And all those scenes with early mem'ries twined. 
 Full twenty years of crowded thought have 
 
 passed 
 
 Since towards that shore I turned my farewell gaze, 
 An ardent student, bound to seek afar 
 A deeper wisdom and a nobler life, 
 With hopes which youth and youth alone can give, 
 
 How beautiful those days, like early love 
 
 When the bright worlds of knowledge and of 
 
 thought 
 
 Break on the young man's eye. All nature seems 
 Suffused with light. Ambitions, hopes, and dreams, 
 Are then as palpable as Irving things ; 
 Buoyant as air the mind can rise above 
 The jarring elements of Earth. It seems 
 By gazing on the beautiful to burst 
 The trammels of its clay, to blend itself 
 With Nature's loveliness, become a pulse 
 Throbbing in Nature's heart, a thought absorbed 
 In the great soul of beauty that pervades 
 
54 HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 The Universe of God, a choral strain 
 Lost in the floating melodies of Heaven, 
 And mingling with the Infinite, a part 
 Of the pure essence of pervasive love 
 To beauty joined as passion to the soul. 
 Then hearts beat high, ambition knows no bounds, 
 Proud in its untried strength the spirit longs 
 To open springs of knowledge still concealed, 
 To see the full proportions of those truths 
 Which by their partial aspect charm the mind, 
 To body forth its dreams in earthly things, 
 Darting at times some lightning gleam of truth 
 To cleave the mists of error and to scathe 
 Falsehood enthroned on high, perchance to leave 
 Some plastic power behind it on the earth 
 Moulding for good the minds of men unborn, 
 Living through death an unembodied life 
 That time can never quench. 
 
 That flush must pass ; 
 Soon, like the Alpine glow on snowy peaks, 
 It fades away. The impotence of thought, 
 The depth of darkness that surrounds our life, 
 The wreck of creeds and systems vainly deemed 
 On God's truth based, judgments that shift and 
 
 wane 
 
 With passion, int'rest, circumstance, and health, 
 Hearts that draw all their strength and half their 
 
 joy 
 
 From ancient prejudice and falsehood too, 
 Awe and perplex the mind. Not truths unmixed, 
 But coarser levers only move the world. 
 Truths broken, flawed or partial, party cries, 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 55 
 
 Passions and int 'rests, custom, prejudice, 
 
 And many a man with error loses all 
 
 That gave him force and goodness. Thus the 
 
 stars 
 
 Grow dark above us, and we learn to feel 
 How many sow upon a waste of sand 
 Or build upon the clouds ; how soon we pass 
 And all our dreams are choked with churchyard 
 
 dust. 
 
 All seek for joy we see the little child 
 
 Seek it and find it in the simplest toy ; 
 
 The schoolboy spurns the toy, but finds his game 
 
 Suffice to purchase ecstasy. The man 
 
 Contemns each childish mean. He points his 
 
 hopes 
 
 To wealth or titles, power or renown ; 
 Pain marks his upward course and baffling foes, 
 And often, if the wished-for end is gained, 
 He finds its influence frigid as yon moon 
 Yon twilight moon that flickers on the snow. 
 And those who in the caverns of the soul 
 Have laboured most to draw from hidden springs 
 Some dream of happiness, some thought of love 
 To cheer the sad, are saddest oft themselves, 
 So small the part of knowledge in our lives, 
 So weak the power of reason on the heart, 
 So vain a maxim to appease a care ! 
 
 Thus in the gloom ?.nd solitude of thought 
 I wandered long, till on my lonely path 
 Thy influence arose. In thee I found 
 
56 HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 A sacred spot in which the wearied soul 
 
 At length might rest for thou hast been to me 
 
 Dear as to night the crystal stars that shine 
 
 Like pleasures nestling in her gloomy heart. 
 
 From thee, dear wife, I learned how Love can graft 
 
 A stronger plume on Life's dishevelled wing 
 
 How, turning to the earth from which it sprang, 
 
 The spirit gathers strength, and yet may find 
 
 In daily rounds of duty and of love 
 
 The sands of life still sparkling as they flow. 
 
 We cannot fly our shadows or escape 
 
 The innate temperament that moulds our lives 
 
 To happiness or gloom. Its mighty stress, 
 
 Stronger than reason, conduct, circumstance, 
 
 Gives colour to our thoughts ; the mind best strung 
 
 Can suffer most, and he who most aspires 
 
 To truth and knowledge and ideal good 
 
 Most keenly feels the impotence of life. 
 
 The shadows lengthen as the night draws on, 
 
 And youth's bright hues can never be recalled ; 
 
 But Love and Duty linger, Habit smoothes 
 
 With kindly hand the steep descent of life. 
 
 And through the gath'ring mists Hope whispers 
 
 still, 
 
 We yet may find, we know not how or where, 
 The highest and the happiest the same. 
 But hark ! the ship bell summons us away, 
 The present calls us from the land of dreams. 
 
57 
 
 *FLOW ON, SWIFT STREAM* 
 
 FLOW on, swift stream, amid the flowers, 
 
 Flow on and dance with joy, 
 And tell me of the happy hours 
 
 When I was yet a boy. 
 I watched thee with the loved ones then, 
 Now all alone I come again 
 
 To wander by the river ; 
 And I am old and they are gone, 
 But it unchanged is gliding on 
 
 As young and bright as ever. 
 
 Unchanged it seems, yet who can stay 
 
 The water's ceaseless motion ? 
 The little waves of yesterday 
 
 To-day have reached the ocean ; 
 Unmarked, unmissed, they swiftly fly, 
 Unmarked, unmissed, we too must die 
 
 And leave the mighty river 
 Where youth, and" joy, and love, and strife, 
 And all the various modes of life, 
 
 Flow on unchanged for ever. 
 
A TALE OF MODERN 1TAL Y 
 
 IT is a cottage, hung with vines, 
 Amid the northern Apennines ; 
 Deep hidden in -a lonely vale, 
 And sheltered from the mountain gale ; 
 And, winding near, a river flows 
 Descending from the distant snows ; 
 And further on the eye may scan 
 The traces of the hand of man : 
 The vineyard sloping on the hill, 
 The font to catch the falling rill, 
 The image rudely sculptured there 
 To call the labourer to prayer ; 
 And softly in the distance swells 
 The music of the cattle bells ; 
 And wildly sweet the herdsman's horn 
 Awakes to usher in the morn ; 
 And every sound and every sight 
 Seems filled with such a calm delight, 
 If time and change could only spare, 
 An all but perfect bliss were there. 
 
 Time in the bridal hours speeds fast : 
 A few short months of joy had past, 
 
A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 59 
 
 And now the clouds began to rise, 
 And darken o'er the lover's skies ; 
 The war-trump gave its loud alarms, 
 And called th' Italian youth to arms. 
 The word went forth from shore to shore 
 The suffering race may rise once more, 
 May cleave the old Germanic chain 
 And kindle in their land again 
 Some sparkle of the ancient flame 
 That led their ancestors to fame ; 
 And memories shadowy but sublime, 
 Dim phantoms of a nobler time, 
 Filled many a heart with martial pride 
 The day Antonio Moro died. 
 
 Peace to the brave ! not his the name 
 To mingle with the voice of fame ; 
 No minstrel's harp awakes to tell 
 How valiantly he fought and fell. 
 But flowers around his tomb are wreathed, 
 And many a sigh is o'er it breathed ; 
 And peasants' tears bedew the sod, 
 And prayers commend his soul to God. 
 Kings struggle for some sordid aim, 
 Dominion, power, selfish fame ; 
 With equal pride the soldier draws 
 His venal sword in any cause ; 
 A little touch of self may taint 
 The garments of the purest saint, 
 And martyrs as they nobly die 
 See crowns of glory in the sky, 
 
60 A 7 ALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 Hear voices calling, ' Suffer this, 
 Thy guerdon is eternal bliss, 
 A moment and thy soul is clear, 
 Thou hast thy purgatory here.' 
 Not for such ends the patriot dies 
 (May heaven receive the sacrifice ! ) ; 
 No priest is there his cause to bless, 
 No promised crown, no pang the less ; 
 His was the ancient Roman's mind, 
 He only asked to leave behind 
 A land united, strong, and free ; 
 A nobler life he may not see. 
 Peace to the brave ! the strife is o'er, 
 The tyrants' yoke can gall no more ; 
 The clash of arms, the din of foes, 
 Can never break his deep repose ; 
 His soul, we trust, looks down on earth- 
 The hour of death the hour of birth ! 
 Ye mourners, dry the lingering tear : 
 The angels' cradle is the bier. 
 
 They laid him in a lonely grave 
 Upon the marge of Como's wave, 
 That breaks in gentle ripples near, 
 Like whispers for a mourner's ear. 
 It is a spot so passing fair, 
 The traveller loves to linger there : 
 In front the lake of deepest blue, 
 Around the mountains close the view, 
 And on their slopes, in terraced lines, 
 The eye may mark the trailing vines ; 
 
A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 61 
 
 The maize with golden fruit and flower, 
 And here and there a leafy bower ; 
 And over all things, pure and high, 
 The azure of th' Italian sky, 
 So soft, yet so intensely bright 
 It trembles through a veil of light. 
 But lovelier still that tranquil hour 
 When night first curtains hall and bower, 
 When evening's parting beam has paled, 
 And every mount, in darkness veiled, 
 And mantled in a solemn hue, 
 Looms dimly awful on the view. 
 The water's music seems more sweet, 
 And gentlest sounds upon it meet ; 
 The throbbings of the distant oar 
 Approaching slowly to the shore, 
 The bugle thrilling clear and lone, 
 The bells of many a varied tone, 
 The peasant's songs that rudely tell 
 Of those who fought and those who fell. 
 Then shine the stars above, and soon 
 Upon the grave the still, pale moon 
 Pours down so magical a beam 
 That he who muses there might dream, 
 If such a boon to earth were given, 
 That rest in such a spot were heaven. 
 
 But she whose life was twined with his, 
 Whose only hope, whose only bliss, 
 Upon his smile and presence hung, 
 By that death-stroke her mind was wrung : 
 
62 A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 The pang, so sudden and intense, 
 O'erpowered every reeling sense ; 
 And as the moth pursues its flight 
 Around the taper's beck'ning light, 
 And love draws more than pain repels, 
 And death seems bliss where beauty dwells, 
 So round that one remembered joy, 
 With passion that no time could cloy, 
 Her thoughts distracted ever flew, 
 And drank in pangs and joys anew 
 That poison cup which memory fills, 
 Which charms and maddens while it kills. 
 
 She deemed his spirit ever near 
 His being seemed the atmosphere, 
 The life, the essence of her thought, 
 In all around her path inwrought ; 
 His voice seemed floating on each wind 
 The image ruling in her mind 
 Diffused, reflected, and transferred, 
 In every much-loved scene appeared : 
 Yet though it seemed for ever nigh, 
 That presence could not satisfy. 
 
 The summer past the leaves were shed 
 She lay upon her dying bed, 
 And watched with a dilating eye 
 The sunset fringe the Western sky, 
 And mantle with its transient glow 
 The mountain peaks that soar below. 
 That lovely form was shrunk and frail 
 That cheek was now a deadly pale 
 
A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 63 
 
 Save one thin line of crimson light 
 That shone amid a ghastly white : 
 Not mingling there, but darting through, 
 It scarcely seemed an earthly hue ; 
 And with a wild convulsive swell 
 Her snowy bosom rose and fell, 
 And o'er her brow the eye might trace 
 From time to time the shadows chase, 
 And flickering feebly on her lips 
 The smile that death cannot eclipse 
 The still faint smile that lingers on 
 When all besides of life has gone. 
 
 She touched her harp she swept its chords- 
 She linked its notes with living words : 
 Not as of old, when, free and lone, 
 Among the hills her mellowed tone 
 Poured forth a stream of happy song, 
 So clear and sweet, so full and strong, 
 That echo seemed to love the strain, 
 And murmured o'er its notes again ; 
 And as the huntsman homeward strayed, 
 And heard, but saw not yet the maid, 
 He fondly dreamed of spirits there, 
 And to the Virgin breathed a prayer. 
 How changed, alas ! for sorrow sears 
 More deeply than the brand of years, 
 And steals the freshness and the glow 
 From all we love the most below. 
 Ah ! never more can echo wake 
 In hill or valley for her sake ; 
 
64 A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 So faint her voice as death drew near, 
 The listener now must stoop to hear 
 The accents of that faltering tongue, 
 As thus in broken strains she sung : 
 
 I He has not gone he has not gone 
 
 I feel his presence near ; 
 In every sight of loveliness, 
 
 Of grandeur and of fear, 
 Reflected and diffused I meet 
 
 The image of his mind : 
 So gentle, yet so passionate, 
 
 So lofty, yet so kind. 
 
 1 A deeper beauty seems to rest 
 
 On nature's glowing face, 
 Since in each form of earth and sky 
 
 His lineaments I trace; 
 The fleeting cloud, the changeless star, 
 
 The wild majestic sea, 
 The flower, the lake, the cataract, 
 
 All bring my love to me. 
 
 I 1 asked for my love 'mid the glacier's sheen, 
 And the avalanche's roar ; 
 
 Where the storm-wing broods o'er the dark ravine, 
 
 And the eagles proudly soar ; 
 Where the cataract foams thro' the fissured rocks, 
 
 As it speeds on its wild career 
 'Mid the icy caves and the tempest's shocks : 
 
 I felt that my love was near. 
 
A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 65 
 
 1 For grand was his mind in the strength of youth. 
 
 As the eagle on the wing ; 
 And his words flowed as fierce in the cause of truth 
 
 As the avalanche of the Spring ; 
 And his passions were strong as the torrent's rush 
 
 Through the rock that its might has riven ; 
 And his soul, like the mountains, seemed to flush 
 
 With the first, best light from Heaven. 
 
 * I asked for my love, when the lake lay calm, 
 
 And the stars shone bright above ; 
 When the earth was veiled, and the air was balm, 
 
 And the sky seemed breathing love ; 
 When the night-bird's song, like a Spirit's voice, 
 
 Came thrilling on the ear : 
 Methought, as I listened, it said " Rejoice ! 
 
 For he whom thou lovest is near." 
 
 ' Oh ! gentle and calm as the lake at rest 
 
 Gentle and kind as brave 
 The tenderest graces shone in his breast 
 
 Like the stars in the slumbering wave ; 
 Nor softer the note of the night-bird's strain, 
 
 As it floats through the air above, 
 Than his voice when it dwelt on some lingering pain, 
 
 Or whispered some tale of love. 
 
 * I heard a voice ringing 
 
 It was sweet beyond compare : 
 It seemed an angel singing 
 
 Singing in prayer. 
 
66 A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 I saw censers swinging, 
 
 And incense wreathing there, 
 And thousand spirits winging 
 
 Their pathway through the air. 
 And as I gazed on that still lake, 
 
 Where he I love, most seems to brood, 
 I heard a choral anthem break 
 
 As from the dwelling-place of God ! 
 Louder and louder still the strain, 
 
 Pealed forth from that angelic choir ; 
 It rang o'er mountain, lake, and plain, 
 Its music seemed to pierce my brain, 
 It thrilled through every burning vein 
 
 Like love's first wild desire. 
 Oh ! as I chaunt it o'er again, 
 
 The veil that hides our bygone years 
 Is in a moment rent in twain, 
 
 And all the past appears. 
 Faint grows my voice, and dim mine eye, 
 
 Still in my ear those accents ring, 
 Once more those Heavenly notes I sing- 
 Once more before I die ! 
 
 ' Say not the dead have gone 
 Past from this earth away : 
 
 Stars in the night that shone 
 Shine in the day ; 
 
 What though their dwelling bright 
 
 Dazzle thy feeble sight, 
 
 Still with that golden light 
 Mingles their ray. 
 
A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 ' Shades of the dead are near, 
 
 Hovering o'er thy bed ; 
 Forms that were very dear 
 
 Shelter thy head. 
 Still as around they fly, 
 Thought seems to feel them nigh : 
 Dreams of the days gone by 
 
 Dreams of the dead ! 
 
 1 Past pleasures rise anew ; 
 
 Loved voices fill thy brain ; 
 Dreams of the brightest hue, 
 
 Mingling with pain ; 
 Angel forms hovering 
 Round thee on viewless wing, 
 Bid those old phantoms spring 
 
 Life-like again. 
 
 ' Then say not the dead have gone 
 Past from this earth away : 
 
 Stars in the night that shone 
 Shine in the day ; 
 
 What though their dwelling bright 
 
 Dazzle thy feeble sight, 
 
 Still with that golden light 
 Mingles their ray. 
 
 * Hark ! I hear the Spirit choir : 
 Methinks I see their bright array ; 
 
 Angels strike the heavenly lyre 
 Angels summon me away ; 
 
 F 2 
 
68 A TALE OF MODERN ITALY 
 
 Gentle voices singing, singing, 
 
 Through the golden cloud-drifts ringing 
 
 Ringing far above. 
 Sister spirits, pure and fair, 
 Lo I come your joys to share ; 
 Rising through the buoyant air 
 
 On the wings of love.' 
 
6 9 
 
 SPANISH SONG 
 
 SWEET dark-eyed Spanish maid, 
 I watched her as she played, 
 And she sang me many a ditty of love and sport 
 
 and war 
 
 1 Toreros of Madrid, 5 
 And ' Triumphs of the Cid,' 
 
 And many an ancient ballad as she played on her 
 guitar. 
 
 Soft eyes and softer heart, 
 How quick the teardrops start ! 
 Yet one note of merry music scatters all her cares 
 
 afar ; 
 
 So swift the clouds take flight, 
 And her thoughts are gay and light 
 As the bunch of coloured ribands that hangs from 
 her guitar. 
 
 Then comes the Spanish dance, 
 And the youthful bands advance, 
 For the heat of day is over, beneath the evening 
 
 star ; 
 
 And words and hearts grow fond, 
 And eyes to eyes respond, 
 
 As we tread the merry measure to the sound of the 
 guitar. 
 
ILLICIT LOVE 
 
 CHILDREN and wife, and honour and fame, 
 
 True love and goodness and grace 
 He sold them all for a life of shame, 
 
 For a vulgar, venal face. 
 His name must pass, and its memory slip 
 
 From the scenes where it shone so high. 
 It was all for a little curve of a lip 
 
 And the glance of a cunning eye. 
 Oh ! cruel the loss, and bitter the pain, 
 When the madness creeps from the heart to the 
 
 brain ; 
 And a life is lost, and its labour vain. 
 
 What was the charm that wrought the spell 
 
 None but himself could see. 
 There's a door in each heart that leads to hell 
 
 Could you only find the key. 
 A thousand trials conquered and past, 
 
 The strongest climber may fall ; 
 And the fated tempter who comes at last 
 
 May be the meanest of all. 
 Virtue is strong and strong is the will ; 
 But Time and Chance, they are stronger stilf^ 
 And they hold the keys of good and of ill. 
 
TWO FRIENDS 
 
 THEY were two friends, but very little like : 
 
 The one a hard, keen, literary mind, 
 
 As nimble as the serpent's quivering tongue, 
 
 Incisive, analytic, full of gibes, 
 
 Yet true and loyal in its narrow sphere, 
 
 Hating all mystery. To him the world 
 
 Seemed rounded off in perfect symmetry, 
 
 And all thoughts might be gauged. Five senses 
 
 give 
 
 All that we know, and nothing lies beyond, 
 Though Fancy, Passion, Int'rest take those 
 
 thoughts 
 
 And blend them into stately cloudy forms, 
 Baseless and fleeting soon. The stars to him 
 Were but an endless range of common earths ; 
 And that strange voice which in the mind of 
 
 man 
 
 Commands and awes was but an echo formed 
 By custom, prejudice, or ancient use ; 
 And if at times, like music far and low, 
 In hours of pain or solitude or grief 
 Wild longings swept unbidden o'er his soul, 
 He deemed them but the signs of shattered nerves, 
 Or childish memories soon to be repressed 
 
72 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 By rising reason. So he lived, and so 
 At length will die. 
 
 With him there lived a friend, 
 Dear to his heart, born in a Southern land, 
 Where thought is steeped in passion, with a mind 
 Deep, vague, and lustrous, as a Spanish eye, 
 Floating in light of dreams. His ear was quick 
 To catch the finer melodies of life. 
 The wonder and the mystery that bound 
 Man's little segment of the truth of things 
 Filled him with awe ; and as he looked within 
 He saw, or seemed to see, across the gloom 
 Dim broken lines that pointed to the sky, 
 And prints and characters of nobler source 
 Than sense can furnish those deep-rooted hopes 
 Which grow and brighten with our better moods, 
 And pure ideals never here attained, 
 And craving needs which earth can never sate, 
 And love too fond for passing man to feel 
 If all were closed and ended in the tomb : 
 And chiefly that strange law that in a world 
 Of joys and pains a something higher rules 
 Rules by acknowledged right, though often spurned. 
 The twilight visions of a noble soul 
 To him were sacred, and the Spirit-forms 
 That, faint and feeble, seem to flicker there 
 Were more than phantoms or than earth-born 
 
 mists. 
 
 Above his head he saw the milky way, 
 Dim blending lights of countless distant worlds* 
 
73 
 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 ALL has not past. The sweet bright smile lives on, 
 Like some calm star that mocks the tempest's rage ; 
 
 The eye still shines almost as when it shone 
 The light of features yet untouched by age. 
 
 I watched thee in the soft'ning twilight gloom 
 Which masks the lines where Care and Time have preyed, 
 
 And fancy soon recalled the vanished bloom 
 And in the widow still discerned the maid, 
 
74 
 
 SEVILLE 
 
 SEVILLA ! City of the Sun, 
 I fly to thee, my task is done : 
 Weary heart and weary brain, 
 Thou canst make them young again. 
 Here, beneath this cloudless blue, 
 All things wear a festal hue ; 
 Life seems but a painted thing, 
 An insect with a gaudy wing, 
 A full-blown rose, a lover's dream, 
 The light that sparkles on the stream. 
 
 Long chequered years have pass'd away, 
 Once more among those scenes I stray ; 
 And all below, around, above, 
 Still tells of careless joy or love : 
 Sunburnt dancers nightly met 
 With gipsy song and castanet, 
 Where the coloured lanthorns gleam 
 By the Guadalquiver's stream, 
 And the white mantilla's flow 
 Softer than the falling snow, 
 And the deftly quivering fan 
 Telling more than language can, 
 
SEVILLE 75 
 
 And the roses in the hair, 
 And the scent that loads the air, 
 Rising from the orange-grove 
 Where belated lovers rove 
 Through the balmy nights of spring ; 
 When the birds most sweetly sing, 
 But not half so sad a tale 
 As our Northern nightingale. 
 
 Lovely city, let me be 
 For a time at one with thee ; 
 From my heart all sadness chase : 
 Free me for a little space 
 From the tumult and the strife 
 And the seriousness of life ; 
 Let thy Northern sisters boast 
 They can work and win the most : 
 Wealth and wisdom are their dower ; 
 Thine is the enchanter's power 
 Thine the gift to soothe and sway, 
 Charming all our cares away. 
 
76 
 
 MARRIED LIFE 
 
 Two flowers blossom on one stem, 
 Two streamlets mingling run ; 
 
 And love and habit blending make 
 Two lives as truly one : 
 
 One in each int'rest, hope, and fear, 
 Whatever chance betide : 
 
 One in affection's bond, though two 
 To comfort, strengthen, guide. 
 
 When Passion's torrid zone is past 
 Hearts only draw more near ; 
 
 And silent sympathies of love 
 Strike deeper year by year. 
 
 When every little fault is seen, 
 And every fleeting mood, 
 
 And all the nobler impulses 
 Are shared or understood. 
 
MARRIED LIFE 77 
 
 Yet still one secret, separate dread 
 Will sometimes cloud each mind - 
 
 Ah ! which must face this cruel world 
 When left alone behind? 
 
PASSION AND MEMORY 
 
 OLD legends tell how woman's hair 
 
 Can make the spirits of the air 
 
 Stoop down from brighter realms above 
 
 And feel the thrall of mortal love. 1 
 
 So human passion draws its force 
 
 From many a strange, unlooked-for source ; 
 
 And chords to all but one unknown 
 
 Will sometimes yield the sweetest tone. 
 
 The charm that prints the deepest trace 
 Lies often in a homely face ; 
 And half our strongest passions find 
 Their keynote in an answering mind ; 
 A hand can haunt, a voice can thrill, 
 A smile, a glance remembered still 
 Across the waste of vanished years, 
 Can fill the aged eye with tears, 
 While forms of purest Grecian mould 
 Leave Fancy dull, and Passion cold. 
 
 1 ' Notatur etiam quod Incubi plus vexare videntur 
 mulieres et puellas pulchros crines habentes. ' ' Mulier debet 
 habere velamen super caput suum propter angelos multi 
 Catholici exponunt, quod sequitur propter Angelos, id est 
 I ncubos. ' Ma Ileus Ma leficarum. 
 
PASSION AND MEMORY 79 
 
 And, stranger still, 'tis sometimes seen 
 How pleasure neither pure nor keen 
 Some doubtful, broken, troubled joy, 
 All mixed with fear or pain's alloy 
 Some fierce excitement's shuddering thrill, 
 Some passion strife of good or ill, 
 Will gain a charm in memory's dreams, 
 And grow and brighten till it gleams 
 A lonely star, whose light can last 
 Amid a long-forgotten past. 
 
8o 
 
 TO 
 
 'TWAS not alone thy beauty's power 
 That made thee dear to me : 
 
 The quiet of the sunset hour 
 Most truly mirrored thee. 
 
 'Twas thine to shed a soothing balm 
 On doubt and grief and strife, 
 
 And make a bright and holy calm 
 The atmosphere of life. 
 
 Thy touch of sympathy could find 
 
 To frozen hearts the key j 
 The darkened and the arid mind 
 
 Gave light and fruit for thee. 
 
 Ah ! many a flower unnoticed springs 
 On life's most trodden ways, 
 
 And common lives and common things 
 Grew nobler in thy praise. 
 
Si 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 THE days of our love, they come and they go 
 As soft as the flakes of the falling snow, 
 Or the morning flush that dances and leaps 
 From crag to crag on the mountain steeps, 
 As sweet and as calm in their rapid flight 
 As the sleep that follows a sleepless night : 
 But the snowflakes have melted, the sunflush has 
 
 flown, 
 The sleeper has wakened, and I am alone. 
 
 Yet the past remains, though we know it not, 
 And its power is felt when it seems forgot, 
 As a youthful passion will leave its trace 
 In well-worn lines on an aged face. 
 We feel not the joy that we felt before, 
 But the pulse of our youth may throb once more : 
 A half-seen likeness we chance to meet, 
 A moment's glance in a crowded street, 
 The scent of a flower, a tone, or a song, 
 Can waken some chord that has slumbered long ; 
 We know not why, for the image has fled, 
 But we feel the touch of the past and the dead, 
 
 G 
 
82 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 As some mood of our childhood appears again, 
 With a vague unrest or a lingering pain 
 Like a far-off cloud whose shadow will glide 
 On a summer day o'er the silvery tide, 
 Or the shapeless terror that seems to creep 
 Through the phantom-forms of a troubled sleep. 
 
 And the channels were cut long, long ago, 
 Where the streams of our thought for ever must 
 
 flow, 
 
 The things that haunt and the things that sway, 
 The secret charms that our minds obey 
 They come from afar, and their power will last, 
 For the Present must live in the shade of the 
 
 Past. 
 
A BROKEN LIFE 
 
 WE strove together side by side, but thine 
 The stronger pinion and the loftier aim ; 
 
 Thy master-spirit gave its tone to mine, 
 A nobler measure both of praise and blame. 
 
 The golden splendours of a young man's dream 
 Lay round our path and thine, how pure and 
 
 fair. 
 
 Heaven seemed to open : little did we deem 
 That germs of sin and death were lurking 
 there. 
 
 One hour of weakness just one little hour 
 
 One false step taken, darkened all the scene : 
 The tempter came, and thou hast felt his 
 
 power 
 
 A wreck remains where so much hope had 
 been. 
 
 I watched thy visions one by one take flight 
 High hopes and aims, that only left behind 
 
 A seared and jaded heart, the cynic blight 
 That kills the fruitage of the richest mind ; 
 
84 A BROKEN LIFE 
 
 And men grow grave and silent at thy name ; 
 
 Thy work is done, thy oldest friends depart, 
 And leave thee there to meet a world of shame 
 
 With hollow laughter and an aching heart. 
 
 How faint the lines that oft at first divide 
 The paths that lead to honour or to scorn ! 
 
 How small a chance can turn a life aside 
 And cloud the promise of the fairest morn ! 
 
LOVE AND SORROW 
 
 LOVE in the country, sorrow in the town : 
 Let Love have roots, but Sorrow only wings ; 
 
 Where life moves slow each feeling deepens 
 
 down : 
 A crowded life the quickest solace brings. 
 
 But Love from Sorrow never more will part, 
 She would not heal the wounds her sister 
 made ; 
 
 She makes more keen each feeling of the heart ; 
 The brightest sunshine casts the darkest shade. 
 
86 
 
 1 1 CANNOT BOW BEFORE 
 THE SHRINE' 
 
 I CANNOT bow before the shrine 
 Where once I knelt with thee ; 
 
 My thoughts take other paths than thine, 
 And thou art lost for me. 
 
 Yet still that youthful face appears 
 
 Unchanged across the changing years. 
 
 In vain our bark to distant lands 
 
 Flies fast before the wind : 
 Our hearts are bound by living bands 
 
 To what we leave behind ; 
 And hands still beckon from the shore 
 Which we have left to touch no more. 
 
DEFLECTING INFLUENCES 
 
 THOUGHT has its tastes and instincts secret lures 
 That guide our reasonings in their destined 
 
 course ; 
 
 The power of will both brightens and obscures, 
 And shapes our judgments from their very 
 source. 
 
 Old habits, interests, childhood's sacred spell, 
 A hundred impulses in turn prevail ; 
 
 We seek for truth, but, though we reason well, 
 False weights are seldom absent from the scale. 
 
 For mind must act through character : in vain 
 Truth claims her empire o'er the lives of men. 
 
 The light streams there, but through a tinted pane ; 
 And Reason writes, but Passion guides her pen. 
 
88 
 
 THE LAST PARTING 
 
 FAREWELL, farewell ! the dream is o'er, 
 
 Its passion and its pain ; 
 And Hope and Fear are now no more, 
 
 Though Love and Grief remain. 
 
 One feeble pressure of the hand, 
 
 One little sigh and shiver, 
 And all we thought and hoped and planned 
 
 Has past away for ever. 
 
 Still on those pale and shrunken lips 
 
 A feeble sunlight plays 
 The radiance of a sun that dips 
 
 Beneath the Western haze. 
 
 The sun that sinks will rise again, 
 
 And brighter days may shine ; 
 But thou hast vanished from our ken : 
 
 Have we, too, past from thine ? 
 
THE LAST PARTING 89 
 
 Can any sound of distant strife, 
 
 Or voice of pleading love, 
 Or any care of mortal life, 
 
 Still follow thee above ? 
 
 Or canst thou even now inspire 
 
 Some thought that thrills the brain, 
 
 And raise the drooping spirit higher 
 With Hope that conquers Pain ? 
 
 We cannot tell. That vacant eye, 
 Those lips, respond no more ; 
 
 No echo answers to our cry, 
 No light reveals the shore. 
 
 And be it gain, or be it loss, 
 
 No eye can follow thee : 
 A lonely bark to-night must cross 
 
 A dark and silent sea. 
 
CHARACTER 
 
 i 
 
 CREEDS, custom, prejudice, surrounding types, 
 The ebb and flow of ceaseless influence 
 These shape the thoughts and fashion of our lives 
 And make us what we are. Yet far below 
 There lurks a spring of hidden tendency 
 The innate character that strives to reach 
 In thought and life to some congenial form 
 We know not yet perchance may never know. 
 Thus blindly groping in a vague unrest, 
 Uncertain, broken, and deflected lives, 
 We feel the force beneath. With some it sinks, 
 Crushed by the weight of adverse circumstance ; 
 With others bursts in greatness or in guilt, 
 Fierce as the lava through the fissured rocks, 
 Defying all restraint. But happier they 
 To whom betimes the kindly chance of life, 
 Some casual word or circumstance, reveals 
 The prophecy within. His path is smooth 
 Who early knows himself. So thoughts have 
 stirred 
 
CHARACTER 91 
 
 Dim and half-formed in countless restless minds, 
 Till some great thinker rose, who with a touch 
 Drew them to light and made their meaning plain. 
 
 II 
 
 Well told the bard the foremost of our age 
 How sometimes in a dead man's rigid face 
 Some old ancestral type, unseen in life, 
 Appears again, and through the lately dead 
 The older dead look down. 1 So underneath 
 The play and shimmer of our daily lives 
 Their transient shapes and colours there are lines 
 Drawn by a vanished hand. Transmitted forms 
 Of strength or weakness, passion, tendency, 
 Made by another's life, bequeathed and stored, 
 Live in the race. Though each succeeding will 
 Subdues, adds, deepens, still the pattern-lines 
 Are never all effaced. Our acts are seeds 
 Which grow prolific in the hearts and minds 
 Of men who follow, and the clue that threads 
 
 1 ' I went at once to the Palace and I saw the Prince. 
 It is very unreal now, but the likeness to William the Silent 
 is quite marvellous. Mr. H. was so struck with it that, 
 if there had not been great difficulties, he would have wished 
 to have a photograph taken even now. Those taken im- 
 mediately after death are extremely good and like what we 
 knew the Prince ; but now the face has a kind of fixed, stern, 
 elderly look exactly like our head of William the Silent.' 
 Extract from a letter from the Hague, July 1884, written a 
 few days after the death of Alexander, the last Prince of 
 Orange. 
 
92 CHARACTER 
 
 The maze of character is chiefly hid 
 
 In distant, grass-grown, and neglected graves 
 
 Forgotten actions of forgotten men. 
 
 in 
 
 Men move on divers planes, and divers laws 
 Govern their type and make their passions flow ; 
 For some men seem all fashioned from without, 
 And shifting forms of circumstance and chance 
 Give texture to their thoughts. Pellucid lakes, 
 They smile or darken with the changing sky 
 And catch each passing hue. With some, life's 
 
 spring 
 
 Is fixed within, and one o'ermastering thought 
 Will cling and haunt, and govern all their ways. 
 And make or mar a life ; or through the glass 
 Of morbid nature which distorts and dims 
 They view the world around. And there are those 
 Who live through fancy such ideal lives, 
 And people earth with such etherial hues, 
 That common life seems tapestried with dreams. 
 
93 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 WITH swift, bold strokes the portrait grows- 
 
 Most swiftly at its birth ; 
 And soon the outlined forms disclose 
 
 Its meaning and its worth. 
 
 For chiefly in his first designs 
 
 The artist's skill is shown ; 
 Though blending hues and finer lines 
 
 Add beauty, force, and tone. 
 
 So youth with rapid pencil draws 
 
 A life, for good or ill, 
 And forms its habits and its laws, 
 
 The bias of its will. 
 
 With changing tints the canvas glows- 
 Life's fervours soon are past ; 
 
 But lines most lightly drawn are those 
 Which often longest last. 
 
94 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 We cannot turn the blotted page 
 Or cleanse the tainted source : 
 
 Youth sows the seed ; we reap in Age 
 Its honour or remorse. 
 
95 
 
 UNDEVELOPED LIVES 
 
 NOT every thought can find its words, 
 
 Not all within is known ; 
 For minds and hearts have many chords 
 
 That never yield their tone. 
 
 Tastes, instincts, feelings, passions, powers, 
 
 Sleep there unfelt, unseen ; 
 And other lives lie hid in ours 
 
 The lives that might have been 
 
 Affections whose transforming force 
 
 Could mould the heart anew ; 
 Strong motives that might change the course 
 
 Of all we think and do. 
 
 Upon the tall clifFs cloud-wrapt verge 
 
 The lonely shepherd stands, 
 And hears the thundering ocean surge 
 
 That sweeps the far-off strands ; 
 
96 UNDEVELOPED LIVES 
 
 And thinks in peace of raging storms 
 
 Where he will never be 
 Of life in all its unknown forms 
 
 In lands beyond the sea. 
 
 So in our dream some glimpse appears, 
 Though soon it fades again, 
 
 How other lands or times or spheres 
 Might make us other men ; 
 
 How half our being lies in trance, 
 Nor joy nor sorrow brings, 
 
 Unless the hand of circumstance 
 Can touch the latent strings. 
 
 We know not fully what we are, 
 Still less what we might be : 
 
 But hear faint voices from the far 
 Dim lands beyond the sea. 
 
97 
 
 OLD AGE 
 
 Now the solemn shadows lengthen, 
 
 Life's long day is well-nigh done, 
 Impulse fails and habits strengthen, 
 
 Pleasures vanish one by one. 
 Feebly o'er the dark'ning dial, 
 
 Parting rays their image fling ; 
 Times of triumph, times of trial, 
 
 Lose their rapture, lose their sting. 
 
 How much now appears unreal 
 
 In the past that stirred us so : 
 Pinings for the high ideal, 
 
 Passion dreams, ambition's glow ; 
 All life's aims grow dimmer, fainter, 
 
 With a languid, calm decay, 
 Fading as the mighty Painter 
 
 Shades the scene with twilight grey. 
 
 Fancy dies. Illusions follow. 
 
 Love lasts best, but not its bloom ; 
 And the gayest laugh sounds hollow, 
 
 Echoed from an op'ning tomb. 
 
 H 
 
OLD AGE 
 
 Soon the past holds all our treasure, 
 All that childless age loves best. 
 
 Young men still may live for pleasure : 
 Old men only ask for rest. 
 
99 
 
 FOUND HIS WORK, BUT 
 COULD NOT FIND* 
 
 HE found his work, but far behind 
 
 Lay something that he could not find : 
 
 Deep springs of passion that can make 
 
 A life sublime for others' sake, 
 
 And lend to work the living glow 
 
 That saints and bards and heroes know. 
 
 The power lay there unfolded power 
 
 A bud that never bloomed a flower ; 
 
 For half beliefs and jaded moods 
 
 Of worldlings, critics, cynics, prudes, 
 
 Lay round his path and dimmed and chilled. 
 
 Illusions past. High hopes were killed ; 
 
 But Duty lived. He sought not far 
 
 The ' might be ' in the things that are ; 
 
 His ear caught no celestial strain ; 
 
 He dreamed of no millennial reign. 
 
 Brave, true, unhoping, calm, austere, 
 
 He laboured in a narrow sphere, 
 
 And found in work his spirit needs _ 
 
 The last, if not the best, of creeds. 
 
FAME, LOVE, AND YOUTH 
 
 LOOK down, look down from your glittering heights 
 
 And tell us, ye sons of glory, 
 The joys and the pangs of your eagle flights, 
 
 The triumph that crowned the story 
 
 The rapture that thrilled when the goal was won 
 
 The goal of a life's desire ; 
 And a voice replied from the setting sun 
 
 Nay, the dearest and best lies nigher. 
 
 How oft in such hours our fond thoughts stray 
 
 To the dream of two idle lovers ; 
 To the young wife's kiss ; to the child at play, 
 
 Or the grave which the long grass covers ; 
 
 And little we'd reck of power and gold, 
 
 And of all life's vain endeavour, 
 If the heart could glow as it glowed of old, 
 
 And if youth could abide for ever. 
 
THE DECLINE OF LOVE 
 
 OH, broken-hearted lover, 
 Who touched us long ago, 
 
 The days seem well-nigh over 
 When tears like yours can flow. 
 
 Great poets still rise, bringing 
 Thoughts subtle, deep, and strong ; 
 
 But scarcely one is singing 
 A simple lover's song. 
 
 A graver age uncloses, 
 
 Which mocks at Cupid's barb, 
 And Venus hides her roses 
 
 In Academic garb. 
 
 Ambition, science, learning, 
 And countless efforts move, 
 
 And many lamps are burning, 
 But very few to Love. 
 
THE DECLINE OF LOVE 
 
 Thought strengthens more than feeling, 
 And each takes wider range ; 
 
 And most wounds find their healing 
 In lives of ceaseless change. 
 
 And to the young man's vision 
 New star-like spheres unfold, 
 
 Which promise fields Elysian, 
 Quite other than of old. 
 
 And so the world advances, 
 
 And none can bid it stay ; 
 Yet still the heart romances, 
 
 Although the head be grey. 
 
 And in stray dreams of passion 
 The old days sometimes rise, 
 
 When Love was still the fashion, 
 Before the world grew wise. 
 
103 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION 
 
 SAY not that the past is dead. 
 Though the Autumn leaves are shed, 
 Though the day's last flush has flown, 
 Though the lute has lost its tone 
 Still within, unfelt, unseen, 
 Lives the life that once has been ; 
 With a silent power still 
 Guiding heart or brain or will, 
 Lending bias, force, and hue 
 To the things we think and do. 
 Strange ! how aimless looks or words 
 Sometimes wake forgotten chords, 
 Bidding dreams and memories leap 
 From a long unbroken sleep. 
 
104 
 
 THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT 
 GALLERY 
 
 WHEN the world of pleasure palls, 
 When a voice within thee calls 
 To a larger, fuller life, 
 Nobler aims, more worthy strife, 
 Here, in such a pensive mood, 
 Half-aspiring, half-subdued, 
 Come with me and learn to trace 
 All the glories of thy race 
 All that art and fame can give 
 Making bygone greatness live. 
 
 These are those who governed men 
 
 By the sword or voice or pen 
 
 Who through good and evil fate 
 
 Shaped the fortunes of the state ; 
 
 Framed its creeds and laws, or bore 
 
 Its flag to many an unknown shore ; 
 
 Fought many a fight on sea and land, 
 
 Or moulded realms by wise command, 
 
 Where beneath the Indian sky 
 
 For some strong guide the nations cry, 
 
 In lands where deeds, not words, have sway, 
 
 Where men can rule and men obey. 
 
THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY 105 
 
 Here, as on the fabled heights 
 Where Apollo rains delights, 
 Poets seem to live again 
 Free from envy, strife, and pain. 
 Some whose verse can still inspire 
 Hearts with true celestial fire, 
 Give new worth to common things, 
 Lend the jaded spirit wings 
 Clarion voice or polar star, 
 Wak'ning, guiding, from afar. 
 Others, once of equal fame, 
 Vanished almost to a name, 
 Poets of some fleeting fashion, 
 Transient taste or thought or passion 
 Though their numbers sweetly flow, 
 Time has robbed them of their glow 
 Left them faded, shrunk, and dwindled, 
 Like the hearts they once enkindled ; 
 Yet perhaps some thought or line 
 Lives perennially divine. 
 
 Here are spirits tempest-born, 
 Cradled in neglect or scorn 
 Men who kindled flames which long 
 Smould'ring burnt, then fierce and strong 
 In a wild consuming blaze. 
 Others rose in evil days, 
 Bidding erring nations come 
 To God's judgment-seat ; while some 
 Scattered seedling thoughts that flew 
 Farther than their authors knew 
 Thoughts that loose or thoughts that bind, 
 Guiding those who guide mankind. 
 
io6 THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY 
 
 These are few ; but all around, 
 Gorgeous, jewelled, robed, or crowned, 
 Fortune's favourites in each age, 
 From the throne or court or stage, 
 From each scene of pompous show, 
 Make the spacious canvas glow. 
 Lawyer's craft and churchman's pride 
 Here are reigning side by side ; 
 Learning, that has had its day, 
 Schemes and faiths long past away, 
 Here recorded live ; and here 
 Many broken lives appear. 
 Some which fair as morning rose, 
 Darkened by a tragic close, 
 Drawn aside by idle dreams, 
 Bright by fitful, transient gleams, 
 Heroes of unworthy creeds, 
 BarHed hopes, misguided deeds, 
 Follies of a frenzied hour, 
 Vanquished causes, vanished power 
 Each has left some trace at last 
 In these temples of the past. 
 
 Many climbed to these abodes, 
 Treading dark and evil roads : 
 Gambling with the lives of men, 
 Selling vote or voice or pen, 
 By the supple courtier's guile, 
 Or through some frail beauty's smile : 
 They, too, had their sparkling hour, 
 Pride of wealth, of place, of power 
 A little space of fame or strife 
 In the nation's crowded life. 
 
THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY 107 
 
 Now the veil of twilight falls 
 Softly on the pictured walls, 
 Making all the tints alike 
 Holbein, Reynolds, and Vandyke : 
 Strong, stern, thoughtful, Tudor faces ; 
 Stuarts, with all their courtly graces ; 
 Lovely maidens, warriors bold, 
 Wise and foolish, young and old 
 Lose their force or grace or bloom, 
 Fading in the gath'ring gloom, 
 Till their outlined figures seem 
 Like an unsubstantial dream. 
 
 Who can tell how here below 
 Twine the threads of weal and woe ? 
 Knowledge, power, wealth and fame, 
 Sordid hope and lofty aim, 
 Man may lose or man may win ; 
 Joy and sorrow lie within. 
 Theirs is oft the happiest lot, 
 All unseen or all forgot : 
 Some by furious tempests tost, 
 Fame and friends and riches lost, 
 Still, through failure, grief, or strife, 
 Know the worth and charm of life. 
 Others win by years of pain 
 Lifelong aims, and find them vain ; 
 While of those most richly dowered, 
 Placed where fortune's gifts are showered, 
 On the proudest summits born, 
 Some stand listless and forlorn, 
 Stricken by that strange disease 
 When life's pleasures cease to please, 
 
io8 THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY 
 
 And, with all that earth can give, 
 Find it weariness to live. 
 
 Still the world seems mounting higher, 
 Chasing unfulfilled desire, 
 Spurning barrier, prop, and chain, 
 Scatt'ring darkness, conqu'ring pain, 
 Winning much but in each prize 
 Some sad germ of evil lies ; 
 For the subtle taint that blends 
 With all human hopes and ends, 
 Making good the seed of ill, 
 Rules the course of nations still. 
 Progress comes, but she will wake 
 Cravings more than she can slake ; 
 Wealth increasing, soon will grow 
 Idle, joyless, tasteless show ; 
 Freedom's dawn proves weak and vain 
 When the rhetoricians reign, 
 When the path to honour lies 
 With the many, not the wise ; 
 Knowledge lends new power still 
 To the thought, but not the will, 
 And she scarce can cast a ray 
 On the future's clouded way ; 
 While old Time in triumph leads 
 Shattered causes, hopes, and creeds. 
 
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 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 NOV 221987* 2 
 
 
 
 
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 NOV 81967 
 
 
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YC159026